#their devastated face fuels me

[anonymousdidsys]

Listen I’m glad Paul wasn’t the 17th houseguest

…but how funny would it have been

[abby-howard]

Some folks were asking for my boiled peanuts recipe (as they feature in our game, Scarlet Hollow, and we made a big batch this past weekend), but it's unfortunately a bit difficult for me to post with lightness in my heart right now because this past weekend the entirety of western North Carolina, where Scarlet Hollow takes place, was devastated by hurricane Helene.

Towns I have been to and have fond memories of have been described as "washed away." The region is almost entirely still out of power, the water is all contaminated with repair efforts expected to take weeks, and there are hundreds of people stranded, including my relatives, as roads have been totally destroyed. My uncle sent a photo of the road near his house, thankfully his home is okay but I have to image it's going to take a while for roads like this to see repairs:

I know this photo has been making the rounds, but it bears posting for those who haven't seen it-- the main strip of Chimney Rock, before and after:

Trees, cars, buildings, everything is gone. And now all that debris is just sitting in lakes and rivers. This is Lake Lure today:

Pictures from Swannanoa, an absolutely lovely town with so much character, where my sister went to folk music camp as a teen, where mobile home parks were hit hardest-- people's houses just floated away downriver:

And of course Asheville is the town most people will have heard of. A city of 95k, completely isolated in the days after the storm. The River Arts District was still underwater as of yesterday:

People throughout the entire region are without power and transport and fuel and water and food, they've lost their homes and their businesses, and people have had to resort to hiking to reach loved ones to see if they're safe or whether their homes were just wiped off the face of the earth-- hundreds are still missing because it's been so difficult to get in contact with people in these isolated, rural communities that are now nearly impossible to get to because roads were washed away or collapsed in landslides.

I honestly don't even know where to start when it comes to relief funds or ways that people can help. I've been listening to the local radio station and it sounds like the area is in shock, people are coming in to help pick up the pieces but there is so much recovery that will have to happen that it's hard to know where to start.

This article from the Citizen Times has a list of places that are currently helping with relief efforts.

It's absolutely unfathomable that a hurricane could hit the mountains. The effects of this are going to be felt in western NC for a long time, and my heart goes out to everyone who is currently stranded or trying to get in touch with people who are.

[unboundprompts]

advice for a character who grips control like a lifeline. who wants to be in charge of every little thing because whenever they're not in control of something something bad could happen. has happened. they can't let a single variable be wild or in someone else's hands

How to Write a Controlling Character

Backstory Rooted in Trauma or Guilt

This character likely has a history that has ingrained the belief that they must be in control or face devastating consequences. Perhaps they once trusted someone else with something crucial—a promise, a responsibility, or a life-altering choice—and that trust was broken in a way that had lasting repercussions. For example, maybe they lost someone because they weren’t “careful enough,” or they experienced a betrayal when they trusted another person’s plan.

They might frequently flash back to this moment, possibly catching themselves thinking, If only I’d been the one in control, this wouldn’t have happened. This memory fuels their need to keep a tight grip on everything, especially if they’re in high-stakes situations.

Rigid Daily Routines and Habits

This character’s day is probably packed with small rituals and routines that give them a sense of security. From double-checking door locks to setting multiple alarms, they rely on routines to give themselves a sense of order. In fact, they might be nearly ritualistic about small actions—checking emails three times before sending, never leaving a task halfway finished, or meticulously arranging their workspace.

Even something as simple as making coffee can become a precise process. If someone moves one of their tools or a file from their desk, they may feel a spike of frustration or even anxiety, seeing it as a disruption to their personal “system.” They could feel that control in their daily life is the only thing keeping chaos at bay.

Intensely Observant of Details and Mistakes

They are hyperaware of mistakes or inefficiencies in others, mentally cataloging things like a coworker’s slight lateness or a friend’s disorganization. They may feel a sense of superiority (or frustration) over people who don’t “have it together” and take it upon themselves to organize or “fix” things for others.

In conversation, they might cut people off or “correct” them even over small points, often justifying this to themselves as necessary. For instance, if someone shares a plan that seems half-formed, this character could immediately dive in, pointing out potential problems or filling in details.

Controlling Relationships and Social Situations

This character struggles in relationships where they aren’t the dominant or organizing force. They might instinctively take over when making plans with friends, micromanaging even casual hangouts to make sure everything goes “right.” For example, they might pick the restaurant, plan the travel route, and check weather forecasts—assuming that if they don’t, no one else will think of these things.

When someone resists their attempts at control, they can respond defensively, often turning cold or resentful, unable to understand why anyone wouldn’t want them to manage the situation. Statements like, “Fine, but don’t blame me if this doesn’t go well,” are frequent in their interactions.

Extreme Anxiety or Panic When Control Is Taken Away

When things go beyond their reach, this character might experience panic, as if they’re suddenly powerless. For instance, if an unexpected roadblock prevents them from handling a task (like a canceled flight they needed to board, or a plan that falls apart), they might spend hours trying to regain control, calling every contact or frantically exploring alternatives.

Their reaction may feel extreme to others. Even minor setbacks—such as a colleague taking initiative on a project or a friend planning something without consulting them—can trigger a disproportionate response, like clenching their fists, pacing, or silently stewing as they feel the situation “slipping.”

Inability to Accept Help or Collaboration

Their controlling nature makes it hard for them to collaborate, as they believe their methods are the only ones that work. For them, accepting help feels like an admission of weakness or failure, so they rarely delegate or ask for assistance. If they do reluctantly accept help, they are constantly supervising or “suggesting” things, making it feel more like they’re still in charge.

In a team setting, they might take on all the major tasks, either out of distrust in others’ abilities or a feeling that no one will match their standards. Their motto could be something like, “If you want something done right, do it yourself,” even if that means working late or burning out.

Reluctance to Show Vulnerability or Need

Since vulnerability and control rarely coexist for them, they avoid showing weakness at all costs, preferring to mask stress or struggles as “just part of the job.” If they do become overwhelmed, they’re more likely to shut people out, saying, “I’ve got it handled,” even if it’s far from true.

When people push them to let go or share the load, they might lash out, accusing others of “just not understanding.” They often see their intense responsibility as a form of sacrifice, justifying their behavior with, “If I don’t handle this, who will?”

[fudgeez]

The price of Jaeyi's Love

Synopsis: Jaeyi, after two years of intense, almost suffocating devotion to Y/N, suddenly declares that Y/N has become "boring." She breaks up with Y/N with cruel indifference, mocking Y/N's attempts to understand and even instigating subtle bullying to further distance herself. Y/N, devastated, eventually accepts the reality and tries to rebuild her life, returning to her hobbies and pre-Jaeyi routines.

However, the arrival of a friendly and vibrant transfer student named Seulgi, who immediately gravitates towards Y/N, ignites a possessive rage in Jaeyi.

masterlist

Y/N POV

I chuckled, looking at the finished hand gloves. Jaeyi always complained about being cold, so I'd crocheted them for her. Perfect timing, too—her tutoring session had just ended. I walked over, a hopeful smile on my face, and held them out to her. But something was off. Her eyes weren't warm; they were... different. Cold.

"We should break up," she said, just like that. My mouth fell open. My handmade gloves, meant as a loving gift, suddenly felt heavy and useless. "What? Jaeyi, what are you talking about?"

"We're done." Her eyes, which used to sparkle with affection, were now hard and distant.

She turned and walked away, not another word. I heard her tell her assistant, in a clipped, dismissive tone, "Have her driven home."

It wasn't a question, or even a polite request. It was an order, like I was just something to be dealt with. I stood there, stunned, the soft yarn of the gloves now feeling like a cruel joke.

The rumors started soon after Jaeyi dumped me. Cruel whispers echoed her cold dismissal, branding me with a single, cutting word: boring.

It wasn’t just the sting of rejection that hurt—it was the way she had framed me, as if our entire relationship had been nothing more than a dull, predictable mistake.

And then came the bullying.

It wasn’t random. It was calculated, deliberate. A wave of petty cruelty that felt almost personal.

It started with whispers.

"Did you hear? Jaeyi said she nearly died of boredom dating her."

"No wonder. I mean, what did she even talk about? Homework?"

"I still don’t get why Jaeyi even bothered with her. A bet, maybe?"

"More like a pity project."

I kept my head down as I walked through the hallway, but the words clung to me like static. It didn’t matter if I walked faster, if I ignored them. They followed me, weaving themselves into my thoughts like an unwanted song stuck on repeat.

At first, it was just talk. But talk turned into action.

In the cafeteria, as I carried my tray to an empty table, someone stuck out their foot. I barely had time to react before I stumbled forward, my tray tilting, food spilling onto my sweater. Laughter erupted around me.

"Oops." A girl smirked from her seat, barely looking up from her phone.

"Guess she’s as clumsy as she is boring."

"Maybe that’s why Jaeyi left—couldn’t take another second of her monotone voice."

The laughter swirled around me, sharp and cruel, digging into my skin like tiny needles. I clenched my fists, willing myself to stay still, to pretend this didn’t hurt as much as it did.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her.

Jaeyi.

She had been watching. She had seen everything—the trip, the fall, the laughter. For a split second, our eyes met. Something flickered across her face. Recognition? Guilt? I couldn’t tell. But whatever it was, it wasn’t enough to make her stay.

She turned and walked away.

Just like that.

I swallowed hard, the sting of humiliation spreading through my chest.

Kyung and Yeri were standing nearby, their laughter dying in their throats when they saw me. Their expressions shifted, guilt creeping into their eyes.

Yeri fidgeted with the hem of her skirt, avoiding my gaze, while Kyung’s smirk faltered just a little.

But neither of them said anything.

Neither of them stopped it.

Neither of them helped me.

I wasn’t just being rejected. I was being erased.

Jaeyi’s dismissal had sparked the rumors. The rumors fueled the bullying. The bullying left me isolated. And the more alone I felt, the more I believed their words.

Maybe I really was boring.

Maybe that was why Jaeyi left.

Maybe that was why no one had ever really wanted me here in the first place.

Y/N retreated, the vibrant colors of her life fading into dull gray. She sought solace in her old hobbies, sketching in her notebook, losing herself in the lines and shadows, trying to piece herself back together.  

Then came Seulgi a whirlwind of sunshine and laughter.  

The transfer student, with her bright eyes and infectious energy, sat beside Y/N during lunch, her presence a stark contrast to the coldness that had settled over Y/N’s life.  

"Hey! Mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is packed." Seulgi’s voice was light, casual, but her smile was warm, genuine.  

Y/N hesitated, glancing around. Empty seats were everywhere. Seulgi could’ve sat anywhere. Yet, she had chosen here.  

"Oh, uh, sure." Y/N managed a weak smile.  

Seulgi plopped down, setting her tray on the table before glancing at Y/N’s open sketchbook. Her eyes widened in admiration. "Wow, that’s amazing! You’re really talented."

A flicker of something unfamiliar pride, perhaps stirred in Y/N’s chest.

"Thanks," she murmured.  

"I’m Seulgi, by the way. New here."

"I’m Y/N. Nice to meet you." 

Seulgi's presence was a balm to Y/N's wounded soul. They bonded over art, music, and shared dreams. For the first time in months, Y/N felt a flicker of hope.

A comfortable silence settled between them as Y/N continued sketching. They were at Y/N’s house, lounging in her room, the dim glow of a desk lamp casting soft shadows on the walls.

Seulgi lay on her stomach, chin propped on her hand, watching Y/N curiously.

"So, Y/N…" she began, her voice casual yet laced with curiosity. "Not to be weird, but… why does Jaeyi's fans keep bullying you?"

Y/N stiffened, her pencil freezing mid-stroke.

Seulgi didn’t look away. She didn’t rush to fill the silence with forced chatter. She just waited.

Something inside Y/N cracked.

"Jaeyi… she’s my ex. We dated for two years." The words tumbled out before she could stop them. "And after she dumped me, everything changed. The rumors, the bullying it all started because of her fans."

She expected Seulgi to flinch, to awkwardly change the subject, or maybe even pretend she hadn’t heard. But Seulgi didn’t move. She just blinked.

"Well, that’s stupid. I mean, seriously? They’re that immature?" Seulgi scoffed.

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. "You’re… not disgust? Or distance yourself?"

Seulgi raised an eyebrow. "Why would I?"

"Because… they might target you too. Now that we’re always together." Y/N’s voice was hesitant, her fingers tightening around her pencil.

Seulgi let out a laugh—a genuine, carefree sound. "Please, I can handle myself. And if they try anything, I’ll be protecting you too." She grinned, eyes twinkling.

"They’re just a bunch of losers, anyway."

Y/N laughed—a small, breathy sound, but real.

Meanwhile

They Didn’t Know Someone Was Listening…

Far from Y/N’s room, a phone screen flickered to life. Jaeyi’s eyes darkened as she listened to the audio playing through her earbuds.

She had planted a small recording device in Y/N’s room back when they were together, a careless impulse at the time—maybe for fun, maybe for control. Either way, after the breakup, she had forgotten about it.

Until now.

It had been weeks since she last thought about Y/N, brushing aside the guilt and discomfort with distractions. Not until, in the library, she saw something she hadn’t expected—Y/N, laughing.

With someone else.

Seulgi.

She had watched from afar as Seulgi playfully nudged Y/N, stealing her pencil, teasing her about her sketches. And Y/N… she had let her. She had smiled.

Something in Jaeyi twisted.

So when she got home, on a whim, she reactivated the old device, curiosity gnawing at her. What she didn’t expect was to hear her own name.

"Jaeyi… she’s my ex. We dated for two years. And after she dumped me, everything changed. The rumors, the bullying it all started because of her fans."

Jaeyi’s breath caught.

Y/N still talked about her.

Then came Seulgi’s voice, unwavering and filled with warmth.

"Please, I can handle myself. And if they try anything, I’ll be protecting you too."

Jaeyi’s grip on her phone tightened.

Seulgi was protecting Y/N now? Standing where Jaeyi used to stand?

A strange, unwelcome feeling crawled under her skin.

Jealousy.

Regret.

Something else she couldn’t name.

She had left Y/N behind, convinced it was the right choice. Then why did it feel like Y/N had finally found something Jaeyi had never been able to give her?

Why did it feel like Jaeyi was the one being left behind now?

And why couldn’t she stop listening?

The rooftop was quiet, save for the soft hum of the wind rustling against the railing. Y/N stood near the edge, staring out at the cityscape beyond the school grounds, her mind lost in a swirl of emotions. A lone tear traced a path down her cheek, a silent testament to the pain Jaeyi had inflicted.

"Y/N."

A voice cut through the stillness, a familiar, silken whisper that sent a shiver down her spine.

Y/N turned sharply, eyes widening as she saw Jaeyi standing a few feet away, her expression unreadable. But beneath the surface, a dark current flickered, a possessive hunger that made Y/N's heart pound.

"What are you doing here?" Y/N asked, her grip tightening on the rooftop railing, knuckles turning white.

Jaeyi took a slow step forward, her movements predatory.

"I miss you."

Her voice was calm, too calm, a predator lulling its prey. But there was something in her eyes something dark, possessive, desperate, a burning intensity that made Y/N want to run.

Y/N swallowed hard. "Jaeyi…"

Jaeyi’s lips parted, hesitation flickering across her face before she let out a quiet breath, a breath that seemed to carry a weight of unspoken desires. "Come back to me."

Y/N’s heart lurched, a sickening twist of fear and a ghost of longing. "What?"

"Be my girlfriend again." Jaeyi’s voice was firmer now, edged with something almost demanding, a command disguised as a plea. "I was stupid. I shouldn't have let you go."

Y/N inhaled sharply, caught between shock and something deeper something she wasn’t sure she wanted to name, a dangerous pull towards the familiar darkness.

"You—" She let out a hollow laugh, a sound devoid of joy. "You dumped me, Jaeyi. You left me. And then you let them—" Her voice cracked, a raw, exposed nerve.

"You let them tear me apart, and you did nothing."

Jaeyi flinched, but she didn’t step back. If anything, she moved closer, her eyes glittering with an obsessive light.

"I know," she admitted, her voice low and persuasive. "I know I messed up. But I can fix it. I can fix us. I can make everything like it was before. Better."

Y/N clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. "Why now? Why come crawling back now?"

Jaeyi’s jaw tightened, a muscle twitching in her cheek. "Seulgi. She’s not right for you. She's stealing you from me."

Y/N scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "And you think you are?"

Jaeyi’s hands trembled as she reached out, her fingers just barely grazing Y/N’s wrist, a touch that sent a jolt of fear and a strange, unwelcome warmth through her.

"I love you," she whispered, her voice laced with a dangerous intensity.

"You’re mine, Y/N. You’ve always been mine."

Y/N’s breath hitched, a gasp trapped in her throat. A storm of emotions crashed inside her—pain, longing, anger, and something terrifyingly close to the love she once felt for Jaeyi, a twisted, possessive love that threatened to consume her.

Did she still want this? Did she still want her?

Before she could answer, the rooftop door burst open, shattering the tense silence.

"Y/N! I brought your favorite—"

Seulgi’s voice froze mid-sentence, the cheerful grin on her face fading as she took in the sight before her—Jaeyi standing too close, Y/N’s expression caught between conflict and distress, the air thick with unspoken tension.

A tense silence stretched between the three of them, broken only by the wind.

Jaeyi’s fingers curled into fists, her nails digging into her palms.

"Of course," she muttered under her breath, a low growl of possessive rage. "She just had to show up."

Seulgi narrowed her eyes, stepping forward without hesitation, the bag of food still clutched in her hand, a protective barrier between Y/N and Jaeyi.

"What’s going on here?" Her voice wasn’t playful this time. It was sharp, protective, a challenge.

Y/N swallowed, still reeling, but Jaeyi was the one who spoke, her eyes never leaving Y/N's.

"We’re talking." Her tone was clipped, defensive, a warning. "This doesn’t concern you."

Seulgi scoffed, her eyes flashing. "It concerns me if you’re making her uncomfortable."

Y/N felt the weight of both their gazes on her, a suffocating pressure. Jaeyi’s pleading eyes, filled with a dangerous possessiveness, Seulgi’s concerned yet firm stare, a beacon of safety.

"Y/N," Jaeyi said softly, her voice dangerously smooth, a silken threat. "Tell her. Tell her you still love me. Tell her you're mine."

Y/N’s breath caught, a wave of fear washing over her.

Seulgi shifted, her expression unreadable, a silent question. "And if she doesn’t?" she challenged, her voice low and steady.

Jaeyi didn’t look at her. She only looked at Y/N, her eyes burning with an obsessive intensity, waiting, hoping, demanding.

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut for a brief second, a desperate attempt to regain control.

"Jaeyi…" her voice wavered, a fragile whisper. "I…"

A deep inhale. A slow exhale, a moment of clarity amidst the chaos.

"I’m sorry. But i like what im a now."

Jaeyi’s face twisted—hurt, frustration, something unspoken, a dark, simmering rage.

Seulgi took another step closer, her presence grounding, a solid wall of support. "Come on, Y/N. Let’s go."

---  

Jaeyi’s eyes darkened, a predatory gleam in their depths. "You can't have her Seulgi," she hissed, her voice a low, dangerous growl. "She's mine."

Jaeyi sat on the edge of Y/N’s bed, her fingers ghosting over the soft fabric of the blanket. The room smelled the same—warm, familiar, like Y/N. It felt like stepping into the past, into a time before everything fell apart.  

Her eyes scanned the room, stopping when she spotted something on the shelves.  

A small, wistful smile formed on her lips.  

Her gifts—every little thing she had ever given Y/N—were still there. The bracelet from their first date, the stuffed bear she won for her at a festival, the keychain with their initials.  

She still keeps them.

For a brief second, Jaeyi allowed herself to believe that maybe—just maybe—Y/N hadn’t truly moved on. That all of this, Seulgi included, was just a phase.  

But then she saw it.  

A framed picture sitting right beside the memories of them.

Y/N and Seulgi, laughing together, their arms draped over each other, faces glowing with happiness.  

Jaeyi’s stomach twisted, her nails digging into her palm.  

Seulgi was ruining everything.  

Before she even realized what she was doing, her fingers wrapped around the frame. Her heart pounded in her ears, the sound of her own ragged breathing filling the room.   

The glass cracked as she tore the picture from the frame, shredding it into pieces, her breaths coming out uneven.  

"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "No, no, no."

She wouldn’t let this happen.  

She wouldn’t let Seulgi take Y/N away from her.  

Jaeyi exhaled sharply, her grip tightening on the torn scraps of the photo. She had waited too long, watched from the sidelines as Seulgi wormed her way into Y/N’s life, pretending to be her savior.  

Enough was enough.  

She had a plan. And that plan started tonight.

Jaeyi leaned back against the headboard, her fingers brushing over the old bracelet Y/N still kept.  

A smirk played on her lips as she settled in, waiting.  

Y/N would be home soon.

And this time, Jaeyi wouldn’t let her slip away.

Y/N fumbled with her keys, the events of the rooftop encounter still swirling in her mind. Seulgi's comforting presence had been a lifeline, but the echo of Jaeyi's words "You're mine." clung to her like a chilling shadow.

She pushed open the door to her room, expecting the familiar quiet, and froze.

Jaeyi was there.

She sat comfortably in Y/N’s favorite chair by the window, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. Her presence was both unsettling and commanding, like she had always belonged there.

A wave of shock, then fear, crashed over Y/N. "Jaeyi? What are you doing here?"

Jaeyi rose gracefully, a slow, knowing smile playing on her lips. "I came to see you, of course."

Before Y/N could react, Jaeyi was in front of her, closing the distance in one fluid motion. Then her lips were on hers.

The kiss was sudden, deep, and intoxicating. Jaeyi’s hands slid along Y/N’s waist, pulling her in, her touch both possessive and desperate.

Y/N stiffened at first, her mind screaming at her to stop this, to push Jaeyi away. But her body betrayed her.

The familiarity of Jaeyi’s touch, the way her lips moved with a hunger that felt all-consuming—it stirred something buried deep within.

She hesitated, caught in the heat of the moment, allowing Jaeyi to take more, to claim more.

Jaeyi smirked against her lips, sensing her surrender. Her hands explored—fingertips tracing Y/N’s spine, pressing into her hips, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them.

Just as Y/N felt herself slipping completely into Jaeyi’s control, Jaeyi abruptly pulled away. Her eyes burned with something dark and triumphant as she stepped back, tilting her head toward the corner of the room.

"Look," she whispered, her voice disturbingly calm.

Y/N followed her gaze on Jaeyi's phone.

And froze.

A large container sat in the corner of unknown room.

Inside—bound, gagged, bruised—was Seulgi.

Y/N’s breath hitched, horror clawing at her throat. "You..." she gasped, her entire body going rigid.

Jaeyi smiled sweetly, almost mockingly. "She was getting in the way," she purred, running a lazy finger down Y/N’s arm. "But don't worry, she'll be fine. As long as you do what I say."

Y/N’s stomach twisted.

"Jaeyi, please... let her go."

Jaeyi lifted Y/N’s chin with a single finger, forcing their eyes to meet.

"Be with me," she murmured, her touch deceptively gentle.

"Be mine, like you were always meant to be. And she won’t get hurt."

Y/N’s mind spun, trapped between a terrifying ultimatum and the magnetic pull of Jaeyi’s presence. She wanted to run. She wanted to fight. But Seulgi—Seulgi was helpless, suffering because of her.

She had no choice.

A deal with the devil.

"Okay," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I'll do it. Just... please don't hurt her."

Jaeyi’s smile widened—a dark, victorious gleam in her eyes.

"Good girl," she murmured, leaning in for another kiss.

Y/N didn’t resist this time.

Jaeyi pushed her back until she hit the bed, guiding her down with slow, deliberate movements. Her lips moved from Y/N’s mouth to her jaw, then down to the sensitive skin of her neck, leaving a trail of possessive marks.

"You belong to me," Jaeyi whispered against her throat, her hands roaming lower, claiming every inch of Y/N as if she were already hers.

Y/N gasped, torn between the horror of the situation and the undeniable pull of Jaeyi’s touch. Every kiss, every movement, was a silent demand—give in to me, and Seulgi lives.

And so, she did.

As Jaeyi’s lips captured hers once more, Y/N let herself drown in the twisted pleasure of the moment. This was her pact, her surrender.

Her price to pay.

And Jaeyi made sure she felt every second of it.

Y/N was making a lot of noise, moaning loudly, because Jaeyi was using her tongue to give her a lot of pleasure. Jaeyi had been doing this for a while, and Y/N was very wet.

Jaeyi teased her, asking, "Do you like that? Do you really like my tongue?" Y/N couldn't answer with words, only moans. She tried to pull Jaeyi's head closer, wanting more, but Jaeyi stopped her.

Jaeyi wanted to control the situation. She wanted to make Y/N wait and enjoy every moment.

She moved her tongue in different ways, teasing Y/N and making her feel very good.

Y/N's body moved a lot because she felt so much pleasure. Jaeyi watched Y/N's face, enjoying how much power she had.

When Y/N was about to have a very strong feeling of pleasure, she made a loud cry.

Jaeyi let her enjoy that feeling, and then stopped.

Jaeyi looked up at Y/N and said, "Good girl," like she was praising her. She enjoyed having control over Y/N's pleasure.

Jaeyi watched Y/N, a predatory gleam in her eyes. Y/N was a mess, completely undone, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of pleasure. Jaeyi savored the sight, the way Y/N's chest heaved with each ragged breath, the way her lips were swollen and parted, the way her eyes were glazed with a hazy satisfaction.

"You're such a mess," Jaeyi purred, her voice laced with a dark amusement. "So needy."

Y/N, still lost in the afterglow, could only whimper, a soft, pleading sound that sent a thrill through Jaeyi.  She reached out, her fingers tracing the dampness at Y/N's entrance, eliciting a gasp.

"Still want more, don't you?" Jaeyi teased, her touch light and teasing. "Can't get enough, can you?"

Y/N's hips bucked involuntarily, a silent plea for more. Jaeyi chuckled, a low, throaty sound that vibrated through Y/N's core.

"Such a good girl," Jaeyi murmured, her fingers slipping inside, slowly at first, then with increasing urgency.  Y/N's moans returned, louder this time, desperate and demanding. Jaeyi watched, her eyes burning with a possessive intensity, as Y/N writhed beneath her touch, completely at her mercy.

"You need me, don't you?" Jaeyi whispered, her voice a seductive poison.

"You need my touch, my control."

Y/N could only nod, her body a testament to Jaeyi's words. Jaeyi smiled, a cruel, triumphant smile. She had won. She had broken Y/N, molded her into the perfect, obedient plaything.  And as Y/N's cries of pleasure filled the room, Jaeyi reveled in her victory, her heart pounding with a dark, possessive satisfaction.

[saetoru]

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩ PARTNERS — GOJO SATORU. (rich boy! au)

contents. college! au, rich boy! gojo, established relationship, you and suguru are partnered for a project instead of satoru…and he doesn’t take the news lightly, dramatic toru and INSTIGATOR suguru

satoru is sulking—you’d find it a little amusing any other day, but he seems a bit more upset than usual. and quite frankly, suguru isn’t really helping things out either, so you feel just a little bad.

“baby,” you poke his cheek, “it’s not our fault! we just got randomly assigned—”

“whatever,” he huffs. you tug at his arm, but he pulls it away.

it just so happens that the three of you seem to share a class this semester—but unfortunately, suguru is assigned as your partner for a project. it’s the same project satoru wanted to be paired with you for. he seems convinced it’ll be you and him that are called—which, in all honesty, the likelihood of being paired with you out of the multiple people in the class is low, but it’s only added insult to injury that suguru had the odds in his favor.

satoru is not handling it well.

“toru,” you insist, pinching his cheek in hopes to cheer him up. he scowls at you—as if this is your fault, “c’mon, cheer up! now that it’s suguru, you can just tag along when we work—”

“tag along?” he cuts you off, tone bordering on hurt, “so now i’m the third wheel?”

oh dear.

“n-no!” you say quickly—suguru has the audacity to snicker, earning a warning glance from you, “you’re never the third wheel, toru. you’re the first wheel! the only wheel. really!”

“y’know,” suguru starts—you already know whatever he’s about to say is going to make things ten times worse. you try (and fail) to glare at him until he’s silent. “if i recall, the two of you got together through a project, didn’t you? who knows, maybe you’ll have the biggest crush on me after this is over.”

suguru drops the bomb and winks. you look at him like you want to kill him. satoru’s face is devastated.

you think this might be the end.

“what?” satoru gasps, turning to you quickly, “tell him that’s impossible, tell him! tell him he’s hideous and that you only have eyes for me—”

“toru, of course i only have eyes for you, don’t listen to him, he’s just pushing your buttons—”

“hey, you never know. i might charm you,” suguru adds fuel to the fire—this time, you throw your water bottle at him. he catches it with ease, throwing you a smug grin that makes you scowl deeper.

“you’re hideous, suguru,” satoru spits, “no way anyone would leave me for you—”

“that already happened. remember your girlfriend in middle school?”

“that doesn’t count! we were too young to know what love was back then!”

satoru is practically inconsolable now—you consider dropping out of this class just for the sake of peace. maybe you can take it over the summer and be paired with a random stranger that won’t bother your dramatic boyfriend. maybe you can evade the project altogether with a different professor. maybe you can kill suguru and the misfortune of a dead partner can grant you an automatic exemption from this assignment.

you weigh your options as satoru slumps with a pout.

“whatever,” he grumbles, “i don’t even care. have fun without me.”

suguru chuckles, shaking his head in amusement. you sigh before cupping satoru’s cheeks and giving him a small kiss to his forehead to cheer him up.

not surprisingly, it doesn’t seem to work.

“cheer up, baby,” you reason, “at least since it’s just suguru, you won’t have to leave us alone to work! it won’t be awkward if you’re there too.”

“but you’ll be too busy working with suguru to talk to me,” he says bitterly.

“at least i’ll have a handsome face to keep me motivated,” you grin, kissing his jaw—now that…that seems to cheer him up considerably. he brightens, plastering that usual smug grin he sports, as if the world around him wasn’t ending just moments ago.

“i am handsome, aren’t i?” he hums, wrapping an arm around you—mission accomplished, you think happily.

“yeah,” you nod quickly, “and suguru is hideous anyway. i’d never leave you for someone with a tacky man bun—”

“hey, leave my hair out of this—”

“it is pretty tacky,” satoru nods and agrees.

suguru crosses his arms, glaring at the both of you before he opens his mouth to retaliate. you cut in before he can say anything else to worsen satoru’s mood any further.

“and maybe you can help me—you’re smarter than suguru too.”

“he is not—”

“you’re right baby,” satoru hums, “maybe this is for the best. i’ll save both of your grades this way.”

suguru’s vein all but pops. “we don’t need your help—”

“don’t worry suguru,” satoru grins confidently, pointing to himself with his thumb, “i’ll save your grade. no need to thank me—ow!”

you watch tiredly as suguru throws your water bottle at satoru’s head—it’s going to be a long project.

i already know the switch boy! au people are gonna start the “suguru definitely wants reader” comments. i’m waiting for them i can sense them already

[kpopkurves]

Sin & Surrender

Theme: Smut, NSFW,

Pairing: Song Mingi x Reader/YN

The energy in the room was electric, the afterglow of ATEEZ’s latest comeback win still thrumming in Mingi’s veins. The celebration had been loud, full of cheers, toasts, and the kind of exhilaration that came from seeing months of grueling effort pay off. But now, the real celebration was about to begin.

He had waited all night, feeling the weight of his hunger for you press against his self-control. Every lingering touch, every stolen glance had fueled the fire in his gut. And now, finally, you were here, pressed against the cool walls of his hotel room, looking up at him with wide, wanting eyes.

"You’re so good for me, baby," Mingi murmured, his voice low and raspy as he dragged his hands down your sides, his fingers digging into the plush of your hips. "Always waiting so patiently. Always knowing who you belong to."

His praise sent a shiver down your spine, but it was quickly followed by the sharp sting of his teeth sinking into the soft skin of your shoulder. You gasped, the sensation a wicked blend of pain and pleasure. Mingi pulled back, his lips curling into a smirk as he traced the fresh mark with his tongue, soothing the bite.

"That’s one," he hummed, gripping your chin between his fingers, making you hold his gaze. "And I’m not done."

He didn't let you make it to the bed right away. No, that would be too easy. His hands were on you the moment the door shut, pressing you against the hard wood, his hips flush against yours as he devoured your mouth. His tongue was demanding, his hands rough as they slid under your clothes, pushing fabric aside as if it offended him. The first time he took you, it was against the wall, your legs wrapped tight around his waist as he drove into you with an intensity that left you breathless.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he groaned, his lips dragging down your throat, leaving a trail of heat. "So tight—like you were made for me."

Your moans were music to his ears, spurring him on as he rocked into you, his grip unrelenting. His fingers dug into your skin, branding you in a way that went beyond the bruises he was leaving behind. When he finally let you come undone around him, your nails raking down his back as you screamed his name, he held you close, whispering praises into your ear.

But he wasn’t done.

He carried you to the bathroom next, setting you on the cool marble countertop, the mirror fogging from the heat of your bodies. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them apart as he knelt before you, his dark eyes locking onto yours with unrelenting intensity.

"So fucking pretty when you're wrecked for me," he murmured, his breath ghosting over your heated skin before his mouth descended, leaving open-mouthed kisses along your inner thighs. He bit down, sucking deep bruises into the sensitive flesh, making sure you’d feel him long after tonight.

He took his time there, teasing, his tongue flicking and curling in sinful patterns, his fingers pressing deep as he worked you open. Your head fell back, a broken sob of pleasure spilling from your lips as he groaned against you, lost in the taste of you.

"You’re dripping for me, baby," he murmured against your slick skin, his tongue dragging up in a slow, torturous stroke. "So greedy. You want more? Say it."

"Mingi, please—" your voice was wrecked, needy, desperate.

He smirked, gripping your hips to keep you from squirming. "That’s my girl."

He pushed you past the edge with devastating precision, watching as your body trembled, the pleasure too intense to contain. His hands never stopped, keeping you open for him, making you take it even when you thought you couldn’t.

When he finally rose, his lips glistening, his expression was nothing short of ravenous. "Not done with you yet, baby," he whispered, turning you around to face the mirror, his chest pressing against your back. His hands gripped your hips, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he slid into you again, this time slow and deep, forcing you to watch the way he unraveled you.

"Look at yourself," he demanded, his voice thick with desire. "Look at how perfect you are for me. Taking me so well. Letting me ruin you."

Each thrust was brutal, claiming, his grip unrelenting as he bent you to his will. Your moans mixed with his, the wet sound of your bodies colliding filling the air. He pressed a hand to your throat, tilting your head back to whisper filth into your ear, his other hand sneaking between your thighs to push you over the edge once more.

By the time you finally reached the bed, your body was a masterpiece of his devotion—red marks, bruises, and the lingering burn of his touch everywhere he had claimed you. He hovered over you, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "One more time, baby. I need to see you fall apart for me again."

And he didn’t stop—not until your body was trembling, drenched in sweat, covered in love bites and bruises, each one a permanent reminder of this night. Of him. Of how completely and utterly you belonged to Song Mingi.

[thef1diary]

thinking of how dirtbag!daniel would react to you squirting for the first time 😋

i imagine him being all cocky about it (as always ofc) after it happens but while it's happening he actually is a little bit star struck. not because it's his first time seeing a girl squirt but because he wasn't expecting it. he'd probably stopped paying attention to how many orgasms he'd given you already halfway through as he decided that night would be about pulling as many out of you as possible anyway

afterwards though he would definitely dedicate himself to getting you to do it again right after it happened as he enjoyed it so much

— oh he’s such a smug bastard, if he makes you squirt once, he’s definitely gonna do it again, this time on purpose. 18+ content below

Daniel was relentless tonight. His focus had been singular, unwavering, and entirely self-indulgent: making you cum until your legs gave out and you forgot your own name.

He’d been going for what felt like hours, barely giving you a moment to breathe in between. His mouth, his hands, his cock—each one like a weapon in his arsenal to ruin you completely. And now, as you were splayed beneath him, trembling and soaked with sweat and your cum, he was still far from satisfied.

His fingers worked you in a rhythm that felt impossible to withstand. The wet sounds filled the space around you, obscene and unmistakable, as he curled them inside you, brushing that devastating spot over and over again. He was so cocky, so goddamn sure of himself, but tonight, he had every right to be.

Daniel looked up from between your thighs, his dark eyes locking with yours as his tongue flicked out, licking the slickness off his lips. “You’re such a mess,” he murmured, though there was no real malice in his tone. Just satisfaction. Pride.

His hand slid from your hip to your inner thigh, holding you open as if he couldn’t stand the idea of you closing yourself off. “Can’t believe how fucking wet you are.”

Daniel grinned wickedly down at you, his fingers teasing your swollen, slick folds. He pressed his thumb against your clit, circling it just enough to make your hips jerk involuntarily. “Did you already lose track of how many times you’ve cum for me?”

“Daniel—” Your voice broke, a desperate moan cutting through the air as his fingers curled, hitting that spot inside you with precision. You grabbed at his wrist, your nails digging into his skin in a feeble attempt to slow him down, but he only smirked at your effort.

“Ah, ah,” he tutted, leaning in closer until his breath was hot against your ear. “You don’t get to tell me to stop. Not when you’re soaking my hand like this.”

You whimpered, your back arching off the bed as his hand pinned you down by your hip. “Dan—” you gasped, but the rest of his name was swallowed by the wave of pleasure building low in your belly.

“Shh,” he cooed, grinning as he watched you squirm. “Just take it. You can handle one more. Or five.”

You didn’t even have the energy to respond, your head falling back against the pillow as his fingers worked you over mercilessly. The wet sounds filling the room were filthy, the slick glide of his hand against you only fueling the fire low in your belly.

His fingers picked up their pace, thrusting into you harder, deeper, until the coil inside you snapped so violently it left you gasping. Your release hit you like a tidal wave, your thighs clenching as your entire body shuddered.

And that’s when it happened.

You felt it before you saw it, the gush of wetness spilling from you and soaking his hand, his arm, and the sheets beneath you. Your cry of pleasure was loud, unrestrained, as your thighs trembled uncontrollably.

For the first time that night, Daniel froze. His hand stilled, his jaw dropping slightly as he stared at the mess you’d made.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, almost to himself. His eyes darted from your face to the wetness covering his hand, and then back to you.

You felt the heat rush to your cheeks, embarrassment creeping in despite the way your body still pulsed with aftershocks. “I—Daniel, I didn’t—”

But he wasn’t listening.

His thumb dragged through the wetness coating your inner thigh, spreading it further as if he couldn’t get enough of it. A wide grin spread across his face as he pulled his fingers from you, bringing them to his mouth. He sucked them clean, groaning low in his throat at the taste. “Fucking hell,” he said, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He shifted, crawling up your body until his face was inches from yours. His grin was wicked, his dark eyes gleaming with mischief and pride. “Didn’t know you had that in you, sweetheart. Guess I’m just that good.”

You rolled your eyes, but the teasing gesture was cut short by the way his hand cupped your jaw, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “Think we can do it again?” he murmured, his tone low and full of promise.

“Again?” you asked breathlessly, your body still trembling from the intensity of your release.

“Oh, definitely again,” he said, his lips curling into a smirk. “I want to see that pretty little body of yours lose control for me over and over. You’ve got more in you, I know it.”

Before you could respond, Daniel’s hands were on you again, his touch firm and possessive. He kissed you hard, his tongue claiming yours as he pressed you back into the mattress.

This time, when he slid his cock inside you, it felt like the world shifted. His movements were rough, unrelenting, his hands gripping your hips as he thrust into you with a singular focus.

And as the wet sounds of your bodies filled the air, Daniel leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’re gonna do it again,” he commanded. “You’re gonna squirt all over me, just like before. Understand?”

You could only nod, your mind too fogged with pleasure to form coherent words.

Daniel grinned, his teeth grazing your earlobe before he straightened up, pulling your hips higher as he drove into you harder, deeper. “That’s my girl,” he muttered, his voice rough with pride and lust. “Now let’s see how long it takes before these sheets are completely soaked, yeah?”

want more dirtbag!danny? send me an ask with your filthiest thoughts and it’ll get answered during one of my dirty drabble days

[bullet-prooflove]

Boo Fucking Hoo: Frank Langdon x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @julessworldd @yousigned-upforthis @travelingmypassion @julius-ceasar

Companion piece to:

Hypocrite - Frank struggles to make amends for a past wrongs.

Crash - Almost getting you fired wasn't the lowest point of Frank's addiction.

Rock Bottom - Frank hits rock bottom when he sees the devastation his addiction's caused.

Little Black Dress - Frank starts to spiral when he realises you're dating.

Every Damn Day - A drunk text leads to a confession.

Wet Dream (NSFW) - Frank sometimes dreams about the life you had together.

War Stories - A realisation about your coping habits leads you to Frank's door.

The Three Cs - Frank and you finally discuss your issues and pave away towards the future.

The Wall - A date at the climbing wall leads to a revelation from Frank.

Commitment - You create a fun way of showing Frank your commitment to the relationship.

All In (NSFW) - You and Frank take a big step forward.

Slut (NSFW) - Frank gets a little bratty after a bad day.

Nightmare Fuel - Frank's been waiting for the fall to come.

The fight starts when the partner of one of your SA patients attacks you outside by the ambulance bay. You don’t see it coming, you’re too busy scrolling through your phone, catching up on the group chat when you’re slammed against the brick work of the building. Your head bounces off the wall, your phone shattering on the concrete, as a huge hand encloses around your throat, choking off your air supply. Something warm trickles down the back of your neck, blood you assume from a scalp laceration.

“She fucking left me.” A man you’ve never met before spits in your face, his fingers dig into your tender flesh as his grip tightens and stars dance across your vision. “I wanna know where the fuck she is.”

This, you think, this is why we shouldn’t put staff pictures on the website.

You have absolutely no clue who he’s talking about. You’ve examined dozens of women over the past couple of weeks and 50% of their injuries were due to partner violence.

You rasp something and his grasp loosens as he leans in close struggling to hear you. “Spit it out bitch.”

“Go to hell.” You snarl, smashing the crown of your head into his nose just like you were taught in self-dense class. A loud crunch erupts through the air as he reels backwards, blood ejecting from his nose. You follow up with a knee strike, driving it into his groin so hard that he’ll be singing soprano for the rest of his life. His knees go out from underneath him and he crumples to the floor, one hand cupping his balls, the other cradling his broken nose.

“Not so fucking fun when they fight back is it asshole?” You hiss, your throat raw from the choking. “I don’t know who the fuck she is but I’m glad she had the strength to put you in her rear view.”  

“You fucking bitch, I think you ruptured something!” He curses at you, his cheek pressed against the concrete, beaten and helpless.

“Boo fucking hoo.” You respond as the automatic doors hiss behind you open and Ahmed, the security officer rushes out into the bay.

“I saw the whole thing on the screens.” He informs you pointedly, snatching up the radio off his belt. You know what that means, he’s got the footage to back you up when this asshole inevitably tries to sue you. He presses the button down on his radio, holding it up to his mouth. “We’re gonna need a doctor out here in the ambulance bay, police too.”

His dark eyes catalogue the bruising on your throat, taking in the blood that’s now soaking into the back of your scrubs from wound in your scalp. “You want me to get Langdon?”

“No.” You whisper, touching your fingertips to the back of your throbbing head, trying to gauge your injury. “I wouldn’t, not unless you want a murder on your hands too.”

Love Frank? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[nizhspo]

genre: haikyuu imagine, slight smut

pairing: kei tsukishima x fem!reader

summary: fast furious inspired but i never watched the movie.

you swore you were done with this shit.

racing.

engines snarling like wild things, streets lit with flickering LEDs and cigarette lighters, bets barked into thick night air.

you’d lived enough of it to know what came next. the high, the crash, the long silence afterward.

your dad died on the track.

not a metaphor. not some quiet decay of spirit.

a real crash. metal screaming. fuel in flames.

he flipped doing 110 trying to shave milliseconds, the whole town betting on him to win.

you found out later he’d bet everything he had. everything you had. your college fund. your mom’s savings. her wedding ring.

gone. all of it, before the second lap.

your mom didn’t cry when they told her. just shut the garage door and left it locked for a year.

then, just when she started to breathe again, you nearly died too.

a night run. stupid impulse. someone else’s car, someone else’s ego. a curve taken too fast, and then nothing but noise, nothing but pain.

you woke up with a fractured rib, road rash down your hip, and a jagged scar across your side that still tugs when you stretch.

your mom cried then. harder than at the funeral.

held your hand like it was the last thing she had left and said, “i can’t do this again.”

so you quit.

pulled the tarp over baby blue. tried to forget the way it felt to fly.

…

you were stocking vending machines at your part-time job when you met him.

it was late, past midnight, the parking lot humid, the hum of cicadas louder than the overhead lights.

you’d clocked out with a sour attitude and sticky palms, uniform shirt tied around your waist, walking toward your busted civic when you saw him.

tall. lean. sharp lines.

leaning against a yellow 350Z, aggressive and spotless, parked two slots down from your car.

not looking at you — looking at her.

baby blue.

your hood was popped, half her engine exposed. you’d checked the coolant before your shift and forgot to close it.

he didn’t even flinch as you approached, just tilted his head at the sight of you.

“didn’t think she’d still run.”

you squinted. “excuse me?”

he nodded at the chipped paint along the fender, the mismatched spoiler — all scars you remembered helping your dad patch.

“baby blue. i remember her. your dad used to open her up on third and ash, right?”

your jaw tensed. “she doesn’t race anymore.”

he looked back at her, thoughtful. “shame. waste of good blood.”

you frowned. “the hell does that mean?”

he finally looked at you.

and when his eyes hit yours, narrow, amber, sharp as sin, it was like being sized up and stripped bare at the same time.

“you were better than him,” he said, simple. “cleaner. smarter. faster.”

you felt your throat close up. “don’t talk about my dad.”

he held your gaze. didn’t blink. then: “race me.”

you laughed in his face. “fuck no.”

“i’ll pay for your tune-up. no strings. just race me.”

“i can’t afford a race.” you couldn’t afford to lose.

“don’t want your money,” he said. “i want the story.”

you stepped closer. “what’s your angle?”

his smirk was small and devastating.

“i want to see if the legend’s real.”

…

he dropped money on parts like he was buying gum.

coilovers, pads, an oil cooler. high-grade synthetic. a new clutch kit.

and then, to your surprise, he didn’t drop it off and vanish.

he came to your garage.

night after night. t-shirt rolled at the sleeves, hair pulled into a lazy tie, hands already dirty.

he worked quiet. efficient.

passed tools before you asked. understood baby blue’s rusted wiring like it was language.

“you really could’ve just paid someone,” you said once, yanking open baby blue’s rusted hood.

“where’s the fun in that?”

he knew your car like he built her himself.

and you hated how easy it was to fall into rhythm with him, passing tools, brushing hands, swapping stories without really talking about anything.

you also hated that it only took three nights before he had your legs around his waist.

you’d been underneath the chassis. tank top sticking to your back. grease on your stomach.

he leaned over to hand you a wrench and you’d caught a flash of his stomach under that black t-shirt, lean and pale and when you looked up — he was already watching you.

“you’re staring,” you said, wiping your face with the back of your hand.

he crouched down. voice low. “yeah?”

you didn’t mean to say it.

“wash your hands first.”

but he did.

and the next thing you knew, your back was hitting the garage wall, mouth open under his, his fingers under your waistband, grease still smudging his neck.

he didn’t ask. just kissed you like he already had. like it was tradition.

mouth hot, unyielding. tongue piercing clinking against your teeth.

you tasted heat, dust, black coffee.

and when your back hit the hood of baby blue, you felt the metal rattle against your spine.

you gasped.

you let him lift you up, thighs hooked around his hips. his fingers pressed into your waist, teeth at your neck, hips rolling hard between your legs.

you didn’t stop him.

didn’t want to.

and after that, every night, it was the same.

you fixed the car.

he fucked you against it.

quiet. messy. stretched across her hood, bent over her door.

sometimes your hands shook from the engine. sometimes from him.

sometimes both.

your mom stopped checking in on you guys in the garage.

you didn’t stop going.

…

the night of the race, everything felt loud.

louder than it should’ve.

streetlights lit up the city like an altar.

your hands trembled as you pulled your gloves on. tsukishima leaned against his yellow Z, arms crossed, lips quirked.

“hope you’re not gonna go easy on me,” you said, brushing your thumb along your gearshift.

his gaze was molten. “never.”

he stepped closer and your breath hitched.

“but when i win…” his eyes dipped, slow, raking down your body and back up again. “…you owe me.”

you licked your lips. “what exactly do you want?”

he smirked. “i got a couple ideas.”

…

he won.

barely.

you pull up second, tires smoking, chest rising like you ran the whole way.

he’s already out of the car, eyes blown wide, golden under the lights.

you climb out, breathless.

don’t say anything at first.

he walks toward you. stops close. “you almost had me.”

you stare at him.

at the sweat on his collarbone, the way his forearm flexes when he wipes his mouth.

“how much did you bet?”

“enough.”

you shift, grimacing. “i’ll pay you. i just… not all at once. might take a few—”

“y/n, i don’t want your money.”

you blink. “then what do you want?”

his gaze dips. you feel it before he says anything, the weight of it on your skin.

“i think you know.”

you smile. slow. feel your fingers twitch to grab his jacket.

“garage?” you offer, voice low.

he tilts his head. “backseat.”

your breath catches.

you grab his wrist and pull him into the dark, and when his hands hit your waist again, you’re already unzipping your hoodie.

baby blue purrs behind you.

she knows what’s up.

[sowhatwereyousaying]

A Promise

summary: After a drunken night out, you accidentally kiss South Korea's biggest playboy, Gong Yoo—who recently vowed on live TV to marry the next person who kissed him.

warnings: age gap (reader is in their 20s and gong yoo is in his 40s);

I should have stopped at two tequila shots.  

But no. My best friend, Mia, had convinced me that I needed to "live a little"—which meant drinking like I was celebrating a lottery win, dancing like an unhinged maniac, and somehow… accidentally kissing Gong Yoo, one of the most handsome man in all of South Korea

Yeah. That happened.

The Night It All Went Down

The night had started innocently enough. My friends and I were celebrating Mia’s promotion, and we ended up at VERA, one of the hottest clubs in Seoul. It was packed with celebrities, influencers, and people with perfect faces who didn’t seem real.  

At some point between shot number three and shot number… too many, I lost track of my surroundings. All I knew was that the music was pulsing, my head was spinning, and I felt unstoppable.

That’s when I saw him.  

Gong Yoo.  

Sitting in the VIP booth, dressed in all black, his sharp jawline and devastating smirk catching the flashing lights of the club. He looked exactly like he did in the tabloids—sinful, dangerous, and ridiculously hot.

And in my tequila-clouded brain, I had the most spectacularly bad idea.

"I’m gonna kiss him," I announced to Mia.  

She choked on her drink. "What?! No, you're not!"  

But it was too late.  

Fueled by liquid courage (and zero common sense), I marched up to the VIP section, ducked under the rope, ignored the confused security guard, and planted myself right in front of Gong freaking Yoo.

He was mid-conversation with some idol when I stumbled forward, grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him.

And not just a quick peck—oh no.  

I kissed him like I meant it.  

For two whole seconds, the world stopped. His lips were warm, soft, and completely still. I vaguely registered the sound of gasps, the flash of cameras—  

And then, suddenly, he kissed me back.  

His hand slid against my waist, his lips moved against mine, and my brain basically malfunctioned.

Then reality smacked me in the face.  

I pulled away with a gasp, realizing what the hell I just did.

Gong Yoo blinked at me, then tilted his head, looking entirely too amused. "Well, that was unexpected."  

My heart plummeted as the entire VIP section burst into chaos.  

Phones were out. People were shouting. Security was stepping in. And then Mia’s voice screamed through the noise—

"OH MY GOD, WHAT DID YOU JUST DO?!"  

The Morning After

I woke up with the worst hangover of my life and three hundred missed notifications.

The internet had lost it's mind

DIG INTO THE LIFE OF THE MYSTERY PERSON WHO STOLE GONG YOO'S HEART?!

WHO IS THE PERSON THAT KISSED GONG YOO—AND WHY DID HE KISS THEM BACK?!

GONG YOO LAST ROMANCE? STAR DECLARES HE’LL MARRY THE NEXT PERSON WHO KISSES HIM—IS THIS IT?!  

I groaned, pressing a pillow over my face. No. No, no, no, no. 

This was bad. Really bad.

I barely had time to process it before someone knocked on my apartment door. 

Mia poked her head in. "Um…good morning?"  

"What?" I groaned.  

She pointed over her shoulder. "You… have a guest."  

I frowned, dragging myself out of bed and stumbling toward the door. The second I opened it, my stomach plummeted.

Gong Yoo stood there.  

Looking very smug.

I panicked. "Why are you here?!"  

He leaned against the doorframe, his smirk deepening. "Well, sweetheart, you kissed me. And I don’t break my promises."  

I blinked. "What promise?"  

His eyes sparkled with amusement. "The one I made on live TV last week."  

Oh no.  

No, no, no.  

The interview.  

I had seen it. The entire world had seen it.  

Gong Yoo, a notorious playboy, had gone on The Late Night Show and declared to millions of viewers, "The next person who kisses me? That’s it. That’s the one. I’ll marry them. No more games."  

My blood ran cold.

"Gong Yoo," I said, voice barely above a whisper. "That… was a joke, right?"  

He grinned. "Nope."  

I gasped. "But I was drunk! It was an accident!"  

He shrugged. "Doesn’t change anything. A promise is a promise."  

I stared at him in absolute horror.

This couldn’t be happening.  

I was a nobody. A broke nobody. I worked a boring marketing job, I had student loans, and the most exciting thing in my life was my cat, Mr. Pickles.  

Meanwhile, Gong Yoo dated supermodels and lived in mansions.  

This wasn’t real.

He must have seen the panic on my face, because he sighed, crossing his arms. "Okay, fine. Look. I know this is sudden. But the media already thinks we’re engaged."  

I stiffened. "So?"  

"So," he continued smoothly, "if we break up now, I look like a liar. And you’ll be the girl who 'broke my heart' and ruined my big vow. The internet will eat you alive."  

Oh.  

Oh no.  

I swallowed. "What… are you saying?"  

His smirk returned. "I'm saying, sweetheart—" He leaned in closer, his voice low and dangerous. "You're stuck with me now." 

a/n: I am extremely OBSESSED with this guy and honestly I just need him (sorry). This is my first attempt at writing fanfic, and honestly, it was inspired by a random story I read a few weeks ago. I had a lot of fun with this and am honestly happy with how it turned out, and I hope you liked this too. This one is pretty unrealistic and the opposite of how gong yoo actually is seen (ig) but honestly very fun.

also thanks to @dyingswanpavlova for inspiring me to write my own after reading their absolutely wonderful Your Girl series which you can read here, I forgot where the header is from, but if it's from you, please let me know, I'll mention yall <3

[maraudersilver]

despise you (Sirius Black x Potter!Reader)

Wc: 2,2K

Series masterlist

Warnings: I wrote this blurb in less than an hour, English is not my first language so if you see anything that needs improvement, let me know!

Sirius Black x Fem!Potter!Reader - Chapter 1

Summary: After winning a quidditch match against Gryffindor, you scape the party celebrated at the Slytherin common room only to encounter the Marauders lurking around the dungeons.

The Slytherin common room was boasting with music that reverberated throughout the dungeons’ walls. You were sure Slughorn would be awake soon enough, if not the giant squid lurking on the waters of the Black Lake who could be lured by the intense lighting. 

At the moment, you were outside the party halls, leaned on the hard, stone wall in an attempt to calm your breathing. It was too much. Too loud. Too many people in such a small space. Why were there Hufflepuffs celebrating Slytherin’s victory anyway? Didn’t they have a common room to loaf in? 

It had been a long day that went in a haze. One moment you were trying to choke on your morning coffee, and the next your whole house had you and the rest of the Quidditch team strutting on their shoulders for everyone to see. The match had been a hard one, Gryffindor being a great team. Not that you would admit it outloud. However, McKinnon’s growing frustration at every stop of the quaffle added to the intense beating of the bad Black brother in an attempt to throw you off your broom had only fueled your skills.

That and your brother’s priceless, devastated expression when Regulus had been the one to catch the snitch. You had almost felt some flicker of sympathy when Lily Evans refused his consolation hug petition, but it didn’t last long. 

“Are you planning on murdering someone?” Regulus’ voice took you out of your thoughts, and your bemused expression only caused him to snort. “You have a wicked grin on. That can’t be good.”

“Just recalling James’ face,” you sighed happily, to which Regulus chuckled silently. “Ah, this Christmas is going to be magical!”

“And they say I’m the evil one.” It was your time to snort, nudging Regulus lightly with your shoulder when he positioned himself next to you. “I do have to admit, seeing him so riled up the second I had the snitch in my hand was… Gratifying.”

“Gratifying?” You choked, looking up at your friend with raised brows. “What kind of word is that?”

“Some of us have proper education, you know?”

“Are you calling me illiterate?”

“That’s on you, Potter.”

You huffed, a small smirk still on your face. The two of you stayed in silence, listening to the new single of Bartilous and The Jumping Poffle that blasted through the entrance. 

“Got tired?”

“Yeah,” Regulus yawned, placing his head lazily in the stone. “What the fuck are the Hufflepuffs doing in there?”

“Right! Who let them in?”

“I’m betting on Rosier.”

“Evan?” you asked incredulously.

“Pandora. She has been sitting next to Abb… Abbie… Whatever. On transfiguration all year.”

You hummed in acknowledgement. There was a pending conversation with your group of friends about who were and weren’t welcomed during Slytherin parties. And the whole badger house was definitely not on the list. 

“Could be worse.” You peeked at the good Black brother out of the corner of your eye. “It could have been the Gryffindors.”

“As if!” Both Regulus and you chuckled. You shook your head and sighed again, rolling your shoulders uncomfortably. “James would cut both his hands before stepping a foot on our common room.”

“I was going to say that Sirius would become bald before doing so but,” Regulus grimaced, and you felt your lips stretching in amusement. “I’m positive he'd rather snog Avery than living without his hair.”

You gagged. “Not Avery.”

“What? Umbridge then?” 

“You’re the worst.”

Regulus chuckled lightly. “She’s not that bad.”

“Please, Black, tell me you don’t have a crush on Miss Pinky Winky,” you groaned.

“What? No!”

“Doesn’t sound convincing.”

“I do not-.” Regulus interrupted his defense when footsteps came down the hallway. 

“Slughorn?” you mouthed silently.

“I dunno,” replied the boy in the same way.

The both of you stood quiet and immobile, hiding in the shadows provided by the many iron armors scattered around the corridors along with the lack of torches. Sometimes you thought Dumbledore hated you all. How could a headmaster leave a part of the students’ housing inside a fucking castle without light? Simply evil. The other houses definitely didn’t have that treatment.

“You remember where it was, right?” a hushed, definitely not Slughorn voice whispered at the end of the corridor.

“We literally have a map, Prongs.”

“Excuse me, hound mutt, for not trusting your awful sense of orientation.”

“What did you call me?”

“You all tire me.”

“Sorry, Moony.”

Regulus and you shared an unimpressed look.

“I start to understand the weekly detention,” you hummed.

Suddenly, all voices and steps came to a stop. Their silhouettes were still invisible to the eye, too surrounded in darkness to be able to discern them. 

“Did you hear that?” Peter asked, resonating throughout the whole corridor.

“Yes and now they heard you too, twat,” grumbled Sirius.

You wanted to laugh. How they managed to sneak around so much was becoming a really prominent question at the front of your mind with how clumsy and noisy they were. Even if they had James’ -and yours- invisibility cloak, only a fool wouldn’t hear the elephant racket those four emanated. 

Regulus gave a tired sigh, leaning away from where he stood in the wall and elegantly moved towards the common room entrance, waving his hand lazily. “Not doing this tonight. Bye, Potter.”

“Back to the party?”

“To my dorm.”

And with that, Regulus disappeared from view and left you alone in the dungeons. With the Marauders prowling around, that is.

You considered pulling the same move as your friend. It really had been a tiring day, you didn’t need to end up colliding against the four most annoying people of the whole castle. Damn, you would rather go back to the Hufflepuffs invading your common room. 

But after a few minutes of silence, except for the ballad playing at that moment, you wondered, even hoped, if the boys had left after hearing Regulus and you. You really didn’t want to go back in. Not a very party person, to be honest. 

All hope was lost, however, when under the single torch to ever be placed in the dungeons appeared the isolated head of Peter Pettigrew. 

“Coast’s clear!”

And then, his whole body was visible, along with the other three boys who were smiling like maniacs. Well, Remus was wearing more of a sly smirk, but he didn’t fool you. He was as bad as all of them.

“Check the map. Sluggy could be lurking,” Sirius said, snatching a piece of parchment from Remus’ hands and ogling it with focus. “You fucking idiot! Wormtail, coast clear? Really? Look at this shit, then!”

The smaller boy paddled towards Sirius, who very angrily waved the object in front of Peter’s face. Even under the light of a single torch, the process of blood draining from his face was very much visible.

“But she- There’s no one there!” He animatedly pointed towards you, who just smirked when you realized you were truly hidden by the shadows.

“What?” It was James now who took the parchment, scanning it as if he was committing its contents to memory. “You have to be kidding me.”

“Is that…?”

“Yep, Moony. It’s her,” snarled Sirius, pacing the very small distance between one wall and the other. 

James called your name. “C’mon, we know you’re there.”

With a protruding groan, you made your way to a more visible corner of the corridor and smiled sarcastically at them. “What a non pleasure to see you.”

Sirius huffed. “What were you doing there?”

The four boys gave you looks that went from exasperated to resignation. Sirius being the most work up out of them. Something in you fluttered at the thought of making him so angry with just your presence. 

“Last time I checked, this was my common room.” You looked around with fake, wide eyes.

“You’re outside your common room,” said your brother with narrowed eyes.

“Salazar forgive a girl from hanging outside her common room. What a crime!”

“Stop with your theatrics,” snarked Sirius. “What do you want?”

You raised an eyebrow, a pang of rage beating in your chest. “You’re the ones prowling the dungeons. Gryffindor Tower is a long way from here, isn’t it?”

James, Sirius and Peter scoffed, while Remus just stood there, chewing on his lower lip. You looked at him with furrowed brows, he was the most decent of them all at the end of the day.

“Lupin?”

“They were accompanying me in my patrol,” the Prefect answered without looking at you.

Tilting your head, you bit your lower lip. “How funny! I thought Digory was on patrol at this hour. At least that’s what he said when I saw him inside.” You pointed to the wall behind you. “I think you got… mixed up.”

“Must have been it.”

You hummed. “And, if I remember correctly, patrols must be done with other Prefects and…” Your gaze turned from James to Peter and ended up in Sirius. “None of them are Prefects. Thank Merlin for it, though.”

“So righteous, aren’t you Potter?” spat Sirius, losing his temper sooner than you expected. “Oh, the goody-two-shoes is going to snitch on us?”

“You mean the snitch that Regulus caught?” you joked, and his blush deepened. 

“That was a lame one,” James admitted quietly, and Peter silently agreed.

Endorsed by his friends, Sirius barked a hollow laugh. “Careful, we’re four against one.”

“Not fighting my sister, dude. Don’t count me in,” James raised his hands in surrender. 

A high pitched sound escaped your throat, and it took Sirius a whole second to comprehend you were giggling. Fucking giggling. 

“So brave the Gryffindors are, huh?” you cackled, shaking your head mirthlessly. “Fighting a wandless girl all on her own just because, what? For seeing you in a corridor?”

“Don’t play victim now, it doesn’t suit you.”

Sirius was baring his teeth like a dog, which almost made you howl in laughter. He really thought he was scary. 

“Aww, how cute!” you cooed mockingly. “The pretty boy of Hogwarts could not scare a fly even if he tried.” You pouted.

Something in his expression shifted. Long lost was the snare falling from his lips, as now a sly smirk welcomed your confused state. He waggled his eyebrows and leaned towards you, his long, black hair tickling your cheek. 

“You think I’m pretty?”

The warmth abandoned your body to concentrate in your face. You were sure if anyone wanted to cook an egg on your forehead, it would be boiled by now. Opening your mouth, you tried to come up with something, anything, but you could only gape like a fish with his grey eyes looking amusedly straight at yours, so close you could see your reflection in them. 

“Cat got your tongue, love?” he mocked, licking his lips and having you copy the motion unconsciously. “Well, isn’t this interesting.”

He was almost purring. Bloody hell. As much as you couldn’t stand him and ended up arguing with him whenever you two ended up in the same room, you had to admit that you could understand the frenzy he caused in most of Hogwarts’ population. 

Suddenly, Sirius was aggressively pulled away from you. Your brain sighed in relief, while your chest ached for the proximity that had seemed so promising. 

Out of the haze, you looked up to see James dragging Sirius away by the shoulders. If it wasn’t so dark, you would have seen the maroon colour painting the bad Black brother’s features. 

“I let you fight her. But whatever the hell that was? Not a chance. Keep your hands to yourself, Padfoot.”

Peter howled, while Remus patted Sirius’ back consolingly, although his silent chuckle gave him away.

“I wasn’t doing anything! We were arguing, weren’t we, Potter?”

Still too stunned to speak, you just nodded. Your heart was beating like a drum, and you tried to associate it to the long time hatred your brother’s best friend and you had for each other.

“See? Now let me go!”

James laughed at Sirius’ lame attempts to set himself free from his grip, wriggling and snapping hands at whoever tried to touch him. And in a moment of clarity, you took your chance while they were distracted teasing him.

“Don’t prank any Slytherin, the common room or its surroundings!” you warned while running towards the entrance. “If you do, I’ll know it was you and I have proof!”

“What proof?” Peter asked.

And that was the last thing you heard before the loud, blasting music and voices from your housemates and Hufflepuffs surrounded you. Incredibly, you were thankful to be back at the party and away from the Marauders, which you knew would end up pranking the dungeons and, in fact, you had no proof of it. 

Waving at Barty and Dorcas, you made your way upstairs to your dorm. If you had craved your bed since after the match, you were now desperate to succumb into Morpheus’ arms to forget your encounter with Sirius Black, whose face was the last you saw before the entrance’s door closed. Naughty curls falling on his face, wild eyes focused on you as you had made your way back to the haven of your house.

Surely, you were only recalling it because you despised him, right?

[aingeal98]

you have only correct cass and stephcass opinions so who do you think fell first/fell harder with stephcass?

CASS it's Cass one hundred percent. Batgirl 2000 is the story of Cass falling both first AND harder while Steph is just rejoicing in the fact that someone in the family will actually treat her as a member of the team. Steph charms Cass completely unaware that that's what she's doing and then when she leaves and Cass just stares at the empty room? Congratulations Cassandra Wayne you just unlocked the pivotal lesbian emotion known as gay yearning.

So "fell faster" is definitely Cass. As for who fell harder, I'm open to Steph proving me wrong and falling harder in the future but right now we have one hallucination vs so much more, attempting heterosexuality to fill the Steph shaped hole after a fight, all of Batgirls where Cass snapped Steph out of a trance by pressing their faces together and telling Steph she's strong, rampaged across town to find Steph fueled by a letter Steph wrote saying she loved her, Steph DID take a bullet for Cass instinctively despite Cass being able to dodge which gets her points but Cass's reaction to that being to raise Steph from the dead while kissing her tenderly and then answer Steph's "you saved me" with

And then the time Steph turned into a giant monster and instead of fighting Cass talked her down with the power of love. Steph is the Lois to Cass's Superman, is what I'm getting at here.

Obviously it does go both ways, Steph is really good at just being a positive influence on Cass, and there's plenty of moments of her complimenting and admiring Cass. But given all the sweeping, devastating more text than subtext moments they've had being mostly driven by Cass? I'd say she still holds the title of falling hardest.

Steph did say I love you first, so she will always have that! But words were never Cass's speciality anyways, not when she can show her love through actions, destructive grieving, and near death hallucinations. Romance at its finest ❤️

[wonubby]

Let Down - K. BAKUGO

CONTENT WARNING: angst, bakugo's death mention, hurt/comfort, established relationship, childhood lovers

ZEE SPEAKS: It's 5am, probably unedited and im spiralling; this is for my own sake. also i havent read/watched this scene, i've put it off so forgive me for any mistakes

WC: 926

"when i'm older, i'm going to grow wings!" katsuki pumped his tiny fist in the air, his voice filled with enthusiasm.

"woah, kacchan! you're so cool," the girl sitting next to him gasped, her sparkling eyes fixed on her friend.

"and i promise to make you my wife, y/n." with that, the boy took off, leaving the girl a blushing mess.

he lied.

katsuki bakugo was a fucking liar, and y/n would never forgive him.

now, at seventeen, he lay on the ground, his shell shattered, blood flowing out like that of a crushed insect. it was quiet for a while. not a single word uttered in the cold, dreadful atmosphere.

then, a wail shattered the silence—a sound so gut-wrenching it could break hearts.

everyone knew who it belonged to.

y/n. none other than bakugo's girlfriend and childhood friend. the pair had been inseparable since kindergarten, refusing to do anything if the other wasn't present. it was cute. everyone who had met the two joyous kids knew they had a bright future ahead of them—one that included getting married and having as many babies as possible.

but now, that future was gone.

it ended the moment his body hit the floor, a hole in his chest.

"get up." a harsh whisper filled the air, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps.

"i said, get up." the voice repeated, snappier this time, filled with nothing but rage. "you're not allowed to die, asshole. get up!"

she was screaming now, falling to her knees, shaking the lifeless body of her boyfriend.

best jeanist approached the girl, trying to pull her away from the boy’s unmoving form.

"y/n, stop. you need to stay calm. edgeshot is doing his best," he reasoned, only to be met with a cold, tear-filled glare.

"shut the fuck up."

the words stunned him. in all his years of knowing y/n, she had never been one to cuss.

"i'm not letting him get away with this. he's going to come back. he will—he has to. h-he—" a sob ripped through her chest. "he promised! he said he'd keep fighting, that if he fell, he'd grow wings."

"he's a fucking liar."

by now, she was full-on sobbing, clutching the lifeless body of the boy she had planned a future with.

a few minutes passed, and nothing changed.

y/n buried her face in his bloodied chest, her tears mixing with the crimson.

best jeanist tried to de-escalate the situation.

and bakugo... still dead.

by now, izuku had arrived at the scene. he let himself soak in the devastation for only a moment before surging toward shigaraki, fueled by a newfound rage.

that's when y/n realized what she had been doing. instead of helping and trying to defeat the villains, she'd been wallowing selfishly.

just like izuku, she got up, ready to head to the battle—until she heard it.

the quiet and gentle call of her name. it tugged at her heart. one she could recognize in a heartbeat. y/n thought she was hearing things. there was no way he could say anything—he had a hole in his chest for god's sake!

shaking off the feeling, she continued walking.

"y/n..." there it was again, still quiet but very real.

with a heavy heart, y/n slowly turned around, her eyes filling with tears almost immediately.

there he was—bakugo katsuki, alive.

the boy she swore to cherish with her entire being, alive.

his eyes were soft, full of remorse, as they locked onto hers.

"you asshole!" y/n screamed, her voice breaking with a mix of anger and relief. she stormed over to him, face flushed with fury.

standing before him, she planted her hands on his fully healed chest, lightly punching him with all the strength she could muster. her body shook with emotion, thrashing in his arms as he held her, trying to calm her down.

"i fucking hate you! how dare you just—die like that?!" she yelled, her anger almost drowning out the relief she felt. tears blurred her vision, but beneath all the rage, bakugo could feel her gratitude. her happiness that he was alive.

"i know, baby, i’m sorry," katsuki whispered, his voice cracking with guilt. he reached out and pulled her into his arms, wrapping them tightly around her.

the force of his embrace made her body tremble, but she didn’t pull away. she buried her face in his chest, sobbing uncontrollably.

katsuki’s eyes shimmered with tears, though he kept them at bay, not wanting her to see him vulnerable. still, a single tear slipped down his cheek as he held her close, feeling the warmth of her body against his.

they sank to the ground, both of them trembling. y/n clung to him, her sobs echoing in the stillness, but now they were softer, like the release of everything she had been holding in.

"i was so scared," she whispered, her voice muffled against his shirt. "i thought i lost you... i thought i’d never see you again."

"you won’t lose me, i swear," bakugo murmured, pressing his cheek to her head, his arms never loosening their grip. "i’m not going anywhere."

they sat there for a long time, the world around them fading into the background as they held onto each other. for once, there was peace, just the two of them, wrapped in the comfort of knowing they’d made it through the storm together. no words were needed. just the steady rhythm of their hearts beating in unison.

© 2025 wonubby— All rights reserved. Please don't post my work as your own on any other sites.

[vyoongi]

About the tragedy of Caracalla.

This is only an opinion about my favorite character in the movie, based only on the events we see. (Spoilers ahead)

I remember when I saw this scene, I found it so tender and later I understood how sad it is.

This episode shows an unexpected and human side of Caracalla. Hiding under the table, in such a chaotic moment, seems almost a reflection of a child seeking refuge, completely overwhelmed, as if he were having a childhood regression. I get the impression that this act not only reveals his emotional fragility, but also speaks of how Geta's humiliation, by throwing the wine at his face and the insult to his beloved monkey, touched a deeper wound, perhaps related to his self-esteem or to the problems of their sibling relationship.

Then we have Macrinus. By intervening, not only calms the moment, but positions himself as someone who can influence Caracalla. That relationship of temporary dependence on Macrinus seems to me a reflection of how Caracalla needed control figures in his life. There is a contrast in that moment: an emperor under a table, estranged from his people, but also from the brother who once protected him from adversity.

Macrinus’ manipulation strikes me as the final blow to a mind already fractured by syphilis, lead poisoning, and years of family tensions. Caracalla was clearly deeply unbalanced, and I find it especially significant that Geta, who used to manage his mental state, was no longer there to act as an emotional buffer. Geta's death not only eliminates his political rival, but also the one who, on some level, still represented a protective figure for him.

In this context, the moment when Caracalla is stabbing Geta and, according to the original script, it seems that tears are welling up in his eyes is crucial to me. I think that during those seconds, there was a moment of clarity in his mind. Maybe, in the midst of the frenzy, he really heard his brother's words telling him that he loved him and had always protected him, even from their own father. This detail leads me to think that Caracalla, although manipulated and unbalanced, wasn't completely insensitive to what Geta meant to him. In that instant, he was not only eliminating a political rival and a traitor, but he was also destroying the deepest and most authentic bond he had ever had in his life.

The scene later (again, in the original screenplay), where Caracalla asks Macrinus about his brother as if he had forgotten his fraticide, seems devastating to me. It speaks of a complete disconnect with reality, possibly fueled by guilt and denial. When he says that “he would be so happy for me” I see a reflection of how, deep down, he longed for a different relationship with Geta, one in which they could support each other. But in the end, it’s all tinged with irony and tragedy.

This leaves me thinking about how family dynamics and the pressures of power can destroy even the deepest bonds. For me, Geta was the only one who understood Caracalla and managed his inner demons. His death wasnt only the result of political manipulation, but the ultimate collapse of a bond of love that had, at one point, been authentic. The tragedy of Caracalla is that, by eliminating Geta, he also eliminated the last connection to a version of himself that was not completely consumed by frustration, illness and dementia.

[magnagaruzenmon]

A Day to remember

Introduction The world changed forever the day the Hulk returned from space. But it wasn’t Bruce Banner, the brilliant scientist, who came back. No, all that was left was the Hulk—a relentless, unstoppable force of nature. Hardened and empowered after years among the stars, he brought with him the strength and knowledge of not just one, but four planets: Sakaar, planet Kree, Spartax, and Planet Skrull. This unparalleled combination of might and resources allowed him to launch a swift and devastating campaign to claim Earth as his own. It wasn’t just a victory—it was a conquest.

And so, the Hulk crowned himself Champion-King of Earth.

One of his first acts was to deal with the Illuminati, the secret cabal of Earth’s most brilliant and powerful minds who once sent him into exile. With the exception of Black Panther, the Hulk exiled the Illuminati and their allies—including my parents—to a so-called “idyllic paradise” somewhere off-world. It seemed like justice in his eyes, though it left Earth in an unprecedented state of transition. One day, I had human neighbors. The next, I was surrounded by Sakaarans, Kree refugees, and even a mutant or two. Earth wasn’t just Earth anymore. It was a crossroads for the galaxy.

Surprisingly, despite the terrifying aura of power he radiated, the Hulk turned out to be a capable and, dare I say, effective ruler. Crime plummeted, and the economy soared as he forged strong intergalactic trade and alliances with the new empires of Asgard and Wakanda. Life on Earth became both unrecognizable and…stable.

But that stability is about to be shaken again. Hulk has just announced a new tradition: the Gladiatorial Tournament of Champions. This brutal competition will determine Earth’s Realm Champions, the individuals he deems worthy of ruling specific territories under his reign. Each champion represents a distinct region of Earth, acting as both its protector and enforcer of the Hulk’s rule.

Here’s how it breaks down: • Wolverine oversees Canada and Alaska. • Steve Rogers rules the United States, Puerto Rico, Cuba, Costa Rica, Haiti, and the rest of Central America. • Namor dominates South America and Antarctica. • M’Baku holds Africa. • Shang-Chi governs all of Asia. • Devil Dinosaur and Skaar share dominion over Australia. • Doctor Doom controls Europe…when he’s not busy running his own intergalactic empire (it’s complicated).

And now, the tournament will determine the newest champions—or perhaps, challengers to their thrones. The stakes are high, the rules unclear, and the competition fierce. In this world reshaped by gamma-fueled ambition and intergalactic alliances, it’s anyone’s guess who will rise—and who will fall.

Reassemble TJ was surprised by how few had shown up to apply for the Realm Champion Tournament. Out of the vast expanse of the Gamma Force Empire, only 64 participants stood ready to compete. For an event of such magnitude, the hall of ceremonies felt oddly intimate, though the grandeur of the setting made up for the lack of numbers.

Golden chandeliers bathed the room in a warm glow, their light reflecting off walls lined with intergalactic banners—each one a symbol of the Hulk’s reign. The crowd was a mix of the famous, the powerful, and the curious. TJ recognized a few familiar faces from both legend and pop culture: Venom, towering and menacing but oddly polite; Luna Snow, the Korean pop idol turned superhero; Dazzler, the timeless mutant songstress; and a collection of idols, including Wonyoung and Yujin from IVE and Hanni from NewJeans. The blend of celebrity and power was overwhelming, but TJ—despite his less affluent upbringing and humble attire—moved through the procession with unexpected ease.

When people approached him, he introduced himself calmly and confidently. “Tiberius,” he said, his voice steady, “but you can call me Tibby. I’m one of the contestants.”

There was something magnetic about him, a palpable charm that made even the most skeptical faces soften. He listened attentively, asked genuine questions, and exuded a warmth that drew others in. It wasn’t intentional, but a few of the women couldn’t help but look a little flustered as they spoke to him.

For an hour and a half, Tibby navigated the crowd, exchanging pleasantries and learning names. But as the Master of Ceremonies stepped onto the elevated dais at the front of the hall, the atmosphere shifted.

“Contestants, it is time for your introductions,” the voice boomed, silencing the room.

One by one, the 64 fighters were named, and their achievements and titles were announced with a flourish. Most were unremarkable to Tibby, but a few stood out: • Lucion, a cybernetic warrior from Latveria, is rumored to have ties to Doctor Doom. • Leviathan, a towering Atlantean gladiator with a cold, unreadable demeanor. • Momotaro, a swordsman from Japan, clad in armor said to be enchanted by Asgardian forges. • Praetorius, a mysterious figure veiled in shadow, whose reputation as a mercenary preceded him.

And finally, Tibby. Though his name lacked the weight of the others, murmurs rippled through the crowd, many remembering the impression he had already made. By now, “Tibby” was on more than a few lips, and the nickname had stuck.

The Master of Ceremonies gestured to a row of ornate cups lined on a silver tray, each adorned with a symbol representing the Hulk’s empire.

“Champions,” he announced, “step forward and claim your Champion’s Cup. Within this drink lies a blend of the synthetic Heart-Shaped Herb, Asgardian blood rites, and a precise mixture of potions and medicines. Together, they will elevate you to a level worthy of this tournament.”

Unbeknownst to the contestants, the concoction was more than just a power booster. It was preparation—for a brutal process known only to the Empire’s inner circle as The Culling.

Tibby stepped forward and took his cup, examining the shimmering liquid inside before raising it to his lips. Around him, others did the same. The hall erupted into cheers and applause as each contestant drank, sealing their fate.

With the ceremony concluded, the party began in earnest. Music filled the air, laughter echoed, and the contestants mingled freely with the crowd. But Tibby had never been one for celebration before the victory. Quietly, he slipped away from the festivities, weaving through the throng toward the exit.

He almost made it.

As he turned a corner, Tibby’s path was blocked by a massive green figure. He froze, his heart skipping a beat. The Hulk stood before him, radiating power. His gaze was unreadable, his towering frame casting a long shadow over the corridor.

Tibby swallowed hard, unsure of what to say.

“Well,” the Hulk rumbled, his voice like distant thunder. “Where do you think you’re going, Champion?”

Tibby stood face-to-face with the Champion King, his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe he could match the Hulk’s strength, but he didn’t cower. Instead, he stood firm, holding his ground with a mixture of respect and resolve.

“I was heading home,” Tibby said evenly, his voice steady despite the fear flashing in his eyes. “Parties aren’t really my thing—especially before I’ve won anything.”

Hulk raised an eyebrow, surprised by the man’s candor. Most who stood before him either groveled or puffed themselves up with false bravado. This one, though? He spoke with sincerity. The Champion King regarded him with a faint smirk.

“You’ve got guts,” Hulk rumbled, his voice like distant thunder. “Few people would talk to me that way. But there’s one more rite you need to complete before you leave.”

Tibby hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. “Lead the way.”

Hulk turned and began walking, his heavy footsteps echoing through the grand hall. Tibby followed, his nerves fraying with each step as they entered a glowing laboratory with a massive circular chamber at its center. The room hummed with energy, the air thick with the scent of ozone and sterilizing agents.

Hulk gestured toward the chamber. “This is the Culling Machine. It’s a tool we use to help contestants prepare. It simulates ten thousand years of forced evolution, compressing what would take eons into minutes. It’ll speed up your development and put you on par with the other fighters.”

Tibby stared at the chamber, his stomach twisting. This wasn’t what he’d signed up for. He thought of stepping back, walking out of the lab, and leaving the tournament behind. But then images of his past flooded his mind: the ridicule, the doubts, the dismissive sneers from the so-called geniuses of the Illuminati, and the whispered taunts of those who told him he’d never make it on his own.

Clenching his fists, he stepped forward, his eyes blazing with a cold fury. He couldn’t let them be right.

Hulk watched with quiet admiration as Tibby approached the chamber. For the second time that night, this contestant had surprised him. As Tibby entered the machine, Hulk closed the door and prepared the controls.

“Brace yourself,” Hulk warned as he pressed a series of buttons. “This is gonna hurt.”

The machine roared to life, flooding the chamber with a brilliant, almost blinding light. Tibby’s body was enveloped in its glow, and at first, everything seemed to go as expected. But then something went wrong.

Tibby’s skeleton began to glow, a fiery orange radiating from within as if his very bones were on fire. His skin bubbled and reformed, his body tearing itself apart and reassembling over and over. Each cycle was accompanied by flashes of pain and primal screams that sent a chill even through the Hulk’s hardened spine.

“WHAT THE HELL?” Hulk muttered, his massive hand hovering over the emergency shutoff. But he hesitated—Tibby was surviving. Somehow.

The machine’s timer finally reached zero, and the chamber powered down. The door slid open with a hiss, and Tibby stumbled out, his legs barely holding him upright. Steam rose from his body, and his skin flickered with faint traces of scales. His eyes glowed briefly before fading back to normal.

Hulk steadied him with one massive hand. “You good, kid?”

Tibby coughed, then nodded weakly. “Define… good.”

The Champion King let out a rare, deep laugh. “Fair enough. Let’s get you checked out.”

Hulk carried Tibby to the medical bay, where his advisors and doctors hurriedly ran tests. It didn’t take long for them to uncover the truth: Tibby’s X-gene—his mutant ability—had been dormant until now. The Culling Machine had triggered its activation, but instead of settling into one stable form, his mutation was in a constant state of flux, his body forever evolving.

“The only thing that seems consistent,” one of the doctors explained, “is that under stress, his mutation pushes him into a dragon-like form. Beyond that… well, it’s unpredictable.”

Tibby sat on the edge of the medical bed, his mind racing. A dragon? That wasn’t what he’d expected when he signed up for this tournament. But as he flexed his hands, feeling the latent power coursing through his veins, he realized he didn’t feel fear. He felt ready.

Hulk crossed his arms, a thoughtful expression on his face. “You’re full of surprises, Tibby. This might just get interesting.”

The festivities were in full swing, the grand hall alive with music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. Beneath the glittering chandeliers, contestants, dignitaries, and spectators mingled, each with their own agendas. At the center of it all stood Momotaro, the clear favorite to win the Realm Champion Tournament.

Tall and broad-shouldered, with a warrior’s poise and a face that seemed sculpted by the gods, Momotaro exuded confidence. The legendary champion from Okinawa had already made a name for himself as a formidable warrior in countless regional tournaments. His reputation had preceded him, and now it seemed, so had his charm.

Wonyoung and Gaeul of IVE, radiant in their evening gowns, had positioned themselves at either side of Momotaro. They were playful, their voices carrying just enough laughter to turn heads, and their smiles were dazzling, each glance carefully measured.

“You must hear this all the time,” Wonyoung said, her tone light and teasing, “but you’re even more impressive in person than the stories say.”

Momotaro chuckled, his deep voice cutting through the lively room. “I’ve found that the stories are usually exaggerated. I’m just a man who’s good at what he does.”

“And modest too,” Gaeul interjected, leaning in slightly with a sly smile. “That’s rare in someone so… accomplished.”

Momotaro gave her a small nod, his gaze steady but unreadable. “Modesty isn’t rare when you’ve faced enough challenges. The moment you start believing your own hype is the moment someone surprises you.”

Wonyoung tilted her head, her eyes sparkling. “A wise answer. But surely you’ve noticed how everyone is watching you tonight. They’re not just here for the tournament—they’re here for you.”

Momotaro smirked. “And yet here I am, lucky enough to have the attention of two of the most talented stars on the planet. How do you explain that?”

Gaeul laughed, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “We know a good story when we see one, and you, Momotaro, are definitely a story worth following.”

Their banter drew subtle glances from others at the party. Some watched with curiosity, others with envy. Among the crowd, Lucion and Leviathan exchanged knowing looks.

“Momotaro sure knows how to play the part,” Leviathan muttered, sipping his drink.

“Play?” Lucion smirked. “He’s not playing. He’s just that good.”

Meanwhile, Hulk, standing near the entrance, glanced at the scene as he returned from checking on Tibby. His sharp eyes missed nothing: the glances, the positioning, the subtle games of influence.

“Momotaro’s already won half the battle,” Hulk muttered to himself. “Let’s see if he can win the other half in the arena.”

As the night wore on, Wonyoung and Gaeul remained close to Momotaro, their charm never wavering. He entertained them with grace, but there was a quiet focus in his eyes, a steady awareness of the competition that lay ahead.

In another corner of the room, a subtle buzz spread among the attendees as whispers of Tibby’s ordeal began to circulate. The dragon-like transformation, the unexpected resilience—it was enough to draw the attention of a few, including Momotaro, whose gaze briefly flickered toward the doorway Hulk had reentered from.

“Interesting,” he murmured to himself before turning his full attention back to his admirers.

As the night continued Momotaro found himself needing to relieve himself. After he excused himself he didn't expect the two vixens to corner him in the restroom as he washed his hands.

“Oh ladies how may I help you?” he said politely the girls groaned and Wonyoung said,

“Cut the good guy schtick we know all about you. We know how bad you are,” she said as she closed the gap. Yujin was also not far behind as her arms wrapped around, the man. He sensed their less-than-pure intentions as Wonyoung and Gaeul brought him in for a shared kiss. Momotaro’s mask slips as the Helpful Hero gives way to the vicious villain underneath. Encouraged by Wonyoung’s prodding he lifts her dress up to see her bare ass.

“Spank it,” Gaeul whispers in Momotaro’s ear and he does so. The resulting jiggle serves to set Momotaro to take everything he wants. He undoes his belt and rams his cock into the idol’s tight cunt.

“Yes God“ Wonyoung moans as his cock ravages her. Momotaro continues to rail against Wonyoung while he and Gauel engage in a passionate liplock. Gaeul’s tongue dances and wraps around his as he fucks into Wonyoung deeper. She moans tirelessly as Momotaro’s cock pistons in and out of her tight pussy. Driven into a lusty haze Gaeul begins spanking the younger girl, before degrading her,

“Yes take that cock you filthy slut. Fuck you're so hot,” Gaeul growled possessive. She smiled as she watched Momotaro’s cock plunge in and out of the young woman. Gaeul for her part got on the other side of Wonyoung and began groping the young woman before settling her fingers in Wonyoung's clit. Momotaro watches as he feels Wonyoung get tighter and tighter before yanking her hair.

“Gonna cum slut?” he asks,

Wonyoung nods wordlessly as her mind is made mush by the pleasure. Momotaro keeps thrusting until Wonyoung screams cumming all over his cock before Momotaro carelessly cums inside of Wonyoung. Her pussy convulsed feeling his seed before sending her into another orgasm. Feeling cheated he spanks Wonyoung and says “No cumming more than me,” Wonyoung regains her wits and glares at you before saying “Don't push your luck,”

The following day Momotaro arrived to two guests in his quarters after his successful culling. The interior of Momotaro’s quarters was as opulent as the man himself—polished stone floors, walls adorned with accolades, and an array of expensive wines and delicacies displayed on a low table. Wonyoung lounged gracefully on a plush chaise, her long legs crossed, while Gaeul stood by the window, inspecting her reflection in the glass. Both were impeccably dressed, their attire chosen to emphasize their poise and elegance.

The door hissed open, and Momotaro strode in, his figure commanding. Unlike Tiberius, his time in the culling machine left no visible marks. He radiated confidence, his movements effortless, his smirk that of a man certain of his greatness.

“You survived,” Wonyoung said, her voice dripping with mockery masked as playfulness. She rose smoothly to meet him, her eyes glinting with admiration. “Not that there was ever any doubt, of course.”

“‘Survived’ is putting it mildly,” Momotaro replied with a smirk, loosening his collar as he crossed the room. “I thrived.”

Gaeul turned from the window, raising an eyebrow. “Thrived? Modesty as always.” She approached him, her tone teasing but laced with genuine admiration. “I suppose it’s safe to assume the others weren’t as fortunate. Did you hear about Tiberius? They say the machine nearly tore him apart. Poor thing. Talk about biting off more than you can chew.”

Wonyoung scoffed, settling back into her seat. “Honestly, I’m surprised he even made it out alive. I don’t know why they let riff-raff like him enter. The man’s practically a charity case.”

Momotaro chuckled, pouring himself a glass of wine and leaning against the table. “Let them have their dreams. It makes crushing them so much sweeter when the time comes.”

“You’re so cruel,” Gaeul said, but her smile betrayed her approval. She perched herself on the arm of Wonyoung’s chaise, idly playing with a strand of her hair. “Still, I have to admit, there’s a certain satisfaction in watching the undeserving fail. It’s not like they ever had a chance against you.”

Wonyoung tilted her head, her expression sharpening. “Especially not that Tibby. Did you see how awkward he was at the ceremony? Trying so hard to impress, but it was painfully obvious he doesn’t belong.”

Momotaro grinned. “He has his moments. A certain… charm, I suppose. But charm doesn’t win battles.” He sipped his wine and added, “Still, it’s almost a shame. I could’ve taught him a thing or two.”

Wonyoung let out a soft laugh, her hand brushing against Momotaro’s arm. “Oh, please. You’re being far too generous. The only thing you could teach him is how to stay out of your way.”

“Agreed,” Gaeul said, leaning closer to him. Her voice lowered, almost conspiratorial. “But don’t let him or the others distract you. You’re the clear favorite, Momotaro. Everyone knows it.”

Momotaro set his glass down, his smirk growing. “Distraction isn’t something I’m worried about. And as for the competition…” He gestured dismissively. “They’ll fall in line. One way or another.”

The three of them shared a laugh, the kind of easy, self-assured laughter that came from knowing the odds were in their favor. Wonyoung rested her chin in her hand, her gaze lingering on Momotaro.

“You know,” she said, her tone turning flirtatious, “you’re making it very hard for the rest of us to stay focused. All this strength, charisma… it’s almost unfair.”

Momotaro raised an eyebrow, a playful gleam in his eye. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Wonyoung.”

“Jealous?” Wonyoung leaned closer, her lips curling into a smirk. “Hardly. I’m just making an observation. Someone has to keep you humble.”

“Humble?” Gaeul chimed in, rolling her eyes. “Good luck with that.” She nudged Momotaro’s shoulder lightly. “But seriously, you’d better win. Otherwise, all this flattery will have been for nothing.”

Momotaro laughed, a deep, confident sound. “Don’t worry. I don’t plan on losing. To anyone.”

Wonyoung and Gaeul exchanged a glance, their smiles sharpening. They didn’t need to say it out loud—they had chosen their champion, and they were determined to bask in his glow.

But outside the room, the faint hum of distant celebration carried on, a reminder that the tournament had only just begun—and the masks, so carefully maintained, would soon be tested.

Meanwhile having recovered Tibby had begun training in his quarters while waiting for the arena to open properly. Tibby’s training quarters were stark and utilitarian—a far cry from the lavish accommodations Momotaro enjoyed. The dim lighting revealed worn sparring equipment, a simple cot pushed against the wall, and a single rack of weights. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for Tibby. He wasn’t here for luxury; he was here to prepare.

Clad in a loose tank top and sweatpants, Tibby stood in front of a heavy punching bag. His knuckles thudded against the bag in a steady rhythm, sweat trickling down his forehead. Each strike was deliberate, his focus sharp despite the lingering soreness in his body from the culling.

The door creaked open softly, and a gentle voice broke the quiet.

“Tibby?”

He paused mid-swing, turning to see Chowon standing hesitantly in the doorway. She clutched a small cloth bundle in her hands, her posture timid but her smile warm. Dressed in a simple dress, she looked entirely out of place in the gritty training room, but her presence seemed to brighten it nonetheless.

“Chowon?” Tibby straightened, wiping his forehead with his forearm. “What are you doing here?”

“I… I heard you were starting your training, and I thought you might need this.” She stepped forward, holding out the bundle. “It’s nothing fancy. Just some snacks I made. For energy.”

Tibby took the bundle, his expression softening. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” she said quickly, her cheeks reddening. “You’ve been through a lot already, and… well, I thought it might help.”

He unwrapped the bundle, revealing neatly packed rice balls and slices of fruit. It was simple but thoughtful, and the care she’d put into it was obvious.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “This means a lot.”

Chowon smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re welcome. I just… I think you’re going to do great, you know? In the tournament.”

Tibby chuckled softly, sitting down on the edge of the cot. “Not sure about that. I’m still figuring out what this ‘dragon thing’ means, and most of the other contestants already look like they’ve been training for years.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Chowon said, her voice gaining a rare firmness. She stepped closer, her shyness momentarily giving way to quiet conviction. “You’re strong, Tibby. Not just physically. You… you have a good heart. That’s what really matters.”

Her words caught him off guard, and for a moment, he didn’t know how to respond. He glanced down at the food she’d brought, then back at her.

“You’re too kind,” he said finally, his voice softer than before.

Chowon blushed again, fidgeting with the hem of her dress. “I just… I want to help, even if it’s only a little.”

Tibby smiled, a genuine warmth in his eyes. “You’re already helping more than you know.”

The two sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the contrast between the sterile training room and Chowon’s sweet presence making it feel almost peaceful. Eventually, Chowon stood, brushing off her dress.

“I should let you get back to training,” she said. “But if you ever need anything, just let me know, okay?”

Tibby nodded. “I will. Thanks again, Chowon.”

As she turned to leave, Tibby found himself feeling a rare sense of calm. The tournament loomed large, and the odds were stacked against him, but at that moment, he realized he wasn’t entirely alone.

He stood and returned to the punching bag, Chowon’s words echoing in his mind. A good heart. Maybe that was enough to start with.

Throughout the following weeks, Tibby and Taro trained relentlessly. The sunlight streamed through the grand training hall’s tall windows, illuminating the polished marble floors and elaborate tapestries that depicted scenes of victorious warriors. The air hummed with the low thrum of energy fields powering the advanced training dummies arranged in the room.

Momotaro stood in the center, dressed in a sleek, form-fitting combat suit that highlighted his muscular frame. A faint smirk played on his lips as he observed his reflection in the mirrored walls.

“Let’s make this quick,” he said, addressing the room’s automated trainer.

The dummies activated with a sharp hum, moving with near-human precision. One lunged at him, but Momotaro sidestepped effortlessly, his blade flashing in the light as he struck. The dummy shattered, its pieces clattering to the floor.

Another dummy approached, it struck faster and more unpredictably. Momotaro parried, his movements sharp and confident, as if rehearsing a dance he had already mastered.

In the distant corner, Wonyoung and Gaeul watched, their eyes gleaming with admiration.

“Flawless, as always,” Gaeul remarked, clapping slowly.

Momotaro turned, flashing a charming grin. “Of course. You don’t think I’d let that dragon boy put a scratch on me, do you?”

Wonyoung giggled. “He doesn’t stand a chance. You’ve already won, Momotaro. This is just… practice.”

His smile widened, but there was a flicker of something darker in his eyes. Confidence, yes, but also calculation. He knew the crowd expected perfection, and he intended to deliver it.

With a dramatic flourish, he raised his weapon and stepped toward the next wave of dummies, their metallic frames reflecting the light like distant stars. Each strike was a performance, every movement a declaration of his superiority.

Tibby’s training space was the opposite of Momotaro’s—a dimly lit, open-air courtyard surrounded by crumbling stone walls. The floor was uneven, scattered with patches of dirt and grass. A single lantern swayed in the breeze, its light casting long shadows across the ground.

Tibby stood in the center, his body tense and his hands wrapped in rough cloth. Sweat glistened on his skin, evidence of hours of relentless practice. He faced a simple wooden post, its surface scarred from repeated strikes.

“Again,” he muttered to himself, his voice steady despite the strain.

He lunged forward, his fists striking the post with sharp, deliberate movements. The impact sent a jolt through his arms, but he didn’t stop. His breaths came in steady bursts, each strike pushing him further.

Behind him, Chowon stood quietly, her hands clasped in front of her. She watched with a mix of worry and admiration, her gaze fixed on the determination etched into Tibby’s face.

“You’ve been at this for hours,” she said gently. “Maybe you should take a break?”

Tibby paused, his fists resting against the post. He turned to her, his expression softening. “I can’t. Not yet. If I don’t push myself, I won’t stand a chance.”

Chowon stepped closer, her voice quiet but firm. “You’ve already come so far. Don’t forget to trust yourself, too.”

Her words lingered in the air as Tibby nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. He took a deep breath, aTJusting his stance. “One more round,” he said.

Chowon sat on a nearby stone, watching as he resumed his strikes. This time, there was something different in his movements—not just strength, but precision and resolve. Each punch seemed to carry the weight of his determination to prove himself, not just to the world but to himself.

As the lantern’s flame flickered in the breeze, Tibby struck the post one last time, his fist splintering the wood. He stepped back, breathing heavily, and glanced at Chowon.

“You were right,” he admitted. “I needed that.”

Chowon smiled, her eyes warm. “You’ll be ready, Tibby. I know it.”

The day before the opening bouts of the tournaments the ceremonial chamber was a sight to behold—a cavernous hall carved from the heart of the mountain, with walls glowing faintly from veins of luminous minerals. Weapons of past champions lined the walls, each displayed with reverence. A long table stretched across the room, laden with ornate weapons wrapped in cloth, waiting to find their rightful wielders.

Hulk’s forgemaster, a towering, broad-shouldered dwarf named Gorund Ironbrand, stood at the head of the table. His beard was braided with bits of metal, and his hammer, massive and scarred from years of crafting, rested at his side.

“Tonight,” Gorund began, his voice resonating through the hall, “each of you will receive the weapon that best matches your spirit. These weapons are forged not just of metal but of meaning. Treat them well, and they will serve you faithfully. Fail them, and they will abandon you.”

One by one, the champions stepped forward as their names were called.

Momotaro’s Weapon

“Momotaro,” Gorund called, his deep voice cutting through the room.

Momotaro strode forward, confidence radiating from his every step. Gorund unwrapped the cloth, revealing an exquisite katana. The blade shimmered with a deadly brilliance, its edge almost too sharp to look at directly.

“This,” Gorund said, “is a katana forged from vibranium, adamantium, and carbonadium. Stronger than any foe you will face. A blade fit for one who carries the weight of many expectations.”

Momotaro accepted the weapon with a flourish, running his hand over the smooth hilt. He nodded in thanks, though inwardly, he savored the murmurs of admiration from the crowd.

“Lucion.”

Lucion, a pale figure with piercing silver eyes, stepped forward silently. Gorund unveiled a bow made of dark, twisting wood that seemed alive, its surface pulsating faintly with shadows.

“A bow crafted from the bark and branches of the World Tree,” Gorund said. “It draws on darkness itself, bending it to your will.”

Lucion took the bow without a word, his thin lips curling into a faint smirk.

“Leviathan.”

The tall, wiry contestant approached, his sharp eyes scanning the table. Gorund unwrapped a pair of daggers, their blades glowing softly with a calming blue light. Etched with ancient runes, they seemed almost alive.

“Daggers of uru and orichalcum,” Gorund said. “Inscribed with mystic etchings to balance their power. They are as precise as the predator who wields them.”

Leviathan twirled the daggers experimentally, grinning.

“Praetorius.”

Praetorius, clad in ceremonial armor, marched forward with the bearing of a king. Gorund unveiled a mace that seemed to hum with energy, lightning arcing faintly along its head.

“A weapon of vibranium and savage world steel, imbued with lightning. A fitting instrument for one who commands authority.”

Praetorius grasped the mace, nodding with satisfaction.

“Tiberius,” Gorund called.

Tibby stepped forward, calm and steady despite the low murmurs from the other champions. Gorund unveiled a single weapon—a staff-like rod forged from an alloy of vibranium, uru, and a rare off-world metal that glowed faintly in shifting shades of violet and teal.

“This,” Gorund said, his voice taking on a weight of reverence, “is a weapon unlike any other. It shifts forms at your command—kusarigama, tonfa, sais—whatever your instinct requires. Its power lies in adaptability, much like its wielder.”

The only embellishment was an inscription etched delicately into the metal: ‘Dragons care not for the opinions of sheep.’

Tibby accepted the weapon with a small bow, feeling its cool surface hum faintly with energy. He twisted his wrist experimentally, and the rod lengthened into a kusarigama. Another flick transformed it into a pair of tonfas, and yet another shift produced a pair of sais.

“Thank you,” Tibby said, his voice even but sincere.

Gorund nodded approvingly. “It is simple in appearance, yes. But simplicity often hides great strength. Remember that.”

Tibby bowed respectfully as he accepted the weapons. “Thank you,” he said simply, running his fingers over the smooth surface.

As Tibby stepped back, the other champions eyed his weapon with poorly veiled disdain. Lucion leaned toward Leviathan, smirking.

“They gave him a transforming stick,” Lucion whispered. “Guess they thought he couldn’t handle a real weapon.”

Leviathan chuckled. “He’ll need all the tricks he can get. Too bad it won’t matter when he’s out in the first round.”

Praetorius shook his head, a faint sneer on his lips. “Adaptability won’t save you when you’re outclassed.”

Tibby ignored the remarks, focusing instead on the shifting weapon in his hand. The transitions were smooth, each form feeling perfectly balanced and natural in his grip. He’d faced mockery before, and he knew that true power didn’t lie in appearances.

Momotaro observed silently, his elaborate katana hanging at his side. Though he refrained from joining the others in mocking Tibby’s weapon, his thoughts were far from kind.

A shapeshifting toy, he mused. How fitting for a second-rate contestant. It might impress peasants, but it won’t stand against real steel.

Outwardly, however, he maintained his composed, heroic demeanor, offering Tibby a polite nod as their gazes briefly met.

As the ceremony concluded, the champions mingled, comparing their weapons. Lucion and Leviathan examined their own with smug satisfaction, while Praetorius marveled at the power radiating from his mace.

“They gave him farmer’s tools,” Leviathan sneered, glancing at Tibby’s weapons. “Did they think he was here to harvest crops instead of fight?”

Lucion chuckled darkly. “Maybe they thought he’d need them to till the earth once he’s out of the tournament.”

Praetorius smirked but said nothing, his eyes flickering briefly toward Tibby.

Tibby, standing off to the side, heard the remarks but didn’t react. He was used to being underestimated, and he had no intention of rising to the bait. Instead, he turned the weapon ( currently a sai in his hand) , feeling the balance and weight, appreciating the craftsmanship.

Momotaro, standing nearby, didn’t join in the mockery. Outwardly, he maintained a neutral expression, but internally, he dismissed Tibby’s weapons as inferior. Farm tools, he thought. And here I was expecting competition.

As the champions laughed and boasted, Tibby took a step back, letting the noise fade into the background. He studied his weapon again, running a finger over the inscription.

‘Dragons care not for the opinions of sheep.’

A faint smile tugged at his lips. He knew what they thought of him, but that didn’t matter. His actions would speak louder than any words or flashy weapon.

In the end, it wasn’t the weapon that made the warrior. It was the heart behind it.

After the ceremony Momotaro went back to his shared penthouse with Gaeul and Wonyoung their contempt and disdain flowed freely behind sealed closed doors.

The flickering light from a nearby lantern cast long shadows across the private room, its cozy ambiance a stark contrast to the tension that lingered in the air. Wonyoung and Gaeul sat on plush cushions, their expressions a mix of anticipation and frustration. Momotaro stood by the window, looking out over the arena grounds, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his katana. He set it down gently before gesturing for Gaeul to approach. She smiled as they both undressed

“So, tell me again,” Gaeul spoke up, her voice dripping with a sharp edge. “You really think any of them stand a chance?” she said as she straddled Momotaro

Momotaro smirked as Gaeul spread her legs for the man. Her wet pussy drooling for him. “No. Most of them are just pawns in a game they don’t even understand. They’ll fall one by one.” he said as he thrust into Gaeul who moaned as Momotaro’s dick rammed itself inside her.

Wonyoung leaned forward, her gaze intense as she fixed Momotaro with a look of quiet calculation. “But there’s one who could be a problem.” she purred as she watched her champion fuck the elder girl.

Lifting his gaze from the window, Momotaro finally turned to face them. The playful arrogance in his eyes hadn’t faded, but there was a glint of something more serious in his expression. “Lucion. That bastard,” he spat as if the name left a bitter taste in his mouth. “He’s the only one I’ve seen so far who might be worth my time. The rest are… distractions,” he said after ramming himself deep into Gaeul. She shivered as he ran his cold hand across her waist before fucking her again. Wonyoung watched hungrily but she knew it was Gaeul’s turn to be bred so she accepted it.

Gaeul scoffed. “Lucion’s a shadow, a ghost. He’s been hiding his true strength. But even then, I’m not worried. He’s as much of an outcast as the others. He’s not a part of our world.” she said trying to stifle her moans as Momotaro continued fucking her. Her walls clenched his rod tightly as she neared her own release.

“Exactly,” Wonyoung added, folding her arms. “He’s been lurking in the shadows, and we don’t even know what he’s capable of. But he’s not a threat until he shows his cards. And when he does, we’ll be ready to crush him just like the rest.” Momotaro exited Gaeul for a moment. She pouted but kept her complaints hidden.

Momotaro’s smirk deepened as he took a step toward the table, where a fresh glass of wine awaited him. He picked it up slowly, swirling it as he spoke. “I don’t fear him, but I respect that he’s dangerous. Unlike the others. The rest? They’re nothing but fodder.”

Gaeul’s eyes flickered with an unreadable expression as she looked toward Wonyoung. “And Tiberius?”

Momotaro’s gaze turned cold at the mention of the name, the edge of his smile faltering slightly. “He’s a joke. A farm boy with no true understanding of what it means to be a champion. He doesn’t belong here.”

Wonyoung raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? He has that… something. Not the same as us. But there’s something there.”

Gaeul gave a short laugh. “Don’t let the unassuming act fool you. He’s just another body in the tournament. A warm-up for the real fight.”

Momotaro took a long drink of wine, the conversation falling into a brief, contemplative silence. His eyes narrowed as if contemplating something deeper. “Let’s make sure we don’t underestimate anyone… not even him. But for now, my focus is on Lucion. He’s the one to watch.”

The conversation turned to more idle chatter, but the underlying tension remained. Lucion—the only one they viewed as a genuine threat—hovered over their thoughts, even as they dismissed the rest of the competitors as beneath them.

At the same time Tibby’s was rediscovering himself with his new weapon. His mind unshackled by the burdens of others and their notions as he trained the weapon became an extension of himself its glow and radiance increasing as the hesitation and fear gave way to resolve and hope. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the training grounds. The air was thick with the sound of metal striking metal, as Tibby swung his newly acquired staff. It wasn’t just the rhythmic clang of his weapon that filled the air, but the undeniable energy that radiated from him. With every shift of his weapon, his movements were sharp, fluid, and somehow… full of life. The weapon morphed from tonfa to sais, then to a chain form with a fluidity that matched the rush of his energy.

Chowon stood at the side, her wide eyes following every shift in Tibby’s stance. She had known him as humble, reserved, even shy—but now, seeing him train, she noticed the spark in his eyes, the lively energy that emanated from him with every move. It was a side of him she hadn’t fully realized existed.

“Wow…” Chowon murmured, unable to tear her eyes away. “I had no idea you were so… intense.”

Tibby paused mid-swing, his expression bright and full of excitement. His usual soft demeanor gave way to an energetic grin as he caught sight of her watching him.

“Intense?” He chuckled, setting down the sais for a moment and walking over with a lively bounce in his step. “I’m just getting started! You should see me when I’m really fired up. But hey, gotta save my energy for tomorrow, right?”

Chowon blinked in surprise, her lips parting slightly as she processed his words. He wasn’t just humble—he was electric. The man who had appeared reserved and almost solemn was now speaking with a warmth, a fire, and a passion that she hadn’t seen before. He was clearly driven—more than she had anticipated—and somehow still managed to exude an extroverted energy that drew people in. She couldn’t help but smile in return.

Tibby’s grin only grew as he twirled his weapon in his hands, the kusarigama shifting back into its tonfa form. He raised an eyebrow at her, his voice teasing. “So, what? You thought I’d just stand there quietly in the corner? Nah. I’m here to make a splash! This tournament’s gonna feel like a breeze!”

He swung the tonfa with a sudden burst of speed, his movements so sharp they were almost impossible to track with the eye. His energy filled the space around him, creating a vibrant, unstoppable aura.

Chowon stood there, her mouth slightly agape, taken aback by the sheer enthusiasm he displayed. She’d seen others train with grit, with determination, but never quite with this much… joy. Tibby didn’t just fight to win—he fought because he wanted to, because he loved it.

“You’re amazing,” Chowon finally said, her voice filled with admiration. “It’s like… you’re completely alive in every move you make.”

Tibby paused for a moment, catching his breath, but still grinning widely. His eyes sparkled with the same energy as when he had first spoken. “What can I say? I love a good challenge! And tomorrow’s fight? I’m so ready for it, you don’t even know!”

His voice was brimming with excitement, and despite the looming uncertainty of the tournament ahead, his optimism seemed unstoppable. He wasn’t worried about the competition, nor the challenges they would throw at him. He wanted to be tested, to prove himself—because, at his core, he was a person who thrived on connection and the thrill of living.

“You really think you can win this, don’t you?” Chowon asked, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips, still in awe of his infectious energy.

Tibby’s expression softened slightly, but his smile never wavered. “Of course I do! I’m not just doing this for me—I’m doing it for everyone who’s ever doubted me, everyone who thought I’d just stay in the shadows. They’ll see who I really am when I step into that arena.”

His enthusiasm was contagious. For a brief moment, it felt as though his vibrant energy filled the whole field. Tibby wasn’t some quiet, reserved contestant in the background; he was alive, a force of nature, and his presence radiated through everything he did.

“Alright, I’m ready to go again. You ready to see some real action?” Tibby grinned, fully revved up and eager to continue his training.

Chowon laughed, shaking her head in amazement. “I think you’re more ready than anyone.”

He winked playfully as he picked up his weapon once more, ready to take on the challenge ahead. With every swing, every movement, Tibby’s energy only seemed to grow, and it was clear: He wasn’t just in the tournament to compete—he was here to make his mark, to prove his existence to others, and nothing could hold him back.

The tournament arrived the next day and Tibby's excitement was palpable. The introvert everyone had seen at the opening ceremony was gone in his place something different. A difference so great the other competitors didn't even recognize him.

He carried himself with the swagger of a champion and the hope of a saint. When interviewed he looked less the part of a hero and ever increasingly the part of the heel everyone loved to hate, yet he spoke with genuine warmth and kindness to those around making rooting against him satisfying but also watching him Electrifying.

The tournament arrived the next day, and the air was thick with anticipation. The arena buzzed with energy, but none more than the competitors themselves. Among them, Tiberius was a beacon of electricity, a stark contrast to the quiet, reserved man everyone had seen just a day prior. The introvert, the humble and shy participant from the opening ceremony, was gone. In his place stood someone altogether different—someone unrecognizable.

Tibby walked through the bustling halls with the swagger of a champion and the hope of a saint. His posture was upright, exuding the confidence of someone who had already claimed victory, even though the battle had yet to begin. His eyes sparkled with a fire that mirrored the glow of his weapon, and every step he took seemed to draw the attention of those around him. His presence was magnetic, impossible to ignore.

When the interviewers approached, they were taken aback. This was no longer the shy, humble man who had stumbled through the ceremony. No, this was someone far more captivating. The crowd, which had seen him as little more than a dark horse before, now watched in awe as he spoke. His voice rang with an infectious enthusiasm, his words flowing with a genuine warmth that resonated with everyone around him.

Despite his energy, there was an edge to him. A slight cockiness that made him impossible to root against, but impossible to ignore. He had become the heel—the antagonist everyone loved to hate—yet, at the same time, he made it thrilling to watch. He was the kind of competitor you couldn’t help but cheer for, even if you knew he was likely going to crush everyone in his path. His charisma was undeniable, and the audience ate it up.

When asked how he thought the fight would go, Tibby leaned forward slightly, his eyes glinting with fiery excitement. His words were more than just a prediction—they were a promise. “You ask me, the immortal king of the battlefield, how this fight will go?” His voice boomed across the arena, and the crowd leaned in closer, hanging on every word. “I’ll tell you. You are watching the beginning of the tale of Tiberius, the one who slices the heavens! The story that ends with my dramatic finale against the Champion King himself. I will dazzle, I will amaze, and I will terrify beyond all belief. Today is just step one.”

The crowd erupted in cheers, roaring with approval as his words rang out in the air. They saw something in him—something special. His spirit wasn’t just competitive; it was alive, vibrant, and ready to take on the world. His confidence was infectious, and they couldn’t help but get swept up in it.

Hulk, standing off to the side with Chowon, exchanged a glance. They both knew it in that moment. “He’s gonna go far,” they thought simultaneously, their minds both drawn to the same conclusion. They had seen potential before, but this was different. Tibby wasn’t just a contestant; he was a force of nature.

Meanwhile, in the preparation room, Momotaro fumed. His eyes narrowed as he watched Tibby on the screen, delivering his showmanship to the crowd. He had expected fodder—someone easy to brush aside, a mere stepping stone on his way to the championship. But what he saw before him unnerved him. Tibby had transformed. The self-doubt, the hesitation, the humble man who had seemed like an afterthought had vanished. In his place was a competitor who didn’t need tricks or deception. He didn’t need to scheme his way to victory. Tibby’s desire to face the challenge head-on, with pure strength and determination, sickened Momotaro.

“Heroes…” Momotaro muttered under his breath, his voice dripping with disdain. He turned away from the screen, clenching his fists in frustration. The very idea of someone actually enjoying this game Hulk had set up, of someone fighting for something beyond their own gain, disgusted him. In his eyes, the tournament was nothing more than a game of manipulation, a means to an end. Anyone who thought otherwise was naive.

Momotaro stood there in his preparation room, breathing deeply, trying to center himself. His mind, usually so calm and calculated, was now thrown off-kilter by Tibby’s unexpected transformation. The world he had carefully built, where he was the shining hero, the top contender, was suddenly thrown into chaos. And that made him angry.

He couldn’t shake the image of Tibby—how the crowd had responded to him, how Hulk and Chowon had looked at him with recognition, understanding, and even pride. It was clear. Tibby wasn’t just a threat—he was someone who could disrupt everything Momotaro had worked for. The tournament was no longer just about winning. It was about proving who was the strongest, and Tibby had just made it personal.

“Your legend ends today,” Momotaro muttered, his voice cold and filled with resolve. “I’ll show him just who he’s dealing with. No one gets to stand in my way.” He looked at his reflection in the mirror, a cold smirk curling on his lips. The hero of the tournament had a challenger now, and that challenger was someone who couldn’t be ignored. Tiberius had made himself a spectacle, and Momotaro hated it.

The opening match was simple. The top seeds versus the lowest seeds and that meant Tibby was facing off against Taro. The combatants entered the arena, and Tibby feed off the cheers as he hyped off the crowd before walking over to Momotaro. He attempted a handshake but Momotaro’s only words were

“Focus up clown,” Tibby unfettered nodded and got in a combat ready stance as he took out his weapon. The crowd marveled as it turned into a beautiful nagitana that glowed with the same infectious energy Tibby had. Momotaro grew frustrated as he unsheathed his sword.

He closed the distance on Tibby and clashed with the tip of his nagitana. What he didn't expect was for Tibby to shift the weapon to its chain form and bind both of his hands before dislodging his katana away from him. Momotaro realized then along with all 64 other competitors that Tiberius was going to be a problem. As Tibby removed the priority weapon from his foe he tripped him before shifting his weapon into its Kusagirama form and kicking up dust to obscure Momotaro’s vision. To keep Momotaro off his game he continued to move the sword out of reach as he would look for openings that guaranteed victory, but Momotaro kept his guard dodging and carefully keeping ready for Tibby to slip up in his pressure.

The crowd watched rivetted. Wonyoung and Gaeul’s excitement and terror watching their chosen champion filled them with so much emotion their masks slipped and they cheered with reckless abandon. Chowon noticed this and said.

“Huh I guess Tibby brings out the true self in everyone,” she thought. As she watched Tibby play his little game if keep away. She noticed the shift. She watched as instead of moving Momotaro’s weapon far out of reach that he was placing on the battlefield as he moved the katana closer and closer to Momotaro.

For those who could see magic Tibby was putting chi glyphs that made it so when they were activated they'd explode. However because this was a new trick of Tibby’s he lacked control over this power so for what he was planning he was going for a lethal shot. Hulk’s advisor of mages Baron Mordo noticed this and notified the Champion King. While Hulk admired Tibby’s ingenuity he needed to keep his competitors safe so he gestured for Tibby to stop the fight which Tibby and a few others caught but not everyone so Momotaro unaware and pushed to his limit by this bumpkin hit him with his greatest attack. “Scales of the demon!” he yelled as he slashed his katana at Tibby who was lacerated a total of 356 by the radiant blades. He collapsed and the ref called the victory for Momotaro as he also didn't see Hulk’s signal. After the match was just as hectic as the crew readied for the next fight.

The lounge buzzed with subdued energy as contestants gathered to debrief and decompress after the opening matches. Wonyoung and Gaeul sat in a quiet corner, their expressions composer but held feeling of awe and terror deep within. The screens replayed moments from the day’s most dramatic match—Momotaro versus Tiberius.

“That guy,” Gaeul began, her voice low and contemplative, “he’s not like anyone else here. Did you see how he fought?”

Wonyoung nodded, her arms crossed as she leaned back in her chair. Her usual composure had slipped during the fight, her cheers echoing among the crowd alongside the roar of thousands. Now, her tone was measured, almost clinical. “He didn’t just fight. He put on a show. Every move felt deliberate—not just to win, but to entertain. And the crowd ate it up.”

Gaeul gave a small laugh, though her nerves still showed. “I almost forgot we’re here to root for Momotaro. Tibby’s energy…it’s impossible to ignore.”

Before Wonyoung could reply, the door to the lounge opened with a sharp creak, and Momotaro strode in. His movements were stiff, his expression cold, yet there was a shadow of uncertainty in his eyes. The room fell quiet as he walked past the other contestants, all of whom watched him with a mix of respect and trepidation.

“Momotaro,” Wonyoung called out, her voice breaking the silence.

He stopped, glancing at her and Gaeul before walking over. “What is it?” he asked curtly, his voice tinged with irritation. Gaeul reaches put to soothe the man with her touch.

Wonyoung didn’t flinch under his glare. “How do you think it went? That fight wasn’t exactly clean.”

Momotaro’s jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “I won,” he said flatly.

“Sure,” Gaeul interjected, her voice unusually sharp. “But look at him.” She gestured toward the screen, which now showed Tibby being carried off by medics, his bloodied body a testament to Momotaro’s finishing blow.

“He’ll live. he shouldn't though that blow should have been fatal” Momotaro snapped, though the defensiveness in his tone betrayed him.

“That’s not the point,” Wonyoung said, her eyes narrowing. “You saw it just like we did. Tibby didn’t fight like someone who was out of his league. He pushed you. Hard. And that was round one. He’s going through the loser’s bracket now, but if he makes it back to you…” She trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air.

Momotaro scoffed, though the unease in his posture was unmistakable. “He’s reckless. Flashy. That kind of fighting only works until someone with actual skill shuts it down.”

Gaeul leaned forward, her gaze piercing. “And yet, you had to use Scales of the Demon to stop him. Against the lowest seed.”

The words hit their mark, and Momotaro’s scowl deepened. He glanced at the screen again, his mind replaying the fight. Tibby’s unorthodox tactics, his shifting weapon forms, the calculated placement of the katana—everything about the match had been a puzzle, one he’d only barely managed to solve. And the crowd’s reaction…

“Everyone’s talking about him,” Wonyoung continued. “They’re calling him a genius. A wildcard. Even Hulk looked impressed.”

Momotaro’s eyes flicked to her, his expression dark. “You’re saying you’re rooting for him now?”

“No,” Wonyoung said, her voice steady, and her expression matching his as if scoff that he would challenge her loyalty again. “We’re still in your corner. But you need to take him seriously. If he gets another shot at you, he won’t make the same mistakes.”

“And neither will I,” Momotaro said firmly, though his words felt more like a promise to himself than to them.

Gaeul sighed, leaning back in her chair. “You’d better not. Because the way things are going, Tibby’s not just going to be a problem for you—he’s going to be a problem for everyone.”

Momotaro said nothing, his gaze fixed on the screen as the replay shifted to Tibby’s dramatic introduction before the match. The crowd’s cheers echoed faintly through the lounge, and for the first time, Momotaro felt a flicker of doubt.

He turned abruptly, walking toward the training room without another word. If he was going to beat Tibby he would have to train 3 times as hard as he did.

Wonyoung watched him go, her expression unreadable. “Do you think he gets it?” she asked Gaeul.

Gaeul shrugged. “Who knows? But one thing’s for sure.”

“What’s that?”

Gaeul smiled faintly, though there was no humor in her eyes. “If Tibby keeps fighting like that, this tournament’s about to get a lot more interesting.”

The impact of the first match overshadowed every following match much to Levithan’s Chagrin.

“The winners should be the focus,” he thought to himself before getting ready for his interview. The camera panned to Leviathan, who sat with his arms crossed, his lengthy frame nearly dwarfing the chair beneath him. His crimson scale mail shimmered under the lights of the press room, and his deep, steady breathing hinted at the restrained power within. The reporters eagerly leaned forward, microphones thrust in his direction, eager for a soundbite from the victorious warrior.

“Leviathan,” one reporter began, her voice bright but professional. “First of all, congratulations on your win. Another dominant performance. But if we may, we’d like your thoughts on the match earlier today between Momotaro and Tiberius. It’s all anyone can talk about right now.”

Leviathan’s eyes, cold and calculating, shifted toward the reporter. He took a moment to exhale slowly, as if weighing his words.

“It was… revealing,” he rumbled, his voice deep and deliberate, like the shifting of tectonic plates. “Not in the way most people think.”

A murmur swept through the room. The reporter pressed on. “Could you elaborate? What did it reveal to you?”

Leviathan’s gaze turned steely. “Tibby’s fight wasn’t just about winning or losing. It was a declaration. A challenge. And he succeeded in one thing: showing everyone, including Momotaro, that the rules of this tournament don’t apply to him.”

Another reporter jumped in. “Do you mean his unconventional weapon techniques? Or the chi glyphs?”

Leviathan allowed a small, humorless smirk to play across his face. “The weapon shifts, the traps, the strategy—that’s all surface level. What matters is the intent. Tibby doesn’t fight to defeat his opponent. He fights to expose them. To unravel them. And Momotaro?” Leviathan paused, letting the tension build. “He unraveled.”

The room fell silent, save for the frantic scribbling of notes.

“But Momotaro won,” another reporter countered, trying to challenge the narrative. “Doesn’t that count for something?”

Leviathan leaned forward, his crimson eyes locking onto the reporter like a predator sizing up prey. “Does it? Look at the aftermath. Momotaro isn’t celebrating. He’s not basking in victory. He’s shaken. Questioning himself. And that’s what makes Tibby dangerous. He lost the fight, but he’s still in the tournament. And now everyone knows what he’s capable of.”

The murmurs grew louder. Someone else asked, “What about the role of the officials? Hulk tried to stop the fight, but it seems like his signal came too late. Do you think that played a part in what happened?”

Leviathan’s expression darkened slightly, and his massive tail shifted behind him, the only sign of his annoyance. “Mistakes happen. Hulk’s job is to keep order, but Tibby? Tibby thrives in chaos. Even if the fight had stopped earlier, the damage was done. Momotaro’s psyche, the crowd’s perception, the other competitors’ calculations—Tibby’s chaos reached them all.”

The original reporter spoke up again, cautiously. “And what about you, Leviathan? If you face Tibby in the future, what’s your strategy?”

Leviathan let out a low, rumbling chuckle that reverberated through the room. “Tibby’s clever, but I’m no Momotaro. I don’t get rattled, and I don’t play into someone else’s game. If he tries to unravel me, he’ll find himself staring into the abyss instead.”

The reporters nodded, some murmuring their approval at the confident answer. But Leviathan wasn’t done.

“One more thing,” he said, his tone dropping to something almost ominous. “Tibby said he was here to beat Hulk. That’s a bold claim. But what he doesn’t realize is this: if he wants to climb to the top, he has to go through me first.”

With that, Leviathan stood, his towering form casting a long shadow across the room. The press erupted in questions, but he gave them no further response. Instead, he turned and walked away, his tail swishing with the slow, deliberate movements of someone who knew his power—and didn’t feel the need to prove it.

Later as the legend of Tiberius who slices the heavens spread Lucion sat on the edge of his bed, rolling the hilt of his sword between his hands. His usually calm demeanor was strained, the sharp lines of his face deepened with thought. Yerim lounged nearby, perched between his legs. Her lucious lips slowly rake across his manhood. sThe moonlight framed her figure, her presence an anchor in the storm of his thoughts.

“So?” Yerim’s voice was teasing but gentle, as she slowly worked along his shaft wit her skilled fingers like the wind brushing through a quiet forest. “What’s running through that big, brilliant mind of yours?”she said as she began bobbing on his cock again

He sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. “I can’t stop replaying their fight. Tibby was…” He paused, searching for the right word.

“Unexpected?” she offered as she came for air.

Lucion nodded. “And dangerous. More dangerous than anyone gave him credit for. His adaptability, the way he manipulated the battlefield—it’s not just skill. It’s instinct. And instinct like that can’t be taught.”

Yerim tilted her head, studying him as she stroked his rod some more. “You’re worried.”

He chuckled softly, though the sound lacked its usual warmth. “I wouldn’t say worried. Cautious, maybe. Tibby isn’t like the others I’ve faced. He doesn’t just fight; he thinks. Every move he made was calculated to throw Momotaro off balance.”

“And it worked,” Yerim said, her voice soft. “Until it didn’t.”

Lucion frowned, his grip tightening on the sword hilt. Yerim tried to calm him by sucking deeper than usual but Lucion was inconsolable, “Momotaro’s strength is brute force. He overpowered Tibby in the end, but it was close. Too close. If Hulk hadn’t tried to intervene, who knows how far Tibby’s plan would have gone? That kusarigama trick with the chi glyphs—he could’ve ended the match right there if he’d had more control over his magic.”

Yerim’s tongue slid off the of Lucion’s dick as she began to lick his frenulum, her pace slow and deliberate. She knelt in front of him, placing a hand on his knee. “You’re not Momotaro, Lucion. You don’t rely on brute force. You see the battlefield better than anyone. That’s why you’re still here.”

He looked at her, his expression softening slightly. “You always know what to say.”

“It’s a gift,” she said with a playful smile. Then her expression grew serious. “But you’re right to be cautious. Tibby’s next fight is with you, and he’s not going to come in the same way. He learns too fast for that.”

Lucion placed the sword down beside him, resting his hands on his knees. “The key will be keeping him from dictating the flow of the fight. He thrives on momentum, on keeping his opponent reacting instead of acting.”

“Then take the initiative,” Yerim suggested. “Force him to fight on your terms. You’re a tactician, Lucion. Use that. Make him chase you, and when he slips…”

“…I’ll finish it,” Lucion said, his voice filled with quiet determination. As he spoke he came all over Yerim’s face. She giggled happy to serve her man

Yerim smiled, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “That’s the Lucion I know. Just don’t underestimate him. If you do…”

“I won’t,” he interrupted, his tone firm. “Tibby’s dangerous, but I know how to handle danger.”

Yerim stood, her confidence in him evident in the way she carried herself. “Good. Because I have no intention of watching you lose to some upstart with a flashy weapon and a knack for showmanship.”

Lucion smirked, standing to face her. “You don’t think I’d let him get the better of me, do you?”

“I think,” Yerim said, leaning in close, her voice a whisper against his ear, “that you’re going to show everyone why you belong at the top.”

Lucion nodded, her words igniting a spark of confidence within him. “He won’t know what hit him.”

“Now that’s the spirit,” Yerim said with a grin. “Just don’t let him turn this into a spectacle. Keep your head in the fight, and it’s yours.”

As she stepped back toward the window, Lucion watched her, his mind clearing as her words settled. He wasn’t Momotaro, and this wasn’t about brute strength. It was about strategy, precision, and control. And those were the things he excelled at.

Tibby may have made himself a threat, but Lucion was ready to remind him—and everyone else—why he was a contender.

Unsure about his interference in the tournament Hulk went to the people’s Champion infirmary room Tibby sat in the medical bay, his arms covered in bandages and his chest wrapped tight to stem the lingering pain from Momotaro’s brutal final attack. Despite the searing ache of his wounds, his expression was far from defeated. His eyes, sharp and calculating, were fixed on the notepad in his lap, where hastily scribbled notes and diagrams painted a chaotic tapestry of strategy. Hulk sat silent for a moment and watched Tiberius sketch and scribble.

Hulk entered the room, his towering frame casting a long shadow over the flickering glow of the medical monitors. His usual confidence was tempered, replaced by a somber expression as he approached Tibby’s bedside.

“Tibby,” Hulk began, his deep voice quieter than usual.

Tibby glanced up, raising an eyebrow. “Hulk, what brings you to the infirmary? I thought champions didn’t make house calls.”

Hulk crossed his arms, leaning against the doorway. “I came to apologize.”

That made Tibby pause, setting the notepad aside as he regarded the Champion King with curiosity. “For what?”

“For not stopping the fight when I should have,” Hulk admitted. “I saw where it was headed. I signaled for the referee to call it, but I didn’t act fast enough. You took a beating because I hesitated. That’s on me.”

Tibby blinked, then let out a short laugh that turned into a wince. “Ow—don’t make me laugh right now. These ribs are still protesting.” He shook his head, his tone light but sincere. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for, Hulk. This is a tournament, not a tea party. Things get rough. I knew what I was signing up for when I stepped into that ring.”

Hulk frowned. “Still, it wasn’t fair. If you’d had time to refine that technique of yours, things might’ve gone differently.”

Tibby leaned back, a faint grin tugging at his lips despite the pain. “Maybe. But fair doesn’t win fights, does it? And let’s be honest—Momotaro needed that win more than I did. Did you see the look in his eyes? I’m living rent-free in his head now.”

Hulk couldn’t help but chuckle at that, though his expression remained thoughtful. “You’re not angry?”

Tibby shook his head. “Nah. Losing’s just part of the game. Besides, I’m not out yet. The loser’s bracket is just another chance to prove myself. And I’ve already started working on my approach for the next fight.” He tapped his notepad, where diagrams of his kusarigama and notes on potential opponents filled the page. “Momotaro was step one. Whoever’s next? They’ll get the refined version of me.”

Hulk studied him, his keen eyes taking in every detail—the lack of resentment, the unwavering focus, the confidence that bordered on dangerous. “You really believe you’ll make it back to the finals?”

Tibby met his gaze, his grin turning sharp. “Oh, I’m not just making it back. I’m going to win this thing. And after that? I’m coming for you.”

Hulk froze for a moment, the weight of those words sinking in. He wasn’t easily intimidated—he’d faced countless challengers before—but something about the calm certainty in Tibby’s voice sent a chill down his spine. It wasn’t arrogance. It was conviction.

“Well,” Hulk said after a beat, his tone measured, “I’ll be waiting.”

Tibby leaned forward slightly, the movement making his bandages creak. “Don’t wait too long, Hulk. You might find yourself surprised.”

Hulk turned to leave, pausing at the doorway. “You’re a dangerous man, Tibby. I can see why the crowd loves you. Just don’t let that spark burn out too soon.”

Tibby smirked, picking up his notepad again. “Oh, don’t worry. The fire’s only just getting started.”

As Hulk walked away, his mind churned with conflicting thoughts. Tibby wasn’t just another competitor. He was something more—something unpredictable, unshakable, and undeniably formidable.

For the first time in a long time, Hulk found himself wondering if the Champion King might finally have met his match.

Praetorius reclined on a plush chaise in his private quarters, the dim lighting casting soft shadows over the royal decor. His long coat was draped carelessly over a chair, and a half-empty glass of wine rested on the table beside him. Across the room, Hanni perched on the edge of a velvet armchair, her delicate features glowing with curiosity as she twirled a lock of hair around her finger. Her nude form shined in the dimly lit room

“So,” she began, her voice teasing yet thoughtful, “what’s the verdict, oh great king? Did Momotaro barely scrape by, or was Tibby really just that unlucky?”

Praetorius smirked, swirling his wine as he considered her question. “A little of both, my dear consort,” he replied, his tone smooth as silk. “Momotaro’s victory wasn’t without merit—his precision and resolve are undeniable. But Tibby…” He paused, letting the name linger in the air. “Tibby is a different breed of fighter. What we witnessed wasn’t a loss—it was a declaration of intent.”

Hanni tilted her head, intrigued. “A declaration? You make it sound like he wanted to lose.”

“Not at all,” Praetorius corrected, setting his glass down. “Tibby doesn’t strike me as the type to settle for second place. No, what he did was far more dangerous. He forced everyone—Momotaro, the crowd, the judges—to recognize him. Even in defeat, he controlled the narrative. It’s a rare skill, and one that will serve him well in the matches to come.”

Hanni leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “You really think he’s that much of a threat? I mean, Momotaro did take him down.”

Praetorius chuckled, the sound low and rich. “My dear Hanni, you underestimate the power of perception. Momotaro may have won the battle, but Tibby won the crowd. Every move he made—the way he wielded his weapon, the audacity of his strategies—it was all designed to leave an impression. And it worked. By the time he’s healed and ready to fight again, his opponents won’t just be facing his skills. They’ll be facing the legend he’s already begun to craft.”

Hanni’s lips curled into a thoughtful smile. “You sound like you’re rooting for him.”

“Rooting? Not quite,” Praetorius said, his smirk widening. “But I do appreciate a well-played game. Tibby’s a wild card, and wild cards have a way of disrupting even the best-laid plans. It’s… fascinating to watch.”

Hanni rose from her seat, crossing the room to sit beside him on the chaise. “So what’s your plan, then? Sit back and enjoy the chaos? Or do you have something more… involved in mind?”

Praetorius turned to her, his gaze sharp and knowing. “Chaos, my dear, is a tool like any other. And a good strategist knows how to wield every tool at his disposal. Let Tibby and Momotaro dance their little dance. I’ll step in when the moment is right.”

Hanni arched an eyebrow, her expression equal parts amused and intrigued. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Only when I want to be,” he quipped, leaning back with a satisfied sigh. “Now, tell me—what did you think of the fight? I trust your keen eyes caught something I missed.”

Hanni grinned, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, I saw plenty. But if you want my insights, you’ll have to earn them.”

Praetorius laughed, a deep, genuine sound that filled the room. “You drive a hard bargain, my dear. Very well. Enlighten me.”

Hanni leaned back against the chaise, stretching like a cat before fixing Praetorius with a knowing smile. “Alright, here’s the thing about that fight,” she began, her tone light but sharp with observation. “Everyone’s focused on the big moves—the flashy techniques, the weapons, the crowd reactions. But that’s not what stood out to me.”

“Oh?” Praetorius folded his hands in his lap, his expression interested but unreadable. “Enlighten me, my insightful muse.”

Hanni rolled her eyes at the nickname but continued. “It’s Tibby’s rhythm. The way he fought wasn’t about power or even precision—it was about setting a pace and forcing Momotaro to follow it. Every shift in his weapon’s form wasn’t just an attack, it was like he was conducting a symphony. And for a while, Momotaro was dancing to his tune.”

Praetorius tilted his head, considering her words. “Interesting. So you’re saying Tibby wasn’t just reacting—he was leading?”

“Exactly.” Hanni’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “Even when it looked like Momotaro had the upper hand, Tibby was setting him up. Moving the katana closer and closer? That wasn’t just strategy, that was psychological warfare. He wanted Momotaro to think he was slipping. It’s just… well, Tibby got a little too clever for his own good. Those chi glyphs were brilliant, but he couldn’t control them. And that’s what cost him the fight.”

Praetorius chuckled softly. “Ah, hubris. The Achilles’ heel of every would-be genius. But you’re right—it was a fascinating strategy. One misstep, and it could’ve been Momotaro lying in the dirt instead of Tibby.”

Hanni nodded, her expression growing more serious. “And that’s the thing—Tibby doesn’t need to win to get under someone’s skin. He’s already in Momotaro’s head, rent-free. Did you see how rattled he was, even after the fight? That humble, stoic hero act is cracking , and everyone knows it.”

Praetorius let out a low hum of approval. “You’re sharper than you look, my dear.”

“Of course I am,” Hanni shot back, sticking out her tongue. “I watch more than just the showy moves. Like how Momotaro wasn’t the only one who cracked. Did you notice Wonyoung and Gaeul in the crowd?”

Praetorius raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“They were so caught up in the fight, they dropped their usual composure. They weren’t just watching—they were cheering, yelling, feeling. And Chowon noticed, too. She might play it cool, but I saw her smirk. Tibby’s chaos doesn’t just disrupt fighters—it pulls everyone into his orbit. Even the spectators.”

Praetorius leaned forward, his fingers steepled as he processed her insights. “So what you’re saying,” he said slowly, “is that Tibby isn’t just a fighter. He’s a force of nature. A disruptor.”

Hanni grinned, pleased that he was catching on. “No worse. He is a spectacle. And spectacles are dangerous, because you can’t predict what they’ll do next. That’s why Momotaro’s win doesn’t feel like a win. It feels like Tibby just laid the groundwork for something bigger. Another showstopper as it were.”

Praetorius’s smirk returned, his mind already spinning with possibilities. “A very astute analysis, my dear. Perhaps I should take you into my confidence more often.”

“You should,” Hanni replied breezily. “I’m smarter than half the people you surround yourself with. And cuter.”

“Undeniably true,” Praetorius said, lifting his wineglass in a mock toast. “To your insights—and to the chaos yet to come.”

Hanni clinked her imaginary glass with his, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “Here’s to that. Let’s see how much more trouble Tibby stirs up.”

The infirmary smelled faintly of antiseptic and herbs, the sharp tang softened by the dim lighting and the quiet hum of activity. Chowon pushed the door open, her steps hesitant as she glanced around. Her heart had been tight in her chest since the match, her mind racing with what she might say when she saw Tibby. She hadn’t expected him to take the beating so well—or to see him sitting on the bed, entirely healed, casually tossing a small orb of light from one hand to the other.

“Tibby?” she called softly, stepping into the room.

He looked up, his grin as bright as ever, though his eyes carried the weight of someone who had been through far more than his expression let on. “Chowon! Fancy seeing you here. Thought you’d be off celebrating Momotaro’s big win.”

Her brow furrowed as she approached him. “Don’t start with that. I came to see you.”

“Me?” He tossed the orb one last time and caught it, letting the light fade from his hand. “I’m fine. See? Not a scratch on me.”

“That’s not the point.” Chowon crossed her arms, standing just a few feet from him now. Her gaze softened as she took him in—whole, unharmed, and still as infuriatingly carefree as ever. “Tibby, you scared me out there. I thought…” She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

Tibby tilted his head, his grin fading as he noticed the worry etched into her features. “Hey,” he said, his voice dropping to something quieter, more sincere. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Chowon bit her lip, her emotions threatening to spill over. “You didn’t just worry me. You… you made it impossible to look away. The way you fought, the way you moved—it was like you were trying to carry the whole arena on your shoulders. Why do you push yourself like that?”

Tibby sighed, leaning back on his hands. “It’s not about pushing myself. It’s about showing everyone what I can do. People see me as some loudmouth clown with a flashy weapon, but I’ve got more than jokes and tricks. That match was my way of proving it.”

“And nearly getting yourself killed was part of that plan?” she shot back, her voice trembling.

He looked at her for a long moment, the usual spark in his eyes dimmed. “I knew the risks,” he said finally. “But I’m not here to play it safe, Chowon. I’m here to win. And sometimes that means taking hits, making people believe I’m down before I show them I’m not.”

Her arms dropped to her sides, and she took another step closer. “But at what cost, Tibby? What if next time, you don’t get up?”

Tibby’s grin returned, softer this time. “Then I guess I’ll have to make sure there isn’t a next time, huh?”

Chowon huffed, her frustration mingling with relief. Without thinking, she reached out and placed a hand on his arm, the warmth of his skin grounding her. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice dipping lower, more intimate. “But you’re still here.”

Her breath caught at his words, and for a moment, the world outside the infirmary seemed to fade away. Tibby turned his arm slightly, letting his hand rest over hers.

“I’ll be careful,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically serious. “For you.”

Chowon’s lips curved into a small, reluctant smile. “You better be.”

They stayed like that for a moment, their fingers lightly brushing as a quiet understanding passed between them. Tibby might be reckless, but here, in this moment, he was grounded—by her, and maybe for her.

“Alright,” he said, breaking the silence but not moving away. “Since I’m all healed up, what do you say we get out of here? I could use some fresh air, and I’m guessing you could use some company that doesn’t have a death wish.”

Chowon laughed softly, shaking her head. “Fine. But only if you promise not to do anything stupid for at least one day.”

Tibby smirked as he stood, their hands lingering together for a beat longer before he let go. “Deal. One day of no stupid.”

As they left the infirmary together, the weight of the earlier fight began to lift, replaced by the quiet comfort of knowing they didn’t have to face what came next alone.

The smell of melted cheese and garlic wafted through the air as Tibby and Chowon sat across from each other in a small, cozy pizzeria just outside the tournament grounds. The place was lively but not overwhelming, a perfect retreat from the chaos of the arena. A half-eaten pepperoni and mushroom pizza sat between them, the grease glistening under the warm light.

Tibby leaned back in his chair, one hand resting lazily on the table as he polished off his slice. “You know,” he said between bites, “there’s nothing quite like a good pizza after almost dying in front of thousands of people.”

Chowon gave him a pointed look, though a smile tugged at her lips. “If you’re trying to make me lose my appetite, you’re doing a great job.”

He grinned, grabbing another slice. “C’mon, you’ve gotta admit, it makes the pizza taste better. Like a victory meal, even though I technically lost.”

“Technically?” she teased, raising an eyebrow.

“Okay, fine, definitely lost,” Tibby conceded with a shrug. “But I made my point. And now, I’ve got Lucion to worry about.”

Chowon set her slice down, her expression turning thoughtful. “Lucion’s no joke, Tibby. He’s precise, calculating. He doesn’t make mistakes.”

Tibby nodded, his demeanor shifting slightly. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that. He’s the kind of guy who waits for you to slip up, then takes you apart piece by piece. But that’s the thing—he’s all about reacting. If I don’t give him the chance to counter, I might be able to throw him off his game.”

Chowon tilted her head, watching him closely. “So, what’s the plan?”

Tibby leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Speed. Lucion likes to control the pace, but if I keep things fast—keep him guessing—I might be able to catch him off guard. And I’ve been working on a couple of new tricks. The key is making him think he’s in control when he’s not.”

Chowon’s lips curved into a small smile. “You’re really taking this seriously.”

“Of course I am,” Tibby said, his voice softening. “Lucion’s not just another opponent. He’s a test. If I can beat him, it proves I belong here.”

Chowon reached out, her hand brushing against his on the table. “You already proved that today. Whether you beat Lucion or not, you’ve shown everyone what you’re capable of.”

Tibby looked at her, the usual playfulness in his eyes replaced by something more genuine. “Thanks, Chowon. That means a lot, coming from you.”

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze before pulling back. “Just promise me you’ll stick to your plan and not do anything reckless. You don’t have to win every fight by being the flashiest guy in the room.”

Tibby chuckled, grabbing another slice. “No promises. But I’ll try to keep the stupid to a minimum. For you.”

Chowon rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered. As they continued eating, the tension from the day’s events slowly melted away, replaced by the easy camaraderie and quiet understanding they shared. Whatever challenges lay ahead, Tibby knew he had someone in his corner—and that made all the difference.

[mbruben-stein]

How would Tokyo Revengers react to their girlfriend s/o taking a hit for Emma and dying instead of her.

A/n / warning: Note this is kind of going to be really sad headcanons. I am just warning you all before you read this. This is going to mention death and is going to be really sad.

Mikey:

Mikey's heart shattered into a million pieces as he watched his beloved Girlfriend s/o take the fatal blow meant for Emma. The sound of the metal baseball bat striking against their body echoed in his ears, sending a wave of agony through his entire being. In that moment, everything seemed to move in slow motion as he rushed to their side, his hands trembling as he tried to hold onto them, hoping against hope that they would open their eyes and smile at him once more.

But as s/o whispered their final goodbyes, Mikey felt his world come crashing down around him. Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision as he clutched onto them desperately, unwilling to accept that they were gone. He could hear Emma's sobs in the background, her grief mirroring his own, but he couldn't tear his gaze away from s/o's lifeless form.

In a daze, Mikey tried to shake s/o awake, his voice cracking as he begged them to come back to him. But the reality of the situation hit him like a ton of bricks, and he collapsed to his knees, his heart aching with a pain unlike anything he had ever felt before. The loss was unbearable, the guilt of not being able to protect them weighing heavily on his shoulders.

As he looked up at the sky, tears streaming down his face, Mikey vowed to avenge s/o's death. He would make Kisaki pay for taking away the light of his life, and he would ensure that s/o's memory lived on in his heart forever. But for now, all he could do was hold onto the memory of their love, a love that had been tragically cut short.

The last words he said to his S/o who was dying in his arms: "Stay with me baby. I can't bear to lose you. Please, don't leave me. I need you... I love you."

Draken:

Draken's world came crashing down the moment he saw his girlfriend s/o lying lifeless on the ground, a victim of Kisaki's ruthless attack. His heart shattered into a million pieces as he knelt beside her, desperately trying to wake her up, to hear her voice one more time. But she remained still, her eyes closed, her body cold.

Tears streamed down Draken's face as he cradled her in his arms, unable to accept the cruel reality of her death. The pain in his chest was unbearable, aching with the loss of the person he cherished more than anything in the world. He couldn't understand why she had to be taken from him, why fate had been so merciless.

As he looked at her peaceful face, memories of their time together flooded his mind. The laughter they shared, the moments of pure joy and love they experienced, all now tainted by the devastating loss. Draken felt a deep sense of guilt for not being able to protect her, for failing to keep her safe from harm.

In that moment of grief and despair, Draken made a silent vow to avenge her death, to make Kisaki pay for the pain he had inflicted on him and on his s/o. He would not rest until justice was served, until he could find some semblance of peace in a world that had turned dark and cruel.

And as he held her lifeless body close to his chest, Draken whispered words of love and sorrow, promising to always remember her, to carry her memory in his heart until the end of his days. He knew that he would never be the same without her, that her absence would leave a void that could never be filled. But he also knew that he would honor her memory by fighting for a better future, by ensuring that her sacrifice would not be in vain. And with that determination burning in his soul, Draken rose to his feet, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead, fueled by the love and loss of the one he had lost.

The last words he said to his S/o who was dying in his arms: "Stay with me, please. Don't leave me alone. I can't do this without you. I love you more than anything. Fucking fight, don't give up on me now. I need you. Please, stay with me."

Takemichi:

Takemichi's world shattered into a million pieces when he witnessed his beloved Girlfriend s/o take a fatal blow meant for Emma. The sound of the metal baseball bat hitting her body echoed in his ears, haunting him with the image of her falling to the ground. His heart clenched in agony as he rushed to her side, desperate to save her, but it was too late.

Tears streamed down his face as he held her lifeless body in his arms, his mind unable to comprehend the cruel reality of her death. The pain of losing her was like a dagger through his heart, leaving him gasping for air as he struggled to accept the harsh truth.

Takemichi's determination, usually unwavering, crumbled in the face of such a devastating loss. He felt lost, alone, and broken beyond repair. The guilt of not being able to protect her consumed him, filling him with a deep sense of regret and sorrow.

As he mourned the loss of his s/o, Takemichi vowed to carry her memory in his heart forever. He would never forget the sacrifice she made for Emma, and he would honor her by fighting for a better future, one where such senseless tragedies could be prevented.

But deep down, he knew that his world would never be the same without her by his side. And as he lay awake at night, haunted by memories of her smile and her laughter, he whispered her name into the darkness, longing for her presence once more.

The last words he said to his S/o who was dying in his arms: "I love you more than anything in this world. You've brought light into my life, and I'll carry your love with me forever. Thank you for being my everything. Please know that you'll always be in my heart."