#Sherlock reference

[imjustatorturedpoet]

Meet me in the Hallway

chapter eleven: Murder pays here.

Pairing: Hwang In-ho x Reader

also available on ao3

word count: 7,7k

You were drowning in him.

You barely had time to catch your breath before his mouth was on your neck—hot, open-mouthed kisses, teeth scraping just enough to make you arch into him. You felt him suck on your sensitive skin. That would surely leave a dark mark on you tomorrow. 

"What’s wrong, sweetheart?" Young-il’s voice was all taunt and sin, thick with amusement as his lips dragged lower, his breath searing against your skin.  

"Cat got your tongue? That’s new."  

You tried to speak—tried to push out something, anything, but his hands were skimming down your sides, his knee slotting between your legs, pressing right where you needed him most.  

Your breath hitched, fingers tangling in his hair—fuck, he felt good beneath your hands.  Young-il laughed, low and delighted, like this was fun for him.  

"Don’t get shy on me now."  

His fingers traced slow, deliberate circles, hovering right over the entrance to your core but refusing to give in.  

"Look at you. Desperate, dripping, fucking ruined for me. And I haven’t even touched you properly yet.”  

Your lips parted—a gasp, a whimper, something that made his smirk curve against your throat. He grips your hips with both hands, his touch firm, deliberate. His tongue traces slow, teasing circles around your navel before he drags his teeth over your skin.

Then, he moves, mouth trailing from one hipbone to the other, taking his time, savouring every inch. The heat in your stomach twisted tighter, unbearable, and when his fingers finally dipped lower, barely brushing over—  

“Hey, sweetie. Wake up."  

The dream shattered. Your eyes snapped open, lungs burning, pulse still racing from the ghost of his hands, his mouth, his body—  

Oh, fuck.  

Reality slammed back into place—the dormitory, the bunks, the murmur of other players.  

Young-il.  

You were still curled against him, your head resting on his chest, his steady breath ruffling your hair. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.  

The memories rushed in—how you were so tired, how he let you lay against him, how his warmth pulled you under before you could overthink it. And now? Now, you were half on top of him, legs tangled too intimately, your body still humming from the dream.  

Slowly—so painfully slowly—you peeled yourself away, forcing yourself upright. Young-il barely reacted. He just blinked at you, his expression normal. Like he didn’t know.  

“You good?” His voice was rough. Unbothered.  

You swallowed hard, willing your body to calm the fuck down. “Yeah. Fine.”  

He stretched, rolling his shoulders, completely unfazed. "Gi-hun asked me to wake you up. He wants to talk. Something about a plan for tonight."  

Right. The game. Lights out.

You forced yourself to focus, to ignore the heat still curling low in your stomach, the ghost of his breath against your skin. You moved to stand up—almost free—when—  

“Oh, by the way."  

Young-il’s voice was casual, almost an afterthought. He sat up, rolling his neck. Then—he looked at you. Dead in the eye.  

“You talk in your sleep. Ever noticed?”  

Shit.  

Your throat tightened, heat creeping up your neck—traitorous and unstoppable. Young-il’s expression didn’t shift—not at first. He just watched you, face unreadable, like he was waiting to see how you’d react. And then the smirk. Slow. Unhinged.  

Your pulse spiked.  

He murmured, voice dripping with amusement, "Didn’t wanna wake you up at first. You looked like you were having such a good time."  

Your entire body went stiff. “You heard—"  

And then, before you could even finish your sentence—

He moaned.

A slow, drawn-out, shamelessly exaggerated moan, pitched just enough to sound eerily similar to what you might have sounded like in your sleep.

You froze. Every nerve in your body misfired at once.

It wasn’t just the sound. It was the way he did it. He sighed through it, shifting his weight like he was getting comfortable, like he was recreating the entire moment. His eyelashes fluttered, his lips parted just slightly, and—oh my god, he was actually doing this.

You just stared, horrified, as he let it drag out for a second too long before blinking at you, face completely neutral, as if nothing had happened.

“Sound familiar?” he mused.

Oh. He was evil.

“Are you fucking ser—" Your voice broke. You cleared your throat, scrambling for something, anything, that would erase the smugness from his face, but it was impossible.

He was already grinning, shifting slightly like he was settling in to enjoy the show, completely at ease, like this was the highlight of his night.

“Don’t look so flustered,” he drawled, stretching lazily, his spine popping like he was shaking off sleep. "I mean, I know, it was pretty convincing. Not quite as sweet as the real thing, though. I’d rate it, hmm…"

He tapped his chin in mock thought, dragging it out.

"Eight out of ten?" He tilted his head. "No, seven. Points off for lack of desperation. You sounded way more needy in your sleep."

You wanted to die. Right here. Right now. But you wanted- no, needed him more.

He watched the slow, inevitable breakdown happening behind your eyes, clearly relishing it. And then, as if he hadn’t just destroyed your will to live, he clapped his hands together lightly.

"Well, anyway. Gi-hun’s waiting."

You exhaled, desperate to pull yourself together, desperate to move on, desperate to pretend this had never happened. You forced your legs to move, to stand up and step past him and put as much distance between you as possible, but just as you brushed past—

A quiet chuckle.

Then, voice low and far too entertained, “You sounded so pretty. A shame I wasn’t actually there to hear it properly.”

Your brain short-circuited. Your entire body ignited in flames.

And Young-il? Young-il just walked away, completely at ease, like he hadn’t just ruined your existence.

I hate him. I hate him. God help me, I want him.

He walked ahead without a care, his usual lazy, confident stride eating up the space between you and the others. You should have followed immediately. You should have focused on what mattered—the plan, the vote, the danger that was coming when the lights went out.  

But all you could think about was his voice, that teasing lilt still curling in your ears.  

"You sounded so pretty. A shame I wasn’t actually there to hear it properly."  

And he? He had the audacity to act like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just obliterated your sense of self-preservation with a single line.  

Your hands clenched. He was insufferable. A menace. A walking disaster in human form. And still—you followed. Silently.  

The dormitory buzzed with hushed murmurs, the weight of tomorrow’s vote settling over the remaining players like a thick fog. Some sat in small groups, whispering among themselves. Others still hunched over their food, eating methodically, as if conserving their energy. No one spared you a second glance as you trailed behind Young-il, weaving through the scattered bunks and empty spaces where people had once slept.  

It wasn’t long before the familiar spot came into view—a small corner at the base of the staircase, where Gi-hun and the others were gathered. The moment Young-il reached them, he didn’t even hesitate—he just sat down, stretching out like he had all the time in the world.  

You, on the other hand, hovered at the edge of the group for a fraction too long.  

Jung-bae noticed first. “You alright?”  

You blinked, forcing your body to relax, to shove the lingering embarrassment, heat, and absolute need to strangle Young-il deep, deep down.  

“I’m fine,” you muttered, moving to sit beside Gi-hun, avoiding Young-il’s gaze entirely.  

He noticed. Of course he did. You could feel his eyes flick toward you—just for a second, just long enough for amusement to spark at the edges of his smirk—before he turned his attention elsewhere, as if he’d already forgotten.  

Bastard.  

Gi-hun exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “Alright, listen up-“

“The following players have been eliminated. Player 230, 268, 299 331, and 401. End of the list.”

The ceiling rattled. The unmistakable sound of cash spilling into the massive glass piggy bank echoed through the room, loud, final. 

Five more gone. The number burned itself into your brain. Five more bodies. Five more people who had been breathing, talking, existing just minutes ago.

380,000,000 won per person.

No one moved. No one spoke. Every set of eyes in the dormitory stayed locked on that damn piggy bank.

Waiting for an explanation. What else could lead to eliminations other than the games? 

Oh. Killing each other. But you would’ve noticed that. Anyone would’ve noticed if people were going at each other’s throats in the dormitory. There would’ve been noise—screaming, struggling, something. Five people don’t just disappear without a sound.

Unless it wasn’t in the dormitory?

Your fingers twitched against your arm. Oh god.

If they were planning an attack tonight, then now they knew for sure—killing each other raised the prize money.

Good fucking god.

A cold wave of dread washed over you, settling deep in your stomach. Before, it had just been paranoia, just a theory—a worst-case scenario lurking in the back of your mind. But now? Now it was fact. Now everyone knew.

Five people dead meant five fewer competitors, five fewer obstacles, five fewer hands reaching for the prize. And with every drop of blood spilled, the piggy bank above swelled.

The people running this place had dangled a knife in front of desperate people and then given them the perfect reason to use it. And tonight, those people were going to be more desperate than ever.

Your breath came a little too fast, your pulse a little too loud.

The O players had been planning to attack anyway. But now? Now they wouldn’t hesitate. 

You dragged your gaze across the dormitory, scanning the faces around you, searching for the same realisation, for the same horror sinking into your bones. Some people looked shocked, disturbed, unsettled—but others?

Others weren’t looking at the money with fear.

They were looking at it with calculation. Like Player 100.

You had to stop the bloodshed before it spiralled into something unstoppable. Because if people gave in to the temptation—if even one person let themselves see murder as a shortcut—then it wouldn’t stop at five bodies.

It wouldn’t stop at ten.

It wouldn’t stop at all.

You exhaled slowly, forcing the panic down, pressing it into something cold, something sharp, something useful.

Think.

The O players were already planning to strike tonight, and now they had every reason to go through with it. That meant you needed a plan, a defence, a way to keep as many people breathing by morning as possible.

But how?

Your gaze flickered toward Gi-hun. He looked tense but focused, like he was already running through scenarios in his head. Good. At least you weren’t the only one thinking.

Then you glanced at Young-il. He wasn’t tense. He wasn’t even watching the piggy bank. No, he was watching you.

His head tilted slightly, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—something knowing, something assessing. You inhaled slowly. Of course he’d noticed your reaction. Of course he’d picked up on the way your entire body had gone rigid, the way your mind had started sprinting the second the announcement was made. He knew exactly what you were thinking.

Jung-bae’s voice cut through the tense silence, his brows furrowed. "What’s going on?"  

Gi-hun didn’t answer. He just looked at him, a brief glance, but it was enough—he had no idea either. Then, the doors groaned open. Both sides flooded in. O players from one side, X players from the other.  

Blood. It was everywhere.  

Dripping down foreheads, staining clothes, smeared over hands and necks and bruised knuckles. Some of it had dried, darkening the fabric, while fresh streaks still glistened under the dim lights.  

Was it theirs? Was it someone else's?   

Then, chaos.  

A familiar face broke through the crowd—one you recognised instantly. The guy you had fought on the first day. He wasn’t walking—he was running, shoving past bodies, frantic, his voice cracking as he shouted, "Listen, team O! We—We—When we were in the bathroom, those fucking X bastards tried to kill all of us! They killed some of us, including my friend—"  

Before you could react, before you could even process the accusation, a strong arm curled around your waist. Young-il. He had moved without hesitation, standing, pulling you close, his grip firm, steady—protective. Your pulse jumped.  

But you had no time to dwell on it, because the second that accusation left his mouth, the room erupted.  

"Bullshit," Player 047 spat, stepping forward with his jaw clenched, eyes blazing. "You’re the ones who started it. Damn it. They threatened one of the people on our side! They attacked us to win the second vote!"  

Another player backed him up immediately. "That’s right!"  

Player 192 scoffed, shaking his head, fury dripping from his words. "You killed one of us first. You were trying to win the vote by killing us!"  

"Fuck you," another X player snapped. "You killed some of us too! Did you think we would just let you kill the rest of us?"  

The air was suffocating. Shouting. Accusations. A storm of voices crashing into each other, spitting blame, fuelling the fire.  

It had happened. The thing you feared the most. The killing had started. The first blood had been drawn, and now, no one was willing to take the fall.  

Your chest tightened. It didn’t matter who threw the first punch. It only mattered who lost more. Who would have an advantage tomorrow during the vote? But that wasn’t the only thought that crossed your mind. 

This was what they wanted.  

The ones running this game. The ones watching from their hidden screens, their high towers, their comfortable seats. They wanted blood. And now, they had it.  

The tension snapped like a whip when Player 100’s voice cut through the chaos, his tone sharp, demanding.  

"So? Which side lost more people?"  

The shouting didn’t stop, but it shifted, twisted into something meaner, more desperate.  

Player 203 joined in, nodding, face tight with anger. "Yeah, that’s right! Let’s count ourselves! Come on down!"  

A ripple of movement. Player 047 turned, heading toward your side, his expression hard as he started gathering the X players. Dae-ho’s voice boomed across the room, raw with urgency.  

"We need everyone down here! Come on!"  

Soon, every X player sat down on the stairs. You were next to Young-il, his hand settling on your thigh, the warmth of it grounding you. A steady, quiet reassurance.  

Player 047 did a quick count. “48.” His voice was sharp, clipped. He exhaled hard before sinking down onto the steps. “Two people died on our side.”  

From somewhere behind Player 246, a woman spoke up. “Two out of five. That means they lost three people.”  

Player 380, sitting on the far right, perked up. “Then we have a better shot at winning the vote tomorrow.”  

You wanted to believe that. You really did. Winning the vote. Getting out of here. Making it to tomorrow with your life intact. And maybe seeing Young-il in the outside world. It sounded so easy when she said it like that, like it was a guarantee, like all you had to do was sit tight and wait for the morning. But you knew better.  

The O players weren’t going to just sit back and accept a loss. They weren’t going to wake up tomorrow, walk to the voting station, and calmly accept their fate. That wasn’t how this worked. That wasn’t how desperation worked.  

They knew that killing increased the prize money. If they were already planning an attack before, what were they going to do now? Now that they had proof, now that they had seen the numbers drop and the money rain from the ceiling, now that they had felt firsthand the way bloodshed made the piggy bank heavier? It didn’t matter that the X players had the numbers now. It didn’t matter that, on paper, you had the advantage. You had been here long enough to know that logic didn’t mean shit in a place like this.  

The O players didn’t need to convince anyone to change their vote. They didn’t need to outnumber you in the dormitory. They just needed to kill enough of you before morning. Then, when the second vote came, they’d win by default.  

Jung-bae straightened, his posture shifting like something had just clicked in his mind. “Hey, it’s 48 against 47. As long as we don’t change our minds, we’ll win by one vote.”  

A ripple of murmurs spread through the group, whispers of cautious optimism. 

“Yes, we’ll finally get out.”

“We have the numbers now.”

“Just one more night.”  

But to your left, Young-il still looked stone-faced, unreadable. And to your right, Gi-hun’s expression remained grim, eyes scanning the room like he was already bracing for something worse. Honestly, you felt the same.  

It wasn’t that simple. The O players were desperate. They had nothing to lose. They would try again. Not in the bathrooms this time. Right here. While you slept.  

The PA system crackled to life overhead. “Attention, please. Lights out in 30 minutes. All players, return to your beds and prepare for bedtime.”  

The announcement settled like a weight over the room.  

Player 047 stood again, his voice firm. “Listen. You cannot change your minds.” He swept his gaze over the group, eyes flashing with urgency. “We have to win the second vote and get out of here tomorrow. All right?”  

A chorus of nods, murmured agreements. But despite the reassurances, Young-il and Gi-hun still weren’t convinced. Neither were you.  

Jung-bae clapped his hands together lightly, trying to lift the tension. “All right. Let’s go to sleep now, shall we?”  

The O players eventually moved, walking toward their bunks, but not before throwing a few lingering glances your way. And not just with frustration or disappointment. No, this was something different.

Their expressions were dark, almost calculating.

Player 100 and Player 044, in particular, had their eyes locked onto you. Not your group. Not Young-il. Not Gi-hun. You.

Their movements were slow, deliberate—like they wanted you to know they weren’t done yet. You met their stare. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t waver. You just glared. A message, clear and direct—I see you, too.  

The X players didn’t give them a second glance and moved towards their beds. But you didn’t move. Neither did Gi-hun or Young-il.  

The three of you stayed put, standing on the stairs, watching as the others shuffled off. The dormitory filled with the quiet rustling of players settling in, shifting blankets, the occasional murmur of hushed conversation. But under it all, the tension remained thick, stretching tight across the room like an invisible wire ready to snap.  

You swallowed hard, glancing toward Young-il. He was still. Too still. His gaze was locked onto the O players, tracking their every movement, but his expression gave nothing away. You exhaled through your nose, your heartbeat heavy in your ears.  

The 30-minute countdown continued ticking in the background. You had half an hour to figure out how to make it to morning. 

Your fingers curled around Young-il’s hand first, instinct guiding you more than anything else. His grip was solid, warm, immediate, like he’d been waiting for you to do it. He didn’t question it. He just squeezed your hand in return, his thumb brushing over your knuckles once before going still. Then, your other hand shot out, grabbing Gi-hun’s upper arm. He barely had time to react before you tugged at him.  

“Come on,” you muttered, your voice low, urgent.  

Gi-hun didn’t argue. He let you pull him along, falling into step without hesitation, his expression still tight with thought.  

You moved as one, weaving through the players who were still settling in, stepping around the ones whispering about the vote. The quiet hum of conversation blurred into the background as you honed in on your target—your group. Dae-ho, Jun-hee, Jung-bae, Player 246, the mother and son, and a few others who had chosen to side with you in this mess.  

As you approached, Jun-hee looked up, immediately noticing the way your shoulders were squared, the way you were still gripping Young-il and Gi-hun like you refused to let go.  

She frowned. “Are we discussing the plan now?”  

You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to keep moving. “Yes, come on, we don’t have much time.”  

Dae-ho sat up straighter, glancing between you and Young-il, reading the unspoken tension. His brows furrowed. “Now?”  

“Now.”  

Jung-bae muttered something under his breath but didn’t protest. One by one, your group shuffled toward the spot behind the stairs, moving quickly but cautiously. Every step felt heavier than the last. Your pulse drummed beneath your skin, steady but sharp, like your body was already bracing for something.  

You sat down, instinctively settling beside Young-il on the cold floor. His presence was a steady weight beside you— calm, composed. You barely glanced at him, eyes scanning the others as they settled into place.  

Dae-ho crouched low, peering through the gaps between the bed frames, his expression hardening. His fingers curled into the metal bar, knuckles whitening as he watched the O players across the room.  

“Those bastards are acting suspicious,” he muttered, voice low but tense. “It looks like they’re up to something.”  

No shit. You didn’t need to look to know that. The O players had been radiating bad intentions all night, their glances too sharp, their movements too calculated.  

You opened your mouth to speak, but Jung-bae cut in first. “Whatever those idiots do, once we win the vote tomorrow, it’ll all be over.”  

You wanted to believe that. You really did. But you knew better. “That’s what we need to talk about,” you said.  

Gi-hun’s voice was grim. “Once the lights go out, people on the other side will kill us.”  

The son’s voice was hesitant. “Really?”  

You exhaled through your nose, jaw tightening. “They wanted to attack anyway, to force us to change our minds so they can win the vote. We knew that. But now? Now those greedy bastards know murder adds to the jackpot. If they get just two of us, they win the damn vote.”  

A hush fell over the group. Player 007 shifted uncomfortably, his fingers twitching against his knees. “So what do we do?” His voice was tight, edged with fear.  

Then Young-il leaned forward. “Let’s attack them first.”  

Your breath caught. Not because the words were shocking, but because they were exactly what you had already been thinking.  

Your gaze flickered toward him, but he wasn’t looking at you—he was watching Gi-hun, his expression unreadable, his posture relaxed despite the weight of his words. He said it so casually, so simply, like he had already made up his mind. Like it was the obvious solution. And maybe it was.  

Player 100 and Player 044 had wanted you dead for longer than just tonight. That much was clear. And there was no way in hell you were going to sit around and let them take their shot first.  

But Gi-hun’s glare burned into Young-il like a warning. He didn’t say anything, but his jaw was clenched, his eyes sharp with unspoken accusation. Was he seriously suggesting murder?  

Young-il barely reacted. He only tilted his head slightly, as if considering the weight of Gi-hun’s silence before speaking again.  

“They’re probably thinking we’ll just wait for the second vote,” he said evenly. “We can use it to our advantage. We’ll attack them first once the lights go out.”  

Player 047 nodded immediately, already agreeing. “That’s right. It’d be better to attack them first. We have more women and elderly on our side. If we get attacked, we’ll be at a disadvantage. Attacking them first would give us a better chance at winning.”  

Player 145 exhaled, his jaw set. “I agree.”  

It was shifting now. The group was leaning toward violence. A preemptive strike. And honestly? You weren’t sure if that scared you or relieved you.  

But Gi-hun didn’t hesitate, “We can’t do that.”  

His voice was steady. Firm.  

You turned your head slightly, watching the way his fingers curled into fists, the way his shoulders tensed like he was preparing to hold back the entire group if he had to.  

A fracture was forming in your group, thin but dangerous. And if it cracked? If it broke? The night wasn’t just going to be a bloodbath. It was going to be war.  

"We can. And we have to.”, you keep your voice steady, even as the weight of what you're saying settles over the group.  

Gi-hun is already shaking his head, lips parting to argue, but you don’t let him. Not yet.  

"You think waiting will save us? You think hoping for the best will keep us alive until morning?" You scoff, glancing around at the others. "They were already planning to attack us, Gi-hun. You think they're gonna stop now?."  

Your fingers tighten around your knees.  

"We sit back, we do nothing, and we lose. Because they won’t hesitate. They won’t stop at one or two. They’ll keep going until there are none of us left."  

Gi-hun exhales sharply, his hands curling into fists, but still, he says nothing.

"We have more numbers, more people to protect. More people who can't fight back the way they can." Your voice wavers slightly, but you don’t stop. "What do you think will happen if we just wait? If we sit here and let them make the first move? People will die. People who don’t deserve it."  

A few nods. Some hesitant, some firm.  

Player 047 shifts, glancing at the others before looking back at you, ”She’s right."  

You let out a slow breath, steadying yourself, then turn back to Gi-hun. "We have to hit first, or we won’t get a chance to hit at all."  

Gi-hun doesn’t respond right away. His gaze lingers on your face, searching, weighing, like he’s trying to find something—hesitation, doubt, a crack in your conviction. But there’s none. And maybe that’s what finally makes him exhale, running a hand down his face.  

“That still doesn’t justify murder, (Y/N),” he mutters, voice low, tired. “That’s exactly what they want us to do.”  

Jung-bae leans forward, brows furrowing. “Who’s ‘they’?”  

You don’t even need to think about it. You already know.  

Gi-hun shifts his attention to Jung-bae, his expression unreadable. “The ones who created this game. The ones watching us play.” He pauses, just for a second, then says it plainly. “If we’re going to fight someone, it should be them.”  

Dae-ho’s gaze flicks between you and Gi-hun, something wary settling in his features. “And where are they?”  

Gi-hun doesn’t answer. Not right away. He just looks up.  

The movement is slow, deliberate. One by one, the others follow his gaze, as if expecting to find something, someone, above them. Everyone except Young-il. Not at first, at least. He stays still, unmoved, like he already knows where they are.

Then, after a beat too long, he finally lifts his head.  

How odd.

“On the upper levels are the rooms they control the games from. The man in the black mask is their leader.”  

Young-il stiffens beside you. It’s subtle—so subtle that if you weren’t sitting this close, if you didn’t know him so well, you might not have even noticed. But you do. You feel the shift in his posture, the slight tension in his muscles. 

Gi-hun’s eyes flick to Young-il, watching. Calculating.  

“Once we capture him, we’ll be able to win,” Gi-hun adds.  

Your gaze doesn’t leave Young-il. Not for a second. His reaction is small. Almost nonexistent. But you catch it—the tiniest twitch in his eye, there and gone in an instant. A split second of something unguarded, something unspoken.  

And yet, it says everything.  

It’s the look of someone who’s heard this before. The look of someone who’s already thought about it, already dismissed it, because it was stupid. Like he’s saying, How cute. You and your silly ideas.  

But then, as quickly as it appeared, it’s gone. His expression smooths out, unreadable, effortlessly slipping back into that familiar calm, that steady confidence that makes it impossible to tell what he’s really thinking. You inhale slowly, keeping your face neutral.  

Something isn’t adding up.  

He should have at least reacted to the idea that there’s a big bad man behind all of this, someone controlling the games and watching you, someone you could go after.  

Instead, he stiffened. Instead, his face twitched. Instead… he already knew.  

The question is—why? 

You knew he was a previous winner. That much hadn't been a secret to you. But something like this? Something as crucial as who was pulling the strings, where they were hiding?  

Wouldn’t he have told you?  

A strange thought curls at the edges of your mind, something uneasy, something wrong.

Young-il knew?

Before Gi-hun even said it, before the words had fully settled in the air, he knew. His body reacted before his brain could stop it—the tension, the stiffness, the way his eye had twitched for just a split second. A tell. A sign.  

Like he had heard this before. Like he had already thought about it, already dismissed it, already decided it wasn’t worth entertaining. Like he knew more than he was letting on. 

No. That’s ridiculous.  

Young-il wouldn’t lie to you. He wouldn’t. He had never lied to you. Or—well—when he did, he always told you the truth afterward.

The thought is almost insulting in its absurdity, in its sheer impossibility. Because this is Young-il. The same Young-il who always told you exactly what he thought. The same Young-il who teased you relentlessly, who smirked when you were flustered but never when you were truly upset. The same Young-il who held your hand when you were shaking and tucked you close when you needed warmth.  The same Young-il who kissed you like a starving man.

He was an asshole, yes. A menace, absolutely. But he wasn’t a liar. And he wasn’t cruel. Not to you.  

He had protected you. Time and time again, when he could have left you to fend for yourself, when he could have looked out for his own survival first. Instead, he had stayed by your side, had pulled you out of the fire, had chosen you.  

Would someone like that really hide something from you? 

No. Of course not.  

You inhale, steadying yourself.  

Whatever you saw—whatever little twitch, whatever hint of something—it didn’t mean anything.  

He probably just thought Gi-hun’s plan was stupid. That was all. He wasn’t the type to chase after hopeless dreams, wasn’t the type to waste energy on fantasies of overthrowing an enemy he had never seen. And that made sense, didn’t it?  

Young-il had won. He had survived. If anyone knew how hopeless it was to fight the people in charge, it was him. That’s why he had reacted the way he did. That’s all it was.  

You let the tension ease from your shoulders, pushing the doubt away, locking it deep where it can’t reach you. Where it shouldn’t reach you.  

Because there is no universe where Young-il would ever betray you. No universe where he would lie. Young-il didn’t lie. Not to you.

He was yours, in a fucked up way. And you trusted him.

Young-il’s voice cut through your thoughts, grounding you back in reality. “How are you going to fight them? They have guns.”  

You blinked.

Not we. You. Gi-hun was alone on this one. 

The way he said it—you—felt like a decision had already been made. Like he was drawing a line between himself and whatever came next. Like he wasn’t planning on being a part of it.

Your fingers twitched against your knee.

Gi-hun didn’t even hesitate. “We’ll fight them with guns too.”  

For a second, you thought you misheard him. Because surely, surely he wasn’t serious. But then you saw his face—calm, steady, like he had just suggested something as simple as taking a walk. Your jaw almost dropped.  

No?! No way.  

Jung-bae shifted beside him, his voice quieter, like he was afraid to even acknowledge the insanity of what had just been said. “But we don’t have any.”  

Gi-hun didn’t blink. “We’ll take their guns.”  

Oh my god. He was actually serious.  

A disbelieving scoff left your lips before you could stop it. “From the soldiers?” You stared at him, incredulous. “Are you stupid?”  

The words left your mouth before you could stop them, sharp and immediate, but you didn’t care. You needed to say it. Because what the hell kind of plan was that? Steal guns from the soldiers? The ones who were trained to kill you? The ones who had been keeping you all in check since day one, watching from the shadows, waiting for an excuse to put a bullet in someone’s skull?  

Your lips parted, but you had to take a second, just a second, to process the absolute insanity of what Gi-hun had just said.  

He was serious. He was actually serious.  

“Oh, my god.” You let out a short, humourless laugh, shaking your head. “Are you listening to yourself right now?”  

Gi-hun’s jaw tightened, but you weren’t finished.  

“(Y/N), don’t you think you’re being a bit harsh?”, Young-il’s voice was calm, easy, like he was trying to rein you in before you tore Gi-hun apart completely. But you didn’t care.

You turned to him, barely sparing him a glance, and immediately held up a hand. “Shh. Stay out of this.”

Young-il blinked. 

You shushed him. 

He blinked again, momentarily stunned. For the first time since you’d met him, he actually looked caught off guard. His lips parted slightly, like he was debating whether or not to be offended, but you were already turning back to Gi-hun, ignoring the way Young-il let out a soft, amused breath beside you.

“Like I was saying.” You refocused, fixing Gi-hun with a hard stare. 

“You think we can just—what? Walk up to them? Politely ask them to hand over their weapons? Maybe say please while we’re at it?” You scoffed.

He opened his mouth, but you kept going, voice rising with each word.  

“Have you seen those guys? Because they don’t hesitate. They don’t stop to ask questions. They don’t even think before pulling the trigger.” Your hands curled into fists at your sides, frustration boiling over. “We don’t even know how many of them there are. How many weapons they have. Where they keep them. And you’re sitting here telling us that our best shot at survival is to take them on head-to-head?”  

A bitter laugh scraped its way up your throat. “That’s not a plan, Gi-hun. That’s suicide.”  

A heavy silence followed.  

Your pulse was still pounding, frustration still curling in your chest, but from the corner of your eye, you caught the faintest twitch of Young-il’s lips, like he was trying—failing—to suppress a smirk.

He was enjoying this. The smug, insufferable bastard.

You shot him a quick glare, but he just gave a slow, barely noticeable shrug, as if to say, What? You’re the one who shushed me.

Gi-hun didn’t look away. He didn’t flinch. But he didn’t argue, either. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew it was a terrible plan. But it was all he had.

Your stomach churned, dread curling deep in your chest.  

What the hell was Gi-hun thinking? Had the stress finally cracked something in him? Had the endless cycle of fear and death made him believe in something this stupid?  

Young-il exhaled sharply, his voice steady, firm. “Look, Gi-hun. I know (Y/N) didn’t exactly sugarcoat it, but she’s right. Even if we manage to take a few guns, we’ll still be outnumbered.”  

He wasn’t wrong. The guards had the advantage—more weapons, more bodies, and the goddamn high ground. Even if you pulled off the impossible and got your hands on a few guns, what then? You weren’t soldiers. You weren’t trained. You were just a group of desperate people trying to survive one more night.  

Gi-hun's jaw clenched. He looked between the two of you, something dark in his expression, something caught between frustration and exhaustion. Then, he spoke.  

“Then what?” His voice was sharp, fraying at the edges. “Are you going to kill each other all night and hope you survive? Is that what you want, (Y/N)? Young-il?”  

You inhaled, but the words caught in your throat.  

“Is that what you want?”

Want? Like there was a choice. Like there had ever been a choice.  

Like the second the lights went out, the O players wouldn’t be coming for blood. Like they wouldn’t use the only advantage they had left—the only thing that had worked for them so far.  

You glanced at Young-il, but his expression remained unreadable. He didn’t answer right away. Didn’t rush to justify or defend himself. He just looked at Gi-hun, at the frustration brewing beneath his skin.  

Your grip on your arms tightened. “Want?” Your voice came quieter this time, rougher. “I want to sleep without worrying about waking up with a fork in my throat.”  

Gi-hun’s gaze snapped back to you.  

“I want to make it to morning. I want to make it to the bloody vote.” Your fingers curled tighter, your nails digging into your skin. “And if they come for us first, you think I should just let it happen?”  

“And if we fight back first? Then what?” His voice was quieter this time, edged with something almost like resignation. “We kill them. They kill us. We all die anyway.” He exhaled. “You think that’s winning?”

That was the difference between you and him.

He still wanted this to be a fight you could win without spilling more blood. Still wanted to believe that strategy, that sheer will, could get you all through the night. But you had already accepted the truth.  

This place wasn’t about being nice. It was about greed and accepting it. And when the lights went out, you weren’t going to be the one on the ground.

Young-il exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face before finally speaking. “Fine,” he muttered, his tone deliberately even. “We do it your way. What's your plan?”

You turned to him, startled. He was giving in? Just like that?

Gi-hun’s shoulders loosened, just barely. He nodded once, like he was bracing himself for the night ahead. “Once the fight begins tonight, we’ll have our chance. Once the lights go out, get under the bottom beds quietly. You must not get caught by those planning to attack us tonight. We have to hide until the fight ends. Don’t get caught up in the fight.”

Hide like cowards.

You barely stopped yourself from scoffing. Did he even listen to you? Your mouth opened before you could think better of it. “Gi-hun—”

But Young-il cut in first.

“Come on.”

His voice was casual, but there was something firm beneath it, something deliberate. He barely spared Gi-hun a glance, his attention locked on you instead. He knew what you were about to say, knew that whatever argument was about to spill from your lips wouldn’t end well if it happened here, in front of everyone.

Not now. 

His fingers brushed your wrist—light, coaxing—before he tilted his head slightly, a silent Let’s go. 

You swallowed, biting down your frustration, but followed anyway. For now. You hesitated, glancing at Gi-hun one last time. His expression was wary but relieved, like he had won something. Like this was over. But it wasn’t. Not even close.

You let Young-il guide you away, weaving through the scattered bunks, past the hushed murmurs of other players. He didn’t stop until you were at the farthest, most isolated corner of the room, a blind spot where no one could overhear you.

Finally, he turned, expression flat. You crossed your arms.

"You don’t actually believe in this bullshit, do you?"

His jaw tensed. "Of course not."

"Then why the hell did you agree with him back there?"

"Gi-hun’s an idiot, but he’s not entirely wrong."

You scoffed. "Oh, really? Which part? The part where we hide under the beds like terrified children while the O players wipe out half our numbers? Or the part where we magically steal guns from trained soldiers and somehow don’t get shot in the process?"

Young-il sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, but didn’t argue. Because he knew. He knew as well as you did that neither option was a real solution. Still, you weren’t done.

"We sit back, we let them make the first move, and we lose. We lose the vote, we lose people, we lose everything. You think I can just sit there and watch that happen?"

His expression darkened slightly. "No. I know you can’t."

Your throat tightened at his quiet certainty, but you forced yourself to push past it.

"Then stop trying to make me."

Young-il exhaled sharply, his gaze flickering over your face, studying you—assessing, measuring how far you were willing to push this.

Then, finally, he spoke. "I’m not trying to make you. I’m trying to keep you alive."

Your breath hitched. Just slightly.

But before you could speak, before you could throw another argument at him, he stepped closer.

"Listen to me." His voice was quieter now, lower. "If you continue to fight now, you’re going to split the group. And if we break apart before the O players even make their move, then we’re already dead."

You swallowed, his words settling like lead in your stomach.

"So what?" Your voice was quieter now, but not any less firm. "I just sit there and act like I’m okay with this?"

Young-il tilted his head slightly, gaze unwavering. "Yes."

A muscle in your jaw twitched.

You didn’t want to do this. You didn’t want to pretend, to act like you were okay with playing along. Every instinct in your body screamed against it. You had fought for too long, clawed your way through too much to just sit back now.

But Young-il wasn’t backing down. And worse? You knew he was right.

If you continued to push too hard, if you continue to fight this now, in front of everyone, you wouldn’t just be fighting Gi-hun—you’d be fighting your own people. And that? That was just as dangerous as the O players themselves.

You exhaled, pressing your fingers against your temples, your body thrumming with frustration.

"This is bullshit," you muttered.

Young-il’s lips twitched, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he reached out—just barely—fingertips brushing over your wrist.

"I know."

Silence settled between you. Tense. Unyielding.

Your eyes locked onto his.

"I’m fighting."

Young-il held your gaze for a long moment. Then, finally, he sighed—long and slow—like he had expected nothing less.

"I figured."

Your fingers curled into fists. "Then why even bother convincing me?"

His smirk was faint, but it was there. "Because if you pretend, it buys us time."

Time. That’s what this was really about. If you acted like you were on board, if you played the game just a little longer, then you wouldn’t just keep the group together. You’d control the moment the fight started. You let that thought settle, let the strategy of it sink into your bones.

Then, without thinking, without planning, without stopping yourself,

“Kiss me.”

Young-il blinked. Once. Twice. Then, slowly—too slowly—his lips curled into something unreadable.

“Excuse me?”

You rolled your eyes. “Did I stutter?”

His smirk twitched. “Oh, I heard you. Just didn’t expect you to say it out loud for once.”

You crossed your arms. “And why’s that?”

Young-il let out a soft chuckle, low and dangerous. “Sweetheart, I always hear ‘kiss me’ when you’re talking.” His head tilted slightly. “It’s just always subtext.”

Your brain short-circuited. Oh, fuck him.  

The arrogance. The audacity. The sheer, unrelenting smugness of this man. He was toying with you, playing with you like a cat batting at a mouse that wasn’t quite dead yet. You could feel the heat rising to your face, not from embarrassment, but from sheer, seething frustration.  

You opened your mouth—ready to snap, ready to rip that self-satisfied grin off his face and tell him exactly what you thought of him and his unbearable, endlessly infuriating—  

He shushed you. Just—fucking shushed you.  

One finger against his lips, a lazy, patronising little motion, like you were a child throwing a tantrum. 

You froze. Was this revenge? No, because revenge would have required him to take something seriously, and Young-il? Young-il was looking at you like he was having the time of his goddamn life. His lips quirked higher, eyes practically glowing with amusement. "See? Annoying, isn’t it?"  

Your pulse spiked. You couldn’t even speak. Not because you had nothing to say—oh, you had plenty—but because if you did, you’d be acknowledging that he got to you, that he was winning, that he had completely derailed your entire train of thought with nothing more than a single, simple gesture. Your jaw tightened. You were going to kill him.

His hand dropped, smug as ever. Satisfied.  

And then, before you could respond, he yanked you in and kissed you like he had been waiting for this exact moment.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was sharp and intentional, a statement, a release of everything you hadn’t said out loud.

His fingers curled against your waist, pulling you closer to him. You pulled back first, heart hammering, breath unsteady.

"I’ll follow the plan," you whispered, your lips barely leaving his. “But the second you’re in danger? I’m doing it my way.”

Young-il’s gaze flickered over your face, something unreadable lurking in his expression. Then, softly, he murmured—

"Deal."

He stepped back. His hand lingered at your waist for a fraction too long before dropping to his side.

"Come on," he said, voice quieter now. "Let’s get back. Before Jun-hee and Dae-ho make another bet.“

You stifled a laugh, nodded, and followed. 

When you returned to the group, Gi-hun looked up immediately, his brows drawn in quiet suspicion. You met his gaze, then inhaled slowly.

"I don’t agree with it," you said honestly. "But I trust you. Very much. So I’ll stick to the plan."

Gi-hun’s shoulders loosened. "That’s all I ask."

You nodded.

[autumnmobile12]

My Hero Academia AU: Bad Day

A short comic for the Ambush Simulation AU.

I have a confession: I don’t like really Sherlock. I mean, I don't hate it...but there are other Holmes adaptations that I like better. The cigarette scene does make me laugh though, so I wanted to do a parody.

...

Touya throwing Fuyumi under the bus and destroying the evidence. Bitch.

As far as the Ambush Simulation AU is concerned, I do try to write everyone in character as best I can, but I do want to note that Touya and Fuyumi's individual influences on each other does tweak their canon personalities a bit. In Fuyumi's mind, Touya's going to do what he's going to do, she can't stop him, so her compromise is making sure he knows home is still a safe place and laying down the boundaries he is not allowed to cross. As a result of keeping Touya somewhat grounded, she is less passive than she is canon. In Touya's case, Fuyumi is the only family member he actually listens to without antagonizing every second of the day. His 'fuck around and find out' attitude often comes to a screeching halt with his sister.

As we can clearly see here. Sometimes the bond between siblings is about being supportive, and sometimes it's about giving your brother the butt-kicking he deserves.

...

I have seen so many fanarts of Dabi smoking that during the time I fell out of the fandom, I legitimately forgot that he doesn't canonically smoke. For the record, neither of the siblings do in this particular AU. I like to imagine this all started with Fuyumi stomping her way into the house and telling Touya that she needed a cigarette. Doesn't even say hello.

And he just looks at her and says, "Okay, you look pissed, so I'm not even going to pretend I don't have any."

...

I also want to make note of this: When you draw one person in a heavy winter coat/scarf, everyone else in the same environment should be dressed accordingly. But between the fire and the ice resistance, I'm not sure Touya's even capable of feeling cold, hence the lighter jacket. And with the scarring/skin grafts, he probably doesn't regulate body temperature particularly well.

Also, Fuyumi is wearing their mom's scarf.

[arsont-t]

[noodles-and-tea]

it’s missing your bbc sherlock art hours 😔🙏

Dude I’m actually there with you atm…

[contact-guy]

THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP part two - part one here! - I really. really. really can't believe the part with Holmes making a pillow fort is canon. but it is.

I'm going to be at Flamecon in NYC on 8/17 and 8/18, table D41, and I will have copies of Watson's Sketchbook vol 1 for sale (I'll put it up for sale online after the con, probably early September). Please please please come talk to me about Sherlock Holmes :)

because of this and a few other trips I'm not sure when the next update will go up. I also realized that this is the 30th case I've illustrated and so I am technically halfway done with this series!

(this is in the Watson's Sketchbook series!)

[tsukihasnolife]

Growing old on Baker Street

[starfruitsomething]

that one scene in Lions Mane

version without text:

[bisclavart]

My Holmes and Watson for this year's Xangô collab!! ✨️ Thank you once again for having me!

[churchofthestarrychildren]

"i'm so normal about this piece of media" i say, fresh from consuming it for the 5th time this month

[abstractfrog]

that doesn't sound right but i don't know enough about receiving valentines to dispute it

[daddyhoothoot]

It probably killed Stolas to talk about Blitzø the way he did to the council but it was sooo incredibly smart of him to go about it that way. I came from the Sherlock fandom (don’t judge me) and one line I think about from the show is roughly ‘the frailty of genius is that it needs an audience.’

Stolas laying it on thick that Blitzø was too dumb to come up with such a devious plan to use the Grimoire to breach the human world worked because:

1. He played into the fact that Goetia/Sins see imps as literal scum and not intelligent.

2. They respect Stolas for his status alone so they had no reason to believe that he wasn’t the “Mastermind” at play here.

Stolas confessing to the crime as a “Mastermind” was believable because a Mastermind would want people to know what he’s done so he can get the credit. Stolas willing to play the villain literally saved Blitzø’s life and I don’t think they would have gotten away with it if they had been honest why Blitzø had the book in the first place.

[kagilasgilas]

I'd be remiss if I didn't do Holmes' husband too. So here's a buncha Watson studies featuring him in various stages of his life.

I was trying to figure out how I wanted to draw him. He was a little harder to figure out compared to Holmes, but I adore Hardwicke and Burke's Watsons so he's mostly based off them!

I tried to strike the balance between reservedness vs. vulnerability and I think I've managed to pin him down!

And since you guys enjoyed the last couple of bonuses, here's another one 😆

The picture that inspired the first one <3

[ceruleanmindpalace]

Inktober No. 6 - Heatstroke

When a heatwave hit London and Sherlock went out on a case in his coat he overheated.

From @whumptober 's promptlist for Inktober 2024.

I am flattered if you reblog, but do NOT post my art on other sites/social media or use in any other way without my written permission.

[noodles-and-tea]

About that one Sherlock podcast you’ve drawn art of, do I need to listen to it in any particular order or is it like the books where it’s episodic in format?

I would say it’s similar to the books where they have adventures with multiple parts that are technically contained stories you can definitely enjoy! However I would recommend listening in order (or at least starting with the first case for intro reasons)! Definitely give it a listen if you have the time though!!! It’s a lot of fun :)

[sealbug]

Fish sausage shenanigans

[ryuusea]

sherliam rkgk, flirting with “mr. scott” + drabble:

A pleased smile pulls at the corner of his lips, easily mistaken for pleasantries by anybody else. But he isn’t just anyone else. Sherlock Holmes recognizes the playful invitation to a game, and lets himself be tugged in.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit by the renowned consulting detective, and London’s savior, the Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

“You teach maths, correct, Mr… Scott, was it? Do you like maths puns?”

With that, Sherlock crowds into him, so close that his chest is but a mere breath’s take away from the teacher’s back. Mr. Scott isn’t daunted by the bold move, does not allow himself to be pushed up against the blackboard. He indulges Sherlock with a curious lilt of his head.

“Indeed. As for the latter, perhaps. Impress me, Mr. Holmes.”

A wide and eager grin, egged on by his words, splits across his face. Sherlock picks up a piece of chalk and leans around Mr. Scott, to messily scratch in the answer to the arithmetic problem on the board just beside his head. Sherlock doesn’t miss the way the other turns his face in towards his exposed neck, nor the surreptitious inhale. It sends shivers along Sherlock’s spine, not unlike the first time he had been allured by scarlet eyes admiring sequences in a spiraling staircase.

Sherlock sets down the chalk, leans back just enough so he can drink in the look the maths teacher is giving him from beneath hooded lashes, also dyed dark – that kid really is thorough with his disguises – it’s a patient, expectant look. One you don’t want to disappoint.

“Ya know, I feel like we could manage some integration later.”

“Oh? What kind of integration?”

He licks his lips, an already eager grin turning wolfish. “The type with undefined limits.”

A shift as he considers Sherlock’s words, spectacles catching the light through the windows. For but a split second, Sherlock cannot see those eyes through the reflected sunlight on the lenses. Then, a soft laugh puffs out from between lightly pursed lips. Mr. Scott raises a hand to his mouth, chuckles again. It reminds Sherlock of mornings over shared coffee, filled with amused, yet most importantly of all, approving smiles. Sherlock feels his heart surge, chest swelling with warmth – it’s been far too long, he’s missed seeing and hearing that –

The maths teacher fully turns around then. It’s his turn to push him back, to invade Sherlock’s space.

“I’m afraid that’s well above my pay grade, Mr. Holmes, I am but a teacher to primary school children…” His eyes narrow, sharpening, darting towards the classroom doorway in warning. Ah. But, shielded from view by Sherlock, he lifts a hand to run a teasing forefinger down Sherlock’s shirt placket, down until he’s caught at the intersection of his closed jacket, then withdraws, “But we can continue this conversation in my office.”

—

Thanks to this Reddit post for inspiration: