#yes their head is in the shape of a heart

[neferaskingdom]

Not So Bad After All | CL16

NEFERASKINGDOM

Summary: Valentine’s Day sucks, the bathroom line is too long, and Charles just wants to go home. Until a ridiculous scheme, a fake proposal, and the best tiramisu of his life change everything.

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Charles Leclerc did not want to be here.

Valentine’s Day was already insufferable, but being dragged to a bar by his well-meaning (and currently very drunk) friends was making it so much worse. His brothers were off on their respective romantic dates, and instead of sulking in peace at home, he was here—stuck in a crowded bar, dodging heart-shaped balloons and being subjected to overly loud love songs blaring from the speakers.

And now, to top it all off, he was standing in an absurdly long line for the bathroom.

“Ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as the line refused to move.

“Tell me about it,” a voice said beside him.

Charles turned his head to find a woman standing next to him, arms crossed, scowling at the line ahead. She looked equally unimpressed with the night’s events.

He raised an eyebrow. “Bad night?”

She huffed, tilting her head towards the couple making out aggressively in the corner. “I’ve seen horror movies less disturbing than that.”

Charles snorted, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. “Agreed.”

They lapsed into silence, both staring ahead at the unmoving line. A few seconds passed before she spoke again. “You don’t look like you’re having fun.”

He exhaled, rubbing his face. “That’s because I’m not.”

She smirked. “Then why are you here?”

Charles sighed, hands in his pockets. “My friends thought I needed ‘cheering up’ because my brothers are both in relationships, and I am not.”

She nodded sympathetically. “Same. Except my best friend didn’t even try to lie about it. She just said, ‘You’re too single, and it’s embarrassing.’” She gestured toward the girl still making out in the corner. “That would be her.”

Charles winced. “Brutal.”

“Right? I told her I’d rather stay home and watch a move or something.”

Charles let out a laugh, genuinely amused. “I think I’d prefer that too.”

As the line inched forward at a snail’s pace, their conversation flowed effortlessly.

"Okay, explain this to me," she said, turning to face him fully. "Why do people think giving someone overpriced flowers that will die in three days is romantic?"

Charles chuckled. "Right? And the price! it's like they double it just because it’s February 14th."

She scoffed. "Exactly! And don't even get me started on the chocolates. You know they just put the same candy in a heart-shaped box and charge extra."

"The worst part is the expectation," Charles added, shaking his head. "Like, if you don’t do something extravagant, suddenly you don’t love your partner enough?"

She snapped her fingers. "Yes! If you need a specific day to prove your love, maybe your relationship isn’t as strong as you think."

Charles smirked. "So, not a fan of grand gestures, then?"

"Oh, I love grand gestures," she admitted, tilting her head. "Just not ones dictated by capitalism."

“So let me get this straight,” she said after a particularly heated rant about heart-shaped balloons. “You got dragged here against your will, your friends abandoned you, and now you’re standing in line for the bathroom ranting at a stranger?”

Charles groaned. “I am beginning to think I have been tricked.”

She shook her head in mock pity. “Tragic.”

He opened his mouth to respond when, to his horror, his stomach let out a loud growl.

She turned to him, grinning. “Oh my god.”

“…I’m hungry,” he admitted, rubbing his neck sheepishly.

She laughed. “You know what? Let’s get out of here. I know a place.”

The place she led him to was a semi-formal restaurant with dim lighting, cozy booths, and the most incredible menu Charles had ever seen. By the time their food arrived, they were already deep into conversation, swapping stories about their worst dates, cringiest romantic gestures, and Valentine’s Day traumas.

Charles took a bite of the cheesecake and immediately let out a sound that could only be described as obscene. “Mon dieu. This is the best thing I have ever eaten.”

His companion grinned. “Oh, you think that’s good? There’s something even better.”

He looked up, intrigued. “Impossible.”

She leaned forward conspiratorially. “They used to sell the most heavenly tiramisu. It was legendary. But they discontinued it.”

Charles frowned. “Then how do you know it’s better?”

She smirked. "Because I’ve had it before and fun fact it’s on the secret menu now. But it’s a whole ordeal." She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice like she was letting him in on a great secret. "The thing is, their tiramisu is legendary—like, hours of prep, delicate layers, the kind of dessert that requires actual effort. It got discontinued because the chef didn’t want to deal with the hassle anymore. But, through my very reliable sources—" she wiggled her eyebrows "—I found out they still serve it. But… only for very, very special occasions."

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”

She pulled a simple ring off her finger and slid it across the table. "They only serve it on very special occasions Charles. The chef is a real romantic."

Charles stared at her, unblinking. “You’re joking.”

She shook her head, trying to look serious despite the mischief in her eyes. “Not at all. I’ve tried everything to get a taste again, but my friends refuse to participate in my schemes.”

Charles hesitated, glancing between her and the ring. “You’re telling me I have to propose to you… for tiramisu?”

She nodded solemnly. “For the greatest tiramisu known to man.”

He exhaled, rubbing his temples. “I cannot believe I am considering this.”

She gasped. “Charles. Think of the dessert.”

He groaned dramatically before picking up the ring. “Fine. But if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

Before she could react, he got down on one knee.

The restaurant quieted.

Charles took her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles as he looked up at her with nothing but warmth in his eyes. "Mon amour," he murmured, voice steady, heartfelt. "We've known each other since we were kids. You were always there—my partner in crime, my best friend. I can't imagine my life without you."

A few people around them sighed dreamily.

She felt a laugh bubble up, but Charles was fully committed, his gaze unwavering. "We've had our ups and downs, but through it all, it's always been you. And it always will be." He lifted the ring, giving her a small, knowing smile. "So what do you say, mon coeur? Marry me, and let’s spend the rest of our lives together."

The restaurant erupted in applause as she let out a shaky laugh, nodding. "Yes," she breathed, eyes locked onto his. "Yes, Charles, of course."

His grin was immediate, radiant, as he slipped the ring onto her finger. She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "You know... I think I always knew it was you. Ever since the day you carried me home after I sprained my ankle as a kid."

Charles chuckled, squeezing her hand. "You remember that?"

"Always," she said, voice warm. "And now, I guess I get to spend forever remembering this too."

The applause grew louder, a few cheers echoing through the restaurant as the chef himself emerged, grinning from ear to ear, ready to present them with their well-earned tiramisu.

As soon as they sat back down, she burst into laughter. “I cannot believe you just did that.”

He smirked. “Well, I had to commit.”

The tiramisu arrived, and the moment Charles took his first bite, he slumped back in his seat. “Merde.”

She watched, delighted. “I told you.”

Charles stretched his arms above his head as they stepped out into the cool night air, letting out a dramatic sigh. "I hate you."

She snorted, stuffing her hands into her coat pockets. "Wow. Romance is alive and thriving, I see."

"No, seriously," Charles continued, shaking his head. "That tiramisu was too good. Now every other tiramisu I eat will be a disappointment. You’ve ruined me."

She smirked. "That’s the price you pay."

Charles groaned. "I despise you."

She hummed, clearly enjoying his suffering. "Well, if it helps, they have different staff on Mondays."

He glanced at her. "And?"

She grinned. "So, if you want another piece, we could just… go again."

Charles narrowed his eyes. "How do you even know this?"

She took a deep breath, like she was trying very hard to act normal before saying something completely unhinged. "Because I have tried everything to get that tiramisu again. I have studied their staff schedules, noted which days the chef isn’t working, and even considered staging a fake engagement like 15 times, but my friends—" she threw her hands up in frustration "—are all cowards who refuse to propose to me for the sake of dessert."

Charles was already laughing before she even finished. "I cannot believe you have gone to these lengths for tiramisu."

"It’s not just tiramisu, Charles. It’s a masterpiece. A once-in-a-lifetime experience. A divine creation that mere mortals like us barely deserve. And yet, my so-called friends refuse to put their morals aside for the cause." She sighed. "Until tonight. You, sir, are a true ally."

He smirked. "Clearly. And what do allies get?"

She shrugged. "Eternal gratitude? The satisfaction of knowing you’ve done something noble?"

Charles held out his phone. "Your number."

She blinked. "What?"

He wiggled the phone slightly. "So we can go on Monday, obviously."

Her lips parted, eyes scanning his face like she was trying to find the joke. "You actually want to go again?"

Charles shrugged. "I mean… yeah. That tiramisu was worth it. And, you know… you’re fun."

She studied him for a second before snorting. "Unbelievable."

"Believe it, mon amour." He winked.

Still smiling, she took his phone and added her number before handing it back. "Fine. Monday it is."

Charles grinned. "Perfect."

As they walked side by side, their conversation spiraled into absurdity.

"Okay," she said, "how many ways do you think we could disguise ourselves to get another piece?"

"Fake mustaches?" Charles suggested. "Though that might be too suspicious."

"Agreed. What about wigs? I could totally pull off blonde."

"Mmm… questionable. We’d need a full transformation."

She snapped her fingers. "Fake accents! If we pretend to be tourists, they might not recognize us."

Charles gasped. "Genius. We’ll go in, act completely clueless���where should we be from?"

"Not Australia. You could never pull off an Aussie accent."

"Fine. Italian tourists. Very authentic."

She laughed. "You realize this is insane, right?"

Charles smirked, nudging her playfully. "And yet, you’re still planning it with me."

She groaned. "I hate that you have a point."

As their ridiculous tiramisu heist plans continued, Charles found himself thinking that maybe—just maybe—Valentine’s Day wasn’t so bad after all.

[celuere]

Loud incorrect buzzer for that anon's failed obvious rage bait! 🔊🔊

Anyways! What do you think Arle's size and shape down there? (I just know she's massive) And do you think her hair is trimmed? Shaved? Or an absolute rainforest? And do you think her hair is fully white or it also has Tufts of black and red like her hair???

Wild request but hey? I know we're all curious what's underneath there.

Yours truly, sane Arle fan

-🎐

in the light of recent events, i‘m sharing my dick headcanons on a few of my favorite hyv women and how they‘d handle you in bed <333

characters: arlecchino, mavuika, clorinde, raiden, feixiao, acheron x fem!reader

cw: size kink, manhandling, bondage,, breeding, unprotected sex, titfucking

ALSO i started working on this prior to your ask so i thought i‘d just merge it together!

arlecchino

₊˚ପ⊹ a grower. is while soft around four inches long and can actually bring a proud length of seven to eight inches when she is hard as a rock for you <333

₊˚ପ⊹ her base is a bit thinner when compared to her shaft, with a slight curve upwards. perfect to hit every important spot inside of you!

₊˚ପ⊹ the black hair surrounding her base is always neatly trimmed along with the happy trail, she takes very good care of both <3

₊˚ପ⊹ carries the same gradient as the one on her arms, with a single arrow running along the downside of her dick

₊˚ପ⊹ she loves, loves, LOVES to feel herself grow hard inside of you, having you sit down on her when she still so so soft not as nearly as big as usual, making it easy to slip inside of your greedy pussy <3

₊˚ପ⊹ i don’t think this needs an explanation but she can’t even fit halfway inside when in her other form. the tummy bulge surely drives her fucking crazy, but a voice in the back of her mind would still be screaming at her to be gentle with you.

₊˚ପ⊹ but plead hard enough and she‘ll make sure to use your stretched out pussy as her own personal fleshlight.

₊˚ପ⊹ has a thing for watching her cum ooze out of your spent hole, she‘d often catch it with her fingers to stuff it back inside. wouldn‘t want to waste anything, right?

mavuika

₊˚ପ⊹ smaller than arle but a thick girl. she can never slip inside completely in one go, let alone without foreplay. 

₊˚ପ⊹ a shower actually! her size doesn’t change a lot once hard, there also isn’t a noticeable curve in her shaft

₊˚ପ⊹ by the time she is done with preparing you with her fingers you‘re already a fucked out mess, your clit puffy and aching from how good she fingerfucked you

₊˚ପ⊹ a messy but clean rainforest!

₊˚ପ⊹ she has nightsoul tattoos running up her shaft. do i need to say more????

₊˚ପ⊹ her favorite position has got to be cowgirl, watching you carefully trying to sit down on her cock as you do your best to fit her in, tip already dripping with precum from watching her wife struggle on her dick <333

₊˚ପ⊹ the way she has to hold herself back when you take her into your mouth to restrain from facefucking you. her cock is just a bit too thick for your throat to take, she really don’t wants to hurt you :((((

₊˚ପ⊹ has INSANE stamina and i mean that with all my heart. riding her equals a gym workout.

₊˚ପ⊹ intentionally breeds you. (consensually ofc) just the THOUGHT about getting you pregnant and starting a family with you OH her clothes are GONE.

clorinde

₊˚ପ⊹ lengthy shower! more slim but what she lacks in thickness… eight inches definitely make up for it.

₊˚ପ⊹ has a really nice curve and is actually soso easy to get hard. the bare sight of you sitting naked in her lap or just a messy make out session get‘s her THROBBING.

₊˚ପ⊹ keeps her bush always shaved clean sadly💔 but happy trail is still up tho!

₊˚ପ⊹ tie her up and ride her for all she‘s worth. really. just do it. save a horse, ride a champion duelist.

₊˚ପ⊹ do with her as you please. that woman has literally no backbone when it comes to you.

₊˚ପ⊹ she‘d let you grind on her abs. yes. grind. right on her sixpack. cock dripping with precum as her hands are fixed above her head while she is forced to watch you drench her skin as you drag your pussy over the surface of her muscles UGHHHH

₊˚ପ⊹ i don’t think she‘d be much into breeding, mostly avoiding coming inside and rather wants to dump her load on your cunt instead. or tits. or face. or ass. anywhere.

raiden ei

₊˚ପ⊹ this one was a bit tricky because of her puppet body, but… she is customizable. short, thick, slim, long, curved, not curved, whatever you desire.

₊˚ପ⊹ if you want her to have a happy trail, she‘d upgrade the puppet with great pleasure. same thing with the option to dump her cum into you.

₊˚ପ⊹ oh my, she loves seeing you full of her cum. breeding aspect aside. watching the sticky fluid slowly drip out of you after pumping you full of her…. let her go for another round.

₊˚ପ⊹ yes, she‘d give you a replica of her dick. with the same customizable parts.

₊˚ପ⊹ loves to fuck your tits SO MUCH. no matter how big or small, you‘ll make it work. and her semen spread all over your pretty face<33

₊˚ପ⊹ oh wow mindgames in her plane of euthymia. she‘d totally not go all out there. TOTALLY NOT.

₊˚ପ⊹ tagteaming against you with miko WOW WHO SAID THAT???????

feixiao

₊˚ପ⊹ how do i put it…. a beast. that‘s what she is.

₊˚ପ⊹ length. thickness. she’s got it all. eight inches, ladies and gentlemen. and she‘ll make sure to fit it all the way inside.

₊˚ପ⊹ not curved but who gaf about that when she still manages to hit all your spots almost effortlessly

₊˚ପ⊹ RAINFOREST DICK. that bush is well cared for but she only ever trims it if gets a bit too long for her liking ngh

₊˚ପ⊹ will take extra care of the trail of hair up to her belly button if she sees you have a certain liking towards it

₊˚ପ⊹ pray for your pussy tho once this woman gets in heat. stamina is a foreign word to her. she will be mounting you like a starved wolf

₊˚ପ⊹ but she does come relatively easy on the other sides my, can you even keep all of her inside?

₊˚ପ⊹ just puts you into whatever position she pleases. literally anything. one moment your getting your ass fucked before you suddenly find yourself in a mating press with her tip bruising your cervix!

₊˚ପ⊹ tummy bulges and feixiao go hand in hand. she sometimes slides herself inside extra slowly to watch it appear <3

₊˚ପ⊹ unlike clorinde, she’d have you ride her abs in order to earn her dick. you may only let yourself down on her boner once her skin is covered in your slick 

acheron

₊˚ପ⊹ feixiaos cockbuddy. only difference is that acheron is a grower! you‘re laughing until she grows to her full size. then it ain’t funny anymore.

₊˚ପ⊹ mmmmmh due to her roaming through the cosmos all the time, i don’t think she‘d put much care into he purple-white bush, other than cleaning it occasionally. 

₊˚ପ⊹ so perfectly curved it has your eyes rolling into the back of your head at the first thrust. she doesn’t have to do anything other than just fuck inside of you.

₊˚ପ⊹ not a fan of condoms but also isn’t too hot on getting you pregnant so she prefers to cum outside, but the sight of her stuffed pussy isn’t something she‘d mind if it does happen somehow

₊˚ପ⊹ her dick grows the same red flower surface once she unsheathes her katana btw.

₊˚ପ⊹ would fuck you in the most banal places, most of them where you two could easily be caught by passerby’s, but she don’t got the time to worry about such stuff.

₊˚ପ⊹ that happy trail would be going crazy tho. like absolutely fucking lickable.

₊˚ପ⊹ big fan of throat fucking you. your gagging, those teary eyes, smeared makeup, drool-cum covered chin, my fucking god she‘d do anything to forever be buried inside your throat.

[saebyeokbliss]

JUST MEET ME AT THE APT.— K. SAE-BYEOK

CHAPTER ONE

synopsis: managing a rising rock band is already chaotic enough, but when you're stuck touring with four reckless musicians, things get even messier. between late-night facetime calls, teasing that feels a little too knowing, and a certain guitarist who might just be your biggest problem, keeping things professional is getting harder by the second. but hey, no one said the music industry was easy.

warnings: mutual pining, intense eye contact, teasing that borders on flirting (or maybe it is flirting), friends who refuse to mind their business, late-night facetime calls, secondhand embarrassment, slow burn that burns, emotional whiplash

playlist: spotify

“Okay, let’s go over this one more time—”

A chorus of groans erupted around you, loud and exaggerated. Se-Mi flopped dramatically onto the couch, Ji-Yeong threw her head back like you had just sentenced her to death, and No-Eul simply sighed as she scrolled through her phone.

“I mean it,” you said, crossing your arms as you stood in the middle of the hotel suite. “This is a BuzzFeed interview. They’re going to ask easy, fun questions, but you guys still need to sound like you have at least half a brain between the four of you.”

Sae-Byeok, sitting on the arm of the couch, smirked. “That’s a lot to ask.”

You shot her a look, and she just raised her hands in surrender.

“This is why you’re our manager and not our PR rep,” Ji-Yeong said, grinning. “You actually care if we sound stupid.”

“Yes, and I’d like to keep my job,” you shot back. “So please, for the love of everything holy, just try not to say anything that’ll get us trending for the wrong reasons.”

Se-Mi, still sprawled on the couch, waved a hand lazily. “Relax, sweetheart. We’ll be fine. It’s just BuzzFeed.”

“Yeah,” Ji-Yeong chimed in, “worst case scenario, we end up in some ‘Dumbest Celebrity Interview Moments’ compilation on YouTube. Free promo.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “I hate all of you.”

No-Eul, ever the voice of reason, finally spoke up. “They’ll behave,” she said, barely looking up from her phone. “Mostly.”

“That’s not reassuring,” you muttered.

Sae-Byeok, watching you with an amused expression, nudged your side with her foot. “You worry too much.”

“Because one of us has to,” you shot back.

She smirked. “And that’s why you’re our favorite.”

Before you could process that (did Sae-Byeok just call you their favorite?), a knock on the door interrupted the conversation. Their stylist popped her head in, clipboard in hand.

“Alright, you guys,” she said. “Time to get dressed. Interview’s in an hour.”

Se-Mi groaned as she sat up. “Ugh, do we have to?”

“Yes,” you, No-Eul, and the stylist all said at the same time.

Ji-Yeong snickered. “Alright, alright, let’s go.”

As they shuffled off to get ready, Sae-Byeok lingered for a second, watching you.

“You’re really stressed about this, huh?” she asked, tilting her head.

You exhaled. “I just want this to go well. You guys are blowing up, and interviews like this can really shape how people see you.”

She was quiet for a moment, then—

“…We’ll be fine.”

You looked up at her.

There was something steady in the way she said it, something that made you believe her.

You sighed, shaking your head. “You better be.”

She smirked and, with that, disappeared into the dressing room.

And you? You just prayed they wouldn’t give you a heart attack on live camera.

You stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching as the girls got settled in the bright, modern-looking BuzzFeed studio. Cameras were being adjusted, mic packs were clipped onto their outfits, and a giant board with pre-written search questions was placed in front of them.

Ji-Yeong, of course, was already messing with it. “Ooooh, the mystery,” she teased, wiggling her fingers dramatically over the top of the board.

Se-Mi grinned, leaning forward. “I love these types of interviews. People Google the weirdest shit.”

No-Eul sighed, adjusting her mic. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Sae-Byeok, as usual, looked completely unbothered, sitting back in her chair with her arms crossed, waiting for things to start.

The interviewer, a cheerful BuzzFeed staff member, smiled at them from across the table. “Alright! Welcome, HOT DIVISION!”

A chorus of greetings followed, with Ji-Yeong and Se-Mi being the loudest while No-Eul and Sae-Byeok gave more subdued nods.

“We’re going to be doing the ‘Most Searched Questions’,” the interviewer explained, patting the board. “Each of these has a commonly searched question about you guys, and you’ll take turns peeling them off and answering.”

Ji-Yeong rubbed her hands together. “Let’s go.”

You prayed they wouldn’t say anything that would give your PR team a migraine.

Ji-Yeong, naturally, was the first to go. She dramatically peeled off the first strip of paper, reading it aloud.

“‘Is Kim Ji-Yeong… actually as chaotic as people say?’”

She gasped, clutching her chest. “I am offended by this question.”

Se-Mi snorted. “You shouldn’t be. It’s true.”

Ji-Yeong turned to the camera, dead serious. “I am a delight to be around.”

No-Eul, without looking up, muttered, “That’s a lie.”

Sae-Byeok just smirked, shaking her head.

Ji-Yeong sighed dramatically. “Fine. Yes. I am chaotic. But would you all love me if I wasn’t?”

Se-Mi threw an arm around her. “Exactly. Chaos is in our brand.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose from the sidelines.

Sae-Byeok lazily reached forward, peeling off the next strip. She read it, then raised an eyebrow.

“‘Is Kang Sae-Byeok single?’”

Ji-Yeong and Se-Mi exploded into laughter.

“OH, THIS IS GOOD,” Se-Mi cackled, slapping the table.

Sae-Byeok just sighed, giving the camera a blank look. “Yes.”

Ji-Yeong leaned forward, wiggling her eyebrows. “And are you—”

“No.”

Se-Mi pouted. “You didn’t even let her finish.”

Sae-Byeok shrugged. “Didn’t need to.”

You watched from the sidelines, carefully keeping your expression neutral. (Not that you were thinking about it. Not at all.)

No-Eul peeled her question off, scanning it briefly before exhaling.

“‘Is Kang No-Eul the mom of the group?’”

The response was immediate.

“Yes,” Se-Mi said.

“Absolutely,” Ji-Yeong added.

“The only responsible one,” Sae-Byeok confirmed.

No-Eul, unimpressed, just stared at them. “I hate all of you.”

Ji-Yeong grinned. “See? Mom behavior.”

Fourth Question: "Is Han Se-Mi…?"

Se-Mi eagerly peeled off her question, reading it with interest.

“‘Is Han Se-Mi the flirtiest member?’”

You already knew what was coming.

Se-Mi gasped dramatically, placing a hand over her heart. “Me? A flirt? How dare you.”

Sae-Byeok rolled her eyes. “You literally flirt with the camera.”

Ji-Yeong nodded sagely. “She flirts with air molecules.”

Se-Mi turned to the camera, giving a slow, knowing smirk. “I just like to make people feel special.”

From the side, you muttered under your breath, “Menace.”

Se-Mi heard you and shot a wink in your direction.

Ji-Yeong peeled off the last question, reading it aloud.

“‘Is HOT DIVISION the next big thing in rock?’”

The girls exchanged glances.

Then, Sae-Byeok leaned forward slightly, looking straight into the camera.

“Yes.”

No hesitation. No doubt. Just raw confidence.

Ji-Yeong smirked. “Damn right we are.”

Se-Mi grinned. “Hope you’re all ready.”

No-Eul nodded. “Because we’re not slowing down.”

From the sidelines, you felt something warm bloom in your chest.

They had come a long way. And they were just getting started.

taglist: @everly-summers-solace @knfthxv @madebysae @knfthxv @katieschry1 @imlackingsleep @lyzem @stellssxo @wiltingconquest @peelover25

[cloudcountry]

SUMMARY: random word prompts with jin, tohma, luca, kaito, alan, sho, and leo!

COMMENT: i made tohma a magician lol. ALAN GOT ANGST IM SORRY

tagging @amaribelt for luca!!

Jin - Option

“Which one do you want?”

You stare, dumbfounded, at the mass of formal wear on the rack in your room, all different colors and shapes and sizes. Jin stands in the midst of it all, arms crossed over his chest and an expectant eyebrow raised.

“You...for me?” you point at him and then back at yourself lamely, mouth hanging open.

“Just pick one.” he says, gentle despite the ice in his tone, “I want to know what you’ll be wearing tonight so I can match.”

Oh. Right, the dance tonight. You’d almost forgotten with all of your inspector work.

“Thank you.” you murmur, hesitantly reaching out to touch them.

“It’s no problem.” he says.

Tohma - Lily

Hand in hand, you twirl.

The blue fabric of your outfit brushes against Tohma, and for once he isn’t bothering to keep his distance. His hand burns where it touches your waist, his eyes glinting even behind the monocle. You can tell he’s keeping track of your state, catching you when you slip and leading you when you stumble.

Formal dances have never been your scene, but you’ve always been willing to try for him.

When the music stops and the couples disperse, Tohma stands by your side, leading you to the refreshments table and grabbing you some water.

“You dance beautifully,” he says.

“You were a wonderful lead.” you compliment him back before gulping down the water.

His eyes crinkle in the corners when he smiles, and you find yourself smiling back.

“One last thing.” he whispers, leaning in closer.

Your breath catches in your throat as his hand reaches past your ear—

And he produces a flower.

A pristine white lily, no less.

New beginnings.

You can’t help but wonder what new beginning he sees in you.

Luca - Horizon

The breeze is soft against your face as your baby hairs tickle your cheeks. The birdsong fades as the sun creeps lower behind the horizon, oranges and yellows and pinks dying in the sky. You turn to Luca and become warm when you meet his gaze, his hand over yours.

“Did you have fun today?” he asks.

He sounds so soft, like he’s telling you a secret. He almost sounds scared you’ll say no.

“Luca.” you lean over, placing your other hand overtop of his and squeezing, “I had the best time.”

He ducks his head but fails to hide his smile, boyish and tender and so him. It sets your heart ablaze and you scoot closer and closer until your thighs are touching. Your head hits his shoulder and he rests his head against you in return, almost thankful.

Reverent.

Kaito - Rational

“Kaito!” you huff, grabbing his forearms, “How dense are you?”

He stops yelling at Luca immediately, mouth hanging open at your forceful touch. His cheeks are bright pink and he’s stunned.

“Luca is not putting the moves on me! If anyone has been putting moves on anyone it's been me trying to get you to notice how into you I am!” you scold.

As you shake him violently, Luca politely excuses himself, making his way towards the stacks to give the two of you some privacy.

“Wait! Hold on, what did you say!?” Kaito shrieks, voice cracking at his shock, “You’re into me!?”

“Yes!” you sigh heavily, glaring up at him, “How dense are you?”

His lip flap some more before he can squeeze another sentence out.

“Are...are you sure? Am I dreaming!?” he fumbles for his uniform jacket, yanking the sleeve up his forearm and pinching himself violently.

“Kaito! Be gentle with yourself.” you swat his hand away.

“Oh, it’s fine, don’t worry about me, I’m sorry—Eeek!?”

You kiss where he pinched himself, and Kaito just about falls to his knees.

Oops.

Alan - Notebook

Alan doesn’t mean to scare you. It’s the last thing he wants, really.

Which is why he apologizes profusely when he manages to creep up behind you as you scribble sentence after sentence in that notebook of yours, his eyes snagging the last few words and oh they send his heart racing.

I think I’m in love with him.

He feels lighter than he has in years, but he squashes the feeling. He greets you gruffly and sits beside you, not missing the sigh of relief you let out. You cram your notebook back into your bag and he presses his lips together.

“Hey Alan!” you laugh nervously, using your elbow as support as you slump against the table, “What brings you here?”

You bring him here. Is that not obvious?

“I need to study. It’s quiet here.” he says instead.

He hopes he’s the one you’re in love with.

Sho - Infection

Sho has never looked more unimpressed with you.

You shrink away from his gaze, a tissue bundled up against your nose. You side eye him hard as you blow your nose, directing all of your animosity at him and hoping he doesn’t notice your shame.

“You don’t have to look at me like that.” he snorts.

You glare harder. He sighs.

“I’m sorry for laughing at you. Will you forgive me if I make you some soup?” he kneels by your side, placing a hand on your shoulder.

You sniffle and nod.

Sho laughs again, this time softer.

“Okay. Wait here for me, alright?” he says.

“I’m not going anywhere like this anyway...” you gripe.

Leo - Month

“Huh? Do I know what day it is?” Leo parrots your question back lamely, eyes glued to his phone.

“Yeah...? It’s sort of important.” you huff.

He hums, scrolling through various short form videos. You lean over his shoulder to recapture his attention, but he hides his phone all too quick.

That makes you suspicious.

“What are you hiding?” you tease, bumping your body against his.

He sputters and whacks you back, glaring at you.

“Can you not act like a brute for two seconds?” he hisses, “I didn’t plan this fucking party for your birthday just to get this treatment.”

You freeze. Leo keeps walking. He grumbles something under his breath and starts scrolling on his phone again.

You have to speed walk to catch back up with him.

“You planned a birthday party for me?” you ask, not quite believing what you heard.

“Of course I did.” he rolls his eyes, “I’m not stupid enough to forget something like that.”

[pursued-by-the-squid]

viii. check your footing

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

word count: 13.9k

ao3 | masterlist

That could have been you. It should have been you. You glance over up Gi-hun as he shuffles inside the player room just ahead, his head and shoulders hanging unbearably low. You almost wish it had been you.

Fuck, that’s a lie, no you don’t. You’re so relieved to be alive that it clouds your vision and chokes your lungs. You want to drop onto your knees and praise the universe for allowing you to live. But then you remember how desperate you’d been to save Jun-hee’s life and the life of her child, the way you’d looked up at Gi-hun and told him without words that you were terrified to leave him because it might mean you’d die alone, without him. Jung-bae only left because of you.

You killed him. It’s your fault he’s dead.

You can’t help feeling like you’ve killed Gi-hun too. The man you see now is unlike anyone you’ve ever known before. Despair clings to him like a second skin. Every time you think he’s finally stopped crying, his shoulders ripple and he doubles over with another sob. He is shattered beyond belief and you don’t blame him for that, you never could, but you still feel like every gut-wrenching gasp and every tear is only there because you were selfish enough to put your life and the life of a stranger before Jung-bae’s.

No one speaks. What can they say? Any apologies or sympathies for Gi-hun’s sorrow will only come out hollow, a nicety without any real value because none of you knew Jung-bae like he does. Did. Because he’s dead. Oh God.

Young-il takes a seat immediately next to you, his leg pressed against yours with a shock of warmth. You can feel how heavy his gaze is without even looking at him, can feel him studying you and you don’t even know why. You don’t have the heart to ask.

Several long minutes go by. “Why don’t you go to him?” he murmurs.

A quick glance in Gi-hun’s direction tells you exactly why you shouldn’t. He’s huddled up against the nearest stable surface with a hand over his eyes as he cries, his body curling in on itself until he looks more like a child than the man you know. It’s heartbreaking. And it’s your fault.

Because I killed him, you think. Because it should’ve been me. Why would he want to even speak to me after what I’ve done?

You shake your head. “I don’t think it would help.”

“Don’t you?” Young-il rests a hand on your knee. “You’re his friend, [___]. Maybe he needs you.”

Guilt streaks across your soul and you wrench your leg away from him with a grimace. “I’m the reason he’s dead,” you growl, your voice rasping as you drop it as low it will go. “I-I can’t–.”

Sorrow wells up inside you until you’re choking on it. You were too shocked to cry before, too busy trying to keep Gi-hun from dragging the entire team across the arena or getting a gun to the head for disobeying orders to worry about crying. But now with the freedom of space and time, your guilt is bubbling over and threatening to spill down your cheeks.

There’s a beat of silence where you’re struggling to maintain your composure and Young-il just… sits there. His hand hovers uncertainly between you. Maybe he’s realizing you’re right, that you are the reason for Jung-bae’s death. Maybe he’s regretting now the choice to ever befriend you, just like you’re sure that Gi-hun is.

And then, finally, he’s wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into a side embrace. “It wasn’t your fault,” he hums.

“It was.”

“It wasn’t.” He squeezes his arm a little tighter. “Jung-bae-ssi made his choice. He chose to find another team and… his team lost. It’s unfortunate, yes, but it isn’t your fault.”

You suppose that’s his way of trying to comfort you – find the logic in the situation and accept it – but it doesn’t work for you like it does for him. Because you can still see the shape of Jung-bae’s body on the floor. You can still see his blood. You can still hear Gi-hun screaming in the back of your mind.

You sniffle lightly into your hands. “Then why do I feel like it is?”

He’ll tell you something poetic and charming, you think, about how you’re a kind soul who cares too deeply. That’s what anyone else would say were they in his shoes. Whether he genuinely believes that or not, though, you have no real idea because Young-il decides instead to curve his hand over the shell of your ear, brushing some of your hair away from your face.

“Give Gi-hun-ssi the space to mourn, hm?” You’re so stunned by the gentle lilt of his voice and the vulnerability of the gesture that you can hardly breathe. “He’ll come to you when he’s ready.”

His tenderness leaves you fluttering amid the swirling maelstrom of your emotions. It feels so out of place, so inherently wrong, to accept a kind word and gentle touch after all the death you’ve witnessed. Where was Jung-bae’s tenderness? Where was the mercy he deserved and what makes you worthy enough to live in his place?

You aren’t even afforded the chance to antagonize yourself on the matter further because the doors at the front of the room suddenly open, revealing several of the pink soldiers. 255 of the original 457 players remain, as reflected on the scoreboard above. More money is added to the pig’s belly – 20.1 billion won now and nearly 79 million won per person. The amount is staggering in your mind, even after years of receiving Gi-hun’s financial boons.

Yet so many players are unhappy with these results. It’s too little bloodshed, they complain, and not enough money. How are they meant to pay off their debts with such a small amount? How are they meant to survive in the cold, cruel world outside these games with only 79 million won?

Standing tall and unwavering beneath the scoreboard, Square Mask surveys the room. Cold and detached. “I completely understand your disappointment,” he says cooly. You wonder if he feels anything under that mask, if he feels any sympathy for the people he’s helped to slaughter or if he’s truly as soulless as he appears. “However, we always keep the door open for you to pursue new opportunities. You will now take a vote to decide whether to continue the games or not.”

Chatter starts among the players as they lean in and whisper to one another. You can see the greed in their eyes.

“Whether to continue the games for a bigger prize or to stop here is entirely your choice. Please feel free to exercise your right to choose in a democratic manner.”

Gi-hun is still shaking. His sobs have quieted until they’re nothing more than sharp inhalations, quickening and slowing unpredictably. It breaks your heart all over again. How can they force him to endure another tedious round of voting when he hasn’t even had the chance to recover from the shock of Jung-bae’s death? A single look is all it takes to tell you that the man can hardly stand on his own feet.

“Ah, Y-Young-il-ssi?” The sound of Dae-ho’s voice draws you from your thoughts. He’s approached the stair that you and Young-il are both perched upon, with his hands drawn together over his stomach as he fidgets. He nods his head politely. “Are you going to vote O again, sir?”

What remains of your little team – just you and Jun-hee now that Jung-bae is… – shifts its attention to Young-il, each of you curious to see his response. He’d said it was his business that was in trouble. Is he as desperate as the rest of these players? Is he willing to stay for another game even now?

He presses a hand flat over his breast where the blue O patch sits and he grimaces. “Don’t worry,” he sighs, “I want to stop here.”

And it’s such a relief to hear. If he were to choose to vote O again, the betrayal would be too much for you to bear. “We’re all agreed, then?” You glance between the four of you without drawing any further attention to Gi-hun. You think that Young-il might be right, space may be exactly what he needs right now.

Jun-hee nods with a hand rubbing over the swell of her belly. Dae-ho looks from her to you, his expression sweet but tinted with grief. And finally Young-il, his mouth drawn tight as he watches you.

“For Jung-bae, then?”

Dae-ho sticks out his hand, palm down. “For Jung-bae,” he agrees. Your hand claps softly atop Dae-ho’s, followed immediately by Jun-hee and a slightly hesitant Young-il. “Victory at all costs,” he murmurs, and it’s far from the battle cry it had once been on the rainbow track.

Victory. You’re not sure if that’s even possible anymore, but you have to try. For Jung-bae and Gi-hun, you must.

Last time, the vote had been considerably close. Young-il had been the one to tip the scales, but there had still been a decent chance of you and Gi-hun returning home. This time, there is no such chance. With so many players distraught over the low amount of money they’ll receive, a lot of them are opting to vote O. Vote after vote rolls in and the number for the O’s ticks higher and higher.

You keep expecting Gi-hun to do something, say something. He’d been so full of fire just yesterday. He had pleaded and shouted and explained until a soldier was forced to ram their gun into the back of his head just to shut him up. But there is no such fire tonight. You look into his eyes and find that nothing looks back. Even after his tears have dried, Gi-hun’s eyes are glassy and distant.

If he won’t speak up, then who will?

You catch Young-il’s gaze from across the room. Being the first to cast his vote has placed him in the very center of the allotted X space, which feels an entire galaxy away from you right now. You want desperately for someone to lean on, someone to make you feel safe amid the unknown and the chaos and the death, and putting that burden onto Gi-hun is simply inconceivable.

Have hope, you imagine him saying, though really you can’t be sure if that’s what he’s thinking or not. Maybe he’s laughing at you and your desperation for hope. Maybe he’s already accepted his fate, as Gi-hun seems to.

You don’t want to accept it, though. You’re not ready for another game, another opportunity to lose Gi-hun or your own life or even Young-il. And what of Dae-ho and Jun-hee? Hyun-ju? The sweet mother and her son? What will happen to all of them if another game is played and the odds aren’t in their favor? How many Jung-bae’s can you stomach before you lose yourself to the horror of it all?

“Gi-hun?” You take the seat beside him, careful to leave enough room between your bodies in case he feels overwhelmed by your presence. But you have to try. “Gi-hun, shouldn’t we do something?”

The next player is called up, Player 100, and you glance away from Gi-hun only long enough to cast a scowl in 100’s direction. He can’t see it, of course, but it’s the principal of the thing. The O vote ticks up by one.

Gi-hun is uncharacteristically silent. He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t move. You’re not even sure if he’s breathing, actually. He just sits there like a corpse that’s been arranged to look slightly alive. An ancient memory of the ddakji businessman sprawled out on Gi-hun’s chair, the very chair you’d sat in a hundred times until that night, comes to mind and you try not to hurl.

You place a hand on his arm, if only to prove to yourself that he’s still alive. “Gi-hun, I… I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you had to-.” There’s a lump in your throat that won’t go down and it keeps choking you every time you speak more than a few words. “Please. We have to do something. I don’t want anyone else to die here.” I don’t want you to die. I don’t want to lose you.

There’s a moment where you think he might be moved to act because he blinks, and his eyes settle on you, and you think you see a moment of clarity peering out from behind the mist of his agony. But it’s only a passing thing.

“Player 120.”

Hyun-ju. You find yourself peering over the heads of other players to watch her cast her vote, hoping that someone as kind as her might finally be moved to act sensibly. She lingers before the podium, like so many before her, before finally voting 0 and you wonder what it is specifically that gives her pause. What is she facing in the real world that makes her think she has to endanger her life and yours just to survive?

It’s the money, you realize. Everyone here needs money but they’re so adamant that 79 million won each isn’t enough to live with. But what if… what if there was a way to add more money to the pot without anyone dying?

Player 124 is called forth – Thanos’ accomplice from last night’s fight. He has no qualms about voting to stay, which you suppose shouldn’t surprise you, but it’s what he does after the vote that does. He lingers near the podium and watches as Player 125 approaches. Player 125 who, if you’d seen correctly, bears an X patch. Player 125 who hesitates over his choices, who turns to see 124 staring at him through mock-binoculars. Player 125 who votes O with shaking hands and a shameful expression.

People are being coerced, whether they need the money or not, because the desperate players are just that desperate. So what if you eliminated that need? What if you contributed more money to the pot and convinced even a single player that voting O isn’t necessary to be saved?

Once last glance at Gi-hun’s sunken, tear-stained cheeks is enough to give you the courage you need. You stand so quickly that it nearly throws you off balance. As you push your way through the crowd, you try not to think of all those eyes – hundreds and hundreds of them – staring you down, judging you, praying for your downfall so that they might prosper. You try to think only of Jung-bae and the already festering wound his death has left behind.

Your feet have hardly touched the bottom step when Young-il suddenly bursts from the crowd of X voters with a shout. “Are you all out of your minds?” The red and blue lights cast him in a soft violet hue, entirely at odds with the incredulous despair that ravages his voice. “You still want to keep going after watching all those people die? Who's to say you won't die in the next game?”

For a long, long moment, you simply watch him. You’re almost transfixed. There’s something about him that’s catching you off-guard, something a little too similar to Gi-hun and still so entirely Young-il that gives you pause. Was Jung-bae’s death really enough to move him this deeply? To change his entire mindset?

He gestures angrily to the undecided voters you stand among. “We have to stop. We'll all die if we keep going! Come to your senses and leave with that money. You've got to survive first, or there won't be a next step.”

Player 100 breaks from his group and your immediate reaction is to gag because you hate him. You hate the way he spoke to Gi-hun before the game. You hate the way he holds all life in contempt except his own. You hate his pompous attitude and his stupid hair, and you hate the way that he looks at Young-il like he’s not even worth the air he breathes. “What do you think we can do with a mere 79 million?” he questions. “I don't know how much you owe, but for most people here that doesn't even cover 10% of their debt. Am I right?”

It's the overwhelming cry of agreement that has you finally daring to be bold, to raise your voice above the cacophony. For Gi-hun. For Jung-bae! “What if you had more than 79 million?” And this time, you’re sure most or all 255 sets of eyes are focused on you and only you. Player 100 and Young-il both look at you as if you’ve grown a second head. “Gi-hun and I… Player 456, I mean. Neither of us needs the money. We’d both be willing to forfeit our share and contribute it to the total if the rest of the players all vote X.”

Both his worth and yours would total to 200 million won. You’re not sure how much that would add to each player’s take home amount, but it has to be worth something, doesn’t it?

More players stop and look at you, while others start whispering to their neighbors. More and more eyes swivel and land on you, pinning you in place until you start to feel like a bug caught beneath a microscope. They’re pulling your legs off one by one, trying to see what interesting things you’ll do when the pain becomes too much.

Young-il is on you in an instant, grabbing you by the arm and yanking you to him so no one else can hear. “What are you doing?” he whispers, though there’s nothing soft about it. He’s all harsh lines and rippling confusion.

Isn’t it obvious? “I’m trying to save people.”

But before he can question you further, 100 interjects, drawing the focus back to him as he continues spouting greedy, inhumane nonsense. “Your money isn’t enough,” he sneers. “I have 10 billion in debt! What can you give me to take care of it, huh?”

Young-il’s teeth glisten in the violet-red light. “Step back,” he utters, his hand still tightly squeezed around your bicep.

“Young-il-nim.” You press a hand to his chest to calm him. Because you need to do this, you need to try. If Gi-hun can’t fight anymore, then who else will stand up for him? “It’s alright.”

“[___]–”

“I don’t have 10 billion won just lying around to give you, sir,” you explain to 100. He stands nearby with his chest puffed out and his mouth wrinkled into a frown, thoroughly unimpressed. “But I do have 2 billion won that I would be willing to share with everyone here. If the rest of us all vote X.”

“If you have so much money, then what are you here for? Are you a spy sent from the people who run this place, huh? Like your friend?”

Rage the likes you’ve never known before floods your system. How dare he drag Gi-hun into this after the way he treated him today. “It doesn’t matter why I have that money; it’s mine to do with as I please.”

A slightly younger player hanging just behind 100 smirks, though you can’t see his number clearly. “Trying to help your boyfriend?” he snorts, and several of his assorted cronies snicker in tandem.

“I’m trying to save innocent lives, but I wouldn’t expect a sick motherfucker like you to understand the concept.” And before 100 or his friend can retort further or press you for more answers you aren’t able to give, you turn your attention to the undecided players. Young-il’s hand falls away almost without notice. “I’m willing to forfeit all the money I’m worth in these games, plus my two billion, if all of you will vote X.”

The players devolve into scattered murmurs that ripple through the crowd, “two billion?” and “that’s at least seven million more a person” being the loudest and most distinct among them. Already you can tell that the shift in numbers has started to convince a few people. For players like 100, you know it won’t be enough, but you hope that for others it will be the push that they need to vote appropriately. No more people should have to die, not for something as soulless and brutal as cold, hard cash.

“Player 457.” Square Mask is staring at you from behind the podium. While several other players, including 100, have already taken to arguing in favor of an O vote, you can suddenly feel the weight of hidden eyes settling on your skin. “You are disrupting the democratic process of this vote.”

“Me?!” What about the others? What about Young-il and 100?

You’re already starting to gesture to the other players when you spot one of the guards at the far end of the room lift his gun. The pink suit and black mask cut easily through the crowd, quieting all dissenting voices until there is only silence, the sound of your labored, frantic breathing, and your feet slapping on the floor as you pinwheel backward.

“As was established during the previous vote, interruptions in each player’s right to express themselves democratically will not be tolerated.” You find yourself stumbling over other people’s feet and slamming into unknown bodies in your desperation to back away before the soldier can advance any further. “All requests to forfeit the Games will result in instant disqualification.”

So, death. They’re gonna shoot you because you tried to forfeit. Why the fuck didn’t you think of that before you went and opened your big mouth?

“I take it back, I take it back!” You squeeze your eyes shut, preparing for a bullet that never comes.

The gun never fires, but even if it had, it would’ve had to go through both Young-il and Gi-hun to reach you. Young-il, you realize after several moments of terrifying silence, has stepped into the guard’s path. And Gi-hun… You’d thought he was still barricading himself in the far corner, drowning in his sorrows, but he isn’t. He’s here, standing as tall as his weary body can withstand as he shoulders his way directly in front of you.

He doesn’t move. The voting continues, albeit dotted with various attempted chants to play one more game, but Gi-hun remains steadfast. His shoulders quiver, but he stays. Players shove into you as they pass or they grant you a scowl when their number is called, yet Gi-hun is there, unfaltering and strong even in the rising defeat that marks itself on the scoreboard.

Your vote and his don’t even matter by the end. The O team is at least 20 votes ahead of you. You lost, and it feels like Jung-bae’s dying all over again.

You should’ve done more. There should have been some other way to change minds and win people over to your side, but you’d seen the barrel of the pink soldier’s gun and had cowered behind the first solid thing you could shield yourself with. You’d let them beat you down. It’s just that being brave is so much easier when you’re not staring down the very weapon that could end your life. Being brave is a bolder inclination when the moment has passed and all that’s left to do is torture yourself over what-if’s.

“That was very foolish of you.”

You and Gi-hun turn in tandem toward Young-il’s voice. The disappointment you hear creeping into the edges of his condemnation feels like a slap in the face. “I was trying to do the right thing,” you explain, though you can’t bring yourself to look him in the eyes when you do.

“And instead, you’ve put a target on your back.”

That hadn’t been your intention. It hadn’t even been a possibility in your mind. “I’m sorry, I… I was just trying to do what I thought Gi-hun would do.” And why does it feel like such an embarrassing thing to admit? “That’s why he’s here. To save people, so I thought–”

There’s a muscle along the bottom ridge of Young-il’s jaw that clenches before he speaks. “Gi-hun-ssi has played these Games before, [___]. You haven’t. And you very nearly got yourself shot because of it.”

Is that why he’s so upset? Because he’d felt the need to step in the path of a potential bullet in the hopes of protecting you? Because he’d risked his life for yours and he wishes now that he hadn’t?

Perhaps Young-il has a touch of telepathy about him, or perhaps you’re the most emotionally transparent person on the planet, but either way, Young-il seems to realize that you’re confused and wounded by his sudden flash of frustration. He seems to wrestle with himself for a bit before finally relenting, allowing his restraint to drift away with a heavy exhalation before he finally decides to approach you.

“What you did was admirable,” he admits, and he takes one of your hands as he does. “Foolish, yes, but admirable, and I don’t fault you for it. But it was also reckless.”

On that, you suppose you can agree. “I know.”

Young-il sighs again, lighter this time, but his body is still tense. “You aren’t a hero, [___]. That isn’t what you need to be.”

Gi-hun still lingers somewhere behind you, frozen in the same place he’d stood when you had cast your vote. Does he feel the same, you wonder, or does he wish you’d made a more decisive stand? Do your actions, however reckless and foolish they might have been, make up for Jung-bae’s death, or were they pointless from the start?

He lowers his voice suddenly and when you blink, Young-il is leaning in so his forehead nearly brushes against yours. “We have a Seong Gi-hun already,” he breathes, and is it your imagination, or does this feel more intimate than every moment shared with him over the past few years? “We don’t need another.”

Dinner has long since ended by the time Dae-ho and Young-il decide to depart for a bathroom break. You’re not comfortable leaving Gi-hun on his own and Jun-hee seems more inclined to curl up in her bed for a bit, rather than sit and stew in the awkward silence that Gi-hun carries with him, so it’s just the two of you now. It’s both familiar and foreign.

Mealtimes have always been special for you, at least when it comes to him. All those corner store stops, all the ramyeon cups stacked high in his trash bin and the take-out containers in the firing range, they’ve always meant security for you. They’ve always meant Gi-hun.

But it doesn’t feel like that anymore. Now, mealtime feels uncomfortable and sickening. It doesn’t help that the soldiers aren’t giving any of you enough food, and it doesn’t help that when you twist your feet just right, you catch a glimpse of blood on your soles and your appetite is gutted.

“You really should eat something,” you say, even though you know there’s no point. Gi-hun’s too far gone to do much of anything right now. Still, you have to at least try. A gentle prod against his shoulder draws his attention just long enough to display the remainder of your dinner. “Here. I saved some of mine, in case you get hungry later.”

You know you’re going to be hungry yourself later tonight, but you’re more worried about him. He’s mourning. He deserves something good to eat so that at least a part of him isn’t in constant agony. But there’s nothing. No “you’re wasting your time”, no “go fuck yourself”, not even a “I wish it had been you instead”. Not a single word.

Isn’t he angry? Doesn’t he want to hit you or something? You almost wish he would because surely enduring his rage would be less painful than staring into the empty, sunken eyes of the husk he’s become.

“Gi-hun, please. Talk to me?”

It feels like the birth, life, and death of galaxies takes place in the time it takes him to respond. His lips part – chapped, swollen, and indented where his teeth have worried at the same spot for too long – and he sighs. “What would you like me to say?”

And suddenly, you’re leaning in faster than you can stop yourself, your fingers curling loosely over his wrist so he can’t escape you. “Anything. Anything you want, it doesn’t matter.”

“He was my friend.”

You nod lightly. I know, you want to say. I wanted to know him better. But you know you shouldn’t. It wouldn’t feel right because this isn’t about you or your feelings, this is about him. This is about trying to fix something so irreparably damaged that you don’t actually know if anything you’re doing is a help or a hindrance.

Gi-hun pulls his hand away. “There’s nothing else to say.”

“Gi-hun.” He looks like a stranger when the lights hit his face. Even the way he stands has changed; he’s stiffer, less fluid, his movements sharp and jagged. But that’s not what worries you – it’s the fact that he’s trying to leave. “Gi-hun?”

The steps creak lightly beneath and behind you. You reach out as you stumble to your feet, eager to bring him back from the metaphorical edge, but are almost immediately cut off. “Hey, 457!”

You don’t recognize the voice and they clearly don’t know who you are, so you decide right then and there that you don’t care who it is. Gi-hun is more important. It would just be nice if he wasn’t trying to run away from you right now.

“Gi-hun, wait.” You nearly trip over your own foot trying to run up the steps after him. “Gi-hun!”

Footsteps fall heavy on the stairs behind you, followed by a hand on your elbow, and you whirl around with a glare. “Can I help you?” For once, you don’t give a single shit if you sound rude.

Player 124 stands on the step just below yours. “You’re the one with the two billion, aren’t you?”

God, seriously? You’re in the middle of trying to chase after your best friend to make sure he doesn’t do something reckless and this guy’s worrying about fucking money? You roll your eyes and you don’t bother to hide it. Fuck this guy and fuck every other player in here who bears the same poisonous O patch on their chests.

“The offer’s not on the table anymore, sorry.”

He yanks hard where he’s gripping your elbow when you attempt to free yourself and steers you around so you’re stumbling down to his level. At first, you think he’s just trying to detain you. Intimidate you, probably. Quite frankly, you don’t give a shit about that either. You’re not above throwing a smack or two after the day you’ve had. But when you try to tear yourself away, you find yourself backing into something tall, broad, and solid. The overwhelming scent of sweat and two or three-day old cologne floods your senses until you nearly choke.

“Woah, hey, where d’you think you’re going, man?”

Because of course. It isn’t bad enough that Jung-bae is dead and Gi-hun is utterly unrecognizable in his grief, oh no. No, you just had to go and open your stupid mouth, didn’t you? Had to go and say something idiotic like “I’ll give everyone free money if you let me go home”. You don’t even have the right to be surprised anymore.

The smile you force onto your face is more grimace than anything else, but again – you don’t really care. You’re not in the mood and you don’t have the time for this. “Thanos, right?”

A shock of purple hair comes into view as he steps out from behind you, grinning ear to ear. “The one and only.”

“Look guys, I’m not interested in… whatever this is. Your vote won, so I’m not feeling very generous anymore.”

But Thanos only shakes his head. “Oh, no, no, no, man, that’s not it at all!” He brushes you off like it’s nothing, like he doesn’t take you seriously – and he probably doesn’t, but that suits you just fine because you can’t take him seriously either. “We just want in on your little industry, or whatever the fuck.”

“I…” Industry? What, he thinks you run some kind of underground criminal empire? “What are you talking about?”

There’s a flash of color on his nails when he flutters his fingers at you, each one a perfect match for the fucking infinity stones. What a fucking joke. “You know, however you got that two billion.” He wiggles his eyebrows when he leans in to get a closer look at you. “You running a drug ring or something? Because I know a thing or two about that.”

You’re so massively dumbfounded by the accusation that it takes you several very long, very agonizing seconds to find your voice again. “What about me makes you think I run a fucking drug ring?”

“I dunno,” he drawls in a lazy attempt at English, “maybe ‘cause of all that money you were bragging about.”

“I wasn’t bragging–”

“Sure sounded like it to me.” Thanos snaps his fingers and 124 suddenly appears, nearly scaring the crap out of you. You’d kind of forgotten about him. “Nam-su–”

“Nam-gyu,” he corrects with a heavy roll of his eyes.

Thanos just rolls his eyes back, crinkling his mouth until he looks more like a toddler throwing faces across the playground than a grown man. “I said that, man,” he tsks. “Whatever. Nam-gyu, don’t you think 457 was bragging about having a fuckton of money?”

124 – Nam-gyu – juts his chin in your direction, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Yeah, I do. And I think you’re just being greedy now ‘cause you’re pissed you’re not going home yet.”

A dozen different retorts flash through your mind, ranging between “what are you gonna do about it?” and a more level-headed, albeit entirely sarcastic, “let me give you my number and we’ll talk if we all survive this”. You’re debating which one is least likely to get you beaten and bloodied and none of them are particularly encouraging when Nam-gyu suddenly smacks the back of his hand on Thanos’ chest.

“Uh, hey, isn’t that–?”

Thanos suddenly straightens as his eyes shift nervously over some unknown point behind you. His throat bobs noticeably. “Time to go.” To you, he purses his lips, nods, and then he and Nam-gyu are hurrying off like rats scattering in the dark. You don’t fully understand why until you see Young-il.

“Those two bothering you?” he asks. You can hear the unspoken implication, can read it in his face – if there’s a problem, he’ll fix it himself.

You duck your head, smiling just a bit and pretending that you are very much not flushing at his attentiveness. Because Young-il is nothing more than a good friend with a desire to keep you safe and reading into that any further is not only stupid, but entirely inappropriate. For multiple reasons.

“No,” you finally answer, “it’s alright. I’m fine.”

If the touch of his hand at your shoulder causes you to still, or the brush of his knuckles over the curve of your wrist, or the gentle hum of his breath does anything to make you fluster or stare or linger in a way entirely unlike yourself for the rest of the evening, then that’s your own business. You can only hope that no one else, and certainly not Gi-hun, notices it.

The torn-open plastic wrapper and scattered crumbs of bread are nothing compared to the usual offerings left at a funeral, but this is hardly a normal funeral. He supposes that he ought to be moved by it. In a place where people turn on one another like animals and food is scarce, Gi-hun knows that he should be grateful for a moment of peace to remember his last surviving friend. He should be grateful that you sacrificed part of your own meal (if a single round of bread can even be called that) for it. He should be grateful for you because if you hadn’t suggested a vigil, he would have been too lost in his grief to even consider it.

But all Gi-hun can feel is the merciless nothing that consumes him.

He’s vaguely aware of the others shuffling into their beds behind him. Each of them has chosen to believe him and listen to him, and for that he’s thankful. At least he can try to save another few lives. The only question is for how long, if the attempt is even worth trying anymore.

There’s the sound of feet then, and he sits up a little straighter because in that moment, Jung-bae is still alive and they’re back in Ssangmun-dong, sharing a glass of soju. And then he catches your scent and the shape of your silhouette, and reality comes crumbling down all around him. He tries not to be disappointed. He also tries not to feel guilty for being disappointed, but he fails at both. In the end, all he can do is hang his head in remorse.

“Hey,” you say softly.

You’ve been cagey around him since Jung-bae’s death. It’s only been a few hours, but the difference is blatant – your touches are hesitant and dramatically decreased, your body closed off from him, and even your voice sounds different. An attempt at kindness, he thinks. Then why does it grate him so?

Gi-hun doesn’t acknowledge you beyond the gentle huff of an exhalation. You seem to take that as all the permission you need. “You don’t have to take the first watch if you don’t want to. I don’t mind.”

He resigns himself to the fact that a conversation will apparently be necessary. “I’m not tired,” he tells you, drawing his legs to his chest so he can wrap his arms around them. It’s easier to ride each wave of sorrow when he’s compressed into something small like this, when the world can’t reach him.

“Me neither.” Your leg is bouncing – a nervous tick he’s not sure you’re even aware of. “I just thought I’d offer. If it would help.”

The only thing that would help him now is a gun in his hands and the Captain on his knees so he can shoot him through the skull. So he can tear this island down with his bare hands, brick by brick, until there’s nothing left. Only he lost the chance to do so two days ago when the tracker was ripped from his jaw and you were abducted, forced to play these Games simply because your very presence is a constant stab through his heart.

He'll find a way. If it kills him, he’ll find a way to exact the revenge he needs. For Sang-woo, for Jung-bae, and for all the ways you’ve died and been reborn since the Games have started.

Gi-hun takes a deep breath to open up his ribcage and release the tension that’s been coiling in his chest for the past hour. “Get some rest,” he says, and his tongue feels heavy when he does. “You need it.”

A month ago, you might have fought him on it and demanded he get some rest too. Maybe you would have looked at him in that special way, where the light catches your eyes and you smile differently and it leaves him feeling flayed apart, and he might have at last relented. A week ago, he might have asked you to stay the night – so he could keep you close, keep you safe – and you might have even said yes, and Gi-hun would’ve spent the entire night dreaming of possibilities and open-mouthed kisses, and he still would have gone to the club to meet the Captain because at least he would’ve died remembering you.

This time, there is no fight. This time there’s just quiet deference and a weary heart too bruised to beat any longer.

He glares at the crumpled piece of plastic on the step and the pathetic smattering of crumbs that serve as an offering to Jung-bae’s spirit, and he vows never to rest until the game runners and the Captain get exactly what they deserve.

Young-il greets you when you retreat. The lights have gone out by now, shrouding the entire room in darkness bar the glowing X and O on the floor, so he couldn’t turn and watch the interaction even if he wanted to. He doesn’t, of course. What you do in your own time with your own friends is none of his concern. Not even if your friend is rubbing a soothing hand into your shoulder. Not even if your friend is making you laugh. Not even if your friend is… Wait, he’s not urging you to join him, is he? Gi-hun’s misunderstanding him, surely.

He forces as much air into his lungs as he can, holding it in and suppressing the thundering beat of his pulse so he can hear better.

“I don’t want to …,” you whisper sweetly.

Young-il’s voice is similarly softened. “… insist.”

This is pointless. It doesn’t matter how quiet he is, he won’t be able to hear a thing, and since when does it matter? Why is this what he’s choosing to focus on? Where is his rage? Where is his hatred and his fight? Is he truly so fickle that his plans turn to dust the moment you elect to share a bed with another man who, might he remind himself, is married?

Jung-bae is dead, just like Sang-woo. He needs to plan. He needs to organize.

Gi-hun squeezes his eyes shut until they hurt and that, at last, is enough to snap him out of his strange reverie. The Games cannot continue like this. The voting is going horribly and the O players are winning by a higher majority each time, which means that when tomorrow comes and more X players die, the chances of returning home will be almost zero. Not even your naively offered 2 billion won will be enough to change the hearts and minds of the O players who remain.

Your 2 billion… He’d given it to you because he thought he was dying, because he wanted to ensure that you would be able to take care of yourself in his absence. The money is yours now with no strings attached, but he can’t help feeling frustrated that you would be so quick to relinquish it. And for people like these? Drug addicts and dirty tradesmen, gangsters, loan sharks, gamblers.

He feels his own fingernails digging into his palms.

The gambler who had first accepted a smack from the ddakji recruiter and the gambler who stands watch now feel like two very different people. Gi-hun sometimes wonders if he isn’t just a spirit left to wander the Earth in a foreign body, traveling aimlessly, fighting against the ongoing tide of hopelessness and violence that haunts him. He wonders if that’s what Jung-bae saw before he died.

He wonders a lot of things, really. He wonders how things might have gone if Jung-bae had stayed and you had gone. Would you have ended up on the same team? And the pregnant girl – what if she had never asked for help? What if you had never offered? Would his oldest and dearest friend still be alive? Would you be dead in his place?

What if he had never stopped to help you in the first place? Where might your life have led you? Jung-bae might still be alive, or perhaps he would have come to the Games anyway – he supposes he doesn’t know the full extent of Jung-bae’s financial problems and that’s his own fault. He never stuck around to ask. He didn’t want him to know.

He sighs and tilts his head to gaze at the empty space on his left. It’s difficult to articulate why, but he can’t help feeling like Jung-bae ought to be sitting there. They would talk, he thinks, and Gi-hun would try not to engage because he doesn’t want to be distracted, but Jung-bae would insist. And they’d probably laugh over something stupid, or share a tense moment remembering the past, and Gi-hun would remember what it felt like to have a friend who knows you inside and out. He supposes he’ll never know that feeling for the rest of his life, though he’s not certain it matters. He doesn’t expect to live much longer anyway.

If he tries very hard, Gi-hun thinks he can imagine Jung-bae’s face – not the face of a dead man, but of a living soul who always smiles and sometimes drinks too much. Don’t be so hard on yourself, Gi-hun-a, he might have said (though he isn’t entirely sure he’s gotten the inflection right). We’ll grab a soju when this is all done, huh? Just like old times.

Maybe he’ll ask you do it for him. Jung-bae liked you, from what little time he had to acquaint himself, and you clearly feel some amount of affection for him on behalf of their friendship. He stares, misty eyed, at the crinkled plastic wrap and breadcrumbs and he smiles. You’d be more than eager to drink a glass of soju in his honor. That’s one of the things he admires about you – your heart.

It keeps him going long into the night. When his eyelids are finally too tired to stay open, Gi-hun drags himself onto the nearest mattress. If he sees you half weaseled under the nearest bed frame and half exposed, he doesn’t think much of it. If he sees your arms folded under your chin and your face pressed into Young-il’s shoulder, he doesn’t dwell on it. He can’t. It doesn’t matter, he reminds himself.

But if he happens to nudge Young-il awake and ask him to take the next shift, then that’s entirely on purpose and Gi-hun isn’t afraid to admit that to himself. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t wake or stir you except to help maneuver you out of Young-il’s way so the other man can keep watch. You moan softly in your sleep, your face all scrunched up, but quickly fall back into your heavy slumber, and Gi-hun watches. He commits the shape of you to memory.

He's already lost Jung-bae and he’s already lost himself, but he refuses to lose you as well. Not the Captain, not the Games, and not even Young-il can take you from him, of that he is absolutely certain.

The set design is pretty, you suppose – whites and pastels, carousel horses atop a raised platform, and elegant curtains that rise up to the ceiling – but that’s all it is. It’s a design. It isn’t real. It’s a death arena made to look pretty and quaint, accompanied with charming music and a charming announcer, but it’s a death arena all the same.

“Welcome to your third game. The game you will be playing is Mingle. Let me repeat: the game you will be playing is Mingle.”

You glance sideways at Dae-ho, who’s already starting to fidget. “What is it?”

“I think I remember playing this in school,” he frowns. “We’d form groups by hugging each other.”

The announcer seems to further the idea, following Dae-ho’s musings with a more intricate explanation. “When the game starts, the platform will begin to rotate and you will hear a number. You must form groups of that size, go into the rooms, and close the door within 30 seconds.”

A secondary look around fills you with more despair than hope. “This place is massive,” you say, more to yourself, but the rest of the team manages to catch it.

Dae-ho nods in agreement, but he doesn’t look as defeated as you feel. A little nervous, maybe, if the shaking hands he lays on Jun-hee’s shoulders are anything to go by, but still somewhat hopeful. “I believe in us. We all made it through the race, didn’t we?”

Not all of us.

“We just need a strategy,” he continues, surging forward with all the bravado you’ve come to expect from him. His fist shakes eagerly in Young-il and Gi-hun’s general direction. “What do you think? How should we play this?”

The most obvious answer is given first – a five person group won’t require anything more than to run as fast as you possibly can. That, at least, is a relief and you really hope they call five before anything else. Anything larger than that, everyone will work to find another player. Your eyes scan the crowd in search of the familiar 120 on the back of Hyun-ju’s jacket. Maybe you can snag her if you need to.

“No matter what happens,” Young-il says, “don't panic. Let's stay calm. Let's trust each other. We'll all make it out together.” You admire his tenacity and his ability to remain calm even now, before the game has even started.

He extends one arm into the center of the group, palm down. “Here.”

Your hand falls easily atop his, your fingers splaying out as they unconsciously seek the warmth of his skin. Dae-ho comes next, then Jun-hee, and finally Gi-hun. You choose to pretend that Jung-bae is with you all in spirit, too, piling his hand atop his friend’s. His memory lives on in the battle cry that Dae-ho exclaims at the top of his lungs: “Victory at all costs!”

There is a final request from the announcer that each player relocate to the platform, then a flashing of the lights, and then the entire world is turning. You’re nearly jolted off balance, but are caught by a strong hand and a quietly encouraging nod from the player to your left – Hyun-ju! You go to thank her, but find your voice immediately drowned out by the sound of singing as the world keeps spinning.

“Round and round we go! Round and round we go!”

Dread blossoms in the pit of your stomach. Not only are you already feeling lightheaded from the turning of the platform, but the sound of children singing gleefully while you’re dragged to your potential demise is enough to make you actually sick. Rainbow colored doors glide past, round and round, and you have to reach out for Hyun-ju’s arm to keep yourself steady.

The announcer had said to listen for a number. Is the number somewhere in the song? Do you have to listen for it and then run? Will the platform stop? What happens if you fall? It’s too many questions and too much uncertainty. What if this, what if that? How? Why? When?

“Round and round we–.”

The platform grates to a halt and the lights flash out. The announcer’s voice crackles somewhere overhead. “Nine.”

Nine. Nine people? Oh shit, holy shit.

You grab blindly at Hyun-ju’s wrist. “We have five!” you shout over the sudden, raging chaos.

She nods frantically with a flash of her other hand in your face – her fingers are interlocked with another player’s, a young girl who looks about as scared as you feel. “Four!” she calls back. She looks over your shoulder, presumably at Gi-hun and the others. “We have four!”

“That’s nine!” you hear Young-il say. “Everybody run!”

Hyun-ju’s fast. Like, really fast. She practically drags the other girl off the platform, but you’re close behind, following her blindly, desperately, your arms and legs pumping. You’re vaguely aware of Gi-hun shouting directions; “green door!” is really the only thing you hear before you, Hyun-ju, and her friend are all slamming into the wall and scrambling for the handle.

Someone’s shoving at your shoulder. Someone else is urging you to “go, go, go!”. There’s a blur of limbs and concrete and teal green tracksuits, and Hyun-ju rams into the far wall, and somebody’s feet get caught under yours, and then you’re dropping to the floor with a shout as people trip all over you. You curl in on yourself so all your vital organs are protected, your arms thrown over your head, and people are wheezing and whispering, and you can still hear others on the outside as they scream and slam their doors shut, and it’s awful.

“[___].” Your hands are gently pried away from your face to reveal Gi-hun as he bends over you, his face drawn tight with worry. “Come on,” he urges softly.

You go willingly, happily, into his arms and are soon back on your feet, though your legs are about as wobbly as a bowl of ramyeon noodles. He still has a hand on your shoulder when you hear the first round of gunfire. The entire room goes quiet.

You’d figured it would be this way. You’d figured that not finding a room in time would be a death sentence, but it’s a different feeling to actually see it happen, to know that you fought for your own life just a little bit harder than someone else and because of that, they’re being executed.

You think of Jung-bae. You slap a hand over your mouth to keep from doing something stupid like screaming.

Someone gets shot directly in front of your door. You know not only because the sound is loud enough to make your ears hurt, but because Gi-hun’s entire body jolts as if he’s just been electrocuted. Did he have to witness things like this the last time, too? Was he locked inside a room and forced to watch while innocent people were slaughtered?

You reach for him on instinct while your own thoughts begin bubbling up within your chest, choking you to the point of desperation, but your hand never finds its mark. Young-il is there quite suddenly, his fingers closing around your wrist as he steps into your path. “Give him space,” he murmurs, as if his wisdom is a kindness he’s imparting to you.

“But–”

His voice drops a bit. “He needs it.” And before you can protest further, Young-il gathers you into his arms and presses his chin atop your head. “It’s alright, [___]. It’s alright.”

The shooting has long since ended by now, but something even worse has taken its place: the beeping of a forklift, the sound of caskets being unloaded and filled with bodies, the slick wetness of boots on fresh blood. It’s worse now than it was yesterday, somehow. Not being able to see makes the suspense weigh heavier on you, it encourages your imagination to run wild.

If you aren’t fast enough next time, that’s going to be you. You’re going to get a hole in your brain and you’re going to be packed up like a sardine in a can, carted away to be disposed of and forgotten about. Young-il hushes your weak little cries with a hand at the back of your head, and you freeze. What if he gets shot? What if something happens and you get separated? What about Gi-hun? And oh God, what about Jun-hee? If she dies, then her baby…

It hits you the moment you step outside. The blood. You don’t even know how many players were killed, you were too busy trying not to dissolve into a huddled, trembling mass of uselessness in Young-il’s arm, but you see at least a dozen separate pools of blood dotting the floor and platform. You know because you step in one almost right away. It’s wet underfoot, no different from stepping in a puddle of water after a rainstorm, but you know the difference. You know what it means.

You can’t let that become you. You can’t let it become any of your friends.

The platform jolts to one side as the music starts up again. “Round and round we go! Round and round we go!”

You can feel the blood squishing under your weight whenever you move. You can feel your knees locking. You can hear the blood rushing in your ears and feel the pulse in your fingertips. You can see each and every bloodstain marking the spot where another person has died so that you might live.

The song cuts off with a clear, concise, “Five”, and then the world narrows to only a single point – freedom.

“Three.”

He’d known the number even before it was announced, of course, but knowing cannot override instinct and his first instinct is to grab you by the collar and drag you into the nearest room. He wouldn’t even need to grab hold of Gi-hun; he already knows that man would follow you to the ends of the Earth and back. Yes, he knows.

But that isn’t what Gi-hun has in mind. “[___], Dae-ho, Jun-hee! Go!” he commands.

Dae-ho and Jun-hee acquiesce without a fight, each of them scrambling to grab one of your hands and pull you to safety, but you recoil before they can even touch you. “No!” You whirl on Gi-hun with a fire blazing in your eyes, bright and brilliant, and for a moment, In-ho finds himself adrift in an endless sea. “I’m not leaving you!”

He should have anticipated your obstinance, perhaps, but it had slipped his mind amid the chaos and the chaotic uncertainty of life versus death. “We don’t have time for this!” he shouts. The clock is counting down too quickly and now the entire team is at risk because you are too stubborn to abandon either of them. In-ho looks to Dae-ho, looks to Jun-hee and the baby growing in her belly, and he feels an uncomfortable prickle of uncertainty. “Both of you, go! Find a third!”

He doesn’t pause long enough to think about whether or not they will survive. “Run!” he bellows, and he propels you forward with a shove, pointing to one of the remaining open doors. He doesn’t wonder about Jun-hee. He doesn’t wonder about her baby. And he doesn’t think of his wife, not in the slightest. All he does is run.

Sharp eyes catalog the remaining players scrambling for life, then the timer counting down. 19 seconds. A trio of men goes tripping over themselves in an effort to push themselves into one of the open doors, the very door In-ho had chosen. It’s the nearest one and one of the last ones still open. Anger flares within his stomach at the audacity of these filthy, greedy trash heaps to take what belongs to him, to think that they could possibly beat him at his own game.

Abandoning you to Gi-hun’s capabilities is not something that worries him. Surging forward and slamming his body into these three players does not worry him either. If one of them escapes into your room, he could live with that. If he gets himself caught and Young-il ‘killed’, he could live with that too. But he cannot risk you, or even Gi-hun, dying because all his plans hinge upon your shared survival. Gi-hun will not die here today and neither will you. Later, perhaps, but not today. Not now.

“Young-il!” he hears you screaming, but he pays it no mind.

He slams his fist into one player’s face, then a brutal kick to another player’s groin.

“Young-il-ssi!”

A smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. So, he’s managed to coax Gi-hun into trusting him, has he? Into caring for him? He body slams the third player with a growl before finally choosing to turn and run. The door flies open without him even touching it, and it slams shut behind him at Gi-hun’s insistence.

You’re on him in an instant, your arms wrapping around his neck as you breathe heavily into his ear, your chest heaving and your body pressed so firmly against his that In-ho is sensorily overwhelmed. A memory of your body pressed similarly to his from last night flickers to life in the forefront of his mind and his mouth goes dry.

“Don’t do that again,” you murmur through trembling lips.

Six mattresses in rows of three maneuvered beneath the canopy of bed frames, but only four of them in use. He had seen it on your face as clear as day – the two vacant beds bothered you. After all, one of them belonged to a dead man and the other belonged to a man you no longer recognized. In-ho knew he could fix that for you, or that he could at least distract you from it.

“Here,” he prompted with a palm flat on the mattress next to his.

“Oh, no, that’s alright.” You waved him off as politely as you could, but it did nothing to hide either your surprise or your blatant interest. “I don’t want to crowd you.”

And In-ho had smiled at you without a single hint of his true motives. “I insist.” Just a friend seeking to comfort a friend.

He hadn’t anticipated that keeping you close would make his blood boil and his body flush. It had been another chess piece carefully moved into the most advantageous position, another attempt to worm his way into the bloody gash that Gi-hun’s rejections and absence had carved into your heart, and yet it had left him feeling exposed and restless in an entirely foreign way.

His hands press firmly against your hips as he guides you away. Holding you at arms’ distance allows him the control he seeks, but it also lays bare the most embarrassing weakness he has ever encountered in the last nine years. He uses the blaring of the final few seconds as a distraction, carefully turning you away from the heat straining against his tracksuit pants so you’re none the wiser.

You wander towards Gi-hun, which In-ho can only consider to be a small mercy given the circumstances. “Do you see them?” There is a noticeable edge to your voice as you try pressing in beside him to peer out the window. “Jun-hee? Dae-ho?”

Gi-hun shakes his head, only to bodily flinch and recoil when the shooting starts. You cower like a frightened child with your eyes squeezed shut while Gi-hun remains frozen at the door, his gaze caught on the nameless bodies dropping to the ground. Punishing himself as he has the previous two rounds, impaling himself on a rusted old blade that has killed dozens before him and will likely kill hundreds more after. Doesn’t he ever grow tired of playing the sanctimonious victim?

“Oh God.” In-ho’s eyes flicker back to where you’ve braced yourself against the door, your legs shaking and your eyelids watery as you start to slide to the floor. “Oh God, I killed them, didn’t I?”

Perhaps you did. It would be intriguing, not to mention convenient, if you had because for all your compassion and eagerness to follow in Gi-hun’s footsteps, this round had been the one to break you. Or rather, the lingering memory of Jung-bae’s death and the possibility of losing your dearest friends in a similar fashion had urged you to place his and Gi-hun’s lives before the lives of anyone else. Fear has finally turned you selfish.

You collapse into a pile of limbs and shuddering, breathy noises that go straight to his gut, and suddenly, In-ho is struggling to keep his feet firmly planted in the present.

Sleep had taken its time coming for you. In-ho had offered what kindness he had – a comforting hand resting near your pillow, a soothing phrase, a fleeting smile – and had watched you until you finally drifted off. The camera he’d studied you through on your first night simply could not compare to the physical reality of sharing your breath or feeling your warmth soak into the mattress.

Is this what Gi-hun had witnessed the first night he brought you to his motel?

Grief cannot haunt you in your sleep, he’d soon discovered. Your expression lightened gradually – a twitching eyebrow here or a sigh there – until your entire body was pliant, entirely freed of the horror and shame you’d been clinging to. In-ho was surprised to find himself entranced once more, almost inexplicably so.

And then you’d moved. A subtle shift in your subconscious had urged a small sound from your lips, followed by the rustling of your blanket, and In-ho was left reeling from the weight of your arm pressing against his. It shouldn’t have affected him. Since you met, he’d been forced onto the receiving end of your affections more times than he could count and it had never bothered him before. It was simply the cost of his game, and a remarkably low one, at that.

This is different, he’d realized.

It takes him a moment to regain his bearings and, in that time, he catalogues Gi-hun’s reluctance and self-imposed distance and your trembling desire to be comforted. Both of you suffer from the same failure to hide your emotions in any meaningful way. He takes it as an opportunity, another freshly opened wound for him to press his infection into.

“It’s alright,” he assures you as he lowers himself into a crouch.

Bleary, tearful eyes gaze up at him in desperation. Another bolt of electricity lances through him, stealing his breath, his tongue, and every carefully laid plan until he is nothing more than a blank slate. It’s terrifying. It’s disgusting. He wants to wrap his hands around your throat and throttle you for daring to weaken him so thoroughly, and at the same time, he wants to slam Gi-hun’s skull into the concrete and bash him bloody for destroying his Games, his equalizer.

In-ho studies you for several impossibly long moments before he finally understands. He settles into the small space left between your body and the side wall and curls an arm around your shoulder to draw you close. He feels that same spark inside his chest, that same heat pooling beneath his stomach – the same things he’d felt last night when you mumbled incoherent dreams into his ear and curled into his chest like it’s what you were born to do.

It wasn’t the Games that made Gi-hun his equal. It wasn’t the 45.6 billion won or the innumerable deaths or the trauma that carved itself into both their souls. It was you.

You’ve all survived. You’re not sure how exactly because you were absolutely terrified that you’d lost Jun-hee and Dae-ho in the last round, but they made it and so have you. You would be overjoyed if your sanity wasn’t currently tearing itself apart at the seams. All this running, all the stress and the fear, it’s making your body overheat and your heart race, and the spinning platform is no help either. You tear wildly at the zip of your jacket and start whipping it back and forth, desperate for a moment of relief. Or some water. God, you would kill for some water right now.

“What do you think the next round will be?” you hear Dae-ho ask.

The numbers have been steadily counting down, so your first thought is to guess something small like one or two. Either option would be absolutely devastating because there are still so many players left alive and only 50 rooms to fit them into. But what if it’s a higher number? The Captain, or whoever it is that may have chosen these numbers, might be trying to lull everyone into a false sense of security, make them all plan for a smaller number only to be stuck in the chaos when the number ends up being something insane like 15.

“Everyone pick a partner,” Young-il suggests after several moments. He’s close enough that you can hear him clearly over the music. “If the number is higher, we stick together, and if not–”

The announcer’s voice cuts through it all, sharp and hot like a freshly forged blade. “Two.”

Everything happens in the blink of an eye, yet takes an eternity to live through. Young-il grabs your sleeve and drags you to the edge of the platform as he runs. Your legs are like gelatin, wobbly and uncertain, but there is still determination in your bones and life in your lungs. You’re not going to die here. You are not going to die here!

Another player trips and falls on your left. Someone screams on your right. You keep running. Young-il’s already picked out a door, his arms pumping furiously as he powers forward. He’s shouting too, you think, but it’s swallowed up by the surrounding chaos. Doesn’t matter. Just keep running. Don’t stop. You’re going to survive this.

There’s a flash of movement in the corner of your eye and you turn just in time to see someone with a 400-something number emblazoned on their chest reaching for you. They snag the corner of your jacket, pulling you back, but you’re faster, stronger, you have to be, because you have to live. One arm jerks free of the jacket, then the other, and then you’re tripping over your feet and tumbling through pools of half-dried blood. It smears over your palms, gets into the creases of your elbows, wets the ends of your hair as you skid to a halt.

“Get up!”

You’re already scrambling to your feet. Young-il is screaming so hard that his throat looks misshapen. The 400-something who tripped you is already yanking open the door of the room meant for you and Young-il.

You’re going to die.

Another player tries to run inside and you think for a moment that Young-il might just leave you both to your own devices and take that second spot for himself. You can see the ugly glint in his eye, the same one you know is in yours, that gut-deep, selfish desire to keep living no matter the cost. You run faster than you ever have before. He grabs the other player and throws him to the ground. Your hands slam into the doorframe.

There’s still someone inside. Oh God, there’s still someone in here, and you know what happens when there’s one too many people inside a room. The evidence of it is painted on the walls.

“Get out!” you scream.

The man shakes his head frantically as he crowds himself into the farthest corner. For a moment, it’s you who considers betrayal. You could slam the door shut and lock 400-something’s friend and Young-il outside, and you would be saved. You’d be condemning him to death, but you would live and isn’t that more important?

The timer near the ceiling flashes a gruesome 00:15, accompanied by the intercom, and you hear the door slam shut behind you. Is that it, did you make it?

Young-il’s shoulder bumps into yours and you feel a wave of disappointment. Coward. You’re glad that he’s alive, but if one of you doesn’t leave right now, then you’re all going to die! Murderer.

“Get out!” you scream again, this time lunging forward to grab the man by the arm and shove him in the direction of the door. “Go!”

His friend slams into him just as the door swings open. Young-il surges forward then, landing a punch on 400-something’s jaw that drops him to the floor. Just outside the door. His legs are kicked aside, the door slammed shut, and the lock clicks in place.

00:00

But there’s still three people locked in a two-person room, and that means you’re dead. No. It can’t end like this. You’re not ready. You don’t want to die, you’re not ready to die!

You’re halfway to the door, hoping against hope that if you wiggle the handle hard enough, the lock will give way and you can shove that man into the path of the firing squad, and you can live. Almost at the door, your gaze locked on the face of the man you’ve betrayed as he peers at you through the cut-out, begging to be saved. Hand on the door, pulling with all your strength when you know that it’s futile.

A round of bullets fires. The door jerks on its hinges as Player 400-something sags against it, then slumps to floor, dead. He’s dead. He’s dead and you’re the reason he’s dead, and the guard that shot him is looking at you through the cut-out, his gun still raised.

“No!” you screech.

You drop to your knees, hands on your head as if an extra layer of flesh will spare your skull from being blown wide open, but it’s not just the ground that meets you. Bones crack against hard cement, a wet slap following when your bloodied hands fly out to brace yourself, and the face of the player whose life you’d decided was worth less than yours is tilted unnaturally against the ground a few feet away. His neck bends in a way it shouldn’t. His body is slumped over as if he’s just been tossed aside like garbage. Unblinking. Unmoving.

Dead.

…

Dead?

You sit up, confused. You didn’t hear another round of gunshots. He’s not bleeding and you are still alive, so how is he dead? Why is he dead?

You find the answer sitting with his back against the wall, chest heaving, his eyes pitch-black and endless. The other man’s legs are still caught awkwardly between Young-il’s, almost as if… but no, that can’t be right. He wouldn’t be able to do something like that. Shouldn’t. Couldn’t.

You ask the only question you can find the strength to vocalize. “Is he…?”

Young-il nods with a heavy sigh. His legs are spread and bent at the knee, his elbows braced against his thighs, and his eyes… Deeper and darker than the blackest hole in the farthest reaches of the universe. You look at him, fresh off the murder of another man and utterly unremorseful, and you feel like you’re gazing into the galaxy itself – vast and terrifying and brutal.

There’s a knock at your door, then the flash of a black mesh mask, and you push yourself back into the nearest corner, folding in on yourself until you’re as small as physically possible. “No, don’t, he’s dead! He’s dead!” you cry. “There’s only two of us!”

The guard remains quiet, perhaps waiting for the order from his superior to gun you down like the selfish, cowardly, murdering bastard you are. Young-il nods almost imperceptibly and then, just like that, the guard is gone. And you’re alive. And you suddenly feel like you’re standing on the edge of a precipice with no way down except to jump.

“[___].”

You catch him trying to touch you from the corner of your eye and you recoil as if he were the one with the gun, not the guard. “Don’t touch me,” you gasp. You don’t deserve to be touched. You don’t deserve anything gentle.

It’s clear he doesn’t appreciate your bluntness. His fingers coil around empty air and his face turns hard as it morphs into something cold and distant. The mask of a killer, maybe, because he’s just as bad as you are, isn’t he? He killed that man with his bare hands. And you… you almost locked him out of the room because you wanted to survive so badly.

“I’m sorry,” you weep, your eyes unseeing and stinging as your tears finally overflow. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to…” To what, almost sacrifice him for your own good? To be so weak and pathetic that you couldn’t even shove that man out of the room yourself? “It’s my fault.”

That’s the only thing that makes sense, really. Jung-bae died because of you. Jun-hee and Dae-ho almost died because of you. And now Young-il. Now the dead man between his legs and the other one just outside the door. You did this.

The room is horrifyingly quiet for a long while, but when Young-il finally speaks, you find that he sounds like a total stranger. His voice is raw and agonizing. “What are you talking about?”

Your eyes flicker briefly over his face before focusing again on the body before you. You can’t seem to look away. “I should’ve pushed him out,” you whimper. If you had, maybe Young-il wouldn’t have his blood on his hands.

“What?”

He sounds so incredulous, it’s ridiculous. What part of this isn’t he understanding?

“I should’ve pushed him out!” you exclaim. “I was too scared and I wasn’t thinking. I-I just wanted to live and I almost…” I almost killed you.

Metal scrapes against concrete somewhere beyond the door as stacks of caskets are lowered to the ground. Young-il pushes himself onto one knee, his hands hovering non-threateningly around his waist as he studies you, watching you like a scientist might watch a cornered animal. The metaphor is surprisingly apt considering it was in your power to kill him only moments ago.

“[___],” he starts slowly, “take a breath.”

You know he wants to come closer. You know he wants to understand. “No.” You shake your head firmly. “Don’t.”

He pauses. “You’re afraid of me.”

What? “No.” It feels as if all the air has been punched out of you. “Why would I…? Y-You didn’t – I mean, it’s not…”

Young-il creeps forward until he’s close enough to touch you, and this time you don’t stop him. A murderer you both may be, but he is still your friend and you crave the normalcy of a friend right now more than you hate yourself.

His knuckles brush lightly over the back of your hand. “Explain,” he prompts, not unkindly or harshly, but with the gentle confusion of someone with no desire to judge or deride.

“I don’t want you to hate me,” you sob.

“I don’t.”

He’s still not understanding. “But you will.”

The door unlocks before you’re forced to reveal anything more, thank God. Small mercies. You accept Young-il’s offer to help you stand, but you don’t allow yourself to linger in his grasp. You have to get out of this room before you lose it.

“[___]!” Gi-hun’s face falls the instant he lays his eyes on you. You’re not sure where he appeared from so quickly, but you suppose it doesn’t matter when his hands trace wordlessly over your arms, over the blood, the blood, so much blood, and he ducks down to try and catch your eyes. “What happened?”

You’d been so focused on surviving that it hadn’t even occurred to you that his own life had been on the line as well. It hadn’t occurred to you that your dearest friend might actually be dead until you were being ushered out of that room and forced to confront the outside world.

Your brain feels kind of fuzzy right now, so you’re cautious when you shake your head. “’s not mine. I fell.” You’d lost your jacket, too. Is that why you suddenly feel so cold? You’re not sure.

Gi-hun is quick to draw you in, and you’re thankful for the sudden proximity because he’s really the only thing you’re sure of right now. You’re guided back to the platform. The world is off-kilter and strange to you, but you’re the only thing that’s changed. Well, you and Young-il. The two murderers.

You rotate your shoulder so Gi-hun’s hand slips away. You don’t want him to touch you either.

“Clapping our hands together! Singing along as well! La lala lala lala la la la la!”

“Six.”

You’re not sure how it happens. You had meant to grab Gi-hun or Young-il’s hand once the speaker announced the next number, but then the number had been too large to accommodate everyone and there were so many voices layered over each other that you couldn’t hear much of anything. And then you were running, only to realize that it was Dae-ho holding on to you, not Young-il. Not Gi-hun.

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. Just run. Because you keep thinking about what happened the last time you hesitated and you don’t want to do that again. You can’t watch someone else die because of you.

The first room is already full, and you think you catch a glimpse of Player 100 in there, but Dae-ho pulls you away before you can get a proper look. He’s half dragging, half pushing, guiding you several doors down where Hyun-ju stands with her arms flailing. The mother and son go first, then Dae-ho, then you, until you’re all huddled in the far end of the room, panting.

“Young-mi-a.” You look up to see Hyun-ju at the door, her eyes frantic and wide. “Where’s Young-mi-a?”

A small, timid voice just outside cries out. “Unnie!”

Hyun-ju turns so fast, she’s practically a blur. She bolts past the door as the timer begins to count down, just three seconds from zero, only to be brutally shoved backwards as another player comes rushing in. He slams the door shut just in time for the lock to click into place while Hyun-ju crashes directly into you.

“Unnie!”

A face appears in the window – a pair of eyes and the tip of a nose, shaded by dark bangs. Young-mi. The younger girl on Hyun-ju’s team. The one with the sweet eyes who always seems to be trailing after her. All this time, you never knew her name. Now it doesn’t even matter.

She’s slamming her fists against the door, screaming Young-mi’s name, and it’s all too familiar because the way Hyun-ju screams reminds you too much of Gi-hun. The way Young-mi’s body slowly slides down the door reminds you too much of the man you helped to kill.

She screams and tears at the door until the shooting stops, and then she turns on the new player – 333 – with a snarl. Her fingers curl around the collar of his jacket, chipped black polish digging into the fabric. “It's your fault!”

333 practically spits at her. “Don't kid yourself. If I hadn't come in, you'd be dead too.”

“No!” she screams, and you’ve never seen someone so contorted with rage. Not even Gi-hun. “It's your fault! I could have saved her!”

“There was no time!” 333 grabs her by the wrists and pulls until he’s free, then shoves her hands aside. He has no care for the sorrow that carves itself into Hyun-ju’s face and shatters her spirit. He isn’t even being gentle about it. “The moment you went out to save her, you'd have died along with everyone else here for not having enough people!”

He turns on the rest of you then with a shout, even as Hyun-ju cowers in the corner, shaking and sobbing. “I saved your lives! All of you!”

No one says a thing because what is there to say? That you’re glad you’re alive and it’s a real shame that Young-mi is dead? That he’s right? That he’s wrong?

“Isn't that right?” he demands. “Am I wrong?! Well, say something!”

You don’t have anything to say. 333 did what you might have done and Young-mi paid the price for it. There is no consolation, no candied words to soothe a broken heart. There’s no way to turn back the clock and bring her back to life. But, you think, there is the chance to atone for your almost-mistake by offering Hyun-ju the kindness she needs.

You shoulder past 333 without sparing him even a passing glance and you throw your arms around her quivering shoulders. She falls into you without pause, sobbing into your shirt as you lightly pat her on the back.

It’s not okay. It’s not right. You can’t bring Young-mi back and you can’t fix this, but in this moment at least you’re not a monster. At least you’re not the killer this time.

[reignpage]

hello reign *bows down* i had a bit of a horny question heheheheheh what do you think the jjk men say in bed? i saw a prompt like this a while ago and if it’s okay with u i was curious abt how it would be like for the eden jjk men. i offer u this nanami in return 🙏

I will take the Nanami yes thank you

Do you mean like dirty talk? Or pillow talk? Since it’s horny I imagine it’s dirty right?

Okay so,

Gojo: he’s a simp

He whispers and whines about how amazing reader is in every way shape and form. “You’re so beautiful oh my god thank you god thank you thank you,” he groans, skimming his lips down your body, stopping here and there to lick and suck the sweet salt of your skin.

“Oh you taste so good. Like the sweetest candy. God do you have to be perfect in every way, you’re killing me. You’re literally killing me. Wait, actually, can we fuck missionary? Yeah I know it’s basic and vanilla, but god I just really want to see your face. Please? Oh thank you! Baby, I love you so much. Gonna buy you whatever you want later. Yeah I know you can buy it yourself but I just wanna pay. Okay, let’s get to orgasm number 3 with head and then we’re fucking all night old people style.”

It’s literally worship, at every given second. Just praise upon praise upon praise. He always asks too if he’s making her feel good. He wants to be sure he’s giving reader everything she could ever want and more. The type btw to crawl into a ball and cry if he ever EVER came before you.

Geto: instructions and praise

Being a dom, he guides reader through. Talks her through it. “Right there, pretty girl. That’s it. Such a good girl, aren’t you?”

Does occasionally degrade her, but it’s not really her thing and it doesn’t make him feel good so they just don’t do it most of the time

He’s very keen in knowing she’s feeling comfortable and great at all times so he does ask quite a few questions and encourages her to be vocal about how she’s feeling. “You like it here, sweet girl? Yeah? Use your words or I’ll stop. Hmm, that’s more like it.”

Choso: doesn’t do much talking

He’s overwhelmed and overstimulated 24/7 with his reader. He’s being teased left right and centre and he just CANNOT get his bearings omg. He has no idea if it’s night or day, where left and right is, sometimes he even forgets his name.

“W-what? Ngh oh no! Not there p-please! I-I don’t know! Yes yes whatever you -ha- want! T-take it all! O-oh thank you yes yes yes thank you thank you!!”

Toji: oh man

This guy never shuts up once he gets going. He’s just so cocky ugh it’s disgusting. He never gets fucked out like reader and he’s always in control even when he’s not so he knows exactly what buttons to push. Mix of praise and degradation.

“Oh, come on, baby. You gotta ride me better than that. Doll, you’re gonna have to join me in the gym and build up your stamina because this is poor performance on your behalf. Coach would be so disappointed if he knew my girl could barely get three pumps in before giving up. Alright alright, no need to pout at me like that, you’re gonna make my heart stop. biiiiig stretch there we go, my turn yeah? I’ll take care of ya, put my training to good use. There we go, oh yeah. Much better isn’t it? You like it when I fuck you like this no? Damn, the silent treatment? You’re gonna be cruel to your loving boyfriend when he’s kissing your cervix? Oh, damn you’re blacking out. Christ, you’re making a puddle of drool, god you just want me to lose my mind don’t you? Alright, just gonna have to fuck you back to consciousness. Here. We. Go. Oh hey, ma. Good nap? Fucking missed you.”

Nanami: sweet man

Mostly simpy and worshippy. He’s always a gentleman. When he’s leading he’s kinda more on the quiet side, apart from the occasional grunts and moans and ‘oh fuck’. He just doesn’t like the sound of his own voice, he much prefers to listen to reader fr.

But when reader takes control, wanting to be a brat and tease him, he comes under her mercy and he just has no choice but to be vocal.

“No, s-sweetheart, I’m -ha- sensitive there. Oh goodness, t-that feels good yes, where did you learn that? No, never mind, I-I’d rather not know. Oh no, please! T-that’s -oh- that’s no good, you have to stop, I-I only want to cum inside you. May I, sweetheart? Please? It’d be such a waste otherwise.”

Sukuna: degradation only.

“You’re a goddamn whore. What would they all think if they knew their president likes to be fucked like this? Hmm? Answer me! You’re useless. Always so fucking naggy, bossing me around and snapping your fingers at me. Who the fuck do you think you are? Oh that’s right, you’re my girl aren’t you? Yeah, my girl who likes it rough. Is this good for you and your needy pussy? Harder? Ha! Any harder and I’d kill you, idiot. Think with your head not with your pussy once in a while yeah?”

Only sweet after sex.

“Not too sore? Good. No, don’t complain. It was your idea to do it here. Just needed to be fucked on the Dean’s desk, didn’t you? No, I’m not judging you, babe. I’ll fuck you wherever you want. Just musing how amazing you are at holding grudges. It was a nice touch to make me tie you up with his spare tie. Who the fuck keeps a spare tie in their drawer? What a fucking loser. Well, anyways, you took quite a beating there. My bad. Hungry? Nah, you gotta eat something. Come on, wipe the cum from your thighs and let’s get going I’m starved. No? Always gotta be such a princess don’t you? Alright, get on the desk and spread your legs.”

[riqomi]

valentines day ˖ 박성훈

박성훈 ˖ 𝑓em!r .. g. fluff est. relationship ──── BOOKSHELF (894) tw: kissing request? yes

the city was alive with love—shop windows glowing with heart-shaped decorations, couples strolling down the streets, laughter and warmth filling the crisp winter air. the scent of roses and freshly baked chocolate treats lingered around every corner, making everything feel like a scene from a romance movie.

as you wrapped your scarf tighter around your neck, your phone buzzed with a message.

sunghoon: almost ready? i’ll be waiting downstairs.

your heart skipped a beat. sunghoon had been unusually secretive about tonight’s plans, only telling you to dress warmly. you quickly checked your reflection in the mirror, adjusting your coat before heading outside.

when you reached the lobby of your apartment, you spotted him leaning against his sleek black car, hands tucked into the pockets of his long wool coat. the soft glow of the streetlights illuminated his flawless features—his sharp jawline, the tip of his nose slightly pink from the cold, and the familiar half-smirk that made your stomach flutter.

the moment he saw you, his eyes softened, and a slow smile spread across his lips. “hey, gorgeous.”

you laughed, feeling warmth spread through you despite the cold. “you’re being extra smooth today.”

sunghoon opened the car door for you with a playful bow. “i mean, it is valentine’s day. gotta impress my date.”

as he drove through the city, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other occasionally adjusting the heater to make sure you were warm enough, you couldn’t help but admire him. his side profile was breathtaking—the way his lashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks, the gentle hum of his voice when he asked if you were comfortable.

"are you really not gonna give me a hint about where we’re going?" you asked, turning to him with curiosity.

he simply smirked. "nope. you’ll see when we get there."

after a short drive, the car pulled up to a quiet park, the entrance lined with twinkling fairy lights. your eyes widened as you stepped out, the sight before you making your breath hitch.

a private outdoor ice-skating rink lay ahead, nestled between trees dusted with snow. the fairy lights cast a golden glow over the ice, making it look like something straight out of a winter fairytale.

"surprise," sunghoon said, watching your reaction. "i know you always wanted to skate under the stars."

you turned to him in awe. "you planned all this?"

he rubbed the back of his neck, a little bashful. "yeah… i had to book it in advance. didn’t want anyone ruining our moment."

your heart melted at how much thought he had put into this.

after lacing up your skates, you hesitantly stepped onto the ice, wobbling slightly. sunghoon, the natural skater, glided beside you effortlessly.

he chuckled, reaching for your hands. "come here. i won’t let you fall."

you pouted. "that’s easy for you to say, mr. figure skater."

sunghoon only grinned before pulling you closer. his hands wrapped around yours firmly, guiding you as you slowly moved across the ice. the warmth of his touch sent a shiver down your spine, and for a moment, it felt like the entire world had faded away.

"you’re doing great," he murmured, his voice soft as he gazed at you.

"only because you’re holding me up," you teased, laughing as he effortlessly spun you, catching you smoothly before you could stumble.

his arms circled your waist, holding you close. "that’s the plan," he whispered, his breath warm against your skin.

for a moment, neither of you moved. the air between you was thick with unspoken words, your faces just inches apart. the twinkle of the lights reflected in his dark brown eyes, and the way he looked at you—like you were the only person in the world—made your heart hammer in your chest.

"sunghoon…" you whispered.

he reached up, brushing a stray snowflake from your hair before cupping your cheek gently. "can i kiss you?" he asked, his voice barely above a breath.

your lips parted, your breath hitching as you nodded.

sunghoon leaned in slowly, his eyes never leaving yours until the very last moment. then, finally, his lips met yours in a soft, lingering kiss. the world seemed to fade as he kissed you tenderly, his arms tightening around you as if he never wanted to let go. the cold air no longer mattered, the snow falling around you only adding to the magic of the moment.

when he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, a small smile playing on his lips.

"you’re freezing," he murmured, running his thumb over your cheek.

"and whose fault is that?" you teased, breathless.

he chuckled before wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close. "i’ll warm you up," he whispered against your ear, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

as the night stretched on, you skated hand in hand, stopping only to sip hot chocolate from a thermos he had prepared. when it was finally time to leave, sunghoon led you back to the car, but not before pressing another kiss to your lips under the softly falling snow.

"happy valentine’s day, love," he whispered.

"best valentine’s ever," you murmured, leaning into him as he held you close.

and in that moment, under the glow of the city and the quiet whisper of winter, you knew—sunghoon was your forever.

[kenzy-shop]

Michael Kaiser wasn't the type of person to splurge his feelings, his heart, aloud for the whole world to hear-- that was until he met you. He told you everything. If it was small he would tell you, if it was big news, you be the first person to know. Talking with you how his games went (even though you showed up just for him), giving you the inside scoop.

No matter what, he wanted to talk to you, anything would suffice. Today was no different.

After a game in the locker room, Kaiser throws a towel on the ground as hard as he could. Starting you as you look at your clipboard. No one else was in the Bastard Munchen, it was just the two of you and the towel that laid on the floor.

You knew how the game went; you were sitting in you designated seats taking notes per Kaiser request. Though if you weren't present, you would be able to tell how it went due to Kaiser actions and how everyone else acted.

You watch as he swirls around the locker room. His jersey was lying beside you; he only had his shorts on. You could see his blue rose tattoo up from his neck as the vines trailed down his arm to a crown on his hand. Everything you saw it, you felt weak. You didn't know why, it was just a tattoo; but I guess it was just his tattoo and that it was on him.

Kaiser made sharp eye contact with the, his blue catlike eyes staring directly into the [e/c] widen ones. Though as a feline found its prey.

"{Y/n}," He called out to you, pleading you name between his lips.

"Yes, Micha?" Your voice as soft as the wind blew by.

Kaiser fell between your legs, his head resting on your thigh. "Please," He pleads. "Tell me. what do you think?"

Your hands find its way to his check, he leans into your touch though as a cat would purr. "I'm not going to lie to you, Micha. But you could have done better."

That's what he loved about you. You didn't hide behind a bunch of lies to make someone feel better, you told them as it is. Maybe that's why he leaned towards you. He needs that someone to put him in his place and it just too happened to be the person in front of him who he was founding over. Your truth he leaned toward, your touch he needed to feel calm. To feel loved.

"I have your stats on the clipboard if you want them?" You pointed toward where you set the clipboard at your side.

Kaiser blue eyes follow your finger, his checks squished against your thigh, "Can you read them to me, liebe?"

You pick up the clipboard, reading everything to him you wrote down. He listened, tracing his shapes on your thighs. while you tried not to read out of line or repeat the words over and over.

"Thanks," He gave you a soft kiss on your thighs. He gets up from the floor, now calm and collected unlike before.

In his desperate moments, he can trust you. He can trust you won't say anything he mentioned to you, to anyone else. He can trust what you say, having known him for a while now. He can trust you won't use him, take advantage him. He puts his trust in you.

a/n: Sweet Kaiser. I think we all need a break, and here that is my pooks.

[caitchercatlady]

How the TWST Boys Spend Valentine's Day w/You!

The First Years

Ace Trappola

Will be tsundere about it, but with your urging, he takesyou out on the town and will let you pick anything as a present...as long as it doesn't break his wallet...and it's something you can wear for the rest of the day, so you can show it off to everyone. (Ace doesn't mind.) In the night, the two of you will gaze up at the stars. Ace will even pick one to name after you. Will he get the kiss? On the cheek, perhaps.

Deuce Spade

Will surprise you first thing after class with a Blastcycle ride to the ocean. You two will spend teh whole sunset playing in the water, making a wreck of your uniforms. During a short chase game, Deuce catches you, lifting you over the water as you kick some splashes into the open air. Your faces are connecting. Without thinking, Deuce kisses you and he'll only regret it if you react negatively. To both of your surprises, you don't.

Jack Howl

He's not gonna be one to say it, but he's likely the first year to think of this day the most. Jack's been twiddling his thumbs on how you'd react to his surprise. He's not one to go big and public with things like this, but that doesn't matter to you. Jack challenges you to a tree climbing race. It's not like you'll beat him, but the high view of the sunset is worth it. He wants to kiss you, and you know it. You reach for a cheek kiss, but at the last second, Jack whips his head and meets your lips. His tail wags and when he notices, his skin boasts a tomato red. He tries to pretend it didn't happen, but the both of you know it's useless.

Epel Felmier

Hasn't been a fan of the holiday as he's usually the last Valentine's choice. Now that his eyes are set on you, he can't ignore it. It's the morning of, and Epel has been working sleepless on his gift. You arrive to class to find your seat has been decked out in so many sweets that it makes Grim drool. Professor Trein is not pleased, but what's he to do? Underneath the potluck, there sits a heart-shaped card, singing your praises and popping the V-Day question. After class ends, you run out to meet Epel in the hall. Before he can speak, you surprise-kiss him, causing his face to go red as the apples he carves.

Ortho Shroud (Platonic!)

The little robo boy always wanted to partake in the festivities but didn't know how. You offered to teach Ortho how to make cards for friends. Construction paper, markers, scissors, and sentiment are all you need. Not surprising to you, Ortho catches onto the crafts task very quickly...a little too quickly. He makes so many paper hearts that the two of you are unsure how to do anything with them. Ortho, with his fast thinking skills, tosses the paper hearts and decorates the entire living room of Ramshackle with them, shimmering in glittery glory (Ortho's made sure not to get any glitter anywhere it shouldn't be). He asks if this pleases you, and you kiss his cheek to express your appreciation towards your robo friend. Yes. Ortho's first real Valentine's Day is a success.

Sebek Zigvolt

Such folly is not something Sebek would ever decide to partake in. If anything, he finds the concept of dedicating a day to find one's love within 24 hours absurd. There are better things that he can be doing. You jab at him that he only thinks that because Sebek doesn't have a romantic bone in his body. Sebek resents that and goes to prove the opposite. He arranges a date for the day and takes you out for a beautiful horse ride through nature as the sunset slowly sets to the west. At the end of the ride, back to the stables, you are greeted by a stunning setup of flowers. For someone who wasn't interested in Valentine's Day, Sebek had this all figured out. As he helps you off the horse, you sneak him a kiss on the nose as a thank you. Oh, you can't wait to tell everyone how red Sebek's face got.

[awkward-fink]

HC with a taller SO

Price - had never thought he would have a partner that would be taller than him

always was one of those that looked for a smaller one, better for the family pictures, he is the man of the house, the protector

took him a while to get away from that world view that the significant other needs to be smaller, that shapes and sizes don’t really matter when your heart is set on someone

now he can be the meanest ass with manners around the bar, make recruits shiver and tremble before his accomplishments, and he can lean against his SO if the world seems to much to bear

loves being able to just lean back into them, his eyes closed and his nose brushing along their neck without him having to lean down

saves him a lot of back pain

will reach up to cup your neck and yank your head down gently, kissing you with abandon away from prying eyes

no one's business who he is with, don’t you think?

keeps his SO private as long as he can

has you sitting in his lap, regardless that you are taller than him

Ghost

never quite cared about taller or smaller partner

sure, his need to protect always had him on the lookout for someone small to just tug underneath his arm or someone to curl into his side when they needed it

but he soon found out he could do all that and more with an SO that is actually taller than him

now he is the one leaning into the others side, breathing them in, letting their arm settle around his shoulders to lead him away from dump people who wanted to interrupt his date or his time for himself

would not let you kneel on the floor to get things or groceries from the bottom shelves, no Luvie, let him, its easier for him to reach down

he does still protect his SO, will posture in front of them, have them stand behind him to ream the fucking idiot calling you names a new one

he would kill for you, just give him the word and a direction

doesn’t make a fuss out of you, but will proudly linger at your side, glaring at everyone else

full body contact cuddling

Gaz

loves it

you are taller than him? Oh no problem, let him just be in awe of you 

loves that he will never loose you in a mall or anywhere else

loves to go shopping with you, but sharing your frustration when all the nice things happen to be too short on you or fall like a sack

let him hook you up with his sister and his aunt, yes? they can work wonders with fabrics and styles

finds all the online shops for you

actually tries to match your height once with highheels and loves the feeling of it

now he knows why women sometimes wear shoes like that, his legs look amazing!

Gaz also loves to just lay on you and be able to have his touch to the very top part of his head touch you

still wants to be big spoon

will sometimes make jokes about your height, but only lovingly

will ask you to lean down to kiss him in public

will unashamedly sit in your lap on occasion and love on you

Soap

loves this

loves you

cant keep his hands off of you, head tilted back to talk and grin and smile at you

proud to have you as his SO

“Did you see my partner? Yes, you can’t not have, they are absolutely best.”

if you are tall and strong enough to manhandle that man, he is going to ask you to marry him on the spot

loves comparing your palms and then lacing your fingers

has found out that you are ticklish and will abuse that fact to get what he wants

will call you for every item on the top shelves

but will also kneel for you and fetch you everything from the bottom rows, looking up at you with mischief in his eyes

will joke about getting a stepping stool so he can kiss you without one of you having to crane your neck

is the little wild spoon all over you and the bed and in general

feels best after a nightmare to be cocooned in your arms and your legs tangled with his while his head rests over your heart

makes all the dumb jokes “How is the weather up there?” and be proud on any of them

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤

a/n: ——

summary: natasha romanoff x female!reader. based on the movie “the notebook”; you’re allie, nat’s noah

warnings: very light smut

word count: 6k

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

A smell of coffee and grass, wafting in through the open window. You're back on the kitchen island again, legs dangling and eyes tentatively studying Natasha's back as she grabs the carafe. Black liquid, steaming hot and herby, is poured into two mugs.

You see her hesitate as she turns around. Then, she hands you the mug that's chipped at the top.

"We used to share", you muse quietly, blowing on the coffee to cool it down. Natasha's lips tug into a brief smile, then she averts her eyes. The ease that was once so natural between you has changed, but it lingers. It fills the space your silence is leaving empty.

Her eyes trail back to the ring on your finger. She can't help it — she's constantly wondering about who the guy you said yes to is.

Maybe he deserves you. Maybe you are happy. You'd deserve it.

You notice her gaze. For a moment, you're set on not saying anything. But then, you speak.

"College", you say simply. "He sat behind me in class. We went out a few times, then started dating. He's a good guy."

"Treats you right?", Natasha probes, leaning against the counter in front of you.

"Yes", you say — because it's true. Apart from being a little too eager to get married and live that perfect life your parents want for you, he's never done anything that'd make you question his intentions. He's always kind, always respectful, always opening doors and closing zippers for you. "I don't think you'd like him, though."

"Well, that's obvious", she mutters into her coffee. You smile faintly and move your foot, lightly nudging her thigh.

"What about you?"

Natasha hesitates. Truthfully, her relationship history isn't something she'd like to tell you about. A few dates leading to either one night stands or nothing at all. Then, hookups. Sex without feelings. Faces and names blur together in her mind, a collection of strangers who never mattered.

She still doesn't understand why you aren't part of that mess. Why you're the exception, the clarity in her confusion, the memory she can't escape.

Why you're the one she had to end up pushing away.

"Not much happening", Natasha says slowly. You tilt your head and hum, your foot making contact with her knee repeatedly. She grabs your ankle to stop you, but her grip is light and hesitant. "I don't have time for that stuff."

"Right, your spy-career." You nurse your coffee in between words. "How's that working out?"

"Oh, you know." She smiles wryly. "Not exactly nine-to-five."

"No", you agree, pulling your ankle out of her hand. She lets you go willingly. "Anything else?"

Natasha shakes her head and leans against the counter. Her eyes are contemplative as she looks you over, noticing small but obvious changes. The shape of your eyebrows, the length of your hair. The tattoo peeking out from underneath your shirt.

Without thinking too much about it, she steps closer. Her hand gently pushes the neckline of the shirt aside, revealing your inked skin.

Tiny, delicate stars surround your collarbone. Natasha swallows, her heart suddenly thumping in her ear.

"New?", she asks, as if it isn't obvious. Her thumb brushes over the ink, tracing the pattern the stars are forming. Like a small constellation, but on your body.

You try not to react to her touch, but it's a hopeless case. You've always been a sucker for this woman, and even now that you're engaged to someone else, it hasn't changed.

"Yeah", you murmur, glancing at her hand before looking at her face again. She seems mesmerized. "Had it done last year."

Her thumb lingers a second too long. You feel it press against the biggest star.

"It's nice", she finally says. "Suits you."

You hum softly in response, not daring to move. Her thumb stills, but her hand doesn't move away. She's stuck between pulling back and giving in, like she doesn't quite trust herself in that moment.

Reminding herself that you're engaged hurts, so she doesn't do it. Instead, her eyes flicker back up to meet yours.

You set your coffee aside. You lift your hand. You feel her fingers under your palm.

"I've been thinking about you, you know", Natasha admits, her voice barely above a breath. "Every day."

"You left", you point out, squeezing her fingers.

"I shouldn't have."

You don't say anything. Instead, you let go of her hand and pull away. Your skin feels oddly cold when she finally removes her hand. The spell between you, however, is hard to break. Electric currents flow back and forth, the communication silent and the sparks fresh.

Dangerous territory. Simon is waiting for you.

You can't find it in you to care.

"It took me a year", you say slowly, "to get over you. I thought I'd never see you again."

You reach for the ring on your hand, the one that Simon gave you, and start twisting it. Natasha looks at it, and suddenly, it feels heavy on your finger.

"It was never supposed to be like this", she murmurs, searching your eyes for something she's not sure she can find. "I didn't want to hurt you. I thought...you know, only two months..."

"Quality over quantity", you mumble, and Natasha's lips quirk up for a reason you're not aware of. "I missed you, you know. A lot. I didn't talk to my mom for about a month afterwards."

"Figures." She laughs, her voice raspy and quiet. "She never cared much for me, huh."

"No", you agree, smiling sadly.

Natasha nods, her hands resting on either side of your thighs on the counter now. She pauses, unsure whether she even wants the answer to this question, but she keeps going anyway.

"What about Simon?"

"Oh." Your expression turns a little more pensive, but you don't seem too happy. "She adores him. I think it was her who gave him the idea to propose this early."

"Must be a solid guy", she comments, grabbing her coffee mug to take a sip. "Can't believe your parents are actually capable of liking someone."

"As long as they're not you...", you trail. To both of your surprise, she laughs.

"Yeah, yeah."

You smile and look at her. Really look at her this time. The specks of yellow in her green eyes, the birthmark on her cheek, the new scar just below her lip. It's faint, almost gone, but you stare at it.

"I cared for you", you finally say, mumbling. She's not sure whether your own words are registering in your head, but she finds she doesn't care. Hearing them is enough — she doesn't need to know whether what you're saying is sincere.

It is.

"Mhm?", she murmurs.

"I still care", you say, looking into her eyes again.

You feel the air between you thicken. Natasha breathes in, sharp and slow, her gaze flickering to your lips.

So much has changed, so much is new. The ring, the tattoo, even your smile. But the pull is still there, and she doesn't resist it.

She steps closer. Your mouth opens, then closes. You feel her hands cup your face.

Then, she kisses you. Her lips press against yours, your arms wrap around her, everything surrounding you vanishes into thin air. Both a relief and a reckoning, something that will change everything no matter how it goes.

The kiss, soft but insistent at first, quickly turns deeper. Your lips part automatically, and you suddenly taste her on your tongue. Coffee, something uniquely Natasha's, mixing together and turning your entire body to mush.

There it is again, that funny feeling. The feeling that maybe nobody can ever compare to her, that you'll be chasing this forever. That your engagement was more of a mistake than this is, that you'll end up right here time after time again.

You let out a muffled, whiny sound, and Natasha pulls away. She's out of breath already, with her pupils blown wide and her heart hammering.

Any sort of rational thinking goes out the window at the sight. You dive into another kiss, your hands grasping the fabric of her jacket. She almost breaks the kiss, but you're oh so sweet and warm, so familiar still, and her hands run under your shirt to feel your skin.

Sex should be the last thing on your mind, considering you're an engaged woman. But your hands are slipping the jacket off her shoulders already.

Your feet thud against the ground as Natasha pulls you off the counter. You walk backwards, keeping her close by holding onto her shirt, until you feel the familiar curve of the couch's armrest against your thighs. She pushes you down onto the soft cushions, hair sprawled out under your head, and tugs your shirt up.

She breaks the kiss only to take off your shirt, then presses her lips against your jaw. She trails kisses down your neck until she reaches the stars around your collarbone.

Natasha pauses for a moment, her breath brushing against your inked skin. You're both flushed, panting quietly, the house suddenly more silent than it's ever been. It reminds you of those nights you spent here, wrapped up in each other as you stared out the window.

Your eyes meet. The hesitation is palpable. But you cup her face, and she kisses your palm, and then she dips her head to press kisses against the swell of your breast. Her lips drag across your skin, down to your stomach and over your hips.

Her fingers push the thin fabric of your shorts down to your knees. Your thighs part when she puts her hands on either one of them. Her lips trail kisses along your cunt before pushing her tongue into you. Your back arches off the couch and suddenly, everything is okay again.

. . .

You soon realize that the aftermath is yet another one of those things that have changed.

Your clothes are scattered on the floor somewhere, but you don't care enough to look for them. You're more concerned about the red marks on your skin. The room is silent again, save for the chirping of the birds outside. You turn your head to look at Natasha.

Her arm is draped over your waist and her head is on your chest. Her lips brush against your skin every so often. Featherlight kisses that tickle, but also make the feeling of guilt on your chest get heavier.

Then she looks up, and the guilt mixes with longing.

You missed her.

"Natasha", you mumble, making her study your face tentatively. For the first time in what seems like forever, she feels like she can't quite figure out what you're thinking.

"Yeah?", she mumbles back.

"I can't feel my arm."

She pauses, and then she laughs. The relief is visible in her eyes.

"Sorry", she says, shifting her weight so you can free your arm. You smile and smooth down her hair with your free hand. Then, your expression turns more serious.

"We shouldn't have done this", you admit, hand resting on the side of her head. Her expression falters, but she manages to hide it in time. "I mean, I- I'm engaged. We weren't thinking straight."

"We?", Natasha says, sitting up slightly and running her hand through her hair. She sounds almost defensive. "You think I didn't know what I was doing?"

"Were you?", you ask, just as defensively. "I'm engaged, if I need to remind you."

"You might want to remind yourself", she says. "You're the one with the fiancé sitting at home. All I did was-"

"What, huh? All you did was fuck the engaged woman?"

Natasha's on her feet before you can stop her. She stands there, her gaze cutting through your naked form.

"That's not fair", she snaps. "I'm not the one who showed up at your place."

"I didn't know you'd come here!"

"So?", she shouts. "It's my house. Just because we spent time here together a few years ago doesn't mean you can just waltz in!"

"No, obviously", you yell, grabbing your shirt with shaky hands and slipping it on. "But you could waltz out, right? Just waltz out, leave me behind with the shittiest explanation known to man-"

Your words make her flinch. She's been feeling guilty enough for the past few years; she didn't need to hear you throw it in her face again, even if you have a point.

She left. She explained why, but it was all sudden and vague and unfair. And now you're both back, back where it got serious, where you fell in love and where it all crumbled in the end.

Right now, you're not sure there ever was an end. It feels more like a very, very long break.

"I was protecting you!"

"'Protect me'? That's your excuse? That's what you've been telling yourself the whole time to sleep at night?"

"It's not an excuse", she snaps, her voice rising. "You think I wanted to leave? Because I didn't."

"Well, you did it anyway", you spit back. "And here we are again, repeating that same cycle. You just showed up and reminded me of everything I spent years trying to forget."

"I didn't ask you to forget", she says, quieter now. You swallow at the tone of her voice and look away from her. You can feel tears prick in your eyes, but you blink them back stubbornly. "Y/N, all I would've done is ruin your life. I needed you to be safe."

"It hurt", you mutter. "Leaving me behind like that wasn't the right way to handle anything. I didn't even have a choice."

"I know it did", she says, taking a tentative step closer. "I thought it was the right thing to do. I didn't want any of it to happen like that, but knowing you're safe was a priority. It still is."

"Yeah." You let out a shaky laugh and wipe at your eyes. "I was safe. And then this happened. Fuck you, Natasha. Genuinely."

You turn around and grab your shoes, Natasha staring at you. You put on your jacket, adjust your hair, avoid eye contact. And then, you're walking to the door.

"You're leaving?", she asks.

"You left first", you hiss. Your hand reaches out for the doorknob, but before your skin can come into contact with the cold metal, Natasha wedges herself between you and the door. You look up, eyes blazing with emotion. "Move."

"I'm not letting you walk away."

"Natasha, move!"

"No." Her eyes are locked on yours. "I'm not letting you run. Not from this."

"What's the use? You'll end up leaving anyway!"

"I'm not going anywhere this time!"

The words hang in the air, heavy and unyielding. Your eyes hold hers despite the urge to look away, run, maybe be the one to not return this time.

But you don't. You keep staring, the tears in your eyes blurring your vision.

"How can you say that?", you finally ask, voice cracking. "You can't pretend it'll be different this time. Because it won't."

"You can't know that", she says firmly. "I made a mistake, and I'm not making that mistake again."

You swallow and shake your head. Natasha stares at you, chest rising and falling quickly, her emotions a mess. Again, she has no idea what you're thinking — and it drives her insane.

"Natasha, I have a life now", you whisper. "I can't just leave that behind."

"Simon", she states simply, and you nod.

Simon. The guy you smiles when you laugh, who cooks your favorite meals for you, who said he'd stay.

The guy you cheated on. Because, deep down, you know he isn't Natasha.

Again and again, you ask yourself why those two months of your life had to have such an impact on you. They were enough to make you ruin your relationship with your fiancé, after all. At least you're pretty sure it's ruined.

"Yeah", you say, voice biting. You're latching onto his name like a lifeline. "Simon. He's safe, he's reliable, he's...good. And guess what? He's in New York, waiting for me."

"I'm aware", she says, the irritation she's feeling at the sound of his name evident. "But do you love him?"

"Of course I love him!", you snap. "I'm engaged to him!"

"That doesn't always equal love, idiot!"

"Don't call me that!" You ball your hands into fists to stop yourself from reaching out for her. "You don't get to question my relationship, my choices, after- after everything you did!"

Natasha doesn't waver. "I'm questioning it because I know you! Why else would you be here, huh? Sleeping in my house."

"Because I missed you! And I missed how I felt when I was with you! But that's in the past!"

Those words are enough to break that last bit of determination you've been hanging onto. Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry — you've been repeating those same words like a mantra, but at this point, it's useless. The tears stream down your face, hot and salty, and Natasha's eyes widen.

You stagger back, hands on your knees, trying to catch your breath through the sobs. Every part of you aches, and the fact that she's the cause — that she's still got such a hold on you after so much time — makes it hurt even more.

"Y/N", Natasha says, voice breaking. Before you can register what's happening, she wraps you into her embrace.

For a moment, you stiffen. You push back against her chest, shaking your head, but she's stubborn. One hand running through your hair, the other on your back, and you melt into her like it's second nature.

You turn your head to bury your face against her neck. You inhale a shaky breath, her scent suddenly hitting you at full force again. Earlier, when you were both naked and intertwined on the couch, you realized it already — but the thought hits you again anyway.

Her scent hasn't changed one bit.

Of course you missed her.

"I'm sorry", she says, letting you lean your entire weight on her. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I wanted to keep you safe. Your future...it's all planned out. It's safe, and it's normal, and god knows I'm not. I didn't...I..."

"I hate you", you sob against her shoulder.

"I know", she mumbles. "Right now, I'm not too fond of myself either."

You shake your head and press into her with more force, like you're about to burrow yourself into her chest. "I hate you because I love you."

Natasha presses kisses against your neck, but they don't seem to signal in your mind. You stay in her arms until the tears slow down, then they cease entirely. Her shoulder is warm and wet from your tears, but her grip on you never falters. Neither of you speak.

Hours pass, then days. Somehow, you stay. It's not an active decision — you just never decide to leave. You fall into a rhythm, a fragile kind of peace that feels like walking on a tightrope. Mornings bring quiet conversations over coffee; afternoons drift by in stolen glances and unspoken questions. And at night, you find yourselves drawn back to each other, like gravity pulling you into an orbit you'd never quite escaped.

At least for the next few weeks, you don't leave.

. . .

At first, there's this distance.

It's quiet, not spoken about. It shows in the small things: how you're on one end of the couch and Natasha on the other, how morning kisses and sex seem to have gone out the window. Conversations are short and hesitant, as if you're trying not to let this fragile connection between the two of you break suddenly.

In the end, a phone call is enough to snap you both back into a reality in which nothing seems easier than loving each other.

It's Natasha's phone that rings, right as she's outside repairing the old canoe. You're at the table, one leg propped up on the chair and your hair wrapped into a towel. The screen lights up as the device starts buzzing.

You peek at the name on the screen.

Peter.

A familiar name. It makes you take a better look at the picture of whoever's calling. A guy, somewhere around your age, pulling up a red mask and smiling widely into the camera.

A familiar smile, too. And then, you realize that Natasha and you may have a mutual friend.

You stare at the screen for another second, in quiet disbelief. Peter never mentioned Natasha, nor did she mention him.

"Natasha!", you finally call out. "Someone's calling you."

"Be right there!"

Another moment later, she appears in the doorway, hair wet and hands slick with grease. She wipes them on a towel as she glances at her phone — and then she pauses. Surprise, mixed with worry, flickers across her face.

"You gonna answer that?", you ask, feigning indifference.

She shakes her head and grabs the phone. "Yeah, it's just— gimme a second."

She answers the call with a swipe. You resist the urge to press her as she steps outside. Her voice softens, but you can still hear her clear as day.

"Hey, Pete. What's up?"

You hear Peter's voice and, immediately, any last doubt vanishes. This is your Peter, the same guy who's been your best friend for the past ten years. You don't know what to make of that, but a warm feeling pools in you.

You don't mean to eavesdrop, but it's hard when Natasha lingers just outside the open window.

"Yeah, I'm still out of town... Yeah, she's with me... No, just taking care of some stuff... Well, tell Stark that he can go screw himself. I'll get in touch."

She's with me — Peter knows, or at least assumed, you're with Natasha. Sure, you told him her name, but...was that enough information?

You shift in your chair, pretending to be busy with the strands of hair sticking out from underneath the towel. But you can't help it — you want to find out how Natasha knows Peter, and why they sound like they're actually close. Not just acquaintances, but friends.

Eventually, she returns. The look on her face is wary, like she's expecting you to accuse her of something. But you just smile tentatively.

"So. You might want to tell me something."

"Yeah?" She gives you a suspicious look and leans against the doorway, eyebrows furrowed.

"Mhm." You tilt your head. "Were you going to tell me you know my best friend?"

Natasha goes quiet for what feels like an eternity. The look on her face is reluctant, like admitting to something that's already obvious is one of the hardest things she's had to do.

"Okay", she says, slowly, "maybe I know him."

"'Maybe'?"

"Okay, I definitely know him."

You hum, pretending to be intrigued. "Right. How does he know I'm with you, anyway?"

Her eyes narrow. "You were eavesdropping."

"Not eavesdropping if you're right outside the window."

"Y/N..."

"Come on", you press. "No more secrets, right?"

"No", she agrees, her jaw set stubbornly. Then she sits down in front of you and unlocks your phone, sliding it in front of you. You see a picture of a few people, Natasha and Peter in it as well. "We've worked together a few times. Don't know if he told you, but..."

"Oh god. He's Spider-Man?!"

"Pretty much", she mumbles, glancing at you. You look at her, your eyes meet, and you manage to crack a smile. "You seem way too relaxed."

"After your little revelation three years ago", you say drily, handing her the phone again, "nothing can shock me that quickly. I mean, I should've guessed. No one can have that many internships."

Natasha nods, a small smile escaping her. She studies you again, then brushes her fingertips over the back of your hand. Her touch lingers, as does her gaze. You glance down, then back up at her, surprised to find her watching you so intently.

"What?", you mumble, voice soft.

"Nothing. You just...really haven't changed."

"Is that good or bad?"

Natasha's hand squeezes yours. The feeling of your engagement ring against her palm is cold and unwelcome. "Good. Definitely good."

You hum, tilting your head. "So", you start, leaning back in your chair. "How does he know I'm here? With you?"

The silence lingers for just a second, but the way her eyes dart away is a rare tell of hesitation that makes you notice it immediately.

"I told him", she says carefully.

"What? Just now?"

"Not exactly."

You narrow your eyes at her and sit up straighter. "What do you mean?"

She pulls back, her eyes flickering around the room. "He figured it out a while ago", she begins. "That you and I know each other. Back then, after that summer-"

"The summer you left."

"Right. Well, you talked about us. Told him my name, too."

You stare at her. "And?"

"And he connected the dots", she continues, looking down as her fingers fidget with the edge of her phone. "I told him not to tell you anything. But..."

Your eyebrows shoot up. There's more?

You exhale slowly and rub your temples. You can feel the headache kick in. "But...?"

"I told him to keep an eye on you. Make sure you're okay."

"Natasha!"

"I'm sorry!", she quickly says, holding up her hands. "I needed to know you're safe, okay?"

"'Safe'?", you echo. "Are you kidding me? Safe from what, you?"

"From everything", she shoots back. "From the world, from people who might hurt you. And yeah, maybe from me, too."

"God", you groan, scrubbing your hands down your face. "You're unbelievable."

"It's Peter who told me about your engagement", she continues. "And- and Simon. All I wanted to know was that you're okay, and he-"

"He played matchmaker?"

She shrugs, tentatively meeting your gaze. What she's telling you is shocking you to your core, but the look in her eyes? Damn it — it's one you're still falling in love with.

"I didn't mean for all of this to happen", she admits quietly. "I just wanted to talk. And then..."

"Then we had sex."

"Pretty much."

You let the words sink in. Her eyes still hold that same weight of guilt but, somehow, you can't find it in you to be angry. Even if you probably should be.

"You don't get to meddle in my life like that", you say slowly. "You don't get to show up when I've moved on."

Natasha nods and covers her face with her hands. Her voice is quiet, defeated. "I know."

"You also...", you lean in and peel her hands off her face, "don't realize how damn lucky you are. Anyone with even a tiny bit of self respect would've kicked you out."

Her lips quirk into the faintest of smiles. You lean in and kiss her forehead, feeling the lingering warmth of the sun on her skin.

"You're an idiot", you state. "Do you realize that? You slept with an engaged woman."

Natasha shifts in her seat. "I met said engaged woman first."

"You also left her."

"Fair enough", she mutters. Her eyes close when you press another kiss to her forehead. "Is said engaged woman still mad at me?"

"I'm mad at you, yes", you murmur, gently caressing her cheeks. "And at Peter, that idiot. He should've told me."

She nuzzles into your touch like a cat. You kiss her cheek, then pull away, but your hands keep cradling her face. Her cheeks are warm and rosy, which shouldn't work as well with her rough edges as it somehow does.

Her eyes flutter open again. You smile faintly and press your thumbs into her cheeks. Any anger you should be feeling is buried beneath something else — something that, after all these years, still ties you to her.

"I told Peter not to tell you", she says, reaching up to gently grasp your wrists. "I was also the one who kept asking about you. Don't be mad at him, just be mad at me."

"You're cute", you mumble. "I'll still kick his spiderweb-shooting ass, though."

"I don't think it actually shoots spiderwebs."

"No?" You grin and trace her jaw with your pinkies. "Oh, right. He's got that wrist-thing going on. Whatever, I'm still new to his secret identity."

Natasha smiles and turns her head, her lips brushing against your palm. For a moment, you stay like this — enclosed in the summery heat of the kitchen, with the sun flooding in through the windows and her skin against yours.

It's not the same as it was. Maybe it never will be. But whatever you have seems to be enough.

. . .

You manage to spend two full peaceful weeks with each other.

They unfold in a way you hadn't expected — slow, quiet, enjoying the privacy her house offers. Tucked away into the countryside like this, you're always alone. Just you and her, making up for the time lost.

Mornings in the lake and nights on the mattress in her bedroom. Skin against skin, ragged breathing, flushed cheeks.

Breakfasts on the porch, dinners in the kitchen. You're in her lap more often than not.

Her hand holds yours, fingers occasionally brushing against the engagement ring there. A quiet nudge to take it off. You keep it on anyway.

You can't help it. Even if you love Natasha, you still have feelings for Simon. You can't just magically erase those two years you spent with him. For an entire while, he offered you a future when you thought you'd never have one.

You can tell that, on some level, it bothers her. She pretends that's not the case, but you know it's true. You're in her bed, kissing her, holding her, while wearing his ring. It'd bother you as well, and you're certain she's not a fan of it.

Natasha knows how to hide it, though. Her eyes give nothing away.

As more time passes, it gets harder for her.

Simon calls, and he calls often. You'll grab your phone and excuse yourself, only to linger in the dimly lit hallway with your back against the wall. One hand in your hair, the other holding the phone, and the floor cold underneath your bare feet. Mosquito bites litter your legs, and you count them as you listen to him talk.

It's nothing unusual —

"How are you?"

"Sleep well?"

"I found this great venue."

"Cream and lilac sound good? I'm fine with anything."

"When are you coming home?"

— but with each call, the gnawing feeling of guilt gets worse.

And then, he calls you at night. This will turn out to be the tipping point of it all.

You're in bed, next to Natasha. Hands on her chest as you kiss her, feeling the soft skin under your palms. You wrap your leg around her waist to pull her closer. Before anything can go further, though, your phone starts buzzing.

You pull away from her with a sigh and glance at the screen. You should've expected to see Simon's name on it.

After a few seconds of hesitation, you slip your phone under the pillows. Natasha gives you a puzzled look.

"He can wait", you mumble, scooting closer again. She wraps her arms around you and kisses your cheek. "Just let me have this for tonight."

"Not just tonight", she murmurs back. Her lips trail across your neck.

You let the phone ring. Then, the buzzing stops.

An hour later, it starts again. And again. And again. Eventually, you throw your phone into the bushes outside the window.

Bad idea — when you retrieve it in the morning, you have fifteen missed calls. Three of those are from your parents.

"Oh, for fuck's sake", you mutter, brushing some dirt off your feet. You go back inside, where Natasha is busy making coffee.

"Everything okay?" Her voice is distant, too neutral. You pause and set your phone aside, wincing when it starts to buzz again.

"I'm good", you mumble. You quickly silence the call. "Just...my parents."

"Yeah?" She turns around, stirring her coffee a little more firmly than usual. "What happened?"

You shift and lean against the counter. Her eyes narrow. "I haven't been picking up their calls. Simon's, too."

Natasha pauses, then sighs. She sets her mug aside. "Y/N..."

"I need time", you plead. You know where this is about to go, and you don't like it. "I mean, we're engaged. I can't just, you know..."

"Make a choice? Stop lying?"

"Hey", you say, frowning. "That's not fair."

"It isn't?" Natasha shakes her head. "I get it. He's your fiancé, and whatever. But you'll have to make a choice someday."

You avert your eyes and instead stare at the tiled floor of the kitchen. You hear her feet pad across the tiles as she leaves the room.

Your phone starts buzzing again. This time, Peter's name appears on the screen. You still hesitate before answering, but in the end, you pick up the phone and swipe to answer.

"Hey, Parker."

"Y/N! Thank god! Oh man, you won't believe what's happening. Dude, why aren't you picking up your mom's phone calls? And Simon's? They've been spamming me for hours! They're worried sick."

You frown and straighten up, hand resting on the counter next to you. "Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously!"

"Dammit", you mutter, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment. Your parents are relentless — once they figure out something's not right, they won't stop until a) they know exactly what's going on, and b) have stopped said thing from continuing. "What did you tell them?"

Silence. One that makes your stomach twist.

"Peter", you say, voice sharper now, "what the hell did you tell them?"

"Nothing! I just..." He scrambles for words. "I told them you weren't with me. They- they asked about Nat. And I, uh-"

"Tell me you didn't", you snap, panicking. "Please."

"I didn't! Not like that, anyway. Uh, they might be looking for you though."

"Fuck!"

"Don't yell in my ear!"

"Y/N?"

You turn around. Natasha's in the doorway, arms crossed. You can't quite tell what she's thinking, but it's not positive.

"Peter, I'll call you later", you say absently before hanging up. Natasha silently raises her eyebrows and you sigh. "My parents. They, uhm..."

"You put off making a decision", she cuts you off, "and now they're making it for you."

"It's not like that", you quickly argue. "They're not making any decisions for me. Not anymore."

"Oh yeah?" She stops in front of you, her jaw tense with worry. "Then why can't you do it? Call off the engagement, tell them."

"Because it's not that easy." You exhale shakily and rub your face. Natasha softens and steps closer, her hands running up and down your arms. "I spent my whole life like this. Doing what they want. I'm not used to putting my foot down."

"You have to make a choice."

"Natasha, I-"

"No, I mean it." She lets go of you and crosses her arms instead. "Make a choice, Y/N. What do you want?"

"I don't know!"

"You don't know?" Natasha lets out a bitter laugh. "You don't know? Y/N, what do you want?"

"I want you!", you snap. "But it's not that easy!"

"Why?", she asks, searching your face. "What about it isn't?"

"Nothing about it is!"

Your phone buzzes again. Frustrated, you grab it and answer the call. "What the fuck do you want?", you bark.

It takes a few seconds for the caller to say something. "Y/N, have you lost your mind?"

Simon. Baffled, you glance at Natasha, who doesn't say anything. Even her expression doesn't change. Hearing his voice, however muffled it may be, caused a surge of irritation to rush through her.

"Sorry", you eventually say, rubbing your forehead. "What is it?"

"You haven't answered my calls in hours! Are you okay??"

"I'm okay", you say and look at Natasha. The look in her eyes — tense, hesitant, wary — makes you pause. Suddenly, you've made up your mind. "Actually? I think we need to talk."

[h50europe]

Day nine of @bucktommyfluffebruary - Moving in together

Under a clear, sparkling night sky, Tommy stood on the front porch of his cozy home and stared out at the bustling city lights that shimmered like a blanket of stars. The memory of the last time this moment had taken shape haunted him- the day Buck had asked him the life-changing question about moving in together. Tommy's heart had been filled with so much doubt then. He had walked out, his fears chaining him to an emotional prison. Buck had always been understanding, but Tommy's own insecurities and deep-seated fear of heartbreak had made him run.

Tommy took a deep breath and returned to the living room, where Buck sat on the couch, absentmindedly flipping through a book. The unasked question hung heavy in the air, a palpable tension between them. This time, Tommy knew it was his turn to flip the script. He walked over, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Evan, can we talk for a minute?" Tommy said, his voice shaking slightly.

Buck looked up, a mixture of curiosity and concern in his eyes. "Of course, Tommy. What's up?"

Tommy sat down beside him, gathering his thoughts. He needed to explain why he had changed his mind, why this time was different. "I've been thinking a lot about us," he began, struggling to keep his voice steady. The last time we talked about moving in together, I walked out because I was scared. I was scared that if things went wrong, it would break my heart."

Buck's eyes widened slightly, surprise etched on his face. He hesitated, then reached for Tommy's hand, unsure where the conversation was heading.

"But I've realized something important since then," Tommy continued, his voice shaking. "You have been my constant, my strength. I can't function without you. I want to wake up next to you and share the mundane and memorable moments with you. I've been scared because I care so much, but that's exactly why I want us to take this step. My love for you is unconditional."

He looked into Buck's eyes and felt a surge of emotion. "Evan, will you move in with me?"

For a moment, there was silence - a seemingly endless pause that felt like an eternity. Buck's expression was a mixture of surprise and hesitation, processing the weight of Tommy's words. Eventually, a warm smile began to form on Buck's face, his eyes shining with love and understanding.

"I was afraid you would never ask me, Tommy," Buck said softly, his voice filled with emotion. "I've been waiting for this day. Yes, let's make this our home together."

Tommy's heart swelled with relief and joy. The night sky outside seemed to shine a little brighter, as if the universe was celebrating their decision. He had taken another leap of faith. Only this time, Buck was right there, ready to take the leap with him.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two weeks later, Buck stood in the doorway of his now-empty apartment, a moving box in one hand. He paused, his free hand gently brushing the doorframe as memories flooded his mind. He thought of Taylor, who had once lived here with him but had chosen her career as a journalist over their relationship. Then there was Natalia, the death doula, who seemed more fascinated by Buck's story of being dead for three minutes and seventeen seconds than by the fact that he was alive and breathing. And, of course, the surreal experience of helping to deliver a baby boy who was technically his, the result of his decision to be a sperm donor. As he thought about the baby boy, a fleeting thought crossed his mind: what if he and Tommy had children of their own someday? He shook his head. First, they needed to move in and see how things worked out. Buck looked around one last time; it had been tumultuous times.

He closed the door behind him with a sense of finality and took a deep breath, ready to begin this new chapter. Buck carried the box filled with the remnants of his past down to his car and drove to Tommy's house, where a new beginning awaited.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

At Tommy's house, they placed this last box among all the others, stacks of cardboard symbols of their lives together. They looked at the sea of boxes, knowing that much work lay ahead to make this house their home. But amid the chaos and the daunting task ahead, they felt a deep sense of unity and purpose.

Buck turned to Tommy, his eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and anticipation. "We can do this," he said, his voice determined.

Tommy smiled and nodded. "Yes, we do."

They hugged, holding each other tightly, finding comfort and strength in their bond. The road to get here hadn't been easy, but as they stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, they knew they had made the right decision. They were ready to face the future together, with love as their guide.

So, amidst the chaos of moving boxes and the promise of a new beginning, they knew they had taken the first real step toward a life together.

[mydearestbeloved]

Chapter 24 [Draft]

Sung Jinwoo/Trial Player!Reader

Content Warnings: Implications of being stabbed and decapitated.

[Masterlist🦋✨️]

Opening your eyes slowly, you found yourself back in that place.

The world that existed somewhere between reality and a dream, where the bejeweled night an ever-watchful presence over rows upon rows of spider lilies stretching out into the horizons. Where the stems of gently swaying crimson blooms surfaced from the shallow expanse of water, liquid ground a crystalline mirror to the galaxies above. The unknown breeze felt sacred, as though the universe itself dared not intrude.

"Excuse me," a voice called out softly, breaking the tranquility.

You turned, the flowing silken fabric of your dress trailing behind you like a whisper. Standing a few paces away, your gaze fell upon a man—a tall, rugged figure with a tattered ensemble. His appearance was worn, speaking of battles fought in places far harsher than this one. But it wasn’t the state of his attire that caught your attention—it was his sharp, more experienced, gray eyes and shaggy black hair.

He was achingly familiar, tugging at the edges of your memory.

A picture on page, one that reminded you so much of—

The man moved, dropping to one knee with his head bowed in solemn respect.

"I'm—"

"Sung Il-Hwan." his name fell from your lips as though it had always been there, just waiting on the tip of your tongue. Thus your voice carried certainty, soft yet steady. "There's no need to bow to me, Mr. Sung. Please, stand."

For a moment, he remained still. Then, the corner of his lips lifted in a quiet chuckle. “As expected, you already know my identity.”

He rose to his full height, his presence imposing yet not unkind. There was something about him—something that felt both formidable and comforting. It felt like he regarded you with a newfound warmth compared to the previous formality.

“Then, I believe this little one is yours."

Il-Hwan extended his hand, revealing a soft light cupped within his palm. As the glow dimmed, you saw it—a delicate, silvery-blue butterfly, its fragile body shimmering faintly. But your breath caught at the sight of its missing wing, the severed fragment lying beside it like a fallen petal.

"Aria!"

The name tumbled out of you, laced with panic. Without hesitation, you gathered the front of your dress and hurried toward him, mindful not to trip on the pooling fabric. The little beads clinking subtle chimes as chaining ripples formed beneath bare steps light, not a single splash to be seen.

Il-Hwan watched as you approached, his eyes softening, the quiet curiosity barely hidden now. His hand remained steady, allowing the weakened summon to crawl from his fingers to your cupped hands. Handling the broken wing with utmost care, he placed it beside the tiny creature.

Aria trembled faintly in your hold, her tiny movements making your brows furrow further.

“Mama…I’ve…returned…”

The small whimper at the end, carried through your bond, broke your heart.

Hush now, child. You’re in no shape to let out a tune.

To her, the sound was tender yet firm, urging her to rest. Your eyes traced the jagged edge of her missing wing—a clean, circular cut, as though a shard of crystal had severed it at high speed. A faint trail of glimmering dust clung to the wound, the remnants of her former splendor scattering like lost stars.

"Poor thing found me at an unfortunate time," Il-Hwan began, his tone apologetic. "She got caught in my skirmish with the Monarch of Frost. I managed to spot her just in time and shield her before it was too late."

He sighed, a tinge of regret, as if he wished this meeting had taken place under better circumstances. “I suppose you’ve been trying to reach me for quite some time?”

"Yes." you whispered, the word barely audible as you cradled Aria closer. Gently, you stroked her remaining wing with your thumb, channeling a soothing pulse of your healing into her form. The faint golden glow of your power intertwined with her oceanic glitter, igniting the smallest flicker of life back into her.

Still, Aria shivered, as if just now registering how freezing she was in contrast to your touch.

Did she absorb too much of the Frost Monarch’s magic as a defense mechanism? Then the opposing energy that managed to tied her over until now was—

"Thank you for saving her." you said at last, lifting your gaze to Il-Hwan with sincerest gratitude.

Il-Hwan waved it off with a small smile. "No need to thank me, Young Lady. It’s all in a day’s work."

His voice was lighthearted, but something flickered in his gray eyes. A shift so subtle, so fleeting, that it almost went unnoticed.

Sadness. Longing. A sorrow that lingered like the ghost of a memory.

For a single, unguarded moment, his smile faltered.

The words had left his lips so effortlessly, yet you could sense it—the quiet ache of a man who had once said them often, long before his life had unraveled.

A life in another time.

You wondered what he was thinking of in that moment. The past, his own struggles, the lives left behind, the moments missed, what he had to do now, what he could do now, with little chance to reconcile—his losses.

You couldn’t help but saw a reflection of him again.

Like father, like son—couldn’t have rung truer.

Before you could speak, Il-Hwan continued. “As a matter of fact, you saved me the effort.”

Before your eyes, his irises turned bright yellow, and your breath hitched.

"Young Lady, I have a message for you."

My body…why am I reacting like this?  

His words carried an off-placed weight, as though he were no longer just a man but a conduit for something far greater.

{Flee.}

The glitching voice—distant yet achingly familiar—sent a shiver down your spine. A pang of dread lodged itself deep within. A mounting of it with no identifiable source. At least, none that made sense.

Your heart pounded painfully against your ribs, and your throat started to close up, cutting off air supply. You took a step back—

Your hands twitched on instinct, a chain of motions you weren’t fully aware of, muscles bracing to envelop Aria in a protective cocoon. Subtle, hidden, as if one wrong move and you would—

“Ma…ma…?”

Aria’s weak, worried call echoed, but it was distant, muffled, as though she were calling to you from behind a thick veil. Your breath came short. You felt suffocated, like the air itself grew thick, pressing down on you with an unseen force.

{What are you doing?}

Even in this state, you managed a quick glance over her before sending her away—back home, back to safety. You had to. You had to.

"They would like to have an audience with you."

The words sent a ripple through your consciousness, like a drop of ink bleeding into water. You went rigid. It felt as though you had lost control of your body altogether. No, not lost—surrendered.

Was it because you had already predicted this? You had always known, that this moment would come?

{Move!}

Cold sweat trailed down the side of your—like a delayed reaction, your hand slowly came up to your cheek, where you swore you felt the droplet of moisture. Yet, when you touched the spot, it was dry, there was nothing there.

The glint of silver, the sharp tip as it was raised high felt like déjà vu.

"Due to circumstances," Il-Hwan added, his tone softening just slightly, "They would be honored if you took the first initiative."

You’re scared.

The thought was not your own, yet it was. Overlapping. Intertwining. A relentless loop that refused to cease.

Stab!

A sharp, blinding pain bloomed in your chest. You gasped, hand pressing against your sternum, fingers trembling as though expecting to meet the hilt of a blade that torn through your very core.

Scared for your children’s life.

“…Young Lady?”

Scared for you.

{RUN—

A scream tore itself from your throat—

Chop!

—And was swallowed whole by the nothingness.

Your legs buckled. You barely registered the sensation of falling, barely noticed when Sung Il-Hwan stopped mid-sentence and rushed to your side.

Both of your hands flew to your neck, fingers pressing frantically against your skin, feeling around, over and over, searching for something—Still there. They were still there. But your irises darted wildly, scanning the surroundings, the ground, as if making sure—making absolutely sure—that your head wasn’t rolling around somewhere else.

“A-ah… ugh…”

Your breath came in heaving gasps, dizzying as nausea churned, twisted your stomach violently. Your body convulsed, but no bile came up. Only saliva, thick and warm, slipping past your lips, trickling down your chin, and dripping into the water below. Mixing in the blooms’ reflections, tiny ripples expanding outward. Yet, even in your delirium, you had to be sure, you still needed to make sure—your shaking gaze dropped to your trembling fingers, the ones that brushed against the clear dampness, checking, checking—that it wasn’t red. That the coppery taste lingering on your tongue wasn’t real.

You dimly realized the hand rested against your back, firm yet careful, grounding you as reality sluggishly crept back into place.

Drip. Drop.

You remained in that hunched position, shoulders trembling, even as the phantom agony receded, leaving behind only an echo of pain and confusion. For how long, you couldn’t say. It was hard to pinpoint time in this strange space, but it felt like an eternity before you could even muster the effort to breathe properly again. Slowly, excruciatingly so, the searing pain pressing against your chest dulled with each inhale, eased just enough for you to think. The logic creeping back in, fighting through the haze of resurfacing horrors.

When you finally dared to look up, Sung Il-Hwan’s met your gaze, his irises no longer glowed that eerie yellow. Just the usual grey, filled with concern as he kneeled on your side.

The first coherent thought that surfaced was how you had just displayed an utterly disturbing breakdown in front of a very anticipated guest.

“My apologies. I don’t now what came over me.” A white handkerchief materialized between your fingers, and with as much composure as you could muster, you dabbed at your mouth, erasing the remnants of your episode, in a feeble attempt to salvage what little dignity you had left.

“About what you said before—"

“Are you okay, Young Lady?”

You stilled.

Am I?

The look in his eyes tugged something loose in your chest, made you feel small. Like a guilty child caught in a lie.

“I know we’re practically strangers,” he started, his voice gentle, measured.

Did he read my mind somehow?

“But this old man still has some great advices.” He jabbed a thumb toward himself, flashing an easy-going grin. Then, realizing he might’ve overstepped, might have come on too strong, his smile wavered slightly as he scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “Only if you want to talk about it, of course.”

A curious feeling unfurled in your chest.

This warmth. This concern. The kind that didn’t demand, didn’t expect, didn’t bargain.

It was not the wary deference of the Hunters. Nor the admiration of civilians. Not even the camaraderie of raid mates who called you ‘friend.’

Not conditional on experiences, didn’t need to be earned. Foundational, that exists simply because you are.

Steadier. Quieter. Certain.

Is this… how my children feel when I’m with them?

Was this what parental love felt like?

Don’t you remember?

The rhetorical question in your subconscious was met with startling certainty:

I don’t.

Because there was nothing to remember. Faces, voices, attachments—nothing before all of this. Only stories, books, pictures, songs, games—remnants of entertainment consumed in a life you no longer had access to.

And you hadn’t fully came to terms with that fact.

You buried those thoughts to be revisited another time. Were you running away? Maybe. But right now—

“Thank you. I…” You pulled your knees to your chest, tilting your head back to gaze up at the endless expanse above, trying to make sense of it all. “I’m not sure how to put it into words yet. There are still so much missing. I feel like I need to figure them out first, to piece together… well, everything.”

Il-Hwan studied you for a long moment, as if searching for something—once again, in a manner that reminded you so much of Jinwoo—before sitting down cross-legged, making himself comfortable beside you.

Take your time.

Together, the two of you sat beneath the vast, starry sky.

-----

It was silent between you for a while until he was the first to break it.

“It’s been about a decade, but somehow, your stubbornness reminded me of my son.”

You stayed silent and continued to listen.

“He’s supposed to be in his twenties now. I was around his age when I met the love of my life, his and my daughter’s mother. Now, I often wondered if he already has his own special someone.”

He will.

You closed your eyes, a fond smile tugging at your lips as you thought of your ever-reliable friend, letting the warmth of your love for her overshadow the quiet ache blooming in your chest.

…Bel would’ve loved that one. The thought made you huff a silent laugh. If that child of yours was here, she’d catch the unintended pun immediately.

How easier it is. To shift my focus elsewhere, from something just not meant to be.

“My love, my son, and my little daughter… I wonder how they are doing right now.” The longing in his voice was palpable. “I thought I could check on them while completing my mission, but I haven’t had the chance.”

{DO NOT, in anyway, teleport character <Sung Il-Hwan> to meet his family OR give him something to contact them, ‘Trial Player’.}

…Damn it.

You bit your tongue while Il-Hwan could only sigh.

“Well, I guess I can only hope to get one soon.”

You won’t. Your fist clenched on fabric. Not if everything goes according to the original.

When he turned to face you again, you met him head-on.

 “Do you have a question, Young Lady?”

Your lips pressed into a straight line, then you nodded. “How do I contact them?”

"Physical contact with their vessels, any one of them, is the only key needed." Il-Hwan scratched his head, looking slightly confused. “I’m not exactly privy to the details, but I was told you came across two of us before.”

Two?

You remembered your chance encounter with Thomas Andre, and you did note that he reacted strangely. A normal eye would only see how he froze like a statue, but a trained one would notice the slight tremble in his muscles, the visible veins as if he was struggling against something internally—Yikes. You suddenly felt bad if you were indeed the cause.

That was one. But two?

You didn’t recall coming across another Ruler’s vessel, except Jinwoo, but you were pretty sure Ashborn didn’t keep in contact with his former brothers-in-arms. Otherwise, they would know of his plan, and Sung Il-Hwan would already be aware of Jinwoo’s position—which he clearly wasn’t, judging by his reaction. So, the only other possible option you could think of was—

The Chairman.

Il-Hwan’s eyes turned bright yellow again, and that same uncomfortable feeling from before returned. It took a lot of effort, but you managed to suppress most of the unease this time.

Gone was his more relaxed expression, replaced by a reverent seriousness. The shift was sudden, unsettling—more so than before. A disturbing realization settled. This wasn’t just Il-Hwan speaking on behalf of an authority not his own.

This was the authority speaking.

"We will patiently await your call."

The silence stretched as Il-Hwan’s eyes returned to normal, his form less tense.

“Well,” he said, still somewhat taken aback by the revelation. “It looks like they really want to meet you. They don’t usually choose to possess a vessel like this.”

You knew that.

Of course, you knew that fact. It was made quite clear why the Rulers' vessels didn’t stand a chance against the Monarchs in their vessels—because they chose to borrow rather than take, unlike the Monarchs. That knowledge, however, didn’t make your situation any less stressful. If anything, it only made it worse.

What could the Rulers want with me?

That vision you saw back at the Demon Castle—the only memory you could associate with the scene you had experienced was the panels depicting the death of the Absolute Being, speared upon his throne.

The glint of silver, the sharp tip as it was raised high felt like déjà vu—

Your fingers twitched involuntarily.

I must think this through.

{ . . . }

…? System?

What was this... resentment, you felt?

Sung Il-Hwan seemed to notice your state, even without knowing the full context.

"I reckon this meeting doesn't count?"

His attempt to lighten the mood was poor, but you appreciated it nonetheless. The uneasiness lingered, but it did subside quicker thanks to him.

"No." You shook your head, mirroring his smile.

“From my understanding, this place is like a dreamscape. Only our thoughts are connected while our bodies are… 'asleep.' Well, at least they’re suspended… somewhere.” You winced slightly at your own explanation. “Sorry for the bad description, I’m still trying to figure it out—”

Instead of being offended or getting more embarrassed, Il-Hwan’s sudden laughing caught you off guard with how free it sounded. His shoulders shook, as if the weights he carried had been lifted—if only for this fleeting moment at the boundary between reality and dream.

“You finally stopped speaking like that,” Il-Hwan rasped after his laughter died down.

You blinked in confusion. “Huh?”

Il-Hwan only grinned. “'Pardon my crude explanation. I am currently in the process of studying the mechanism—'” His attempt to mimic your formal tone was wackier than anything else.

“—That’s the gist of what I got after we started talking for a while. I thought you’d go on and on like that.”

You coughed into your hand, eyes darting to the side in an attempt to save yourself. “That’s… that is how I normally talk—”

“Then you’re a good kid. Stop apologizing so much and cut yourself some slack.”

His hand ruffled your hair, leaving it slightly messy. You didn’t know exactly how to respond, other than nodding shyly.

“Okay.”

Il-Hwan’s grin stayed as he ruffled your hair a second time for good measure.

“So, what were you going to say about this place?”

“Ah.” You snapped out of it and continued where you last left off. “Since this place is like an imagined land, only the maker and their specific invitees are able to attend. I’m guessing this restriction is what canceled out your Ruler’s possession at the last moment.”

Sung Il-Hwan seemed to contemplate your words.

“My child—Aria is the invitation, your lifeforce is the requirement to enter. But,” You closed your eyes, recalling your last glimpse of her before you sent her away to be cared for by the others back in the garden. The silver of her wing had looked better, the seasick pallor not as pronounced as before, but she wouldn’t have been here if not for his help.

Your hands curled slightly as you exhaled. “I can't thank you enough, for also allowing her to feed off your lifeforce. I would have lost her otherwise." This time, it was you who bowed deeply to him, gratitude etched into every fiber of your being. When you straightened up, you held out both of your hands, staring straight into his eyes.

“I wanted to do something to repay your kindness.”

Sung Il-Hwan’s brows furrowed slightly, a hesitant smile on his face. “Young Lady, you don’t have to—”

“I want to.” The words came out firmer than you expected. You swallowed, steadying yourself.

You remembered those images vividly—the ones from the story, the ones that had once only been fiction to you. His body dissolving into shards of light, scattering into the wind. The embrace he shared with Jinwoo, the apologies for not being there, for not being enough. The image of Jinwoo standing there, forced to watch, unable to stop it. You remembered how your tears had dripped onto your phone screen, mirroring the ones Jinwoo could not shed fast enough.

It was as if you had felt his pain. As if you had lost your father, too.

Except now—you didn’t even remember what yours looked like. If you even had one.

Your fingers trembled slightly. “Please…” The plea barely made it past your lips, a whisper carried away by the unseen breeze. You cast your gaze downward, watching the way the red blooms swayed around you. “Please, let me do this for you.”

Silence stretched between you, punctuated only by the faint rustling of petals brushing against fabric.

Then, warmth.

Calloused, bandaged palms pressed against your own. You exhaled, only now realizing you’d been holding your breath. Your eyes fluttered shut as you focused, golden embers flickering to life between your entwined hands. You wasted no time, channeling a portion of lifeforce into him, hoping—praying—that it would be enough. Enough to prolong his time, to give him a chance not only to speak to Jinwoo, but to meet his wife and daughter as well.

Even if his body still crumbled in the end, even if you couldn’t change his fate completely, at least he could say a proper goodbye.

You saw the shadow of weariness hidden behind his smile; you could hear it in his voice as he talked. And now, you could feel it in the depths of his soul.

His wish was to be reunited with his family.

He had never asked for more than that.

And yet—

{Target cannot receive <Blessings of [][][][]>}

-----

What Il-Hwan noticed first was the squeeze on his hands, firm but trembling. And then, just as quickly, the warmth of magic was severed.

"Young Lady?" His voice was gentle, but concern laced his tone.

Your head remained down, strands of hair falling over your face, obscuring it from view, but he could see the way your shoulders began to shake. He noticed the faint ripples forming at your feet—quiet and unchecked, salty droplets dripping down onto the red-drenched field below.

"Why...?" Your voice wavered, barely above a whisper, but the rawness in it felt louder than any shout. "Why can't I...?"

When his hand rested upon your head again, your head snapped up at him. What was reflected in his grey eyes were your blank ones, carrying an exhaustion so deep it felt... ancient.

A toothy smile stretched across your tear-streaked face, a smile that just didn't belong. Despaired. Broken.

Twice too late, twice forbidden when you were able to help. And now, even here, in this imagined land, you were denied the chance to—not even to save him, but to grant his only wish that you now knew, for certain, would never get to be fulfilled in this lifetime. 

"You're dying."

You whispered the words as if saying them aloud would make them real, as if they hadn’t already settled deep into your bones. The muscles of your cheeks straining.

Yet, Il-Hwan wasn’t troubled by the sliver of mania laced in your voice, nor the anger buried beneath he knew was not aimed at him. Because, in that moment, he saw a child—the little girl who clung to his legs before he left for work, tears soaking into the fabric of his pants, unwilling to see her father leave for just a few hours.

Neither of them knowing, one was too young at the time to fully understand, that they wouldn't be able to see each other again.

So, with the same assuring smile he once gave his young daughter, he gently patted your head, and watched as the mask you wore shattered. Your lip trembling before you let out a sob, your hand clutched at him—at anything—just to ground yourself, to keep yourself from breaking further.

A lighthearted chuckle rumbled from Il-Hwan’s chest when your sobs slowly dwindled to small snivels.

"Didn’t I just say to cut yourself some slack, Young Lady?" His voice was warm, comforting.

You nodded, though it was pitiful, barely a gesture at all.

Then, the distant rumble echoed through the space.

Sung Il-Hwan patted your head one last time with that caring expression still plastered on his face. "Well, I suppose this is goodbye."

His hand left your head, and he turned—but your grip tightened on the other, halting him in place.

"Young Lady...?"

Your eyes fell on the silver band dangling from the chain around his neck. Your earlier thoughts resurfaced, your resolve finding its way back to you.

If you couldn’t give him more time— If you couldn’t grant him his wish— Fine.

Then the least you could do was ease his heart. Even if it was just by a little!

"Mr. Sung, your family is well!"

Admittedly, Sung Il-Hwan was startled when you near screamed the words out loud, but you were too focused on ensuring that he heard every single piece.

"Mrs. Sung is as healthy as can be. Jinah is studying hard to become a doctor!" Were you afraid that you wouldn’t get this chance again?

"And Jinwoo—!"

{The current information cannot be shared. Tread wisely, 'Trial Player.'}

"Jin... woo..." Your throat tightened.

Your hand squeezed his as the other fist crumpled the fabric of your dress. Your gaze locked onto Il-Hwan’s own, desperate to convey what words could not.

"He's doing the best he can."

You didn’t know what kind of face you were making, but Sung Il-Hwan did. He could see it, as clear as the bright sky above.

"He always has."

Something stirred. Distant, a familiar sensation.

And I wanted to make sure that—

Barely registering the pain anymore, the overwhelming fatigue, the utter emptiness within.

"They miss you..."

When on the edge, a single glimpse into fragmented memories. Fingertips ghosting over a face on a smooth surface. Aching at the sight, yet unable—unwilling—to look away.

He’ll reach his happy ending.

A spider's thread, and a lifeline lost somewhere in the abyss. A new will, a new reason to live, however flawed.

He and his loved ones.

"So, so much."

You clung to it. To a promised happiness.

{What about your own?}

{ . . . }

Silence.

The rumble drew closer, louder. Sung Il-Hwan’s mouth parted, then closed. The way his messy bangs cast a shadow over his eyes.

Perhaps it was a trick of the light, the way his shoulders trembled.

Then, his voice, quieter this time. "Young Lady, may I ask your name?"

Had you said something wrong? Had you overstepped?

"I'm... (Name)..." You took a deep breath to try and quell the nervousness. "You can call me (Name), Mr. Sung."

"(Name)."

For some reason, you flinched at the way he said it. Not out of fear, but uncertainty. What was it in his tone that tugged at your heartstrings?

Then, he turned to you fully, and your breath caught.

"It is truly the highest of honors to meet you, Young Lady."

Warmth. You felt... warm.

Thank you.

The tiny butterflies of light fluttered rampantly from every direction, obscuring view. The cracks working their way in from the edges, the world shattering.

You were forced to let go of his hand.

"And thank you for answering my inquiry, (Name)."

Following those last words, was a voice filled with contentment.

And then, you woke up.

End Note:

Unedited Draft of [25/01/2025]

Can you all tell how many times I cried while writing this chapter? Or am I just that sensitive? 🥲

I hope my portrayal of Sung Il-Hwan in this chapter fits in his character at least.

Anyway, if it's not obvious, the "inquiry" Sung Il-Hwan referred to is the-"I wonder if my son already has his special someone.”

So, in a nutshell: We just got father-in-law's approval, and we didn't even realize it (at least, not currently in the story). 😉

[ecstxsyy]

SAY YES. | VIKTOR ❦

You love to mess with Viktor’s head.

based on this ask.

18+ mdni!

viktor x fem lab partner!reader

warnings: oral (m&f!receiving), fingering, 69ing, viktor definitely whines when he gets head idc.

requests for v-day event are still open!!

cupid’s candy hearts masterlist

───── ⋆ ⋅ ꨄ︎ ⋅⋆ ─────

VIKTOR OFTEN found it difficult to work with you around and he hated you for it, he hated the way his mind went fuzzy every time you bent over and he got a view straight down your flowy top, he hated the way he swore you did it on purpose, smirking when you’d catch him adjusting himself in his trousers.

You knew the effect you had on him, in fact, you used it to your advantage. You loved the way the slim boy went beet-red when you sucked on the end of your pen, making sure to make direct eye contact with him once while doing it. Your torment had gotten to the point where Viktor brought it to Jayce, complaining about how you were nothing but a distraction in the lab.

Jayce, of course, disagreed. He knew you had a brilliant mind, but he too loved to watch the way you messed with Viktor. His smaller companion oftentimes took things too seriously, was too focused on the development of Hextech to care about anything else, let alone having a romantic life.

Tonight was the Valentine’s Day Gala and Jayce intended to attend with Mel, but he knew Viktor would just hole up in the lab. That’s where you came in, you didn't have a date to the gala so you decided to not go, curling up in your bed. As you finished getting comfortable, a knock sounded throughout your bed chambers. You let out a loud sigh and sat up, preparing to talk to whoever it was.

“Come in,” you shouted, but before you could get the full sentence out, Jayce barged in. He was fitted in a white and red suit, looking ready for tonight's festivities.

“Why even bother knocking?” you snorted, flopping back down into your bed. Jayce was silent as he grabbed the bottom of your duvet, yanking it off of you and exposing you to the chill air of your room.

“Get dressed, you’re gonna go hang out in the lab with Vik,” Jayce announced, clearly meaning for it to be an order.

“Why would I do that? The guy hates me,” you huffed, crossing your arms.

“No he doesn't, he’s just very….. blunt,” Jayce smiled, trying to persuade you.

“What do I get out of it?” you asked with a raised brow.

“I’ll finally start the process of making you that Hextech curling iron,” Jayce chuckled, he knew how badly you wanted him to make a curling iron that did all of the work for you. A grin spread across your face as you got up to put on something appropriate for the lab, but inappropriate enough to get under Viktor’s skin.

“You better have the designs for it done by tomorrow afternoon,” you yelled to him from your walk-in closet as you got dressed.

You stepped out once you were ready, grabbing your notebooks and sketches to at least try and get something done in the lab. Jayce waited at the door for you, walking you to the lab on his way to the ballroom.

You bid your goodbyes to Jayce as you reached the large doors, but the sight that greeted you once you opened the door had you shocked, to say the least. Viktor was standing near the Hexcore in only his undergarments, runes carved into his pale skin. Your gasp caught his attention, the strings of light connecting Viktor to the Hexcore dissipating quickly.

“What are you doing here?” his voice was sharp and laced with venom.

“Uh.. Jayce- um.. he uh-” Your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, your words were stuck in your throat.

“Jayce what?” Viktor spit, this made you snap. You made your way over to Viktor and yanked him away from the Hexcore, pushing him onto the couch on the far wall.

“What the hell were you doing? You know that thing is dangerous,” you spat back, grabbing some gauze to wrap around the open wounds in the shape of wild runes.

“That is none of your business,” he dismissed, letting you wrap up his wounds. From where you knelt by his leg, he had the perfect view down your shirt. This made his brain begin to spiral, your breasts seemed to be the center of all of his problems. Anytime they came into gaze, his big plan went out the window. All he wanted to do was bury his head between them and never come out, and in his mind, it made him weak.

While he was lost in his spiral of thoughts, your eyes trailed up to his, catching the way he seemed almost hypnotized. You were confused for a moment until you followed his gaze directly to your breasts, you knew he looked, but you’d never actually caught him in the act.

“Viktor,” you said barely above a whisper, his gaze slowly moved up to meet yours, but not before pausing on your lips on the way.

“Hmm?” he replied, still slightly in a daze from the power of the Hexcore (and your boobs). You smiled and rubbed your hand up his bare thigh, letting your fingers graze the hem of his undergarments before pulling away.

“Why do you hate me so much?” you asked, your eyes boring into his amber ones. Viktor sighed, running a hand down his face.

“I don’t hate you, you’re just infuriating,” he groaned out, watching as you raised an eyebrow in confusion.

“I can’t focus with you around, every single thing you do makes my thoughts go blurry,” Viktor admitted with a sigh, placing his hand on top of yours. You smiled cheekily, you never knew it affected him as much as it truly does.

You and Viktor shared a look before something else caught your attention, the tent in Viktor’s undergarments was prominent. Why was it always the skinny guys that were absolutely hung? You thought, drool pooling in your mouth.

“Can I?” You asked, motioning to his clear erection. Viktor said nothing but nodded, leaning back into the couch behind him. Your hands slipped into the waistband of his undergarment, his hips lifting almost involuntarily to give you space to pull them down. His length sprang free from the confines of the fabric, his tip a drastically different color than the rest of him.

“Poor boy, I bet it’s been a while since you’ve gotten some relief,” you coed and Viktor nodded, whining for your touch.

You decided to give him what he wanted and took him into your mouth, you could feel every detail of his cock in your mouth. The veins that poked out of the side, the fat mushroom tip, and the way his balls tightened and released with every swirl of your tongue.

“Wait,” Viktor breathed out, grabbing one of your wrists in each hand.

“What? Do you want me to stop?” you asked, the confusion evident in your face.

“God, no. I just want to make sure you get the pleasure you deserve too,” he began, “please sit on my face.” Viktor begged. You giggled and patted his knee at his eagerness.

“What about your-” Viktor cut you off quickly.

“I’m fine, please.” he pleaded, lying down fully on the couch. You obliged and stood up, squatting carefully over his face in reverse cowgirl. You moved to put his cock back in your mouth, but before you could, Viktor yanked you down on his face. He could care less if you suffocated his small frame, he’d waited too long for this to squander the moment.

Viktor’s tongue delved into your folds, finding your clit with a quickness you didn't know he possessed. You moaned out loudly, grinding your hips into his mouth when his hand planted itself on your spine, pushing your body down towards his cock.

You smiled at his eagerness and got back to work, you sucked his length into your mouth immediately, using one hand to jerk off what you couldn't fit in your mouth and the other to play with his balls. Viktor let out a loud whiny moan, bucking his hips up into you causing you to gag on his cock. You loved how pathetic he sounded, how desperate he was for you.

The faster you moved, the faster he moved. At this point, it was a competition of who could make who finish first. But, you loved a challenge.

Your hand twisted while jerking up and down, massaging his balls thoroughly with the other. Viktor always imagined how you’d suck him off, but he never could have imagined it’d be this good. He swore he was seeing stars, there was absolutely no way he was outlasting you.

Viktor’s hands moved to your ass cheeks, spreading you apart for him. He gave your clit a hard suck before pulling away, spitting a glob of saliva on your puffy clit. You gasped at the sensation, you never knew the scientist could be so lewd.

Your hips began to rock into his tongue, riding it to get to your orgasm. Viktor tightened his grip, halting your movements against him.

“So impatient,” Viktor hummed against you, using his mouth to make suction around your clit. His fingers eventually got bored and made their way to your weeping hole, sliding inside of you slowly. The chill of them made you shiver as he worked them into you. He was getting you so close, but you refused to lose.

You had one last trick up your sleeve, you took his cock out of your mouth, using your hands to jerk it while your tongue ventured lower. Your tongue grazed Viktor’s rim and he nearly screamed, bucking his hips into your hand while his load shot out of his angry red tip.

You giggled in delight, putting your mouth on his cock to swallow his sticky semen. Viktor whimpered beneath you, small whines and moans tumbling from his mouth. Once you were sure he was done cumming, you came up for air and began riding his face to chase your own orgasm.

Viktor used his teeth to lightly nip at your sensitive bundle of nerves, his fingers stroking your g-spot. This sent you over the edge, your orgasm making your body relax into his underneath you.

“You taste so good,” Viktor moaned into your pussy, taking one last lick before letting go of you to get up and lie next to him, cuddling into his side. The two of you sat in silence for a while, letting your sweaty skin rest against each other.

“I’m sorry I complained to Jayce about you,” Viktor said apologetically.

“It’s okay, I’m sorry I always mess with you,” you apologized in turn.

Maybe your torment paid off after all.

───── ⋆ ⋅ ꨄ︎ ⋅⋆ ─────

[shutyourfacemonsterlover]

hmm call me an Erik apologist all you want, but after thinking it well, i think the complaints people have about "sexy phantoms" and how "adaptations never adapt POTO well, they romanticize the story too much, it's a horror story not a romance" are kinda...unfounded?

Yeah you can make a potential argument about adaptations missing the mark, removing the deformity from Erik (which shapes Erik's whole character), and that...But also...how much is this true, and how much this has been exaggerated by really one or modern interpretations?

And i wonder...is it really? Phantom has had such a number of different adaptations all over the years, from different creative minds, and each of them presented a different view on Erik. Do most of them not adapt the book? Yes (as in no birth deformity, no Daroga, no scorpion or grasshopper, etc etc). Do they really change the main themes and mood presented in the novel, turning it more erotic? Are really all adaptations with a "sexy Erik and cucked Raoul!", as critics state? Heem, let's take a look.

We'll mostly analyze the big film adaptations, since Phantom has been told over and over again in different books, comics, videogames, tv shows, and it would take us A LOT to go through every one (also let's be realistic...we have to analyze the most "well known" Phantom adaptations so to see if the critics' words hold some water. I don't think it would make much sense to point out a Phantom adaptation that has these elements but like...only four people know of it lol)

Lon Chaney...Nope. Erik was still deformed, and the few sympathetic traits he has were erased to give him a boring clichéd "kill the monster" ending, going against what the book stated, where Erik dies of a broken heart and not lynched (curiously, how the same people that go "we must portray the book accurately, not show him sympathetically" don't mind this change, huh)

Claude Rains...Nope. Still ugly, dies by the end. No sexuality. Even the "love triangle" element is changed so that it focuses on Christine and her being annoyed by the two Raouls.

Herbert Lom...Still ugly and dies. This adaptation even cuts his attraction to Christine yet keeps his obsession with music, even cuts down his biggest crimes to lay it on the hands of his sidekick (imo this is probably the most "sympathetic" Phantom, imo, since he's interpreted as an artist who had his art stolen, only wanting to "get back" at the thieves; but nobody talks of him when discussing sympathetic Phantoms)

Phantom of the Paradise...Still ugly, loses, but like Herbert Lom, redeems himself through death.

Maximillian Schell...Ugly, dies by the end.

Cartoon - Ugly, dies, Christine doesn't go with him. This is the most book accurate novel but in another angle, haha (Daroga is here, death's head, abusive mother...not exactly what the smart ass critics want ;)).

Robert Englund...Ugly, loses, doesn't get Christine...In fact I'd claim this is probably the most villainous version of Erik, turning him into more of a Freddy Krueger clone than the complicated character Erik truly is. Really amps up the horror for all those "IT'S A HORROR STORY" smart-ass critics if they're so desperate for an "accurate" version (Erik didn't flay people in the novel, iirc, so, so much for "being accurate to the novel"!)

ALW-verse / the musical / Gerard Butler film / Love Never Dies / Phantom of Manhattan (i'm placing all of this in the same venue because basically, it's really the same universe / canon, ergo we're really talking about the same intrepretation / the same creator). Ugliness is there, but sorta downplayed...This verse often ends with Erik and Christine getting together...yup, this is the one version where the criticism is legit.

Charles Dance / Yeston Kopit musical / Takarazuka (again, same universe, same creator, same interpretation). Possibly the nicest Erik yet, but he's still deformed, and he still doesn't get Christine. He's sympathetic, a little romantic, but I don't think it's on the same league as the sexuality present in Point of no Return's lyrics or Gerard Butler's open puffy shirts.

Susan Kay's novel - This one is interesting because it takes a lot from the musical (i'd argue even more from that than the novel), and then influenced the musical and future iterations of it (this novel amps up the sexy angle A LOT), so I'm not sure to categorize it as its own thing or added to the musical verse. But, still...it follows the plot points from ALW (and elements we see in future installments of ALW's POTO, like the secret child, first appeared in Kay, i think, based on publication dates), yet Erik is still hideous, but his sexuality is present in the novel...as well as his murderous tendencies. This is the one version that combines elements of both horror and sex, imo.

Dario Argento - for fuck's sakes, nobody likes this version, lol, and even the normies don't know of it. BUT ANYWAY, IF WE'RE GONNA MAKE THE COMPARISON....Not deformed, "gets Christine", in a way, but woof this version also amps up the horror and has the most unlikable Erik of them all imo.

And everything else...Do people really care or know about those versions? Wishbone's or the other musicals, or the ass long number of books? Not really...

So really...the number of Phantom adaptations that have a "sexy, romantic" Erik can be chalked up to 2-3...against all the other adaptations that keep the horror elements or have Erik still looking horrible. And the great majority of them keep it in canon with the original ending- ea Erik dies and Christine goes with Raoul (it's really only Kay's novel and LND that have the "sexy Erik cucks Raoul" interpretation...and LND has always always always been mocked and rejected by the fans)

So it's people really throwing a tantrum over the ALW version being popular, really. (And i'm really curious how they don't mind when Erik is turned more villainous, like in Lon Chaney or Robert Englund's version, even though those are also inaccurate to the novel. (Erik wasn't a sexy doomed hero, no, but he also wasn't this Freddy Krueger bastard.) Funny that).

[cherrykamado]

❀⋆ warnings: sfw. 0.5k words. aged up characters. selfship coded. reposted from my previous blog.

Tanjiro's face turned into a mirror, your smile reflected on his own whenever he looks down at your lovely face, your head resting in his lap.

"When did you get here?" He lets out a soft chuckle at such a sweet surprise, "Weren't you supposed to train your tsuguko today?" He asks you, one of his fingers delicately brushing an unruly lock away from your face.

Yes, being a hashira is actually not much of an easy task: Demons abound, and it is your task to work for humanity's safety. It often leaves you with little to no time to fool around or to rest, making you long for those summer afternoons sitting by the deck of your estate, with your head on Tanjiro's lap, like you'd always do. In such a way of life, these mundane pleasures can evoke a yearn for something almost otherworldly.

"I was, yeah..." You shrug, giving him a light nod as if with the least of the cares (although he knows you are far from careless, nor heartless). You just cannot ignore your feelings or desires, and if the situation permits it, you allow yourself to indulge in a brief escapade to see your sun and stars, the man of your life.

"They're practicing some postures while I," You sit up, fixing yourself so that your shoulder is resting against his chest, your body in between his legs while one of his thighs passes underneath the bridge of your bent knees. "...come to check on my husband."

When a hand comes to rest on the softness of his sun-kissed cheek, Tanjiro feels the slight difference in temperature. Your hands are often colder than his, and so he always wraps your in his own and helps you warm up — this time is no exception. In response, your thumb strokes over his cheek, your infinite smile, limited by the finiteness of the corners of your lips. The way they curve upwards bring the plushy valleys in the direction of your crescent-moon shaped eyes, your pupils peaking from the apex of your cheeks.

"Did you miss me?" Your question is rhetorical, yet although you know the answer, you never get tired of hearing it. Patiently, you wait for the answer to come out, the pad of your thumb ghosting over his skin in slower and slower circles.

Tanjiro's smile spreads wider at the same time his gaze softens, and although the pinkish tint of his cheeks is undeniably evident, little does he do to hide it. His heart warms up to you every day like it was the first day: every time his gaze, or thoughts, or words land upon you, there is not a single person that could appeal to his love for you. It is just written all over his face.

You close your eyes every time, the softness of his lips pressed against yours give you the sun, the moon and the stars. It's the way your arms always find their way home — around his neck— while you allow yourself to melt into the sweetness of the moment.

"I always do."

cherry, 2022-2025. please don't plagiarise or repost.