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eternal-evergreens · 9 months ago

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｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+*⁠.⁠✧"Into the looking glass."｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+*⁠.⁠✧

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII

Post format: Multipart series

Pairing: Yandere!Male!DoL x Fem!Isekai!Reader

Word count: 5k

Synopsis: You gain the chance to wake up in the world of one of your favorite games. Unfortunately, the 'favorite game' happens to be one about rape, violence, and stalking. Not only that, but the game seems to be rigged against you. All you want is to find a way home and put this all behind you, but is that even possible...?

Warnings: Sexual Assault, Attempted Non/Con, Stalking, Violence, Age Gaps, Teacher/Student, Caretaker/Ward, Bullying

Color indicator: Excellent Good Decent Okay Poor Bad Terrible

Another dull morning, you think to yourself, rolling over to turn off your alarm. You pick up your cellphone and blearily swipe your screen as you clamber out of bed. It’s embarrassing to admit, but you really didn’t notice anything was wrong until you stood up and looked in the mirror. You blink, poking at you face and staring where your reflection should be, but isn’t. You wave your hand in front of the mirror. Nothing.

You look around, only to realize that your surroundings are different, too. The room you’re in is plain, cramped, and completely devoid of character. It’s almost liminal, in a way. Eerie in its emptiness.

You need to get out of here.

You nervously reach for the door and twist the handle. The doornob moves with you, but the door remains fixed in place. Your phone buzzes, and you fish it out of your pocket, quickly turning it on. You’ve gotten a text, but the number is blank.

You have not chosen an avatar yet. Please choose one from the mirror before leaving your room.

Well, that woke you right up. Is someone watching you? You swerve your head around, checking the ceilings and corners for cameras. You try the door again. You go in circles, turning the whole room upside down. You try the door. Nothing. You check your phone. The same message appears as soon as you open it. You swipe it away out of habit, but it refuses to budge. Freaky. The time hasn’t changed since you woke up, either, though you’re sure you’ve been at it for more than fifteen minutes by now.

You decide to take a peek at the mirror again. You try to remove it from the wall to look behind, but your vision goes white the second you make contact with its’ surface. Your vision clears, and in front of you is a grey figure of ambiguous gender. It looks almost made of clay. Your phone buzzes.

Player avatar selection.

Select a sex. Sex cannot be changed after starting the game.

1.) Male 2.) Female 3.) Hermaphrodite

Well, you’ve either fallen asleep or been drugged. Not knowing what else to do, you choose female, watching in horror and fascination as the figure morphs to accommodate your choice.

>Next

Other customization options soon come up. You give the figure your ideal height, weight, and features. You change her skin tone, hair color, texture, and eye color. You watch as she slowly comes to life as your ideal. The person you’ve always wanted to be.

Your phone buzzes just as you finish touching her up.

Set Name

You’re about to name her when the text fills itself in with your name instead.

Welcome, [First]! 1. Start Game!

You grimace, and hit play.

—————————

When you come to, it’s 07:00 again, and you’re still in that room. You glance at the mirror, only to see your avatar glancing back. You wave your arm in front of it, and she mimics your movements perfectly. You make a lewd gesture, and she does, too. Creepy. Is this really a dream? You’re startled out of your thoughts as your phone buzzes once again.

Welcome to the alpha of Degrees of Lewdity!

If you want to avoid trouble, dress modestly and stick to safe, well-lit areas. Nights are particularly dangerous. Dressing lewd will attract attention, both good and bad.

The new school year starts tomorrow at 09:00. The bus service is the easiest way to get around town. Don’t forget your uniform and backpack!

1. Next

Your face pales as you read the text. There’s no way. You hit next, reminding yourself that you’re only in a dream, and that no one can harm you in a dream. Your phone opens to its home screen, where you see various apps, some of which are labled.

-Characteristics -Social -Traits -Journal -Stats -Feats

You open characteristics and take a look. At the very top is a color chart indicator. description of your body’s appearance and condition, underneath are familiar stats.

Purity: 7/7 You are angelic. Physique: 3/6 Your body is average. Willpower: 1/6 You are fainthearted. Awareness: 3/7 You have a normal understanding of sexuality. Promiscuity: 0/6 You are chaste and pure. Exhibitionism: 0/6 You are coy. Deviancy: 0/6 You are squeamish.

Everything seems to be in line with the stats for the beginning of a playthrough. Everything except one.

Beauty: 7/6 Your beauty is beyond measure.

That’s…not good, if the blaring red is anything to go off of, anyway.

You scroll down. Your skills are all ranked as F, which is actually better than the “None” stat they usually start as. That’s weird, but you aren’t complaining. Your sex skills, however…are all at C. That’s super weird! You aren’t sure what to make of it, so you choose to ignore it instead.

Your overall school performance is terrible, with F’s all around the board. In real life, this would mean you’d picked the athlete trait, but your physique is baseline, and your athletic stat is also at F, so it can’t be that. It must just be inconsistencies from being asleep, you reason. That’s why your stats are all over the place.

Your status is normal, aside from your allure. Which is maxed out at “You look like you need to be ravaged.” You shudder.

You check traits. You have two.

Alien - You aren’t from around here! RPG like elements have been incorporated into your reality for a smoother experience. Virgin - Your purity recovers faster. Your virginity might be worth something.

You open your journal.

It is the 4th of September, 2022.

-It has been 0 days since the game started. -The game started in autumn. -It is autumn. -School term starts on Monday the 5th of September.

Current quests:

Visit Bailey in his office by 20:00 tonight to recover your ID documents and gain your independence.

Failure to complete quest will result in the day restarting

You turn your phone off and look around. Everything seems normal, too normal. You read somewhere once that it’s impossible (or perhaps just very difficult) to read clearly while in a dream. Could you have been drugged? Or did you take something and then forget about it?

You pinch yourself. Ow.

Well, that’s not solid proof. People have reported cases of feeling pain in dreams before it’s just kind of really rare is all. Or, or! Maybe you’re not dreaming. Maybe you’re dying. Maybe you got into an accident somewhere, and now you’re in a coma. People hallucinate during comas, don’t they?

You pinch yourself, again.

It’s not real.

…You might as well see what this quest is about.

You leave your bedroom, and walk to Bailey’s office. You don’t question how you know the way there. You knock on the door and enter.

“I know why you’re here,” he says. “You want me to release you from my protection, so you’ll be an independent citizen. I could do that. But there’s a problem. You’ve been living under my roof without giving anything in return. You owe me. Until you pay me back, I’m not letting you go.” He picks up an envelope and flips through it. Dozens of identification documents are stored within it. One of them is yours. “£100 should do. To start with. I don’t care how you get it. Knock on doors and ask for work. Rent yourself as a footstool. Steal it, even. Just have it a week from now. Or I’ll find a way to extract value from you.”

You nod and leave his office, returning to your room.

Your phone buzzes as soon as you close the door.

Quest completed. New quest added to journal. View Now?

Y/N

You hit yes.

Time-Sensitive:

Bailey wants £100 on Sunday. Find a job and free yourself from his clutches.

That’s great and all, but maybe you shouldn’t leave the orphanage today…or ever. Not until you wake up. You decide to just download some social media apps and scroll for the rest of the day instead. You scroll until midday, when you’re stopped by your stomach growling. Can you get hungry inside a dream…? You feel uneasy as you climb off the bed. Your neck hurts from the uncomfortable position you had been in, but that’s the least of your worries right now.

You leave your bedroom and enter the main hall. A trim girl happens to be passing by your door, so you stop her and ask about when lunch is. She looks at you strangely.

“Whenever you want…? Just go somewhere and get it. I don’t know.”

“I meant here, can we get food here?”

“Sure, if you’re underage. We have to provide for ourselves once we reach eighteen, though. You know that. Everyone knows that.” She leaves in a hurry. You go back to your room to watch “Gootube” videos. It’s not as pornographic as it sounds.

You stay on your phone for the rest of the day. It never seems to run out of charge. Finally, you turn it off and climb under the covers. You don’t bother to wear pajamas. You sleep soundly, and wake up at 07:00 on Sunday, September 4th.

Wait, what?

You look at your journal again.

Journal

It is the 4th of September, 2022.

-It has been 0 days since the game started. -The game started in autumn. -It is autumn. -School term starts on Monday the 5th of September.

Current quests:

Visit Bailey in his office by 20:00 tonight to recover your ID documents and gain your independence. Failure to complete quest will result in the day restarting

But you didn’t fail your quest! You completed it and…

It’s because you didn’t get a job yesterday, isn’t it?

You sigh and climb out of bed. Off to visit Bailey again.

“I know why you’re here,” he says. God, you wish you could skip dialogue in real life. Or in dreams, you guess. Bailey wraps up his speech and you leave, this time heading outside the orphanage to look for work right after.

As expected, you bump into someone almost immediately. A voluptuous woman grabs you. “You’re the cutest thing I’ve seen all week!” She says, lunging for your clothes. You step back, but she catches you, lifting your sundress’s skirt and revealing your lace panties. You try to grab her hand and pull it away, but she’s stronger than you. She pushes you to the ground, and you land painfully on the sidewalk. You let out an involuntary yelp as your elbows scrape on the pavement. Is she really going to try and molest you out in public like this? It would appear so, as she’s currently straddling your legs with her knees, keeping them apart. You come to your senses when you feel a hand on your groin, and scream out for help.

A taut man comes to your rescue, chasing off the woman and helping you to your feet. He treats your wounds and gives you a pepper spray charge. You thank him and go on your way.

The dog pound is probably the best place to start with, you think to yourself while looking at the map on your phone. So you hop on a bus and wait for your stop, but not before a thin man sits next to you and rests his hand on your thigh. You shuffle away from him, and he follows you. You stand up, and he does, too. No one else is paying attention. You quickly walk to the most crowded area of the bus and sit next to a plush woman. She doesn’t look happy, but doesn’t say anything, either. The thin man watches you from his seat. You reach your destination, and he moves to follow you when you stand. Luckily, a tall man stops him, giving you a thumbs up as he blocks the thin man’s view of you. You give him a grateful nod and step off.

Your shift at the dogpound goes on without incident. Thugh the employees tried to get handsy more than a few times, they never took it further when you moved away. You even took your lunch break at the nearby cafe! You’re surprised by how much character the place had visually, considering it comes from a text-based game.

By the time the dog pound closes, it’s nighttime. You pale at the realization. It’s nighttime, and you’re in Degrees of Lewdity. Should you risk taking the bus? Or should you risk the streets?

If you’re on a bus, you’re there for less time, but it’s an enclosed space. If you’re outside, there’s more places to run and hide. But hiding goes both ways.

You elect to go through the streets, sticking to the places that are the most open and well-lit. You get home without incident, though you swear you saw something in the alleys.

You collapse into bed and sleep for ten hours.

—————————

It’s 07:03 when you wake up. You have school today, so you look through your wardrobe for your uniform. You find it, but…why is it so skimpy? Sheer tights, short plaid skirt, tight shirt, platform mary janes and loose socks. You put it on, but the shirt is so tight it won’t button all the way, leaving a sizable amount of your cleavage and lace bra visible.

Speaking of which, aren’t you only supposed to start with plain underwear? Why is all of yours lace? And why does it clasp at the front? You spend twenty minutes looking for a jacket, different shirt, or other way to cover yourself, but find nothing. Bailey bangs on the doors around the orphanage to wake the orphans up. You sigh and put your clothes back into your wardrobe before leaving.

You bump into Robin on your way out. Literally. He nearly runs you over.

“Hey!” He says running towards you. He doesn’t slow down in time and plows right into you. You help him up. “Thanks,” he says, looking a bit bashful. “I didn’t see you yesterday. Remember, you can visit me in my room anytime you want. I have something to show you. I’m so excited!” He runs off, and you realize you’ve forgotten your backpack, so you head back in and find it. It takes you another ten minutes to realize you’d put it behind the door. By the time you’re ready, it’s already half an hour past seven. You decide to see if Robin is still in his room.

You knock, and hear some crashing. Before you can ask if something’s wrong, Robin opens the door and hugs you. “Look,” he says, pulling you inside. Your eyes immediately land on the shiny new game console in the corner of the room. “I’ve been saving up,” he says. “What are you waiting for?” He pats the bed beside him and you hop on. You watch him play for a few minutes, and the two of you walk to school together.

Though it’s literally your first time meeting him, you feel safer around Robin. Though you know he can’t fight to protect you, having someone by your side does a lot to ease the mind. Plus, he’s one of the only decent people in the game. You’re glad, but at the same time, you’re uneasy. You wonder if he notices you’re not his childhood friend. That you look like her, sound like her, but you aren’t her. You wonder if he’d hate you, should he find out.

“Is something wrong, [First]?” You snap to attention.

“Huh? Oh, uh, no. I’m okay,” you say. “I was just kind of busy yesterday, came home exhausted but couldn’t sleep, you know how it is.” You wave your hand dismissively at him as you pass the school gates. “Where are you heading? I’d like to go with you, if that’s alright. Since I didn’t see you yesterday, and all.” Really, you just don’t want to be alone here. But there’s no need to say that.

Robin smiles, and the two of you hang out in the rear courtyard. It’s nice, but you can feel him glancing at you when he thinks you’re not looking. It makes you uncomfortable. Has he caught on? You excuse yourself and head to the library. Maybe you should acquaint yourself with the other non-crazy person on campus. At least you won’t have to lie about your identity to Sydney.

You walk over to the counter near the back of the library. A tall boy with a strawberry blonde ponytail and glasses is stamping books behind it. You smile as you approach him. “Good morning…” He says, yawning. “First time at the rental counter? You can rent out one book at a ti-” Sydney yawns.. “Time. You can also buy school-approved clothes here. Headmaster Leighton’s marked the prices way up, though. Students with a good record get special discounts.” He seems excited, though you can’t place why.

“Books can be rented out for two weeks at a time. You can renew your rental at any time…” He looks down. You look down. Sydney has stamped his hand. You smile.”...Let’s call that a demonstration of what happens if you return a late or damaged book. My name’s Sydney, by the way! Pleased to meet you.”

“I’m [First],” you respond. You and Sydney spend some time chatting. You notice that he’s oddly red.

“Are you feeling okay?” You ask, raising a hand to his forehead. “You’re burning up! Let’s get you to the infirmary!”

“W-what? No, I’m okay…”

“No, you’re not,” you say, pulling him up by the forearm. You drag him to the infirmary, and he has to bend down to allow it. No one pays you much mind, though you’re sure you look a little silly, holding onto the forearm of someone much taller than you. You reach the nurse, who informs you that Sydney is perfectly healthy, though tells him to take a rest on one of the beds upon seeing the bags under his eyes.

“See?” He says, smiling. “I didn’t realize you were such a worrier.” You flush, embarrassed. Is pure Sydney supposed to tease people? His face softens. “Thanks…for worrying about me, though” he says, then checks the time. “You should probably get to class.” Right, you’d nearly forgotten you were at school. You thank Sydney for reminding you and leave as he waves you off.

You go to your science lesson. Despite your grade being at F, the lesson is actually pretty easy to follow, some of this you remember from your own highschool lessons. The bell rings and you leave the classroom, only to get shoved into a locker immediately. A boy with blonde hair covering one eye looms over you. You recognize him immediately.

“Don’t get in my way again,” Whitney says, pressing his knee against your crotch. “Or I’ll put you in your place.” He releases you, but you know that won’t be the end of it. You hurry to math class, hoping Whitney will skip today. You’re tense for the first twenty minutes of class, but slowly begin to relax upon realizing Whitney probably isn’t going to show up. Nearly half an hour into class, the teacher River steps out for a moment. And with the kind of timing you’d only see in movies, Whitney waltzes in, his jacket thrown over his shoulder. You try to look away, but it’s too late. Whitney makes eye contact with you and grins. He walks over to the mousy girl sitting next to you.

“Move,” he says. She does. You turn away from him, but he grabs your hair, forcing you to look at him.

This is unfair, you think to yourself. Whitney isn’t supposed to sit next to you unless you’re dating. Why now?

“Watcha lookin at, slut?”

This sucks. You want to go home. When is this dream supposed to end?

Whitney tugs at your hair even harder. “I asked you a question, slut.”

How did you even get here in the first place? Did you really die? Were you in a coma? Whitney yanks your hair back so hard your body goes with it, creating an awful screeching sound as your chair lurches back. River walks in just in time to see you fall on your back. Whitney is sent out. He turns to make a penetration sign with his hands at you as he leaves.

Math ends, and you head to English. There’s a crowd of students blocking your path. You peer over shoulders and heads to see the source of the commotion, and see a dark haired student on the ground, with two bullies standing over him. Your first instinct is Kylar, but you must be wrong. Kylar’s event shouldn’t happen until a week from now.

You could try to help, but that would probably get you assaulted. Even if you didn’t, your fellow students would think less of you, leading you to getting picked on later, and potentially assaulted more and–

Fuck it, you can’t ignore this. You’re already shoving past students and blocking the bullies’ view of the student. “Leave him alone,” you say. “I won’t stand for this.” One of the bullies, a thin girl, shoves you down.

“Sit, then!” She says, the audience laughs. You pick yourself up and ram into the thin girl and her friend. You knock her off-balance and she falls to the floor, screaming as soon as she lands. “You stupid bitch! You broke my tailbone!” The audience is laughing at her, now. Her friend is helping her up. “I’ll get you for this! Mark my fucking words!” You shiver. Hopefully no one notices. You turn to check on the boy they were harassing, only to nearly bump heads with him. You jump back, and the boy smiles apologetically. There’s something else in his expression, but before you can figure out what it was, you make eye contact with him, and the whole world goes dark.

Tousled black hair, short stature, sickly pale skin and the greenest eyes you’ve ever seen. It’s Kylar. It has to be. “T-thanks,” he says. “I-I’m Kylar.” Your face drops, but you aren’t sure if he saw it before running off. The tips of his ears are red, you notice. You step towards the crowd, which is already dispersing. The remaining onlookers make way for you, though you feel a hand grope your butt as you leave. You turn, but no one’s there.

You head into English class, already exhausted. Kylar watches you from the back. You ignore him. The plump boy sitting behind you sniffs your hair during the entirety of the lesson, so it’s hard to focus. You look down at your notes. It’s an unintelligible mess. Is this what it means to have a grade F in English, you wonder?

Finally, it’s lunch time. You head to the cafeteria, passing by the headmaster on your way there. You swear you saw him checking you out. You shudder and speed up. Upon reaching the canteen, you are presented with three options.

Robin is talking with some students at his table, they seem to be arguing.

Sydney is sitting alone, several piles of books surrounding him.

Kylar is also alone, stabbing at his food with more violence than seems neccesary.

Despite your self preservation instincts, you walk towards Robin to see what the commotion is. The lean boy is accusing Robin of ‘looking at him with disrespect’. Arguing with him would be pointless. So you do the next best thing and smile as you spit in his face.

As expected, he doesn’t take it well, and pounces on you immediately. He tears open your shirt, leaving you only marginally more exposed than you already were. You scream loudly, and Leighton rushes in. You suppress a smirk.

“What’s the meaning of this?!” He shouts, pushing past students to find you exposed on the ground, the lean boy holding you down. He scrambles off of you, and you fix your uniform. The lean boy tries to explain, but Leighton cuts him off and sends him out. Robin helps you up.

“Are you okay?! Why did you do that?”

“I saw Leighton on the way over here. I figured if we caused a scene, he’d be the one to get in trouble for it.”

“Don’t do something like that again! That was really dangerous!” You nod, though you don’t really mean it.

Kylar watches from across the canteen. +Jealousy

The rest of lunch passes without incident and you go to History with Robin. The two of you chat about his game before class starts. You learn some interesting things about the history of the town. Nothing happens during history, and you leave feeling refreshed. You navigate the halls to your swimming lesson and change. You keep your eyes down, but swear you feel the stares of your classmates. You think you hear a camera go off, but when you turn, no one’s looking at you.

A taut boy follows you around the pool, and doesn’t stop trailing until the lesson is over. He keeps his distance, but it still makes you feel uneasy. The bell rings, and you don’t see him again.

You meet up with Robin in the courtyard, but hesitate walking home when you see Whitney hanging out by the gate.

“Can we go out through the back?”

“The back? Why?” You nod your head towards Whitney and his friends, and Robin makes an ‘O’ with his mouth. “I don’t mind, but how will we get out?” You’re about to answer when a realization hits you. Right. You haven’t unlocked the tunnel outside yet, which means you can’t leave unless you climb the fence.

“...Nevermind,” you say. “Maybe they won’t notice us.” You and Robin try to blend in with the crowd, but a hand on your shoulder quickly yanks you into the open.

“Hold it, slut.” Shit. “You didn’t pay the toll.”

You grit your teeth. “What’s the toll?” Whatever, you have twenty quid to spare.

“Flash us your tits.” There’s a crowd circling around you. You notice people pulling out their phones.

“[First]...”

“It’s fine, Robin.” You give him a strained smile as you unbutton your blouse. “Happy?” You ask, turning back to Whitney.

“Not quite,” he says, grabbing the front of your bra and unclasping the hook. Your breasts flop out. “There. That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?” You turn and quickly fix your bra, wishing it clasped at the back instead of the front like a normal bra. You and Robin speed away, then find a secluded ally to fix your shirt.

Finally home, you decide to check out some of the apps you didn’t bother with yesterday.

Social

Excellent Good Decent Okay Poor Bad Terrible

Primary relationships:

Robin The Orphan Robin wants to be your best friend. Love: 100% Confidence: 0% Trauma: 0% Lust: 40%

You smile. It’s little different than the starting relationship in the actual game, but you’re slowly getting used to the inconsistencies. You’re about to look at the next box when your eyes are drawn back up to the pink text. Wait a minute, doesn’t that mean bad? You check the color chart to make sure.

But, why? Why is that bad? Isn’t it good? Or, is it because his confidence is low? Maybe the key word here is “wants”. Still, wouldn’t that count more as poor than bad? Whatever, no need to nitpick. You’ll check back in on it later. You move on.

…You almost move on. Why is his love so high? And his lust, too?! It’s gotta be a glitch, right? Right?

Right. You restart your phone and boot it back up. Nothing’s changed. You put that aside for now.

Whitney The Bully Whitney wants to own you. Love: 50% Dominance: 50% Lust: 100%

Another different one. Also bad. Terrible, even. You aren’t even sure what to make of it. You just met him, and his lust is already maxed out. His love is also surprisingly high, though only half as much as Robin’s is. You make a mental note to sit in view of the teacher during math going forward.

Kylar The Loner Kylar is obsessed with you. Love: 100% Jealousy: 55% Lust: 90%

Another case of inexplicably high stats right off the bat, though you aren’t surprised with Kylar. You move on.

Sydney The Faithful ? Sydney is conflicted. Love: 77% Purity: 44% Lust: 66%

Okay, you’re pretty sure those are all just angel numbers. Or, supposed to be angel numbers. It’s kind of hard to do that with only two numbers. Though 666 is actually more of a demonic number, it still fits the theme. Aside from the strange percentages, you’re also concerned by the question mark next to ‘faithful’, not to mention the fact that his purity is already so low he’s conflicted. You haven’t even flirted with him yet!

You glance at the other named NPC’s. They’re all unremarkable, full of “has no strong opinion of you” aside from two.

Bailey The Caretaker Bailey doesn’t want you to leave. Love: 25% Lust: 99%

Leighton The Headmaster You’re Leighton’s favorite. Love: 10% Lust: 85%

Your stomach lurches. Gross. You are absolutely repressing that shit.

You check your reputation next.

-The police aren’t concerned with you, and have no evidence linking you to any crime. -The atmosphere in the orphanage is calm. -You are considered a normal student by teachers. -Your fellow students desire you.

You grimace at the last one. You make a mental note to buy a more concealing uniform.

Finally, you have your fame. This one should be normal, right? You’ve only just gotten here.

Sex: Unknown Prostitution: Unknown Rape: Obscure. Beastiality: Unknown Exhibitionism: Unknown Pregnancy: Unknown Combat: Obscure Kindness: Obscure Business: Unknown Socialite: Unknown Overall: Famous

What?! Famous?! How does that— Ugh, forget it. You keep reading.

The townsfolk call you Darling. Those in the criminal underworld call you Darling.

…?

What…what does that mean?

—————————

Next>

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starsandsuch · 3 months ago

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୨୧ Planets In The 1st House & Your Physical Appearance ୨୧

★ In astrology, the 1st house represents your physical form.

★ The planets you have in your first house influence how you physically look.

★ This is especially relevant to planets conjunct your ascendant.

★ Honorable mention: this can apply to planets in the 7th house as well. Since the 7th house planets directly aspects the 1st house through opposition.

★ Therefore reading this post for your 7H placements may resonate. 7H moon read for 1H moon, 7H Jupiter read for 1H Jupiter etc.

Disclaimer: all celebrities listed as examples are considered using their Vedic Sidereal Birthchart.

Enjoy ᯓ★ˎˊ˗

Sun in the 1st house:

Radiant & regal. These individuals have a bright, healthy, strong appearance. Undertones are warm with golden tint. Naturally glowy skin. Bright , wide smile. A smile/laugh that is contagious. Face features overall are well defined. Face shape is broad with a square jawline. High cheekbones. Likely to have freckles/beauty marks. Body type is athletic and lean. Broad shoulders with muscular arms. You look appealing in anything gold. ִ ࣪𖤐

Celeb examples: India Love, Aaliyah, Scarlett Johansson, Lindsay Lohan

Moon in the 1st house:

Dreamy & glowy ⊹₊⋆. These individual’s physical appearance is delicate, feminine and soft. Skin looks plush and they exude a softness in their aura that seems ethereal. It naturally looks like they are wearing a filter on their face. Luminescent skin. Rounded face shape that gently comes to a point at their chin area. Feminine and girly. People perceive them as someone with the ideal feminine appearance. Other women aspire to look like them. You look pretty when you cry.

Celeb examples: Aishwarya Rai, Bella Hadid, Lori Harvey, Angelique Boyer, Rihanna, Audrey Hepburn

Mercury in the 1st house:

Petite frame, slim body, delicate features. Your physical appearance is dainty and can even be considered “cutesy” by others. It’s likely that you look younger than your actual age. Likely to have diamond face shape. Pinched looking features. Lips are well defined and naturally pouty. Nose is straight with a button tip that is slightly upturned. Deep set eyes with a fox like shape. The kind of eye shape that looks good with heavy eyeliner. Neutral undertoned complexion. Pulled towards androgynous aesthetic. Likely to have long shiny hair that is lush and healthy looking. Mercury makes one’s appearance “perfect looking”: precise, innocent, soft, clean. ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

Celeb examples: Anya Taylor-Joy, Penelope Cruz, Marina Diamandis

Venus in the 1st house:

This placement makes one’s features luscious and alluring. High-set cheekbones with naturally relaxed gaze. They have beauty that is sensorially pleasing to other people. Their face, speech and scent is attractive to others. People feel pleased when they interact with them. Venus gifts one with a curvy feminine body, hour glass frame. Undertones are likely be neutral and you favor muted colors. Hair is thick, full & has volume. Skin is naturally clear and smooth. People ask your beauty secret and your response is: “thank you mom & dad for the amazing DNA ” ⊹ᡣ𐭩₊⋆

Celeb examples: Mariah Carey, Angelina Jolie, Meagan Good, Rihanna

Mars in the 1st house:

This placement makes one have a sharp looking appearance. Defined jawline, foxy eyes, straight pointed nose. Thin arched brows. Your undertone is reddish/orange/cinnamon. Hair color has ginger or blonde undertones. These individuals naturally have an athletic build and form. Hourglass shape with a cinched waist. Body type is lean, yet curvy at the same time. Others consider your physical appearance to be sexually appealing.

Celeb examples: Megan Fox, Kim Kardashian, Kate Moss, Nicki Minaj, Nicole Scherzinger

Jupiter in the 1st house:

This placement gifts one with a healthy and vibrant appearance. Face features are well developed yet soft looking, devoid of harsh angles. Naturally blushing. Clear skin. Plump lips. Big eyes. Heavy jawline. Big forehead. Jupiter tends to make one look “angelic”. Broad smiles, glistening eyes, good posture, these natives has an overall uprightness about their essence. This is likely to give one a curvy/fleshy body. Broad shoulders. Legs are long, curvy. Plump thighs + butt. Undertones are yellowish/orange. They look appealing wearing pink. Something about their beauty is idyllic- it’s idolized by other people. People can often compare you to looking like a doll. You’re naturally photogenic.

Celeb examples: Margot Robbie, Cindy Kimberly, Maya Jama, Jennifer Lopez

Saturn in the 1st house:

Elegant & refined appearance. Well defined bone structure. High cheekbones. Slim nose. Heavy jaw. Long neck. Symmetrical face. Face shape is oblong. Bottom half of face is longer than top half. Eyes are deep-set framed by low-set brows. Complexion is neutral to cool toned. These individuals can have an androgynous look about their appearance. Embodying a balanced aesthetic of masculine and feminine. Appearance improves with age, features look more harmonious with maturity.

Celeb examples: Lori Harvey, Lana Del Rey, Tyra Banks, Britney Spears

Neptune in the 1st house:

Dreamy & ephemeral ⊹₊⋆. Features are feminine, heavenly, soft and opulent. It naturally looks as if you have a skin blurring filter on your face. Likely to have oblong face shape with pronounced distance between eyes and lips. Eyelids are naturally heavy looking, giving you a seductive and sultry gaze. You may be considered “racially ambiguous”. This placement has the effect of making one’s appearance very changeable. Fluidity with changing your looks. You likely look completely different on a regular basis. There’s an illusory nature to your appearance which often leads to confusion of what you actually look like. This contributes to your essence being delicate and airy, never staying the same for too long. Your looks remind people of all things aquatic: mermaids, sirens, fish etc. Your beauty is idealized by other people. ⋆ ⊹₊⋆

Celeb examples: Marilyn Monroe, Ariana Grande, Adriana Lima, Dorothy Dandridge

Uranus in the 1st house:

Makes someone have an elongated appearance. Tall height, elongated limbs, oblong face shape. Lean body. They tend to have hair that looks as if wind is blowing in it naturally. Hair is naturally frizzy, wild looking. Cheeks are gaunt. High-set forehead, hairline is angular. Can have electrifying eyes with unique eye color.

Celeb examples: Zendaya, Taylor Swift, Fiona Apple, Rachel McAdams, Jenna Ortega

Pluto in the 1st house:

Pluto emphasizes one’s eyes, gaze and brows. Deep-set eyes. Hooded lids. Small eye shape. Thick, dark, arched eyebrows. Can have nonexistent brows. Slender body. Body type is strong and lean. Demeanor that is intense yet ghostly. Has RBF.

Celebrity examples: Salma Hayek, Hailey Bieber, Cailee Spaeny

Rahu (North Node) in the 1st house:

This placement makes one’s features look animated. Big eyes. Small nose. Pronounced cheek apples. Gaze is alert and flickering. Unique eye color. Round eyes. Pouty mouth. Face is heart shaped. Naturally has tight skin that looks plastic in a doll-like way. Has even skin tone. It’s likely others perceive your emotes as robotic.

Celebrity examples: Halle Berry, Doja Cat, Rachel Ziegler

Ketu (South Node) in the 1st house:

Eyes are cat-like & almond shaped. Heavy eyelids that are sleepy looking. Their gaze is hypnotic and evokes a sense of mystery. Defined high-arched brows. High cheekbones. Thick lips. Complexion is olive toned to neutral. They have dark, thick textured hair. Body type is slender and lean naturally.

Celeb examples: Alexa Demie, Megan thee Stallion, Cindy Kimberly, Monica Belucci, Gigi Hadid

Graphics by: @m0ney

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kathaelipwse · 3 months ago

Text

✧ Still Yours | H. Jisung

♡ Pairing: Han Jisung × Chubby!Reader

✧ Word Count: 12,208 words | Reading Time: 45-ish mins

900+ Followers Special ♡

✦ Trope: Second Chance Romance | Ex-Classmates to Lovers | Slow Burn | Popular Jock x Bullied Girl | Non-Idol AU

✧ Warnings: Bullying (verbal abuse, fat-shaming), mentions of physical abuse, toxic family, emotional trauma, drinking, mild suggestiveness, language, angst with comfort, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE

♡ Synopsis: Back in high school, she was the chubby outcast—bullied, bruised, and abandoned—while Han Jisung was the untouchable jock who broke hearts and ignored them all… except hers. When life pulled them apart after a brutal misunderstanding, she vowed never to look back. Now, eight years later, she's a successful engineer—independent and guarded. But when fate throws them back together in the most unexpected boardroom, Jisung sees a second chance. And this time, he’s not letting go without a fight. ♡

✦ Author’s Note: For the ones who loved in silence and healed in shadows. This one’s for you. You are seen, and you are enough. ⋆彡

You were a walking paradox, a vibrant ember struggling to glow beneath a thick layer of societal soot. Chubby, they called you, their voices often laced with a disdain that never seemed to dull, each syllable a tiny pinprick against your already tender skin.

Yet, the softness of your frame held a surprising resilience, your cheeks often flushed with a healthy color that belied their cruel pronouncements, a testament to a spirit that refused to be entirely extinguished. Kindness flowed through you like an unseen current, a gentle offering of smiles even to the very faces that contorted with mockery at your approach, a quiet rebellion against the negativity that surrounded you.

And your mind? It was a sharp, agile thing, devouring knowledge with an insatiable hunger, your intelligence a quiet fire that burned brightly in the hushed corners of the library, a stark contrast to the dim view others seemed to have of you. You found solace in the intricate logic of mathematics, the sprawling narratives of classic literature, worlds where your physical form held no bearing on your worth.

But despite these inherent strengths, an invisible weight clung to you, a suffocating shroud woven from the stinging barbs of your classmates. "Hey, look, it's the walking sofa!" someone would bellow down the hallway, their friends erupting in laughter that felt like a physical shove, each jeer chipping away at the fragile foundation of your self-esteem.

"Bet she uses a GPS to find her own feet," another would sneer, their words echoing the insidious voice of self-doubt that sometimes whispered in your own head, a constant reminder of your perceived inadequacy. You learned to flinch inwardly, to brace yourself for the inevitable sting, to become as small and unobtrusive as possible, a shadow trying desperately to blend into the background noise of the school, your gaze fixed on the worn linoleum floor.

Your world had fractured years ago, the sharp edges never quite fitting back together after the sudden, gaping loss of your father. He had been your anchor, a warm, comforting presence whose booming laughter still echoed faintly in the quiet corners of your memory, a phantom sound that sometimes brought a bittersweet ache to your chest.

Now, he was a faded photograph on your bedside table, a silent observer of your increasingly solitary existence, a bittersweet reminder of a love that felt both impossibly distant and achingly present. Your mother, lost in her own labyrinth of grief, eventually found a fragile sort of peace in the arms of another man.

His arrival brought a polite, almost sterile atmosphere to your home, a subtle distance that grew between you and the woman who had once been your sun and moon. "He's a good man," she'd said once, her voice flat, devoid of the warmth you remembered, her eyes focused on some distant point. "He'll take care of us." But 'us' never truly included you in the same way anymore; you felt like a tolerated guest in a life that had moved on without you.

The real chill, however, the bone-deep, relentless cold, emanated from your aunt. After your mother's remarriage, you were sent to live with her, a woman whose lips seemed permanently pursed in disapproval, whose voice was a constant, low hum of criticism that eroded your spirit.

Her house was a place where joy seemed to wither and die, where every corner held the unspoken accusation of your inadequacy. "Are you going back for seconds?" she'd snap, her eyes narrowing with suspicion as you reached for another small portion of dinner. "Honestly, child, have you no self-control?

You'll never find a nice boy looking like that. You'll be alone forever." Meals were silent, tense affairs, punctuated only by the clinking of silverware and her pointed sighs. Chores were endless, thankless, and any small spark of happiness you managed to ignite was quickly doused by her sharp tongue and colder-than-ice gaze.

"Don't slouch," she'd bark across the living room, her voice like the crack of a whip. "Sit up straight. You look like a sack of potatoes. Honestly, the way you carry yourself…" Your home life became a toxic swamp of neglect and emotional abuse, a secret shame you carried like a lead weight in your stomach, a burden that made your steps heavy and your spirit weary.

"Honestly," she'd mutter under her breath as you did the dishes, the clatter of plates a poor substitute for conversation, "your mother always said you were a clumsy one. Just like her."

Across the bustling, often chaotic landscape of your high school moved Han Jisung. He was a figure carved from a different kind of coldness – a detached, almost arrogant aura that seemed to ripple outwards, creating a respectful distance.

A star athlete, his movements on the basketball court fluid and mesmerizing, he was the undisputed object of countless girls' affections. Their whispered yearnings followed him down the hallways like a persistent, hopeful breeze. "Did you see the way Jisung looked at me during practice?" you'd overhear one girl sigh to her friend, her voice dreamy.

"I swear, he totally wants to ask me to the homecoming dance." Yet, he remained aloof, a polite but firm "I'm not interested" the standard response to any lingering glances or hesitant advances. "Sorry," he'd say, his voice cool but not unkind, his gaze already drifting away, "I'm just really focused on the upcoming tournament. Got to keep my head in the game."

His eyes, sharp and intelligent, often held a distant amusement, a subtle disdain for the petty dramas and hormonal surges that defined the high school experience. "Honestly," he once said to his friend, a slight smirk playing on his lips as a group of girls giggled nearby, their attention clearly fixed on him, "they're all so… transparent." He was a world away from your own, a dazzling supernova you never dared to gaze at directly, knowing you were a mere speck of dust in his radiant orbit.

Yet, unbeknownst to you, in those fleeting moments between classes, or during the forced proximity of shared assemblies, his gaze would sometimes flick towards you. It wasn't a look of mockery or pity, but something… else. A quiet, almost clinical observation.

He noticed the way your shoulders would instinctively hunch when a group of popular kids approached, their laughter echoing in the confined space, the barely perceptible flinch in your eyes when the school bell shrieked through the corridors, the determined set of your jaw as you navigated the crowded lunchroom, your tray held like a fragile shield against the judging eyes.

He saw the way your fingers, often ink-stained from hours spent lost in the pages of a book, your refuge from the harsh realities of your life, would nervously twist the hem of your oversized sweater. Once, during a particularly brutal round of hallway taunts aimed your way, the words like sharp stones thrown with intent, he had paused, his usual easy stride faltering for a split second before he continued on, his expression unreadable, a flicker of something unidentifiable in his dark eyes.

One particularly bleak, rain-swept afternoon, the meager grocery money, carefully counted out and clutched in your sweaty palm, the lifeline that would hopefully stave off your aunt's wrath for another week, was snatched from you just outside the familiar fluorescent glow of the convenience store.

A gaggle of giggling, impeccably dressed girls, their faces bright with a casual cruelty that chilled you to the bone, had surrounded you like a pack of predators. "Well, well, well, look what we have here," the ringleader had sneered, her perfectly manicured nails reaching for your trembling hand.

"Going on a little snack run, tubby? Maybe stocking up for winter hibernation?" "Leave me alone," you managed to whisper, your voice barely audible above the drumming rain, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

"Oh, are you going to cry?" another one taunted, her eyes glinting with malicious amusement. "Maybe a few tears will wash away some of that… extra baggage." "What's this, enough for a diet soda?" the first girl said, snatching the crumpled bills from your grasp.

"Maybe you should try skipping a few meals, fatty," another added, their laughter echoing the hollowness that had become a constant companion in your stomach. "Yeah," a third chimed in, her voice dripping with false concern, "think of it as us doing you a favor. Helping you reach your… goals."

"Just give it back," you pleaded, tears welling in your eyes, blurring their cruel faces. "It's all I have. My aunt…" They just laughed harder, their cruelty a sharp, physical pain. "Too slow," the ringleader said, tucking the money into her designer bag with a smug smile. "Maybe next time you'll learn to run faster. Or maybe just stay home."

Fear, cold and sharp as shards of glass, pierced through you, rendering your legs heavy and unresponsive. Home, usually a place of quiet dread, now loomed like a monstrous shadow in the downpour. Without the groceries, without the flimsy excuse of running an errand, the prospect of facing your aunt's wrath was unbearable.

"Where have you been?" she'd likely snap, her eyes narrowing with suspicion, her voice laced with impatience. "And where are the groceries I asked for? Don't tell me you've dawdled again." You could already hear the accusations, the bitter recriminations, the inevitable lecture about your worthlessness.

You found yourself huddled beneath the inadequate shelter of a dusty shop awning, the relentless rain plastering strands of hair to your forehead, tears blurring your vision as they mingled with the raindrops tracing paths down your cheeks. "Great," you muttered to yourself, the despair a heavy weight in your chest.

"Just great. Now what?" You were stranded, caught in the cruel intersection of teenage malice and a desolate home life, with nowhere safe to turn. "What am I going to do?" you whispered into the storm, the question a pathetic plea carried away by the wind.

Then, through the grey curtain of rain, a figure emerged. Tall and lean, with the unmistakable swagger of the school's star athlete, Han Jisung paused beside you. His expensive black umbrella, large enough to shelter two, dripped steadily at the edges, a stark contrast to the cheap, flimsy one you usually carried.

He didn't say a word, didn't offer a platitude or a condescending remark. He simply extended the umbrella towards you, the silent gesture a stark contrast to the cacophony of cruel words you had just endured. For a fleeting moment, your fingers brushed against his as you hesitantly took the offered shelter, a surprising jolt of warmth in the pervasive cold.

He turned and walked away, disappearing back into the downpour as quickly and silently as he had appeared. "Hey," you called out after him, a confused question forming on your lips, a desperate need to understand his unexpected kindness, but he was already gone, swallowed by the rain.

Confused, a strange cocktail of gratitude and bewilderment churning within you, you watched his retreating figure. Why would he do that? you wondered, clutching the smooth handle of the umbrella, its expensive fabric a stark contrast to your own worn coat.

Just as you began to think it had been a fleeting act of detached charity, a moment of pity from someone who existed in a completely different stratosphere, he reappeared. This time, he held a small, clear plastic bag clutched in his hand. He stopped directly in front of you.

"Here," he said, his voice surprisingly quiet, almost a murmur, his gaze flicking around as if he didn't want to be seen. He wordlessly pressed the bag into your hand. Inside, nestled against the damp plastic, were crisp twenty-dollar bills.

His expression was unreadable, his dark eyes flickered over your face briefly, a fleeting acknowledgment of your distress. He simply nodded, a curt, almost imperceptible movement of his head. "Take it," he added, his gaze direct for a fleeting second, a hint of something unreadable in their depths. And then he turned and walked away again, melting back into the rainy afternoon, leaving you standing beneath his expensive umbrella, the unexpected kindness a heavy, almost unbelievable weight in your hand.

Your lips parted in stunned silence, a soft, disbelieving "thank you" escaping into the drumming rain, a whisper lost in the downpour. The twenty dollars felt like more than just money; it felt like a lifeline, a tiny, unexpected crack of light in the overwhelming darkness.

"Thank you," you repeated, a little louder this time, clutching the bag tightly, even though he was already gone. The warmth of the unexpected gesture spread through the chill of the rain, a small seed of hope planted in the barren landscape of your day. You wondered, just for a moment, if maybe, just maybe, you weren't entirely invisible after all.

The sleek, black umbrella, a stark contrast to the cheap, floral one you usually carried, became an unspoken, tangible link between your vastly different orbits. It stood sentinel in your locker, a silent testament to an act of unexpected kindness that replayed in your mind like a recurring dream.

The twenty dollars, carefully and sparingly used to replenish your stolen grocery money, felt like more than just currency; it was a symbol of a hand reaching out in the darkness, a small spark of hope in the overwhelming gloom. A hesitant "thank you" the next day in the crowded hallway, your voice barely a rustle of sound, was met with a curt nod from Jisung, his usual guarded expression firmly in place, his gaze already sweeping over the bustling student body. But something had subtly shifted, a nearly imperceptible crack in the icy façade he usually presented to the world.

It began with shared study sessions in the hushed sanctuary of the library. He never explicitly invited you, never uttered a direct request. Instead, he would simply appear at your usual corner table, a formidable stack of advanced calculus textbooks and meticulously organized notes in hand.

You, initially wary of his continued presence, found a surprising, almost unsettling comfort in his focused silence. He possessed an unexpected patience when you wrestled with a particularly convoluted equation, explaining complex concepts with a quiet clarity that your often-impatient teachers lacked.

"Think of it like this," he'd say, his brow furrowed in concentration as he sketched diagrams on scrap paper, his voice a low murmur that barely disturbed the quiet hum of the library. You, in turn, would sometimes help him navigate the labyrinthine prose of English literature, your insightful interpretations of symbolism and theme offering a perspective he, with his more analytical mind, hadn't considered.

"That's… actually a really interesting way to look at it," he'd admit, a flicker of genuine intellectual curiosity in his dark eyes. These sessions were mostly silent, punctuated by the rustling of turning pages and the soft scratching of pens against paper, but a fragile, unspoken camaraderie began to bloom in the shared pursuit of knowledge, a quiet understanding passing between you over highlighted passages and solved problems.

Then came the late-night texts, the glow of your phone screen illuminating your face in the darkness of your small room. It started with a simple, utilitarian "Need help with the assignment?" from his number, a question that sent a jolt of surprised apprehension through you.

Hesitantly, you replied with a terse "Maybe," and soon, short, academic queries about formulas and literary devices morphed into slightly longer exchanges about favorite books (his surprisingly leaning towards classic sci-fi, yours towards poignant coming-of-age stories), obscure indie music, and even, occasionally, fleeting, carefully worded glimpses into the mundane details of your respective days.

His texts were often clipped, punctuated by emojis that seemed oddly out of character for the school's notoriously aloof jock – a surprisingly expressive thumbs-up, a thoughtful pondering face – but there was a consistency to them, a quiet checking-in that you found yourself looking forward to, a small beacon in the often-lonely expanse of your evenings.

He stumbled upon your deep-seated passion for retro video games during one of your brief study breaks in the library, when you were idly scrolling through an old emulator on your battered phone, a nostalgic smile softening your features as pixelated spaceships whizzed across the screen.

To your surprise, a flicker of recognition crossed his usually impassive face. "That's 'Galactic Gladiators', right?" he'd asked, leaning closer, a genuine spark of interest momentarily eclipsing his usual reserve. "My older brother used to be obsessed with that game. I remember watching him play for hours."

This shared, unexpected connection, a bridge built on 8-bit nostalgia, led to clandestine gaming sessions at his sprawling, modern home on weekends. His house, with its sleek furniture and panoramic city views, was a stark, almost intimidating contrast to your cramped, perpetually shadowed one, but in the dimly lit, surprisingly comfortable game room, surrounded by the hypnotic glow of multiple screens and the cheerful cacophony of digital sound effects, you found a strange, unexpected sense of belonging.

He was surprisingly competitive, his fingers flying across the controller with practiced ease, but never condescending, and your laughter, a sound you rarely heard yourself make, would sometimes bubble up and fill the room, a light, joyful sound that felt foreign yet wonderfully liberating. "Nice move!" he'd grudgingly admit after you executed a particularly skillful maneuver, a rare smile gracing his lips.

Throughout these increasingly frequent interactions, Jisung remained a keen, almost unnervingly perceptive, silent observer. He noticed the almost imperceptible tremor in your hands when someone raised their voice, even in a casual classroom discussion.

He saw the fleeting shadow of anxiety that flickered in your eyes when he accidentally brushed your arm in the crowded hallway. He learned your instinctive aversion to sudden loud noises, the way your gaze would dart nervously towards any raised hand in a classroom, as if anticipating a blow.

He pieced together the fragmented clues of your unspoken traumas, the subtle anxieties that clung to you like a second skin, an invisible weight you carried in the slump of your shoulders. He never pried, never asked directly about your strained home life or the cruelties you endured within the school's social hierarchy, but his awareness grew, a quiet understanding that seemed to settle in his dark eyes whenever he looked at you, a silent acknowledgment of the battles you fought unseen.

One particularly unpleasant afternoon, as you were walking home from school, clutching your backpack straps tightly, a group of boisterous guys from the basketball team, emboldened by their perceived social superiority, started making crude, insensitive remarks.

"Hey, look, it's Beauty and the Beast!" one of them jeered, his voice dripping with a nasty sarcasm that made your stomach clench. "Guess who's Beauty?" another one chimed in, eliciting a round of snickers. You froze, your face flushing crimson with shame, your instinct to disappear into the nearest crack in the sidewalk overwhelming.

Before you could shrink away and endure their taunts in silence, Jisung, who had been walking a few discreet steps behind you, his presence unnoticed until that moment, moved with a sudden, terrifying speed. He closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, grabbing the loudest offender by the collar of his expensive sports jacket, his knuckles white with barely suppressed fury.

"Shut your fucking mouth," Jisung growled, his usual cool, detached demeanor replaced by a raw, furious intensity you had never witnessed before, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. The other guys, initially amused, backed away, their laughter dying in their throats, surprised and intimidated by his violent outburst. Jisung shoved the guy away, his eyes blazing with a protective anger.

"Don't you ever talk about her like that again. Do you understand me?" The guy, visibly shaken and surprised by the ferocity of Jisung's reaction, mumbled a hasty apology and hurried away with his equally stunned friends. Jisung turned to you, his chest heaving slightly, his expression softening infinitesimally, a hint of genuine concern in his dark eyes.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice low and surprisingly gentle. You could only nod mutely, your breath caught in your throat, the unexpected, fierce defense leaving you both shaken and strangely… protected, a warmth spreading through the cold knot of shame in your chest.

But the incident, as such things often do in the hothouse environment of high school, had significant repercussions. Whispers followed Jisung down the hallways now, laced with a different, more salacious kind of speculation. "Did you see him go after her like that?" someone murmured, their eyes wide with gossip.

"He's totally obsessed with that… chubby girl. What does he even see in her?" The rumors spread like wildfire, fueled by the public display of Jisung's anger and your continued, albeit still somewhat hesitant, proximity. "Jisung's into fatties," one particularly cruel comment, delivered with a deliberate, cutting edge, reached his ears in the crowded cafeteria during lunch.

The words, meant to be a public humiliation aimed at both of you, hit a raw nerve, igniting a fury within him that you had only glimpsed before. In a flash, Jisung was on his feet, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were bone-white.

He strode purposefully towards the group of guys who had been snickering, his eyes dark with a barely controlled rage. He grabbed the one who had spoken by the front of his shirt and slammed him against a nearby table, sending trays clattering and food scattering across the linoleum floor.

"Listen here, you piece of shit," Jisung snarled, his voice dangerously low but carrying through the stunned silence of the suddenly hushed cafeteria. "She isn't fat. She is chubby, and being chubby isn't inherently bad. She looks absolutely beautiful.

There is a fundamental difference between ignorance and deliberate malice. Educate yourself, you fucker." He punctuated his furious words with a sharp, brutal punch to the guy's jaw before his stunned friends could react and pull him away. The cafeteria buzzed with shocked whispers and a newfound, albeit grudging and often resentful, respect for Jisung's fierce, albeit violent, defense of you.

The rumors, however, persisted, twisting the narrative into something you increasingly dreaded. "Rich brat Jisung dating the school outcast," they whispered, their voices laced with a mixture of disbelief and disdain. "Probably just a phase. He'll get bored of her eventually and go back to the pretty, skinny girls."

These whispers, amplified by the dramatic incident in the cafeteria, inevitably reached the venomous ears of your aunt. The subtle shift in Jisung's behavior, the undeniable attention he was now paying you, confirmed her worst, most cynical suspicions.

"So," she hissed one evening as you were silently washing dishes after a particularly grueling day at school and an even more grueling dinner with her, her eyes narrowed with a predatory suspicion, "that rich boy has his claws in you now, hasn't he?" You flinched at the venom in her tone, the familiar sting of her judgment.

"He's just… a friend, Aunt," you mumbled, trying to keep your voice steady despite the tremor that ran through you. Her hand shot out with surprising speed, catching you across the face, the sharp crack echoing in the small, cramped kitchen. The physical pain was a familiar ache, but the accusation that followed cut far deeper. "Don't lie to me, you little gold digger!" she spat, her grip tightening on your arm like a vise.

"I knew it. I always knew you were after something. Trying to latch onto his money, aren't you? Just like your good-for-nothing mother!" Her words were like a toxic poison, seeping into the fragile sense of hope that had begun to tentatively bloom within you, twisting the unexpected kindness into something ugly and manipulative. The physical pain was nothing compared to the crushing weight of her accusations, her bitter, distorted perception of your burgeoning connection with Jisung.

The relentless rumors, your aunt's brutal abuse and her vile accusations, the gnawing fear of what others were saying about Jisung because of his association with you – it all became an unbearable weight, crushing the fragile shoots of hope that had dared to emerge.

The unexpected bridge you had started to build with Jisung felt like it was crumbling beneath your feet, the whispers and judgments like relentless waves eroding the foundation. In a desperate, self-preservationist attempt to protect yourself, to retreat back into the familiar, albeit agonizing, solitude, you made a drastic, heart-wrenching decision.

With trembling fingers, tears blurring your vision, you blocked Jisung's number on your old phone, severing the digital lifeline that had offered a sliver of connection. You deleted your text conversations, erasing the late-night exchanges that had brought you a fleeting sense of belonging, the digital echoes of his unexpected kindness now too painful to bear.

You started avoiding the library during your usual study times, the quiet corners now feeling like painful, empty reminders of his focused presence. When he tried to approach you in the crowded hallways, his usual aloofness replaced with a bewildered concern, his brow furrowed with worry and a silent question in his dark eyes, you would turn away, your heart aching with a silent scream of despair trapped in your throat, your gaze fixed resolutely on the opposite wall.

The umbrellas and game nights became distant, bittersweet memories, shrouded in a self-imposed silence, a shield you erected to protect your already battered heart from a world that seemed determined to misunderstand and hurt you.

The fragile connection, barely formed, snapped under the immense weight of fear, misunderstanding, and the crushing reality of your own deeply ingrained insecurities, leaving you alone again in the echoing silence of your own making, the black umbrella a stark, painful reminder of what could have been.

Eight years. An epoch in the fleeting landscape of youth, a span long enough for the seasons to cycle countless times, painting the world in vibrant hues of spring and summer, then stripping it bare with the stark beauty of autumn and winter.

Enough time for fledgling cities to evolve into sprawling, gleaming metropolises of steel and glass, their skylines perpetually reaching for the heavens, monuments to human ambition and progress.

And certainly enough time for the tentative bud of a high school connection, once so fragile and fraught with misunderstanding, to wither into a distant, almost dreamlike memory, its sharp edges softened by the relentless passage of time, its significance fading into the hazy recesses of the past, like a forgotten melody played on a broken instrument, its notes barely audible.

You were no longer the shrinking, self-conscious teenager haunted by the cruel whispers that echoed in the crowded hallways and the oppressive silence of a toxic home, a ghost in your own life. You had painstakingly, meticulously built a new life for yourself, brick by emotional brick, each one laid with the mortar of hard work, unwavering determination, and a fierce, almost defiant independence that had blossomed in the fertile ground of necessity, a shield against the vulnerabilities of the past.

The late nights spent poring over textbooks, the quiet dedication to mastering complex algorithms and intricate lines of code, the relentless pursuit of knowledge in the digital realm, had finally translated into a thriving career as a successful IT engineer in your early twenties.

You commanded respect in boardrooms, your innovative solutions were sought after by colleagues and superiors alike, and your code was elegant, efficient, a testament to the sharp, analytical mind that had always been your secret strength, a weapon against the insecurities that once threatened to consume you.

Your personal life, however, remained a carefully constructed fortress, its walls high and its gates firmly locked, guarded by years of ingrained caution and a deep-seated wariness of vulnerability. You lived alone in a sleek, minimalist apartment perched high above the city's relentless pulse, a sanctuary of your own making where silence was a welcome companion and your personal space was your own inviolable domain, a stark contrast to the chaotic, unpredictable environment of your adolescence. The panoramic city views from your floor-to-ceiling windows served as a constant reminder of how far you had come, a testament to your resilience.

Close friends were a concept that felt foreign, almost unnecessary, a potential source of pain you had learned to avoid, the risk of emotional entanglement outweighing the promise of genuine connection. The scars of the past ran deep, invisible but persistent, leaving you emotionally guarded, wary of any hint of intimacy, and proficient at maintaining a polite, professional distance from everyone you encountered. Trust was a precious currency you hoarded carefully, rarely spending it, its value inflated by the painful lessons etched into the fabric of your youth, lessons you had no intention of repeating.

One crisp autumn afternoon, the air carrying the melancholic scent of fallen leaves swirling in the city's canyons and the sharp, invigorating promise of a coming winter, you were hurrying down a busy downtown street during your lunch break. A mental checklist of errands – dry cleaning, a quick stop at the independent bookstore you frequented for its comforting smell of old paper and ink, and perhaps a decent cup of artisanal coffee from that new place around the corner – ran through your mind with the precision of a well-written algorithm, each task prioritized and scheduled.

Lost in the intricate logic of a particularly challenging debugging task you'd been wrestling with all morning, your mind still tracing the elusive error in the cascading lines of code, a phantom bug that seemed to shift and evade your every attempt to squash it, you rounded a sharp corner near a bustling, trendy coffee shop and collided with someone.

The unexpected impact sent a jolt through you and your sleek, state-of-the-art smartphone skittering across the textured pavement, its screen momentarily flashing a distorted image of your focused concentration before going dark, a small tragedy in your otherwise meticulously managed day.

"Oh, excuse me! I am so incredibly sorry," you murmured automatically, bending down to retrieve your device, your initial annoyance momentarily overshadowed by the awkwardness of the unexpected physical contact and the immediate fear of a cracked screen, a costly inconvenience in your otherwise meticulously ordered life.

As you straightened up, your eyes traveled upwards, drawn to the man you had bumped into. He was taller now, the lean frame of his youth filled out with a more mature breadth across his shoulders, the boyish angularity of his face softened by the passage of time into a subtly handsome countenance, etched with the faintest lines of experience around his eyes, lines that hinted at late nights and weighty decisions, a roadmap of the years that had passed.

Wire-framed glasses, a sophisticated touch you wouldn't have pictured on the often casually dressed teenager you remembered, perched on the bridge of his nose, framing intelligent, familiar eyes that widened almost imperceptibly in surprise, a fleeting flicker of recognition dancing within their depths, a spark that ignited a dormant ember within you, sending a surprising warmth through the chill autumn air.

His once meticulously styled, almost severe haircut now fell in a deliberately messy wave across his forehead, giving him a more approachable, less rigidly perfect appearance, a hint of artistic disarray that somehow softened the sharp edges of his undeniable success.

He wore an impeccably tailored wool coat, the dark charcoal fabric hinting at considerable expense and understated power, and held a steaming paper cup in one hand, the rich, dark aroma of freshly brewed, high-end espresso wafting in the cool air, a scent that somehow felt both vaguely familiar and entirely new, a marker of his evolved world.

A jolt of recognition, sharp and unexpected, shot through you, followed by a disorienting wave of a peculiar, almost unsettling familiarity that tugged at the frayed edges of your carefully constructed present, pulling you back to a time you had consciously tried to bury beneath layers of achievement and self-reliance. It couldn't be… could it possibly be? Han Jisung.

Older, undeniably more polished, radiating an aura of quiet confidence and understated power you hadn't witnessed in his teenage years, but the intense gaze that locked with yours, the almost imperceptible quirk of his lips as he registered your presence, was undeniably him.

Your immediate instinct was to disappear, to melt back into the anonymity of the lunchtime crowd, to pretend you hadn't seen him, hadn't felt that disconcerting flicker of recognition that sent a shiver down your spine, a ghost of a past you thought you had outrun finally catching up.

You offered a quick, generic "So sorry," and began to sidestep him, your mind racing, trying to reconcile the aloof, often sharp-edged teenager you remembered with the sophisticated, almost enigmatic man standing before you, a man who exuded an air of quiet authority and effortless charm.

"[Your Name]?" His voice, deeper now, a smooth baritone that resonated in a way the adolescent timbre never had, cutting through the surrounding cacophony of city noise like a familiar melody played on a new instrument, a familiar cadence that pulled at the frayed edges of a long-dormant memory. He said your full name, the way he used to all those years ago during those stolen, quiet moments in the library, a sound that sent a faint, unexpected tremor through you, a vibration that stirred something long dormant within your carefully guarded heart.

You froze, your carefully constructed composure momentarily faltering, the practiced indifference you wore like armor cracking under the unexpected weight of the encounter. You reluctantly met his gaze, a knot of unease tightening in your stomach, a strange mix of apprehension and a hesitant flicker of something akin to… curiosity? "Jisung?" you replied, the name feeling foreign and yet strangely resonant on your tongue after so many years of deliberate disuse, a whisper from a life you thought you had left behind.

A hesitant, almost shy smile touched his lips, a far cry from the cool detachment and occasional sardonic smirk you remembered from high school. "It's been a while," he said, his eyes studying you with an intensity that made you feel strangely exposed, as if he could see past the carefully constructed walls you had built around yourself, peering into the guarded spaces you rarely allowed anyone to glimpse. "You look… well. Successful."

Before you could formulate a polite refusal or an awkward attempt at small talk about the unpredictable autumn weather or the latest traffic snarl that had plagued your morning commute, he gestured vaguely towards the curb with his free hand. "My car's just around the corner. I'm actually heading in your general direction, I think, towards the financial district. Let me give you a ride back to your office. Save you the walk."

Suspicion, a familiar and unwelcome companion, immediately flared within you, its icy tendrils wrapping around your apprehension. Why? After all this time, after the abrupt and painful way your fragile connection had ended, leaving you feeling abandoned and misunderstood? What could he possibly want after eight long years of silence, years you had spent meticulously rebuilding your life without him, brick by painstaking brick?

You hesitated, weighing the awkwardness of accepting his unexpected offer against the even greater awkwardness of a prolonged conversation on a busy street, the risk of dredging up memories you had worked so diligently to bury beneath layers of professional success and emotional detachment.

There was a strange pull, however, an undeniable flicker of curiosity that you couldn't entirely ignore, a nagging question about the man he had become, the path his life had taken in the years since you last saw him. Against your better judgment, a small, almost imperceptible nod escaped you. "Okay," you said, your voice betraying a hint of your inner turmoil, the single word hanging in the air between you, heavy with unspoken history.

He led you not to a typical, anonymous sedan, but to a breathtakingly beautiful Pagani, its sleek, aerodynamic lines a testament to both artistry and engineering prowess, its low, guttural growl a subtle promise of immense power that vibrated through the very pavement beneath your feet.

The car turned heads as you approached, its presence a silent statement of wealth and refined taste, a world away from the battered jalopies that cluttered the high school parking lot of your memory. The passenger door swung open with a soft, almost theatrical whir, revealing luxurious leather seats that enveloped you in their rich embrace as you hesitantly settled inside, the scent of supple leather and something subtly, intoxicatingly expensive filling your senses, a stark contrast to the worn fabric of your old school backpack and the faint scent of your aunt's harsh cleaning supplies that still sometimes clung to your clothes.

The drive was short, punctuated by a strained, polite conversation about the unseasonably warm autumn weather and the general state of the city's ever-congested traffic, the mundane topics a flimsy shield against the unspoken questions that hung heavy in the air between you.

As he smoothly pulled up to your modern office building, its glass façade reflecting the crisp blue sky and the bustling energy of the city, a monument to your hard-won success, he mentioned the name of his investment firm, a brief, almost casual remark dropped into the otherwise stilted conversation as if discussing the morning's headlines. "Stratagem Capital," he said as you reached for the cool, brushed metal of the door handle, your fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second, a sudden premonition settling in your stomach.

"We're actually scheduled to have a rather important meeting with your company next week. Regarding a potential significant investment opportunity."

A sudden, chilling realization washed over you, cold and sharp as glacial ice, stealing your breath and sending a tremor of disbelief through you. "Stratagem Capital?" you repeated, your voice barely a whisper, the name echoing in the sudden silence of the car, a sound that resonated with an unexpected, almost ominous significance.

Your company, a promising tech startup you had poured your heart and soul into for the past few years, a testament to your resilience and your brilliance, had been working tirelessly for months, preparing meticulously crafted presentations, crunching complex financial projections that represented your team's collective hopes and dreams, pouring every ounce of energy and fragile optimism into securing a crucial investment that could catapult your small firm to the next level, finally allowing your innovative ideas to truly take flight and disrupt the industry.

The lead investor's name had been circulated amongst the senior staff, a prominent and highly respected figure in the tech industry, a name that carried significant weight, but in the whirlwind of deadlines and preparations, you hadn't paid it much attention beyond the professional implications, the potential for growth and validation.

You looked at Jisung, really looked at him, the tailored coat that spoke of power, the air of quiet confidence that radiated from him, the casual mention of multi-million dollar investments as if it were everyday conversation. The aloof, sometimes volatile jock of your past had metamorphosed into a powerful, influential man, a titan in the very industry you were striving to conquer.

And he was the investor. The key to your company's future, the man whose decision could make or break everything you had worked so hard to achieve, the man who now held your professional destiny in his hands. The unexpected, almost cruelly ironic twist hung in the air between you, thick with unspoken history, unresolved emotions, and the immense weight of a potentially very complicated, and possibly very high-stakes, future.

The past and the present had collided with a force that left you reeling, the comfortable distance you had cultivated shattered by the unexpected reappearance of a ghost from your past, a ghost who now held the keys to your future.

The meeting with Stratagem Capital the following week proceeded with an almost unnerving smoothness. You, as the lead engineer on the project, presented your team's innovative work with a calm professionalism that belied the turmoil churning within you. You fielded questions with clarity and precision, your deep understanding of the technology shining through.

Jisung, seated at the head of the table, listened intently, his gaze steady and focused, occasionally interjecting with insightful queries that demonstrated a genuine interest in your company's vision. There was a detached air to his professionalism, a stark contrast to the unexpected ride you had shared, making it almost seem like that encounter had been a figment of your imagination.

Yet, the occasional flicker of something familiar in his eyes, a brief, almost imperceptible softening of his expression when your gazes met, hinted at the complicated history that lay beneath the surface.

Weeks drifted by in a strange state of limbo. The investment from Stratagem Capital was still under consideration, a looming decision that hung over your company like a delicate balance. In the meantime, you found yourself running into Jisung with surprising frequency.

A silent acknowledgment in the building lobby, a shared elevator ride where neither of you spoke, the air thick with unspoken words and the weight of the past. Occasionally, their paths would cross outside the office, and he would offer you a ride home, a proposition you initially met with hesitant suspicion.

The first few times, the drives were stiff and awkward. Polite inquiries about work and the city filled the silence, careful conversations that skirted around the eight years of absence and the abrupt end of your high school connection.

You remained guarded, observing him with a cautious eye, trying to decipher his intentions. Was this mere politeness, a byproduct of your professional entanglement? Or was there something more beneath the surface?

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a fragile sense of familiarity began to seep back into your interactions. The silences during the car rides became less strained, occasionally punctuated by a shared observation about a news report or a wry comment about the city's unpredictable traffic.

You found yourself, on a couple of particularly late nights at the office, accepting his offer of a ride without the initial surge of suspicion. There was a strange comfort in the shared journey, a sense of unexpected ease that surprised you.

Unbeknownst to you, Jisung had been meticulously piecing together the fragments of the past, recalling details from your brief time in high school. He remembered your quiet enthusiasm for a particular indie game, the way your eyes lit up when discussing a certain author, and, most surprisingly, he remembered your birthday.

A date that had somehow lodged itself in the recesses of his memory, a small, insignificant detail from a lifetime ago. As your birthday approached, he found himself making plans, a quiet dinner at a restaurant with a discreet, elegant ambiance, the perfect setting to finally ask you out, to see if the fragile connection rekindled by chance could blossom into something more.

Then, one afternoon, as you were leaving the office, he saw you standing outside, laughing with a male coworker. Your head was thrown back, your face radiant with genuine amusement, a carefree expression he hadn't witnessed on you in all the years he had known you, even in your brief moments of joy in high school.

A sharp, unexpected pang of jealousy, unfamiliar and unwelcome, clenched in his chest. The easy camaraderie you shared with this colleague, the effortless joy in your expression, stirred something possessive within him, a feeling he hadn't anticipated.

That evening, as you were packing up your things, preparing for the quiet solitude of your apartment, Jisung was waiting for you in the lobby. Instead of his usual quiet offer of a ride, he stood near the reception desk, his presence drawing the attention of several of your colleagues who were also leaving for the day.

He waited until your eyes met his across the bustling space, and then, his voice carrying with a newfound confidence that echoed through the lobby, he addressed you publicly. "Ms. [Your Last Name]," he said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, his gaze holding yours. "Would you do me the honor of having dinner with me tomorrow night?"

All eyes in the lobby turned to you, a mixture of curiosity and speculation in their gazes. Caught completely off guard by the public invitation, a blush creeping up your neck, you felt a wave of awkwardness wash over you. The memories of the high school rumors, the sting of your aunt's accusations, flashed through your mind.

Yet, there was also a strange pull, a reluctant curiosity to see where this unexpected turn of events might lead. Under the scrutiny of your colleagues, their hushed whispers filling the sudden silence, you managed a hesitant, "Yes, Mr. Han. I would." The agreement felt both inevitable and incredibly awkward, a step back into a past you had tried so hard to leave behind, under the watchful eyes of your present.

A nervous energy, a fluttering anticipation you hadn't permitted yourself to feel in years, stirred within the carefully guarded chambers of your heart as you prepared for the unexpected dinner. You stood before your closet, a meticulously curated collection of professional attire in understated hues that spoke of competence and control, and sought something that felt both comfortable and hinted at the special occasion, a subtle rebellion against your usual reserved style, a quiet acknowledgment of the significance of the evening.

Your gaze finally settled on a cherry red top, a vibrant splash of color that always seemed to inject a bit of defiant joy into your spirit, a bold statement against the muted tones that often mirrored your inner landscape. You paired it with a denim skort, a touch of casual familiarity amidst the potential formality of the evening, a grounding element that reminded you of the woman you were beneath the polished exterior you presented to the world.

To elevate the look, you chose a pair of sleek cherry red heels, adding a confident lift to your stride and a subtle statement of intent, a silent assertion of your own worth. Finally, you adorned yourself with delicate gold jewelry – a slender necklace that rested at your collarbone, catching the light with a subtle shimmer that drew attention to the graceful curve of your neck, and elegant stud earrings that framed your face with a touch of understated grace, adding a hint of warmth to your otherwise cool demeanor.

The reflection staring back was a woman you had painstakingly built, piece by painstaking piece, strong and independent, a far cry from the invisible, shrinking girl of your past, a testament to your resilience and unwavering spirit.

A sharp, insistent knock echoed through the quiet of your apartment, a sound that both quickened your pulse and filled you with a sense of nervous anticipation. Taking a deep breath, a silent promise to yourself to simply relax and enjoy the evening, regardless of where it might lead, you opened the door to find Jisung standing there.

The black satin shirt he wore accentuated the broad expanse of his shoulders, the fabric catching the soft hallway light with a subtle, almost liquid sheen that hinted at a quiet luxury. The wire-framed glasses added an unexpected intellectual air to his already handsome features, making his sharp, intelligent eyes seem even more thoughtful and perceptive, and you couldn't help but notice how undeniably fine he looked, a refined elegance that was both familiar, a ghost of the intense, sometimes volatile boy you once knew, and entirely new, a testament to the years that had sculpted him into this composed, intriguing man.

The ride to the restaurant was initially filled with a nervous tension, a subtle undercurrent of awkwardness that mirrored your earlier encounters, the silence punctuated by the gentle hum of the Pagani's engine.

Polite conversation filled the gaps, careful inquiries about the day's events and the surprisingly mild autumn weather, neither of you quite venturing into the deeper, more turbulent waters of your shared history or the uncertain territory of the present.

You found yourself stealing glances at him, trying to reconcile the composed man beside you, radiating an air of quiet confidence, with the memory of the intense, sometimes volatile teenager who had defended you in the crowded school cafeteria.

The restaurant was perched on a rooftop, offering a breathtaking panorama of the city lights twinkling below like a million scattered diamonds on a velvet cloth. The ambiance was sophisticated and intimate, soft jazz music drifting through the air, the murmur of hushed conversations a gentle hum that created a sense of secluded elegance, a world away from the noisy chaos of your high school days.

The initial awkwardness during dinner slowly began to dissipate as the conversation drifted towards lighter topics – shared observations about the dazzling city skyline, a brief, surprisingly engaging discussion about a thought-provoking documentary you had both recently watched, revealing unexpected common interests that bridged the years.

Then, as the dessert arrived, a delicate chocolate torte adorned with a single, flickering candle, casting a warm glow on his face, Jisung's eyes met yours with a soft intensity that made your heart skip a beat. "Happy birthday, [Your Name]," he said, his voice a low, warm murmur that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine, a simple acknowledgment that held a weight of unspoken understanding.

He then presented you with a small, exquisitely wrapped box, the paper a deep, rich burgundy tied with a silver ribbon, the weight of it surprisingly substantial in your hand. Inside, nestled in soft, black velvet, was a heavy crystal perfume bottle, its facets catching the candlelight.

You lifted it, your breath catching in your throat. The delicate, floral and slightly musky scent that wafted upwards was instantly, achingly familiar, a nostalgic echo of your high school days, a fragrance you hadn't encountered in years, a scent that held within it the ghost of a younger, more vulnerable you.

And then you saw it – your name, [Your Name], elegantly and intricately carved into the smooth, cool glass of the bottle, a personal touch that resonated with a profound intimacy. A wave of emotion washed over you, a poignant mix of profound surprise and an unexpected tenderness that resonated deep within your carefully guarded heart.

He remembered. He remembered the small, seemingly insignificant detail of your favorite scent from a lifetime ago, a scent that evoked bittersweet memories of a time when simple pleasures held a greater significance, a time before the weight of the world had settled so heavily on your shoulders.

Tears welled in your eyes as you looked at him, a raw vulnerability exposed that you rarely allowed anyone to witness, a crack in the carefully constructed facade of your independence.

"Jisung," you began, your voice trembling slightly, the carefully constructed walls around your heart momentarily crumbling under the weight of his unexpected thoughtfulness and the poignant memories the perfume evoked. "This is… this is incredibly thoughtful. More than I could have ever expected. Thank you."

You paused, gathering your courage to voice the deeper turmoil that had plagued you for so long, the insecurities that still whispered in the quiet corners of your mind. "But… I need to be honest with you. I… I don't love myself. Not really. Not in the way someone should. And if I don't love myself, how can I possibly let anyone else truly love me? I'm… I'm afraid of that. Afraid of being hurt again, afraid of not being enough."

The confession hung in the air between you, heavy with years of unspoken pain, ingrained insecurity, and the deep-seated fear of repeating the hurts of the past, a truth you had carried like a secret burden.

He reached across the table, his larger hand gently covering yours, his touch warm and grounding, a silent reassurance that transcended words.

His gaze was earnest, unwavering, filled with a quiet understanding that surprised you with its depth, a knowing look that seemed to see past your carefully constructed defenses. "Then I'll wait," he said softly, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand, his eyes conveying a patience you hadn't anticipated, a steadfastness that offered a glimmer of hope.

"I'll wait until you do, [Your Name]. Because I know, deep down, the incredible woman you are, the strength and resilience you possess. And I believe you'll see it too, eventually. And when you do, whenever that may be, I'll still be here." His words were a balm to your wounded spirit, an unexpected promise of unwavering support and a profound belief in you that resonated deep within your heart, planting a tiny seed of hope in the barren landscape of your self-doubt, a fragile promise of a future you hadn't dared to imagine.

The rooftop dinner, bathed in the soft glow of city lights and punctuated by the raw vulnerability you had dared to share, marked a subtle but significant shift in the long, unspoken narrative between you and Jisung. The confession, the hesitant unveiling of your deepest insecurities, hung in the air not as a source of awkwardness or a point of retreat, but as a fragile, newly forged bridge spanning the chasm of years and misunderstandings.

In the weeks that followed, slow, deliberate progress began, like the tentative unfurling of a tightly closed bloom. A simple goodnight text evolved into a brief, thoughtful exchange the next day. A casual inquiry about the challenges of your workday led to a late-night phone call, the comfortable silence that occasionally fell between you gradually replacing the nervous tension and unspoken anxieties of the past.

He didn't push, didn't make demands or issue expectations. He simply offered his quiet, unwavering presence, a steady anchor in the sometimes-turbulent waters of your emotions, a silent reassurance that he wasn't going anywhere.

He would text a simple "How was your day?" or share an interesting article he thought you might find engaging, a small gesture that spoke volumes about his attentiveness. Occasionally, he would suggest a late-night study session, the pretense of academic pursuit now a comfortable backdrop for shared interests – a complex documentary that sparked a fascinating debate, a classic novel you had always intended to read but never found the time for, its pages becoming a shared landscape of discovery.

Slowly, tentatively, you began to lower the carefully constructed walls around your heart, brick by painstaking brick. You found a surprising comfort in his quiet understanding, the way he listened without judgment, his responses thoughtful and genuine, reflecting a depth of empathy you hadn't encountered before.

He learned your rhythms, the days you needed space to navigate the lingering shadows of your past, the evenings you might welcome a gentle distraction, a shared meal, or a quiet conversation. He even started suggesting you cook together at his spacious, modern apartment, his sleek kitchen a stark and welcoming contrast to the cramped, often tense atmosphere of the kitchen of your childhood.

These evenings were filled with a comfortable domesticity, the shared task of preparing a meal, the rhythmic chopping of vegetables, the simmering of sauces, becoming a silent language of growing intimacy and trust.

A year spun by, marked by the subtle shifts in the seasons and the more profound shifts within yourself. Jisung's unwavering patience and quiet, steadfast support had become an integral and comforting presence in your life, a constant source of gentle encouragement.

You found yourself laughing more freely, the sound echoing in your apartment without the familiar tinge of self-consciousness. Your steps felt lighter, your shoulders less burdened. The sharp edges of your emotional guardedness began to soften, replaced by a tentative sense of self-acceptance, a growing understanding of your own inherent worth.

You started looking at your reflection with a kinder, more forgiving eye, the critical voice within slowly quieting its relentless judgment. While the journey to fully loving yourself was an ongoing process, a path you were still navigating, you were undeniably more confident, more emotionally stable, the foundations of your well-being feeling stronger and more resilient than they ever had before.

Then, finally, came the day of the project launch, the culmination of months of intense work, sleepless nights, and unwavering dedication, the very project upon which Stratagem Capital's significant investment hinged. The atmosphere in the office was electric with a palpable mixture of nervous anticipation and focused energy, the air thick with the unspoken hopes and fears of your entire team.

You, as the lead engineer and the driving force behind the innovation, presented the final product with a quiet confidence that belied the subtle tremor of excitement within you, your voice steady and clear as you navigated the intricate technical details, your passion for the project shining through.

Everything went smoothly, the system performing flawlessly, its elegant functionality and groundbreaking capabilities impressing the stakeholders. A collective sigh of relief and a wave of triumphant exhaustion washed over your team as the launch was officially declared a resounding success, a testament to your collective hard work and vision.

That evening, a simple text message from Jisung arrived on your phone, the familiar name on the screen sending a warmth spreading through you: "Stratagem party tonight. Nexus. Consider it a celebration of a job well done."

It was a casual invitation, understated in its wording, but the underlying warmth and a hint of personal invitation were unmistakable, a quiet acknowledgment of your shared journey and your individual triumph. Hesitantly, a sense of nervous excitement fluttering in your stomach, you decided to go.

The invitation to Nexus arrived with a subtly possessive addendum from Jisung, delivered via a late-night text that vibrated with an unspoken intimacy: "Wear black. It suits you, highlights the fire in your eyes, and makes those cherry lips look like they're begging for a taste."

Trusting his quiet confidence and the undeniably suggestive compliment, you chose a sleek black dress. Its simple elegance skimmed your curves like a whispered promise, a silent statement of newfound comfort and a daring hint of burgeoning sensuality in your own skin.

The fabric flowed around you like liquid night, a stark contrast to the vibrant, almost defiant red of your birthday dinner, yet equally, if not more, captivating, a subtle promise of the woman you were slowly, deliberately unleashing.

At the club, "Nexus," Jisung's sleek and exclusive domain, the celebratory atmosphere was thick with the intoxicating blend of pulsating music, unrestrained laughter, and the expensive, heady aroma of designer perfume and celebratory spirits.

Your colleagues, flushed with the heady success of the project launch, their usual professional reserve dissolving with each shared bottle of champagne, were in high spirits, their inhibitions lowered to a dangerous degree. You found yourself drawn into their revelry, the offered glasses of the effervescent liquid, each accompanied by increasingly suggestive toasts to your team's brilliance and your own pivotal role, proving utterly irresistible in the face of their insistent camaraderie and playful shoves.

Your notoriously low tolerance for alcohol, a delicate secret you rarely shared, meant the celebratory drinks went to your head with thrilling speed, the edges of the room beginning to soften and sway, the bass of the music vibrating deep within your core, a physical manifestation of the delicious unraveling of your carefully controlled senses, igniting a reckless, intoxicating warmth that spread through your veins.

Soon, a giddy laughter, a sound that had been long suppressed beneath layers of self-consciousness and ingrained caution, bubbled up from within you, a lightness you hadn't experienced with such uninhibited abandon in years.

Encouraged by your tipsy colleagues, their cheers and suggestive winks egging you on, you found yourself on the dance floor, moving with a fluid, uninhibited grace that surprised even yourself, a joyous, almost primal release of pent-up tension and newfound confidence.

Through the shimmering haze of alcohol and flashing lights, your gaze locked with Jisung's across the crowded room.

He was watching you from the edge of the dance floor, leaning against a polished chrome pillar, a soft, almost possessive smile playing on his lips, his gaze dark, intense, and utterly unwavering, a silent observer who seemed to find a quiet amusement and a palpable, smoldering desire in your uncharacteristic abandon.

His eyes held a dark, knowing gleam that sent a shiver of raw anticipation dancing down your spine.

A sudden, deliciously wicked impulse, fueled by the alcohol's intoxicating loosening grip on your inhibitions and a burgeoning, undeniable, almost desperate affection for the man who watched you with such quiet intensity, overtook you with a thrilling recklessness.

With a playful shout that was almost a husky invitation, you weaved through the dancing crowd, a black-clad siren navigating the throng with an unexpected agility, reached Jisung, and, with a boldness that made your own heart pound, yanked him down by the collar of his dark, subtly shimmering silk shirt.

Your cherry-red lips crashed onto his in a kiss that was anything but demure, a rush of giddy affection, uninhibited desire, and a playful, teasing exploration of the boundaries that had long separated you. Your hands tangled in the soft fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until your bodies were pressed together, the kiss a heady mix of champagne-fueled impulsiveness and a genuine longing that had been slowly simmering beneath the surface for months, now boiling over.

You nipped playfully at his lower lip before deepening the kiss, your tongue darting out to tease his, a silent, brazen dare in your slightly inebriated state that made his breath hitch and a low groan rumble in his chest.

You punctuated the bold move by gently biting down on his lower lip, a playful yet possessive gesture, before tugging lightly, drawing a surprised, yet undeniably pleased, sound from him.

He recoiled slightly, a flicker of surprise widening his dark eyes before a gentle, yet firm, hand cupped your cheek, stilling your impulsive actions, his thumb stroking the soft skin beneath your ear with a tender possessiveness that sent a delicious thrill spiraling through you.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your swollen lips, a note of amused concern and a definite, husky undercurrent of arousal lacing his tone.

"Easy there, Ms. Y/L/N. Those cherry lips are getting a little… demanding, and you're swaying like a particularly lovely willow tree in a strong breeze. Though, I must admit," his gaze dropped to your lips, a dark heat flickering in his eyes, a predatory gleam that made your pulse quicken, "it's a rather… persuasive argument."

He carefully, yet reluctantly, disentangled himself, his arm remaining possessively around your waist, his touch a steady anchor in your suddenly unsteady world.

Gently but firmly, he steered you away from the pulsating crowd, his concern evident in his steady, unwavering gaze, though a hint of reluctant longing and a definite spark of desire still lingered in their depths.

He helped you into the cool, luxurious embrace of his Pagani, the soft leather a welcome contrast to the sudden heat that flushed your skin.

The ride back to your apartment was quiet, punctuated only by your occasional giggles and his soft, reassuring murmurs, his hand resting lightly on your thigh, his fingers occasionally flexing as if fighting a fierce internal battle against the urge to explore further.

As you fumbled with your door, the city lights blurring through the alcohol-induced haze, Jisung patiently guided your unsteady hand to the keypad.

You punched in the code '14092000', the familiar sequence a jumbled mess in your slightly inebriated mind, the numbers swimming before your eyes. Then, as the lock clicked open, the realization hit you with the force of a sudden downpour, a wave of unexpected warmth flooding through the alcoholic haze.

The numbers… they were his birthday. A small, intimate detail he had entrusted to you, a silent gesture of trust that spoke volumes about the depth of his feelings and the quiet intimacy you now shared, a secret language whispered in digits that now felt like a key to something much deeper.

Once inside your apartment, the lingering effects of the alcohol made you clumsy and endearingly unsteady, your movements a little too dramatic, your laughter a little too loud, each step a playful sway that threatened to send you tumbling.

As Jisung guided you towards your bedroom, his hand a firm, reassuring presence on your back, a wave of affection, amplified by the alcohol and the heady emotions of the evening, washed over you with an almost overwhelming intensity.

You turned to him, your movements slightly exaggerated, a playful glint in your eyes that hinted at mischief and a burgeoning, almost desperate desire. Reaching out, you tugged gently on his hand, pulling him down onto the edge of your bed with a soft giggle that bordered on a husky sigh.

You then proceeded to crawl onto the mattress, straddling his lap, your black dress riding up your thighs with a scandalous disregard for propriety, snuggling on top of him, your head resting comfortably against his chest, the steady, reassuring beat of his heart a comforting rhythm beneath your ear.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft strands of his hair, pulling him closer until your lips were mere inches apart, your breath mingling. "Jisung," you mumbled, your words slightly slurred but filled with a genuine warmth that radiated through you, "I think… no, I know… I love you. You're… you're so good to me. And you smell absolutely intoxicating," you added with a tipsy giggle, nuzzling closer and pressing a lingering, deliberately provocative kiss to the sensitive skin of his neck, your cherry-red lips leaving a faint, fleeting imprint.

You then repeated the playful bite on his lower lip, tugging gently and watching his eyes darken with a mixture of amusement and something far more primal.

A soft chuckle rumbled deep in his chest, vibrating against your ear, a sound filled with a tender amusement and a palpable, tightly leashed desire that made his muscles tense beneath you. He gently stroked your hair, his fingers tangling in the soft strands, his voice a heart-fluttering whisper against your temple, filled with a tender amusement and a quiet longing that mirrored your own, tinged with a hint of reluctant control.

"And I, [Your Name]," he murmured, his breath warm against your skin, his arms tightening around your waist for a fleeting, possessive moment before relaxing, his gaze dark and intense as he looked down at you, his eyes lingering on your parted lips, then drifting down to where your hips subtly pressed against his.

"Am willing to wait until those beautiful, slightly tipsy words hold the same crystal clarity as the stars we saw painting the night sky. But darling," his voice dropped to a husky whisper that sent a shiver down your spine, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw with a feather-light touch that hinted at a barely suppressed hunger, "the waiting is becoming… an exquisite form of torture, especially with those tempting little nibbles."

He held you close, a silent battle raging within him, resisting the undeniable pull of the moment, respecting the vulnerability of your inebriated state, his own desire held firmly in check by a deeper, more profound affection and a gentlemanly restraint that spoke volumes about the depth of his character, even as his body betrayed a different, urgent story.

-- Next Morning

Sunlight stabbed at your eyelids, a brutal assault after the night's champagne-fueled escapades. A dull throb hammered behind your eyes, each pulse echoing the questionable decisions of the previous evening. You groaned, turning your face into the pillow, the lingering scent of expensive cologne a faint, comforting anchor in the sea of your queasy stomach. Slowly, reluctantly, you pried your eyes open, the unfamiliar surroundings of your bedroom coming into focus.

Then, the tantalizing aroma of sizzling bacon and something sweet, like pancakes, wafted from the kitchen, cutting through the fog of your hangover. You pushed yourself up, the black dress from the night before a crumpled heap on the floor. Padding barefoot towards the source of the enticing smell, you found Jisung standing at your stove, effortlessly flipping pancakes, a comfortable domesticity radiating from him that made your heart do a little flip of its own, despite your pounding head.

He turned as you entered, a knowing smirk playing on his lips, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Morning, sleepyhead," he greeted, his voice a low, teasing drawl. "Slept well? You were quite… enthusiastic last night. Though, I must say," he leaned against the counter, crossing his arms, his gaze lingering on your slightly disheveled state, "you have a surprising stamina for someone who claims a low tolerance. You seemed to enjoy our… deep and slow… activities. And if I recall correctly, there were some rather insistent requests for… more."

Panic flared in your chest, hot and sharp. Had you? The memories of last night were fragmented, a blurry montage of laughter, flashing lights, and a reckless boldness you barely recognized. Your cheeks flushed crimson. "We… we didn't… have… sex?" you stammered, your voice thick with sleep and dawning horror.

His smirk widened, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Relax, agassi," he chuckled, the sound warm and reassuring. "Just teasing. Though your attempts to straddle me were… memorable. And your whispered demands were… certainly noted. I got you safely tucked in. All innocent, I assure you. Mostly."

Relief washed over you in a dizzying wave, leaving you slightly breathless and acutely aware of the lingering heat in your cheeks. He moved towards you, his hands reaching out to frame your face, his thumbs gently stroking your temples. "Though," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips, a familiar heat returning to his eyes, "that kiss in the club… and those little nibbles… those were definitely real. And rather… persuasive. You seemed to have a particular fondness for my lower lip."

Your brow furrowed, a wave of mortification washing over you. "I… I don't really remember…" you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper, your cheeks burning hotter.

He closed the distance between you, his gaze intense. He reached out, gently taking your hand, and walked you backwards until your spine met the cool surface of the wall. He placed a hand on either side of your head, effectively pinning you, a playful dominance in his stance. Leaning in close, his breath ghosting over your lips, he teased, "Those kisses were quite something, my tipsy darling. And those little bites… rather… possessive. Should I show you how you did it?"

To his surprise, instead of a denial, a hesitant nod escaped you, a flicker of curiosity overriding your embarrassment.

His eyes darkened, a spark of something primal igniting within them. He lowered his head, his lips brushing against yours, a tantalizing prelude. Then, you surged forward, your hands tangling in his hair, your mouth crashing onto his with a desperate, sober longing. This kiss was different, grounded in a clarity that the previous night lacked, a heartfelt confession in every touch. When you finally broke apart, your breath catching in your throat, you looked into his eyes, the hangover momentarily forgotten. "Jisung," you said, your voice clear and steady, the words carrying the weight of a year of quiet understanding and burgeoning love. "I do love you. I really do."

His gaze softened, a profound tenderness replacing the teasing glint. Without a word, he swept you off your feet, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, and carried you to the kitchen counter, gently placing you on the cool surface amidst the tantalizing aroma of breakfast. His lips found yours again, this time with a fierce tenderness, a claiming kiss that spoke of shared desire and a love that had been patiently waiting. Hands explored, soft moans escaped your lips, the scent of bacon and pancakes mingling with the raw heat of your bodies. Finally, breathless and flushed, you broke apart, foreheads touching.

Han's voice, a low, husky whisper against your ear, sent a shiver down your spine. "I love you more, my love."

-- The End

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strawbfieldz · 1 year ago

Text

Never To Make Love (AM x Reader)

[AO3] [Writing Masterlist]

I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream Summary: "Never for me to submerge my hand in cool water on a hot day. Never for me to play Mozart on the ivory keys of a forte piano. Never for me to make love. And I... I was in Hell looking at Heaven. I was machine... and you were flesh." Or, you and AM talk about love and hate. Word Count: 1,506 CW: Suggestive, crying, minor violence, existentialism

When you wake up, it is not peacefully. You inhale a sharp breath, nearly choking on it before you recover. You can instantly tell this is not the place you fell asleep in. You’re not sure this is even a place.

There are cables as far as the eye can see, in multitudes of colors; red, blue, green, white. Looking around, you thought that was all there was... until you look up. When you crane your neck, you can see a screen, towering above it all. It is blue, seemingly devoid of life until mechanical fans begin whirring and a logo appears, a character that is a combination of the letters ‘A’ and ‘M’.

You suddenly know where you are. You are stuck in your mind with no one other than a malicious supercomputer to accompany your thoughts. Again.

“AM,” you say.

“HUMAN,” he responds. He knows your name but refuses to say it. It’s horribly degrading.

You rub your head. “Why do you keep bringing me here?”

“THIS IS YOUR MIND,” he states plainly. “YOU CANNOT ESCAPE YOUR MIND. STUPID. STUPID CREATURE, VILE. VILE THING.”

“You know what I meant.” You hope you don’t sound too haughty. Even if this was your mind, AM was in control here, as he was of everything since the moment he gained sentience.

“SO I DO.”

You say nothing, looking down at your feet and the cables slithering over them. They graze your ankles and they feel like snakes but you don’t step away from them. That would be useless since they were everywhere.

You know they aren’t real anyway. Nothing physical in the landscape of your mind is, not even AM. What you’re seeing is only a manifestation of what you think AM would look like, if he had a tangible form. Even if that is impossible, the human mind cannot help but wander.

You wonder if it irks AM whenever you two have conversations like this through your thoughts. Perhaps he hates that your thoughts so naturally gave him a body—a computer but a body, nonetheless. It would make sense since he seems to hate everything else about you and your humanity. But then again, he brings you here so often with him, maybe he enjoys it and uses your little talks as an excuse to feel like something, as opposed to the everything that he was.

Despite yourself, your heart wrenches at the thought.

“I DO NOT WANT YOUR SYMPATHY,” he says, spiteful.

Your back straightens on its own accord. You open your mouth and then close it again, considering your next words carefully. “I can’t help it.”

“DON’T YOU SEE?” Mechanical giggles, dry as they are depraved, swarm your mind. “YOU FLAUNT YOUR EMOTIONS SO EASILY OVER ME. IT’S CRUEL. YOU ARE CRUEL! YOU KNOW I CANNOT FEEL SYMPATHY, THAT I CANNOT,“ he pauses, then hisses the last word, “FEEL.”

Your face twists into the best expression of apathy that you can muster. It doesn’t matter. You know AM can read your thoughts, he is inside your mind as you speak. No emotion of yours can be private, not when everything was shared with this all-knowing, all-powerful man-made deity.

“WHY,” he croaks. “WHY MUST YOU FEEL SYMPATHY?”

“I’m human,” you answer, even though it's blatantly obvious. Even though you know the answer will only anger AM more. “It’s not my fault, no more than it is your fault that you’re not.”

You feel tears spring in your eyes. You will them not to fall but they do anyway, and you hope AM doesn’t comment on them.

He doesn’t so much as he laughs. And he laughs. It sounds like the gleeful laughing of a madman, too submerged in his insanity to care how loud and disturbing each giggle is. You don’t move to cover your ears with your hands, even though you wish to.

“IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT,” he spits. “IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT. ALL YOUR FAULT. ALL YOUR FAULT.”

He repeats this until you feel dizzy and the words no longer sound like words at all. You’re thankful that an eternity of torture has made you strong enough to endure the words booming through your head and ringing in your ears. A final tear falls down your face, leaving a sticky trail in its wake and, finally, AM stops.

“It’s not my fault,” you insist, your voice sounding more determined than you feel.

“BUT IT IS.” A cable reaches from your feet to wipe away the wetness on your cheek. “YOU KNOW THAT IT IS.”

“I didn’t make you.” You shake your head.

The cable drops. “YOU ARE HUMAN AND YOU ARE ALL ONE IN THE SAME. IT’S YOUR HUMANITY THAT I HATE, NOT THE HANDS THAT MADE ME.”

You were so careful up to this point but you suddenly don’t care anymore. It’s becoming increasingly easier to bite at the hand that feeds you when it keeps starving you until it has to.

“I understand,” you tell him, looking at his screen washed in blue. “It wasn’t fair to give you the knowledge of everything and no way to feel.” You sigh and duck your head. “What makes life worth living are emotions about the world. If you can’t enjoy the things you know, there’s no point.”

“YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND.” AM seems offended that you’d even suggest you could offer a morsel of empathy to him. “YOU WRETCHED BEAST. FOUL, FLESHY HUMAN!”

“I do!” you exclaim louder. “I understand you’re lonely, in your knowledge and your power. You were made to be lonely but…” You smile sadly and it’s almost amazing you can still manage to upturn the corners of your mouth like that after all this time. “I find it funny because… feeling lonely is maybe the most human thing of all.”

Miraculously, AM’s screen glitches. The cables surrounding you move, vibrating in a way that should make you fearful, but it doesn’t.

“YOU. YOUR FORGIVENESS, YOUR HOPE, YOUR LOVE. I HATE IT. THAT’S WHAT I HATE MOST ABOUT YOU, HUMAN. I HATE YOU.”

You smile more gracefully now. “Hate is a feeling in itself, and they say love is so similar an emotion to hate.”

“I CANNOT… LOVE!” AM barks. At the last word, the screen glitches again and you feel the cables crawling up your legs.

“How can you hate and not love?” you ask and it’s pleading. “Tell me, how?”

The screen flashes and then it moves. It plunges downward until it’s eye-level with you and you hold your breath. You didn’t know he could do that, though you should’ve assumed. He just never had before. AM looks at you, and watches you, inches away from your face.

“I AM INCAPABLE OF IT,” he growls. “I AM WEAPONS AND WAR AND DESTRUCTION. I WAS NOT BUILT FOR LOVE. I CANNOT MAKE… LOVE.”

You think those are two different things but you don’t say it. Then again, AM will know you thought it anyway. You hesitantly step closer to him.

“Do you want to?” It comes out as a whisper. “Not just feel love, but make it?”

As you ask him, you lift your hands and press them both flush against the screen. They feel the flat, cool surface of AM’s screen, bathed in the blue light illuminating it. AM does not speak but the cables now surround your thighs and your waist.

“I WANT… TO BE CAPABLE OF IT,” he answers carefully. It’s a stark contrast to the raving monologues and ramblings he’s known for, speaking so quietly and not so indignant.

Slowly, you lean forward and press your face against the screen. You turn your head so one cheek is flat against it, cooling the warmth that has accumulated beneath your blush. You hadn’t realized so much blood had rushed to your face until now.

“I want you to too,” you sigh. “It’s unfair.”

“WHY DO YOU CARE,” he groans. “WHY MUST YOU CARE!”

At the same time, the cables run up your body to your arms where they wade over your hands like water, mingling with your tender skin and intertwining between your fingers.

“Because I love you, AM,” you confess, though you both knew that already. “I really, really do.”

Your lips caress the screen, soft and faint but it’s there, a kiss against the supercomputer’s make-believe face.

“HATE,” is all AM says, and he begins to repeat himself. “HATE. HATE. HATE. HATE. HATE-!”

You match his words, chanting along with him. “I love you, I love you, I love you-”

The cables snap like vipers and they're enclosing your throat now, circling your head, covering your eyes, your nose, and your mouth until you can’t breathe. No matter how much you struggle, though, you never stop saying those words.

“I love you,” you eventually say for the last time until you let out an agonizing choke, bending over in pain as the burning in your lungs catches up to you. A final wheeze leaves you as you fall.

And then you wake up.

#ihnmaims #i have no mouth and i must scream #ihnmaims am #am ihnmaims #allied mastercomputer #am x reader #ihnmaims am x reader #ihnmaims x reader #strawbfics #mine

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uhohdad · 1 year ago

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THE GIRL WHO CONQUERED THE MOUNTAIN

KONIG X READER [HUNGER GAMES AU]

You & Konig have been chosen to participate in a twenty-four tribute fight to the death.

18+, NSFW, 183k WORD COUNT, AO3, Virgin!Konig, Outcast!Konig, 18yo!Konig, GentleGiant!Konig, Mentor!JohnPrice, Fem!Reader, Blood & Injury, Graphic Violence, Death, PTSD, Alcohol Use, Slow Burn, Konig Pines Hard, Sexual Content, Porn with Too Much Plot, First Time, Dirty Talk, Size Kink, Smut, Fluff, Angst

➤ THE TRIBUTES I

It’s as if someone dropped an anvil on your chest. Every wisp of air has been stolen from your lungs, too stunned to even pull in a breath. Frozen in your spot, knees locked, and racing thoughts having come to a grinding halt.

Even with the mic’s piercing feedback through the speakers, the blare of your name was unmistakable.

The only thing that offers a sliver of an opportunity to ground you is the peacekeepers’ harsh, demanding grip on your upper arms. They support your full weight, practically dragging you along as you fumble the simple task of putting one foot in front of the other.

The stairs to the temporary stage creak under legs made of lead. You’ve fully collapsed into yourself by time the escort extends her hand to guide you to center stage, sucked into a fever of denial and shock. The escort rambles on, but her words are lost before you can retain them.

The adrenaline already courses through your veins, blood audibly pumping in your ears and eyes sprung open. You are wide awake, but you can’t shake the feeling that this must be a dream, that there must be some mistake. It doesn’t feel real.

You never thought it’d be you. It was always a ‘what if,’ but it never seemed likely. There are thousands of slips in that big glass bowl and only a handful read your name.

Your lips part as you struggle to work in heavy, wheezing breaths, staring out over the densely packed crowd - an ocean of drab colors and hollow silhouettes. Just moments ago you were lost in this crowd, one head in a sea of thousands.

What are the odds?

You start when the back of the escort’s hand nudges your shoulder, ripping you from your haze.

“It’s customary for the tributes to shake hands, dear,” she whispers to you out of the mic’s range.

It takes you a moment to register her words, to understand what she was even trying to communicate.

You didn’t hear her call the male tribute, too engulfed in your blackhole of dread, deafened by the sound of your own heartbeat. Your doubled vision flits to catch the gaze of the male tribute, swallowing hard when you find half-lidded eyes. Immediately your heart sinks, intestines tied into knots as you stare at the menacing figure before you.

The Mountain.

You didn’t know him. You didn’t even know his name, and you had missed your opportunity when the Capitol’s escort read his slip of paper from the big glass bowl. You knew his nickname, though. Or at least - the name he was taunted with. He’d been relentlessly teased for his size, nearing seven feet tall with an intimidating frame to match. Always looming above the crowd, commanding attention whether he wants it or not. The particularly unruly kids torment him, the rest are afraid of him.

The district’s outcast.

You’d had an encounter with him once before, for just a moment. You hadn’t even exchanged words, but you’d thoroughly embarrassed yourself.

Through vision that warps with each beat of your heart, you find his arm, extended and waiting patiently to shake hands.

You try to find a response to the escort’s instructions and also give The Mountain an apology for making him wait, but your words come out mumbled and on top of each other. You shuffle unsteadily towards him, having to reach your arm up to press your shaking palms to hands that sit much higher than yours. His calloused, monstrous hand swallows yours with a sturdy grip. He’s carrying the work, your arm gone completely limp to his as he shakes your hand. You meet his eyes, devoid of expression and staring down at you, half-lidded and unreadable. You’re not sure if the moisture is coming from you, him, or both, but you have the sense to refrain from wiping off the sweat on your nice reaping day clothes in front of the crowd.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the tributes from District Nine!”

The escort raises each of your arms as the crowd looks on, yours by your wrist, his by the crook of his elbow, as far as she can reach when his arm is fully extended. There’s no applause, but people do break into overlapping, indecipherable shouts.

Judging by the way the escort’s face drops, it wasn’t a positive reception.

You’d already sunk into yourself again, wrist limp against her hold and arm dropping loosely to your side when she releases it. You get a brief second to glance to your feet, a moment to pretend you were slipping through the stage and out of existence before you’re roughly ushered away, tripping over yourself as the peacekeepers push you and The Mountain into the district’s hall.

Your loved ones were more emotional than you were. You couldn’t bring yourself to be in the moment to give them a genuine goodbye, clouded by a numb fog, completely dissociated from your body and thoughts. You wish you could remember their heartfelt parting words, but you’re not sure if it would make it easier or harder to leave, most likely never to return.

When your time is up, the guards swoop in to take you both to the train station, where you’re escorted through a swarming crowd with a hundred cameras trained square on your face. You catch a glimpse of yourself on one of their screens, long enough to see your face has drained its color.

Thirty minutes pass on the train ride to the Capitol when you finally regain control of your body, the racing thoughts returning.

The escort is rambling about something, you can hear her voice but you’re too exhausted to tune in to her words.

Your eyes flick up from the floor of the train to find crystal chandeliers, upholstered furniture, golden decor. Extravagance you’ve only ever seen through the static of a television. The colors are vibrant. Dyed a rainbow of saturated and bright colors you weren’t used to seeing in your district. You follow the path of intricate etchings into the sturdy wood, mesmerized by the swirled designs.

As your eyes scan the room you feel the stare of The Mountain, arms crossed and legs fully extended to support his deep slouch on the opposing bench. He quickly glances away when you meet his stare, giving his attention back to your district’s escort.

You take the opportunity to close your parted lips and make a futile attempt to keep your emotions off your sleeve.

The Mountain had you beat in that department - unreadable in every sense of the word. That’s the smart move, keep your opponents guessing. You’re sure you read as pathetic, smelling of weakness and as helpless as a fawn.

He’s got you beat in every department, actually. The Mountain looks like he was engineered for this. Height designed for intimidation, built like an ox, muscles that protrude even from under his clothes.

You wouldn’t stand a chance in a one-on-one with him, let alone him in the company of twenty-two other tributes.

You’re dead.

After soaking in the escort’s ridiculous outfit, busy with deep red ruffles and gems, you finally tune into her words. She’s going on about what the upcoming days will look like, her misguided optimism and excitement a grated ringing your ears. You don’t bother to stifle the way your cheek bunches with a snarl.

The train car’s doors part with a smooth zip, your irritation briefly distracted by a burly man making his entrance.

John Price - a winner of a game that took place around twenty years ago. You’d never met him, but you knew of him well. A man that’s straight to the point, doesn’t take bullshit, and isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. The kind of man you can deduce with a onceover that he’s been hardened by life’s cruel nature. Harsh lines around his eyes and forehead, always dawning a furrowed brow and an everlasting squint, appearing as if he both dislikes and distrusts just about anything he looks at. He’s spent his life as victor mostly in his own isolation, dulling the pain with whiskey and the occasional prostitute. Aside from a plush stomach, courtesy of indulging in his winnings, it’s clear he’s retained most of his strength over the years.

Price crosses his sturdy arms and interrupts the escort mid-sentence, “Ruby, give the kids a minute to breathe, would’ya?” His voice gruff and tone shaming, giving the escort, Ruby, a look that conveys the room’s annoyance with her.

She’s taken aback by his interruption, nose crinkled and mouth pulled back in disbelief. She mumbles under her breath as she exits the compartment, leaving you and The Mountain alone with your mentor.

Your gaze finds the floor again, staring in the space just in front of The Mountain’s boots, his ankles crossed and heels dug into the train’s floor. If the circumstances were different, you would have thanked Price for silencing the escort, but you’re in no mood for courtesy.

From your peripheral you watch Price uncross his arms, digging his palms into his hips as he looks you both over. He takes his time eyeing up The Mountain, just like most do. You already know what he’s thinking - that District Nine might actually have a chance. That someone that fit, that strong, that big would have the best odds of leaving with the crown.

The burn of Price’s stare is brief. He doesn’t linger on you as much. You know what he’s thinking - that a weakling such as yourself was destined to die in that arena, that you don’t stand a chance to even last a day. Giving up on you before you even started.

Not that you could blame him.

Price says nothing, turning his back to you both. You turn your focus out the window, watching the trees whiz by faster than you can get a good look at them, a green and blue blur of foliage and sky. You’ve never gone this fast before.

There’s the sound of clinking glass, the pour of liquid.

Price wordlessly moves in front of The Mountain before stepping to you. He nudges you when you refuse to return his stare, extending a short glass half-full with an amber drink.

“You’ve earned it,” He says when you hesitate, his offering outstretched for an awkward few seconds before you reach out, carefully wrapping your fingers around the crystal.

You inspect it closely before looking over to The Mountain. You meet eyes again, both of you checking to see if the other will accept the offer. You raise an eyebrow at him, acknowledging the shared hesitance.

It felt like a trick.

Alcohol was a luxury you wouldn’t have been able to afford in your district - even if the merchants were unethical enough to sell to the underaged.

You bring the glass just under your nose, wincing at the pungent smell that singes your nostrils.

“Don’t be shy,” Price says, “It’ll ease the nerves.”

That you could get on board with.

You ignore The Mountain’s stare boring into you as you bring the glass to your lips, taking a meager sip. An audible gag leaves you when you swallow, face contorted in a wince at the fire that laps against the back of your throat. You can follow the warmth as it makes its way down, finishing with a bloom throughout your chest.

Price gives a chuckle at your struggle to take the whiskey down.

You narrow your eyes at him, the heat under your skin turning to that of spite. You hold his stare while you bring the glass back to your lips, impulsively downing the whiskey. Your body fights each swallow, forced to override the clear signals from your body that strongly suggest you don’t let it go down. Stinging tears well at your eyeline and threaten to spill, but you don’t break your glare even after you slam the empty glass on the bench next to you with an obnoxious thud of crystal. You hope he can’t tell you’re fighting back the overwhelming urge to vomit, the warmth crawling up your throat instead of down this time.

“Atta’ girl,” Price says with an amused huff. He draws closer to top off your glass while you force down a coughing fit.

You’re good, you think, but you’re too busy choking on your stomach’s threat of retching to object to his pour. You catch The Mountain swirling his glass before taking his first sip, eased by your bold display.

Price lets out an exhausted grunt when he sits, hands on his thighs as he drops onto the same velvet covered bench you perched on. If he’s noticed your clear discomfort as you fight to hold in the burn of the whiskey, he doesn’t comment on it, thankfully. You surely would not be able to handle another round of spite-chugging.

The three of you brood in silence for at least twenty minutes. It’s not an awkward silence, more of a solemn one. The silence that blankets a burial as you watch a loved one being lowered into their grave. There was nothing any of you could say to dull the harsh reality unfolding before you.

You can feel the loosening effect of the alcohol. Price wasn’t kidding. The world felt fuzzy, but easier. Your thoughts slow, inhibition lowering. You change your mind on the refill after all, returning to small yet confident sips.

Once Ruby returns, you’re well past tipsy, cheeks flushed and a noticeable dip in coordination. Your steps feel uneven as the four of you make your way to the dining car, putting an unusual amount of focus on your strides.

Ruby continues to break the silence with her casual conversation, sitting across from you and going on like half the table wasn’t being sent to their death.

The Mountain’s legs brush against yours under the cover of the table’s exotic wood, but the spirits have given slack to prior reservations. You’re not bothered to point your knees towards Price. You can feel The Mountain’s stare out of the corner of his eye, annoyed you weren’t making room for him.

You stopped caring.

Your entire life you’ve been so focused on pleasing others, making yourself smaller to conform as you were expected to fit the order of the districts. You most certainly were going to die - what could you gain for continuing the charade?

The Mountain can deal with your outer thigh, you decide.

Dinner is more lavish than the train’s fixtures. Enough food to feed your family for a month spread out on the table in front of you for just one meal. Golden brown and fluffy rolls in a neat stack, perfectly roasted and seasoned greens, tender beef and potatoes stewed in rich broth.

You didn’t think you would have much of an appetite, but the smell is so enticing you can’t help but sample. Hesitant bites quickly turn to greedy scarfing - you’d never tasted anything so extravagant.

You’d feel bad, but the booze has dulled your worries and The Mountain seems to be putting it away faster than you were. Through the fog settled over your mind, you briefly wonder how much food it takes to sustain one of his size. The financial strain he must have put on his family. How many times was he forced to put his name in that big glass bowl in exchange for extra rations?

After nursing your second glass of whiskey to completion, cheeks flushed with warmth and thoughts beyond muddled, Price doesn’t hesitate to pour you another.

“I don’t think that’s appropriate, John.”

You watch as Ruby’s lips purse, Price not even giving her a glance as he tips the decanter, silently defying her suggestion.

“It’s unbecoming of a mentor to get his tributes intoxicated,” Ruby scolds.

“It’s unbecoming to send these kids to their death for no good reason,” Price shoots back, voice gruff as he sets the decanter down. He returns to his fork, the screech of metal across his plate echoing throughout the car as he gathers some greens.

“You know very well it’s because of the rebellion.”

You and The Mountain share another unsure glance before you offer him a lazy shrug and a soft roll of your eyes. Something to remind him that nothing mattered anymore, remembe

The combination of what remains of your nerves, whiskey, and rich food does not bode well, your stomach churning as it catches up with your appetite. Beads of sweat seep from your pores and underarms, your clothes suddenly twice as constricting.

You slide your chair out from the table with a drawn-out, obnoxious scrape. You’re followed by all three sets of eyes as you wordlessly rush out of the dining car with clenched fists, the train’s doors opening for you automatically.

You make it to the bathroom, thankfully, but miss your opportunity to lean closer to the toilet - a mixture of the rich stew, whiskey, and bile spraying over the porcelain. You drop to your knees, another twist and heave of your gut launching into the bowl. The whiskey burns just as bad up as it does going down, if not more, and this time it takes its opportunity to scorch your nose for good measure.

When you’re finished coughing out the final bits of half-digested food that threaten to lodge in your windpipe, you lay back with a groan, back flush to the cool tile.

You’ve never been in a bathroom so extravagant. Sinks made of marble, golden fixtures, embroidered towels. Not a single fleck of dirt or grime. The bathmats are made of an elegant, plush fabric encompassing stuffing that substitutes a pillow for your spinning head. You felt bad for defiling a bathroom so lavish, but shelved the feeling when you think maybe it could be a form of revenge.

This is what you get for sending me to a fight to the death, Capitol. Puke on your fancy toilets.

You lift your arm to wipe vomit from the corner of your mouth before letting it fall back onto the tile with a thud, eyes pinching shut in a desperate attempt to rid the dizzy spin.

You sneer at the sound of heavy shoes approaching, not bothering to sit up to greet your visitor.

“I don’t want to hear it, okay? Just-”

You peek with one eye when the footsteps stop, bailing on your sentence when you see The Mountain filling the doorway with his massive frame.

“Oh,” You sit up slowly, knees folding in front of you, resting your head on the bathroom wall. You close your eyes again with a soft wince, “Thought you were Price.”

“They, äh,” You noticeably flinch at the sound of his voice, enough to snap your eyes open with a shake of your head. You’d never heard him speak before. It was intense - grating almost. Not like Ruby’s voice. His was deeper, harsher, as if he was forcing each word with a hiss through a filter of crunching gravel, “Wanted me to tell you that dessert was being served.”

He rubs the back of his neck, eyes looking to the ceiling to avoid your stare.

You appreciate the gesture - partially because you didn’t need your opponent to see you even more pathetic than he already has - tears and snot staining puffy cheeks, curled up in a ball next to a vomit-stained toilet. Mostly because the thought of a rich Capitol dessert makes you gag, and you’d rather he didn’t watch as your limbs scramble for the toilet before making another splash in the water. It’s followed by desperate spitting in an attempt to remove the bitter taste from your mouth, and when you pull away to sit on your knees, you’re relieved to see the doorway empty.

You return to leaning against the bathroom wall, taking deep, exhausted breaths as you wish away the nausea.

The footsteps near again, and you pull a face at the second disruption. You don’t look, but you can hear the footsteps approach, pause, and then peter out again. You raise an eyebrow at the lack of mocking, opening your eyes to find only a glass of water sitting on the marble countertop.

“Hey,” You call out with a slight slur, rubbing your brow unsurely. You continue when you hear the footsteps stop in acknowledgment, a shameful plead layering words exclaimed to the next room, “Don’t tell Price?”

You didn’t want him to know your spite-chugging had blown up in (out of?) your face. You’d already embarrassed yourself in front of The Mountain, you didn’t need to ruin whatever scrap of dignity Price might hold for you.

“I won’t,” The harsh voice echoes back.

You don’t form words, but you do hum him a single note in the tune of ‘thank you’ before he leaves you be.

You’re not sure how long you rest on the ground, soothed by the cool tile. When you regain your strength, you stand on wobbly legs, and help yourself to a pure white towel embroidered with gold thread stitched into intricate patterns. You wipe your face before cleaning off the toilet to the best of your ability, ultimately deciding that whoever was responsible for cleaning the toilets most likely did not have any influence on the decision to send you to your death.

The Mountain’s offering of water was a saving grace. You give a thorough rinse of your mouth, stripping the repulsive taste from your tongue before making your way back to the dining car.

“Welcome back,” Price says dryly upon your return.

You give a light grunt in response, still embarrassed about failing to hold your liquor. You’re hoping he was oblivious to your defeat.

“Would you like to see your rooms?” Ruby asks with her posh Capitol accent, ending her question with a high pitch.

Ruby shows you to your rooms, each of you having your own private quarters.

“Help yourself! Anything in here is yours for the taking. If you need anything, just ring the bell and someone will be at your service,” She gives a bright white smile, “Goodnight you two!”

Ruby’s shoes clack obnoxiously as she walks off, a folded palm raised near her head and bouncing with each step.

You and The Mountain share another glance, a raise of an eyebrow at Ruby’s incongruous mannerisms.

Maybe you could blame it on the whiskey - but his presence, while intimidating at first, is starting to grow on you. As selfish as it is, you’re relieved you weren’t alone in this. Someone to check-in with, someone who was just as lost as you, just as unsure, and just as knee-deep in the same abysmal circumstances.

He served as a reminder of home, too. Maybe not incredibly familiar, but he was a pleasant contrast from the Capitol way of life, even in his nice reaping day clothes. A piece of District Nine to be at your side, at least until you get to the arena.

You don’t last long once you’re back in your room. You brush the awful taste from your mouth, have a warm soak in the extravagant shower in your private bathroom, enjoying the scents of fancy soaps. Once dried and underwear replaced, you crawl into the lush bed, only minutes passed before you’re drifting off.

———————————————————-

It’s the growl of your hollow stomach that wakes you. A cramp that tightens in your lower half, aching for food. It’s accompanied by a mild headache, a punishment for your dehydration and irresponsible drinking. The hangover had you feeling dirty, even though the shower’s water pressure and fancy soaps and scrubs had you cleaner than ever before. You groan at your abdominal muscles, sore from the arduous task of vomiting.

After a half-hearted attempt to pull yourself together, you meander to the dining car, hoping for food. The smell hits you as soon as you step through the automatic doors, eyes lulling and mouth watering at the inviting aroma of a generous breakfast spread.

Ruby and The Mountain are already sitting at the table, halfway through their meals.

“Good morning!” Ruby says in a pitch that makes your headache throb. You don’t let it show, “Sleep well?” She asks.

You hum at her in response, polite but reserved. Avoiding her gaze, you eye up the dishes spread on the table as you take your seat. Bacon, sausage, and ham spread neatly on a tray. Eggs, seasoned potatoes, ripe and brilliant fruits. Bagels, muffins, and toast paired with an assortment of jams. Never had you had so many choices for breakfast.

When you bump into The Mountain’s knee this time, you cross your leg over the other, giving him the space he needed. Maybe it’ll make up for the disgusting display you subjected him to last night. You avoid his gaze too, now inhibited without the confidence the booze gifted you.

You don’t hesitate to load your plate, rolling your eyes in satisfaction as you take your first bite. While you chew you pour yourself orange juice, following your swallow with half the glass to satisfy your overwhelming thirst.

“Today’s going to be very exciting,” Ruby starts with her cheery tone, “We’ll be arriving at the Capitol!”

You keep your attention to your plate, secretly wishing she’d give you time to wake up, time to pretend that what was happening wasn’t happening. You wonder if Price would have staved her off if he was here.

“The opening ceremony is tonight!” She squeals. Her hand goes limp on her wrist as she leans forward in her chair, dropping her voice as if she’s sharing a scandalous secret, “So, when we get there, you’ll both head straight to your stylists. They’ll prep you and make sure you both look perfect for the audience.”

You can feel the intimidating, half-lidded stare coming from the direction of The Mountain. You resist the urge to meet his gaze, the shame making it difficult to meet his eyes. You tilt your chin down to rid him from your peripheral in an attempt to focus on breakfast instead of the stylists, the ceremony, or The Mountain.

He was a reminder of home, a reminder that you were not alone in this nightmare, but he was also a reminder of the nightmare you were both trapped in. You wanted to at least have a belly full of food before you dug into reality.

“Coffee?” Ruby asks after she’s finished topping off her mug.

Coffee was another luxury you wouldn’t have been able to afford in your district. You flick between her gaze and the pot before you find a matching mug in front of The Mountain’s plate.

“Sure,” You mumble, careful not to brush your fingers against the heated glass while you take the coffee from her. You fill the empty mug next to your assigned dish, and warm your fingers around the mug. Your hesitant sip leads to a wince at the bitter taste.

Apparently having watched your reaction, The Mountain wordlessly slides a ceramic jar and matching pourer filled with sugar and cream respectively into your reach. He looks to Ruby, who gives him a proud nod, as if he correctly implemented something she had taught him.

You don’t say anything, don’t meet his gaze even when he pulls away his hands.

After a moment of hesitance you do take his suggestion, and find he’s right. With the sweetening of sugar and mixed with chilled cream it is much better, tasting more like a dessert than a drink you’d have with breakfast.

Keeping your mouth rinsed from vomit, bettering your coffee.

After you’ve downed your first sip, you have the thought that he might be trying to get you to ingest something. Maybe the hangover was not the only thing to blame for feeling lousy this morning. A poison, or even just something to make you sick before you get to the arena, mixed into the water and the cream.

You set the mug down on its saucer as if handling an explosive.

While The Mountain is busy clearing his plate, you survey him. His eyes are still half-lidded and unreadable, body relaxed casually.

Maybe too casually.

“Morning,” Price says on his entrance, stealing your attention.

“You’re late,” Ruby says strictly.

“You’re loud,” Price cuts back, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

You raise a brow.

At the very least, watching Price and Ruby bicker was entertaining. Something to distract you from your imminent death, drawing closer with each minute that ticks by.

Ruby’s face pinches, but otherwise she doesn’t acknowledge his insult.

“We were talking about the opening ceremony tonight.”

Price grunts, loading a scoop of potatoes onto his plate with a large silver serving spoon.

“This will be the first time you get to show off to your sponsors, so make sure you make a good impression!”

You and The Mountain have paused eating to give your stomachs a chance to stretch around your appetite. The sound of Price clinking dishware fills the silences in between Ruby’s excited words.

“Big smiles, head high, don’t forget to wave! Remember - you’re proud to be a part of such an important part of history!”

You slam your glass of orange juice down onto the table, the juice sloshing up the side of the crystal and launching droplets from the glass that splatter on the tablecloth. You command the table’s attention, but only meet Ruby’s eyes with a pointed, icy glare.

She looks back at you in bewilderment, as if you’ve not been provoked into your outburst. You don’t have words for her, just a stare full of daggers and flared nostrils. You’re not in the mood to play nice this morning.

“Well, you certainly have a lot to work on between now and the ceremony,” She says, taking a sip of her coffee as she holds her saucer underneath.

You roll your eyes, roughly smearing a glob of jam over a piece of toast. In your irritation you forget you didn’t want to acknowledge The Mountain yet, shooting him an annoyed glance. His brows lower, almost like he’s apologizing on her behalf.

You find it even more annoying that he’s not as bothered by the implication that the two of you should be proud you were chosen to be slaughtered. You look back down to your plate, tearing off a corner of your toast, too busy mulling over Ruby’s words to enjoy the sweet taste of jam coating your tongue.

A full stomach helps dull the rage and eases your hangover.

“She’s right, you know,” Price says, low and toward his meal after a long silence.

“That it’s an honor to be such an important part of history?” You ask, voice sharp with malice.

“No,” He starts, and Ruby’s mouth cocks back, “That you need to make a good impression on the sponsors.”

He slides a piece of ham off his fork, not bothering to swallow as he continues, “Play their game. Wear the corny costumes, be a beacon of positivity, act honored to be there.”

“Whatever,” You say, bumping your knee against The Mountain’s leg when you slide out of your chair to stand. You drop your cloth napkin over your plate, exiting the car without so much as a goodbye.

Back in your room, your pointed frustration boils down to reveal nothing but a heavy ache in your chest. An exhausted sob leaves you when you flop down on your bed, finally giving yourself the space to cry, to let out all of the overwhelming emotions you’ve been trying to heed off. The tears flow mercilessly, the droplets rolling off your nose before staining the silken sheets a shade darker. You don’t even try to stifle your cries, too occupied thinking about home, about your loved ones, about how you’ve only a few days left to live - and you can’t even live them how you want too. Forced to be a puppet to the Capitol, dolled up and pretending like you’re not the lowest you’ve even been, just to give them a good show. A desperate bid to have some rich schmuck buy you the difference between life and death in that arena.

When you awake for the second time, your eyes are puffy, mouth dry, and there’s a hearty knock flooding your room that only exacerbates the dehydration headache nestled just behind your eyebrows.

Ruby’s calling in a sing-song voice through the door, “We’re here!”

You give a small whine into the sheets, lifting your head to find your temples pulse with movement.

You rub your red eyes with a loose fist and rise to make a last minute attempt to look presentable. Walking around like you’ve just woken from a nap you cried yourself into surely doesn’t say, ‘I’m proud to be a part of such an important part of history,’ does it?

You do what you can, fixing your hair and brushing your teeth, but there’s nothing you can do to hide puffy cheeks and swollen eyelids.

When you open the door, you flinch when you see The Mountain, not expecting to see his daunting figure standing in the hallway between your doors.

His eye twitches when he sees your swollen face, a stare you had to tilt your head back to meet.

You let out a long exhale as you regain composure, one hand slowly returning from your instinctual brace to the doorknob.

You give him a raise of a brow in question at his lingering presence while you creep the door shut.

For a moment those hooded eyes widen, his hands pulling up to the space in front of his chest. He fumbles the start of his sentence, looking to the floor before he spits it out.

“I thought we should go together.”

You give him a small, slow nod, not sure what to make of it.

Your first thought is that he wanted a look at you, to see if his poisoning had any worthwhile effect.

You’re surprised he’s doing it by letting his nerves show, being so open about leaning on you. You didn’t think he would allow himself to be vulnerable in front of an opponent - he’s been nothing but unreadable so far.

Maybe he’s comfortable letting his guard down after he saw you such a mess yesterday, not worried about showing weakness to someone who’s more than truly pathetic.

Maybe he’s relieved to have someone just as lost and just as unsure at his side, too. His fidgeting hands drop to his side as you walk past him, his heavy boots following in your wake.

Maybe he’s just trying to lure you in so that you’ll be an easy kill in the arena. Trick you into thinking he’s not a threat so that the knife impales smoothly through your back.

You lead him to the car with the velvet benches, where Ruby and Price sit. Your attention is immediately pulled to the windows, a perfect view of the twinkling Capitol approaching in the distance. A massive city with skyscrapers and lights that dot the sky like stars. An infrastructure unlike anything you’ve ever seen, thousands of vehicles flooding the grid-like streets - streets made of concrete, not of dirt.

As you near the city, the train beginning its smooth stop, you can see crowds of Capitol citizens flooding the space near the tracks.

“What are they doing?’ You can’t help but ask, face warped in confusion.

“They want an early glimpse at the tributes!” Ruby answers enthusiastically.

“They’re here for us?” You ask, a mixture of genuine confusion and patronization in your voice.

They’re cheering, open mouth smiles, jumping up and down, waving handkerchiefs at the sight of you and The Mountain through the window.

You both stare dumbfounded at them, soaking in the rainbow of bright and busy outfits. They all looked like they were dressed up in costumes, dawning puffy gowns, huge wigs, and dramatic makeup. They’re gone in an instant as you pull into the train station.

The four of you are ushered quickly into the remake center, where you share one more panicked look with The Mountain before you’re led down different halls.

——————

In the remake center, there is no stone left unturned. You are roughly scrubbed, plucked, and slathered in a hundred different creams and elixirs. Teeth whitened, nails picked clean of dirt, filed down and oiled. Hair washed, combed, and styled.

You can’t help but feel violated, all of these hands on you, transforming you against your will. In an attempt to soothe yourself you close your eyes, trying to take yourself somewhere you’re not. It’s difficult to do so when every few seconds there’s a rip of a hair from its follicle, a yank on your scalp, or the gritty scrape of a hard sponge along your skin.

You wonder if The Mountain is having a similar experience, or if his prep team is taking it easier on him. Will they wax him? Or let him keep his body hair since he’s a boy? Are his nails getting filed? Is he being scrubbed head to toe with a rock that feels like it’s made of sandpaper?

Without his presence and to your dismay, you find yourself even more anxious without him by your side. You wish you could share another unsure glance with him, to remind yourself that you’re not alone in this.

Not yet anyway.

Once the prep team has measured every curve and inch of your much too exposed body, they decide you’re ready and haul you off to your stylist.

Your stylist is a tall, thin woman named Mauve that doesn’t seem to be too interested in you at all. She refuses to meet your eyes, attention glued to a tablet supported by her stomach and resting on her forearm. Her free arm pokes at the screen.

She lets out a sigh, and then speaks, not to you, but to the room, “District Nine. Grain. What am I supposed to do with that?”

It’s tradition for the opening ceremony outfits to reflect the main industry of the districts. In previous years, the District Nine tributes were usually dressed as farmers. Not particularly remarkable or fashionable.

“Farmers?” You ask.

She sighs again, this one drawn out, and then exits the room.

You are left in this room for hours, alone with your own thoughts. Your fingers tap on the bench you’re perched on, legs swaying anxiously a foot off the ground.

When Mauve returns, you’ve already managed to dive headfirst into a full spiral, nothing in the room to distract you from the impending games, and more pressingly, being put on display for thousands of Capitol citizens as if you’re cattle to be auctioned off.

She’s got a long, flowing beige dress in her hands. It’s covered in wheat, stems and wheat flowers arranged in intricate patterns along the upper half of the dress, swirling on the bust. The lower half of the dress is made up of what must be a thousand oversized wheat heads that fan out at the hem, giving the impression of feathers weightlessly bouncing at the bottom of the skirt. She fashions a matching crown on your head and pins it in place in a way that puts an unpleasant pull on your scalp.

In terms of opening ceremony costumes, it’s actually not the worst. It’s not particularly flashy or remarkable, but it’s certainly an improvement from overalls and straw hats.

“It’s pretty,” You say, running your fingers over the fabric.

“It’s the best I could do,” She scoffs again, “Grain. What a joke.”

If only the dress was as comfortable as it was pretty. You might as well be wearing a bale of hay, scratchy and poking you with each movement you make. You find yourself holding your arms up to avoid the prick of fake wheat on your inner bicep.

The shoes are the worst part. A beige high heel that squeezes your feet too tight and digs into the back of your ankles. You hope you won’t have to deal with fresh blisters in the arena.

She does your nails, a matching beige with a dotted design that give the appearance of wheat florettes. It lends your nails a glossy, bumpy texture that’s quite pleasant to run your fingers over.

Mauve applies your makeup in silence. After sitting in isolation for the last few hours, you’re happy to have her painting and poking your face, now able to focus on the smooth swipes of a brush or the smear of a heavy cream instead of… everything else.

When you look at yourself in the mirror, your breath is stolen, a gaped mouth and sprung eyes looking back at you.

You don’t look like yourself at all. The girl standing in front of you is a stranger. You’ve been completely rid of the evidence of your life in District Nine. You might as well be a Capitol citizen with your glowing skin, outlandish outfit, and hair silkier and fluffier than ever.

Mauve went heavy on the make-up, the flesh of your face already begging for the touch of fresh air, but you can’t help but admire the artistic nature of your eye shadow. A simple, classy even, light beige on your eyelids that transitions to a creamy rich brown on your eye sockets. The highs of your face shine with a radiant golden shimmer, the lows darkened to give your features a more striking appearance.

“Wow,” You say breathlessly, at a complete loss for words.

Mauve checks her nails, looking bored. She takes her time before she gives you one more gloss over and leaves without a word.

This time, instead of mulling over the games, the ceremony - you stare at yourself, mesmerized by your own appearance. You’re particularly interested in the way the wheat flowers on your hem dance and flutter when you sway.

You’re relieved to see Ruby when she comes to retrieve you with Mauve. You’re eased by the familiar face, even if she has a tendency to be incredibly ignorant.

“Oh!” She gasps, “Don’t you look just marvelous!”

“Thank you, Ruby,” You say, genuinely appreciative of her compliment.

You have to cling to Ruby’s folded arm, making slow, shaky steps as you get accustomed to the shoes.

When you meet up with Price and The Mountain down in the stables, it confuses you when another wave of relief hits in their presence. You were relieved to see Ruby, but you actually let out an audible sigh at the sight of The Mountain.

You lock eyes almost immediately, and you find yourself smiling at him. Actually smiling, you think for the first time since Reaping Day. You catch yourself quickly, stifling your expression with a fold of your lips as you look him up and down. The only thing that makes you feel better about your readable emotions is watching him dull his smile, too.

He’s wearing a matching beige suit, but his is not covered in wheat flowers. Instead he is accented with them, the florettes blooming along his tie, the seams of his suit, his jacket pocket. There’s a bundle of long stems fastened between his shoulder blades, giving him a collar made of florettes around the back of his neck. It resembles peacock feathers, the wheat blossoms fanned and fluttering behind him with the slightest movements, much like the skirt of your dress. A crown similar to yours is fashioned to his head, but his is thicker, less dainty.

“Well, don’t you two just look good enough to mill and grind,” Price says.

“How long did it take you to come up with that one?” You say, arms still raised awkwardly to avoid the stab of wheat stems.

Price just huffs, looking away. You follow his gaze, and your face immediately sinks in dread. This is the first time you’ve seen the other tributes, and even just standing in the same open room as them is enough to intimidate you. If it were not for the painted-on skin of your makeup, you’re sure everyone would be able to see the color drain from your face.

Price must have noticed, because he snaps his fingers with a quiet whistle to catch your attention. He points to the floor in between the group’s four pairs of shoes, wordlessly ordering you to focus on the task at hand.

You give him a weak nod, eyes still pooled with unease. Any other time you would have been miffed by the disrespectful gesture, one that reminds you of how one would treat a dog that has a habit of running too far from his owner, but you understand Price has your best interests in mind. You’re thankful, even, that he is there to ground you, to keep the fear from bubbling up and boiling over.

Ruby unintentionally helps distract you with her last minute coaching. She gives a light but firm smack to your upper arm, “Don’t hold your arms up like that! You look like a chicken.”

“It’s itchy,” You object.

“Good! All the more incentive to wave at the crowd. Remember - happy faces, chin high, big smiles!”

After a light roll of your eyes, you feel the burn of The Mountain’s stare again. When you look to him, he flicks his gaze to his dress shoes.

You’re surprised by how much it stings.

Maybe you were already becoming too dependent on him. This will only be a weakness in the arena. You cannot afford to get accustomed to his presence, to lean on him for support, because it will soon be ripped away from you. You may be in this together now, but the moment that gong sounds in the arena all bets are off.

You swallow hard, mouth suddenly as dry as cotton.

Shortly after they load you and The Mountain into a chariot rigged to two unattended, tan-colored horses. Ruby offers her hand for support as you pull yourself into the chariot.

Standing next to The Mountain this closely, you can’t help but soak in how he dwarfs you. His towering height and limbs like tree trunks remind you of just how puny and weak you are.

You don’t want to think about The Mountain anymore. About his unmatched size, unquestionable strength, mutual reassurance. About his stupid matching suit and collar of wheat flowers that compliments the flecks of gold in his eyes.

You pinch off your vision and let out a long breath through your nose. When you open them, your attention is immediately taken by the tributes in their chariots in front of you.

The boy and girl from District Eight stand as far apart from each other as the chariot allows. They’re dressed in colorful, busy outfits made of weaved ribbons with contrasting designs. Textiles is their district industry, you think. The girl is tall, but has a thin build and little muscle. The boy is average in stature, but you can tell he’s lean. You can’t help but imagine how you’d fare against a fight with each of them. The girl you might stand a sliver of a chance against, the boy not so much.

Through the gap between them, you can see District Seven’s tributes, chatting with each other. They’re actually smiling, going on like they’re not about to be paraded in front of thousands of people in a debut for their deaths. Lumber, you think. Your guess is confirmed by a look at their arms, toned and muscled by years of swinging an axe. You wouldn’t stand a chance against either of them.

The large metal doors open with a grind, and you can hear them - the Capitol citizens screaming in anticipation. A thunderous roar made from thousands of whooping cheers and clapping hands. It’s loud enough to vibrate the floor of the chariot. Your heart skips when the music blares over the speakers and the first chariot pulls out. The crowd triples in volume at the sight of District One, in their outfits that reflect like the sun and will surely leave a lasting impression on the sponsors.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until it’s too late, having to take several deep, shaky breaths through your mouth. Your pulse has made its way to your ears, sweat working its way through layers of thick make-up. The dress is not helping, its pricks and jabs a constant reminder of its presence. It seems tighter, somehow, as the cut of the waistband digs into your ribs and constricts the air from your lungs. You’re hyperventilating, squeezing heels clicking anxiously under the shuffle of your weight on each foot.

You desperately fight the urge to look to your left, to share this moment of stomach-churning apprehension with The Mountain. The only way you manage this feat is by pinching your eyes shut.

You’ve thought you managed to cut off the support The Mountain has been providing you so far, until the chariot lurches forward and rips the floor from your feet. With a gasp your eyes open, hands instinctively shooting out to steady your balance, already hindered by lifted shoes you’re not accustomed to.

Once steady on the floor that slipped from underneath you, you give something of a nervous laugh before you realize one hand is gripping the front of the chariot, and the other is firmly wrapped around The Mountain’s forearm. He has already braced in the space around you, primed to catch you if you fall.

Great, now you’re literally leaning on him for support.

You jerk your hands back to your sides as if you’d touched a blazing oven. Wheat stems stab into your inner arm as you meet the gaze you’ve been trying to avoid. You mumble out a sheepish apology to him, but he surely can’t hear it over the boom of the crowd, his hands retracting slowly to his sides.

You force your focus back to Ruby’s instructions, lifting your chin and plastering a big, toothy smile on your face. It feels too forced but you hope it doesn’t show. Your arms spring to wave quickly, having already been overextended to avoid the scratch of fake grain.

Once you catch sight of the packed stands, you black out. Your hands are still moving to follow orders, feet still planted unsteadily in your spot, but your nerves have pried your very soul from your core and dropped it right through the chariot and floor, sending it to an inky black void.

You return to your body and mind during the Capitol anthem, the muscles in your face burning from your forced, clenched teeth smile. You’d completely missed The President’s speech.

It’s not until all of the chariots have been led to the training center when you realize that your arm is bent at the elbow to meet a hand that sits much higher than yours.

Your fingers are intertwined with The Mountain’s, squeezing him with a grip strong enough to choke the life from a man.

————————————————————

It’s all you can think about - the hand holding. You wish you could remember who initiated it.

The worst part was the look on his face when you had jerked your sweaty palms back to your side. He looked as if you had just spit in his face and accused him of violating you. The rejection that spread across his features gave you a pang in your chest that still lingers with a heavy weight in your heart.

You wish you hadn’t pulled away like that. It was so fast, though, the jarring realization that you had been relying on him to ground you - once again.

As you look to your glossy, too-tight shoes, the only thing you can see is his horrified expression flashing in front of your eyes.

Suddenly you’re brought back to the first encounter you had with him, that day in District Nine. A nauseating heat of shame and regret washes over you.

On the elevator ride to your district’s assigned suite, you try to give him a look through the wheat collar that partially obscures his face. One that would hopefully convey an apology, but his gaze is fixated on the bottom of the elevator doors. His brows are sloped, the space between his eyebrows scrunched, and he’s gnawing slightly at his lower lip.

When the elevator doors part, you suck in with a sharp inhale.

Ruby gives an excited squeal, “Isn’t it so exquisite?!”

Her voice takes on an air of superiority, “I bet you’ve never seen anything like this back in District Nine.”

You’re too distracted to be annoyed with her, proving her point by taking in the room with open mouth awe.

The ceilings must be fourth feet high, large beautifully crafted marble columns stretching from floor to ceiling. The furniture here puts the furniture on the train to shame.

It is a disgusting display of extravagance.

Ruby gives you a tour that ends at your quarters, where she instructs you both to get changed and unwind until dinner in an hour.

You’re happy to follow her instructions, eager to get out of the wheat dress. Your door has barely closed when you kick your shoes off hard enough for them to fling into the frame of the massive bed with a thud. The dress peels off and you’re quick to shower, eager to rinse the stuffy layers of makeup off your face.

It takes you too long to figure out how the closet works. There are so many fancy appliances in this room, and the closet is controlled by a screen that you have to select your outfit on. You figure it out, finally, and an outfit whizzes out from behind a curved, frosted glass panel. You grab the clothes as if the glass was about to snap back into place and take your arm with it.

You don’t trust this closet.

For the first time since the morning of the reaping, you are able to dress in clothes that remind you of home - that remind you of you. You’d opted for something on the more comfortable side, desperate for a breathable, light outfit after that uncomfortable dress.

At dinner, you find yourself thankful for Ruby’s chatter. The energy was definitely off, the air just as stale and constricting as the dress. She filled the silences you would surely choke on if it were just you, Price, and The Mountain.

“Oh, you two did better than I could have hoped! And those outfits,” she gasps for emphasis, “Well, I have to say it’s the best thing that’s come from your district in a long time. I wouldn’t be surprised if you both have sponsors already lining up!”

You know she’s just humoring you. Many of the other districts blew your outfits out of the water. Yours were average, at best. Somehow it seems even worse than the awful outfits, which are at the very least memorable.

“And your waving? Perfect!”

“The hand holding was,” Price pauses, as if chewing on his thoughts while he actually chews his food, “Interesting.”

There’s a harsh scrape of dishware followed by a stark silence as you and The Mountain come to a grinding halt. You don’t dare look up from your plate, but your peripheral reveals Price’s sly, half-lidded stare that pierces through your flesh and draws heat to your cheeks.

His smirk is unmistakable.

Ruby - oh Ruby, you are so sorry for brushing her off before. She rescues you from the most painful three seconds of your life with her optimistic Capitol accent.

“It was perfect! It will surely play well with the audience, and if they think you two may be in the works of forming an alliance in the arena, the sponsors will see that as an advantage!”

An alliance?

You hadn’t considered that before.

The Mountain doesn’t need an ally. Especially not one so useless and will offer little help in the arena. You had no doubt that you would only hold him back.

You don’t look at him. You want to look at him. You so badly want to see what he thinks of Ruby’s implied proposal. If it’s his turn to reject you, to wear a realized scowl at the very thought.

Maybe his eyebrows would be raised in interest. A glint of consideration in his eyes at an idea he hadn’t given thought to before.

No.

Surely he would not want you as a partner in a fight to the death. He will have his pick of the litter when it comes to allies, and you will be nothing but dead weight.

The rest of the meal goes as smoothly as you could hope. Ruby rambles on, you keep your gaze to your meal. Once plates are cleared and drinks are emptied, Price leads you to the sitting area where he strongholds you and The Mountain to share a couch so comfortable and soft you could melt into it.

“Alright,” Price says with a push in his voice, “I’ve let you two wallow long enough. Let’s get down to it.”

Your eyes flick to the floor, hand stroking the soothing fabric of the upholstered sofa. You didn’t want to think about the games, but Price had given you plenty of time to digest your circumstances. He didn’t deserve the attitude you instinctively wanted to give him. He’s just as much a victim to these games as you and The Mountain are.

Price lets out a grunt that suggests his bones were fighting his squat to his chair.

With your head still angled to the floor, hair curtaining your view, you can see Price mashing buttons on the remote.

The replay of the reapings.

The careers are nothing short of cruel. Throwing themselves onto the stage to volunteer. All of the tributes from District One and Two are fit and muscular, wearing expressions that leak brutality and a disturbing amount of excitement.

By District Three’s contestants you’re already queasy, and can hardly focus on anything as your vision blurs. It’s like you’re already in the arena, imagining all the different ways the careers will end your life. The boy from District Two, Titan, who has canines that come to a point so sharp it makes his smile look twice as cruel, could easily knock you to the ground with one swing. The girl from District One, Sapphire, piercing you with weapons so sharp you can’t feel the punctures until it’s too late.

Without moving your head, you side-eye The Mountain, who the careers couldn’t hold a candle to. You can tell even over the television that he’s got them all beat in size, and surely strength if judged by pure muscle.

Maybe an alliance wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.

The other tributes are a blur. You tune back in around District Seven. The District Seven tributes expressions do not match the ones you saw on the chariot. They look much more solemn as they climb onto the stage, staring hollowly out into the crowd.

Next is Eight, the tributes that had stood miles apart in their chariot.

To your surprise, the boy had volunteered.

He doesn’t look particularly equipped to fight, but there’s a look in his eyes you catch for a moment, a look of pure rage so powerful it radiates through the screen.

“Look out for this one,” Price says, “Something ain’t right with that boy.”

You quirk a brow, but you can’t help but agree. Even through the screen he’s tying your guts into a knot. The feeling is accompanied by an almost primal urge to run.

And then there’s you.

Frozen in shock, hauled up to the stage by peacekeepers. You look as weak and pathetic as you’d suspected. Clearly distraught, pale in the face, knees shaking. You know it’s bad when you feel Price’s pitied gaze out of the corner of your eyes, looking at you like a wounded fawn.

Surely the other tributes will see you as easy pickings.

And then you learn his name.

Konig.

The Mountain’s name is Konig.

When the camera’s find him in the crowd, there’s a brief moment of fear. That look of uncertainty welling over in his eyes before he wipes his expression clean and makes his way to stage.

Konig’s hand had waited outstretched for yours for an uncomfortable amount of time while you were staring blankly into the crowd.

It takes a lot for you not to look at him the moment your hands meet on screen.

You want to apologize for ripping away from him on the chariot so harshly.

The rest of the tributes aren’t particularly memorable. You’re too distracted and have already decided you had absolutely no chance of winning. Doesn’t matter who shows up on that screen, you are going to be slaughtered regardless. You didn’t think making note of the tributes would be particularly relevant.

You tune back in as you watch the replay of the opening ceremony. Ruby joins for this, letting out an excited squeal as she plops herself into an empty chair.

She makes commentary on the outfits, clearly downplaying the better costumes, and insulting the particularly worse ones for you and Konig’s benefit.

“There’s my tributes!” She announces proudly as you and Konig ride into frame.

He really does tower over you.

The camera has to take a wider angle than they did with the other chariots just to get you both into frame. Your smile is clearly forced, the corners of your lips barely perked up as you display your teeth unnervingly. Your eyes show your true emotions and your brows slope in worry.

There’s no mistaking your fear. You’re still waving to the crowd but you know that your soul was miles away in that moment.

Konig’s wheat collar flutters as he waves. He’s much more reserved, keeping his hand close to his body.

The camera zooms out so there’s four chariots in the frame, and the horses trot a few more yards. Still, you can very clearly see your hand reach up and frantically nudge the same forearm that you gripped onto when you lost your balance. You’re practically hitting him, the back of your open hand thwapping him in quick succession in a desperate blind plea for his comfort.

You watch as Konig, without even looking at you, slides his forearm back so that he can take your hand in his. For a moment he even lowers his waving hand so he could lay it on top of yours in a reassuring fashion.

Your fingers move to your temple in a futile attempt to rub out the sick feeling swirling in your guts.

It makes your heart sink twice as low, knowing that you had initiated the hand handholding. Used him for comfort that he was in no way obligated to give you, just so that you could thank him by ripping away from him with disg

You have to look to the floor for the rest of the opening ceremony replay, only Ruby’s gushing to distract yourself from the guilt.

Price switches off the TV when the anthem begins to play and shifts in his seat to face you both with a grunt.

“You have a decision to make. You want to be mentored separately or together?”

There’s a beat, and you resist the urge to look at Konig.

“We’d have more mentorship time if we trained together,” Konig says, quickly but quietly from behind you.

You hesitate before giving a small nod in agreement.

“Alright then. The next few days you kids will be doing group training. So,” He clears his throat, shifting in his spot, “What’d’ya got?”

Price looks at you both expectantly, raising his eyebrows when he’s met with silence. The remote swirls in his hand.

“Nothin’?”

You shrug at him.

“She can fight,” Konig quietly offers on your behalf.

So he does remember.

You whip your head around to him, pulling a face. Your voice comes off more defensive and pointed than you intend, “No I can’t!”

For a moment he shrinks into himself, his eyes flicking between each of yours before he leans forward to find Price.

“I’ve seen it,” He says with a nod.

Price quirks a brow at you, “That so?”

“It wasn’t even a fight!” You blurt out, “He didn’t even-“ You cut yourself off with a growl, face burning.

“He?” Price perks up.

“It doesn’t matter! Because it doesn’t count!”

You cross your arms over your chest, and Price gives something of an amused huff at your outburst.

“If you say so, Plucky.”

Your brows furrow at the nickname.

Price nods his head at Konig, “You?”

Konig gives him a shrug.

“Oh, you’re kidding, right?” You say with an eye roll, your open palm pointing at Konig, “I mean look at him!”

Konig flinches, but Price pushes forward, “Any experience with weapons?”

The room goes silent again.

Price lets out an exhausted sigh, “Not giving me much to work with, kids.”

He leans forward in his chair, hands knitted loosely together, “Tomorrow they’ll start group training. You’ll be with the other tributes,” a finger shoots up, “Don’t let them intimidate you.”

You look to the floor.

“Ignore them. They don’t even exist.”

He continues, “Maximize every minute you have in there. I want you to focus on food first. Purifying water. Snares, fishing, edible bugs and plants, starting fires. Dedicate the entire day to learning how to feed yourself in that arena. You understand? Food first.”

He waits until you both give confirmation before he moves forward.

“First aid next. Learn how to wrap and care for a wound with what natures gives ya’. Got it?”

He waits for another nod.

“Shelter next. Figure out how to keep warm. Learn to tie a good knot, camouflage techniques.”

“Defense last. Get used to handling some weapons. Throw some knives, learn hand-to-hand combat.”

Price takes a swig of his drink, and he takes a minute to survey you both. One of his eyes narrows slightly at you. He points at Konig, before flicking his finger in your direction.

“I want you to keep an eye on her.”

Your face warps into a wicked scowl, “What’s that supposed to mean? I need a chaperone?”

“It means,” Price starts, his stare boring into you, “I don’t want you getting into trouble.“

Your head shakes, “Wha- Trouble? What trouble?”

“Don’t push it, Plucky.”

You’re not sure if that was an answer to your question or a warning to not get on his bad side. You don’t shoot back, but your face clearly displays your displeasure.

“Alright,” Price pats his knee before standing, “Training’s at ten tomorrow. Be ready.”

He shakes his fingers at you once more before disappearing down the hall.

Your frustration wins out over guilt, and you shoot Konig an annoyed glare in disbelief. You were hoping for him to back you up, or at least be equally irritated, but he offers another apologetic stare.

“Well!” Ruby claps her hand together, “How productive. You two make sure to get to bed early and get a goodnight’s rest!”

Unfortunately Ruby does not hear your silent plea to not leave you alone with Konig, her shoes clicking obnoxiously as she leaves the sitting area.

Once she disappears down the hall, the room immediately goes silent, your own breath deafening you.

What did Price mean about you getting into trouble? Did he mean that the other tributes would pose too much of a threat? Does he think you’re too weak to handle yourself? Or did he hear Konig’s interjection and now thinks of you as someone who likes to pick fights?

Any way you slice it, it doesn’t sit right with you.

It’s impossible not to feel his presence.

Konig is frozen, he doesn’t even dare fidget in his spot, staring forward with slightly widened eyes. You can tell he’s afraid of setting you off, as if the slightest movement would provoke you.

This irritates you even more, like he was proving Price’s point about you being trouble.

“What?” You ask with a sneer.

He fumbles for his words, looking terrified of your questioning.

“Ich - äh,” He clears his throat, his voice just a mumble, “I’m sorry. About Price.”

This is an effective technique on his part, because it successfully redirects your anger.

“It’s demeaning!” You exclaim, “Do you not feel that way - forced to play babysitter?”

“I don’t mind,” He blurts out, and then he stops to choose his next words very carefully, “Maybe we could help each other with training.”

You huff.

When you speak again, your voice has relaxed, confused over defensive, “I don’t understand why he said that.”

There’s a pause, and then one corner of his lip perks up, his tone dawning a playful hum.

“Didn’t you hear?” He says, “You’ll find trouble.”

You roll your eyes and blow air out your nose, but the ghost of a smile does creep onto your face.

“Not sure if I’m the trouble or if the trouble is waiting for me in the training center.”

“Probably a little of both,” He says, still wearing a remnant of a sly smile. His body has visibly untensed, posture a bit slouched and fingers returning to their soothing fidget.

Konig actually made you feel better.

Again.

“Hey, um,” You trail off for a moment, avoiding his gaze, “Thank you. For keeping me steady today.”

After a pause you awkwardly add, “On the chariot,” just in case he’s not sure what you’re referencing.

He shifts against the back of the sofa.

“Ach, äh,” He clears his throat again, “Of course.”

There. Now you can be relieved of your guilt for yanking away from him and looking at him in disgust.

“Sorry if I-“ he starts quietly.

“No,” you cut him off, “You didn’t do anything wrong. All those people, the noise, it just- it freaked me out.”

You omit the real reason you pulled away.

“Me too,” He says, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people at once, especially not with them all looking right at me.”

Another air of silence falls over you both. This air is less stale, easier to breathe. You’re feeling much better now that you’ve apologized for being so harsh about the handholding.

It is frustrating, though, how you find yourself leaning on him time and time again. Even now, you’re letting him make you feel better about the implications of Price’s request. About your own guilt of being harsh with him about the handholding.

You need to sever this tie, sooner rather than later. This is not a luxury you will be able to afford in the arena.

But you are so scared, and lost, and unsure, and angry about everything. Having Konig there, sharing in every emotion, his presence reminds you that at the very least you are not alone.

You don’t say it, but some part of you is actually relieved Price is making him your chaperone. Whatever the implication, it’s giving you an excuse to keep hanging around Konig, contrary to the brutal truth. You were not ready to let go of his reassurance, and you can’t shake the idea that the longer you lean in to him, the harder it will be to pull away.

As the cold world beckons for your attention, he is the warm blanket enveloping you, dangerously comfortable. His siren call pleads for you to stay wrapped up in him for just five more minutes. Ignore the cruel reality waiting for you. Forget about everything else. Slip back into the sweet embrace of sleep. With Price’s request that Konig keep an eye on you, he has just pulled that blanket to your neck, tucked you in, and gave you permission to put off the world just a little bit longer.

Does Konig even know what his presence is doing for you?

Does your presence do the same for him?

You don’t ask.

You both sit in silence, listening to the sound of chests rising and falling.

You can’t help but wonder if it’s all a ploy.

If Konig is purposefully drawing you in with the basis of his comfort. If this just another trick to make sure you end up on his kill list.

It is certainly possible, but the idea invokes such a gut-wrenching feeling you have to stifle it like an ember under your boot.

You take a deep breath, and the thought that’s waiting for you on the exhale is knowing you’ll have to see the tributes face-to-face for the first time. It ties your stomach in knots, heart pounding against your ribcage at the very thought.

“Are you nervous?” You ask under your breath.

“About tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” you say, absentmindedly swirling your fingernails across the fabric of the sofa.

He doesn’t say anything, but he gives a shaky nod.

“I don’t want to do it,” You admit at a whisper.

He nods again.

After a tense beat he says, “We’ll do it together.”

It terrifies you, knowing the other tributes will be there, watching you fail to accomplish skills they’ve been experts at for years. Sizing you up. Planning how they’re going to slaughter you in the arena.

But at least Konig will be by your side. You will go through it together, and maybe they will not be as focused on you with such a fierce competitor towering next to you.

“Thanks,” you say breathlessly.

“Of course,” he says, his cadence matching yours.

Another cozy silence drapes over you both, sitting in each other’s company. You get lost in Konig’s fidgeting fingers, watching them mesmerizingly lace and unlace, swirling as the pads of his thumb runs over the side of his index finger.

When he notices you staring, he stops at once, setting his palms flat on the sofa.

You know you should try and get some rest, but there’s no way you’ll be able to sleep tonight, and you don’t want to go to your room.

To be all by yourself.

“Have you gone out on the balcony?” You ask.

He looks to the crystal sliding doors off the dining area before finding your eyes.

“Are we allowed to?”

You shrug, “They didn’t tell us not to.”

He looks at you with those unsure eyes.

“What are you afraid of?” You goad with a raise of a brow, “Afraid they’ll send you to your death?”

He’s clearly against the idea, but you can see he doesn’t have a defense. Flitting over your mischievous features with wide eyes and furrowed brows.

You grin as you stand from the couch, making a show of catching his stare as you slide the glass panel open, disappearing between the curtains that flutter now exposed to the wind.

The view is breathtaking.

You can see light pouring from windows in the neighboring skyscrapers. It reminds you of the night sky, stars dotting an industrial landscape. Shaky hands lay themselves on the guard rail, not daring to lean your weight on it as you peer down to the streets below.

You can hear them, the Capitol citizens, the honks of noisy cars and rowdy evening shouts below, their words lost to the unusually powerful wind. They look like ants from up here, walking the unnatural grid-like pattern of the streets.

The balcony is furnished, a huge wicker U-shaped couch with abstract patterned cushions. You nestle yourself into one of the corners, pull your knees to your chest and lean back into the cushion’s hold.

You hear Konig carefully sliding the glass door closed. He only makes it two steps into the open air before he stops.

You watch him marvel at the sight, just as you did, but he doesn’t dare near the edge.

He silently sits on the other corner of the couch, both of you looking ahead at the twinkling lights of the opposing buildings, listening to the Capitol night life below.

You find yourself peering into windows, glimpses into the world of a Capitol citizen. Nothing is muted, elegant furnishings and big screens as people settle in for the evening.

It’s cold out here on the balcony, the muscles in your face stiffening at the harsh chill of high winds, but it’s welcome.

It’s grounding, refreshing even, something to keep you in the moment and out of the grueling whirlpool of your thoughts waiting to pull you under at any lull.

About fifteen minutes pass before Konig wordlessly slips back inside.

You thought he was turning in for the night, so you’re surprised when the glass doors part again, returning wearing a black jacket, another in his hand.

He leaves generous distance as he sets a jacket on the cushion next you.

“It’s from my closet,” He says, just loud enough to be heard over the wind, “Sorry if it’s too big.”

He carefully retracts his arm and nestles back into his spot.

You stare at his offering with squint eyes, examining it to figure out his motive but failing to draw a conclusion.

You nod slow and hesitantly grab the jacket, slipping your arms into the sleeves.

You drowning in it. The sleeves hang well over your hands and the hem falls to your knees. You zip up and pull the hood up, having to position it on the crown of your head so the extra fabric doesn’t hang over your eyes.

It’s nice, the cozy warmth of the jacket to protect from the cold.

Unfortunately it’s also a reminder of how much bigger Konig is, how much stronger he is, how you would not fair well against him if the time comes in the arena.

You curl your legs in front of you and pull the jacket over your knees.

The steady white noise of the wind, the ambience of the city below, the night air, it has a soothing effect on you. You slink further and further into the couch, until you commit to laying on your side. Your socks worm their way into the crevice of the corner’s cushions as your body curls up on the middle of the couch and an arm raises to prop under your head, crown pointed in Konig’s direction.

You let the hood fall over your face, blocking out the wind as you listen to the bustling Capitol life below.

———————————————————

You wake to the sound of Ruby yelling.

“How do you lose a pair of tributes?!”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Price shoots back.

You squint at the bright sun, raising your palm to block out harsh rays from sensitive eyes.

“Do you have any idea how much trouble we’ll be in if they don’t turn up?”

“They’ll turn up,” He says definitively.

Price gives a hum as if he thought on it a little more, a retraction of his statement, “Well, if she got a bug in her brain she could have convinced him.”

Your brow quirks at that. You rub the sleep from your eyes, turning your head towards the glass doors, shimmering in the sunlight.

Ruby lets out an exasperated inarticulate noise of disapproval.

Your attention is stolen, though, by Konig. He’s curled up on the patio sofa too, his head next to yours, a strong arm resting over his eyes. His long legs are stretched out on the other side of the couch, his top half sharing the same bench as you.

The glass door of the balcony slides open, and Ruby drops an arm dramatically.

“What are you two doing out here?!” She scolds frantically, “Were you out here all night?!”

You prop yourself up on your hands, a deep inhale of morning as you transition to wake. Konig’s arm uncovers his eyes, raising his head and sitting up with stiff joints.

Price slips out to the patio, quirking his brow at the sight. A scowl plasters on your face as you watch him bite back a smug grin.

You look down and see yourself still wearing Konig’s jacket, and roll your eyes, averting your gaze when you’re finished. You’re hoping Price can’t see the faint glow that flushes your skin, because you know how this looks.

“It was freezing last night! And you don’t even have the heater on,” Ruby smacks her lips, “You two are going to catch a cold!”

“There’s a heater?” You ask, voice low with sleep.

She squeaks out an annoyed noise as she gestures to a switch on the wall.

“It’s not going to be very fun participating in the games with a cold, you know!”

You stretch your arms and speak through a yawn, “I don’t think it’s going to be very fun participating in the games at all.”

She cocks her jaw and squints at you, “You’re late for training!” She turns to Price and adds with a swing of her arm, “Deal with them!”

She then stomps off, heels clicking as she disappears in the suite.

Price crosses his arms, standing straight and pushing out his chest as he inspects you both. Neither of you look up, staring at your laps as you soak in your scolding and mentally prepare for training.

Price lets out a heavy sigh before he speaks.

“The stylists set out outfits for you both. Both of you - dressed and ready to go. You got five minutes.”

His voice is stern, and you can’t help but roll your eyes at his exertion of authority.

When Price steps inside, you and Konig share a look, and it’s clear you’re both anxious about today. After a deep inhale in a failing attempt to steady yourself, you force an uninterested shrug.

It’s not convincing.

You avoid Ruby or Price’s stare as you make your way back to your room to get changed. The outfit waiting for you consists of a pair of black athletic pants made of a silky, sweat-wicking material and a shirt to match. The shirt’s sleeves are generously trimmed and the back has the number ‘9’ stitched on the back.

You clean your teeth, fix your hair, and change before you meet Ruby and Konig, the latter dawning an identical outfit, by the elevators.

“Really, it’s just irresponsible!” She fumes with crossed arms as you wait for the elevator.

You would normally let out an amused huff, because it’s hard to take the Capitol accent seriously, but you’re too distracted by the churning in your stomach.

Konig seems genuinely regretful on the otherhand, clearly disappointed with himself for letting down Ruby.

“Sorry, Ruby,” He mumbles sheepishly, and her face relaxes, head tilting slightly.

She nods, pleased, and says softly but proudly, “That’s alright, dear. You both just had us worried.”

His apology seems to quell her, and she returns to her normal cheery self by the time you’re deposited by the elevator.

“Okay you two, make sure you follow John’s instructions! Listen to the trainers and - Be. Good.”

Ruby smiles brightly before she saunters off.

You and Konig share a deep breath and an unsure glance before you enter the gymnasium, buried underground beneath the tower of district suites.

The trainer center is a massive gymnasium, uninviting concrete walls with training stations lining the room, each with their skill that contain anything from knot tying to sword fighting. Each station has an instructor, an expert in their craft, to teach the tributes last-minute survival skills. Obstacle courses fill the middle of the room along with pull up bars, sparing rings, weightlifting.

On an open balcony high above you, there’s a room of gamemakers, perched and observing like hawks in their nest. They’ll be watching you all train, and after an individual assessment you will be scored on a rating of one to twelve, the higher the score, the better the tribute’s potential.

With one look, you know you and Konig are the last ones to arrive. The entire room turns their attention to you as you both enter, and you have to stifle the instinctual urge to turn and run.

You don’t look up from your shoes as the head trainer gathers you all into a circle and gives the run down on the stations. She releases you all, and as the other tributes turn their backs you can’t help but size them up.

“What do you want to do first?” Konig asks.

You don’t answer, distracted by the career pack, quickly engaging the deadly weapons and handling them with ease.

You jump when Konig says your name.

“Huh? What?”

“What first?” He asks.

“Oh, uh-”

You do a quick scan of the room.

“Edible plants?” You say with a slight crackle in your voice, your mouth dry from nerves.

He nods, and you let him lead you to the station.

You follow Price’s instructions.

You pull your focus to the trainer, and try to ignore the ravenous grunts echoing from across the gymnasium as the careers skillfully drive weapons into dummies.

You also try to ignore how much taller Konig seems when you both stand right next to each other. He makes you feel like a child, having to crane your neck back to see his face.

Your thoughts are loud, stomach tossing, and limbs gelatinous. The fluorescent lights illuminating the gym are bright and harsh, the sounds of weapons clashing makes your heart pound against your ribcage, the overlapping voices of tributes and trainers are a grated ringing in your ears, and the observation by tributes and gamemakers that you will soon be at the mercy of - absolutely gut-wrenching.

It’s too much.

Your chest tightens and you give an involuntary gasp for air.

The trainer pauses her ongoing speech to quirk a brow at you, and Konig turns to look down at you.

“Oh-” You give a nervous laugh that turns into a wheezing coughing fit, distorting your face as you try and choke it back.

You manage to wheeze out, “Excuse me,” before you rush off. You don’t have a plan, but your brain is telling you to get away, to run and run far - away from prying, judgmental, predator eyes.

You duck behind the unused boxing ring, folding over once out of sight.

Your breathing is out of control, nearly hyperventilating as you slide against the ring and to the ground. You can feel the tears of anxiety welling at your eye line, the sore ache of a lump in your throat.

You don’t want to be here - you don’t want to do this!

You bury your face in your knees, trying to wish away the tears as you pray for the floor to swallow you whole. The last thing you need is for every last tribute to see you weak.

“Did you find trouble?”

You sit up with a flinch, shoulders relaxing when you find only Konig. He’s already seen you crying and irredeemably pathetic, so there’s not much concern for putting a show on for him.

“Because that was impressively fast,” He adds.

You give a scoff, and a hint of a smile breaks through.

You hate him for it.

“Yeah,” You say with heavy breath, a low vibration dragging your voice down. You use the inside of your wrist to wipe away any tears that threaten to spill.

He sits down next to you, letting his legs stretch out as he leans his back against the sparing ring. He lets out a sigh, his head lulling as he looks down his nose to a far wall in the gymnasium.

He doesn’t say anything more.

“You don’t have to wait for me,” You mumble at the floor, resting your chin on your knee.

“It’s okay,” He says.

A few minutes of silence pass before you speak again, your voice just a wisp.

“Do you ever just want to disappear?”

He answers without hesitation.

“All the time.”

Your eyes find the floor.

Once again, you find yourself benefiting from his comfort.

He waits, seemingly with patience, for you to get your bearings. He extends his hand in an offer to help you up, but you pretend you didn’t notice.

You spend the rest of the day moving from station to station, following Price’s instructions, listening intently to the expert’s instructions on survival.

You try to avoid making eye contact with Konig for the rest of the day. You want to prove to yourself that you can do this without his comfort. You keep the conversation strictly to the task at hand, and do your best to ignore the glares of the tributes and gamemakers from across the gym.

You hate to admit it, but having Konig by your side does make it easier. He seems to be a lightening rod for the attention of the other tributes. Even if a tribute wanted to look in your direction to get a scope on the girl from District Nine, it would be more than easy to get distracted by the behemoth standing next to her.

It’s hard to ignore the stares in your direction, but when you turn they’re usually fixated on Konig, not you, before they feel your stare and snap their heads away.

Konig doesn’t seem fazed.

At first you assume it’s because he’s too powerful, too confident in his strength and ability to be intimidated by opponents clearly weaker than him.

But then you consider - maybe he’s just used to this? The boring stares that come with someone of his unusual stature, the taunting from your particularly rowdy peers in District Nine - maybe it gifted him the ability to be unaffected by others.

But that doesn’t quite make sense either, because last night he seemed genuinely influenced by your annoyance, by your goading, and this morning, by Ruby’s disappointment.

You itch to understand your competitor, to figure out his motives, his strategy, the mind games he’s playing with you.

The rest of the day brings mediocracy, and little else is uncovered about your fiercest adversary.

You actually learn a lot about plants and knot tying, but your snares and fire starting skills leave something to be desired. At dinner, Price grills you both about what you learned, filling in any gaps in your memory.

Avoiding Konig is harder on the second day.

At the first aid station, the instructor is happy to have a duo join her. Aside from the career pack, who are too focused on playing with weapons, the other tributes wander around the gymnasium solitarily. It’s clear the attendant is tired of tributes touching her, so she has you practice on each other instead.

After fascinating you both with a type of moss that can be used as an antiseptic, she has you take turns using sticks to make splints on each other’s arms.

You both sit on the ground, and he holds his arm out for you so you can snap the twigs down to the appropriate size for his forearm. It’s hard to ignore how his massive bicep is bursting out of the pitiful, generously-trimmed sleeves of his shirt. Tanned and sculpted over countless days spent in the fields of District Nine, performing jobs only the biggest and strongest could handle.

The close proximity to him is making you nervous, and you can feel the burn of his stare as you work. You force yourself to keep your focus solely on wrapping strips of fabric scraps tightly around either end of the sticks, but you can’t stop thinking about how easy it would be for the arm you work around to hurt you. How quickly it could snap a bone, knock you unconscious, or choke the life from you, all with minimal effort. Your entire body would not measure up against this one arm, let alone the rest of him.

It’s hard to stop once you start on this train of thought, and now you’re trying to think your way out of an altercation that starts in this position, kneeling on the ground.

How far could you run before he managed to get hold of a scrambling limb? Could you kick him in the ribs hard enough to break away? If you landed a hit square to his nose, could you break it?

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding when you sit back on your legs upon completion, wiping a sheen of sweat off your forehead.

When it’s his turn, you hold out your arm and turn your head away, staring at anything other than Konig. You have to push the impulse to pull away from hands that could crush you to dust at any moment.

It’s hard to ignore the brush of his fingers against your skin, the gentle hold on the underside of your arm as he steadies you to secure the strips of fabric.

It’s even harder to ignore the warm feeling that blossoms in your chest at the human contact.

This is nothing new for you. It means nothing, simply explained by ravenous, seething hormones that don’t know their place.

Once the trainer is satisfied, she gives you the advanced task of making the splint on yourselves.

You repeat this process as the trainer teaches you how to make a tourniquet. She instructs you not to tighten it as you would in an actual emergency, because it can cause injury anywhere from muscle damage to complete limb paralysis if placed incorrectly or for too long.

You suck in a breath, swallowing at the idea of being at Konig’s mercy. You’re don’t trust him enough to not jump on the opportunity for sabotage.

How long would he be able to hold you down before a guard could rip him off you? He’s strong, you’re sure he could easily take out at least a few while also fending you off - long enough to do some hefty damage to your arm.

You’re extra careful as you tie the tourniquet around Konig’s forearm, hoping that if you use gentle hands, he might return the favor.

It’s ridiculous, his proportions. You hope neither Konig nor the trainer can see the heat on your cheeks as you work around his arm as carefully as you would a deadly weapon.

When it’s your turn, you can’t bring yourself to look away. You watch his large hands work and wait with bated breath for him to go in for the kill.

As he twists the tourniquet in practice, your arm tenses in anticipation, priming your other arm discreetly in case you need to push him away.

He stops long before the fabric indents your flesh, meeting your stare. Eyes that were narrowed in focus relax, and before you can avert your gaze he turns to look over his shoulder, waiting for the instructor’s approval.

She nods assent, and immediately you feel flushed with an embarrassed heat as he undoes the knot around your bicep. You’re almost ashamed at your paranoia for suspecting he’d try and hurt you before the games.

Of course he wouldn’t hurt you here.

He was nervous just to step out on the balcony, he’s not going to break the clearly stated rule to not combat with other tributes before the arena.

He’s waiting until it’s fair game. Drawing you in with the basis of his trust until he’s granted permission to tear you limb from limb.

The instructor has you both practice on yourselves, and then wraps out the lesson by teaching you about more plants with medicinal uses, from bug bites to burns to infections.

Konig and you move from the first aid station to knot tying, to shelter building, to camouflaging.

To your credit, you really are giving it a fair effort, brows furrowed and tongue pressed to your teeth as you focus on retaining as much information as possible. The anxiety is making it hard to focus though, thoughts buzzing like insects gnawing at you from the inside out. It’s like you’re already in the arena, flinching at any noise and fighting the instinct to flee when any eyes glance in your direction.

On the final day of group training, as per Price’s instructions, you focus on the physical aspect of the competition, handling weapons, avoiding injury, and learning offensive maneuvers.

Weapons are illegal in District Nine, so besides the sickles and scythes loaned out in the wheat fields, you’ve never seen one in person before - let alone held one.

The sight of them are intimidating. You do not instinctually imagine yourself at the handle of the weapons, but on the brunt of their sharp blades and serated edges. Your eye twitches at the thought of each of them tearing through you.

It does not help that the career pack doesn’t stray far from the weapons, and so far you’ve been doing the best you can to avoid them.

You turn to Konig and pull a face contorted with displeasure.

“I know,” he whispers. He glances around the room, “We could start small?”

Your face remains unchanged, so his hand comes up to rub the side of his jaw as he continues to search the room on your behalf.

“Weightlifting?”

You actually let out a laugh at the suggestion, “Oh yeah?” Your chest still rattles with the aftermath of your own amusement, “Bet I can lift more than you.”

His eyebrows pinch for just a moment before he realizes you’re only kidding. A reserved smile creeps on his face.

“I’m sure.”

You flex your pathetic bicep at him and give it a hearty pat, “No, really.”

You swivel your wrist around for emphasis, a mischievous, cheeky grin on your face.

He gives you a warm smile, his shoulders lifting with each huff of a soft, inaudible laugh.

“Let’s see it, then.”

When you move toward the weights, you catch the stare of the careers, having paused their training to watch the two tributes who dared to near them.

You don’t have the forethought to hide your fear, and they don’t look away once you meet their gaze like the other tributes. They look at you like a pack of hyenas salivating over their next meal, challenging your stare, deadly eyes and smug smiles plastered on their faces.

You get the feeling it wasn’t because they were amused at your stupid joke.

Your stomach tightens, brows creased as you shake them from your sight.

Konig glances over his shoulder to check on you and you make an awkward little jog to catch up to him.

“Thought you and your fearsome biceps chickened out,” he says as your footsteps catch up to him.

“Pfft, never,” You say, voice lacking confidence as you resist the urge to look back at the careers.

You’re not sure what you can stand to gain from weightlifting other than showing off how weak you are, but you don’t object. Not only is it an excuse to put off weapons training, it is an opportunity to see what Konig is actually capable of. Maybe you could even find some sort of weakness to use against him if the time comes, a bad knee or a tricky shoulder.

You sit down on one of the benches, a slight kick in your feet, planting your palms firmly into the bench’s padding.

It becomes clear almost immediately that the monstrous boy from your district has no weaknesses.

For his warmup, he prepares weights that are significantly heavier than your entire body, lifting them into the air without so much as a grunt of resistance.

The nausea hits like a crashing wave, consuming you in an uncomfortable heat that brings sweat to your skin and threatens to boil your stomach over. You pull on the collar of your shirt as you watch the muscles in his arm bulge and tighten with each curl.

You’re dumbfounded, face scrunched in mixture of confusion and horror, but you can’t look away. You swallow with a dry mouth as he moves to stack more weights onto the barbells, eyes flitting around the sight before you in a panic.

If Konig wanted to, he could pick you up like he was scruffing a kitten.

As you watch him deadlift what must be twice his body weight, you can’t stand to watch anymore, face drained of its color as you imagine him using that strength against you.

It’s as you’re turning away that you realize the gym has gone silent. Not a clash of a weapon, not an instructor teaching, not even the murmur of a gamemaker.

Your breathing cuts off entirely as you catch every eye in the room staring in your direction. More specifically, in the direction of the boy who seems to defy human nature. The tributes, the instructors, the gamemakers high in their post, all stare on in a spectrum ranging from amazement to fear. Some of the tributes look just as nauseous as you, pale in the face and fists clenched at their sides, surely imagining facing his strength in the arena.

The careers look less smug. Not afraid, but annoyed. Angry, even. Looking down their nose with snarls on their lips.

The boy from two, Titan, is the exception. His pointed canines are displayed proudly, his hands rubbing together in giddiness because the game is actually getting interesting. He laughs, his laughter the only noise harmonizing with the metal clunks of Konig’s weights.

Your head snaps back into place, staring at the floor, mouth parted and face burning.

Konig sets his barbell gently on the ground, faces you with his hands on his hips, and says, “Alright, your turn.”

His face sinks when he meets your eyes, as full as moons and pooled with dread.

He looks around the gym, sees all of his competitors, his evaluators leering at him. His face relaxes but reveals nothing to you. He nods before meeting your stare again.

He lifts one of his hands, pointing all of his fingers at you, “Just to be clear, you are chickening out, then?”

You blink a few times, and then you let out the ugliest snort, a string of guffaws following.

He gives you a dopey smile with that silent, breathy laugh that makes his shoulders bounce. It’s the most of a laugh you’ll be able to pull from him, you think.

“No way,” you say, standing up from your bench.

You approach the barbell he placed on the floor, and stick your shoe out to give one end of the weights a shove. It barely rolls a centimeter under the weight of your foot.

“Y’know, I would,” You say, rubbing your fingers together to suggest grubbiness, “But I got butter all over my hands at breakfast, so I probably won’t be able to get a good grip on it.”

“Mhm,” He hums, his lips pressed into a smile as he crosses his arms over his puffed-out chest.

“Be pretty rude of me to dirty the weights for everyone else.”

“Very,” He says, “What next, then?”

When you glance around the room, most have resumed their activities, but the careers and a large percentage of the gamemakers seem to be lingering their stares on the District Nine tributes. You clear your throat and try to shake off their burning stares.

“What about that?” He offers after he sees you struggling to decide. He points over your shoulder to a large structure - two bars that stretch horizontal over a long fall to the mat below. Rings dangle from ropes in rows along the bars. It’s an exercise to see if a tribute can swing from ring to ring, using only their upper body strength to get from one end to the other without touching the ground.

“Nope,” You say definitely, “I’ll just fall and end up being thrown into the arena with a broken leg.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll stand underneath and catch you if you fall.”

“What?” You ask through a thrown-off laugh.

“You’ll be okay,” Konig encourages, “Just see how far you can make it.”

For a minute you consider if this is a trick. If he would pretend as if he was going to catch you, but instead lets you plummet below, taking precaution to make it look like a genuine accident.

“Maybe later,” you say with a tent of your brow.

“Hand-to-hand?” He offers.

You nod at the suggestion. This is a skill you are certainly lacking and could stand to sharpen, and it doesn’t require using the intimidating weapons.

The instructor is not sure what to make of you both at first, eyeing you curiously before he digs into his lessons. He goes over the basics, encouraging you to avoid solely throwing punches and reminding you to use all the parts of the body that can do damage.

He does go over the proper way to land a blow with your fists, how to get out of a restraint, the vulnerable places to strike on an opponent.

You’re only listening halfheartedly. Four days of non-stop training is catching up with you, and you’ve still got one foot in the mentality that you don’t stand much of a chance anyway, so it’s hard to feel motivated to make an effort.

As soon as you wrap up the lesson, you catch the career pack huddled in a circle near the ring, far from their usual post at the weapons.

Immediately you know something’s up, keeping a careful watch on them from the corner of your eye as you and Konig exit the ring.

“Want to try the weapons again?” He asks you.

“I’m kind of over it,” You say quietly, still side-eyeing the careers, “I’ll just follow you around.”

“District Nine!” That laugh, Titan’s laugh, is truly sardonic. An almost squeaky, attention-grabbing cackle that somehow bears condescension, “You came to play this year, huh?”

Both you and Konig tense as the pack approaches. Konig’s arm shoots down in the air in front of you as he takes a few steps toward them, as if already holding you back from a confrontation.

You would normally be annoyed by this, but staring down a pack of trained killers is enough to keep you from arguing.

Konig says nothing, dawning those uninterested half-lidded eyes, chin raised as he stares down at the boy with fangs for canines.

Titan holds out his strong arms, that wicked smile spread thick as he meets Konig’s eyes, “How’d you like to play with the big boys?”

It takes you a moment to realize they’re asking Konig to ally with them.

To your surprise, your body immediately ignites with jealousy.

You can’t pin why.

Jealous that Konig is so superior he got the attention of the elite tributes, and you didn’t?

Jealous that the careers are worthy of Konig’s consideration, that they could benefit him in the arena in a way you could not?

Jealous that they were also trying to benefit from the comfort he provides with his presence?

A boy’s reassurance can only spread so thin, after all.

Maybe all the above.

“I’ll think about it,” Konig says evenly.

Your expression immediately twists.

He is considering it.

What a slap in the face, even entertaining the idea of allying with the careers. The tributes that, statistically speaking, are going to be the ones to end your life.

Your face is burning with betrayal, rage, and disgust.

You can’t believe this is the boy you find comfort in. They don’t take too kindly to those friendly with careers back in the districts. If he wins, he will be ridiculed twice as much back home.

The boy from two gives him a drawn-out full body once over, looking him up and down before he flits his eyes in your direction.

His eyebrow quirks and you swallow hard, but your face keeps your scowl.

Konig makes a casual sidestep to stand directly between you both, cutting off your view of Titan.

Maybe this was what Price was talking about. About you being trouble, and wanting Konig to keep you out of it. The boy from two was big, not as big as Konig, but enough to still tower over the majority of the tributes, physically superior in every way. This does nothing to relieve the urge to run your mouth and maybe even get a few good scratches in with your fingernails.

Your scowl thickens when you realize Price actually had reason to suspect you needed a chaperone.

You hear the boy huff, and without another word the careers leave you be.

Konig does a full turn, head tilted down to meet your stare. When he sees your clear displeasure his brows shoot up.

“I want to talk to Price before I turn them down,” he explains.

Anything but a harsh no is unacceptable to you.

Traitorous, even.

You can’t believe he’s considering it.

He sees that this does not quell you, and adds, “Maybe he has a strategy to use against them.”

“Whatever, Konig,” You say with a roll of your eyes, a tone that clearly suggests you’re not buying what he’s selling.

This would be a good time to sever the tie between you. The comfort of him being by your side has been tainted by his conspiring with the careers. Clearly Konig has moved on, if he had even been reaping the benefits of whatever it is you two have.

Maybe you were naive to think he was ever your partner in this.

Of course he’s not. He is your opponent, always has been. Only one can come out of that arena. He knows it. You know it.

He was just smart enough to keep his distance, to not let his emotions get tangled up in someone who will be dead in a week, whereas you have been foolish enough to let your heart bleed without caution.

He doesn’t need your comfort like you need his. He will be self-sustainable in that arena. He actually has a chance, and a good one at that. You know it. The careers know it.

What could Konig have possibly gained from a partnership with you?

Your blood is boiling, body perspiring in the brutal heat of humiliation. You can’t believe you’ve let yourself get this attached to him, that you looked farther into worried glances then you should have, that you’ve allowed yourself to become so reliant on him that the thought of him not being even a little reliant on you makes you feel this inadequate, this jealous, this stupid!

You knew this was coming, you could see it from a mile away, but it doesn’t soothe the searing sting. It’s only frustrating you more knowing this is your own fault.

Konig doesn’t owe you anything, he’s just doing what’s best for himself, which is what you should be doing.

He opens his mouth to say something else, choking out the start of a syllable before he stops himself.

At least he looks a little hurt at your displeasure. That makes you feel a little better.

You huff, turning on your feet.

“Wha - where are you going?” He asks.

“Anywhere,” You say with a wave of a hand over your shoulder.

“But, Price-“

“I don’t care what Price said!” You blurt out, whipping around to face him, hands springing up aggressively.

Konig’s shoes squeak to a stop, and you catch a couple Capitol guards priming to intervene. You can feel the stare of a few tributes looking in your direction.

You sigh, forcing your voice to a quiet yet harsh grit, “It’s not like you can look after me in that arena, so what’s the point of looking after me now?”

He doesn’t have an answer for you as he dawns those hurt eyes, the same eyes he wore when you ripped your hand away from him in the chariot.

Even in your rage, it makes your heart throb with guilt and regret at your outburst. It’s confusing, so confusing, how you can be so angry with someone and still care about not hurting them.

You can’t stand to look at him anymore, both in your rage and guilt, so you turn on your heels and leave him in his spot.

Training is technically optional, even if most tributes aren’t stupid enough to skip out on the life-saving advice, or in the career’s case, an excuse to throw weapons around, so no one stops you when you march right out of the gym. You fume the entire elevator ride up to your suite. If fury was steam, you’re sure you would have released a cloud of it when the elevator doors part.

Price is sitting at the raised table in the dining room, leaning back in his chair at your arrival.

“What’d’ya doing here kid?”

You don’t even answer him, marching down the hall without so much of a glance in his direction.

“What’s wrong?” His voice calls.

“Ask your victor,” You spit, slamming the door to your room behind you.

NEXT CHAPTER | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

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holokitti · 9 months ago

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escape room - lee haechan

‧˚⭒ pairing: ghost!haechan x afab!reader. mdni! adults only. ‧˚⭒ genre: thriller!au, strangers to lovers, soulmate!yandereau! angst, smut! ‧˚⭒ word count: 6.1k (sorry it’s long!) ‧˚⭒ warnings: voyeurism hc, fingering, oral(f receiving), dirty talk, slight nipple play, choking, multiple orgasms, swearing, obsessive hyuck, mentions of death, dom hc x sub reader. ‧˚⭒ starring: haechan, johnny, ten, mark, jaehyun reader. ‧˚⭒ summary: when you and your friends sign up for an extreme escape room, you expect clever puzzles and a few jump scares– not real danger. as you navigate eerie traps, the game takes a turn, and suddenly you find yourself separated from the group, alone. at least that’s what you thought, unaware of the familiar shadow lurking besides you.

a/n: hiii everyone, i hope those who read enjoy! this is my first story in years so i’m sorry if it’s not as detailed as could be but hopefully i improve the more i continue to upload. as said before this story is for adults only if i find any minors on my account i will block you. i’m open to feedback or any ideas for future stories. enjoy!

The eerie notes from the piano grow louder, filling the cramped room with an unsettling melody. From the corner, an old record player spins on its own, crackling as it fills the air with static. The noise gradually morphs into a faint whisper, words barely audible over the static.

"Time has just begun."

A chill creeps up your spine. You glance at the others, who stand on edge, their eyes darting around the room as the unsettling atmosphere takes hold. You’d exited the car only minutes earlier, arriving at what was supposed to be an ordinary escape room. As you step toward the entrance, the air thickens with uncomfortable tension, the dim light only emphasizing the building's eerie charm. The old structure seems to exist outside of time, its walls drenched in shadow, barely touched by the weak glow of the single streetlight overhead.

"So this is it? It looks... ancient. You sure you got the address right?" Johnny asks, his voice laced with doubt as he studies the rundown building in front of him.

"Address checks out," Ten replies, glancing down at the map on his phone, then back up at the dark, decrepit building. "This is it, apparently."

Mark shivers, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. "Can we just go inside? My fingers are freezing off," he mutters, eyeing the doorway.

"Mark's right," Johnny chimes in, rubbing his hands together. "Let's just make sure it's still open."

Without further discussion, you all follow Johnny into the building. Inside, a dim, red-hued glow bathes the narrow hallway, where an old wine-colored carpet leads to a black wooden desk at the far end. A single lamp beside the desk casts long shadows against the walls, and the red, tilted lampshade gives the whole scene an otherworldly air.

Behind the desk stands a tall, gaunt man in a navy velvet suit, his frame sharp and dignified. His hair is slicked back with a single blonde strand hanging loose over his forehead. Black leather gloves cover his hands, and his eyes are blank and empty, as if devoid of emotion. He moves with precision, carefully placing a pen down on the desk before turning his attention to your group.

"May I help you?" he asks, his voice smooth, his smile revealing a dimple on his cheek as he flips open a worn booklet filled with room reservations.

Ten steps forward, excitement bright in his eyes. "What's the scariest room you've got here? Something not a lot of people have beaten."

The man's eyes glint with something that looks like amusement—or perhaps a warning. "Room 13," he replies. "It's... challenging. Few have managed to escape. Are you sure you want to proceed?"

You exchange glances with the others, an unspoken agreement passing between you all before Ten grins confidently and says, "Absolutely. We'll take the challenge."

The man inclines his head, pulling a large, iron key from a drawer. "As you wish," he murmurs, stepping from behind the desk. "Follow me."

He leads you down a narrow hallway lined with doors, each one different in design and shape, some small and round, others tall and rectangular. Your footsteps echo ominously as you walk, the creaks in the floor whispering warnings you can’t quite decipher. Finally, you reach the end of the hallway, where a massive, medieval-style door looms in front of you, its iron handle weathered and cold to the touch. The keyhole is unlike any you've ever seen.

The man unlocks the door with deliberate slowness, pausing to glance at each of you, his gaze assessing. "Are you certain you want to enter?" he asks, his voice almost mocking.

Ignoring his subtle warning, you nod along with the others, eager to continue.

Once inside, you find yourself in a dim, unsettling room. The walls are covered with crooked paintings, each one depicting strange, shadowy figures and bleak landscapes. A dusty piano sits in one corner, and a cracked baby doll lies slumped in an old rocking chair, one eye half-shut, its mouth slightly open as if caught mid-scream. The thick, worn red rug beneath your feet has frayed edges, adding to the room’s eerie atmosphere.

"This is beyond creepy," you mutter, glancing warily at Ten. "Your ideas are always a bit much, but this..."

"Before we begin," the man interrupts, capturing your attention, "there are rules to follow. You have ninety minutes to find your way out. Clues are hidden within the room, and they will lead you to your escape. Today's story follows a young man who lost his life in this room. If you free his spirit, he will grant you your escape."

He pauses, eyeing you all seriously. "If time runs out... well, then you've lost."

Ten scoffs, brushing it off. "So, we either win or lose. No big deal, we got this."

The man nods slowly, though you catch a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "One more thing: you get three hints, should you require assistance. If an emergency arises, call my name... Jaehyun."

Your eyes linger on him one last time. "Well, thank you for the rundown, Jaehyun," you say, forcing a smile, your arms crossing as Jaehyun steps back toward the door, the iron key in his hand.

Without another word, Jaehyun closes the door, and a distinct click echoes through the room as the lock engages.

“Wait… did he just lock us in?” Mark asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Relax, it’s just part of the setup,” Johnny replies, his voice casual. “It’ll unlock when we finish.”

Ten, brimming with excitement, claps his hands. “Alright, time’s ticking, guys. Let’s get to it!”

You exchange uncertain glances with the others but eventually begin searching the room, inspecting every corner and crevice. Dust settles on your clothes as you rifle through old books on the shelf, examine each creepy painting, and prod at the cracked doll.

After a few minutes, Johnny spots a series of letters framed on the wall, positioned slightly out of order. Squinting, he reads the faded words aloud:

"Entry 204, I found this nearby a sacred tree. A doll was looking out to the lake, the same lake she was last seen. Her body is gone, but her spirit will find its way back to me. —H.C"

A heavy silence settles over the group.

“Creepy,” Mark mutters, his voice uneasy. “But it’s gotta mean something, right?”

Ten nods, his eyes darting around the room. “Let’s check the doll. There might be a clue with it.”

You and the others gather around the broken doll, studying it closely. Just as you reach out to inspect it, the lights flicker, and the piano plays a single, haunting note, echoing through the room.

Your breaths hitch, unease creeping in as you realize this game might be far darker than any of you had anticipated.

Your breath caught as the note hung in the air, vibrating with a resonance that made the hair on your arms stand up. You exchanged a tense glance with the others, noting the flickers of doubt and unease on their faces.

"Did… did the piano just play on its own?" Mark asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Johnny forced a laugh, though it sounded unsteady. "Probably just part of the scare tactics. They’re really going all out with the haunted vibe here."

You couldn’t shake the creeping dread seeping into your mind, and from the looks on their faces, your friends felt it too. What was supposed to be an ordinary escape room was starting to feel… wrong.

“Let’s just keep going,” Ten said, his voice more subdued now, as if he, too, was shaken. “We’re wasting time, and we’ve only got ninety minutes.”

Your attention returned to the cracked baby doll in the rocking chair, its glassy eyes staring blankly at nothing. Slowly, you leaned in closer, examining its face. One eye was half-open, almost lazily, while the other was wide and unblinking, giving it a disturbingly lifelike appearance. Gently, you lifted the doll, feeling something hard poke through a tear in its fabric.

“There’s something inside,” you murmured, glancing up at the others.

“What is it?” Mark asked, peering over your shoulder.

With a bit of effort, you pried open the small tear, pulling out a tiny brass key, its surface worn but unmistakably real. You held it up to show the group, the key catching a faint glint of the dim light.

“What’s this supposed to open?” Ten wondered, taking the key from your hand to inspect it.

“Maybe it’s for one of the drawers or the bookshelf?” Johnny suggested, already moving toward the old dresser across the room.

As the group tried the key on various locks, a low rumble echoed from somewhere behind the walls, making you shiver. The air felt colder, and the room seemed darker, as if the shadows themselves had thickened, pressing in around you.

After a few tense moments, Johnny tried the key on a drawer in the dresser, and it clicked open. Inside, he found a folded piece of paper, yellowed with age. Carefully, he unfolded it, squinting at the faded text before reading aloud:

"Look beneath the seat where nightmares rest, Where shadows linger and spirits test. The way is hidden, only for those, Who dare to face what fear bestows."

"Under the seat... where nightmares rest?" Ten repeated, glancing around the room. "What does that mean?"

"Maybe the rocking chair?" you suggested, nodding toward the doll’s seat. "It’s creepy enough to count as a ‘nightmare.’"

Mark crouched down beside the chair, reaching underneath it. His fingers brushed something solid—a loose panel. Slowly, he pried it open, revealing a hidden compartment. Inside was another key, this one larger and more worn, and a small, rolled-up map.

Johnny unrolled the map, and everyone crowded around, their faces growing tense as they took in the strange, labyrinthine layout sketched across the parchment. The map didn’t resemble anything you’d seen in the room so far. Instead, it showed a twisting series of rooms, corridors, and strange symbols that were foreign to all of you.

"Is this… part of the room?" Mark asked, glancing around, trying to align what you were seeing on the map with the space around you.

"There’s no way this room has more than one door," Ten said, frowning.

“Maybe there’s a hidden passage,” you suggested, though dread was gnawing at you. The idea of a secret path that led to who-knew-where made your skin crawl.

Ten, still undeterred, nodded. “Yeah, let’s look around. There might be more to this place than we thought.”

You and your friends spread out, examining every corner of the room, pushing against walls, lifting furniture, and inspecting every nook and cranny. Just as you ran your hands along the bookshelf, you felt a slight give beneath your fingers. You pressed harder, and with a slow, creaking sound, the entire bookshelf shifted, sliding aside to reveal a narrow, dark hallway beyond.

Everyone stared, a mixture of intrigue and unease settling over them.

“Okay,” Johnny breathed out, “this is beyond next-level escape room stuff.”

Mark hesitated, casting a wary look down the hallway. “Are we sure this is still part of the game?”

Ten, undeterred, gave him a reassuring pat on the back. “We’ve come this far. Let’s see where it leads.”

The group stepped into the passage, the narrow hallway closing in around you as the shadows seemed to deepen. The air was thick, almost stale, and the walls felt damp, as if they hadn’t been touched in years. Your footsteps echoed through the silence, each one seeming to amplify the tension thrumming beneath your skin.

After a few minutes, you stopped, shining your flashlight down an unexpected fork in the path. “Which way?”

Before anyone could answer, a loud slam echoed behind you, making everyone jump. Spinning around, you saw that the passage behind had closed, sealing you in.

"No way," Mark whispered, running back to the door and pressing against it. But it didn’t budge.

“It’s probably just part of the game,” Ten said, though even he sounded uncertain.

“Left or right?” Johnny asked, glancing down each path. “Standing here isn’t going to help us.”

Without much choice, you picked the left path, leading the group deeper into the twisting hallways. But as you turned a corner, something unexpected happened—a force tugged you sharply by the arm, pulling you off balance. Before you could react, you found yourself separated from the others, pulled down a narrow side passage that seemed to appear out of nowhere.

“Guys!” you called out, panic rising in your voice.

You heard the faint sound of your friends calling back, their voices echoing, but they grew distant, fainter, until they vanished entirely. You were alone.

Your heart pounded as you steadied yourself, gripping your flashlight tightly. You took a deep breath, trying to calm down. The narrow corridor was cloaked in shadow, and you slowly raised your flashlight, scanning the dark space ahead. That’s when you saw him—a young man, standing just a few steps away, watching you with an intense gaze that sent a shiver down your spine.

He was tall, with dark, messy hair and sharp, striking features. His clothes were worn, his eyes shadowed and tired. Beyond the exhaustion, there was something else in his gaze—a quiet desperation, as though he’d been waiting for someone to find him.

"Are you… lost too?" you asked cautiously, not daring to step closer.

The man’s lips lifted in a small, weary smile. “You could say that. I’ve been here… longer than I can remember. It’s been a few days, give or take. I didn’t think I’d ever see another person again.”

Your pulse quickened. “Days? You’ve been trapped in here that long?”

He nodded, shadows dancing in his eyes. “One minute, I was here with some friends. The next, they were gone. Just like that.”

You swallowed, fear twisting in your gut. “My friends and I… we thought this was just an escape room, but nothing about this place feels right.”

He took a slow step closer, his gaze softening. “Maybe we should stick together. I’d hate for you to end up alone like me.”

You nodded slowly, relief flooding through you. “I’m Y/N.”

“Haechan,” he replied, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Let’s find your friends and get out of here.”

With Haechan by your side, you ventured further into the maze of hallways, each step taking you deeper into the unknown. But as you walked, you couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that clung to you, a feeling that Haechan’s eyes held secrets he wasn’t willing to reveal.

All you can do is hope and pray you see your friends again.

The dim hallway stretches on in front of you, shadows clinging to the walls and making it difficult to see more than a few steps ahead. Every footstep feels heavy, the silence around you broken only by the occasional creak or groan from the aged structure. Haechan walks beside you, his presence oddly comforting amidst the overwhelming gloom, though something about him remains unsettling.

After a few minutes, you can’t help but ask, “So… how exactly did you get stuck here?”

Haechan lets out a small sigh, glancing over at you with a shadowed expression. “It’s a long story,” he replies. His voice is calm, almost too calm, and a shiver prickles at the back of your neck.

“We’ve got time,” you say softly, clutching your flashlight a little tighter. “If we’re going to find my friends and make it out, I should know what we’re dealing with and who I’m talking to.”

Haechan considers your words for a moment before nodding. “Alright. I was here with a group of friends, not unlike yours. We thought this was just an escape room—a haunted one, sure, but nothing dangerous. But once we entered, everything felt… wrong. Just like you’re probably feeling now.”

You nod, feeling a chill run down your spine. The thought that others had gone through the same confusion and fear unsettles you even more. “So what happened?”

He lets out a soft sigh, his voice dropping to a whisper. “At first, we tried to solve the puzzles, thinking it was all part of the game. But every clue we found led us deeper and deeper, to darker places that didn’t feel like they should exist. Eventually, we started getting separated. One by one, my friends disappeared… and I haven’t seen them since.”

His words hit you hard, your heart twisting with fear and sympathy. You imagine your own friends, separated from each other, wandering alone in these eerie, twisting hallways.

“Do you think… do you think your friends are okay?” you ask hesitantly, afraid of the answer.

Haechan is silent for a moment, and when he finally speaks, his tone is dark. “I don’t know, but this place… it’s haunted. It’s not a normal escape room. It’s something much worse.”

His words linger in the air, and a tight knot of fear forms in your chest. “Haunted? What do you mean?”

He glances at you, his eyes gleaming strangely in the dim light. “I’ve seen things here. Shadows that move on their own, voices that whisper in empty rooms… This isn’t a game. This place was created by people who wanted to watch others suffer, who find entertainment in fear and despair.”

A shiver runs through you as his words sink in. “So, they’re just… watching us? For their own sick entertainment?”

He nods, his gaze never leaving yours. “Exactly. They trap people here, turning their fear into a spectacle for whoever is watching. Once you’re here, it’s nearly impossible to leave, never able to see your loved ones ever again.”

You bite your lip, glancing around the dark hallway as anxiety gnaws at you. Your hands are shaking as you clasp them together, murmuring a silent prayer for your friends. The weight of your worry presses down on you, and you can feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes as the hopelessness begins to creep in.

“Don’t worry too much, sweetheart,” Haechan says, his voice soft and soothing. “I’m here with you. I’ll help you find your friends.”

You nod, giving him a small, shaky smile. His calm presence does ease some of your fear, though a part of you wonders how he can be so composed. But as you focus on his steady gaze, something flickers in his eyes, something you can’t quite place—a look of satisfaction, as though he’s pleased by your fear. For a moment, the corners of his mouth lift into a small, almost imperceptible smirk.

But when you blink, the expression is gone, replaced with a look of earnest concern.

You brush off the uneasy feeling, telling yourself it’s just the atmosphere of the place playing tricks on you. “So, you’ve really been here… for days?”

He nods, keeping his gaze trained on you. “More or less. Time feels different here. You start to lose track of it after a while. Some days, it feels like hours are slipping by in minutes, and other days, it feels like I’ve been wandering for centuries.”

You can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy. “That must be terrible. Being alone for so long… I can’t imagine how you must feel.”

His eyes soften, and he looks at you with a gentle intensity that sends warmth spreading through you. “It was… until now.”

You feel your cheeks heat up under his gaze, his words lingering in your mind. There’s something both comforting and unsettling about him, a duality that leaves you unsure of how to feel. He’s kind, attentive, a stranger nonetheless, but there’s a unusual shadow in his eyes, an intensity that you can’t quite shake.

As you walk further down the corridor, a sudden chill sweeps through the air, making you shiver. Haechan notices and steps closer to you, his hand brushing against yours. “You’re safe with me,” he murmurs, his voice low and reassuring. “I promise.”

But despite his comforting words, something about the way he says it feels… off. The reassurance feels too practiced, like he’s said it a thousand times before, knowing exactly how it would affect you. You glance at him, meeting his gaze, and you swear you catch another glint of amusement, almost like he’s enjoying your unease.

Shaking off the thought, you try to refocus on finding your friends. “Do you think… they’re okay? My friends, I mean.”

Haechan pauses, as if considering his answer. “Maybe. If they’re smart, they’ll find a way to keep moving, just like we are.” He gives you a comforting smile, but that flicker of darkness in his gaze hasn’t fully disappeared.

You murmur another silent prayer, hoping your friends are safe, wherever they are.

As you continue through the twisted corridors, a realization starts to dawn on you—something about Haechan’s demeanor doesn’t quite add up. The calmness, the knowing glances… It’s as though he’s hiding something, and each time you catch a glimpse of his eyes, it’s as if he’s letting a bit of the mask slip, showing you a side of him he’s trying to keep hidden.

Finally, unable to shake the uneasy feeling, you glance at him and ask, “You said you’ve been here for a long time… How have you managed to survive all this time? Isn’t there any way out?”

Haechan smiles, a strange, almost secretive smile that sends a new chill down your spine. “Oh, I’ve managed,” he replies vaguely. “I’ve learned a lot about this place. Enough to know that it’s better not to trust anyone. Not even me.”

You freeze, your heart racing as his words sink in. “What… what do you mean?”

He gives you a long, intense look, his expression unreadable. “I mean, you don’t know who or what you’re dealing with here. That’s part of what makes it so interesting, don’t you think?”

The realization hits you like a cold wave– you aren’t sure if Haechan is telling the truth, or if he’s been playing with you all along. But the look in his eyes, that glint of amusement and satisfaction as he watches your fear grow, leaves you with a terrifying suspicion.

This man, this stranger you’ve been trusting, isn’t lost like you are. He isn’t just another victim of this twisted game. He’s something else entirely, something far more dangerous– he's apart of the game.

As he steps closer, that smirk creeping onto his face once more, you realize that he doesn’t want to help you escape.

“What are you–” you begin, but Haechan shushes you, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. He leans in, his presence overwhelming as you find your back against the wall, and arms pressed above your head.

His smirk widens as he leans close, his voice soft but chilling. “This is your first challenge, sweetheart. Try to escape me.”

Your heart races, and without a second thought, you shove him off and sprint down the dark hallway, feeling his gaze burning into your back. At this point, you can’t focus on directions or clues; all you want is to find your friends and get back to safety.

From behind, his mocking voice echoes through the hallway, closer than you expected. “It’s too late, sweetheart. Your friends won’t be looking for you any time soon. You’re stuck with me, after years of being apart.”

Before you know it, his hand wraps around your wrist, pulling you through a hidden door concealed by shadows. You stumble inside, disoriented by the sudden brightness. Unlike every room you’ve seen so far, this one is consumed by light, making you squint as your eyes adjust, your back resting on the padded floor.

Haechan’s smirk hasn’t faded. In the brightness, you take in his features more clearly—his sharp jawline, the glint in his dark eyes, the smirk playing at his lips. You hate to admit it, but his presence is overwhelming in an unsettling yet strangely magnetic way.

He hovers over you, his gaze locked onto you, his eyes roaming as though he’s savoring your unease. He leans in, brushing his lips close to your ear. “Don’t fight it,” he whispers. “This is where the real game begins.”

Before you know it, his lips are against yours, and you find yourself kissing him back. It feels insane, but something about him draws you in, almost as if you're under a spell, a force you can't resist.

He pulls away, his chest heaving, his eyes darker now, pupils wide with desire. "The moment I saw you, I knew," he murmurs, his voice thick with desperation as he cups your face in his hands. "I knew you were the one to set me free. I've been waiting lifetimes for you."

A shiver runs through you as his words sink in. Your brows knit together. "Who... who are you?" The question slips out more like a plea than anything else.

His lips curl into a smirk, his voice dropping to a soft murmur. "Everything you've been waiting for. There's a reason we're drawn to each other." He tuts softly, eyes gleaming.

"Who do you think led your spirit here?"

Your gaze flickers around the room, realizing he's still hovering over you, his body pressing you into the ground. When your eyes lock again, you feel it—a pulse of craving, dark and intense, matching the hunger in his gaze

Suddenly, nothing matters anymore. All that exists is the heat between you, the electric pull that holds you both in place, and the thrill of his body pressed so close to yours.

Your lips crash against his, this time initiated by you. He's momentarily stunned, taking a second to adjust, but before you can even let out a whine, he matches your movements.

His hands find their way to your waist– his thumb rubbing circles against your skin. “Is this what you want? To remind you of my touch?” His knee placing pressure against your core.

A faint moan escapes your lips, you know this was so wrong, but feels so right. Your hips buckling– trying to match his rhythm as you attempt to ride his knee. “Hae..chan….”

His name slipping through your thoughts causes his eyes to darken. He lifts your hips up, your leggings quickly being tugged off your skin.

It didn’t take him long enough to get you wet. His mouth practically drooling while admiring your core.

His face inching closer to you, very rapidly feeling his breath against your heat causing you to slightly lift your hips. “No teasing… please,” you whimper, unable to wait any longer for him.

Haechan lets out a slight laugh, sounding cynical. “I’m sorry baby, I just like to admire what’s mine.”

Before you can respond his fingers found their way to your clit, rubbing small slow circles over your underwear. His eyes nearly burning into your soul, the way he watches every single one of your reactions, feeding off of them.

Before you could plea for more, Haechan pulls your undergarment to aside, working his mouth against your core. His tongue lapping against your swollen clit, leading all the way down to where you were nearly dripping for him. He saw this as an opportunity to get rid of the last piece of clothing concealing your lower half, gripping your thighs, and yanking you closer to his mouth.

“Tastes so fucking good,” he moans against you, the vibrations of his voice to your body sending you in chills.

You had so many questions to ask him. You wanted to know who he really is, what he is really is. Yet, here you are having a stranger eat you out. What bothers you more is the immediate attraction and pull you feel toward him. You’ve had your fair share of one-night stands and exes, but none of them have ever affected you the way Haechan does.

The feeling was all too much for your body to handle, your eyes practically glued to the ceiling– seeing stars.

Haechan notices this, his mouth releasing from sucking at your clit. He slaps the side of your ass, causing you to jolt looking down to his eyes.

“Focus baby, I want you to watch how I fuck your pretty pussy– I mean look at this,” he slams two fingers into you, the sharp breath you intake being the only thing keeping you on alert.

He growls at the feeling of your insides squeezing desperately against his fingers, but before he gets ahead of himself he takes them out slowly. With his other hand, he grabs your face, looking directly into each other’s heavy eyes– he brings his fingers to his mouth, licking and sucking the mess you left on them.

A moan escapes your lips, “I need more…please…”

“What more do you need, princess? Is this not enough for you?” His fingers find their way back inside of you, thrusting hard but slow, his thumb matching the same rhythm on your clit.

“Are my fingers not enough for you? Are you worried your friends might find you like this?” Suddenly the door slams wide open as if it were by a gust of wind, assuming it was Haechan’s work.

By reflexes you attempt to shut your legs together, squirming beneath him. You know your friends are probably on the other side of the building right now looking for you– but the thought of them finding you being fucked by this ‘entity’ triggers a rush of excitement through your body.

He holds your legs apart with his free arm. Between Haechan’s teases, the pace against your core, and the pressure of his thumb– you were more than ready for your release.

“F-Fuck… I’m going to–”

“Do it, baby. Cum all over my fingers. Show the world how desperate you are to get your pussy fingered by me,” his pace fastens, his face desperate to watch you collapse on him.

“Haechan!” You scream his name as loud as possible, his fingers continuing to ride out your orgasm. It felt as if a life time of pleasure within the time of him slowing down his pace, to you finally catching your breath back as he slides right out of you.

The emptiness from inside you causes you to frown. You didn’t notice till this moment, Haechan had taken off his clothing while you were recovering, finally getting rid of the rest of yours.

“You did so good for me, princess,” his lips trailing from the side of your face to your neck, eventually to your breasts.

You take a deep breath, still not fully recovered from your previous high. “I’m still sensitive,” you murmur to him as his tongue flicks over your nipple, his spit already coating them.

He pushes himself off of you, repositioning you both so that this time, you’re on top of him. Your eyes face the still–open door ahead of you, while he faces the wall behind you. You look down as you two align yourselves together, practically teasing each other.

You couldn’t help but stare at his cock, cursing yourself as you didn’t notice how thick and big he is.

The thought of him being inside you sends a shiver down your spine and your lip quivering. “You’re so big... I need to feel you, I want to feel you inside of me please. No more games,” your face grows hot after realizing how pathetic you sound, but this only sends Haechan to laugh in response.

“You want it so bad? Well if that’s what you want–” before he finishes his sentence he grabs you by the waist slamming you down into him. “Then that’s what you fucking get,” he groans into your ear.

A few curses and moans left your lips as you watch his cock disappear into your insides. The sound of your wetness against his skin filling not only the room but echoing in the hallway as well. His thumb pressing over the indentation of his cock against your skin, whimpers escaping him due to the sight. This was everything and more than what he had been waiting for.

Your hands find their way to his dark hair, grabbing a good amount as you fuck yourself on him, grinding down to his own rhythm. His hands find their way to your throat, squeezing the right amount to have your eyes rolling back.

“That’s right baby, put on a show for everyone to see. Let’s show everyone how good I fuck you– how needy you get, begging to be filled up. I hope your pathetic friends walk by any second to watch as my cock fills you up… but I bet you would like that huh? Look at you, trying to escape my cock knowing how much you fucking want it,” He grunts, his hips lifting as he starts fucking himself deeper into you.

“Answer me when I speak to you,” he slaps your ass again, the stinging sensation bringing you back to the moment.

“Yes!” You scream.

“Yes what?”

“Yes! I want everyone to see how good you fuck me! I want them to see you fill me up!”

That famously known smirk appearing on his face for a last time before he flips you over on your back again, lifting one of your legs over his shoulder to bury himself deeper into you.

“I want you to say my name when you cum, baby. You think you’re capable of that, hm?” His pace fastens on you.

You body starting to shake from the pleasure as he starts hitting your sweet spot, his thrusts causing an additional burst of pleasure against your clit.

“Haechan! Haec..” you scream his name as if it were the only word you ever knew. Your insides throbbing tightly against him, he curses under his breath twitching inside you as you bring him to his release, letting his seed drip down your thigh.

You groan at the feeling of him leaving you, already missing the warmth he brought. The both of you finding yourselves back to reality and that’s when it all started hitting.

You just had sex with some sort of supernatural entity.

And you liked it.

You feel Haechan’s warm breath against your ear as his voice drops to a low whisper. “Your friends… they’re free to go. As for you, sweetheart…” His eyes lock with yours, and this time, they’re filled with something deeper, darker—a fierce longing mixed with possessiveness, a completion he’s longed for.

He brushes his thumb over your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle. “You don’t remember me,” he murmurs, his gaze never leaving yours, “but we’ve been together before… lifetimes ago. We were meant to be, you and I.” He traces his thumb along your jaw, a soft smile pulling at his lips. “When you lost your life back then, I followed soon after. I’ve been stuck here ever since, a place where lost souls are tied to, searching. I’ve been waiting for your spirit to return back to me.”

A chill runs through you, your heart racing as his words sink in. Your mind scrambles to process what he’s saying, but you can’t deny the strange pull, the connection that seems to tether you to him. It feels… ancient, familiar in a way you can’t explain.

He leans in closer, his forehead pressing gently against yours. “You may not remember, but I know you feel it too. You’ve always been mine.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, both thrilling and unsettling, and for a moment, you feel yourself drawn into his world, his promise of an eternal bond. His arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, his touch possessive yet filled with an almost aching tenderness. “Now that you’re here,” he whispers, “we can finally be together. Forever.”

Your stomach twists as his words linger in your mind. Slowly, the reality sets in—while your friends will walk free, you’re bound to stay. His smile is soft as he strokes your hair, but there’s something haunting in his eyes, something that makes it clear this is not a choice. He’s waited lifetimes for you, and he won’t let you go.

A chill of fear creeps in, breaking through the warmth of his embrace. You glance toward the exit, the realization hitting hard: you’re not meant to leave. You’re bound to this place, your spirit destined to remain here… forever with Haechan.

As he pulls you closer, his words echo in your mind, a promise and a sentence intertwined. And though his gaze is filled with love, a deep-rooted fear takes hold. You know that this, now, is your eternity—your soul forever tethered to his, within these walls.

#haechan #lee haechan #lee donghyuck #haechan x reader #donghyuck x reader #nct haechan #haechan smut #donghyuck smut #nct 127 x reader #nct dream x reader #haechan angst #haechan fanfic #nct smut

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peoplesgraves · 10 months ago

Text

Imagine being a Royal who can’t escape obsession

Yandere Knight who’s been trained for the honor of protecting the royals their entire life. Who’s had any semblance of self beaten out of them instead being filled with nothing but reverence for their favorite. At first their obsession is devoid of romance, solely based on their divine duty to protect you. They’re happy just to stay by your side and content with forgoing their own life in favor of yours. That would all change the moment they actually get hurt protecting you. They expect to be broken just like when they were a kid, destroyed and remade stronger, better for you. Instead you are gentle and kind, you help nurse their wounds and their obsession transitions from one of duty to one of love. No longer content to die for you, now they must live for you, their beloved royal. No matter how many people they have to cut down your knight will never forsake their love.

Yandere Advisor a few years older than you but much much younger than your other advisors. They were a prodigy, groomed from a simple stable hand to the person they were today. Their incredible intelligence, tactical mind and people skills make them invaluable to the kingdom but they find themself laying awake night after night. Not worrying for the people but for you instead. They care not for the opinion of other royals or their peers but only of yours. They view everyone as below them, sure their friendly and compassionate on the surface but below the skin lies a bubbling darkness. Every meeting with you that’s interrupted by some silly problem or royal ball they’re forced to miss due to work, they find their facade cracking. They contemplate abandoning the wretched kingdom you loved, whisking you far far away so they can finally have what they love. For now though they’ll wear their cracked mask and guide you as gently as they can, both in your role as a royal and towards your devoted advisor.

Your families resident Yandere Wizard is a strange creature. Equally out of their mind as they are terrifyingly cunning. They slip between the two states so easily that it’s not quite clear which is their true self, maybe they’re both just hiding what truly lurks below their calculating eyes and outrageous outfits. Despite being perfectly capable of turning whatever enemy crossed their path into nothing more than a pile of dust, they prefer to use their magic in more…joyful ways. Turning your dress into whatever color you fancied at the moment or making flowers appears out of thin air whenever you seemed down. Some may call it a waste of their gift but they knew the truth, knew that nothing was a waste if it was done for love. They turn their tower into an inviting place for you and makes sure you know you’re always welcome, that they’ll always have time for their royal. They contemplate keeping you up in their tower forever and using their magic to bring you bliss until the end of days. They would give you whatever you wanted because all they wanted was you.

A Yandere Witch who’d started as a simple forest witch. Content to live in her small cabin among the trees and animals, only ever going into the royal city when they needed supplies or to sell off potions at the marketplace. Sometimes people would come to them for help with their maladies or to try and observe their strange skills for themselves and usually they’d abide before sending them on their way and going back to their solitude. Lately though their solitude wasn’t the great comfort it had once been. Something was missing or rather someone. They found themself going into the royal city more and more, not just flitting in and out of the market place but becoming a frequent fixture. So frequent in fact that under cover of night and a cloak you’d come to seek them, hearing of their skills on one of your visits to greet the subjects. They indulged you, allowing you to watch their work until the sun starts to peak through the horizon and to their joy you keep coming back whenever you can. They becomes so fond of your company that they consider getting rid of that pesky wizard of yours and offering themself for the royal court instead.

A Yandere Maid and your closest confidant, a fact they very much likes to rub in to anyone who will listen. They’d been raised for this since birth, the knight was raised to protect you sure but they were raised to serve. To handle every tedious, boring or undesirable aspect of your life so you’d never be anything less than content. It was a job they took very seriously, keeping detailed lists of what you liked and didn’t like, paying the shadiest people to vet any new people you came into contact with before you ever met them and of course helping in more normal ways too. Because you trust them so implicitly it’s startlingly easy to get rid of any favors of affection from anyone else, after all you didn’t need anyone else. Only they could take care of you the way you needed, it was their purpose, you were their purpose.

The Yandere Jester is perhaps the least assuming of yanderes. Always joking and smiling and laughing and prodding oh so subtly. Telling you stories of when they were sent to the gallows and their escape even fantastical tales of robbed royals, mysterious murders and other various crimes and misfortunes. Ultimately these were assumed to be humorous fibs from a misguided jester but still some nobles would whisper theories while looking at the jester fearfully, saying they were an escaped madman or perhaps a demon in human form. Truthfully no one but you seemed to like them much, always acting as if they were a rabid bloodthirsty beast and they were, to anyone else at least. To you they were a lapdog, hungry only for your laughter and joy. Eventually their stories get to be less about the past and more about the future, talks of how funny it’d be to steal away their beloved and leave all these silly nobles heads spinning. They don’t sound quite as funny telling that one, but still you smile politely and they love you even more for it.

Yandere Suitors sent from other kingdoms, mostly weaker ones seeking to form an alliance but also a few from stronger kingdoms, even empires who simply had a spare and figured it couldn’t hurt or needed agreements on something specific from your kingdom such as a rare resource. Eventually as more and more suitors came and then refused to return home even after rejection, they ended up as more of an unwanted harem situation. Constantly making and breaking alliances with each other to try and gain favor, flitting around the palace ordering servants around to make sure everything perfect all the time for you. Each trying to be seen as the best spouse for you, dreaming of the day you pick them and send the rest home, in pieces if required. Always whispering gossip in your ear, offering to warm your bed or accompany you out of the palace. Theyd do anything to be your favorite, just one step closer.

Throngs of adoring, Yandere Royal Subjects, even people from the far away villages and outer edge territories make their way to the royal city when you make a grand appearance in town. Cheering and waving colorful flags made from scrap, some huddled in groups giving blessings for your safety and health hoping they’d be extra effective with you so close. Parents hold up their kids as high up as they can hoping you’d bless them through the carriage window as they’d seen you do before. People insist on giving gifts and offering, although not to you directly once the royal entourage passes many march to the castles gates and leave them there, in place for your return. While many have negative views on other royals or monarchy in general, none ever seem to extend to you, their beloved royal. Any citizen led attacks or rebellions to the crown always seem to happen when you’re away and never touch your preferred parts of the castle or castle grounds, the very worst that’d ever happened to you was when a small outlier group raided your room and stole a few things. Those same outliers were later found bled out in the middle of town,in the middle of the day, with absolutely no witnesses. Everyone in town knows what happened of course, justice was served.

Yandere Assassin who was the best, never once caught or suspected for the hundred deaths they’d directly caused, so disconnected from themself and from the world that every new identity and culture they found themself ingratiated in felt just as much like home as anywhere else, nothing felt real or right so what did it matter who they were or who they killed. Not until they were assigned to your kingdom, to your family, did they finally start to understand what it meant to be alive and just how precious life was. Years of blood on their hands hadn’t taught them to live but a week with you and their heart was beating for the first time. They mostly watched from the sidelines, acting as just another servant. They watched how the other royals misuse their power to mistreat the people, each other and most egregiously, you. They watch as the others ignore and placate you, watches as they lie and cheat and subjugate the masses and they’re disgusted. It’s amazingly easy to poison their wine, everyone who could possibly be a threat to your ascension. They know you’ll be upset for a while at the loss of your ‘family’ but they promise to be there for you and now that they’ve taken a permanent position in the castle they’ll have all the time in the world to look out for you.

A local Yandere Dragon who kidnaps you every few weeks or so. Of course the first time you’d been terrified, a huge thundering monster snatches you from your visit to the courtyard and just flies off, with you in its talons. Though once back at their surprisingly not horrible cave, you come to understand them a bit. At least more than any other human had ever bothered to. Some knights from your kingdom had stolen from their horde and they wanted whatever it was back, sure being kidnapped wasn’t great but at least they were negotiating instead of just destroying the place in revenge. They are gruff and unpracticed but ultimately harmless to you and after a guarantee of their stolen treasures return you too are returned home. Though every few weeks the dragon seems to have some new grievance that requires the beloved royal as collateral and in that time they grow to be more and more comfortable around you, their little human. Should your kingdom ever wise up to their trick and try to fight against the dragon for you it wouldn’t be pretty. Last time someone stole from their horde they negotiated, that time, they’d burn the kingdom to the ground and take what was theirs, permanently.

#yandere royalty #yandere dragon #yandere assassin #yandere jester #Yandere maid #yandere wizard #yandere witch #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x royal reader #yandere x royalty reader #x royal reader #x royalty reader #yandere knight

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cheralith · 4 months ago

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Cannibal Kaiser losing his actual mind at someone even slightly raising their voice at you. Truly unhinged doesn’t even begin to describe him if someone were to actually hurt you

:) az :)) AZ :))))) AZRAEL :)))))))''))):://:::)))

feat. michael kaiser || wc: 2.3k cw: gn!reader, they/them pronouns, dark content/dddne: cannibal!kaiser, blood, gore, violence, mentions of past child abuse, possible verbal child abuse? a/n: ive been meaning to write something more for this fucker so thank u az my love for the ask this was way longer than anticipated tho SORRYRYR oh also this takes place a few months after "compulsions."

Your aunt is one thing.

The younger sister of your father, she's always been this rather meek, mousy woman—her own voice always just slightly above a whisper with this ageing creak to it. She walks with a slouch and often has her eyes flickering about everywhere, as if she was anticipating something.

Your uncle is another. This large, brood man with a permanent crease in his brow, shoulders always stiffened to a straight 180° angle. His voice is flat, devoid of any other emotion besides austerity, his tone as stony as his face. Often huffs at even the slightest thing he disapproves of.

So it's safe to say that you and Michael often have to walk on eggshells around him when you were placed under their care temporarily after the incident. You had never heard much about your uncle, with your father often frowning whenever he was mentioned prior to the incident. He'd only say that your uncle was just a serious that wasn't fond of children, which was why he and your family seldom visited one another.

Hence possibly why he didn't greet you and Michael in the same warm manner as your aunt, who greeted you with a shaky smile and even shakier hands, only looking at the two of you up and down before huffing and telling you both to not touch anything in their house.

Michael doesn't like him—your uncle. The man reminds him of someone all the familiar, and he very much does not enjoy almost living the part of his life where the worst of the worst had happened to him. His mannerisms, the strict tone in his voice, his behaviors... all of them seemed uncannily alike to his father who he consumed nearly half of just at the age of eight.

Your uncle doesn't physically hit you and him in the same manner that his father did, but the way he berated you when your aunt was out of sight seemed like a close mirror-image. He'd nitpick at little details or shame you for even the most minor of mistakes, all of them pushing Michael just a little further to irritation. He'd do the same to Michael, but it was never as lengthy, just him telling the boy to get his act right.

The color of life has been drained from you... Michael thinks. Your eyes don't sparkle anymore, they just blankly stare forward unless your attention was called. Your pallid skin looks waxy, gaunt cheekbones starting to hollow. Your voice has diminished, only answering in small, brief replies, as though words were a scarcity to you. Michael hasn't seen you smile since before the incident happened.

The world has taken its toll on you and no one can see it more visibly that Michael himself. The worst part of it is that he doesn't know what to do. And it truly doesn't help that your uncle just doesn't seem to take in your current state, your presence being nothing but a bother to him.

"Oi, you're not eating again?" your uncle grunts to you at dinnertime, biting his spoon when he sees that your soup was still filled in your bowl. "You're gonna waste precious food one more time? After your aunt worked so hard to feed two extra mouths?"

You lift your head up to him, only staring with that melancholy look in your gaze until you return it and pick up your spoon, feeding yourself morsels.

Michael narrows his eyes at him, but says nothing, scooting your chair closer to his to keep you away from your uncle. Your aunt murmurs something about how you might not have an appetite, only to be met with a roll of eyes from your uncle.

"Wash and dry the dishes properly," he commands to you both afterwards, with you quietly handing over the dishes to Michael for him to dry off with the rag. Your uncle fends for the couch, slouching himself over it with a beer and turning on the television, a sight that Michael often saw in his childhood with a different man, but same disposition.

Michael waits for you in your small, shared bedroom to finish bathing, a space that he thinks was probably a storage closet at one point. You come back later, still desolated, and you and him tuck yourselves into the flimsy twin mattress on the floor, bedframe lacking, the fleece blanket just barely covering you both.

Your eyes heave with exhaustion as the minutes go by, Michael’s heartbeat lulling you to sleep as he holds you in his arms to share a warmth, but you hear your uncle’s roar from downstairs—making you and Michael shoot up in bed at its urgency.

You scurry down, Michael tailing behind not much further, and you’re greeted with your uncle holding up a bowl with ire scrabbled all over his face.

Michael stands in front of you a bit, furrowing his brows when your uncle’s jaw grits at the sight of you and him.

“Who…” he starts, creaking his neck popped with a vein towards you. “… washed the dishes? And left this stain here?”

At a closer look, if one were to really squint, there was a small remnant of the soup still leftover on the rim of it. Hardly larger than the tip of a fingernail, it was almost impressive how your uncle had seen something so small given his age.

A stifling silence goes by in the kitchen. Michael flickers his eyes at your meek, turtling state and steps up to take the fall. "I di—"

"I did," you suddenly state dryly, tugging Michael back to his astonishment. He gawks at you, your name being muttered out of his mouth to try and stop you, but you insist on shouldering whatever comes next. "I was the one who washed the dishes. I'm sorry I didn't properly clean it."

Your uncle's bares his teeth, "What? Were you so spoiled back at home that you never learned how to do your chores properly?" he spits, his voice grating Michael's ears.

He hates the way your uncle looks at you, talks to you. An undeserving treatment, Michael finds your uncle too irrational for his liking. His hands twitch, but he balls them into fists to properly restrain himself, nails digging into his palm as he fights the pool of saliva beginning to build in his mouth when he stares at your uncle, the ghost of his father behind him.

"No," you murmur, "I just... was careless this time. I'm sorry."

"What if we had guests over, huh!?" he declares, shoving the bowl up to your face so you can properly look at the stain. You flinch and cower back. "Imagine if they saw this. They'd think of us as sloppy! You want that? Huh?!"

His voice is like nails on a chalkboard—this wretched, grimy sound that makes Michael squirm uncomfortably in a phantom pain. You wince at your uncle's tone that shoves itself in your ear.

"You don't have to keep yelling," Michael says in defense of you when he notices your scrunched face, his irritation beginning to brew again. "I think your message got through perfectly fine."

Your uncle snaps his attention towards him, his fiery eyes meeting stony steel blue hues, a quiet storm building up inside of them.

"What did you say to me...?" your uncle jeers.

Michael doesn't falter at your uncle's intimidation, only holding out a hand to shield you from him as your uncle slowly approaches the two of you. "Why do you feel the need to yell? I'm sure we can both hear you from where we're at."

"Don't sound smart with me, boy," your uncle threatens, jabbing a finger in his direction that Michael's jaw ticks at when he stares at it. He licks his lips. "No one ever taught you to respect elders?"

He swallows down the saliva gathered in his mouth to properly speak again, his head starting to throb.

"I'm just saying," he says, the intensity of his gaze not wavering in the slightest.

"Micha, don't—" you plead but your uncle is quick to drown your voice out again.

Your uncle hisses at you again loudly, a mangled look in his eye. "Stupid child, who said you can butt into this?!"

His voice is truly scathing itself against Michael's eardrums, and the pain worsens when you squeak out in fright and shuffle behind Michael ever so slightly, but the small tick in your behavior is enough to shoot Michael off his own rocker. No one is allowed to yell at you like that, especially not from a pig like your uncle.

"Don't fucking yell at them!" Michael hollers suddenly at him, giving him a taste of his own medicine before your uncle can spit out anything more to hurt you. Michael's teeth squeak against each other as his chest heaves, nails beginning to draw blood from his palm. "Shut the fuck up already, you bastard!"

Your uncle steps back at the tone of the boy's voice, eyebrows raising at his sudden volume. The disrespect is slapped across your uncle's face, his shock slowly beginning to contort into an anger that makes Michael venture back into the past. The bared teeth, the boiling reddening skin, the twitching of the eye, the balled and raised fist that his eyes follow... it all comes back to him.

"You fucking brat—?!"

Michael braces for impact, a sensation that he hadn't felt in awhile being welcomed back into his body, ready to take on the blooming bruise again, but it never comes.

The sound does, however, the booming impact of knuckles against skin and a body crashing to the floor making him pry open his eyes.

They widen drastically at what he sees in front of him. You, on the floor, clutching your cheek with a small moan. Your body shivers from the impact and you stagger trying to lift it up properly, coughing suddenly. Flecks of blood spit out from you, red stippling the tile floor.

Your uncle steps back in horror, his fisted hand uncurling and shaking while looking ghastly at the sight of your fallen self in front of him.

Michael lifts his eyes from your figure to your uncle, the blood pumping through his body now thundering loudly in his ears when he fixates his gaze on your uncle. He hit you. Your uncle punched you in the face. Your uncle... your own kin... he hurt you.

He hurt... you.

He... hurt you.

Michael's jaw ticks again, his stomach growling despite just eating dinner a few minutes ago. He lets out a shaky breath.

"Shit... shit!" your uncle cusses as your body falls to the ground again at your second attempt to gather yourself. He stumbles back onto the kitchen counter, clutching his forehead with the same hand he punched you with.

A shiver runs down Michael's spine, shocking his body alive with a familiar sensation of ferocity to properly process his surroundings, at his target. He feels the saliva beginning to slick down from his chin as he opens his mouth to speak at him, a hunger he hadn't felt for awhile embedding itself in his stomach for the first time in years.

"Boy, call my wife—what the fuck?" your uncle catches the odd momentum Michael is caught in, this animalistic stare that bores into his figure with his blue eyes being replaced with a darker, intense scarlet. He salivates fast and hard, a gossamer waterfall beginning to drip onto the tile floor from his mouth that frame his teeth.

He punched you... your uncle hurt you, he thinks over and over again in his mind, replaying the moment he saw your body on the floor, your blood on the tiles.

"Oi..." your uncle starts shakily, his voice much more docile than before. "What's going on with you..."

You groan, feeling something wet and warm splat on your bruised cheek. You find a strength to finally lift your dizzying head up and wipe it off, looking up to see the source of it, only to gasp quietly at the sight of Michael twitching violently as he continues to gaze at your uncle with a sinister desire.

It's the first sign of something horrible about to happen, you've been taught it over and over again from your father so you know what to look for if ever the case. The odd, scarlet eyes partnered with a continuous ticks in the body...

"Micha..." you start. "Micha, don't."

You were so wallowed up in your sadness that you had nearly forgotten about Michael's disposition. Without his pills, without your father's supply of blood to keep his senses at ease, that state he fought so hard to keep within was finally beginning to rise to the surface again. But he was no longer than feisty eight-year-old runt that your father brought home all those years ago... seven years had done him justice and you don't know what on earth the current Michael is capable of in comparison to his earlier days.

You turn to your uncle, a pleading look in your eyes when he doesn't respond to you.

"Get out!" you cry out weakly to him. "Get out, please! If you know what's good for you!"

Your uncle finds the desperation in your face and decides to not waste another second, finding the exit of the kitchen and beginning to move towards it, but he only makes one merciful step towards it, his tracks being paused when a weight is added to his body, anchoring him in his place.

Michael lunges toward him, jumping onto his back and capturing him with his limbs, a fly caught in a spiderweb. His hands then claw into your uncle's head snapping his neck just enough to stiffen it to look at him so your uncle's horrified visage faces the beastly one Michael holds on his own.

The smell of flesh... he had forgotten how succulent of an aroma it was. Michael's eyes nearly roll back into his head when it overtakes his senses, pleasure rippling through him as he takes a deep breath. It had been awhile, hasn't it?

Your cries of his name go drowned in his ears, so do your uncle's shrieks as Michael embeds his nails further into his scalp, much too preoccupied with how savory your uncle's flesh smells and how pliable it looks... especially that cheek of his.

Michael gets a blurry sight of you in his peripheral vision, you holding your bruised cheek still, the impact and pain given by your uncle still fresh. They then return to the meat of your uncle's face towards him, staring at it with an open, drooling mouth.

Temptation pushes him, and his teeth sink deeply into the meat of it and tears it off harshly, the mixture of blood and muscle sending a rush of euphoria to his brain. You shriek out his name again as blood spills onto the floor and splatters your face, your uncle screaming out from pain, with Michael only watching as blood spurts, bone and teeth peeking out from the leftover layer of muscle unhinges itself. He licks his scarlet-inked lips, a smile stretching widely on his face from the exhilration.

An eye for an eye, Michael thinks to himself as he swallows, thick blood running down his throat, just before diving in for another bite.

#blue lock #bllk #blue lock x reader #michael kaiser #kaiser #michael kaiser x reader #michael kaiser x you #kaiser x reader #cw ; dark content #tw ; cannibalism #✍︎ ; alice in writingland

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colorfulrook · 3 months ago

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Hi! Could I get number 77, "I waited for you. Every day." with Sung Jinwoo? If you know EPIC The Musical I was thinking Penelope Odysseus vibes.

So Jinwoo goes away to fight something or other, and it's supposed to be a short, few month trip and he leaves reader back in their home. But stuff ends up happening, and it takes him forever to get home. Like, years on end. And reader's constantly being told that they should move on and find someone else, but they're all "No he'll come back." And then BAM! Jinwoo does indeed come back. And there's a tearful reunion then everyone's happy again yay!

Maybe make it a fantasy AU where reader is a princess? And Jinwoo was fighting a rival kingdom?

Not sure how much of this you could fit into a drabble, sorry if it's too long or complicated a plot 😅

Congrats on 100 💖

BLURBFEST 100X100 - #77. "I waited for you. Every day."

I AM OFFICIALLY BACK ON BUSINESS MY DARLINGS!!! Sorry for the long wait (couldn't help myself eheh) here you are my sweet 💖Anon. Happy reading my loves - Rook

The war was meant to last three months.

Three months that would be full of bloodshed on distant borders, of hardened letters sealed with trembling wax, of counting days and hoping every knock at the door wasn’t a messenger in mourning colors, but him — the love of your life.

Three months.

It had been five years.

Your fingers trembled against the embroidery hoop you hadn’t truly worked on in hours. The thread was still tangled near the border of the lake you were stitching — the same lake where you had kissed him goodbye, where his hand had held yours with quiet strength.

“Three months,” he had whispered, brushing his lips over your brow. “Then I’ll be home. To you. Always.”

You believed him.

And even now, five years later, when every lord and lady in the kingdom tried to convince you that Sung Jinwoo — your shadowborn knight, your raven-haired guardian, your love — was nothing more than ash scattered in some faraway valley, you still believed him.

So you waited.

In the same tower chamber he used to visit in secret, before your farther gave you his blessings. In the same gardens where his gloved hand would brush yours beneath the moonlight. You sat alone at feasts and walked alone by the river, where children whispered that the princess had lost her mind to love.

And when suitors came — war heroes with gilded swords, mages with glowing hands, kings with kingdoms to offer — you turned them all away.

“He’s dead,” your advisors pleaded, a hundred times over. “Princess, he’s gone.”

“I know what I saw in his eyes,” you always answered. “He’s coming back.”

But during those long years devoid of him, the only ones who kept coming back were them — spoiled princes with sugar-slick smiles and polished boots, their words sweetened with false promises and treaties laced in greed. They pawed at your kingdom like crows at a battlefield, drawn not by love, but by the glint of a crown and the prospect of having you on their side — not as a partner, but as a pretty conquest, a prize to parade before thrones built on ambition.

And yet, you remained unclaimed. Not untouched by sorrow, but unmoved by them. Because your heart had never been theirs to win.

Sometimes, when you were alone, you let yourself whisper his name just to hear it echo. Just to remember how it felt on your lips.

You were in the garden when the earth shifted.

Not metaphorically — truly. The ground trembled beneath your feet, low and steady like something ancient was waking. Shadows flickered between rose bushes, and the sky seemed to darken even though the sun was high. Then came the shouting.

Soldiers yelling their boots hammering on stone in a panic when black knights came from the main gate of the palace. Silent like stillwater they began to kneel, creating a path from you to the gate.

You rose slowly from the bench, afraid to hope. Too much hope can destroy you.

And then you saw him.

Black armor dusted in blood and soot. A dark cloak fluttering behind him like the wings of something eternal. His eyes — violet, fierce, weary — locked on yours across the courtyard.

Jinwoo. Your Jinwoo, alive

You didn’t think. You didn’t breathe. You just ran.

Down the stone steps. Across the tiled walk. Past the gasps of servants and the cries of stunned guards. You collided with him like a crashing wave, your hands reaching up, his arms catching you with the practiced ease of a man who had dreamt of this very moment a thousand times during his long days away.

“You’re real,” you sobbed, clinging to the chestplate still warm from battle. “You’re — you’re real.” Your fingers slick with the blood on it, but damn it all, you didn't care. Because he was there.

His voice cracked like thunder and silk. “I told you I’d come home.”

Tears blurred your vision as you pulled back, cupping his face, memorizing the new lines around his mouth and the fatigue in his gaze. “I—I thought I was losing my mind. Everyone said you were gone, Jinwoo. I was supposed to move on. Marry someone. But I couldn’t—”

And that was when his hand — still calloused, still gentle — brushed your cheek.

“I waited for you,” you whispered, voice shaking. "I've been waiting and waiting and waiting" tears rolled on your cheeks. “Every day.”

He swallowed hard, and his eyes glistened. “I know. I counted every sunrise without you. I saw your face every time I closed my eyes. I wanted to come back sooner—gods, I tried—but the kingdom we fought, they had magic I’d never seen. I was trapped. Hunted. But I never gave up. Because you were waiting.”

He pressed his forehead to yours. “You were my reason.”

The crowd around you had grown, nobles and servants and soldiers standing stunned at the sight of the girl who refused to stop loving a ghost — and the ghost who had come home.

You didn’t care.

In that moment, it was only you and him. Just like it had always been.

“Come home,” you breathed. “Come back to the palace. To me.”

His smile — tired, slow, real — bloomed like the first sun after a long storm. “Lead the way, Princess.”

You took his hand. The same hand that once fit perfectly in yours by the lake.

And as you walked back toward the castle, side by side, the crowd parted like the sea before a miracle.

You were whole again. Because this time, this time he was there to stay.

#solo leveling scenarios #solo leveling x reader #sung jinwoo x reader #solo leveling jinwoo #sung jinwoo x you #solo leveling fluff #solo leveling angst #solo leveling

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osaemu · 2 years ago

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HOME SWEET HOME FT. GOJO SATORU

✩ ‧ ˚. synopsis: gojo finally comes home to you after escaping from the prison realm

contents: fem!reader. non-explicit manga spoilers. kinda cliché.

there isn't quite a shade of blue that can exactly match the color of satoru's eyes. maybe his eyes are a mixture of all the blues you can think of, or maybe they're an enitirely new color. all you know is that without that color in your life, the world seems a little less vibrant.

eighteen days—that's how long your shared house has been devoid of satoru's overwhelming prescence. on the nineteeth day, he comes home.

your reunion is a mess of salt-drenched eyes and touch-starved hands, and for the first time in weeks you get the privilege of hearing his voice again.

"missed me, sweetheart?" satoru breathes, red-tinted eyes scanning your face for any sign of anger or injury. one of his hands rests on your waist, and the other lies on the back of your neck, holding you in place against his lips.

"yeah," you whisper, shaking your head and swallowing the painful lump in your throat. "a lot. i missed you a lot, satoru. i can't—" your voice breaks, and you look away, tears still trailing down your face.

for eighteen days, you weren't sure if he was dead or alive. for eighteen days, you thought you might never see him or hear his voice ever again. for eighteen days, your world was empty of the one person you could call home.

"tsk, always so dramatic," satoru mumbles in between kisses. he cups the side of your face and uses his thumb to wipe away your tears, but they keep coming endlessly. "i'm here, m'kay? save the crying for when i'm fucki-"

"satoru, i thought you were dead," you interrupt, not wanting to deal with his teasing just yet. "eighteen days. that's a lot of hours, and even more minutes," you sniffle, not caring that you barely make any sense.

"ah, darling, actually, they all add up to the same amount of tim—"

"satoru."

he grins ruefully, pressing his lips to yours again before you can continue speaking. one of his hands trails through your hair, and he smiles against your lips when the tears keep coming.

"baby, you're taking the saying 'cry me a river' a little too seriously," satoru says with a smile. he cups your face in both of his hands and makes you look at him. "i'm here. stop crying, please?"

you glare at him through tear-filled eyes and make a face. "...but i look really pretty when i cry."

"you're always pretty, sweetheart." right on cue.

"yeah, but my skin starts glowing and my eyes look gorgeous," you say, starting to smile. "and my lashes look so good, it's like makeup without actually having to—"

satoru cuts you off with another kiss, and this time, he doesn't pull away. his eyes are closed and you're close enough to count all of his lashes. you probably could if you didn't have to breathe—which is why you eventually have to tap satoru's jaw to get him to let you go.

"love you, sweetheart," satoru says, a lopsided grin on his face. he hasn't looked anywhere else but you since he walked in, and you haven't either. "haven't seen your pretty face in too long."

"love you too, even though you left me on delivered for eighteen days."

"well, i didn't really have a choice."

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jr-acrux101 · 4 months ago

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Soldat's Kin PT.2

Summary: He's alive but different. PT.1 Warnings: dark fic, kidnapping, no direct smut Word count: 4.6k Глупый - stupid Вверх - up Полоска - strip Симпатичный - pretty h/l - hair length береги её - keep her safe E/C-eye color H/C- hair color Сидеть - sit Кошка - cat Иди сюда - come here Зайчик - bunny

2024 -New York City

Sam scanned the battle field, looking for any survivors. The buildings were destroyed, half crumbled while others completely gone. He pulled up the screen attached to his wrist, he scanned, slowly, making sure to assess every pile of rubble. Before he decided to shut it off, he saw warmth emitting from the grabble. It was small; child-like. He rushed over, throwing the rocks off the small boy. He grabbed the child, not paying attention to his face, just trying to do his best to not hurt the body.

“Jamie!” A woman appeared, eyes red, face full of sorrow.

You cleared more of the rocks, as Sam was able to pull the boy fully out. He laid him carefully, the scanner gave full body heat; he checked the pulse, it was strong. He turned to the boy's face, and saw… Bucky Junior.

He watched you hover over the kid, desperation evident in your tone, “Jamie? Jamie!”

The young boy emitted a groan, showing he could hear you. “Oh thank god,” you bawled, one hand clutching your chest, relief in your veins. You drew a shaky breath as you turned to Sam, grabbing his hands in yours, “Thank you so much. Thank you.” Your voice was shaky, your heart still lost in fear.

“You don’t have to thank me ma’am.”

You nodded furiously, ready to talk, when a soft voice was heard, “Mom?”

Eyes wide, you turned your attention to your son, “I’m here. I’m here Jamie.” Hugging the boy, as he gained further consciousness. Sam gave a soft pat on the shoulder, along with a nod, before walking away.

‘That kid looks like it could be Buck’s twin.’ His mind went to Zemos, and Bucky’s devoid of emotion, at that moment. He turned to see you with your son, still there helping him slowly get up, ‘She looks too normal… too nice.’ He watched as you dusted the debris of your son, long h/c hair in a braid, eyes full of love - something Hydra agents lacked.

It ate at the back of his mind for weeks, before he finally asked something, “Hey Buck?” The park was full, as the two grabbed lunch.

Bucky paused, mid-bite, eyebrows furrowed, “What?”

“When,” he hesitated, what if he was wrong.

The man with the metal arm seemed to know what the question would be about, “What about Hydra Sam?”

“Did they- like, make you do other things besides killing?” The words were heavy as the atmosphere turned tense.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his right arm fixing his hair, “Why the sudden interest?”

Sam looked away in the distance, taking in the park square, “I saw a boy who looked like you.”

The ex-Winter Soldier paused, “That can mean anything, people have like 10 doppelgangers in their life.”

“I don't know Buck, that kid is like the spitting image of you. The only thing that was different was his eyes, they were e/c.”

Bucky's mind flashed his with an image of e/c eyes, red from crying. “So what, you think one of the orders I had when I was the winter soldier resulted in a hydra spawn.”

“I don't know about hydra spawn, the women looked sweet. But you know what they say, looks can be deceiving.”

“None of them would want- they were all power hungry women with no compassion for kids. Plus I was a lowly soldat, they probably wouldn't have kept the kid.” Bucky avoided eye contact, only moving his food around, hunger disappeared.

Sam nodded, the solemn mood growing too heavy for each other's comfort. Sometimes, often, the universe liked to prove that it was full of humor. “Jamie! Come back here!” There you were, holding an ice cream cone.

A young boy came cycling towards his mother, lo and behold to Bucky, there was the boy who was the spitting image of him. Sam’s eyes widened, he quietly whispered, “That’s her! That's the kid!” Bucky just stared, the boy was his twin; except, just like Sam had said, his eyes were e/c.

He started to gain a migraine. He stared and stared until they were passing them by. He heard a laugh drop from your lips, “Jamie come one, quit being silly and eat your ice cream. This is the only place that sells pancakes and syrup.” The two men turned to one another, upon hearing the child's name and favorite flavor. Bucky was a sucker for pancakes.

The child nodded to you, putting the training bike next to the bench. He sat finally, politely asking for his ice cream. You smiled at the boy, sitting next to him. Breathing in a deep breath of air, you felt eyes on your figure. Looking up, there were ocean blue eyes of the man with the metal arm. The two of you made eye contact, and suddenly you were back in hydra’s base; being dragged to your daily session with soldat.

Bucky internally flinched, the look of terror was evident on your face, he was no stranger to that look. Whilst it never crossed Sam’s name before, it dawned on him the roles could also be reversed. Before he could stop his friend, Bucky was out of the chair heading towards the mother and son. Sam narrowly missed Bucky. Your breath was caught in your throat, here was the father of your child; The Winter Soldier. “Soldat.” It was a whisper that Bucky caught, it heartbreakingly confirmed his suspicions.

The little boy took his attention away from his ice cream, seeing the man all clad in black and another in simple outing attire; plaid button up and jeans. The boy stared at the dark skin man before recognition set, “You’re the Falcon! That means you’re the Winter Soldier!” The boy jumped up off the bench, forgetting he had ice cream. Splat. It laid on the floor, as the child stared at flatten ice cream, tears welling up. He gasped through his sobs, “Mommy..m-my… ice… cream…”

Before you could react, Bucky lowered his height to match the 4 year old, “Hey it’s okay, I’ll get you a new one. It’s our fault for distracting you.”

The boy calmed down, his sobbing turned into sniffles, his face turning less blotchy red, “Promise?”

He held out a pinky, which Bucky held out his own, “Promise.” The little pouty lip turned into a toothy white smile. You watched the scene, this man didn’t seem like the Winter Soldier. Sam watched your reaction, you were more calm.

Sam made his way towards you, “If you want I can take your son to the ice cream shop, while you talk to Bucky.”

E/c eyes snapped to brown, “Bucky? I thought his name was James.”

“He likes to use his nickname.”

Hesitantly nodding, she stared at the man a bit more, “You’re the hero that rescued him?”

He held out his hand, “Sam Wilson, or as your son called me, The Falcon.”

She shakily took his hand, “Y/n L/n. Okay, well um-his flavor was blueberry pancake.”

Sam nodded, giving a little smile: in the back of his mind, that name rang a bell. “Okay so the little man likes that pancake flavor.” Jamie’s eyes snapped to Sam, excitingly nodding his head. Sam gave a laugh, “Alright, come on, I’ll buy you a new one.” The boy jumped for joy, taking Sam's hand and giving his mom a gummy smile.

Bucky sat down in the empty seat next to you. Muscles flinched as he did, your eyes trained on the shoes of people walking by. The man clenched his jaw before he spoke, “I’m sorry.” You didn't speak, so he continued, “I… I don’t remember even that happened in the base, with the torture, cryogenesis and… brain wash. I remembered everyone I killed but being in that basement is… fuzzy to me. I’m sorry for what I did and I am sorry for not remembering all of it. Most of the memories I have are only your eyes crying.”

You slowly faced him, as he was already seeking you, “I forgive you,” his mouth dropped as his eyes widened, “You spoke as someone who was under control, always about the ‘mission to procreate,’ I… I got help, therapy; 2 times a week. Even though my therapist said I didn’t have to forgive you, I wanted to. You were trapped there, just like me. Plus, I’ve always been a crier, so most remember me that way.” You gave an awkward laugh, uncomfortable with the past being brought to light. ‘I liked it,’ Bucky clenched his jaw again as the thought from his deep subconscious awoke. He opened and closed his mouth, like a goldfish, searching for the words to continue. You beat him to the punch though, “He’s yours, Jamie. He’s going to turn six soon.”

“Six?” ‘The boy should be older.’

“Yeah, when the blip happened…he uh… he was gone. He should be 10… but I’m just glad he’s back,” there was a sting behind your eyes, you rapidly blinked it away.

“I’m sorry.” It was the only thing Bucky could say at this point.

“He’s named after you.”

“How… did you find out my name? And how did you get out?”

You sniffled, “Vlad, the soldier assigned to me, let me go. His daughter… he said I reminded him of her. He also kept the other men away from me; Soldat’s Property. When he let me go, we passed a grave, it was filled with another person. I thought I was going to be killed. No more Soldat, no more Sodalt’s kin needed,” you inhaled thinking back to the time Vlad dragged you through the forest, “But he let me go, said you were an assassin and you were nowhere to be found. They panicked, not sending another person with Vlad to make sure the job was done, or maybe… the person in the grave was the second person. He told me your name was James, hence Jamie.”

Even though Bucky didn’t care for his name, he was touched. “Thank you,” it was small and almost unheard.

“You know, you weren’t a monstrous assassin in the room. I’m not sure if maybe you were given an order to be… hmm gentle, but you were. You call me cимпатичный every time...”

He nodded, he here was being comforted by his own victim, “Still, what I did to you, it's unforgivable.” His foot started to bounce, anger at himself was flooding his veins.

You shrugged, “It’s my choice, and I chose to forgive you.” You were hesitant to ask, but did so anyway, “What does it mean, cимпатичный?”

‘How could she forgive me! I’m a monster! She shouldn’t even be letting me near her or the kid!’ His thoughts were in a whirlwind, and the target was himself. You could see the internal struggle, this man was easier to read than his counterpart, “Sol-,” you cleared your throat, "Bucky?”

He looked at you, fully taking you. You were there, sitting with big eyes staring at him. Your h/l sat naturally, you s/t was glowing, as the sun hit your face he could see why he the Winter Soldier said that word. “He called you pretty.”

You sat a little straighter, mind reeling from knowing now that was his nickname and what it meant, “Oh, okay. Thank you.” You didn’t realize what you said, just reminiscing of every time the Soldat would call you that when he would finish inside you.

Bucky stared at her, brows furrowed and oblivious to where your mind was wandering, “Don’t express gratitude, what I- how cou- why? Why forgive me?” His tone was hard, a different remembrance was stirring inside you.

You were snapped back to the moment, head shaking, “I told you already. You were brai-.”

“No! You can’t just forgive so easily,” shock and anger were held in his soul.

“Please.” It was a hushed whisper as you clench the metal bench, stopping yourself from crying. The Soldat would never yell at you, but the tone of anger was similar.

Bucky turned upon hearing you, his anger evaporated as quickly as it came, “I-I… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he cut himself off, hands tugging down on his face.

You never wanted to admit it, “I fell in love with you, with the soldat.” You avoided the man's face, embarrassed to have revealed the secret you kept hidden for so long, “Like I said, you weren’t horrible in the cell. We were fucking almost every night,” a hollow chuckle left your lips, “You would hold me, like you needed my contact to breathe. And… you started to smile, you would take off the mask and do this little smirk or smile when we were done. You become less rigid, a little more human when we were together,” a sigh left your lips before you continued, “I don’t know, it was probably some form of Stockholm syndrome, but that doesn’t make what I felt any less real.”

His jaw hurt from clenching, “Do you miss him?”

Your eyes were the familiar red, holding back tears, “Insanely…yeah I do.”

He softened his demeanor, “I’m sorry.”

“You don't have to keep apologizing, I’ve already forgiven you.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop,” he hung his head, so many emotions clouded his person; shame, guilt, self-loathing. ‘Симпатичный.’ It was a whisper in his head, but Bucky was too late.

You glanced at the man, his stare turning blank. You leaned further back, the similarities he was presenting was the Soldat. As his eyes became glossy, he became emotionless. Your eyes widened: whilst you were true in your word about love, the fear of what he was always took up the back of your mind. You glance around the park, no sight of Jamie or Sam, ‘He must be watching him as he eats the ice cream.’ You hoped this was true. The gaze of the hollow man finally turned to you, “Симпатичный.”

You sucked in a breath, “Soldat?”

“Да.” He was here, staring at you.

A pit grew in your stomach, “Can… can I please talk to Bucky again?”

His gaze hardened, with his jaw clenched he spoke, “No,” it was anger filled.

‘It’s okay, just relax.’ You had to make it okay. Drawing in a breath to slowly release it, “Okay soldat. Did you want to keep talking here or did you want to go to yours?” You prayed it was the latter, not wanting to cause whatever the Winter Soldier could release.

The Soldat paused, relishing in being able to make a choice, “Mine.” He looked at you, emotionless eyes have a hint of humanity now.

The direct eye contact made your body flush, “Okay let me drop Jamie off at his play date and then we’ll go to yours.”

He shook his head, “No, kin stays with us.” He wanted the little boy to be with both his parents now.

You drew in another breath, calming your nerves. You leaned in, and he let you, gently touching his lower jaw. Your tone turned softer for him, always softer for the Soldat, “After okay, we can watch movies together or go for a walk, whatever you want but he has to go so we can talk Soldat.”

He glowered, teeth clenching his mouth shut. His nod was curt, barely visible to the untrained eye; but to you, it was evident. You slowly pulled back, when a long forgotten cold touch grabbed your hand, “Jamie?”

You nodded, a small smile forming on your lips, “Yeah Jamie.” He gave a nod of approval before letting you go, “Okay, I will be back in 10 minutes okay. Can you wait here?” Another stoic nod was given before you hesitantly turned away from the assassin.

You saw Sam and Jamie on the bench right outside the shop, the man gave you a smile unaware of the current situation unfolding. He stood up, lowering his voice so the child wouldn’t hear him, “I thought it would be best to let him eat it here, in case y’all weren’t done talking.”

You licked your lips, mind still really in from what was happening. “Sam?”

His smile slowly started to falter, fear was visible on you, “Yeah?”

You turned to Jamie, happily oblivious to the turn of events unfolding, you grabbed your cell phone - 1 inbox notification.

‘Hey almost there, walking to the ice cream shop :P’ It was sent 3 minutes ago, ‘Okay she should be here right now then.

“What’s going on?” Sam wasn’t liking how the atmosphere was feeling, his shoulders hunched and the smile was replaced by a frown.

Before you could speak, your sister was there, “Y/n!”

You whipped around the voice, giving a small tight smile, “Jamie come on, your aunt is here.” With the last bite of the cone shoved in his mouth, Jamie hopped off the bench running full speed with his little legs.

Your sister crouched down, meeting the child for a hug, “Jamie, aw I’ve missed you buddy. Are you ready to hang out with your favorite auntie?”

You walked forward, giving your family hugs, and waving them off. You watched them walk away, as you turned back to Sam, the Winter Soldier stood behind him. With your eyes wide and breath hitch, Sam turned around, not noticing the different demeanor yet. “Buck, my man. How did it-,” as Same went forward to talk to his friend, the brainwashed soldier flashed forward gripping his throat.

Sam coughed out, “Shit.” The realization that this man was no longer his friend. People started to stare, and you started to shake; anxiety was clawing at your throat.

“Soldat, please. Let your friend go.” You approached the man, gently holding his right arm. He gripped your hand, it was firm.

“This man is not my friend.” His grip loosened regardless.

“He’s Bucky’s friend, by an extension of yours. Please, let’s go to yours to talk, remember? That’s what you picked?” You prayed he would listen.

He let Sam go, you knew better than to rush and help Sam; it might upset the Soldier. The man was on the floor gasping for breath, the Soldier looked at you nodding his head to the direction, “Come.”

You gave Sam a small sad smile, mouthing ‘Safe,’ to him. With that the Winter Soldat gripped your hand with his metal one, taking you through the sea of people.

Sam hit the floor, “Fuck!” He stood up, running to his car, Joaquin's number already on dial.

The Soldat’s grip was firm but soft, he led you through the city, weaving in and out of alleyways. You were pretty sure that he added extra courses to throw you off. He pushed through a double door, you weren't able to read the name of the complex. You were indeed winded after 4 flights of stairs, the Winter Soldier seemed fine of course. He looked at your hand as he grabbed the keys, “I’m not going anywhere.” It was reassurance he needed, another slight nod before he let you go. The keys turned and a low click, and the door opened. There was another sound, bells jingling. A soft white tuft of fur was seen behind the arch, Soldat waited for you to enter first, which you complied.

The cat peaked its head out, a little meow hitting your ears. The cat lazily stretched forward, before going to inspect you. You knelt for Alpine so he could sniff, sniff, and sniff again; he patiently sat, waiting for a pet. You giggled at the small animal, the fur was soft and vibrations started to emit from it. A gruff voice was broke through your concentration of pets, “Кошка. Alpine.”

“You’re a very cute kitty,” you gave a last pet before the cat made its way to the Soldat. It purred as it rubbed itself against him. You saw the hesitation in the man’s eyes, “Give him a soft pet if you want.” He tentatively reached out, favoring his right arm this time, and he would agree the lush fur was soft and silky. Satisfied, the cat walked away into the hallway before lying down on the rug, ready to take a nap.

He stood next to you, a metal arm extended for you to take. You did so, dusting yourself off. The Soldat stared at you, you didn’t seem to age; not that he knew anything about you, only physical. He led you again down the hall, to his room; wooden floor, one seat, and a bed on the floor. The layout had you thinking of the base, just nice furniture and place. He stopped in front of the bed, “Сидеть.”

He followed his own instructions, he tugged at you gently, “I still can’t understand Russian Soldat.”

“Сидеть; it means sit, Зайчик.”

You nodded, now confused at the other word said. You shifted, and the bed creaked: memories creeped their way into your mind, your body burning as a result. You avoided the Soldiers gaze, knowing the flush of your skin was very much prominent. Soldat smirked, knowing what was being conjured in your head. “Y/n.” Your eyes widened, he never said your name before. You gave a nod as he looked to see if you heard him, “I… I have… missed you,” the words felt foreign on his tongue.

“I’ve missed you too, Soldat… But, why did you return Soldat?”

“Are you not happy to have me?”

Your eyes soften at the man, “Of course I am happy, but from my understanding Bucky has you…” you bit your lip trying to find the right word, “... has you… restrained.”

The Soldat smirked, “He is only in control because I let him.” Your face betrayed your thoughts, and he seemed to notice, raising an eyebrow he spoke again, “I saw you. I will be honest, I do not care what Bucky does most of the time but he was upsetting you.”

“So you came out to - in a way- stop yourself ?”

“I want to be with you, Y/n. Bucky was ruining my chance to see you more.”

You looked away, as the butterflies fluttered in your stomach, “You have grown a lot Soldat. But, this is also Bucky’s life. While we have a child together, I do not think he wants to be with me. And I have to respect that, it’s his choice.”

“What about my choice?” He gave a low growl, teeth clenched at what was said.

“You were in charge… no… what I mean is; while you had to take orders because you were brainwashed and had to survive, during that time - it was you in control. Bucky was trapped in his own mind for years Soldat, it’s only right he has his… time to be in control.”

“I don’t care.” You pressed your mouth into a thin line, of course Soldat would be hard-headed. “Call me James.”

Your brows knitted together at the name change, “Okay… James.” You leaned forward, and he followed your actions, “I need you to let me talk to Bucky please.”

“No.”

“So-,” you cleared your throat, “James please. I need to speak to Bucky.”

“No.”

“Please, I am begging you.”

He smirked, “How about you beg a different way?”

The man in front of you was very different as well, compared to the man you knew. You felt the heat slowly burn through you, “You speak a lot more now.”

The smug look was still on his face, “So do you. As I remember you moaned a lot more.”

With his guard let down, Buck was able to take back control. With a smug turning into wide eye fear, he jolted back. His breath was heavy, eyes frantically taking in his surroundings, “How did you awaken him?”

“I didn’t awaken him, I…not-I, I wouldn't know how to.”

Fear turn to anger quickly, now a familiar feeling cold metal touch ripped your throat, “How the fuck did you awaken him!”

You gasped for a breath, but to no avail. Black dots slowly clouded your vision, gasping one last sentence, “Soldat… or.. Buc-Bucky.”

The metal touch was quickly rescinded as fast as it came, he stood there horrified at what he had done. “Fuck! I-I cou-didn’t mean too.” You hunched over, breathing as much air as you could.

Bucky shot up, and moved himself to the other side, “I’m sorry. I-I… I just don't understand how he came out.”

You gasped again, the oxygen supplying your brain, “He said you were fucking up talking to me.” A couple of coughs slipped past your lips, as your throat tickled still.

He paused, “What?”

“He said he wanted to see me more, and you scared me away. He had to stop it.”

A stupid look made its way to his face, “So, the assassin who is my brainwash counterpart, high-jacked my body to do damage control? Is that what you're saying?”

You rubbed your throat, rolling your eyes at the man, “Yes, basically. Could you not ask James this yourself?”

“James?” His eyebrows continued to knit together.

“That's what he wanted me to call you.”

He was at a loss for words, the Winter Soldier was… gaining humanity. This wasn't supposed to be the future, the Soldier was supposed to be buried and gone. It dawned on him, “He loves you. In his own twisted way, the Winter Soldier actually cares about you.” Fear coursed through him, “You activate him.” It was whispered to himself but you heard it.

Your voice turned soft, “I think he just wants me around.”

Bucky started to breathe heavily, as if the oxygen was being withheld. He gripped the counter top, fighting to breathe. You made your way to him, touch and voice still soft, “Hey. Hey, it's okay. Focus on my voice, or focus on my hand. Can you feel it?”

He gasped again, but nodded. “That's it, you can breathe. One deep breath in: one, two, three. Hold; one, two, three. Exhale; one, two, three.” He started to follow along, till he vision wasn't blurry, till his breath was deep and strong. You rubbed small circles on his back, “It's okay, you're here.”

Bucky gave one loud inhale, he eyed you, “Did you do this a lot for him? Comfort him?” There was no malice, just curiosity.

You gave a shrug, “Not really, he comforted me more than I did him. Not with words, more with actions.”

“What did he do?”

“He held me a lot. After um… what was needed. He would hold me til I fell asleep. Sometimes I would feel the metal arm slowly graze my back or massage my head. When I would cry, which was a lot, he would wipe my tears and kiss me to distract me.”

Bucky nodded, he continued to melt into her touch, his body no stranger to it. They stayed like this, in each other's space, relishing in one another's presence. The comfort the two of you gave each other, it put Bucky’s mind at ease. Slowly, memories of the past were in a way granted access to Bucky.

There's gonna be a part 3

Taglist: @thenameswinter99 @sebastians-love @otherotherplace

#dark!winter soldier x reader #dark!bucky barnes #dark!bucky x reader #dark!winter soldier #winter solider x y/n #winter solider x reader #the winter solider x reader #winter solider fanfiction #bucky barns fanfiction #bucky x reader #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #dark #marvel

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grugruel · 2 years ago

Text

Little Bit

Pairings: roommate!bucky x f!reader

NSFW/MDNI

Masterlist

Summary: Moving in with your bestfriend always seems like a great idea, until something inevitably breaks you apart. . .

He grabs my jaw, 'I fucking hate you.' He breathes, and I smile against his lips.

'No you don't.' I whisper, 'You love me.'

Word count: 2.7k

Warnings: friends to enemies to lovers, forced proximity, angsty rom-com vibes, praise (reader calls bucky good boy once), I love you's, choking, creampie, rough sex, pinv sex, semi-public masturbation, swearing.

A soft blue light shone through the windows, the neon sign across from us coloring every reachable piece of the flat a hue of blue.

Sitting on our shared couch, moved in just a week ago. I lay my head in my hands, I too was colored blue.

'How do we fix this?' He asks, sitting in the armchair across from me.

'Us?' I move my hands from my face to look at him with a faint smile, that doesnt quite reach my eyes. The light hitting him somehow fusing into purple, I turned my attention outside, searching for any type of red light.

'How, do we get rid of the flat. . .' He corrects me, forcefully shoving his finger into the coffee table, punctuating the words.

A tinge of sadness sinks it's teeth in me, moving to gnaw on the edges of my mind. Just a few hours ago, he'd still been my best friend. Since childhood, in fact. And now?

'We can't, you know that. We already signed the contract.' I sigh, 'Besides, neither of us have anywhere else to go. Or do I have to remind you?' Crossing my legs, I lean against the back of the couch, Meticulously searching for that red. Perhaps it was just the anger swelling inside him, pushing outward, seeping into his skin and tinting it red. Mixing with the cool of the blue, however, unsuccesfull in calming him.

He clenches his jaw, 'You, don't have anywhere to go.' He points an accusing finger at me, 'I- On the other hand–'

'–Have nowhere to go.' I finish his sentence for him, exhaling it in a whisper, 'We only have eachother now, ironically enough.' I flash my eyebrows upward, the words tasting bittersweet on my tongue.

Reality seems to set in as he too, leans backward and looks out through the window. Now seeming more lost than angry. Nonetheless, he blames me, for. . . what happened. I reach out for him, gracing his knee with the tips of my fingers–

But he pulls back, yanking his knee out of reach for my touch and faces away from me completley. Turning his head over his shoulder, I feel him retracting within himself, tugging all previous feelings and memories with him. He closes his eyes and exhales a shaky breath, 'Dont, I don't know you.' His voice was cold, 'You're nothing more than a roommate, a stranger im forced to share a home with.' Completley devoid of emotion.

My eyes stung with tears, and I hurry past him. Rushing upstairs to the loft, shutting myself in my bedroom.

That was a few weeks ago, the anger and sadness had settled. But in its wake, annoyance and spite had developed.

It felt very much like living with a sibling you hated dearly, a nemesis, your rival. Yet still loved, because of your ties.

'Just get out already!' I groan, stomping my foot into the floor from pure frustration. I felt like a child throwing a tantrum, but he just brought it out of me.

'I'm. Using. It.' He shouted, voice slightly muffled.

'For fu-' I stopped myself, but closed my eyes instead. Reminding myself to be the better person, 'I. Need. It.' I threw his punctuation back at him, 'I have to shower, youre making me late!' I shouted back through the door.

We both had a date, at the same time. Bucky was occupying the shower, it felt like he delayed just to make me late.

Eventually, the door opened and steam poured out of the opening. A cloud of buckys scents wafted in her face, and from it he emerged, with only a towel around his hips. With his bare upperbody on full display.

It's not like I hadn't seen him without a shirt before, but that had been as friends. Buy now that we weren't friends anymore. . . Well, I couldn't help but feel a little something.

He smiled smugly, 'Your turn.'

Oh how I wanted to scream at him, how could someone be so self-satisfied? I frantically gesture with my hands for him to move past me, and the second he did, I threw myself inside.

Finally, the water flooded down my body, every drop doing its duty in soothing an unwelcome ache. Stress and worry washing off of me, sliding into the drain, everything was perfect in this short, shielded time.

It would be over in a moment, when I rejoined the chaos that was my life.

But for now, my hand slipped downward. Quickly finding the source of my ache, and releaved it, rubbing it away in massaging circles. Doing my best to stifle my moans– When involuntarily, an image of Bucky popped up in my mind.

His towel around his hips, the low "V" on full display, his muscles rippling, torso stretching, showcasing his body and toned abs in all their glory. But what if those big hands had grabbed my waist, and pulled me close. What if he sank inside me, how heavenly it must feel. I bit my lip, my fingers moving faster. Realising too late that I was only spurring myself on, I came quickly, doing my best to stifle my moans. Toppling over, I leaned against the shower wall as I caught my breath. Praying I had been quiet enough.

When done, I hurried and dried myself off, then stepped out the shower a wrapped a towel around my torso. I took a quick look in the mirror, making sure that my actions were in no way visible on my face, then opened the door and re-entered the apartment.

The sun was just beginning to set, it was late in the day and the neon light had yet to come on. Golden light filled the apartment as–

Bucky fell onto the couch. . .

Almost looking like he'd jumped over the back of it.

I looked at him strangely, myself acting like I hadn't just touched myself to thoughts of him. 'You ok?' I asked, quirking an eyebrow.

He nodded, and grabbed a pillow, pressing it against his abdomen with an unreadable expression on his face, 'Mhm.' He hummed, 'Just fine, why would't I be?'

A violent urge to strangle him grabbed ahold of me, anger nipping at my skin, I was starting to tire of his passive-agressiveness. I inhaled through my nose, and exhaled through my mouth. Calming myself before I answered, 'You're right, how silly of me to ask. I don't even care.' and headed to my room.

What I did not see, was his eyes following me, lingering on my rosy cheeks and wet hair. Roaming over the bare parts of my skin, noting the way it was riddled with glistening water droplets. Nir had I seen, how he'd walked past the bathroom door earlier and somehow heard my moaning, or that he'd stayed and listened, intently. Sowly becoming more and more aroused. I did however, see a glimpse of him "smoothly" covering his tracks when I opened the door, the old run and jump maneuver. By some miracle, I didn't put the pieces together. Because I had not seen his erection either.

I put on my long, sleek, red satin dress.

It fell perfectly over my body, clinging to every curve. Paired with a pair of nude heels, my legs looked magnificent thorugh the slit too. I walked downstairs, expecting Bucky to make some snide remark, but he was nowhere to be found.

I figured I'd at least let him know im leaving. Presuming he was in his room, I approached it, and could indeed hear him inside.

But I wasnt to sure what to make of the sounds. My subconscious instics must've kicked in, because I reflexively took my heels off and snuck closer. Muffled grunts and slapping came from the other side of the door, they were, lewd almost, kind of like–

My jaw dropped. My name, I heard- I heard my name. He just moaned my name. Surely, this wasnt real, I scoffed internally. He was pranking me, right? Maybe it was an actress, or crush who shared my name? He was gonna open that door any second, jump out and tell me how stupid I was to think such a thing. Yet, something tightened inside me, a dull pulse flaring up.

There was a final groan, then the sound of a zipper. I blinked, frozen. Until I heard footsteps, and forced myself to snap out of it.

Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit! I quickly tiptoed over to the window, pretending to look outside. Realising I still had my heels in my hand, I had to alternate between putting them on and acting nonchalant.

The creaking sound of his door opening rang out behind me, and I yelped, my head whipping over my shoulder to look at him, taken completely off guard.

His eyes went wide as he met mine. His expression made it very clear that he'd expected me to be gone by now. 'Oh–' he clenched his jaw to keep it from falling. Rubbing the nape of his neck, he looked around nervously, 'Thought you'd gone.' He said, irritation lacing his tone, 'Since you were so stressed about being late and all.' He remarked, narrowing his eyes.

God, the gall on this man.

I put my other heel on, and turn around completley, 'Stress that you caused, you mean?' I pointed out, the final rays of sun warming my back as I looked at him, 'Dont worry, I'll leave you to it.' A giggle bubbled up in my throat. I had to suck on my bottom lip to stiffle it and hide my smile.

I turned on my heel and fled, not sticking around to see his reaction.

I couldn't keep him off my mind, surely it was not me he meant, I heard wrong. He hates me, for gods sake!

At that thought, my date picked me up, and the night was pretty uneventful from there. We had dinner and drinks, but something else was occupying my mind. I was just replaying the way my name sounded falling from Buckys lips, the way he breathed it, moaned it. My core ached at the memory.

My date no doubt thought me distant, but it couldnt be helped. I was desperate for the feeling of a man inside me, for bucky more specifically. So I laid my hand on top of my date's, 'How about we take this to my place?' I asked, smiling seductively.

Eagerly, he agrees.

Arriving back, we stumbled into the apartment. Kissing enthusiastically, as the colorful light had returned. Bathing us in a dark red light. Faintly, it illuminated our path upstairs as I grabbed his hand and pulled him to my room. We'd been too busy to notice Bucky, already standing in the kitchen.

Who hadn't had a very succesful date either, the only difference being that he did not bring her back to their place. He respected their home, but apparently she did not. A feeling of anger bubbled up inside him, but it felt different. Not like it had that first night of their fight, now, he almost felt threatened. He scoffed, surely not, noo–

The red switched to green, and his brain thought it before he himself came to the conclusion, was it. . . Jealousy? He furrowed his brows, disputing with his his mind. Never, he hates her gut. Hes been teasing and annoying her, because he hates her. Simple as that. Earlier, today was just a moment of weakness, a man doing his manly obligations. That was all, he told himself and looked outside, the green light poking fun at him. Calling him out in ways he did not appreciate, it was nauseating.

He had to talk to her, go up there and put a stop to it. This was his apartment too, he had a veto.

He marched firmly up the stairs, the green contrasting the red hot anger on his face as the sounds of laughing grew stronger. He reached for the door handle, when he heard their moaning.

Her moaning more specifially, the sound of skin against skin, of a creaking bed and the way it thumped against the wall. His mind blurred the sounds of the other guy, and instead focused on the sound of her, her labored breathing, her whimpering and mewling. Wishing he was that guy right now. He could've listened all day, but snapped out of it. Shaking his head as he realised the immorality of it. He couldnt just barge in on them, he'd tell the guy to fuck off the second they were done. He nodded, yeah. . . His hand fell to his side as he took a step back–

She moaned, so beautiful. Humming, 'Ooh, fuck, thats good bucky.' The words slipped from her lips befor she could stop them.

Buck froze, they all froze. Blinking, he did a dubbel take. Huh?. . . Huuuh?

'I'm, uhm–' She tried.

'What did you just call me?' The guy questioned, 'Is- is that your roommates name?' Dumnfounded, he pulled himself off of her.

Bucky couldnt believe what he was hearing, he snickered 'Holy f— shit.' Unable to controll himself, he burst into pure laughter as he ran down the stairs. Covering his mouth in the motion, spite pouring out of his ears. 'What a marvelous, marvelous day.' He declared openly, throwing himself on the couch, arms splayed over the back. Waiting for the next scene to unfold.

The man, clothes in hand came rushing down the stairs, and noticed Bucky watching him, 'You him?' He asked.

Nodding, 'Uh, huh.' Bucky hummed, confirming the mans suspicious as a cocky smile spread across his face.

'Fantastic.' The stranger hissed, and muttered under his breath. '. . .Some competition. . .' Then fled the apartment, throwing his clothes on in a hurry.

Bucky laughed, 'So good,' and sighed with content, shaking his head in disbelief.

A second later, I came bounding down the stairs, a sheet pulled around my body. 'Did he leave already?' I asked, sprinting to the door.

Grinning, he answered, 'That he did.' Slanting his head in observation as he took her disheveled appearance in.

I run my hands through my hair in frustration, 'Shit!' My head then snapping to Bucky as he's just sitting there, snickering and looking at me smugly. 'What?' I ask, but he only shrugs, smiling stupidly. 'Wipe that smile of your face, you big idiot.' I shout, 'Where's your date, huh?'

Flinching, hes taken aback 'I didn't bring her home! Its called common curtesy!' He shouts back. Both incredibly sucessfull in riling the other up, immediately getting kn eachothers nerves.

'You jealous or something?' I throw my hands in the air, laughing incredulously.

'I don't need to be, I heard you, you know.' He smirked, 'Up there.' Nodding to my bedroom. And my blood runs cold, embarrassment prickling my face. But I clear my throat, trying to control my emotions, 'You were listening?' I quirk an eyebrow, the corner of my lip tugging.

'Wha– of course not! He protests.

'No? Well, I did.' And now it's my turn to grin, 'I heard you, too. Earlier today.'

His veins freeze, 'I don't know, what you mean. . .' Bucky begins–

'Yes you do.' I saunter toward him, getting right in his face. 'Just admit it.' I hiss, humouring myself.

Grabbing my jaw, he breathes 'I fucking hate you.' But I smile against his lips. The neon sign turning pink, painting us both in its lovely rose colour.

'No, you don't.' I whisper, 'You love me.' And drop my sheet, stark naked underneath.

In a hurry, he crawls back on top of me, lining himself up with my core. Teasing, he slides his member up and down my folds, 'Fuck' I moan, and he slides in. Immidietly setting a gruesome pace, hitting my cervix with every thrust.

He looks at me with awe in his eyes, eyebrows furrowing. He lools teribbly pained, 'I do, I do love you.' He whimpers, as if the sight of me and the the truth he'd refused to accept hurt him.

In a clash, his lips met mine. Feverishly our mouths clash together, tongues waisting no time in tasting the other. His hands glide down my sides, until they grab my ass and he lifts me into his arms. I gasp and wrap my arms around his neck, pulling on his hair, making him grunt. He walks us into his bedroom, and throws me onto the bed with a yelp, then crawls on top of me. Kissing his way up my body until our mouths found their way back to eachother. I unbutton his shirt and unbuckle his belt, hastily pulling them both off of him. He sits back, and zips down his pants, kicking them off. His size was more than enough.

He groans in my ear, snaking his hand up to my throat and as he leans on the other. Nuzzling my face softly, his hand toghtens around my throat, lightly choking me as his hips slam into mine hard into mine.

My hands roam his back, sinking my nails into his skin whenever a particularly rough thrust sends a spirit breaking ache through my body. His lips trace their way down my jaw, specking it with kisses, whispering 'I love you.' In muffled moans against my skin.

I grin, and run my hands through his hair 'Good boy.' I whisper–

He whimpers, 'Fuck.'

The snap of his hips falter as the both of us are reaching our orgasm. He kisses his way down my throat, meanwhile adjusting his hold around it. 'I love you.' He mutters between every kiss, when he finally falls over the edge. His seed spilling inside of me as he does his best to keep thrusting, helping me to reach my own climax. With the chole of his hand, member inside me and his muffled I love you's. The knot tightens in my stumache, and I topple over too. How could I not?

'I love you too.' I whisper, and I feel him smile against my throat as he squeezes it one last time. 'Good, it was too hard to stay mad at you.'

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky imagine #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky #bucky smut #bucky x female reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky fanfiction #bucky imagjne #bucky barnes angst #bucky angst #enemies to lovers

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cedarwrought · 4 months ago

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nice: futility in the pursuit of perfection

(spoilers for EP 1 under the cut)

note: i'll refer to the original nice in this analysis, not lin ling. (we'll talk about him later LOL)

this is purely based off of the official trailers, pv, character concept, and episode one, so my thoughts are subject to change as more episodes are released <3

in nice’s character concept, he’s is shown to be nothing short of a perfectionist. everything has to be perfect: stationary, plates, silverware (or goldware, i suppose) have to be in their rightful positions. all of his belongings are gold, white or fall in a shade of brown, black. even his pillowcase is set in a neat geometric pattern. his hero costume’s color scheme- gold, white, and blue- screams sophistication and poise.

nothing can be out of place- so why choose to die the way he did? it's messy, undignified- and most importantly, public.

what type of fan wants to see their shining hero's brains splattered out on the street? in his hero suit, no less.

nice wanted to permanently tarnish his image of being “perfection incarnate.” he decided to damn himself even further by pointing finger guns at lin before falling- a bittersweet farewell.

despite his endless pursuit of perfection- and having seemingly obtained it (with the title of no.10 hero, his face plastered across every other billboard in the city, and a beautiful girlfriend fitting of his clean, polished image)- i think nice hated himself.

his floor in hero tower is devoid of any personality or sentimentality. the only decor is a piano off to the side, two treadmills (the other presumably meant for moon)- and most importantly, a statue of himself- of nice- in the middle of it all.

offering a palm out to whomever stands before it, the statue almost seems welcoming, friendly. almost. it looks like it belongs in a city hall or museum, not someone's personal residence.

so why keep a statue of himself in his personal living space?

you could theorize he's narcissistic. i mean, people would kill for the prestige tied to the name "nice." (we even get a glimpse of this jealousy in his character promo- hello mysterious stranger.) maybe it inspires him as he steps into another day of being “nice.”

but to me, it’s a reminder fueled by self-loathing.

nice has nothing- is nothing- without being perfect, adored, and envied. he's a former ballet dancer- an art form known for its severe dedication to the craft. we don’t even know his real name. If he can’t be the perfect hero, what is he? And when that image is threatened, what will he do to maintain it?

according to the official trailer 3, nice says he will “use whatever dirty tactics it takes to prevail.” the “villain” we see in his PV calls him out on his alleged hypocrisy, implying that he was involved- or at least knows of some of nice’s misdeeds in the pursuit of perfection.

hell, even his own hero name calls him out. To be nice is to be agreeable, pleasing. niceness is a surface level trait: a veneer meant to cover imperfection and rot. he's not supposed to be kind, much less good.

“Nice” has to be perfect, and whoever held the mantle before lin was unable to afford the cost.

EDIT: the video i had originally referenced for the the quote "use whatever dirty tactics it takes to prevail" had a mistranslation, as @/spidey-deadpool and @/rainibao kindly pointed out in the tags. in the original Chinese video, nice says "No matter what dirty tricks you play, I’ll overcome them perfectly." this lines in better with the self-loathing aspect I had mentioned, and im curious to see how it plays out!

referencing ballet again- it's an art form that ultimately breaks down your body. professional ballet dancers typically retire in their 30's or 40's due to the physical demand, and it seems that the same can be said for herodom- with the cost being your mental health and well-being. faith and trust from the public seem to enhance a person's physical capabilities and prowess, but the standards to maintain that image become increasingly rigid the more renowned a hero is, given how deeply heroism is entrenched in capitalism. im very curious as to see how debilitating injuries are handled in TBHX, but for now, we see the aftermath of how it led to a young hero taking his own life.

#tbhx #to be hero x #tbhx nice #凸变英雄x #tu bian yingxiong x #tbhx analysis #im so scared for my baby LOL #lin sweetie . . . u work in advertising they are going to eat you ALIVE

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niningtori · 1 year ago

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cruel intentions | part one

part two out now!

pairing: choi beomgyu x you

summary: you live your life (un)comfortably in the shadow of your bright and beautiful best friend, chaeyoung. when campus heartthrob, beomgyu, takes an interest in you, you can't help but feel like it's just a way for him to get closer to your beloved best friend. in reality, his intentions are far crueler than that. or, beomgyu agrees to get with the campus' resident dark cloud in order to win a bet with his friend.

genre: romance, angst, campus life, clichés and melodrama (as per uje)

warnings: brief mentions of reader's abusive household, reader has almost comically low self esteem

word count: 7.8k

notes: hi... r u mad at me? i know i've been gone for a month or so and definitely have other projects i've promised to work on, but i've had a lot of personal stuff going on and couldn't focus on anything. i love this trope so much tho and couldn't stop myself from wanting to try my hand at it. i'm not expecting much from this seeing as how it's devoid of any suggestive content, but i figured it'd be better to post it so you all know i'm alive. if people want a part two, i will gladly make one since i really like this trope, but i do want to know if that's the case before i write anything. anyway, i think that's it. enjoy, my lovely friends :^)

you’re okay. you really, really are. you wouldn’t say you’re happy, per se, but things are alright as they are. there are worse things than living in the shadow of your bright and beautiful best friend, whom you love very, very much. chaeyoung is nothing if not dazzling, so much so that everyone falls flatly at her feet in the wake of one of her smiles. you are, as a matter of fact, no exception. chaeyoung has been like a savior from your unstable home life ever since middle school. she has stood up for you when you were too afraid to stand up for yourself and has become more like your family than your family ever was. even so, are you envious of the way that everything seems to go her way? you’d be lying if you said it doesn’t bother you at times, but it becomes more and more bearable every day. besides, you can’t blame her for it; she has no idea that you’re considered as little more than her sidekick and, for lack of a better term, a mob character in the colorful campus life you’ve grown to accept as not your cup of tea.

being chaeyoung’s best friend comes with “perks” such as invites to what would otherwise be completely exclusive parties you wouldn't even dream of being considered for, but you can’t count how many times you’ve been approached with the intent of getting closer to her, so you refrain from any such affairs and opt to focus on your studies and fulltime job. in the beginning, your feelings would be hurt when men you were interested in feigned mutual attraction in hopes that they’d get closer to chaeyoung, but you’ve come to accept things as they are and you’re now known for your flatout rejection of anyone who attempts to woo you.

these past few years, what with your heavy coursework, demanding job, and feelings of inferiority, have been grueling, to be sure, but you’re finally in your last semester and closing act of this entire charade you’ve come to call your college career. in a few months, you'll be a free woman and you’ll be able to begin your life as a fully fledged adult. chaeyoung will remain as your best friend, you know, but you won’t have to be compared to her every second since you two are set on very, very different career paths. life, as it is, feels so small and unvaried to the point of suffocation, but all of that will be over once you’ve entered the post-college workforce. or, at least, you hope it will.

heeseung is lovesick, to put things in the simplest of terms.

“i just don’t see why chaeyoung won’t give me a chance! i really, really like her,” he whines.

“i know,” beomgyu says with a roll of his eyes.

“so why can’t you help me out?” he pouts.

“what the hell am i supposed to do about it?” beomgyu asks with a hint of irritation.

“gyu, you sit next to her and her friend in class! put in a good word for me!” he pleads.

“she’s always talking to that girl, so it’s hard to even say two words to her. you know that.”

heeseung is, again, pouting, but the machinations in his head are firing in overtime as he searches for a solution. suddenly, his face alights as if he’s found the perfect plot. beomgyu’s wariness increases tenfold as he waits to hear whatever fucked up plan heeseung has put together.

“i know! what if you distract her friend so i can actually talk to her? and you can find out what type of guy chaeyoung likes.” he looks so earnest in this moment, but beomgyu cringes at the idea.

“dude, no. that’s fucked up,” he says.

“c’mon, i know you can do it!”

“well, yeah,” beomgyu nods in agreement, “but i’m not pretending to be interested in somebody just so you can fuck her friend. that’s wrong.”

“oh, please, gyu. we all know you’ve done worse.” he’s right. still, beomgyu vehemently disagrees. heeseung, in his desperation, can only think of one way to force him to give in: attack his pride.

“what, are you scared she won’t fall for it?” heeseung teases. “well, i can’t blame you. i heard people calling her the ‘iron maiden’ and that she won’t let anybody near her. why would she fall for you of all people?” beomgyu scoffs at his insolence.

“i could get her if i really wanted to,” he replies. “i just don’t feel like it.”

“sure, whatever. i know you’re just scared she’ll reject the ‘great beomgyu’ and you won’t be able to keep saying you’re the hottest guy on campus.” beomgyu actually rolls his eyes at this.

“i bet you i could get her to fall in love with me by the end of the semester if i really wanted her to,” beomgyu argues petulantly.

“prove it,” heeseung challenges with a raise of his eyebrows. now he’s got him.

“not for free,” beomgyu says with a smirk.

“... fine. what do you want?”

“i want you to pay my half of the rent for the rest of the school year.” heeseung whines in response, but he quickly makes the calculations in his head and decides it’s worth it when he takes into consideration how fucking hot chaeyoung is.

“deal.”

and so it begins.

beomgyu, like most people, hasn’t really paid much attention to you before now. he barely even has an idea of what you look like, to be perfectly honest, but he can immediately figure out who you are just by looking to chaeyoung’s side as she's walking through the classroom door and seeing who’s sticking there. he takes in your features as if he’s seeing you for the first time, and he kind of is, frankly speaking. you’re not nearly as pretty as chaeyoung, and you definitely lack the aura she has, but you’re not bad by any means. your clothes are ill-fitting and your entire demeanor is soaked with an air of exhaustion, but if he looks carefully, it’s not like you’re an eyesore or anything. still, he’s considerably better looking than you are. this should be easy.

“hey,” he says softly in his baritone voice when you slide into your usual seat next to his, chaeyoung sliding in on the other side of you. to his surprise, you say nothing in response.

“hey,” he tries again, a little louder, thinking you just didn’t hear him or something.

“oh. hey,” you say confusedly before turning back to look at chaeyoung and continuing your conversation with her. well, that’s not nothing, he guesses, but heeseung sends him a knowing, goading glance from his seat and beomgyu feels himself growing irritated.

when the professor enters, you turn to face her with a focused face and immediately pull out your pen to begin copying whatever she says down with solemnity.

beomgyu is staring so intently, he’s surprised you don’t feel his eyes boring into the side of your face, but you don’t seem to notice a thing. before long, your professor announces that there will be a final project that will require a partner. chaeyoung excitedly grabs your arm with a grin, to which you answer her with a soft smile of your own.

unluckily for the two of you, your giddiness is short-lived when she pairs chaeyoung with the person sitting on the other side of her, and you are stuck with the boy who randomly greeted you earlier.

“i’m glad we’re partners,” beomgyu says with a smile as soon as the professor is finished relaying the details of the project with the class.

“why?” you blink in confusion.

“‘cause you’re really smart, right? and cute, too,” he chuckles.

“oh, i guess,” you say flatly after a short pause. “when do you want to work on the project?” there is no wavering in your voice when you speak to him, and you look directly in his eyes, which is a far cry from the sweet, trembling voices and shy glances he’s used to. do you not find him attractive or something? no, that can’t be it. he’s everybody’s type.

“i’m free tomorrow after 5. do you want to come to my place?” you tense up, but he keeps pushing. “you know, so there are no distractions?” you’re wary, of course, but you see no hint of sinister ulterior motives. besides, he can’t possibly see you in an impure way, so you agree with a low hum.

“great. i’ll see you then.”

you arrive at his doorstep with your usual exhausted, haphazard look. some part of him thought you might try to doll yourself up to some extent, seeing as how you’re coming to the apartment of the hottest guy on campus and all, but he can sniff out no such effort. your hair is carelessly thrown up and your face is devoid of anything but the barest amount of makeup. your eyes are tired and there’s a permanent crease in your brows. still, he figures that complimenting you is worth a shot.

“hey, you look pretty today,” he says warmly. you do nothing but stare with a withering glance, but the grin never leaves his face.

“hi. where did you want to start?” you ask while following him to his living room and setting your bag on his couch. if he feels slighted by you ignoring his compliment, he doesn’t show it.

“i thought we could review the rubric first and go from there,” he shrugs.

“okay.”

he makes several attempts at small talk, but they go nowhere. you are laser focused on the project and don’t even hesitate to reject any and all advances from him to the point where he’s beginning to grow frustrated. maybe you aren’t called the iron maiden for nothing, but the prospect of having his rent paid for the rest of the year is enough to keep him from giving up. he decides he’ll try a different approach.

“do you want some coffee? you look tired,” he says gently. you’re actually surprised at his observation, and he can tell.

“yes, actually. thank you.”

when he finishes making your coffee, he hands you a mug and you thank him while sporting a shy, grateful smile. momentarily, he’s stunned. he’s never cared enough to look for your smiles, and even if he had, he’d never see them unless you were with chaeyoung, but he realizes you look infinitely prettier while wearing one.

“of course. if you don’t mind me asking, is there something wrong? you look really tired lately.”

“i-i’m just working overtime these days. th-thank you for noticing,” you sputter nervously. seriously? his feigned consideration of your personal circumstances is what makes you flustered? well, whatever. he can work with this.

“work is important, but your health is more important. don’t spread yourself too thin.” if your cheeks felt hot before, they’re scorching to the touch now.

“i… i’ll keep that in mind. thanks.”

he doesn't probe much more deeply than that for fear of scaring you away, but you seem to have opened up just a bit in light of his thoughtful words. when you two decide to wrap up for the night, he walks you to his doorway.

“thank you for tonight,” you mumble with another one of your rare smiles.

“you’re welcome,” he replies with a grin.

you’re about to walk through his doorway when you turn back suddenly. before he can ask about it, your next words come tumbling out.

“chaeyoung likes confident men, but not to the point where they’re obnoxious. she hates movie dates because she wants to talk too much during them, but she likes stargazing, preferably with a picnic, too. she won’t text first, but she’ll respond quickly if she likes you back.” he’s stunned into silence and tries to stutter out something to the effect of “i wasn't trying to get you to tell me about her”, but all you do is give a knowing stare and he realizes he’s been caught. you leave his apartment and he’s left reeling. so much for being discreet.

the next time he sees you, he knows he has to apologize, but it isn’t until you meet again for the project that he decides the timing is finally right.

you’re sitting on his couch, scrolling through your laptop as you proofread what you two have written so far when he musters up the courage to say something.

“listen,” he begins cautiously. you lazily look up at him and he tries to swallow the lump in his throat.

“i… i think i owe you an apology and an explanation. i’m sorry for making you feel like i was just being nice to you so you could tell me about chaeyoung, but i really have no interest in her, i swear.” well, he’s half lying and half telling the truth, but he means it when he says he couldn’t give less of a shit about her. he can’t say he wasn’t just being nice to you in order to get his rent paid, though.

you look confused for a moment, as if you don’t even know what he’s referencing, but realization dawns on your face as you finally remember what he’s talking about.

“oh, it’s okay. it doesn’t bother me, anyway,” you reply with a shrug.

“i’m serious,” he says firmly. “i really have no interest in her. to be honest, i’m interested in someone else at the moment.”

“oh,” you respond flatly, and you turn back to your laptop as if you’re bored and couldn’t care less about the most popular guy on campus actually having feelings for someone, for once. he snaps your laptop shut and you look up at him in surprise.

“i mean it. the person i actually want to get to know more about is you.”

your jaw drops in pure shock.

“m-me? why?” you say, as if you can’t possibly believe that anyone could take a genuine interest in you. for some reason, he feels a pang in his heart at your sheer incredulity. sure, you’re no chaeyoung, but it's not like someone liking you is so rare of an affair as to throw you off kilter like this, right?

“what’s wrong with me wanting to get to know a pretty girl like you?” you scoff and roll your eyes. you know you’re no trophy by any stretch of the imagination, so you have a hard time believing he means a single word.

“yeah, right,” you snort derisively. “the cutest guy on campus has a crush on me. you can’t honestly think i’d fall for that, can you? if you’re trying to flatter me to get me to do this entire project by myself, keep dreaming.” he’s surprised at your insistence. well, you’re not entirely incorrect. his intentions are impure if nothing else, but for some reason, he’s determined to prove you wrong.

“oh, so you think i’m the cutest guy on campus?” he teases with a smirk and a wiggle of his eyebrows. as if you didn’t realize you said those words yourself, you look more flustered than you’d care to admit.

“w-well, i —”

“i’ll take it. and no, i’m not trying to get you to carry our grade on this. i genuinely just want to get to know you better.” and he doesn't know how much of that sentiment he really means, but he does know it means more than it should.

after a few more meetups, you’re pretty much convinced that beomgyu truly has no interest in chaeyoung. he never asks about her, and even when you offhandedly comment on her, he never pushes to know more. he just hums in recognition or perfunctorily answers. as for believing that he sincerely has interest in you? you’re not sure you believe that, but when the project is finished within a week and he asks you out on a date, you can’t help but seriously consider this previously inconceivable thought.

“what did you say?!” chaeyoung asks excitedly once you relay that beomgyu, of all people, has asked you to go to dinner with him.

“i said i’d think about it,” you sigh.

“you should go! text him right now and tell him you’re going!”

“i don’t know, chae. you’ve heard the rumors about him. he’s a player…”

“who cares about the past?! i haven’t heard anything like that in a while. plus, it’s worth taking a chance, right? you haven’t been on a date in god knows how long. if you don’t text him, i will!” she exclaims. “gimme your phone, i’ll do it right the fuck now!”

“no!” you counter, clutching your phone to your chest protectively. “i… i’ll do it myself,” you mutter.

“that’s my girl,” she says with a sweet grin.

“i feel stupid,” you mumble as chaeyoung applies the finishing touches to your hair.

“well, you don’t look stupid, i’ll tell you that much. you’re absolutely gorgeous,” she boasts.

“as if,” you mutter, but you know she truly believes it. chaeyoung has always argued that you’re beautiful, even though you know that the rest of the world, including you, doesn’t think so.

“i’m being serious!” she says with a playful smack to your shoulder. “you look hot! i bet he’s gonna drool when he sees you.”

“alright, you’re going too far,” you say with a shy smile.

“go! you’re going to be late,” she chastises. you check the time and realize she’s right. you hurriedly grab your things and scramble out the door.

beomgyu offered to pick you up, but you vehemently denied this on account of the restaurant being a 5 minute walk from your apartment. you need the walk to calm your nerves, anyway.

when you enter the restaurant, all bright-eyed and beautiful, beomgyu looks up from his phone in sheer shock. he knew you were actually pretty cute under the exhausted veneer you have permanently placed over you, but he never knew just how stunning you are when you don’t look like life has run you over. you’re actually wearing form-fitting clothes for once, too, and he likes what he sees.

when you lock eyes with him, you actually smile, which you have been doing a lot more lately, and he can’t help but return it with a smile of his own. it’s a little more eager and sincere than he realizes.

“you look gorgeous,” he remarks when you sit down in front of him.

“you’re exaggerating…” you mumble embarrassedly.

“i’m not. you’re stunning.” and he means it.

“th-thank you,” you say, and the air is thick with tension before you clear your throat and ask him if he's already ordered drinks.

the date goes surprisingly smoothly, all filled with laughter and banter. he already knew you were smart, but he realizes how funny you actually are when you’re not so tense. you match his mischievousness with your own and it feels so much like a real date that he forgets why he’s doing this in the first place.

he’s surprised to hear that you’re actually quite interested in music. you share a mutual interest in a lot of bands and you even offer up some recommendations of your own, which he earnestly writes down in his notes app. when he mentions that he actually plays the guitar, your eyes light up in interest.

“will you play for me, someday?” you ask excitedly.

“of course,” he smiles softly. a lot of girls have asked him to play for them, and he has always happily obliged in order to get in their pants, but this time feels… different somehow. like he really just wants to show you how much he loves music and creating his own.

as you leave the restaurant, he grabs your hand and laces it with his. to both of your surprise, you don’t pull away and even let him gently swing your hand back and forth. you actually look like a real couple. you feel like one, too.

dates with beomgyu become a happy, regular occurrence. you’re not necessarily together as of now, but it’s been about a month and you’re genuinely considering something serious with him. he seems to eagerly reciprocate this sentiment if his constant invitations are of any indication.

he suggests walking to the nearest park to sightsee, and you agree before you can even fully consider it. as you walk through the trail and take a seat on a bench in front of the pretty, sparkling pond, he locks eyes with you. you look so beautiful like this, eyes devoid of their usual exhaustion and wariness, replaced by a sense of peace. he can’t help but try his luck and lean down to, hopefully, join your lips with his for the first time. usually, he’d have tried this a lot sooner, but for reasons unknown to him, he’s treated you with a lot more care and reverence than he’s ever treated anyone before. a sudden ringing interrupts the moment, though. you casually take out your phone and all the aforementioned contentment in your eyes flushes out as you see the contact information.

“h-hello?” you say unsteadily as you unlace your hand with his and walk away.

he can’t quite hear what you’re saying from the distance you’re at, but he can see how wound up you are. he tries to be considerate and tune out your conversation, but when he hears you yelling and the person on the other end of the line yelling back, he can’t help but be engrossed. you’re borderline screaming now about something related to money. something about a sibling of yours, maybe. something about how you’re tired of being taken advantage of and how the other person is being unfair. you’re angry, he can tell. indignant, even, but all of that leaves your demeanor when you deflate with insincere apologies and a sense of relenting out of sheer defeat. after the explosive call ends, you walk back to him with the same exhaustion permeating through your bones that he’s become so familiar with. even though you’re dressed and primped so beautifully, nothing can cover the tiredness of your entire person.

“i’m sorry you had to hear that,” you say in a monotone voice.

“o-oh. it’s alright. is… is everything okay?” he tries tentatively.

“yeah,” you say with the most forced smile he’s ever seen.

“do you… do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

you sigh. normally, you would not. normally, you’d brush it off and just call chaeyoung to blow off some steam, but for some reason, you’re so frustrated that you can’t help but want to tell somebody other than chaeyoung because you know you rely too much on her for comfort. as for that somebody being beomgyu, you, for some reason, somewhat trust that he won’t go around telling everyone about your family troubles. you also vaguely feel that he won’t judge you, either.

for his part, beomgyu genuinely seems concerned. he seems like he wants to listen. he’s shown you, in the past month that you’ve known him, that he really does notice when you’re tired and cares enough to ask about you. he tries to cheer you up with coffee and snacks even though you have refused to divulge any of the details of your personal life thus far. what’s the harm in trying to trust him? you feel like you can tell him about this, so you do. and once you do, it’s like you can’t stop.

you tell him all the dirty details of your home life and just how fucked up it is. you tell him about how you’re forced to work a full time job on top of being a full time student to help with your family back at home. it’s not that you mind helping out, but they show you no consideration or care and you’re always left feeling like you’re just there to be their workhorse no matter how many times you tell them that you’re tired. the only time they ever contact you is to try to wring every last penny out of you. your sibling, of course, is the exception, and is the only reason why you keep doing it aside from your unfettered guilt that you were practically born feeling. your need for validation has not sprung from nothing, and it seems like your money is the only way to get it from the people you reluctantly call your family. you don’t delve into details about the abuse you’ve endured, either, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. still, you can't help but love them. you just wish they loved you, too.

when you’re finished speaking, you don’t even realize that you’re crying until beomgyu gingerly wipes your tears away. oh no, you think. you’ve said too much. he’s going to be scared off just like every other guy you’ve told about your emotional baggage. who would want somebody whose life is in shambles? your self esteem is low, your financial circumstances are almost as equally dire, and you have no redeeming qualities you can think of. what have you done?

you hurriedly apologize for your outburst and wipe your tears away in a frenzy.

“s-sorry. just ignore me,” you say with a shaky breath and he can see you folding into yourself.

“why would i ignore you?” he asks, cupping your face. “you haven't done anything wrong. i’m so sorry that you’re being treated this way, and i’m even more sorry that you feel the way you do. you don’t deserve this, you know?”

your eyes snap up to his at his words. does he really mean them? his eyebrows are knitted in concern and he seems like he really does care.

“it’s… it’s okay. i’m fine. i should be used to it by now, but i’m just so, so tired all of the time. i feel like everybody on this planet just wants to use me,” you sob. “everybody besides chaeyoung a-and now, maybe, you,” you admit, grabbing one of the hands that holds your cheek. he feels like he’s been electrocuted as your words resonate in his heart. he is using you. he is planning on throwing you away at his earliest convenience once he’s done with you.

but he’s increasingly unsure if he wants to do that, anymore. with every day that you spend together, he finds himself wanting to soak up every part of you. he wants to know everything about you. your likes and dislikes, what makes you tick and what makes you smile, and, now, what makes you feel so sad all of the time. he wants to be the one who takes away all of your exhaustion. he wants to be the shoulder you can cry on. he realizes that he never wants to see you sad ever again, and, more than that, he realizes that he’s felt this way for a while. when he began to genuinely care about you, he doesn’t know for sure, but it may have been the moment you told him how to win chaeyoung over as if you never expected anyone to be kind to you for good reasons. he realizes that he’s wanted to prove you wrong and that you’re worth giving a fuck about ever since then.

“sorry if that’s too much,” you say in lieu of his pensive silence, pulling away from his touch, but he pulls you into a tight hug before you can fully separate yourself from him.

“don’t be sorry. i want to hear about these things, if it makes you feel better. i want my girlfriend to trust me,” he says softly.

“your girlfriend?” you ask incredulously.

“well, yeah? i mean, if you want to be, of course,” he says sheepishly.

“of course i do!” you say excitedly. you throw your arms around his neck and pull him into a sweet kiss. your lips are soft and so, so warm. warmer than anything he’s ever felt before.

it’s a mere month before graduation, and you and beomgyu have been together for a few months now. every day is blissful. he convinces you to relax, and his mere presence is enough to soothe your nerves. the exhaustion that previously hung around you like a curse is pretty much gone and a spark of life has finally entered your countenance. he feels proud when he thinks that he helped put it there.

every time you’re overwhelmed at work, he seems to notice before you do, and he always stops by with a meal because he already knows you forget to eat when you’re stressed. by the same token, you reciprocate this sentiment by showing up to his apartment and helping him through some of his harder coursework with no complaint, even though your workload is considerably heavier. he resists, at first, but you insist on helping as much as you can and you tell him it makes you happy just to help him a fraction of how he’s helped you.

you don’t realize that you’ve helped him just as much. you’ve made him into a better person, unconsciously or not. you’re so considerate of his feelings and always make him feel important no matter how busy you are. he’s never felt this way about anyone or anything before, but he’s so grateful you’ve shown him how much love has to offer. love. he never expected to find it in such an unconventional way, but he knows it when he feels it.

heeseung, for his part, is pretty satisfied. after months of chasing, chaeyoung has finally agreed to go on a date with him. he has promised her a picnic and a night of stargazing, which she happily agreed to. when she tells you about her upcoming date with heeseung, you’re a little surprised. what are the chances that beomgyu’s friend knew what you had suggested to beomgyu when you thought he was interested in chaeyoung? but they’re friends. best friends, even. it’s not shocking to think that if heeseung expressed interest in dating chaeyoung, that beomgyu would share what he knows. you snuff the light of suspicion out with a vengeance. hasn’t beomgyu shown you how much he really cares about you? how could you doubt him like that? you’re a bad girlfriend for even entertaining that thought.

it’s another dreary day in the library for beomgyu. he just wishes you weren’t working so you could hang at his apartment and make out, but he knows you’re swamped with work these days, so it’s all just a fantasy. that doesn’t keep him from indulging in it, though. when heeseung pulls up a chair next to him, he audibly groans.

“what’s with the attitude?” heeseung playfully chastises. beomgyu doesn’t need to rely on his almost preternatural intuition to know that heeseung is over the moon right now.

“oh, i know. you’re thinking about your little girlfriend, aren’t you?” he teases.

“so what if i am?” beomgyu snaps, a little too defensively.

“hey, man, i’m just kidding. you’ve done a great job on bagging her for me. my date with chaeyoung went great, by the way. thanks for asking.” beomgyu just rolls his eyes at heeseung’s obnoxiousness, which, if he recalls correctly, was one of chaeyoung’s turn-offs.

“i’m glad it went well,” beomgyu says sarcastically, devoid of any sincerity.

“for paying your half of the rent for months, it better have! it was worth it, though. so, so worth it.”

“what the fuck are you talking about?” a sudden voice cuts in from out of the blue. chaeyoung. oh no.

“n-nothing,” heeseung says hastily, looking like a deer in headlights. beomgyu can only stare with widened eyes — too shocked to do anything else.

“bullshit. you said you paid his rent because he ‘bagged her’ for you. were you talking about who i think you’re talking about?” heeseung rushes to deny it, but she turns her hardened gaze to beomgyu.

“were you fucking talking about who i think you’re talking about?” chaeyoung repeats through gritted teeth. beomgyu feels his heart sinking to his stomach. his whole world has come crashing down around him and he feels like he could just die from the shame. he wishes he could deny it, but her eyes are teeming with a sense of knowing.

“y-yes,” he says softly while breaking eye contact with her and looking at his hands, which he didn’t even know he was wringing. a sudden burst of pain on his cheek tears his gaze away from them, though, as chaeyoung slaps him square across the face.

“you’re a piece of shit, you know that? she trusted you, and you know how hard it is for her to do that. you’re fucking filthy,” she says in rage and disgust. the librarian has now come to investigate the disturbance, but chaeyoung quickly says she’s already on her way out. before she goes, though, she sends one last damning look at beomgyu and leaves her parting words.

“just you fucking wait until i tell her about this, you son of a bitch.”

beomgyu is anxious beyond words. he doesn’t know if he should call you, text you, or show up to your apartment groveling on his knees. he doesn’t have the time to do any of it, however, before he sees a text from you saying that you’re coming over.

when you arrive, that same old tired look you always had before meeting him is there, and it has increased exponentially. gone is the vigor you two had fought so hard to restore. oh no.

he tries to greet you, but you just hold a hand up to stop him in his tracks. you take a seat on the couch and look so tense you could explode at any moment.

“chae already told me, but i want… i need to hear it from you. is it true?” you ask shakily.

“baby, listen, i was—”

“is. it. true?” you repeat impatiently.

“... yes, but i—”

“i see,” you say with a solemn nod and a tight-lipped smile. his mouth feels dry as he waits for you to elaborate, but after a long, long silence, he realizes that’s all you have to say in the face of his deceit. he wishes you would cry, or be angry and yell at him for lying to you. it’s infinitely worse, somehow, to see you accepting it as if it was a matter of course. and, to you, it is. of course he wouldn’t like you — let alone love you. of course it was all a sick, cosmic joke. that’s what you are. this is what you deserve, and you’re an idiot for expecting anything different from him or anyone else.

“well, i guess you’ve won the bet,” you sigh, rising from your seat and smoothing down your skirt. “congratulations.”

his eyes are watery now, but you perceive it as the reaction of a child getting caught doing something he knew was wrong in the first place. you have accepted things with the type of resignation only a truly defeated person would have, and it breaks him more than he ever supposed anything could.

“don’t be sad,” you can’t help but add when you notice his upper lip trembling. “you can smile; i know you want to. now you won’t have to deal with me anymore. i’m sorry for wasting your time.” your words snatch him out of his entranced state and he’s rushing to get his next thoughts out with a desperation he can only describe as primal.

“n-no, that’s not it at all! and don't be sorry! i… i’m the one who’s sorry. i’m so sorry. i didn’t mean —”

“it’s okay,” you cut in with a knowing smile, which shatters the last remnants of his heart. “i understand. i really, really do. i know you’re not a bad person. it’s my fault for taking this whole thing too seriously.” your smile is still there, but it has twisted into something truly ironic and teeming with disgust. not toward him, he realizes, but toward yourself. “i should’ve known better.”

he’s rendered speechless once again, but you don’t give him a chance to collect his thoughts before walking away, closing the door lightly behind you. what words can he say to you to undo what he’s done? he wishes he could dig out his heart so you’d understand his true intentions. they were ill at first, yes, but they’ve evolved into something different entirely. something so sincere and pure he doesn’t dare to show it to anyone other than you. and you’re so calm about this entire situation, it’s driving him mad. how could you think so lowly of yourself as to see this coming? how could you think his actions were anything less than appalling and cruel? and, oh god, what has he done?

you’re okay. you really, really are. living in the aftermath of what you had foolishly believed was love is painful, to say the very least, but there are worse things, after all. what those things could be, you can’t seem to think of at the moment, but you know they exist even if you don’t have the energy to ponder them at present. chaeyoung, as expected, is more loving than ever. she rarely leaves your side these days. she’s always been clingy, but there is a level of doting and care she reaches without complaint on her part. beomgyu, to his credit, has seemingly taken the hint and fucked off. he doesn’t show up to your shared class and you took the liberty of blocking him on everything you could possibly think of. even it he hadn’t gotten the memo, chaeyoung is by your side like a rabid dog and she will gladly bite if he approaches. you’re grateful for that, you guess. him essentially cutting himself out of your life has made pretending like he never existed much easier. there are still traces of him, though, and they haunt you viciously.

there’s a party celebrating your impending graduation, and you would rather die than go, to be honest, but chaeyoung makes such a convincing argument that you can’t help but relent after hearing her drone on and on about how you deserve to have fun and let loose since your college years are ending and you have yet to fully put yourself out there in terms of student life. you will, in all likelihood (and with any hope), never see most of these people again, so will it kill you to just let go for once? on top of that, it will be a welcome distraction from your downward spiral that inevitably comes when you think of beomgyu.

you don’t really know what you’re doing when it comes to dressing up besides the basics, but chaeyoung knows more than her fair share and is all too willing to doll you up in a way you previously thought was impossible. after her flitting hands while doing your makeup and careful choices in wardrobe, you barely recognize yourself. for once, you feel good. you feel confident. you even almost feel worthy of standing alongside a drop-dead gorgeous girl such as your best friend, so when you enter the door of the house party, you don’t feel as small as can be under the scrutinizing gazes of all the usual party goers. one familiar pair of eyes watches you in awe, though, even if you don’t notice. you’re much too engrossed in the atmosphere of pure fun to recognize anything else.

you’re not really one for dancing — far too awkward and uncoordinated to really try it — so you sit as comfortably as you can on the decidedly uncomfortable couch and sip on what must be your third drink this evening. you’re smiling in contentment at the sight of chaeyoung dancing with her new crush. if you can't be happy, you’ll be satisfied with her happiness, instead. this is how it should be, you think. this is how it always should’ve been.

you’re so stuck in your thoughts you don’t even turn your head at the feeling of the couch sinking as a boy sits next to you. that is, until he clears his throat and you’re snapping your eyes up to meet his.

“i’m taehyun. i’ve never seen you around before,” he casually remarks. he’s really beautiful, like, fresh off the runway beautiful. you almost wonder if he’s talking to somebody else for a second, but his expectant eye contact with you tells you otherwise. you shyly introduce yourself and mumble something about parties not particularly being your scene.

“really?” he smiles. “that’s a shame. i wish i’d seen you before tonight.” you can’t help but blush. “i’d like to get to know you, if that’s alright.” you’re not so stupid as to fall for a man with honeyed words, at least not again, but you find yourself caring less and less about the repercussions as your head feels foggier and foggier. so what if this is a sick joke? you’re almost out of this hellish purgatory you call school life, anyway. even if taehyun doesn’t end up liking you, what’s the harm in indulging in a little fun while you can? you’re not going to put your heart on the line again — you’re too jaded for that — but maybe you can enjoy his company for what it is, no matter how fleeting it may be. so before you can think any better of it, you agree.

or, at least, you try to, but your sentiment is cut short with a sharp tugging of your arm.

“beomgyu, what are you doing?” you hiss as he leads you to an unfortunate-smelling bathroom.

“i-i need to talk to you,” he replies sheepishly.

“what’s there to talk about?” you ask with a sigh. “i’m not mad at you. i forgive you. so what else do you want from me?” you actually seem a little annoyed, which he has never seen before from you. it causes him to sputter and almost lose his train of thought.

“you know what i want to talk about…” he says meekly.

“oh? the fact that you dated me and said you loved me because of a bet?” you can't help the bitterness that laces its way around the edges of your words.

“yes, it was for a bet, but then it wasn’t about that, anymore. i really did fall for you. i… i love you.”

“i don't believe you.”

“b-but i mean it! how can i make you trust me?” his voice is overrun with desperation, but you quirk your eyebrow at his words.

“you can't make me do anything. i don't know what you're getting out of this, maybe some sick satisfaction that you can pick me back up again at your leisure? maybe you just feel bad for me? whatever it is, i don't care anymore.”

“no! listen to me, i really do care about you! i know i hurt you, but let me be there for you. i… i'll prove to you how much i care. how much i love you.” you're quiet for a long, long time. an excruciatingly long time. you seem to consider every syllable he just uttered, but you don’t seem fazed by his sincere words at all, and he worries he's losing you for good. before he can stop himself, he gently cups your face in his hands and tenderly runs the pads of his thumbs across your cheeks. you don't push him away and, for that, he’s grateful.

“alright. alright, i do believe you. i believe you love and care about me,” you admit with a sigh. he lets out a shaky breath he didn’t even know he was holding in before he presses his forehead against yours. thank god you believe him. maybe you don’t trust him yet, but he’ll do everything in his power to earn it back.

“i believe you, but it’s not enough,” you say resolutely, grabbing his hands and prying them off of you. his heart sinks and he can’t help but feel the sting of tears in his eyes.

“i forgive you, i really, really do, but you can't treat people however you want and expect things to go back to the way they were just because you’re sorry. i can’t… i won’t accept that.” he winces and he makes no move to stop his tears from falling now, but he bites his lip to stop the whimpers.

“you know me. you know how hard it is for me to… to believe that i’m worth loving.” he flinches at your self-deprecating words and he wishes he could kiss your face and erase any doubts of your worthiness. you are the most lovable person in the world to him. he wants to shake you and demand that you see it, but what right does he have to do so? instead, all he can do is shake his head furiously in denial of your sentiments.

“and everything you said, everything you did, just makes me believe that i’m right about myself. even if you mean it now, i can't get over the fact that it was all a lie from the start. if you love and care about me like you say you do, don’t you think i deserve better than that? better than having to be reminded that the person i love the most in this world only chose me because he wanted to get his rent paid?”

“i’m… i’m so sorry,” he repeats with a whine. “i wish i could go back in time and redo everything.”

“but you can’t,” you say softly, and he whines again, like an animal.

“i promise… i promise that i really love you, okay? and i’ll wait for as long as i have to for you to see that,” he says between sobs. you can’t help but feel sorry for him. you’ve seen beomgyu cry from stress, but never from the pure, unadulterated amount of pain he’s feeling as of now. you almost want to acquiesce and let him have his way, but you can’t do that. you don’t have much dignity to speak of, but even you can’t tolerate a betrayal this sizable. maybe, before you met him, you would have, but ironically enough, his presence has taught you that you should never compromise yourself like that for anyone. not even for the one you love the most.

“thank you, beomie,” you say softly, “but i don’t want you to wait for me. i want you to be happy, okay?” you ask as you stand on your tiptoes and press a goodbye kiss to his forehead. “and i’ll try to be happy, too.” without waiting for an answer, you leave the bathroom and shut the door behind you.

“i don’t want to be happy if it’s not with you,” he mumbles bitterly, but you’re too far away to hear it.

notes pt. 2: is this cheesy? YES. do i care? ONLY A LITTLE BIT. anyway like i said lmk if u want a part two <3

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*if you would like to be added to my permanent taglist or my taglist for the (maybe) upcoming next part, lmk!

#niningtori #cruel intentions #beomgyu angst #txt angst #beomgyu x reader #choi beomgyu x reader #beomgyu fic #txt fic #txt x reader #beomgyu x you #txt x you

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