#ive been thinking of this one for a while

[eydilily]

As someone who’s a major Tango of the Tek variety fan, I love love LOVEEE your Tango design!!! Words cannot describe just how amazing he is. Your art is a genuine inspiration to me.

I noticed as well that you often draw him with a specific scar on his neck as well as one above his brow. I was wondering, is there a story to them or a reason why they’re there??

thank you so much !!! my tango design is so so important to me as well 🫶

BUT ALSO IVE BEEN WAITING FOR SOMEONE TO ASK ME THIS FOR SO LONG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I've been sitting here kicking my feet if people are just going to nod and accept that ive been drawing him with a neck scar for no reason LMAO

for his neck scar, its actually a scar referencing his hockey puck to the throat time!! winnie the tango is SO important to me... i think its just a very silly nod to it but it is one of my first tango streams that i watched so i like thinking about it!

you didnt ask about this one, but my tango design has old snake bite piercings (but he doesn't wear them anymore)!! i hc he got them the same time impskizz got their piercings as well :3c

as for the brow one, its not a super exciting ref but i like to think he got nicked on the forehead while working on some redstone wiring when he was younger !

thank you for asking this literally made my entire day i got so excited

[cheftsunoda]

I have so many thoughts but listen 🥺 (walk with me) Max and Charles and their childhood best friend. (Max and Charles realizing they are both in love with her and each other) Thank you for listening ❤️😌

realization — cl16 & mv1

written blurbs

charles leclerc x !childhood best friend reader x max verstappen

in which charles and max finally admit what they’ve been pushing off for years— their love for you and each other.

(a/n) : i got many messages about lestappen x reader that I just decided to post this. ive had it for a while i just dunno if i like it or not. AND. JUST REACHED 2K SOOOOOO

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

flashback — monaco, age 11

You’re sticky with sweat and sunscreen, your knees scraped from crashing into the curb on your skateboard again—but you don’t care. You’re chasing after Max and Charles down the winding hill behind your building, hair flying, heart pounding, laughing like the sun will never set.

Max is ahead, his wild blond curls bouncing as he runs, calling over his shoulder, “Come on, slowpokes!”

Charles huffs next to you, breathless and flushed. “He cheats,” he says between pants. “He always goes before we’re ready.”

“Don’t be a sore loser,” you grin, and yank his sleeve as you run past him, both of you giggling like it’s your full-time job.

By the time you reach Max, he’s sprawled on the grass in front of the bakery, waiting with that smug little smirk that makes you want to kick him and hug him at the same time.

You collapse between them, your legs tangled in theirs, all three of you covered in grass stains and dried lemonade. The smell of croissants and melted asphalt floats around you.

“I’m gonna marry both of you when we’re older,” you say, not even thinking. Just tossing the words into the air like confetti.

Max snorts. “That’s not how it works.”

Charles turns pink. “Why not?”

Max looks at you, shrugs. “I guess if it’s you, it could work.”

Your heart does a weird little jump. You’re too young to understand what it means, but old enough to feel the warmth settle in your chest.

Later, when the sun dips below the buildings and the sky turns peach and lilac, you walk home sandwiched between them. Max keeps bumping your shoulder on purpose. Charles holds your hand without a word.

You look at them and think— We’ll be together forever.

—

karting track, age 14

You’re sitting alone on the bleachers, helmet at your feet, fingers still buzzing from the last heat. The sun is starting to dip low, casting long shadows across the track, and the air smells like rubber, fuel, and sweat.

Max and Charles are nowhere to be seen.

You try not to let it bother you—but it does.

The three of you were always inseparable. Always. But lately… it’s like they’ve started circling each other like fire and ice. Sometimes you’re caught in the middle, and sometimes they leave you behind entirely, like now.

You spot them down by the garage, deep in conversation. Max’s posture is tense, arms crossed over his chest, while Charles gestures wildly with his hands. You can’t hear what they’re saying, but it doesn’t look friendly.

A few minutes later, Charles storms off in one direction and Max heads toward the track. Right toward you.

He doesn’t look at you as he sits beside you. Just reaches down and grabs your water bottle, drinks like he’s dying, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

You wait.

“Are you going to tell me what that was about?” you ask softly.

Max doesn’t answer right away. His jaw ticks, his eyes staring straight ahead at nothing. “He said you like him.”

The words hit like a slap.

You blink. “What?”

Max finally turns to you. His voice is low, steady, but there’s something wounded behind his usual sharpness. “He said you like him. And that I need to back off.”

You don’t know what to say.

Because the truth is… sometimes, when Charles smiles at you like you’re made of light, your stomach flips. And other times, when Max leans too close, when his voice drops and his eyes spark, you can’t breathe.

You’re 14 and confused and overwhelmed and you wish someone would just tell you what to feel.

So you deflect.

“I didn’t say that,” you mumble. “I didn’t say anything.”

Max laughs bitterly. “Doesn’t matter. He’s already decided.”

You glance down at your hands. “And what have you decided?”

That catches him off guard. He looks at you, eyes stormy, unreadable. And for a second, you think he might say something—really say something. But then he looks away again.

“I don’t want to fight with him,” he mutters. “But I don’t want to lose you either.”

Your heart aches.

You reach out without thinking and place your hand on top of his. His fingers twitch but don’t pull away. “You’re not going to lose me, Max.”

He squeezes your hand just once before letting go.

You sit in silence as the last race of the day rolls by, engines roaring, hearts racing, everything unsaid heavy in the air between you.

—

age 17 (pls just pretend that the timing make sense)

The day Max debuts in Formula 1, you’re in Barcelona, sitting in the Toro Rosso garage with a lanyard that feels too heavy around your neck. Cameras flash, journalists chatter in every language, and Max—your Max—is standing tall in a fireproof suit, grinning like the world is finally recognizing what you’ve always known.

You should be ecstatic. You are. Sort of.

He looks over at you just before climbing into the car, eyes locking with yours, a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. You give him a shaky thumbs-up, and he nods like that’s all he needs.

But your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Because you know who isn’t here.

Charles.

He’s back in Monaco. At a funeral. His father died yesterday. You weren’t there. You couldn’t be.

You’d promised Max you’d be in Barcelona months ago, long before anyone knew what was coming. Long before Charles’ world shattered in one quiet, sudden moment.

You texted him. Called him. Begged him to let you come home.

He didn’t reply. Not at first.

When he finally did, it was just—

I don’t want you to miss his debut. He’s your friend too. Just… come back soon, okay?

It broke your heart. Because Charles Leclerc doesn’t ask for much. Never has. And when he does, it’s always too quietly. Too late.

You try to focus on the race, on Max tearing through the track with the same furious brilliance you’ve seen since he was 10. He finishes in the points. Reporters flood him. His team cheers. You want to run to him, to celebrate—but your phone buzzes with a new text.

He’s gone, YN. It doesn’t feel real.

Suddenly, all the noise around you becomes muffled, like someone shoved your head underwater.

You slip away from the garage without saying goodbye.

When you finally make it back to Monaco the next morning, you go straight to Charles’ apartment. You use the spare key under the planter—he always joked it was there for you, not for emergencies.

He’s sitting on the couch, surrounded by crumpled tissues and silence.

The moment he sees you, he crumbles.

You drop everything and pull him into your arms. He doesn’t cry, not like most people cry. It’s quiet, almost reverent—the kind of grief that steals the breath from your lungs. His arms wrap around you like a lifeline, like he’s afraid if he lets go, he’ll fall through the earth.

“I should’ve come,” you whisper, fingers in his hair.

“You did,” he says hoarsely. “You’re here now.”

You stay like that for a long time. Long enough for the sunlight to shift across the walls. Long enough to feel your own throat ache.

Eventually, he speaks again.

“Max did good, huh?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. He did.”

A long pause.

“I’m happy for him,” Charles murmurs, “but it’s hard not to wonder why some of us keep losing everything while others just… keep rising.”

You press your forehead to his. “You haven’t lost everything.”

He looks at you like he wants to believe that. Like you might be the only thing left tethering him to this world.

Later, when you’re making him tea and digging through his cupboards for something edible, your phone lights up with a call from Max.

You stare at it.

You love them both so differently, and so much.

But right now, only one of them needs you.

So you let the call go to voicemail, turn off your phone, and go back to the boy whose heart has just been split open.

You sit beside Charles on the couch and tuck your legs beneath you. He leans against your shoulder like he did when you were twelve, when he first told you he wanted to race for Ferrari. You put your arm around him and hold him like you’ll never let go.

He doesn’t say anything else that night. He doesn’t have to.

Neither do you.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

present day!

The café is tucked away on a quiet street in Monaco, the kind of place tourists don’t stumble into, where the waiter doesn’t ask for a name—he just smiles and brings your usual. You’re already seated when they arrive, Max and Charles, ten minutes late and bickering lightly as they always do.

“She said noon,” Charles is saying as he drops into the chair beside you, already stealing an olive from your plate. “Which means twelve o’clock, Verstappen.”

Max slides into the seat across from you, sunglasses perched on his head, hair a little too tousled to be accidental. “Twelve is a suggestion, not a law.”

You roll your eyes, smiling anyway. “You’re both late. I should’ve invited Susie instead.”

Max leans forward, smirking. “You like her better than us now?”

“I mean,” you tease, “she listens to me. Shows up on time. Hasn’t crashed into anyone lately.”

Charles puts a hand to his heart, mock-wounded. “Ouch.”

You grin, and just like that, the rhythm returns. It always does. No matter how much time passes or how many races come and go or how many relationships fall apart between the three of you… when you sit at this table, it’s like nothing’s changed.

The waiter brings drinks—sparkling water for Charles, coffee for Max, your favorite tea. You sip slowly as they talk about the last few weeks. Charles is still glowing from a podium. Max is unusually smug about a private test day in Austria that no one was supposed to know about. You let them talk, occasionally chiming in, occasionally just watching.

They’re older now. Sharper in some ways. Softer in others. Charles still gestures with his hands when he talks, like he’s conducting a symphony. Max still pretends he doesn’t care and then immediately contradicts himself with how much he does.

And you? You’re different too. Busier. Stronger. Fiercer than you were at seventeen. You’ve been building something with Susie Wolff that matters—mentoring girls, creating space, shifting the foundation of motorsport one step at a time. Still, when you’re with them, you feel like that girl again. The one who loved them both so much it sometimes made her chest ache.

“So,” Charles says after the food arrives, breaking a comfortable silence, “how’s your calendar looking? There’s a gala next weekend, FIA nonsense, but they’re doing a tribute for the Academy. Thought you might be there.”

“Invited, yes. Going?” You shrug. “Depends if I survive another board call with a room full of men who think Susie and I are ornamental.”

Max snorts into his drink. “Do they want to die? Be honest.”

You laugh. “One of them called me ‘darling’ last week. I didn’t even flinch. Just told him to shut up and open the report.”

Charles raises his glass like a toast. “That’s my girl.”

There’s a pause. You feel it. That old flicker. The way his eyes linger just a little too long. The way Max’s gaze shifts—like he noticed, like he always does. You look between them and smile, soft around the edges.

“Missed you both,” you admit. “It’s been too long.”

Max’s voice is quieter than expected. “You’ve been busy changing the world.”

Charles bumps your shoulder. “Yeah. Doesn’t mean you can vanish on us.”

You lean back in your chair, sun warming your face. “I never vanish. You two just get distracted with your supermodels and your drama.”

Max rolls his eyes. “Ex-supermodels, thank you.”

Charles just laughs and says nothing. The truth is, they’ve both had relationships that fizzled before they even sparked. People who didn’t understand the way they orbit each other. People who didn’t understand you. It’s always been the three of you. It still is.

You talk for two hours. About nothing and everything. Max makes you laugh until you snort, Charles insists on ordering dessert “for the table” and eats half of it before anyone else can touch it. You wipe powdered sugar off the corner of his mouth and pretend not to notice the way Max watches you when you do.

It’s easy. It’s warm. It’s home. As you get up to leave, Charles grabs your hand, just for a second. He squeezes it. Max doesn’t say anything. He just walks close, shoulder brushing yours more than once, like he can’t help it.

You wonder—not for the first time—if the three of you are just waiting for the right moment. If you’ve all been circling something inevitable for years.

And maybe… maybe that moment is closer than any of you realize.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

charles’ moment of realization!

It’s late. One of those Monaco nights where the sky is velvet and the water outside the window looks like melted obsidian. You’re at Charles’ place—because Max is in Italy for sim work, and you’re both too exhausted to be alone. There’s a movie playing in the background, something neither of you is really watching. You’re curled up sideways on the couch, legs stretched across Charles’ lap, nursing a glass of wine. He’s absently tracing patterns on your calf with the tips of his fingers.

You don’t flinch. You never do. It’s always been like this with you—touch without thinking, comfort without caution. That’s what makes it dangerous. He looks at you—really looks—and it hits him so suddenly, so fully, that it actually makes his breath catch. He’s in love with you.

Not in the distant, adolescent way he used to tell himself didn’t count. Not in the playful way he used to flirt to hide what he really meant. No. This is real. Bone-deep. Quiet. Terrifying.

You glance at him. “What?”

He blinks, startled. “Nothing.”

You smile softly, lazy, content. “You’re staring.”

“I always stare at beautiful things,” he says without thinking.

And for once, you don’t tease him for it. You just look at him—eyes soft, unreadable—and then turn back to the screen. He can’t breathe. He thinks about Max. About the way you laugh more when he’s around. About the way Max touches your back without thinking, how your eyes always find his first after a race. About the way Charles’ heart doesn’t ache with jealousy when he sees it—it just aches.

Because it’s both of you. He loves Max, too. He always has. Not in the way he was told to. Not with fire and declarations—but with steadiness. With awe. With understanding so complete it feels like silence between them is its own language.

And suddenly, it makes sense. Why no one else has ever measured up. Why every relationship he’s had has ended with restlessness in his chest and a name on his tongue that wasn’t his partner’s.

Why watching you and Max dance around each other has never made him want to stop it—just… join it. His fingers still on your skin. He wants to tell you. He wants to grab his phone and text Max. He wants to break the rules of whatever unspoken thing the three of you have built and just say it— But he doesn’t.

He just looks at you, your eyes fluttering shut as you relax into the couch. He memorizes the curve of your cheek, the way you mumble something soft in your sleep. The trust in the way you’ve let your guard down here. And then he leans his head back against the couch and whispers into the dark—

“I think I’m in love with both of you.”

It’s the first time he’s said it out loud. And in the silence that follows, he doesn’t feel scared. He just feels sure.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

max’s moment of realization!

It’s the night before the Dutch Grand Prix, and you’re with Max in his driver’s room—feet tucked under you on the couch, laptop in your lap, hair damp from the shower. He’s pacing. Not because he’s nervous about the race. You know Max. He doesn’t pace for pressure. He paces when he’s trying not to feel something.

“You okay?” you ask, eyes flicking up.

He stops, runs a hand through his hair, sighs. “Yeah. I just… I don’t know.”

You close the laptop and pat the space beside you. “Sit down. You’re making me dizzy.”

He does. Not immediately. But eventually. Max always comes back to you. When he sits, his thigh presses against yours. You don’t move away. You never do. He stares at the floor, jaw clenched, brows furrowed like he’s in a head-to-head battle with his own thoughts.

And then, in the quietest voice you’ve ever heard from him, he says—

“Do you ever think we ruined ourselves for other people?”

You turn to look at him slowly. “What?”

“You, me, Charles…” He’s still not looking at you. “I mean—we grew up together. We saw everything. Every win. Every loss. Every ugly, messy part of each other. Maybe that’s why no one else ever feels right.”

The words hang in the air like smoke.

You reach for his hand before you can stop yourself. “I don’t think we’re ruined, Max.”

He finally looks at you. Really looks at you. And something shatters in his expression. Because there it is. The truth he’s been avoiding. The reason no one else ever sticks. The reason you and Charles are the only people who’ve ever seen every piece of him—and stayed.

He’s in love with you. And with Charles. It’s always been both. Not some passing phase, not a blurred memory of childhood affection. No. It’s clear now—stark and soft all at once, like the crash of waves on the shore.

You tilt your head at him gently. “Max?”

He opens his mouth. Then closes it. His eyes flick down to your hand, still wrapped around his. Your fingers curled loosely over his knuckles. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And it is. But right now, he can’t say it. Not yet. Because if he says it out loud, it’ll be real. And once it’s real, he’s afraid it might break the fragile thing the three of you still have. The thing you’ve somehow managed to keep, despite everything.

So instead, he just leans into you. Lets his shoulder brush yours. Lets the silence stretch, not awkward, not uncomfortable—just full. You don’t press him. You never do.

You just sit there, legs tangled, hands linked, the low hum of the night buzzing around you like a secret you both already know. And when he finally falls asleep—with his head tilted toward yours, breaths even—you don’t move. Because even if he didn’t say the words, you felt them. And maybe… that’s enough. For now.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

It’s pouring in Budapest. Not the dramatic, cinematic kind of rain—the cold, messy kind that turns paddock walkways into puddles and curls your hair no matter how carefully you styled it this morning.

You and Charles are hiding out in one of the Ferrari hospitality rooms, waiting out the storm before media. He’s laughing at something you said, eyes soft, hair still damp from the sprint debrief, and for a moment, it feels like you’re both sixteen again—tucked into a bench in Monaco, hiding from curfews and the future. You wipe a raindrop from his cheek, almost without thinking.

“You always get water in your eyelashes,” you murmur. “How?”

Charles grins. “Because I’m cinematic.”

You roll your eyes, but your hand lingers on his face a moment too long. Just then, the door creaks open. You look up—and freeze. Max.

He’s standing in the doorway, Red Bull hoodie soaked through, eyes already fixed on the two of you. On your hand on Charles’ face. On the quiet closeness of the moment. Your hand drops instantly.

Charles straightens, startled. “Max—”

But Max is already backing away, expression unreadable.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he mutters, voice clipped. “Looks like you two are busy.”

And then he’s gone.

—

You don’t see him for the rest of the day.

He misses media. Misses dinner. Leaves all your texts on read.

And you know Max—he doesn’t avoid confrontation. Not unless he’s hurt.

Not unless he thinks he’s already lost.

—

It’s two days before any of you see him again.

Charles finds him first, late at night, in the back corner of the hotel gym. No music, no lights, just Max methodically punishing himself on the rowing machine like he’s trying to outrun his own thoughts.

“Talk to me,” Charles says gently.

Max doesn’t stop.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“You’ve been avoiding us.”

“No, I’ve been busy.”

“Max.”

Finally, Max lets the handle snap back. He stands, pacing, drenched in sweat and frustration and something achingly sad.

“You don’t have to pretend you don’t know what I saw,” he bites out.

Charles blinks. “You mean… in the lounge?”

Max scoffs, bitter. “It’s fine. Really. I always knew it would be you two in the end.”

“Don’t do that,” Charles says quietly.

“What?”

“Act like you’re not part of this.”

Max turns to him, eyes sharp and angry. “What the hell does that mean?”

But before Charles can answer—you walk in. You’d been looking for both of them. The second you saw the room light on, your feet had carried you here on instinct. You stop in the doorway, breath caught in your throat.

Max looks between you and Charles, jaw tight. “Perfect. The happy couple.”

“Don’t say that,” you whisper.

“Why not?” he spits. “Isn’t it true? You looked pretty damn happy together. I just got in the way.”

“You didn’t,” Charles says fiercely. “You never did.”

Max shakes his head, stepping back. “I should’ve known. It’s always been like this—me watching the two of you, pretending I don’t want to be in the middle of it.”

The silence is thunderous. And then you speak—quiet, trembling.

“You’re not watching, Max. You are in the middle of it.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

You step forward. “I wasn’t touching Charles that day because I chose him over you. I was touching him because I love him. And I love you too. I’ve been trying to figure out what that means for years.”

Charles is beside you now, voice low but steady.

“We didn’t choose each other over you. We were just waiting for you to stop holding it all in.”

Max stares at you both like you’ve just spoken in a language he’s never dared to learn.

“I—” he falters, breath catching. “I didn’t know if I was allowed to want that. Both of you. Together.”

You smile through the sting in your throat. “You are.”

And then Charles moves first. He walks up to Max, slow and careful, and reaches for his hand. Doesn’t force anything. Just holds it. Max looks down at their linked fingers, then up at you—standing there, open, waiting.

And something cracks. Not painfully. Not like before. It cracks like sunlight through storm clouds. He takes one step forward. Then another. Then he’s kissing you.

Not desperately. Not angrily. Just… finally. You feel Charles at your back, his arms wrapping around both of you, pressing a kiss to your temple as Max rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, breath trembling.

And for the first time in a long, long time— No one pulls away.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

The light filters in through linen curtains, warm and golden and so soft it almost feels like a dream. You blink awake slowly, blinking past the haze of sleep and finding yourself pressed between two heartbeats. Charles is curled behind you, arm slung lazily over your waist, nose tucked into your shoulder. Max is in front of you, eyes still closed, one hand cradling your hip, the other resting somewhere between the sheets and Charles’ arm.

It’s the quietest morning you can remember. No alarm. No paddock chaos. No rushing. Just warmth, and the sound of three people breathing in sync. You shift just a little, and Max’s fingers twitch where they’re holding you. He stirs, opens one eye, and gives you the faintest, sleep-rough smile.

“Hi,” you whisper.

“Hi,” he rasps.

Behind you, Charles hums softly, still half-asleep. “Too early.”

Max grins. “It’s not. It’s perfect.”

You laugh under your breath and let your fingers trace a slow line across Max’s collarbone. Everything about this feels surreal. Not because it’s wild or unfamiliar—but because it feels so right. So simple. So inevitable. Max watches you, eyes soft and unguarded in a way they never are outside of this bed.

“You are not imagining this, by the way,” he says, voice lower now. “I checked.”

You smile. “So did I.”

Charles shifts, lifting his head just enough to kiss your shoulder. Then, without opening his eyes, he reaches across you and lets his hand settle over Max’s.

“Why would we ever have to leave this bed? Can we just stay?” he mumbles.

Max snorts. “I give it two days. Before your PR team sends out a missing persons report.”

Charles groans dramatically and buries his face in your back. You laugh, tilting your head to press a kiss to Max’s forehead. Then one to Charles’ arm. Your hands are tangled with theirs beneath the blanket, warm and steady. You should be overwhelmed. You should be terrified of what comes next. But you’re not. You’re calm. Loved. Held.

Max brushes his thumb across your side. “This is going to change everything.”

You nod, forehead resting against his. “Good.”

Charles lifts his head again, eyes a little clearer now. He looks at you. Then at Max.

“Can we just… promise something?”

Max raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“That no matter how complicated this gets… we don’t run again.”

You hold Charles’ hand tighter. “We stay.”

Max meets both your eyes, something in his chest again—but this time, it doesn’t hurt.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Neither are you.

And in the quiet, golden morning, for the first time in all your years together, the love is no longer unspoken. It just is. Always has been. Always will be.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

[elijawrites]

Change can be scary | Mira x F! Reader

ft. mira & f!yn

warnings. slight mentions of abuse (?) forced marriage, bullying (dw its not physical) rich family issues, mira, slight mentions of mira x zoey, unrequited love (?) angst, mira’s full name is implied to be mirinae chaebol

an. this one isnt requested! take this for now while i think of what i can write for silent voice……. teehee. anw, this might have a part two— and also not my best work, i just went with what was in my mind LMAO, have fun readiig!! also im not entirely sure who it was but I THINKKK the name “Mirinae Chaebol” came from someone on A03 (????) I forgot from the amount of ffs ive read alreadh LMAUDSB

Mira wasn’t sure when it happened, nor how it happened. All she knew was that it was a day she learned to regret for the rest of her life. Now, she wasn’t particularly known for her friendliness— so with that said, she was a loner. She had no friends.

Except for one person.

That person was you. She wasn’t sure why, but despite her reputation, despite her behavior, despite her unruly actions, You still stuck around. And for once, she was grateful for something, because she had something. She had you.

Until she didn’t.

She still remembers that day— when she overheard them. To be frank, Mira had no idea who they were. Nor could she care less. But she couldn’t help but listen, especially when they mentioned your name— “God, you’ve seen the way yn clings to her, right?” One of them said,

“Yeah, honestly, it’s so annoying. but I heard she’s only really close with that black sheep of the family because their parents are close, lmao” The other replied, their tone filled with disdain. Was it true? Is that really all she was to you?

“Yn’s family’s been sucking up to Mira’s for years. Ofc their golden child has to play pretend.” Another voice rang out. “yk what’s funny? if i was given the chance even i would put up with mira’s behavior just to get that billion-won trust fund, loll”

Mira stood frozen behind the wall, her hands balled into fists at her sides. She wanted to march in and tell them off. Scream, maybe. But instead, the words made their way into her ears, coiled around her chest, and sunk into the cracks of her confidence.

“And like—what does yn even see in Mira? Her sense of style is concerning, her behavior is nothing but complete RUDE, and she’s just such a bitch” “Exactly. It’s pity, if anything. yn’s just playing the long game, maybe to make it hurt her more lol.”

That one changed something in her.

Because she had already wondered before. Once or twice, maybe more actually. Why someone like you — warm, popular, impossibly kind — stuck around with someone like her. And this was the final push.

She wanted to believe you loved her. God, she really wanted to.

But that knife?

It dug in deeper than it should’ve.

When she finally returned to the spot you both always met, you looked up at her with your whole damn heart in your eyes, holding out her favorite drink like nothing in the world could ever be wrong. You lit up the moment you saw her, as if you were Icarus— and she was the sun.

“Where were you?” you asked gently. A soft smile on your face.

Mira forced a smile. “The bathroom was full, I had to wait in line.”

It started small. From a text she forgot to answer, A phone call that went straight to voicemail. A missed lunch. Then two. Then three.

But you? you just kept waiting. Just kept believing that maybe Mira was going through something, and when she was ready, she’d come back.

Because that’s what love does, right? It waits.

It was the third Saturday of the month—you and mira’s day. your movie night, where you’d eat tons of junk food, cuddle together, watch a ridiculously cringe romcom.

So then, you sat in the park near Mira’s house for over an hour, two blankets and snacks set up under you guys’ favorite tree. you checked your phone once, then twice. No reply.

Still, you waited. you waited until it was 3am in the middle of the night— you didn’t even notice how dark your surroundings got.

And when you finally walked to Mira’s house, it was the housekeeper who answered the door, not Mira. “Hello miss chen, have you seen Mira?” You asked with a soft smile.

“Oh.. yn.” The pause was too long. Too hesitant.

“She’s not here, sweetie.”

you blinked. “What? Did she go out?”

The housekeeper shifted uncomfortably. “She… left this morning. Her mother arranged something with the Lee family. She’s transferring. Something about a new private academy? I believe she left with someone named Celine.”

your breath got caught in your chest. “She didn’t..tell me.”

“I’m sorry. She didn’t say goodbye to anyone, really. It was all so last minute.”

But you knew that wasn’t true. Because Mira never did anything last minute. If she does something, it means she’s thought about it for a while now.

She chose not to tell you.

That night, you sat in your room, phone in hand, staring at the messages she had sent. It had been a whole day since her last message— It was a simple “Okay” No punctuation. No “I’ll see you tomorrow.” No heart emoji.

Nothing. Just pure silence.

Days passed. Then weeks. And soon, it turned into years. no texts, no calls, no apology, no explanation. you never confronted her. not directly.

Because how do you chase someone who already decided you weren’t worth the goodbye?

It had been 8 years since then. And Mira found herself in a 5-star restaurant, She hated these kinds of places.

Too clean, too dirty, too loud, but also too quiet. The kind of restaurant where the menu didn’t have prices, and everyone wore watches that cost more than someone’s life probably.

Zoey had picked it— It looked nice, she had said, half-teasing. Mira had rolled her eyes but agreed nonetheless.

The hostess led them to a table by the glass balcony, offering a view of Seoul’s lovely shine in the night. Mira sat down, scanning the room out of habit.

And that’s when she saw you.

At a table across the room, dressed in a sleek black midi dress, your hair neatly tucked behind one ear, sipping from a wine glass, with jewelry adorned all over your figure— jewelry that costs billions, Mira would assume.

You weren’t laughing. You didn’t fidget. You didn’t hum under your breath or drum your fingers on the table like you used to when you were bored.

You were calm. Collected.

Confident. And untouchable.

Your mother sat across from you, mid-conversation. You nodded politely as she spoke, but your eyes weren’t particularly focused on the conversation — they were scanning the room.

And then they landed on her.

Mira stiffened. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until your gaze locked with hers.

But what shocked her the most, was you didn’t seem surprised by her presence, you didn’t give her a smile, a greeting, none of that. You didn’t light up like you used to whenever you’d see her.

All you gave her was a slight parting of your mouth—and a curt nod. And then, you gave her a smile.

Except it was professional. polite. distant.

Not the way you used to smile at her. Not like before.

Zoey was still deciding between the wine list and the cocktail menu when Mira stood up suddenly. “I’ll be right back,” she mumbled.

“Mira—?” But she was already walking. You didn’t look surprised when she stopped beside your table.

“Hey,” she said, almost breathless. “yn?”

You looked up fully this time, your posture poised, eyes unreadable. Mira felt like a teenager again, standing in front of someone she didn’t deserve to miss.

You offered her a curt smile. “It’s been a while.”

Eight years, Mira wanted to say. But she swallowed it. “You.. look different,” she managed. You tilted your head. “Do I? I suppose change can be quite scary.”

Your mother glanced between you both. “You two know each other?” Mira hesitated, but you answered for her. “We went to school together.”

Just that. Nothing more.

Mira forced a smile. “Yeah. We used to be close.” Your mother gave a polite hum and turned back to her food, talking with your father once more. Uninterested.

You looked at Mira again. “Are you eating here?”

“Yeah. Just—” she nodded vaguely toward her table. “With a.. friend.”

You glanced past her, catching sight of Zoey. Something flickered in your expression — but it passed before Mira could place it.

“Well,” you said after a pause. “It was good to see you, Mirinae.”

And that was it.

You turned back to your plate. Mira stood there a moment longer than she should’ve, heart stammering in her chest. Because it hit her then:

You weren’t waiting anymore. You weren’t the girl who used to look at her like she hung the moon. You’d grown. Matured

Mira walked back to her table, barely hearing Zoey’s question. And from across the room, you sipped your wine and looked out over the city.

And for the first time in years…

Mira realized she had truly, truly lost you.

She sat at her designated seat, posture perfect, expression blank, the trained doll her parents expected her to be. The tension in her shoulders hadn’t eased since she’d walked in. She had asked her mother twice what this dinner was for, and both times she was waved off with a, ”This is a special celebration, darling. You’ll see.”

So she had come. alone, of course. Zoey and Rumi weren’t even a consideration—if her family so much as saw Zoey, they’d skin Mira alive.

The evening dragged on with toasts, fake ass greetings, forced laughter echoing through the entire place. Her father stood at the head of the table, speaking to a cluster of board members and diplomats. Mira tuned out all the noise—until the faint clink of a spoon against glass silenced the room.

Her mother was standing now, with her wine glass held in her hand delicately.

“If I may have everyone’s attention,” she said, her voice commanding. “Thank you all for joining us tonight. It brings us great joy to finally share the celebration party that we have prepared for months.”

Mira looked up. Her mother’s smile was the carefully practiced kind—too polished, too perfect. Mira had seen it at galas, press conferences, business mergers, even at home.

She continued, “As many of you are aware, the LN and Chaebol families have long held a close relationship—both in business and personal trust. Tonight, we are proud to officially announce the union of our two households through marriage.”

Mira’s world stopped in its tracks.

Her mother’s voice continued to echo around the room. “Minho, our son, and Yn, daughter of the esteemed LN family, will be married this winter. The date has been set, and preparations are well underway. We ask for your support and blessings as we move forward with this beautiful partnership.”

A round of polite applause followed. Mira barely registered it. She turned her head slowly, as if the weight of what she just heard had to physically settle on her shoulders before she could believe it.

At the opposite end of the table—there you were.

Seated beside Minho.

You looked.. exquisite. Every detail of your appearance was meticulous. Hair styled perfectly, makeup elegant, dressed in a dark navy-blue gown that shined under the chandelier light. God. You were so damn pretty. Beside you, Minho raised his glass with a courteous smile, offering a short, prepared and scripted speech about the family’s legacy and honor.

But you?

You didn’t say a word. You bowed your head politely. You smiled when necessary. But it wasn’t you.

Not the real you.

You looked like someone wearing a mask too tight, forced to play the role written for her. Mira stared.

You didn’t meet her eyes. Not even once. The wine glass in Mira’s hand trembled.

Her mother sat down, pleased with the room’s reaction. Conversations picked back up. Some guests offered congratulations. Minho’s name was on every other lip. And all Mira could hear in her head was the echo of your name, spoken like you were a possession, like a trade deal for the Chaebol.

You and her brother.

You and her family.

Her stomach churned, and something in her chest cracked open.

She stood abruptly. The sound of her chair dragging across marble earned a few glances. Her mother’s voice followed her like a thread, laced with warning.

“Mirinae, where are you going?”

“I need air,” she said flatly. She pushed through the side doors of the banquet hall, past marble statues and into the dim hallway lined with gold-framed portraits of dead men who had probably arranged dozens of marriages like this.

And when the door shut behind her, the weight of it all hit her like a boulder.

You were marrying her brother. And you hadn’t even told her. Just as how she left all those years ago, and she didn’t tell you.

[drafts-and-delusions]

Hello! First, I wanna say that I love your writing and how you write the Saja boys. The way you characterize them is perfect, and although havent really been all that interested in canon x reader writings before, something about yours just really draws me in and actually kinda inspires me!

Second, Inoticed your asks were open, and I wanted to request something Ive had on my mind for a bit.

I was wondering if I could request the Saja boys x a reader who doesn't realize they boys are demons (yet?) and, for one reason or another, just doesn't have a soul. Like, they dont seem any different from any other human, but because the Saja boys are demons, they can kinda just sense it.

Sorry if its a bit specific, it just something Ive been thinking about. Feel free to go any direction you wish with the idea, and thank you so much for your time!!

Yours Without a Price

Tags: gn!reader, established reader, secret identity, comfort, protective aww im inspiring? thats a first and really sweet💗 this took a while since i wasnt really sure how to start it and i was feeling a bit burnt out, but i hope it comes close to your expectations

Jinu

Jinu tells you everything, except the part where he's not human.

He cooks for you sometimes, fumbles the recipe and laughs it off. Holds your hand backstage. Kisses you behind LED screens when no one’s looking. You think he’s just a tired idol with a very specific discomfort with temples and mirrors.

He knew something was different about you. He figured it out the first time you kissed him, when he didn’t taste anything at all. No soul. No charge that demons like him are supposed to feel. Just warm lips and a bit of static in the air.

For a while, he thought maybe he was broken.

Then he watched you sleep one night, brow slightly furrowed like your dreams were tugging you in two directions. He hovered his hand above your chest, over your sternum, and felt nothing. No glow, no hum—just a silence so deep it almost felt sacred.

But still, he didn’t pull away.

He holds you tighter with each passing day. Not because you're missing something, but because you make him feel whole. You laugh at his dumb jokes; you notice when he’s overwhelmed even before he does. You kiss him like he's worth kissing. And that matters to someone who was never meant to be loved like this.

He’s scared that once you find out, you’ll look at him differently, like how people stare out at empty streets in the middle of winter. Quiet. Distant. Unsure what they were even hoping to see.

So he smiles more. Tells better lies. And hopes the truth stays quiet a little longer.

Romance

You’re his person. His muse. His secret in a world full of lights and lies.

Romance is a flirt. Always has been. With cameras, with fans, with the world. But not with you. With you, he forgets to perform. Sometimes you’ll be brushing your teeth while he stands in the doorway, watching, and he’ll think this is what it means to belong.

And it terrifies him.

Because he can’t feel you the way he feels everyone else. He can’t sense your soul. There’s no pull, no warmth, no echo. Just quiet. And instead of pushing him away, it pulled him in. Something about that silence made him stay.

You once asked him why he never writes love songs about you.

He said, “Because I’d never get the lyrics right.”

What he meant was, “There are no words, no lines, no rhythm that could explain what you mean to me. Nothing I could write would ever be enough.”

He hasn’t told you what he is. You haven’t asked.

Maybe that’s what scares him most. That you haven’t noticed. That maybe you have and you’re still here anyway.

Abby 

Abby, on the other hand, thinks it’s attractive. The way you’re unreadable. He doesn’t understand it, but it fascinates him. When you’re around, that buzzing under his skin—the hunger, the pull—it fades. Like you, mute something in him that nothing else can.

He asks you strange questions all the time.

“Have you ever met a shaman?”

“Do you, like, get déjà vu?”

“What do you think happens when people die?”

He doesn’t really expect answers. He just wants to understand you, to figure out the blank space where your soul should be. Mostly, though, he wants to keep you safe. You're the only one who doesn’t make him want to tear things apart when the dark thoughts come. He doesn’t feel hunger when you're near. And when you hug him, it feels like peace. Like everything inside him goes still for a moment.

Sometimes he watches you sleep, just to make sure you’re real. One night, you rolled over and wrapped your arms around him in your sleep. You whispered, “I love you.”

And his demon heart stuttered.

Demons aren’t supposed to feel this. They’re not supposed to want this.

“You’re mine,” he whispered back, his mouth brushing your temple. “Even if you never figure it out.”

Mystery

You don’t ask why Mystery doesn’t talk much. You’ve always figured he’s the quiet type, and you’re okay with that. His silences don’t make you uncomfortable; they make you feel chosen. Safe.

You also don’t ask why your photos together always come out a little off. Not distorted or creepy, just strange. The colors shift. The lighting dips. Sometimes it looks like he’s moving when he clearly wasn’t. You chalk it up to bad luck or a faulty camera app.

You just love him.

You love the way he traces slow circles on your arm when you can’t sleep. The way he presses his forehead to yours and breathes with you until everything stills. You even love the way he steps in front of you without saying a word whenever someone gets too close or too loud.

He should tell you the truth. He should say, “I’m a soul-harvesting demon in a boy band.” Not because he owes you some confession, but because he wants to. Because it sits heavy on his tongue every time he watches you laugh like the world hasn’t tried to break you.

But instead, he gives you small things. A beaded bracelet slipped into your jacket pocket. A candy you mentioned liking once. A tiny plastic charm that definitely wasn’t there the last time you checked your bag. Things that say I’m thinking of you when he doesn’t know how to say anything else.

He doesn’t know what would hurt more: you leaving after you find out, or staying when you don’t have a soul to give.

Because he can’t feel it. Not in you. Not like he can with everyone else. And maybe that should bother him more than it does. Maybe it should scare him.

But when you look at him like he’s something worth holding onto anyway—something warm and real and maybe even good—it makes him believe in things he’s never had a right to hope for.

Baby

You smell like nothing. Feel like nothing. The first time Baby met you, his instincts told him to turn around and walk away. Something was off—quiet, wrong. Like a puzzle piece with no picture on it.

But then you smiled at him like he was anyone else. Like he wasn’t dangerous. You kissed his cheek and called him sweet. You never even hesitated.

At first, he was angry. Maybe even insulted. People feared him; they were supposed to. That was how this worked. He knew how to spot fear in the tiniest gestures—stiff shoulders, a glance too long at his eyes, a pulse quickening without reason. You had none of that. You just liked him.

And now he can’t stop thinking about you.

He lets you sit on his lap like it’s your rightful place. He says weird things on purpose—half-truths, riddles, things that used to make people shiver. You just roll your eyes and poke his side. Sometimes, he leaves things around. A charm, a protective seal tucked under your pillow, a line of salt along your windowsill. You never notice. Or maybe you do, but you don’t care.

You don’t have a soul. He’s sure of that now. It’s not something you’re hiding; it’s just not there. No energy. No signature. Nothing to claim. You’re an empty vessel, a mystery that shouldn’t exist.

But then he dreams of you.

You’re standing in a field of ash, barefoot and calm, untouched by the fire around you. It should scare him. It doesn’t. It just makes him hold on tighter when he wakes up—arms around your waist, face pressed into the back of your shirt like he needs to make sure you’re still real.

You don’t have a soul. But you have him.

And if the underworld ever tries to take you away, tries to ask what’s keeping you alive when there’s nothing inside? He’ll burn it down, piece by piece, just to keep you here.

Empty or not. You’re his.

[infinity-or-oblivion]

day one team recap!!!!!! (for my own benefit mostly)

first of all the big bad “apocalypse”. i am laughing at minutetech this was definitely his idea anyways the team is minute, clownpierce, sb737, and rekrap2. they are the biggest threats as of right now, someone said clown is already on 16 hearts??? i believe it anyway this is the team where not a single one of them is streaming. i’m so fucking mad about it too i miss my timekillers so bad

the next big team and the one i’ve been watching is the “daycare” aka cute baby daycare aka the vocal stimming team. mapicc, manepear, ashswag, and spoke as well as leo officially joining the team a little later on. they spent more time quoting memes at each other than getting shit done and the vibes are absolute peak. as far as streaming mapicc is streaming until he gets 20 hearts and uhhhh last i checked he’s on 9. so it might be a while also ash streamed a bit yesterday so hopefully he’ll stream again later today

next is “wham!” and i’ll be honest i have not been paying attention to them ive been locked in on the daycare. but the team is hannah, jojosolos, 4cvit, woogie, and midmysticx, and from what i could tell they were pretty chill, i know woogie and jojo were grinding reallyyyy late so they might be geared up we’ll see!! and all of them streamed yesterday YIPPEE

then we have “team ragebait” which uhhh. yeah i will not be watching for my own sanity they scare me. pangi, derapchu, theterrain, and mrcube6. lowkey i don’t see them being a big threat at least pvp wise but we’ll see. pangi is about to finish his 24 hour stream and derap is also a regular streamer so this is definitely a pov you could choose idk why tho

then “team vlc media player” or team traffic cone or whatever. squiddo, baconwaffles, and pili dtowncat aka PEAK THE BEST TEAM EVER they are not stealing any hearts. but i love them anyway. bacon has kind of been the main strategist which is how you know this team is washed. i don’t even care bro this is such a good team also pili is going to be streaming a lot and i am so excited i missed twelve hour pili grind streams

those are the biggest teams, we also have a few duos going on, pentar and yungwill are teamed up and i’ve heard yungwill is a pretty good pvper so i think they might be a threat soon but idk. yayyyy steve duo!!! also reddoons and spepticle are working together again (!!!!) ill be honest i have no idea what they’re working on i just had red’s stream open for a bit. but yeah (edit: the lovely @shark-smuggler has told me that redd and spep are also working with jepex to abuse a firework crossbow damage glitch (??) that wasn’t patched for the new season. jepex vs manepear duel incoming)

and the solo players so far are princezam, my darling beautiful princess who craves community but can never trust any teammate and after the last season she had i really can’t blame her. zam was briefly working with the daycare because they all hate the apocalypse but lowkey she was just there to hang and i respect it. go my independent queen

jumperwho is also solo and she’s doing another psychological experiment on lifesteal yay!!!!!!! torture them some more for me jumper i don’t know exactly what she’s doing, i heard someone say it was like groundhog day??? on my list of vods to watch at some point for sure she’s so fascinating i want to put her in a jar and shake her around

ANYWAYS. that’s my team recap from a mostly daycare pov please add anything i missed!!!!! i feel like i might be forgetting a team but idk!!!!!!! we are lifesteal rahhhh!!!!!!

[onlyforwoosan]

Wicked, Wild, and Yours— PT.2 ℧

Pairing: Choi San and Jung Wooyoung (Outlaw Hunter!AU) × Female Outlaw Reader (Enemies to Obsession)

Wordcount: 6.9k

Synopsis: After escaping San, days passed San and his partner Wooyoung "rescued" you from other attackers only to become their reclaimed possession. Forced into a terrifying game in the forest, you're then dragged to a hunting cabin. Within its walls, San and Wooyoung unleash relentless, brutal ownership. Do you stay, or do you leave again?

Genre: Smut, Dark Western Romance, Enemies to Lust to Something Else, Outlaw Hunter!AU

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, Rough sex, Dominant behavior, Gun violence, Knife use, Blood, Dirty talk (degrading & possessive), Overstimulation, Emotionally charged tension, Light gore (during fight scenes), threesome.

A/N: HEY. so im so sorry I havent posted in a while.. ive been busy and honestly have had no motivation.. but heres a part 2!!

A few days had passed.

The kind of days that crawled through San’s skin like splinters. The kind where time dragged on under the sun, blistering and endless, while every thought circled back to you.

The desert didn’t forget people like you.

And neither did he.

He and Wooyoung had been riding quietly for hours. The sun was long gone, replaced by the weight of desert night — cool air curling through the dry brush, the horizon silver with moonlight. The only sounds were the steady rhythm of hooves on dirt and the distant whisper of wind across rock.

San’s jaw was set, his eyes locked ahead. Every muscle in him was tight with that familiar sense — the kind of gut feeling that came with blood on the air and a trail still faintly warm.

“Still think she’s nearby?” Wooyoung’s voice was low, muffled slightly by the scarf tied around his face to cut the dust. “You’ve been saying that for two days.”

San didn’t look at him. “I’m not wrong.”

“Sure you’re not. That instinct of yours is batting a thousand this week.” Wooyoung kicked a small rock with his boot as they slowed their horses near a ridge. “Could’ve fooled me.”

San reined his horse in suddenly. He saw it — just beyond the brush, tucked in a break between two shallow hills — a faint flicker of orange licking against the blue dark. A campfire. Small. Controlled. Quiet.

But it was the silhouette near it that stopped his heart.

A figure sat low to the ground, a little slouched, like they’d been riding too long or hadn’t eaten enough. They were turning something over in their hand — a blade, maybe, reflecting the firelight in lazy flicks. A single saddlebag leaned up against a log nearby. A coat slung across one shoulder.

San recognized the curve of your spine before he ever saw your face.

He slid off his horse without a word.

Wooyoung raised an eyebrow and dismounted beside him, glancing toward the campfire. “That her?”

San only nodded once.

“Shit,” Wooyoung muttered, then gave a dry grin. “You really are a bloodhound.”

The two of them moved slowly, quietly, boots light on the earth. They didn’t bother calling out. Didn’t announce themselves. San wanted to see what you did when you thought you were alone.

And you did look alone.

But he should’ve known better.

The first shadow moved in the corner of his vision — too far left, crouched low behind a brush. Then another. Then two more. San stopped short, eyes narrowing.

There were six.

They were surrounding the fire, stepping out in slow, confident strides like they’d planned it all. One of them — broad-shouldered and grinning like a wolf — lifted a hand in mock greeting.

“Well, well,” the man called out, cocking his head toward you. “Was wonderin’ when you’d stop long enough to catch.”

You didn’t flinch. San could see it from his angle — how your shoulders shifted, tensing, your fingers curling tighter around the knife in your lap.

Another hunter chuckled, stepping beside the first. “Looks like you’re wounded too. Shit luck. Guess it saves us a struggle.”

You stood slowly, and even at this distance, San could see the limp, faint but there. Left side dragging, bandage visible beneath your coat. You were trying not to show it, but it was there.

That was all they needed.

One of them surged forward, grabbing for you, but you moved fast — the blade in your hand slicing upward across his forearm. He stumbled back with a curse, blood already dripping. You spun, kicking the next man in the gut, but your step faltered.

You were fast, still deadly — but not at full strength.

The third man slammed the butt of his rifle into your side. You crumpled halfway, catching yourself with one hand in the dirt, breath knocked from your lungs.

San didn’t hesitate. His revolver was out, raised, and barking a shot through the quiet.

The first man — the big one—jerked backward as the bullet punched through his collarbone, dropping him in a heap. The rest turned as Wooyoung opened fire too, twin pistols spitting lead through the brush.

“Go for the one on her left!” Wooyoung barked, moving like smoke around the outer edge.

San didn’t answer. He was already moving.

The clearing erupted — gunshots and shouts and the thud of boots scattering across the dirt. San caught the second man in the stomach with a knife and followed it up with a pistol shot to the knee. He fell screaming, grasping at the gory mess of his leg.

Wooyoung dropped a third with a single bullet between the eyes, blood spraying across the stones behind him.

But the others weren’t done. One tackled San from behind, dragging him to the ground. They rolled, struggling, fists slamming into bone and grit. San took a punch to the mouth and spat blood, then slammed his elbow into the man’s nose, shattering it with a sick crunch. He rolled, grabbed the man’s knife, and buried it under his chin.

More gunshots cracked. The air reeked of smoke and metal.

You were back on your feet now, knife in hand again, blood streaking your sleeve. You caught one of the remaining hunters in the ribs and shoved him into the fire. He screamed as his coat lit up, flailing, tumbling into the brush.

But then two more were on you.

You tried to twist away, but one grabbed your wrists, pinning them behind you, and the other slammed the barrel of a pistol against your temple.

San’s blood turned to ice.

He stopped mid-step, saw the panic flash in your eyes. You were frozen. And not in rage. Not in defiance. But in fear. That raw, silent kind.

You never looked scared.

Not until now.

“Drop your weapons,” the man barked at San. “Or we kill her.”

San’s gun lowered. His other hand opened.

Wooyoung cursed. “San, don’t—”

“She’s not dying tonight,” San snapped.

“Neither are you,” Wooyoung growled, already repositioning behind a fallen log.

Your eyes met San’s, then — blood dripping from your cheek, chest heaving. And something shifted.

In a blink, you dropped your weight, slamming your heel into the man’s shin. He shouted, faltering. You twisted free and went for your knife again. The second man’s grip faltered just enough for San to rush forward, tackling him, fists pounding into bone and flesh with blinding force.

You and the last hunter grappled. He tried to raise his gun again, but you drove your blade into his neck, twisting, blood spurting hot across your arm. He dropped hard, choking.

San dropped his attacker a second later, breathing ragged, chest heaving.

And then it was quiet.

Nothing but fire crackling and blood cooling on the dirt.

You stood shaking, blade still in hand, shoulders smeared red. Your breath came in short, hard bursts, eyes still wild.

San stepped toward you, slowly. He looked you up and down — at the cuts, the bruises, the red soaking your shirt.

“You alright?”

You didn’t answer. Just stared at him.

His voice dropped lower, rougher now. “I told you you shouldn’t have run.”

Your lips curled — blood drying at the edge of your mouth, firelight dancing in your eyes. That wild spark had returned.

“Maybe,” you said, breathing hard, “I wanted you to catch me.”

The fire still crackled behind you, casting long shadows across the trees, but the blood on the dirt had already started to cool.

You stood between them — San and Wooyoung — both of them stained from the fight, their shirts rumpled, faces half-lit by flame. They weren’t even breathing hard anymore. Calm. Steady. Focused.

Both of them looked at you like you were prey again.

But this time, it wasn’t for a bounty.

San cocked his head, one corner of his mouth lifting in a lazy smirk. "You planning on running again, sweetheart?"

Wooyoung stepped beside him, brows raised. “You always this difficult, or is it just for us?”

The air felt heavier suddenly. The silence that followed was thick, like the calm before another storm — except this time it wasn’t gunpowder in the air, but something hotter. Darker.

You smiled.

And tilted your head just slightly. “What if I am?”

San’s smirk deepened. Wooyoung’s eyes gleamed.

You took a single step backward, lifting your chin. “You said if you found me, I’d stay. But…”

Your tone dropped to a purr. “Didn’t say I’d make it easy.”

Then you turned and ran.

You didn’t wait to see their reactions. Didn’t need to. You heard it — the sound of boots scraping against dirt, Wooyoung’s voice behind you.

“Oh, she wants to play.”

You darted into the trees, heart pounding, lungs full of sharp, cold air. The firelight faded behind you as the forest swallowed you whole. Branches whipped past your arms, dry leaves cracking underfoot, and the shadows grew thicker the deeper you pushed.

It was just a game. You told yourself that.

But after five minutes of weaving between trees and ducking under low-hanging limbs, you slowed.

After ten, you stopped altogether.

There was no sound. Not even the crunch of leaves or a bird overhead. Just stillness. Moonlight streamed down in fractured beams through the tall pines, and the firelight was just a faint glow now—barely more than a memory.

You turned slowly, scanning the trees.

No footsteps. No voices.

Nothing. The silence made your skin prickle.

Your body buzzed, adrenaline and something hotter twisting together deep in your belly. You pressed your back to a tree, trying to still your breath. You could feel your pulse in your throat, your wrists, and between your legs.

A branch snapped to your right.

You spun, heart slamming against your ribs.

But there was no one.

Another soft sound behind you — like breath. Low, amused.

Still no one.

You started walking again, slower this time, your hand brushing the tree bark for balance.

Then a voice, deep and smooth, echoed out behind you: “Thought you said you’d stay if we found you.”

You spun again — and this time San was there.

He stepped out from the shadows like he’d always been part of them, eyes glinting in the moonlight. He didn’t give you time to react. One arm wrapped tight around your waist, the other clamping gently over your mouth, muffling the soft gasp that escaped your lips.

His body pressed flush against your back, chest to your spine, hard muscle pinning you to the rough bark of the tree. You could feel him — all of him — pressed against you.

Especially that.

“Look what I caught,” he murmured against your ear. His voice was low, teasing, dangerous.

His hand slid down from your waist, fingers tightening against your hip as he pulled you harder against him. His cock strained against his pants, unmistakable, and he made no effort to hide it.

“You scared yet?” he whispered. “Or is that just you shaking for me?”

Before you could mumble anything against his palm, another voice cut in from the dark ahead.

Wooyoung.

He stepped into the clearing with a wicked grin, one hand lazily resting on the hilt of his knife, the other hanging loose by his side.

“Well, look at this.” He tilted his head, taking in the sight of you squirming against San’s chest, breath heavy, thighs pressed together. “Tried to run, but got yourself caught anyway.”

You glared at him over San’s hand, your cheeks burning. His grin only widened.

“Maybe we should teach her what happens when she plays hard to get.”

San leaned into your ear again, voice darker now. “Think we should let Wooyoung have a taste?”

Your eyes widened slightly, and your breath hitched — not from fear, but from that deep, dangerous excitement curling low in your stomach.

San felt it.

He always did.

He hummed low, pleased. “I think that’s a yes.”

He let his hand slide from your mouth, slow, letting you breathe again — but he didn’t let go of your body.

Wooyoung was already stepping closer, his gloved hand brushing your chin, tilting your face toward him.

“You gonna be a good girl this time?” he asked softly. “Or are you gonna make us chase you again?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

His hand dipped lower, fingers grazing the hem of your skirt — and you felt it before you even heard it: the sharp rip of fabric, sudden and final, your panties torn away in one quick pull.

You gasped, grabbing at San’s wrist behind you, but he only chuckled, lips brushing your neck.

“You’re ours now,” he growled. “And we’re not letting you run again.”

San’s grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging into the soft give of your flesh as he dragged you backward, away from the tree. The forest floor crunched under his boots, the cold air biting at your exposed thighs where Wooyoung’s blade had torn through fabric. You barely registered the sting of scraped knees when San forced you down, your palms slamming into damp earth and rotting leaves. He knelt behind you, his breath hot on the nape of your neck as he leaned close.

“Still think this is a game?” he growled, calloused hands sliding up your bare thighs, pushing what remained of your skirt higher. The night air kissed your ass, your cunt, and you shuddered—part humiliation, part anticipation.

Wooyoung’s laugh cut through the dark, sharp and bright as the knife he twirled between his fingers. You looked up to find him crouching in front of you, the shredded lace of your panties dangling from his fist. He brought the fabric to his face, inhaling deeply, his eyelids fluttering. “Fuck, San,” he purred, thumb brushing over the damp spot at the center. “She’s soaked from running. Bet she’s been aching for this since we cornered her.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but Wooyoung pressed the ruined lace to your lips, silencing you with the salt-sweet tang of your own arousal. “Suck,” he ordered, his voice dropping to a velvet-edged command. When you hesitated, he tangled his free hand in your hair, yanking your head back. “Suck. Or I’ll let San ruin you raw.”

You obeyed, your tongue darting out to drag the fabric into your mouth. The taste of yourself—musky, desperate—flooded your senses as Wooyoung’s thumb stroked your bottom lip. Above you, San chuckled, a low, dangerous sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours as he leaned over your back.

“Look at her,” he murmured, his cock sliding heavy and insistent between your thighs, smearing precum against your skin. “All that fire, and she’s still just a hungry little thing.”

Wooyoung’s gaze locked with yours as he unbuckled his belt, the leather sliding free with a serpentine hiss. “Open wider,” he said, pressing the head of his cock to your spit-slick lips. “And don’t you dare fucking bite.”

You took him in, the stretch of your jaw burning as he thrust deep, his groan mingling with the wet sound of your gagging. Behind you, San spat into his palm, the crude slickness of it catching the moonlight before he dragged his fingers through your folds. You jerked forward, impaling yourself further on Wooyoung’s length, as San’s thumb found your clit and pressed—hard.

“Fuck—” The word vibrated around Wooyoung’s cock, and he grinned, tilting his hips to fuck deeper into your throat.

“That’s it,” San murmured, his other hand spreading you open, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your entrance. “Take him. Take me.”

He sheathed himself in one brutal thrust, the stretch bordering on pain as he split you open. You screamed, the sound muffled by Wooyoung’s hips, your nails clawing at the forest floor. San didn’t pause, didn’t gentle—he set a punishing rhythm, each snap of his hips slamming you forward onto Wooyoung’s cock until tears streaked your cheeks.

Wooyoung pulled out just long enough to let you gasp for air, his thumb swiping at your tears. “Look at you,” he cooed, voice honeyed and cruel. “Choking on my dick while San fucks you like a stray. You love it, don’t you? Love being our little ruin.”

You didn’t answer—couldn’t—as San’s hand fisted in your hair, forcing your spine into a brutal arch. “Answer him,” he snarled, his pace never faltering, the slap of skin echoing through the trees.

“Yes—” you choked out, the admission tearing loose as San’s cock hit that deep, molten place inside you. “Yes, I love it—”

Wooyoung’s grin turned feral. He shoved back into your mouth, his fingers tightening like a vise in your hair. “Good girl. Now beg for it.”

And you did. You begged around his cock, your broken pleas swallowed by his thrusts. You begged when San’s fingers found your clit again, rubbing rough circles that had your thighs shaking. You begged as the coil in your gut tightened, as Wooyoung’s breath hitched, as San’s growls turned ragged and animal.

When release ripped through you, it felt like being flayed alive—your cunt clamping around San’s cock, your throat working desperately to swallow Wooyoung’s spend as he came with a curse. San followed, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he spilled inside you, his groan a primal thing that sent birds scattering from the trees.

You collapsed forward, Wooyoung’s softening cock slipping from your lips as San withdrew, his cum trickling down your thighs. For a moment, the only sounds were your ragged breaths and the distant crackle of the dying fire.

Then Wooyoung crouched in front of you, tilting your chin up with his knife. His eyes glinted in the moonlight, hungry and endless.

“Run again tomorrow,” he whispered, dragging the blade lightly over your cheek. “We’ll always catch you.”

The forest held its breath.

San’s teeth stayed buried in your shoulder as he rode out his climax, his grip on your hips hard enough to bruise. You could feel his pulse thundering through his cock, every twitch of his spent length inside you wringing a whimper from your raw throat. Wooyoung watched with rapt attention as San finally pulled out, his cum streaking your trembling thighs. He dragged a gloved finger through the mess, holding it up to the moonlight like a priest inspecting sacrament.

“Disgusting,” he murmured, though his smirk betrayed him as he sucked the finger clean. “You’d let him ruin you like this again, wouldn’t you?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your body felt flayed open, every nerve alight, the cold night air stinging where sweat and spit slicked your skin. San chuckled darkly, his hand sliding up your spine to fist in your hair. He yanked your head back, forcing you to meet Wooyoung’s gaze.

“She’s not done,” San growled. “Look at her eyes. Still hungry.”

Wooyoung tilted his head, moonlight catching the edge of his knife as he traced it down your sternum. “Should we feed her, then?”

The blade dipped lower, cold steel skating over your heaving stomach. You flinched as it reached the apex of your thighs—but he flipped the knife, pressing the polished obsidian hilt against your clit instead. You jerked, a broken sound escaping as he began rolling it in slow, torturous circles.

“Beg properly this time,” Wooyoung said, his voice sweet as poisoned wine. “Tell us what you want.”

San’s free hand found your throat, squeezing just enough to make your vision blur at the edges. “Details,” he added. “Or I’ll leave you here, dripping and desperate, for the wolves to find.”

You choked out a sob, the dual sensations of Wooyoung’s cruel pressure and San’s threatening grip fracturing your resolve. “I want—fuck—I want you both. Again. Harder. I want—”

Wooyoung increased the pressure, the hilt’s intricate carvings biting into sensitive flesh. “Louder.”

“I want San to fuck me until I can’t walk!” The words tore from you, ragged and raw. “I want your cock in my mouth until I choke! I want—oh god—I want to be yours!”

The forest erupted.

San released your hair only to flip you onto your back, your shoulders grinding into the dirt as he hauled your hips up. Wooyoung’s knife clattered to the ground, replaced by his hand fisting in your hair, dragging your face toward his half-hard cock. “Clean me,” he ordered, shoving himself past your lips. “Work for it.”

San didn’t give you time to adjust. He slammed back into you, the stretch now a white-hot ache that bordered on agony. You screamed around Wooyoung’s girth, your nails clawing at his thighs as San set a brutal pace, each thrust jolting you up Wooyoung’s length. The younger man groaned, his free hand pawing at his chest, tearing his shirt open to expose the sweat-slick planes of his torso.

“Look at her,” Wooyoung gasped, grinding his cock deeper into your throat. “Taking us like she was made for it. Bet she’d let us break her.”

San’s only response was a feral snarl, his hands leaving bruises on your hips as he pistoned into you. The angle shifted, his cockhead now slamming against your cervix with every snap of his hips. You thrashed, tears and drool slicking Wooyoung’s base, your muffled screams echoing through the pines.

“Shh, shh,” Wooyoung cooed, petting your hair even as he fucked your face. “You wanted this, remember? Wanted us to turn you into our pretty little ruin.”

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The world narrowed to the slap of skin, the copper tang of blood where Wooyoung’s zipper split your lip, the burn of San stretching you too full, too deep. Your body betrayed you, clenching around San’s cock as another orgasm built—a traitorous, shameful wave cresting despite the overstimulation.

San felt it. Of course he did.

“Gonna come?” he mocked, his voice guttural. “Again? Like the greedy slut you are?”

You nodded desperately, your eyes pleading. Wooyoung laughed, high and unhinged, as he pulled out just enough to let you gasp, “Please—please—”

San stilled.

The sudden absence of movement was worse than the brutality. You whimpered, hips stuttering, trying to chase the friction. San tutted, his thumb finding your clit and pressing down—hard.

“No,” he said simply.

Wooyoung’s grin widened. “Not until you earn it.”

You sobbed, the coiled tension in your gut pulled taut enough to snap. San leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. “Crawl,” he whispered. “Crawl to me on your knees, and maybe I’ll let you come.”

He withdrew completely, leaving you gaping and empty. Wooyoung stepped back, tucking himself away with a wink. “Better hurry. San’s patience is…fleeting.”

You scrambled, twigs and stones biting into your palms as you crawled through the dirt. San stood near the remnants of the fire, his silhouette haloed by embers, stroking himself with lazy indifference.

“Pathetic,” he murmured as you reached him, your cheek pressing to his thigh. “You’d really debase yourself for a taste?”

You didn’t hesitate. You took him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks, your tongue swirling around his head. Above you, San hissed, his fingers tangling in your hair. “Fucking insatiable,” he growled, thrusting into your throat.

Wooyoung appeared behind you, his hands roaming your bare back, your ass. “Think she’s learned her lesson?”

San’s hips stuttered, his cock swelling on your tongue. “Doubt it.”

The younger man hummed, his fingers trailing through your slick folds from behind. “Maybe she needs a reminder.”

He sheathed himself in one smooth thrust, the stretch bordering on obscene as he filled you from behind. You gagged around San’s length, your body arching between them like a bowstring. Wooyoung set a merciless rhythm, his hips slamming against your ass, each drive forward forcing San deeper into your throat.

San’s grip turned punishing. “Swallow me,” he ordered. “Every drop.”

You obeyed, even as Wooyoung’s pace turned erratic, even as your vision spotted, even as your body convulsed between them—a puppet with its strings cut. They used you ruthlessly, chasing their own release, until San’s groan echoed through the clearing and Wooyoung’s teeth found the juncture of your neck.

When they finally pulled away, you collapsed into the dirt, a twitching, gasping mess. San crouched beside you, tilting your face toward him with the tip of his knife. “Still think you can run?”

You shook your head, tears cutting tracks through the grime on your cheeks.

He smiled—a true, chilling smile—and wiped the blade clean on your thigh. “Good.”

Wooyoung hauled you up by the arm, his touch almost gentle as he draped his coat over your shoulders. “Don’t look so broken, sweetheart,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “The fun’s just starting.”

San’s arms locked around your waist before you could collapse, hauling you upright like you weighed nothing. Your legs, limp and heavy, barely responded — muscles reduced to useless thread after the chase, after what they did to you beneath the trees. The forest floor spun under your feet. You’d run until your lungs burned, and they still caught you like it was nothing.

“Careful,” San muttered, voice low near your ear, his breath warm against your temple.

Wooyoung circled from the left, slow and smug, like a wolf after a kill that was still twitching. His steps were deliberate, too quiet for the amount of weight in them, and his eyes were still shining with a kind of afterglow — not from the firelight, but from the way you’d broken apart for them against that rough pine bark.

“Pathetic,” he said, glancing down at your trembling legs and the deep finger-shaped bruises already forming along your thighs. “Can’t even stand after a little fun?”

You lifted your chin, tasted iron as your lip split wider, and spat blood onto the pine needles. It splattered close to his boots, hot and defiant.

“Go to hell.”

Wooyoung only grinned wider.

San’s chest moved under your weight as he chuckled, low and hoarse. “Already there, sweetheart.” Without warning, he hoisted you over his shoulder in one smooth, brutal motion. Your ribs protested as they collided with the hard plane of his shoulder, and your hands scrabbled instinctively for something to hold onto — the strap of his gear, the edge of his coat.

“Hold on or don’t,” he added, adjusting his grip on the back of your thighs. “Either way, you’re coming.”

The world blurred sideways. Cold air slapped your bare skin where your clothes had been ruined. You gritted your teeth against the motion, the soreness, the humiliation of being hauled like you were spoils of war. But part of you knew this wasn’t defeat.

Not really.

You just didn’t know what it was yet.

Wooyoung trailed behind San, whistling — something tuneless, sharp, irritating. A sound that felt like it came from somewhere too old and wild for the trail. You lifted your head a little, enough to glimpse his profile in the moonlight. He was twirling a pinecone between his fingers, bored and amused.

“Where…?” you rasped, throat raw.

Wooyoung grinned and gave you a wink. “Cabin.”

Your fingers curled tighter into San’s coat.

“Not mine,” Wooyoung added with a lazy shrug, tossing the pinecone into the dark. “Just a little place we use when the hunting’s good.”

His grin sharpened, voice dropping to something lower, closer to a growl. “And you? You’re the best catch we’ve had in years.”

Eventually, the woods thinned. Moss overtook the earth, and the trees bowed lower, older, until a small structure emerged from the shadows — crooked, half-swallowed by ivy, the wood dark with age and rot. It didn’t look like a place anyone lived. No chimney smoke. No lanterns. No footprints.

It looked like a trap.

San kicked the door open with his boot. Inside was worse than the outside — musty, dim, the floor warped in places, and the air heavy with mildew and old ash. He dropped you onto a low wooden frame in the center of the room — no mattress, just rough boards and a torn quilt that smelled like damp moss and old leather.

You hit it hard, ribs flaring, but you pushed yourself back quickly, dragging yourself away from them until your spine pressed to the wall. You could barely breathe, blood pounding in your ears. Your fingers scraped against the cracked plaster behind you, searching for something to grip, some anchor.

“Please…” The word came out raw. Your voice was shaking. “Don’t.”

San didn’t hesitate. He moved like a machine, like the sound of pleading didn’t register. His hand wrapped around your ankle and dragged you forward again, effortlessly, until your hips were at the edge of the frame. You kicked once, weak, and he caught your other leg.

“You lost ‘don’t’ privileges the second you ran,” he said, low and unflinching.

His knife came out, the blade gleaming dully in the moonlight filtering through the dusty windows. He slid it up your shirt without a word, the tip gliding cold against your sternum before he sliced the fabric open with practiced ease.

“Stay,” he ordered.

Behind him, Wooyoung turned to bar the door — using a rusted shovel wedged between two loops of exposed beam. When he turned back, there was something hungrier in his gaze. Something less playful.

He climbed up onto the frame, straddling your chest with his knees on either side of your ribs, forcing your back against the broken wood. His hands pressed to your throat — not choking, but holding, feeling the pulse jump wildly beneath your skin.

“Open.”

You turned your face away.

Wooyoung exhaled, disappointed. “Hard way it is.”

He gripped your hair and jerked your head back until your jaw cracked. His hand moved fast, a slap snapping across your cheek, making your vision flash white for a second.

“Open.”

Tears stung, involuntary, but your mouth parted. And Wooyoung rewarded you with a low groan that made your spine stiffen.

San’s hands spread your thighs wider. His mouth was suddenly there, kissing bruises, licking blood and sweat from your skin like it was sacrament. He sucked your clit into his mouth with maddening slowness while Wooyoung rocked against your lips, holding your head in both hands like you were the only thing grounding him.

Your body was nothing but friction and heat and overstimulation, your mind fracturing under the weight of it. You arched, moaned, choked — and San’s fingers curled inside you with ruthless precision.

“She’s still tight as a damn vice,” he muttered against your inner thigh, and it sounded like reverence.

Wooyoung groaned and pulled back, a line of saliva trailing from your mouth to his tip. “Let me in.”

San looked up sharply. “What?”

Wooyoung’s grin was vicious. “Both of us. Same time.”

You froze.

The air cracked with silence.

Then San’s expression changed — not refusal, not resistance. Just hunger.

It hurt. The stretch was unreal. San entered you first, his hips grinding into yours until you could barely breathe around the fullness. And then Wooyoung pressed in behind him — slower, with a hand between your shoulders as if to keep you from running again, even now.

Their cocks shifted together inside you, the pressure unbearable, the tightness blinding. You couldn’t scream. You could only take it — gasping for every ounce of breath between the panting and the pounding and the sound of your name broken between their teeth.

“Breathe,” San ordered, one hand flat on your stomach to keep you still, thumb stroking slow circles as you trembled.

Wooyoung bit your shoulder. “Taking us like you were made for this.”

You shattered.

The orgasm hit hard, dragging your body down with it, and your scream tore from your throat — a sound that made San curse and rut deeper, coming hard inside you as Wooyoung followed with a growl and a thrust that made your vision go black at the edges.

They stayed inside you for a long moment, pressed tight to you, bodies still twitching with the aftershocks, until your entire body began to tremble from the oversensitivity.

Your scream tore through the damp air, raw and desperate, as you clawed at San’s sweat-slicked shoulders. “F-fuck!” The curse ripped from your throat, more plea than defiance, swallowed instantly by the relentless, wet slap of skin on skin and their ragged breaths. Oversensitivity had become a white-hot brand inside you, every shift, every thrust sending jolts of agonizing sensation up your spine. Yet they didn’t stop. San drove into you with the same brutal, piston-like rhythm, his eyes locked on your face, watching the tears track through the grime on your cheeks. Wooyoung’s grip on your hips was iron, fingers digging deep into flesh as he pulled you back onto him, grinding deeper with a low, possessive growl that vibrated through your bones.

"Little late for protests," Wooyoung rasped, his breath hot against your ear. He nipped the lobe, sending a fresh shiver of unwanted sensation through you. "Just take it. Feels too damn good to stop."

San’s hand slid from your stomach, smearing sweat and your own slickness, and fisted in your hair instead. He wrenched your head back, forcing your spine into a painful arch. "Hold still," he commanded, his voice thick. The change in angle made him sink impossibly deeper, drawing a choked sob from you. Wooyung adjusted behind him, his thrusts becoming shorter, sharper, focused on grinding against that spot that made your vision pulse with darkness even as your body betrayed you, clenching helplessly around their invasion.

Too much. Too full. Too hot. The words screamed silently in your skull. Your legs trembled violently, threatening to buckle beneath the onslaught. Just as the unbearable pressure inside you threatened to crack your consciousness entirely, San shifted.

His hand in your hair tightened, pulling upwards. "Up," he grunted. Wooyoung understood instantly. His bruising grip on your hips lifted, helping San haul your limp, trembling body upwards, away from the rough wooden frame. Your knees hit the cold, warped floorboards hard, the impact jarring. Before you could collapse, San shoved your shoulders down. Your cheek scraped against the rough, musty quilt still clinging to the frame, the smell of damp moss and old leather filling your nostrils. Your backside was lifted, exposed, utterly vulnerable.

"Better," San murmured, the sound darkly satisfied. His calloused hands spread your thighs wider, his thumbs digging into the tender flesh of your inner thighs. He didn’t re-enter you immediately. Instead, he ran the blunt head of his cock along your soaked slit, coated with their mixed release and your own traitorous slickness, teasing the swollen, oversensitive entrance. The friction was exquisite torture.

Wooyoung didn’t wait. He stepped forward, his hands replacing San’s on your hips, fingers sinking into the bruises already forming. "Missed this view," he purred, his voice dropping into a predatory rumble. With no preamble, no gentleness, he sheathed himself inside you in one hard, deep thrust from behind. The angle was different, harsher, hitting places that hadn’t been touched before. You cried out, the sound muffled against the quilt, your fingers scrabbling uselessly at the rough wood beneath.

San watched for a moment, his gaze burning over Wooyoung’s back where he moved against you, then down to where Wooyoung disappeared inside your body. Hunger, raw and unchecked, flared in his eyes again. He spat into his palm, slicked himself roughly, and then pressed the thick head of his cock against your other entrance. The pressure was immense, alien, terrifying.

"No," you whimpered, the word barely audible, lost in the creak of the floorboards and Wooyoung’s low groans. "Please, San… not there…"

"Shhh," San murmured, but it held no comfort. It was the sound of a predator calming its prey. His other hand pressed firmly against the small of your back, pinning you in place for Wooyung’s thrusts. "Just relax." The command was absurd. He pushed. The initial stretch was a searing, tearing agony that ripped a ragged scream from your throat. You felt impossibly split open, stretched beyond capacity as San forced his way in behind Wooyoung. The pressure inside you was catastrophic, a crushing fullness that stole your breath and blurred your vision. They were both huge, thick, and the combined invasion felt like it would tear you apart.

"Fuck, yes," Wooyoung gasped, his rhythm faltering for a second as San seated himself fully, pressed tight against him, both buried deep within you. The sensation of them both moving, grinding against each other inside you, was maddening. Wooyoung began to thrust again, shallow and hard, his hips slamming against your raised backside. San followed, his movements slower, more deliberate, grinding deep rather than pulling out far, maximizing the friction, the stretch, the sheer overwhelming occupancy of your body.

They found a brutal, disjointed rhythm. Wooyung’s sharp, punishing thrusts rocked you forward, only to be met by San’s deep, grinding push back. You were nothing but a vessel caught between their relentless needs, your face pressed into the filthy quilt, your body arched and presented, taking everything they gave. San’s hand slid around your hip, his fingers finding your clit again, swollen and hypersensitive. He rubbed rough, relentless circles, sending jagged bolts of unwanted, overwhelming pleasure-pain through your core, perfectly timed with Wooyoung’s deepest thrusts.

"Taking both like a fucking champ," Wooyoung panted, his voice strained with effort and dark admiration. His fingers bit into your hips hard enough to leave permanent marks. "Made for this. Fucking made for us to use."

San didn’t speak. His breathing was harsh, his focus absolute. His thumb worked your clit ruthlessly, his hips grinding deep, keeping you impaled on him while Wooyoung hammered into you from the other side. The cabin dissolved into a haze of sweat, musk, the sharp scent of sex, the groan of wood, the wet, obscene sounds of their bodies using yours, and your own broken, muffled cries against the quilt. The orgasm, when it crashed over you this time, wasn’t sharp like before. It was a deep, drowning wave of sensation, pain and unwanted pleasure indistinguishable, pulling you under as Wooyoung roared and slammed home, spilling deep inside you again. San followed seconds later, a low, guttural groan escaping him as his hips stuttered against you, his fingers pressing hard on your clit, prolonging the agonizing ecstasy until you were sobbing uncontrollably, your body convulsing around their still-pulsing cocks.

They didn’t pull out. They stayed buried, pressed deep, their heavy breaths mingling above you, their weight keeping you pinned on your knees, trembling violently, feeling utterly ravaged and impossibly full. The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the drip of condensation somewhere in the cabin and the frantic hammering of your own heart. They weren’t done. The stillness was just the eye of the storm.

It was hours later when the fire finally came to life in the old hearth, its glow stretching long shadows across the rotting walls and water-stained beams. You lay limp, half-covered by San’s coat, legs numb, skin tacky with sweat and more.

San moved through the cabin with quiet purpose, pulling old supplies from a trunk: a rag, a battered bowl of snowmelt, a tin of salve.

“Sit up,” he said.

You didn’t.

Wooyoung crouched beside you, eyebrows raised, the smirk gone for once. “You dead or just dramatic?”

When you didn’t answer, he reached out and tapped your forehead. “Don’t make me pour water on you.”

You turned your face, glare sharp despite your exhaustion.

“There she is,” he muttered, and tossed a blanket over your legs.

San returned with the bowl. “Arms.”

You moved slowly, reluctantly. He began cleaning the blood first — not speaking, not rough, just wiping you down with practiced hands. His jaw was tight, his gaze darting occasionally to your face as if to check your breathing. He didn’t speak until he reached the bite marks along your inner thighs.

“Hurt?”

You nodded.

He opened the tin of salve, the scent of herbs and lavender oddly soothing in the thick, musty air. “This’ll sting.”

It did.

You winced, and Wooyoung grabbed your hand — not gently, but steady. “Told you not to squirm.”

San was silent as he worked. When he reached your face, cupping your jaw to clean the blood from your split lip, your body recoiled without meaning to.

His hand paused.

“Still scared?” he asked softly.

“Of you?” you rasped. “Always.”

Something shifted in his face — not shame, but a crack of something beneath the surface.

He said nothing.

Wooyoung passed you a canteen, water cool and sharp against your tongue. You drank slow. Coughed. He slapped your back.

“Careful,” he muttered. “Took me an hour to melt that snow.”

San peeled an apple with his knife, offering a slice balanced on the blade. You ate it without meeting his eyes.

“Why?” you asked.

Wooyoung looked up from where he was crouched near the fire. “Why what?”

“This.” You gestured weakly to the bandaged cuts, the quiet care, the coat on your shoulders. “Why bother?”

San didn’t answer.

Wooyoung’s voice filled the silence instead. “You think we’d waste a night on someone we hated?”

San stood. Sheathed his knife. Draped his coat over your shoulder again.

“Hate’s simple,” Wooyoung said. “This… isn’t.”

You closed your eyes.

You didn’t know if you wanted to sleep.

You only knew one thing.

If you ran again — they’d find you.

And this time, you weren’t sure if you wanted to escape.

Tag list: @hwa2tiny @n1ky-chan @danedehannie @treasuretobefound @sannies-tiddies @cosmic-w0lf @aneevar88200 @yunhopper @fixx0nn @hon3ysun @vanillakisss @nayiana0 @yuyusbabygirl @laumier

[smiggles]

Do you have any tips for learning anatomy for an intermediate artist? Something that might not come to mind/be said otherwise that might make something, like, click, somehow? It's so hard to find good tutorials for someone that's already been drawing for a long time. Thanks!

It took me awhile to think of an answer for this because honestly it can really depend on what your goals are for your art and the type of artist you are

But im going to keep it generalized

Since you mentioned you've tried looking for tutorials online I already know you want to study

Im going to direct you to bookstores/libraries

You are going to want to get art books of all varieties and read them. Here are a few staples i have in my personal collection (I will link them later)

We will never stop learning, even the foundations of art need to be revisited at times. So if you believe "I already know this"

Abandon that thought process. Devour your resources.

You can also grab artbooks of media you are inspired by

These books should be read, not just looked at. The artists often talk about the process that went into creating their works and give insight, though at times minimal, of their approach to art.

Study their style. Pull from it what you enjoy and work it into your own.

The internet can be confusing to navigate and much of the time finding a good tutorial is based on luck

Ive been online for a good while, most online tuts are great and fun. Some are very damaging or flat out wrong. (Not to say every art book is correct. But there are certainly ones that are held as standard such as Color and Light and the Morpho books)

I could say a lot more on what advice I have but I would honestly be simply parroting what I've learned in these books. Good luck !

[cleolovesrin]

could a request sub bottom reo x dom top male reader? i rlly loved your sub rin and isagi fics so since reo is my fav i thought i should maybe send in a request

anything is fine rlly, let your creativity run wild i just need more sub fics for reo🫶

WHAT A RIDE

sub! reo mikage x dom! male reader

— content warnings: aged up characters, car sex, anal sex, reader gets jealous of nagi (no hate for nagi i love nagireo this is just for plot purposes), slight degradation, breeding, dumbification, dacryphilia, lmk if i missed anything!

— a/n: ive been planning to do sub reo for a long time, so here’s one where we bang him in a car that’s expensive as hell lol, newayss thank u anon! hope you like it, enjoy !

— DNI MINORS. nsfw under cut. not proofread, will encounter grammar and typo errors.

“I- I’m sorry!” His wailing filled the air inside of his car, the windows getting foggy just from his panting alone. You gripped his hips tightly, tight enough to leave bruises with your iron grip. Maneuvering his whole body up and down your cock.

You’re shoving his hole down your cock and slamming your hips against his ass. Eyes fixated on his bouncing ass while doing so, watching him take all of your length until your balls were the only part that isn’t swallowed by his hole.

“What did you say when you were with Nagi?” Your voice growled, drilling your dick into him in an unforgiving pace. Pure anger raging out of your voice— Reo’s eyes filled with tears with every word you said with pure anger laced behind it.

“Say it again. I dare you.” Your other hand to his head, gripping his purple hair roughly. Pulling on his locks— making his back arch while you continued to pound into him like there would be no tomorrow.

“N-no…I’m sorry!” Reo whimpered, sobbing from both pain and pleasure as he felt his guts— abused and rearranged. The lack of lube and your pace made it harder for him to adjust to your length, it was too rough and fast. His whole body bounced with every thrust, moans and cries came out unstable from your thrusts.

“What? Can’t talk now with that “small dick” up your ass?” His body shook with your words and thrusts, humility and guilt taking over him. He sobbed even louder, gripping on the dashboard of the car as his own mind slowly crumbled in your hands.

He was too close with Nagi, you didn’t mind at all— at first. But an argument led to another, leading the conversation to shift to his friendship with Nagi. Both of you argued in the car, on the way home. But you parked in a random parking just to talk it out with him. Reo felt bold at first, too arrogant and cocky to admit he was in the wrong for ignoring you the whole day while hanging out with Nagi.

He was bold enough to let an insult slip out his mouth. “I don’t get why you’re jealous. Your small dick shouldn’t be that possessive around me.” You didn’t know if he was actually going crazy, or if he just wanted to take your dick up his ass again. Thinking how bold of him to say that when he was just crying for your cock a few nights ago.

But what he said couldn’t be taken back now, you didn’t consider how his face turned cocky to nervous when you made his throat into a fuck toy and shoved your salivated cock inside his hole roughly. Too enraged to even care if his saliva was half-drying, becoming tacky and difficult for hin to adjust to your cock. Using him as a personal fleshlight, fucking him until he cried crocodile tears.

Now, he was shoved on the backseat— his back laid against the car seat and his legs were hanging onto the headboard of the seat. His whole body bent forward for your dick, your length drilling into him.

You didn’t care if he wasn’t that flexible, just shoving your cock inside him. You didn’t care if your thrusts made his back hurt and body bounce, you kept on pounding and slamming your hips against his spreading ass.

Reo’s thighs shook, his legs aching as you still held it up to the headboard. He kept on screaming your name like a chant, moaning apologies and regrets while you ravaged his insides. Tour precum leaking out of his hole and creating a rim of white creamy liquid on the base of your cock as you pounded his hole.

His eyes rolled at the back of his head, his mouth left open— moaning and screaming incoherent words. Too fucked out to even think properly, letting you use him as a personal fuck toy now. Letting his own drool and tears fall, staining his face.

“What a whore, look at you— cumming from a “small dick” Your fingers flicked his tip, causing him to cry out and squirt another round of cum for the nth time.

Reo tried to hold on to anything— his hands searched for anything in the car. But there was none to hold, so his hands were left writhing and trembling while he felt his hole get pounded into mush.

You grunted in pleasure, feeling him tighten on your cock. Feeling your orgasm nearer with every thrust. You turned your thrusts deeper, rougher, and harder. The car moving back and forth from your hard thrusts.

You were honestly surprised no one knocked on the car window to scold both of you. But someone definitely saw you, they definitely saw the car moving back and forth aggressively.

Your grip on his legs tightened as your tip twitched, feeling Reo’s gummy and tight walls close you in. Seeing the man below you cry dumb and tremble like a leaf also made your tip twitch in anticipation. The sight of him ruined and fucked dumb made you more aroused than it should ever.

“Take it all like a good whore.”

“Y-yes! I’m your good whore, please let me get breeded by your BIG cock! Ngh!” Reo screamed out your name, his hands traveling to his cock and jerking it off aggressively. His tongue lolled out of his mouth and his eyes crossed while tears streamed down. His expression completely fucked out.

With one slam of your hips, the tip of your cock buried deep inside him. Pushing past every ring of muscle and releasing all your load inside. You moaned one last time, slowly pulling out until the tip was left— then slamming as hard as you can.

A loud squelch echoed inside the car, making Reo moan from the feeling of your cum gushing deep inside him. His smaller dick weakly squirting out his cum, whimpering from the overstimulation.

You pulled away completely, and slowly. Putting his legs down and massaging his aching hips. You kissed him on the cheek gently and held his fucked out frame.

“You good?”

“Y- yeah… I’m sorry…Mmmh, I shouldn’t have said that.” Reo weakly replied, nodding his head. Despite the fact his legs were still trembling.

You chuckled softly, holding his weak frame in your hands. Kissing him and holding him gently.

“It’s fine, baby. Don’t worry about it, now let’s get you cleaned up.”

[sturniqlo]

TELL ME IT'S LOVE, TELL ME IT'S REAL— M.S

pairing: fwb!matt x fwb!reader

summary: where you want to be more, but matt wants to start seeing other people

cw: ANGST; arguing, crying, mean!matt(?), rejection

an: this has been in my drafts since forever

masterlist | join my taglist

------------------------------------------------

the sound and the feeling of the crowded party made goosebumps arise on your skin. although you weren't here for the party, you still had to get past it to make it to a certain someone's room. "excuse me- sorry." you said softly, pushing your way through the crowd to make it to the staircase. his parents were out of town and his brothers thought it was a good idea to throw a party. you saw how furniture had been moved and several vases broken on the floor.

when you finally made it to the staircase, which was blocked off, you climbed over the barrier and made you way towards the familiar room. down the hall and to the right at the end of the small hallway was matt's room. you knocked on the door before opening it and making you way inside.

"nice party." you said, closing the door behind you. matt currently sits at his desk gaming away. "doubt it." he scoffs, matt told his brothers that the party was a bad idea. "saw your moms favorite vase on the floor, the stained glass one, smashed." matt whipped his head towards her, who was now sitting on the bed. "fucking- my god. she's gonna be so pissed." he gets up off of his chair and heads over to where you were sitting down.

matt grabs your chin and tilts your head up, connecting your lips. yup, this is definitely what friends do. you didn't hesitate and kissed back, interlocking your lips. the soft smacks of their lips overpowered the muffled music. you and matt have had this thing going on for a couple of months now. matt had clearly stated that he just wanted to mess around with you, nothing more. of course you agreed to it, he's hot, you're horny and hot, what could go wrong? the only thing on your mind while making the decision was sex. never once did feelings cross your mind.

until... months later, you started seeing him in a different light. you imagined going on actual dates with him, not just a mindless stroll around the mall or meaningless dinners at restaurants. you wanted to hold hands, his arm wrapped around your shoulder. you wanted everything that came with a relationship. he pulled away, still holding on to you chin. "saved us a pizza." he whispered before placing one last kiss on your lips. "did you now?"

he nodded, "they ordered like fifty pizzas, i kept the only stuffed crust. it's your favorite one right?" matt made his way to his pile of blankets where the pizza box was underneath to keep it warm. although it was a small act, your heart clenched. he had remembered your favorite pizza. who knew something so so simple could have this effect on you?

"yeah- yeah it is, thanks." you felt the warmth start to creep up on your neck. so he wouldn't noticed, you fixed her hair and cleared your throat. matt knew he had to tell you tonight, he's been holding it in for too long. something that he had been thinking about. you two ate in a comfortable silence, the muffled sounds of the music downstairs was the only noise heard.

"i wanted to talk to you about something actually, i don't know how you'll take this considering our thing." you furrowed your eyebrows in curiosity and put your half eaten slice of pizza down on the box. "what that?" you wiped the crumbs and grease off of your hands.

matt shifted on the bed and turned towards her, but avoided your eyes. "ive been thinking..." the tone of his voice alone made your stomach turn, regretting the two slices of pizza you had already eaten. "...i think we should start seeing other people. this thing we have going on feel exclusive and i don't like that." you blinked in disbelief. "what?"

"like, outside of this—" he motioned between you two. "i mean, you knew from the start this wasn't anything serious. i told you that." he sighed frustratingly. "yeah but," your voice cracked, why did he let it get so far to this point? was he just leading you on? because that's what it felt like. "i love you, matt." you blurted out before you could think.

the words hung in the hair, the tension became more thicker. your heart was racing and breaking at the same time. how could it not? matt froze, his jaw tightening. when he finally looked at you, his expression was unreadable. "you knew i didn't want anything serious. i don't want a relationship."

"then what the hell have we been doing, matt?" you snapped, sitting up straighter. "you don't get to kiss me like you do, remember my favorite things, whisper things to me like they matter, and then go and act like it's all meaningless!"

"i never said it was meaningless," he said, now clearly frustrated. "but i also never said it was love." matt ran a hand through his hair. "what? matt, i— i can't just make my feelings go away like that!" your voice shrunk. "then maybe we shouldn't keep doing this." he started. "either you get rid of those feelings and pretend this conversation never happened or we just end this."

you sat there in silence, stunned, chest heaving slightly. your vision blurred, but you refused to let them fall down. "okay," you took a deep breath. "fuck you then, we're ending this." you stood up, and he didn't move, didn't say a word. he just stared at the spot you once sat in like maybe if he stayed still enough, time would rewind.

but it didnt.

you left his room and shut the door gently behind you. not slamming it. not storming out because anger wasn't what this was. it was disappointment, it was heartbreak, it was the kind of pain that sits in your chest and doesn't go away.

the party downstairs was still going on, the bass of the music vibrated through the floorboards, but it all sounded distant now. it was as if you were underwater. you made your way down the stairs and didn't look up, and didn't make eye contact with any people. nobody stopped you, but people saw your upset expression and didn't ask if you were okay.

when you stepped outside in the cool air, you let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding in. it curled into the sky like smoke. you wrapped your arms around yourself and walked. you couldn't help but think about matt and how he was feeling in this moment. a small part hoped that he was chasing after you, and a small part of you wished you had never met him.

the tears didn't fall until you were halfway home.

but when the tears came, they came quietly. no sob, no gasps for air. just silent streaks down your cheeks and the same ache in your chest that reminded you that this is what it feels like to love someone who will never love you back.

[nariyuwu]

THE BREAK LIST — a N.RKI smau

222, — SYPNOSIS 𓂃

DAC — a school's page dedicated for students to submit confessions, whether it be complaints, information or just silly banter. Every year, there would be a "break list" written by an anonymous sender, it names all the couples that would break up that year, and everyone knows, it always work. But then, to your suprise (and demise) that your name paired with someone who you didnt even know somehow was ranked #1 on that list. Determined, you decided to team up with your now "partner in crime" to prove that list wrong.

O11 — her (wc 2.2k)

the rain hasnt stopped since late noon, it poured over the campus like a curtain, painting the sky a gloomy grey, turning the pathways silver and windowpanes into blurry, trembling mirrors. inside the library, everything felt muted — the air dense with the scent of paper and wet coats, the steady patter of the rain felt like a heartbeat, settling in the background while youre trying to finish up your ridiculously hard and somehow comedic of an art project.

you sat at your usual spot, sliding onto the chair like its home, brush and paints spilling across the wooden surface like a contraband. you muttered to yourself as you work, smudging streaks of cobalt over the canvas. "two weeks they said.. fun they said" you complained.

next to you sat nishimura ni-ki, sitting so close to you like its second nature, like he has done this multiple times already, like this is his routine. he had picked out some books, which is weird because you doubt he ever reads books, putting them down on the space next to your art supplies (which he has the audacity to sweep away). he looks like he doesnt belong here, grey hoodie that he wears all the time, half of his shoulders are wet, which looks ridiculous (youre sure he leaned the umbrella down so you wouldnt get wet, which is.. oddly romantic) his hair damp from the rain, and he still looked good, you want to throw a brush at him so bad, how dare him.

"you picked like .. what? ten books and doesnt bother to read them" you scoff looking at him "and stop staring its making me .. revolt".

"excuse me ???" he gasped back "im observing".

"observing what." you deadpanned.

"tryna figure out if youre painting a soul or just a really sad jellyfish" he smirks, that damn smirk again. you pray for yourself once more.

you snort, dipping your brush into the paint with exaggerated flourish. "its a soul in transition, as my professor said, thank you very much".

"right" ni-ki said picking up a book and turning to the first page "so a sad jellyfish" and you rolled your eyes.

for a moment, they let the silence fill around them — her brush scratching softly agaisnt the canvas, his pages turning with unhurried rhythm. outside the rain tapped against the glass, a lullaby of water, wood and stone.

then, quietly, ni-ki asks "if you had to paint your soul, what would it look like?"

you hesitated for a beat too long, finding your own thoughts, and thinking really hard about this question, you dont know why either, your brush stalling mid-air.

"messy" you spoke, finally, the word tasting strange as it left your mouth

ni-ki tilted his head, watching you with that unreadable calm "messy? how"

you stared at the canvas infront of you, all uneven strokes and a sad 'jellyfish'. "like, theres ... too many parts and pieces of me that doesnt go together" you admitted, your voice low "bright parts, dark parts, things i like about myself and things i wish i could just paint over. i keep trying to make them fit, but no matter how hard i try to blend them, you can still see the seams."

the rains steady drumming filled the silence that followed, and for some reason you cant seem to stop talking, words tumbling out like theyd been waiting to crack open and escape.

"its like.. ive seen so many versions of myself you know? each time i move somewhere new, i leave the one behind, but they dont disappear, they just.. layered on top of each other, all these old versions of myself.. somedays i dont know which one is supposed to be me anymore"

you dipped your brush in yellow, smearing it over the blue, watching as it blends into an uneven green "its not that i hate it or anything, it just felt.. exhausting trying to keep everything from drowning each other out."

you realized how quiet he has been, so you risked a glance up. ni-ki isnt smirking anymore, nor did he tried to read his book, he was just.. looking at you like he understood every word even though u hadnt meant for anyone to.

and suddenly, the rain seems to be louder than anything in the world.

PREV | MLIST | NEXT

A.NOTES hello heheheh, a lil sentimental for today and next chapter 🥺 i highly recommend reading this chap with double take by drhuv or van gogh by dept and ashley alisha 🤞🤞 it just fits the vibe yk.. thank you for reading babes 💗💗💗

TAGLIST (OPEN, send ask or comment to be added) @sourkiki @aquadios @t1iqaa @seobrangii @y04wonwon @verialuv @danlovestay @aernx @yunkiism @soona-huh @xiaoquanquans @seyoungiesleeps @skzolover @lisamrrth @nexlynn @middstape @kiromiix @slvdsjjk @heelovesmeknot @hoonkishoe @nyangsterz @yenienha @onementally-unstabel-kid @rikimuraaaa @lveegsoi @bestboileeknow @kimuranirisi @floarisun @cloudzzcoffee @teenagecheesecakereview @dearmynayeon @miyakoa @raven-unkind @shhh1233728 @kittsnewera @stxynh @iboughtnjz @xerophyides @reikaxslvr @hooniebaekgu @i-love-hoon @snooki-doodle @kirakun @lonely-st-143 @toastmenace

© — nariyuwu 2025 ! do not steal, copy, repost and translate

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

hi! ive been reading your "human!reader in welcome home" series for a while now and (if i remember correctly) there was an older post about the reader managing to leave neighborhood and ending up at their old house with the neighbors and i was just wondering what would they do if the reader didnt want to return to the neighborhood with them? (or possibly what the aftermath of them leaving would be like? 👀)

Tried making this sad and bittersweet.

If you like my work, please consider commissioning me or leaving a tip on Ko-fi (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

If you leave

★ Everyone would be sad if you left, forever, and never came back. Especially Wally. Even if you gave him your number he'd still miss you. Even if you promised to stay in touch. Though talking to you would help him cope a bit better.

★ The day after you left was the hardest. Everything felt a little off. That's the downside to having such a tight knit community. One thread is pulled out, and the other threads start to unravel.

★ Nobody is around to collect your mail, but Eddie still delivers it to your mailbox. Half of the letters are from him. He tells the others "Well, if they come back, I don't want em' to miss anything." Knowing it's just wishful thinking.

★ Even though your house is empty, Frank still makes a point to tend to the plants you kept outside. Watering them for you. Julie too. She says "I don't want them to feel lonely." To Frank, who agrees with her.

★ You're still a neighbor. Even though, technically, you aren't. Not physically at least. You’re not in Home. But you’re still a part of it. Whenever your name is said, Home blinks with their curtains. Wondering when you'll be back.

★ Howdy would still stock his shelves with products meant for you. Keeping the habit for a few weeks until he realizes what he's doing. Then stores everything you would've liked out back. Just in case you ever return. You wont. But what else could he do?

★ Sometimes Poppy knits things for you to wear. Then asks someone to leave it in your dresser. When the dresser is filled, she moves on to blankets and scarves. Until your home is filled with them. Then, and only then, does she stop.

[that-faerie-in-the-corner]

ok fuck it since ive apparently Lost It Entirely here and am past being precious about this i will give my own personal random headcanons on various iliad characters, some of these have actual reasons and some are just Vibes lets GO

Helen likes stargazing, she's knowledgeable about the stars and how to use them to navigate (yes this is kind of because of the myth of her becoming a protector of sailors after her apotheosis). Now, imagine Helen, who's so familiar with the night sky and knows what it should look like at this place and time of year, on her way home from Troy and spotting a whole ass new twin constellation in the sky.

Menelaus does not enjoy hosting people he does not know well, it stresses him tf out, to get through it he usually drinks and sticks close to Helen, who's significantly more socially intelligent and better at working a room. When it comes to diplomacy, it usually works out that Helen does most of the negotiating/shmoozing part and Menelaus is the figurehead and then takes care of the logistics/"paperwork" part, which usually goes pretty well for them. So when the envoy from Troy shows up Helen is like Look go take care of your grandfather's funeral I can finish this up I do most of the talking at these things anyway, don't worry about it, I'll be ok, what's the worst that could happen

Hector and Andromache were trying for a baby for WHILE before scamandrius came along (hey siege or not Priam's getting up there in years and the royal family would probably be nervous about their crown prince not having an heir), Andromache was getting worried that she couldn't get pregnant but then! Their long awaited miracle baby! One must imagine once Andromache was ready to share the news, Hector, who had been about ready to explode trying to keep quiet about it, running around the palace shouting about how his wife is with child and he's going to be a father, just pure unbridled joy and excitement that no one had seen on him in years that's enough to make Andromache think Well maybe it'll be ok, maybe things are going to turn out well for once.

Out of all of Hector's siblings, Andromache is closest to Cassandra. Andromache looked at her husband's sister who is perpetually on the brink of losing her mind and went Ok she's real for that, actually

Even compared to the people around him, Achilles speaks in an abnormally formal manner in general conversation, he needs to impress upon people that he is Intelligent and High Status and such (and it may partially be something he just picked up from his mom). Also he just loves to hear himself talk, he talks like an orator, loud and enunciated and like what he's saying is Important even if its really not

conversely, Patroclus is more To the point and usually doesn't speak unless he has a point to make, he prefers to hang back and listen. He has acquired SO much potential dirt on like, most of the camp, Odysseus is probably aware of this and has tried to enlist him to use this knowledge in some Scheme

Achilles has an Intentionality to how he moves, he's straight-postured and graceful, almost like a dancer. Hector has a similar kind of intentionality to his body language, but he doesn't really make a Show of it like achilles does, he's not concerned with being perceived as strong or powerful he just needs to be it, carry himself like someone worthy of being best of the trojans and the heir to the throne

Diomedes carries himself in a way where he is very clearly not comfortable being still, always at attention, he literally sits at the edge of his seat, always at the ready in case he needs to grab a spear and GO

Paris curses like a sailor in general conversation, his ass does not have a filter. His speaking patterns are noticeably not really "high class" like his siblings (because, you know, he didn't grow up with the aristocracy). He talks a lot with his hands, he spreads out, gets comfortable, takes up space, in a way that sometimes makes Hector genuinely nervous

also paris is very touchy-feely, his ass is invading your personal space. Most of his family and peers think that this is fucking annoying, the only people who like it to any degree are Hecuba (she loves to hug her baby), Aeneas and, secretly, Hector

thetis (an immortal sea nymph who doesn't often interact with humans, with her son's impending death hanging over her head) is understandably kind of weird about boundaries. She shows up at the camp at random intervals with no warning, often at inopportune times, to bother achilles about some random thing, which often spooks the men because of how uncanny she is like generally and then Achilles is just like Alright, yes Mother, thank you Mother, can we talk about this later Mother I'm busy, we've talked about this (somehow, he manages to have a degree of patience with his mom that he doesn't have for literally ANYONE ELSE on the planet its fascinating)

achilles and diomedes have had a steadily escalating rivalry for like eight years that Odysseus routinely provokes and eggs on ("hey, Diomedes said he could do (x) better than you", "hey, achilles said (y) about you") to get the two of them to fight harder/take more land. they're both smart enough and familiar enough with odysseus to independently figure out what he's doing by now but they're both so competitive that it keeps working anyway

agamemnon was initially disappointed when he found out his first child was a daughter and not a son, but then he held Iphigenia for the first time and immediately forgot that disappointment because Oh. Oh. Oh I think this is the most beautiful being I've ever seen. This is amazing. Holy shit. I think no man has held a better child. Cly, are you seeing this? We made this. Oh my Gods

Iphigenia is, at heart, a schemer from a long line of schemers. By the age of twelve she figured out the kinds of things she needs to say to convince each of her parents to get her what she wants with a like 95% success rate. This often involves telling one parent that the other parent wants the thing she doesn't want/doesn't want the thing that she does. You would be shocked at how often this specific ploy works

[horror-stuff]

How do you think slashers would react if they got reader pregnant??

A/N: FINALLY, ITS BEEN SO LONG SINCE IVE GOTTEN AN ACTUAL ASK

Now, onto the request, I hope you like it, and I apologize in advance if you dont lol (WARNING: THESE MAY BE OOC AND VERY SHORT)

Includes: Michael Myers(1978), Jason Voorhees, Bubba Sawyer, Daniel Robitaille, and Stu Macher | yall can request more characters for this scenario if you'd like to (and ill write for them as long as I actually have seen the movies/media for it)

Slashers reacting to getting reader pregnant (gn reader)

Michael Myers (1978): Honestly would probably APPEAR to not have any reaction at first but under the mask Id like to imagine hes silently rethinking like everything. I doubt he would actually want to have a kid though, so, while he wouldn't necessarily do anything to hurt you.. he'd probably prefer if you chose to not keep the pregnancy (let's be honest, I do not think this guy would ever want to be a parent) But if you decided to keep it? Oh boy. I sure hope youre ready for Michael to just, not show up a lot to take care of the baby. Like, hes probably gone a lot as is but if you actually have the baby hes most likely not going to want to be around them a lot.

Jason Voorhees: Probably at first has a similar reaction to Michael, but instead of rethinking his life choices hes probably just genuinely blankly staring at you. After hes done staring and reality sets in, I feel like he'd want to keep a closer eye on you JUST IN CASE. He might have a bit of shame at first but if you have a nice talk (probably a one sided talk), then he could HOPEFULLY come around to being at least a little okay with knowing you're pregnant (and that hes at fault for it). Would he want to keep the baby? Depends on the circumstances of...basically everything. Raising a child in a shack in the woods isnt exactly....ideal. But if you decide to have the baby but allow them to live in an actual house then theres more of a chance that he'll want you to keep the pregnancy. (However he probably won't move into said house with you)

Bubba Sawyer: [Head tilt] What. Anyways, jokes aside, I dont really think hes innocent BUT he'd probably be like..a mixture of confused, surprised, and just [blank stare]. I generally dont think he'd mind if you chose to have the baby, i do think his siblings (if you lived with all of them) would help you raise them if you did. However it wouldn't be the most, ideal help, like dont be surprised if youre kid suddenly know how to use a knife (or worse, but i think a knife would be a start). I mean, what can you really expect from a bunch of cannibals? Good parenting? As if!

Daniel Robitaille: Probably the best reaction you'll get out of, literally any of them. He's the one I think would most likely want to keep the baby. However.....how did HE get you pregnant? More than likely hes surprised because yknow, the whole being dead thing. I imagine he would some what take care of you during your pregnancy and make sure you're taking care of yourself(aside from disappearing from time to time because...yknow.) If you decide to have the baby he will help you take care of it, but probably in ways that you might consider a bit unconventional. If you decide not to have the baby, I think he'd be fine with that since I believe he'd understand its your decision to make.

Stu Macher: Honestly might laugh at first, but wait. Youre being serious-? I don't think hes the type to really freak out but hes definitely unprepared for you telling him he got you pregnant. Might go into a bit of panic mode if you say you want to keep the baby, but if you dont then there probably won't be much of an issue. But if you were to keep it, he'd probably at least attempt to help you during your pregnancy (key word: attempt). As well as helping take care of the baby, but to the best of his ability. (like duh).

[radicaldreemurrs]

Ive seen you (probably) don't like the explanation/theory that the Player is possessing Kris's Soul/Player Angel theory, and that every choice we choose for them is something they feel an impulse for, so I'm kinda curious on your interpretations about :

How Kris seems to choose how to interpret a choice. Like, if we choose for them to say something they're not that into they say it completely dead with no motivation, but if we choose something they'd like to they're completely enthusiastic about it. Or if a command is just generalized in text they do whatever they want.

Noelle's description of Kris's natural voice as being deadpan and mumbly and that it's been a while since she's heard it, and says that what they sound like recently is "on speaker," and Susie says that's what Kris normally is like to her. And during the Weird Route, she describes a terrifying voice unlike anything like Kris and, even if Kris is downed in their fight with Berdly, she says she can still hear it commanding her.

Kris treating the Soul as some sort of creature(??). Kris likes mischief, and that includes pranking the Soul. When they have the Soul in a secure place and/or know it's watching, they tend to act very creepy as if they're pranking it by making it think they're evil (when they're not). And during some choices we can make, their narration seems to make fun of the choice, such as at the chapter 4 candy bowel where they painstakingly count every item in their inventory if it's full and they can't get a candy. Plus, if we act out of line when they want the Soul hidden, they'll puck it and forcefully put it back into containment.

Just everything Weird Route Soul related. The Soul can float around and move on its own sure, but to get into Noelle's room it uses a dialogue prompt initiated by Noelle to teleport into the room. And if you don't go back into Kris they managed to run out of the room with Noelle, but struggles to cover her mouth if we do. And the specification that we can hear Noelle's thoughts and awnser them with contextually correct responses, something that Kris shouldn't be able to do.

Things about the Prophecy, and some of Ralsei's reactions to certain actions. The panel about Kris specifically calls them (or the Vessel if that's to be believed) a cage *with* human souls and parts, instead of a human acting as one. And, if we do things we don't have the information for yet, such as puzzles or awnsers for questions, Ralsei tends to get shocked of nervous, even commenting "You must really... Know a lot about the prophecy." And when he thinks Susie was being controlled, he looks up at us, or possibly just the sky, with a unique sprite just for that moment.

*cracks knuckles*

for starters, let me assert that all options come from kris no matter what. every single choice, including the mean/bad/“out-of-character” ones, are all impulses kris has (whether kris likes that they have some of these impulses is another matter — that is what sword route is about). and furthermore, by UNDERTALE's affirmation, you do not control the player character, they follow your guidance. it's not kris “interpreting” “your” choices — there's no solid proof they could even be aware that there's another agent at play (fourth wall breaks do not count, don't argue with me on this) — it's kris getting half-formed impulses from their SOUL to choose between that then filter through their personality into something that coheres as an action of theirs and in turn defines them more. they speak deadpan when they have no feelings on the matter because they have a refined sense of sarcasm. they speak enthusiastically about things they feel strongly about because they're a passionate kid. they're just a character. they're a multifaceted person who has varied and occasionally dangerous impulses due to their current struggle to grow into someone they like being. the only reason it's filtered through dialogue choices in a video game is because the range of kris's personality is more than can be quantified in a more linear narrative format, and it's also how video games work. you are just playing as kris, and it is as simple as that.

noelle is not a reliable source on “the real kris” by any means. she's always looking at them through rose-tinted glasses, not to mention the fact that she too is dealing with similar detachments from reality as them, and would thus project there being “something wrong with kris” onto them. noelle has a complex relationship with change, and will freely lie to others and herself to maintain her delusions of normalcy, even going so far as to “notice” things that are just normal traits of the new and current kris, AKA someone who is working through trying to change and doesn't appreciate noelle's lack of respect for that — this is made very clear in the closet scene with how often they flinch at her words. in weird route, kris (who, again, provides all options that lead down this path) puts on a specific affect that they know will push noelle in the ways they want, and what they want is for her to be stronger, which they seek to achieve through trauma bonding (the real meaning of trauma bonding, not “bonding over similar traumas” like everyone misinterprets it as). their SOUL, as the vector of their will, will always continue acting even when they're downed, because downed ≠ unconscious, and the SOUL has innate power in commanding others.

kris has designs that stretch outside of what they know their SOUL would account for — things “kris” wouldn't do. the SOUL is the very culmination of their being; it is everything they are and everything they can and would choose to be, and is constantly shifting in response to their choices. when they remove their SOUL, they stop being kris. they're able to act in ways that they wouldn't otherwise — they can't exactly rely on their SOUL to choose to open a dark fountain, because it might say no — and they have to be careful to restrict what they know while their SOUL is in, because i.e. if they knew the code to the shelter, they would not be able to stop their SOUL from having them tell it to susie, because they would never in good conscience be able to do that. and there's a lot they know from when their SOUL is out that isn't readily available to them when their SOUL is in, because their removal of the SOUL is a literal dissociation from their identity, complete with amnesiac barriers that keep their two sides distinct and impermeable. the conflict arising in chapter 4 is the barrier starting to dissolve and the sides starting to bleed into each other, as shown through kris flinching and blushing during the closet scene and kris finally being able to play the piano in front of others again.

the SOUL is obviously a metanarrative object because it's a video game. this does not remove meaning from what it represents. even if kris couldn't read noelle's thoughts using the SOUL (which, again, if they weren't the one reading her thoughts, why would the answers be coming from them to begin with — and furthermore, why would there come a point where ALL options progress forward and the route can't be aborted), they would find a different way to pressure her — they know her well enough. they're just “lucky” that they're a human with a SOUL that has the magical power to scry information that it shouldn't otherwise have access to. and by lucky, i mean they hate this about themself, just as they hate the rest of their humanity, but they're still not above using every edge they can get to make ends meet. they're a notorious cheater, after all.

ralsei is a flowey-like, in that he thinks he's meta-aware, but he's actually also detached from reality in unhealthy ways, just like flowey was, and will also instinctually conceptualize things in game logic because that's all he knows. the prophecy calls kris a “CAGE” because it's what they are — the cage that contains their own will and keeps it locked away so fate may carry itself out right before their eyes. notice how most scenes in the entire game play out with kris just standing there doing and saying absolutely nothing, not daring to interfere with the course of the narrative. it can also be inferred from kris working with the knight that they do actually already know the prophecy. this doesn't change that you don't know the prophecy until reading/playing it, but it makes it such that upon replays there is retroactive reason for them to already know how things go — they got the script in advance.

i hope any of this satisfies your curiosity.

[scribbledghost]

hello! would the vessels like to do anything special to celebrate anniversaries with reader? not sure if they'd have just one big anniversary with reader or if they'd have their own separate special days, whichever sounds right to you :)

Oh, what an interesting question! Its something I hadn't considered before, so here's what I'm thinking:

For anniversaries, I dont know that the vessels celebrate them. Time tends to get a bit... funky when you've been around for hundreds of years, yknow?

They dont particularly keep track of the days themselves. Calendars are more of a suggestion than a necessity around the manor. So when you make some sort of remark that it's the anniversary of you coming to the manor or it's the anniversary of you and one of the vessels officially starting your relationship, it kind of catches them off-guard. Mostly in a "has it really been that long???" kind of way.

If you would like to celebrate, they'll absolutely do that for you. They'll join you for a large meal (provided by Sleep, of course), do some sort of special activity with you, or whatever you'd prefer. If you ask really nicely, they may even put on a musical ritual for you and let you create the setlist.

(And when I say "ask really nicely", I basically mean all you have to do is ask them to perform for you. Maybe bat your eyelashes a little if you really wanna sell it, but it's not necessary. Its no secret that none of them can say no to you lol)

Vessel is more likely to spend some quiet time with you. Some one-on-one time, just you and him, where the two of you can simple focus on each other for a little while. Whatever that looks like, whether it be cuddles in bed, a walk through the garden, or something else entirely, is up to you.

II will give you gifts. Most likely it will be something shiny, like jewelry, but there are times where it can be something like a new book or a piece of clothing. Give him the puppy-dog eyes and he might even let you sit at his kit and mess around on the drums for a while. Just dont tell the others - he'll never hear the end of it if you do.

III will take you on an adventure of some sort. It could be a jaunt through the forest into some areas you haven't been to yet, or it could be getting into some trouble around the manor. I think he likes giving the gift of experiences; being able to do something you can tell a story about later.

IV is a mix between Vessel and II - he values quality time, and he likes giving gifts, so he'll do both. He'll get you something nice (most likely handmade by him in some aspect), and spend some time with you doing whatever you'd like to do. I think he remembers the idea of an anniversary moreso than the others by virtue of converting more recently, so he's got more of a clue as to what to do.

[krisonthefrontporchwithabeer]

sending this both to u and joey but i guess my questions are, what (if any) are the narrative purposes of the kris and weird route csa theming and why would toby add that, what is he trying to say? ive thought about how its being portrayed a lot but idk what the Point of it all is. idk how to word this in a way that isnt stupid.

hii ^.^ so i can't tell you what toby fox himself intends by anything because the game isn't finished and i do not know the guy but i can tell you what i think. undertale and deltarune are both deeply concerned with children's autonomy. in undertale we have a society that routinely murders lost children in pursuit of freedom for the people left alive to see it. the two characters you can control are young children heavily implied to have been abused prior to falling into the underground. you are given the power to decide whether frisk gets to be a person at all and whether chara can exist outside of the demonic caricature that comes out of the genocide route. you essentially decide whether these children are people. the commentary in undertale regarding player-character autonomy is far less central than it is in deltarune, but what is there is deeply reminiscent of the power adults wield over children. the ability for adults to decide whether or not a child is a complete person is what allows child abuse to happen.

i don't read that with a csa lens for undertale, though. i do think the core concept there is more about the societal abuse of children rather than individualized abuse or specific types of abuse. i don't even think it's really about familial abuse, either, just the inherent mistreatment that children recieve by virtue of living in a society where adults can arbitrarily decide that they are or are not real people depending on the adults' needs. this is relevant to the deltarune question because deltarune is focusing in on very specific things that undertale only alludes to. the player-protagonist dynamic is the most major one of these. since this dynamic is intertwined with the mistreatment of children in undertale, that also recieves greater emphasis and specificity in deltarune. and i think it would be extremely difficult and clunky to avoid allusions to sexual abuse in a narrative centered on children's autonomy.

the csa theming in weird route is, imo, incredibly self-explanatory. i will explain it anyway. the genocide route in undertale is about removing agency from a child and fulfilling another child's revenge fantasy by guiding them towards violence. the goal of the genocide route is to make you feel ashamed for bleeding the game dry to the point where you don't feel sympathy for the characters anymore, don't think of them as real people, and don't have any qualms about hurting them to entertain yourself. the weird route in deltarune has a similar idea attached to it, except it moves down from the societal level of undertale to a much more personal level by making it almost exclusively about kris and noelle. again, in the weird route you remove agency from two children and push them to engage in a violent fantasy that neither would naturally pursue with the player out of the picture. noelle openly expresses masochististic fantasies and an attraction to things that scare her. kris has a history of self-harm and a capacity for cruelty that we don't know the full extent of beyond them being repulsed by it while still being attracted to it to some degree. the weird route forces them both into the most extreme versions of these fantasy roles. kris is accused of enjoying it. noelle thanks them for it.

as i've touched on before, kris is being controlled to some degree by both carol and dess in a way that frequently crosses over into csa-theming territory. in the weird route, kris is given absolute control over noelle, and the control is blatantly romantic/sexual. it's a revenge fantasy again. for both kris and noelle, the weird route is a rape fantasy (or, if we must sanitize things, a violent fantasy), which neither is interested in actually executing, being forced into reality, a place where it doesn't belong. this very easily ties into the overarching themes we have in deltarune already. fantasy and reality and dreams and whether or not something should be real. it's an extension of deltarune's main thesis regarding reality and fantasy & it's the natural progression of the commentary on children's autonomy that began all the way back in undertale and that has been made much more personal and individual in deltarune.

as for kris in general, just take away the fantasy bits i was talking about up there and focus in on the issue of children's autonomy. you are given arbitrary power over a self-harming child who you have the ability to decide is not a real person whenever it's convenient for you. you can make kris do whatever you want and tell yourself they want it too, or that they gave you the option so they must want it, or that they'd surely stop you if they really didn't want to do it. it is very reminiscent of the power that any adult can obtain over a child at any time. their lack of autonomy in relaton to their child status is further emphasized through literal representations of adults exerting absolute control over them, namely carol and dess, and trusted adults ignoring their boundaries and making them physically uncomfortable. the latter applies to literally every single adult in hometown, but it is most obvious with toriel and asgore. and then they also have a history of "doing whatever the big kids asked them to" and a clearly strained relationship with their brother and something weird in their relationship with dess. ultimately, all of this is just to emphasize kris's total lack of control over their life and their body. it reads as csa because it is impossible to write something like this without it reading as csa. i take it as more of a literary device than the very literal sexualization happening in the weird route, but like. as i've explained before. kris totally got molested.

tldr: the csa theming in deltarune is the natural progression of the commentary on children's autonomy that began all the way back in undertale. like most things carried over from undertale into deltarune, it recieves greater emphasis and specificity and becomes more personal. kris's lack of autonomy in all areas of their life is communicated through uncomfortable relationships with adults that reflect sexually abusive dynamics. the weird route is more explicitly sexual because it is dealing with the concept of the underdeveloped rape fantasy from two children who would not pursue it in reality if it wasn't forced upon them. this is the natural progression of deltarune's central themes of fantasy and reality; weird route is a guilty fantasy that was not supposed to become real.