#Studies and Observations Group

[historyofguns]

The article "History of the MACV/SOG Knife - The Armory Life" by Randall Chaney delves into the origins and development of the MACV/SOG knife, a unique combat tool used during the Vietnam War. Conrad “Ben” Baker, the Deputy Chief for the United States Counterinsurgency Support Office (CISO) in Okinawa, was instrumental in designing this "non-attributable," sterile knife for U.S. special operations troops, particularly those in the MACV-SOG. This elite group conducted reconnaissance and raids across borders into Laos, Cambodia, and North Vietnam. Baker's design was inspired by a combination of historical and practical needs, leading to a knife that served as both a survival tool and a weapon. The article highlights Baker's meticulous process involving steel selection, field testing, and refining the blade to a version of the American Bowie knife. The MACV-SOG knife's historical significance is underpinned by notable users such as U.S. Army Special Forces Major John Plaster and the knife's lasting legacy, which continues through modern reproductions by SOG Specialty Knives & Tools. This account honors Baker’s creativity and his contributions to military gear during and beyond the Vietnam conflict.

[demonic-lair]

A big alien successful from his hunt.

Hoarfrost, for short Hoar, is a yautja that works either as a temporary bodyguard or bounty hunter on various locations, though he prefers snow forests.

Currently he has been hired by a group of alien/human researchers that are studying wildlife on a cold planet to his happiness.

His duty is to make sure they survive through their stay and to hunt for them either food or living specimens for them to analyze.

He find the idea of capturing his preys alive entertaining: it helps him refine his skills, be more precise and also delicate despite his size.

Regarding the food…he leaves the cooking to the researches, he is not very good at it.

So far he might be one of my fav among my male yautja ocs and not because I have a preference for mountains and snow.

[bmpmp3]

I help run a fibre arts club at my university and normally it's chill but recently we've been getting like nonstop requests from people in various STEM programs trying to do Studies on us. They want to Examine the Knitters Like They Are Bugs

[kikaichuno]

In a way, there is some good in this curse the Aburame have of going unnoticed no matter what. At least for Shino.

Being Autistic, he never really knows how to start a conversation or how to approach people right away, he needs to observe them first. Watching the dynamic, listening in to conversations, he needs to get a good idea of how it goes with certain people and observation is a must. The problem is that he's a little creepy about it, he stares at these poor people for way too long before he approaches them.

Going unnoticed is good because if they saw him staring like that, the creepy feel he already gives people would be even worse. It would make his interactions a lot more difficult, he would struggle more than he already is.

[sassypotatoe1]

Amazing work everyone we can pack up and go home nothing will ever beat this post. Anyway for anyone who is curious about how to eradicate invasive plants like this colloseum without using herbicides that will kill all plant life, it's not a short process. It may be tempting to just poison the fuck out of everything and then treat the soil to prepare it to plant natives, but it's better for everything in the local ecology to take the long route.

What you wanna do is something that takes two steps and multiple seasons. You want to 1, remove all the invasive plants you can. Rip em up by the roots, then till the ground well and 2, sow a bunch of native flora densely. You want to choke out the invasive plants. You'll notice in the next growth season (usually spring or early autumn) that the invasives came back. That's gonna happen, they're invasive because they're persistent as fuck, and you dumped a fuck ton of their seeds in the ground when you weeded the previous season. Do not panic, do not give up.

Learn exactly what seedlings of the invasives you're dealing with looks like, because you want to weed them as they come up before they can flower and drop seeds. Some seeds can remain dormant in the soil for years, so you will be doing this every growth season for at least 3 years, depending on what you're dealing with. All the while keep sowing native flora densely to choke them out, it'll make sure less of the invasive seeds sprout and over time the unsprouted seeds will rot.

There are some management strategies employed by municipal services aimed at quickly dealing with invasive plants. These include controlled bush fires in the winter and the dreaded herbicides. I personally haven't seen them use any other method. The problem with both of these is that it's only a temporary fix, and they both have larger devastating effects on the local ecology.

Herbicides take out all plant life in one go, and even fuck with microorganisms and mycelial networks which are both incredibly important for healthy soil. They end up killing all the wormies and good bacteria and fungus that make sure soil is nutrient dense and well balanced, and they eliminate food sources for critters for that entire season as all the plants die, and they can even make the critters themselves sick. The nuisance effects are there too if you're the kind of person who cares about it, because if all the plants in the field behind your house die rodents will seek shelter and food in your house instead.

Fires are also bad, as they have much of the same effect as herbicides. Food source and shelter elimination with added rodent chasing powers, as they will all run into the houses to get away from the fire at once instead of a few at a time as plants die. Microorganisms in the topsoil die from the heat and moisture evaporation caused by the fires. And worst of all, it's not even as effective, as fires leave behind intact seeds that will just sprout again next growing season.

If you want to effectively deal with an invasive infestation, you have to take the long route. It's better for everyone and everything involved. If something is really invasive in your area, don't plant it ever. "but I put it in a pot" it will spread. "But it's an indoor only plant" it will spread. "but I'll be careful" it. Will. Spread. Birds and rodents spread seeds, seeds can get caught on your clothes, there's a million different ways invasive plants can spread, so if it's an unmanageable ecological disaster in your area just don't contribute to the problem.

this redditor has the fucking battle royale of invasive plants (in the US) happening in their yard jesus christ. sentences of hate and destruction

[prettyboysdontlookatexplosions]

i appreciated this study: "They Can't Read Very Well: A Study of the Reading Comprehension Skills Of English Majors At Two Midwestern Universities"

[ETA: if you are somehow finding your way here pls note some - not exhaustive!!!! - follow up notes in this reblog. sorry again i mixed up megalodons and megalosaurs]

essentially, a pair of professors set out to test their intuitive sense that students at the college level were struggling with complex text. they recruited 85 students, a mix of english majors and english education majors - so, theoretically, people focusing on literature, and people preparing to teach adolescents how to read literature - and had them read-while-summarizing the first seven paragraphs of dickens's bleak house (or as much as they made it through in the 20 minute session). they provided dictionaries and also said students could use their phones to look up whatever they wanted, including any unfamiliar words or references. they found that the majority of the students - 58%, or 49 out of the 85 students - functionally could not understand dickens at all, and only 5% - a mere 4 out of the 85 students - proved themselves proficient readers (leaving the remaining 38%, or 32 students, as what the study authors deemed "competent" students, most of whom could understand about half the literal meaning - pretty low bar for competence - although a few of whom, they note, did much better than the rest in this group if not quite well enough to be considered proficient).

what i really appreciated about this study was its qualitative descriptions of the challenges and reading behaviors of what the authors call "problematic readers" (that bottom 58%), which resonated strongly with my own experiences of students who struggle with reading. here's their blunt big picture overview of these 49 students:

The majority of these subjects could understand very little of Bleak House and did not have effective reading tactics. All had so much trouble comprehending concrete detail in consecutive clauses and phrases that they could not link the meaning of one sentence to the next. Although it was clear that these subjects did try to use various tactics while they read the passage, they were not able to use those tactics successfully. For example, 43 percent of the problematic readers tried to look up words they did not understand, but only five percent were able to look up the meaning of a word and place it back correctly into a sentence. The subjects frequently looked up a word they did not know, realized that they did not understand the sentence the word had come from, and skipped translating the sentence altogether.

the idea that they had so much trouble with every small piece of a text that they could not connect ideas on a sentence by sentence basis is very familiar to me from teaching and tutoring, as was the habit of thought seen in the example of the student who gloms on to the word "whiskers" in a sea of confusion and guesses incorrectly that a cat is present - struggling readers, in my experience, seem to use familiar nouns as stepping stones in a flood of overwhelm, hopping as best they can from one seemingly familiar image to the next. so was this observation, building off the example of a student who misses the fact that dickens is being figurative when he imagines a megalodon stalking the streets of london:

She first guesses that the dinosaur is just “bones” and then is stuck stating that the bones are “waddling, um, all up the hill” because she can see that Dickens has the dinosaur moving. Because she cannot logically tie the ideas together, she just leaves her interpretation as is and goes on to the next sentence. Like this subject, most of the problematic readers were not concerned if their literal translations of Bleak House were not coherent, so obvious logical errors never seemed to affect them. In fact, none of the readers in this category ever questioned their own interpretations of figures of speech, no matter how irrational the results. Worse, their inability to understand figurative language was constant, even though most of the subjects had spent at least two years in literature classes that discussed figures of speech. Some could correctly identify a figure of speech, and even explain its use in a sentence, but correct responses were inconsistent and haphazard. None of the problematic readers showed any evidence that they could read recursively or fix previous errors in comprehension. They would stick to their reading tactics even if they were unhappy with the results.

i have seen this repeatedly, too - actually i was particularly taken with how similar this is to the behavior of struggling readers at much younger ages - and would summarize the hypothesis i have forged over time as: struggling readers do not expect what they read to make sense. my hypothesis for why this is the case is that their reading deficits were not attended to or remediated adequately early enough, and so, in their formative years - the early to mid elementary grades - they spent a lot of time "reading" things that did not make sense to them - in fact they spent much more time doing this than they ever did reading things that did make sense to them - and so they did not internalize a meaningful subjective sense of what it feels like to actually read things.

like, i've said this before, but the year i taught third grade i had multiple students who told me they loved reading and then when i asked them about a book they were reading revealed that they had absolutely no idea what was going on - on a really basic literal level like "didn't know who said which lines of dialogue" and "couldn't identify which things or characters given pronouns referred to" - and were as best as i could tell sort of constructing their own story along the way using these little bits of things they thought they understood. that's what "reading" was, in their heads. and they were, in the curriculum/model that we used at the private school where i taught, receiving basically no support to clarify that that was not what reading was, nor any instruction that would actually help them with what they needed to do to improve (understand sentences) - and i realized over the course of that year that the master's program that had certified me in teaching elementary school had provided me with very little understanding of how to help these kids (with perhaps the sole exception of the class i took on communications disorders, not because these kids had communications disorders but because that was the only class where we ever talked, even briefly, about things like sentence structures that students may need instruction in and practice with to comprehend independently). when it comes to the literal, basic understanding of a text, the model of reading pedagogy i was taught has about 6 million little "tools" that all boil down to telling kids who functionally can't read to try harder to read. this is not productive, in my experience and opinion, for kids whose maximum effort persistently yields confusion. but things are so dysfunctional all the way up and down the ladder that you can be a senior in college majoring in english without anyone but a pair of professors with a strong work ethic noticing that you can't actually read.

couple other notes:

obviously it's a small study but i'm not sure i see a reason to believe these are particularly outlierish results (ACT scores - an imperfect metric but not a meritless one IMO for reading specifically, where the task mostly really is to read a set of texts written for the educated layperson and answer factual questions about them - were a little bit above the national average)

the study was published last year, but the research was conducted january to april 2015. so there's no pandemic influence, no AI issue - these are millennials who now would span roughly ages 28-32 (i guess it's possible one of the four first-year students was one of the very first members of gen z lol). if you're in your late 20s or early 30s, we are talking about people your age, and whatever the culprit is here, it was happening when you were in school.

i think some people might want to blame this on NCLB but i find this unconvincing for a variety of reasons. first of all, NCLB did not pass because everyone in 2001 agreed that education was super hunky-dory; in fact, the sold a story podcast outlines how an explicit goal of NCLB was to train teachers in systematic phonics instruction, because that was not the norm when NCLB was passed, and an unfortunate outcome was that phonics became politicized in ed world. second, anyone who understands anything about reading should need about ten minutes max to spend some time on standardized test prep and recognize that if your goal is truly to maximize scores... then the vast majority of your instructional time should be spent on improving actual reading skills because you actually can't meaningfully game these tests by "practicing main idea questions" (timothy shanahan addresses this briefly near the top of this post). so i find it very difficult to believe that any school that pivoted to multiple choice drill time in an attempt to boost reading scores was teaching reading effectively pre-NCLB, because no set of competent literacy professionals would think that would work even for the goal of raising test scores. third, NCLB mandated yearly testing in grades 3-8 but only one test year in high school; kansas set its reading and math test year in high school as tenth grade. so theoretically these kids all had two years of sweet sweet freedom from NCLB in which their teachers could have done whatever the fuck they wanted to teach these kids to actually read. the fact that they didn't suggests perhaps there were other problems afoot. fourth, and maybe most saliently for this particular study, the sample text was the first seven paragraphs of a novel - in other words, the exact kind of short incomplete text that NCLB allegedly demanded excessive time spent on. i'm not really sure what universe it makes sense in that students who can't read the first seven paragraphs of a novel would have become much better reader if everything else had been the same but they had been making completely wack associations based on nonsense guesses for all 300 pages instead. (if you read the study it's really clear that for problematic readers, things go off the rails immediately, in a way that a good program targeted at teaching mastery of text of 500 words or less would have done something about.)

all but 3 of the students reported A's and B's in their english classes and, again, 69% of them are juniors and seniors, so like... i mean idk kudos to these professors for being like "hold up can these kids actually read?" but clearly something is wack at the college level too [in 2015] if you can make your way through nearly an entire english major without being able to read the first seven paragraphs of a dickens novel. (once again i really do encourage you to look at the qualitative samples in the study, lest you think i am being uncharitable by summarizing understandable misunderstandings or areas of confusion that may resolve themselves with further exposure to the text as "can't read.") not to mention the fact that most students could not what they had learned in previous or current english classes and when asked to name british and american authors and/or works of the nineteenth century, roughly half the sample at each college could name at most one.

the authors of the study are struck by the fact that students who cannot parse the first 3 sentences of bleak house feel very confident about their ability to read the entire novel, and discover that this seeming disconnect is resolved by the fact that these students seem to conceptualize "reading" as "skimming and then reading sparknotes." i think it's really tempting to Kids These Days this phenomenon (although again these are people who in some cases have now been in the workforce for a decade) and categorize it as laziness or a lack of effort, but i think that there is, as i described above, a real and sincere confusion over what "reading" is in which this makes a certain logical sense because it's not like they have some store of actual reading experiences to compare it to. i also think it's pretty obvious looking at just how wildly severed from actual textual comprehension their readings are that these are not - or at least not entirely - students who could just work harder and master the entirety of bleak house all on their own. like i don't think you get from "charles dickens is describing a bunch of dinosaur bones actually walking the streets of london" to comfortably reading nineteenth century literature by just trying harder. i really just don't (and i say that acknowledging i personally have had students who like... were good readers if i was forcing them to work at it constantly... but i have also had students, including ones getting ready to enter college, who were clearly giving me everything they had and what they had was at the present moment insufficient). i think that speaks to a missing skillset that they don't know are missing, because they don't have any other experience of "reading" to compare it to.

just wanna highlight again that although they don't give the breakdown some of these students are not just english majors but english education majors a.k.a. the high school english teachers of tomorrow. some of them may be teaching high school english right now, in case anyone wishes to consider whether "maybe some high school english teachers can't read the first seven paragraphs of bleak house?" should be kept in mind when we discuss present-day educational ills.

[dabeth-is-dead]

Sorry to say, but I'm almost never surprised when I find out an actor is actually British/Australian/what have you, doing an American accent and I don't understand how so many people are. I'm sure there are a few exceptions, but most of the time when I find out where an actor is from, my response ranges from, "well duh" to "Oh well that explains it." Although I guess I shouldn't expect much from a public that thinks Australian and New Zealand accents sound the same 🤷🏻

[tonycries]

Heavy Metal Lover - G.S.

Synopsis. A group project with your tall, nerdy, hot academic rival and your handsome punk best friend? Oh, you’re getting a D++

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader x Geto Suguru

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, nerd!Geto, punk!bestfriend!Geto, thréesome, mmf, they go FÉRAL, dúmbification, Geto with tattoos and piercings, Jacob’s Ladder (iykyk), oraI (fem. rec.), all sIoppy type, yearning Geto, fíngering, spítting, p talking, manhandIing, dp, SAME DAMN TIME, creampíes, cúmplay, BIG stretches, size k!nks, rough s, marathons, overstím, PÚSSYDRÚNK GOJO, squírting, making him cúm dry, jock!Sukuna cameo, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 11.4k

A/N. TWO!! Because heh- daddy Tony just turned the big 2-0!!

“You won’t believe how big it was.” 

“…”

“Satoru’s audacity, I mean.” Leaning over the cluttered café table, you’re cupping your mouth with one hand, whispering oh-so-conspiratorially to your best friend. “And his d-”

“Alright.” Geto cuts through your astute observation, making an observation of his own that the elderly lady seated beside you two had promptly turned off her hearing aids. “So you really didn’t get any studying done during this ‘study session’, huh?”

Waving your hands airily, “It’s not that we didn’t try, it’s just…” The glinting snake bites on Geto’s lips curl at the sinful sight of those teeth marks down the side of your neck, the way your thighs still quivered in broad daylight. Still. 

He already knew that there was something more between you and your ‘cocky, book-hugging, jerkwad’ academic rival. He saw the way Gojo looked at you. And he saw the way you looked back. 

Somewhere down the line it made Geto tighten in his pants.

He’s flitting a wide-eyed glance between his thighs, fuck, then at the thick smoothie in his hands- was there something they put in this or what?

No, he’s subtly shaking his head. It’s just not everyday that you hear about your best friend finally hooking up with the very same man she’d been complaining about ever since first meeting him. It was a long time coming - the entire campus knew at this point. Hell, he’d even distantly heard about a few betting pools to see who’d crack first (okay, maybe he betted in them, too- but only twice!)

So Geto was simply happy for you. Really. 

After all, he’d been right by your side through every argument, every middle finger, every war for top spot on the Dean’s List until that tall, gloomy nerd had completely n’ utterly fucked you.

And here you were, telling him all about it.

Never having been more thankful for that obnoxiously frilly tablecloth covering his legs, Geto coughs away the slight hitch in his breath. “Was it good, pipsqueak?”

A slightly dreamy look wafts across your face, and with the way that his length twitches in interest, he’s pushing away his smoothie completely now. Unable to take any chances of it somehow being spiked.

You sigh, “Hate to admit it, but yeah.”

“Nerdy fuckin’ Gojo made you cum?”

“Multiple times.”

Another jolt, another squeeze of his meaty thighs. 

He darts his darkening eyes away from the expression on your beautiful face. What he’d give to make you look like that, too- no. No, he can’t. “Ah, s-so- you two’ve fucked away the tension now, or what?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say fucked away.” You’re humming idly, “He did argue with me while he was inside of me.” At the strange, strangled squawk that leaves Geto’s mouth- “I know right?”

He’s crossing and uncrossing his legs, throat dry. Sharply glancing downwards once more, “Like- dirty talk?”

And you’re completely oblivious to the way that you’re absolutely ruining him, Geto latching onto every syllable that slips out of your pretty lips like he’s breathing them in. Goddammit, he was feeling so…“Hmm—sure, but just arguing, too. Would you believe it if I told you he tried to pick a fight even after I made him cum dry?”

“C-cum dry.” The usually-deep baritone of Geto’s voice breaks as he echoes the end of your sentence, fingerpads tapping impatiently on the top of the table. Stop talking. Stop thinking. “You can do that?”

“Heh- yeah.” Fuck. You’re smirking, “Why? Jealou-”

“No.”

It comes out much more urgently than he would have liked - much more panicked - and just before you can suspect anything, he’s tugging on the ragged texture of his baggy, ripped jeans. “A-anyways, did you hear about Yaga’s-”

“Sugu, are you okay?” Oh, too late. Before he can stop you, you’re reaching over one of your palms to cover the expanse of his forehead. Feeling for his temperature, “You’re a little…hot.”

“Mm– I’m always hot, gorgeous.” Trying for his usual nonchalance, but if the way you knit your brows is anything to go by, then you’re not buying his act one bit. 

“Is it strange that I slept with Gojo? I mean, I know I’ve been hating him all this time but-”

He clasps his much-larger hand over yours, blunt nails chipped with dark polish. “No no. Don’t worry about it.” With a smile, Geto stretches his long legs underneath the table to tangle them with yours. Heat against heat. Swelling cock against his pants. Tongue snagging on the silver of his snake bites.

The scorching blush that simmers across his cheeks is almost startling as he pushes away the bangs from his face - so pretty, you had to admit. Such a brash, tattooed style to him that drove nearly every woman, man, and anything in between wild any time his looming figure sauntered through campus. 

Winking his eyeliner-smudged lids, “In fact-”

Ah, well, if you can’t beat them…

“-tell me more.”

Join ‘em.

Geto’s sure the poor ol’ lady next to you faints.

.

.

.

“Fuck-” He’s whispering, cooped up in his dark apartment not even an hour after parting ways with you at the café. Apparently you’d left for a totally-not-date with Gojo- and Geto?

Oh, Geto had one hand wrapped around his aching cock to pump until his wrist ached.

Groaning at the squelch of his thumb smearing down the crown of his reddened shaft, he’s plugging up his bawling divot. Other hand reaching over to shuffle inside his bedside cabinet, “C’mon, where- where is- ah.”

There it was.

Geto’s fingers plunge out from the depths of the drawer, all wrapped up in the strappy lace of a pair of pretty pink panties. Your panties.

Ones you’d accidentally left after a sleepover - and really, you’d stolen more than enough of his Green Day t-shirts that he didn’t exactly feel bad about stealing them away.

About hastily plucking that cutesy underwear up and pushing it against his face, he’s rolling his glassy eyes back and sniiiiffing the sweet, sweet scent of you. That smell he couldn’t get enough of. So close and yet, so far.

“Sh-shit.” Geto’s heavy shaft grows even harder in his hand, and he didn’t even think that was possible. Sinking the fringes of his teeth into his bottom lip, he wraps the ribbony fabric ‘round his erection, “Oh, shouldn’t do this- r-really shouldn’t do this.”

But he can’t stop. Not when he’s fucking the plush comfort of his palm in repeated, sloppy strokes- and not even when Geto hears the bzzzt–! of his phone vibrating from that very same bedside cabinet.

Breath catching as he turns his head to blearily stare at the flashing screen - Pipsqueak. You. 

Ah…without a second thought, Geto grabs his phone with one hand, the other still tugging on the veiny shaft of his cock. Unlocking it to find that you’d sent a photograph of you - and the infamous Gojo himself. Mouth downturned, flush burning. 

The two of you were cramped into the frame, at the forefront of some aquarium. Innocent, surely- but Geto catches the glide of Gojo’s fingertips down the side of your waist, the way you’re leaning in just enough to let a flash of cleavage peek through.

Dilated pupils flickering between the two figures, he finds his tattooed hips thrusting—“Oh. I’m fucked.”

So very, very fucked.

And after this, he had an email to write. To none other than Yaga.

.

.

.

“Iori and Haibara. Ieri and Ijichi.” Professor Yaga’s bored, monotone voice drones through with his usual steady pace, announcing each pairing for the upcoming assignment.

A practical project, it seemed - and you can’t help but feel your heart race once he’s thumbing down the list of names. Finally announcing yours and…“Gojo.” But before you can show even the slightest bit of euphoria, Yaga’s tugging up his thick sunglasses. Raising a thick brow, he’s turning your way.

And for a split-second, you think he’s staring you down- that is, until you follow his line of sight and find that Yaga’s staring above you. Just the row above.

Exactly where Geto was. 

Eyes half-lidded, atmosphere surrounding him burning. Goosebumps prick down your spine, and you find yourself wondering what the hell was happening in this thick moment of silence. 

Evidently, Gojo’s musing the same from his seat right beside you. Whispering from the side of his maw, “What the hell? I haven’t seen Yaga look like that since the last time you started an argument with me during class, miss valedictorian.”

That damned know-it-all nickname.

You’re taking a good, long look at him - neat, crisp. The way his thick-rimmed glasses framed a slight cute frown, cosied up in a cotton vest that hid his muscular figure, his sapphire eyes twinkling through pale bangs as you sneer. 

“Satoru, that was your fault- and yesterday.”

“Well, it’s about to be right now.”

“You just want to be yelled at by me, perv.”

He’s opening his pouted mouth to snark back - but Yaga beats him to it. With a gruff, cutting announcement that neatly finishes off the rest of your little group, “-and Geto.” Only to turn away as if nothing ever happened, and rattle out the rest of his lengthy list. 

And Geto? You’re furrowing your brows- this was meant to be a paired project, wasn’t it? 

Well, not that you were unhappy to be with your best friend - it was rare that your uptight professor ever took his students’ preferences into consideration. But, according to your calculations, there wouldn’t have been any odd ones out in the student body, and Yaga had seemingly formed two trios for the sake of it. 

Question on your lips, you’re turning in your seat to face Geto. Only to meet his eyes and oh-

Something about him was almost predatory. Something dangerous. Something that makes you gulp, and Gojo squeeze his fingers with yours.

Resting his face upon one of his palms, Geto purrs—“Consider this project a…science experiment, gorgeous.”

.

.

.

A science experiment. 

A science experiment. 

Rubbing his swole n’ red cock raw to your photographs, writing an intently-worded email to Yaga with his choice for project pairings, and inviting the two of you to his apartment later - he was finally here, with his ‘science’ experiment. 

With his ringed fingers toying down the patterns of his throbbing shaft veins, listening to the way that Gojo made you let off the prettiest shrill whimpers. “F-fuck, don’t be shy.”

You didn’t even know how you were here - only seconds after entering Geto’s sprawling living room before you’re somehow laid across his couch. Sprawled across Gojo’s lap, still fully clothed but being kissed stupid.

The former gazing all the while, thick thighs manspread like he was watching a show of his very own. He’d moved one of his cushy armchairs to watch dead-on as Gojo lifts his mouth off of yours with a dampened slurp just to spit between your parted lips. 

Thwack! It’s gluing to the ridges of your tastebuds with a splatter, “Then you kiss me all proper, princess.” Gojo’s hissing between your swollen lips, the honed points of his canines nipping down on your maw just to get you to open wider. “Yer really embarrassing yourself in front of your best friend.”

Huffing, “I’m the- mmpf-”

Only to have your heated cavern stuffed with the expanse of his textured tongue. It’s just so sloppy how he’s kissing you, with the slimy edge of his muscle swirlin’ the insides of your maw as Geto snickers.

Unhinging your jaw open, you manage to muffle out. “I’m the one embarrassing myself?” The flat of your palm caresses vertically down the front of his cotton vest. All smart and sensible. Moving it down his bumpy pecs, then only further down his abs, down, down- 

Before clinging your greedy fingerpads onto the large, cylindrical length of his erection. All looong and hard, it’s laid out the side of his meaty right leg. “Who’s the one that’s rock fuckin’ hard already?”

“F-fuck.” He’s gasping into your touch, and through his linen pants you can feel the bulge of his cock twitch. Flinching needily enough that the syrupy puddle forming between his thighs starts to grow even sappier, “And whose fault is that~?‘

“Mmm– mine.”

“Heh, so you know how to take accountability?”

Vulgarly, the edges of your fingers twitch into a squeeze over the outline of his cock - so thick that your hand struggles to properly close around him. “Only for this.”

“You little-”

“So you two seriously argue during sex, too?” Geto’s husky voice breaks through, and you’re both snapping your head over to see the way his head tilts. The way he lurches his hips slightly off of his seat with a buck, fingers dragging down his veiny cock. “Fuck, that’s hot.”

Noticing the silky scrap of fabric that sticks out from the gaps of his fingers, you’re whining at the sight of those familiar panties you’d lost months ago. “Suguru—”

“You can make those sounds for him, too?” Gojo snarls, rutting you up on his v-line so that your dazed head lolls back towards him. Swatting a hand down on the side of your ass cheek, he’s lifting your thin skirt enough to give Geto just a peek of your panties.

Possessive. Feral.

Something primal slips into Gojo’s throat as he toys with the wiry strings of your underwear, where he’s sure Geto can watch. “M’shocked we’re not fighting even more, miss valedictorian.”

“Sh-shut up.”

With a gasp, you’re pushin’ your sultry hips further down onto his. Grinding so that the slope of your slit presses through your panties and onto his fattened cock, just so wet that it leaves a glistening snail-trail between Gojo’s thighs.

“Mmm—” Geto departs with a chuckle, hands pumping even faster on the veiny, gleaming length of his cock until it was almost just a pinkish blur. He’s milking himself with a grunt at each lecherous interaction, “Keep going, gorgeous. Just like that.”

Shyly, you shift your restless hips, “B-but, Sugu…”

“Ohhh I like that.” Geto juts his chin up, nudging the rough fabric of his pants down to free a few more solid inches even more. “Say that again, pipsqueak.”

“S-Sug-”

“Nuh uh.” But before you know it, Gojo has a hand smushing your cheeks together into such a pathetic pout. Staring back down at him- “You’re going to say ‘Toru.’”

Geto muses, “Sugu.”

“Toru.”

“Sugu-”

“To-”

“P-please.” Your wailing cries cut through the slight battle, impatiently humping the plane of Gojo’s clothed pelvis at a pace that damn near reaches a fever-point. “Just want something- anything.” Head throwing back, babbling, oh-so-pretty that Geto puffs out a low hum, and tucks your soaked panties away.

“Then c’mere, gorgeous.”

Gojo interrupts, “What?”

“I said…” The tattooed man plows on, lips twitching even further into a grin once you’re standing up on wobbly legs. The flesh of your thighs squeezing together with each step, “-come here. You too, nerd.”

Oh.

Oh. 

And you can’t even remember the treacherous trek you take to clamor up onto Geto’s widespread thighs, he’s just so big n’ beefy that it takes you a few tries to properly straddle his toned hips. Grappling your two hands on top of his round deltoids, “L-like this, Suguru?”

“Atta girl, there you go.” Perking you up further- he takes a second to admire you. To memorize you. To take in every heady pant of yours and each dry hump of your cunt. 

Before tugging a girthy finger upon the sides of your current panties and teeearing straight through them. Skirt next to follow. 

Gojo can only watch in utter awe as he’s bared to your pretty, sopping pussy from behind- fuck, he’s never going to get used to this. Joints weakening, mouth parched, his towering frame falls to his knees at merely the sight. 

“Pussy got your tongue, Toru?” You’re tittering once Gojo’s only saddling up behind you on the carpet, glasses now level with your slick-glazed lips. Close. 

“Well, he will have your pussy, pipsqueak.” Geto’s piping up from underneath you, sliding further down the armchair so that Gojo’s nose sticks to the outer part of your sheeny cunt. “But where do you want me? Here?” Groping your ass, “Orrrr here?” Your thighs. “Or-”

“No teasing, Suguru.”

“Oh, gorgeous, I could go allll fucking day without…” One of his rings shaped into a gothic skull traces your cunt, “-dessert.” 

Gojo scoffs, “Well, I’m fucking starved-”

Geto grins, “And I wanna kiss these lips first.”

“O-oh mm–” It was just maddening- the very nanosecond that Gojo’s hearing he’ll be having your sweet, honeyed pussy all to himself, he’s plastering his mouth to your folds. 

Stirring the curvy edge of his tongue instantly past your soppy entrance, puckering you up for a saccharine kiss. Latching his glossy lips down to the swollen fringe of your pussylips, he throws his head back and grins. “Nothing smart to say now, miss hah- valedictorian?”

“Now now, of course, she doesn’t.” And it’s the very moment that Geto’s mouth kisses your own that you’re realizing he didn’t have just snake bites - he’d hidden away a frigid, metallic tongue piercing. 

That slick spheroid wafting between your lips, Geto’s drinking you in like he’s a man parched. And every cute bubble of spit spilling from your mouth was the first droplet of water he’s had in eons. Feeling his smug grin across your lips, “Not when she’s kissing me, of course.”

“Tch- as if.” Gojo spits- literally, a great, glittery wad of spittle that thrashes past your quivering hole. Salivating his tongue to push juuuust inside, just teasing the tight ring of your cunt with his velvety tongue. “S’because of me. Her vaginal introitus is just drooling.”

And oh- Gojo’s tongue is just so flexible. Swabbing the tender orifices of your sleek cunt with his pointed tip, he bullies a few inches past your entrance and makes you whine. “P-please- ngh more, Satoru. F-fuck me like you mean it.”

Snickering, Gojo only swats the right side of your ass cheek, gripping it to haul your wildly bucking body further against his face. Until his chin hits your treacly cunt, until his nostrils can’t even breathe-

“Aw, nothing f’me?” Geto coos, and while you’re all jostling and thrashing, one of his ringed hands plummet down the side of your body. Pryin’ apart your slick-glued folds to press his knobbled index on top of your clit like a button. “You’re my best friend. What if I wan’ a taste, too?”

Your breath hitches by the time he’s glazing his finger across your creamy pussy already, covering it with just enough layers of your juices. Just enough to hover up into his mouth and suck.

Gasping, “But you’re already…”

“S’not enough.” And while Gojo slips n’ slides his flattened tongue between your pussylips, Geto puckers his maw up to yours. Hazy amethyst irises only half-opened, mouth quirking just at the ends. “Spit.”

It happens all at once- you’re spitting inside Geto’s mouth and he moans at the taste of you, never one to be forgotten, Gojo splats out saliva on your cunt and forces his impaling tongue inside.

“Oh, your bartholin glands are just sopping all over me, so much- ngh- leukorrhea.” Babbling away, Gojo’s letting out such noisy smacks each time he flops his tongue out to flick your shaky hole. Harder. Deeper. 

He’s eating you out like he’s addicted to it, the long length of his pale lashes fluttering every time the sharpness of his jawline pushes against your slam-contacted flesh until he can’t push himself even further. 

Until the rim of his spectacles coldly swats your pussy and makes him stutter, “W-wonder if I can reach the ngh- Gräfenberg spot like this…” Tugging you back with trembling hands, the thickness of his tongue probes even deeper against your walls. “More- if only I can-”

“You’re never reaching it like that, nerd.” Geto rolls his eyes, back to slithering his right hand down and cupping your pussy. 

He snickers each time he’s feeling the silky crowns of his fingerpads brush against Gojo’s thrashing tongue. Toying with the other man, he’s covering the nub of your pulsing clit each n’ every time, just so that Geto can be the one to give it a good, long pinch.

It’s just so cute how you buck into him with a hollow gasp, “Wh-what did I say about teasing, Sugu–”

“Just can’t help it, pipsqueak.” Your best friend purrs, snagging the sharpened ends of his snake bites against your lips. Bouncing his meaty thighs, running your cunt ragged with each rough drag down his loose, ripped jeans. 

Once. Twice. Again and again- until Gojo’s clawing a hand on the side of your glissading hips to stop your slobbering cunt from darting too far away from him. You squeal, “W-wait, ohh ngh- Satoru, m’not gonna last like this–”

The dual stimulation was just rendering you stupid, twitching on top of Geto’s lap each time he’s scraping your pussy down to ride his tattooed thighs. Every bounce leaves you recoiling right back into Gojo’s mouth, mouth watering at the rovering push of his tongue entering you. And out. In and out-

“Good.” Thwack! Spanking one of his emblem rings down on your clit, “Because I think m’getting impatient here. I’ve been waiting for ages, after all.”

“A-ages?”

“Mhm— oh, you have noooo idea, gorgeous.” Drawling out, Geto’s driving you crazy with the twist of his hips angling you properly. 

Making it just so that your pussylips spread wiiide open to ride his leg like you were pouring your sheeny slick out all over it. Just so that Gojo’s angular tongue can sharply strike near your g-spot, just so that you’re cumming before you know it.

It runs you over in a sudden wave, and before you know it- you’re simply seeing pure white. “O-oh my god. Fuck- fuck fuck fuck, m’cumming—” Glassed irises running cartoonish circles inside the whites of your eyes with each swivel. 

Head falling forwards into the crook of Geto’s neck, hips planted firmly on Gojo’s face - exactly where he wanted it. 

And he’s lavishing his tongue allll over your quivering pussy, draggin’ out each spike of your high with a stretching thrust. “Oh- oh, m’fucking starved, princess. Like that, cum- cum on my ngh- tongue. My tongue.” Dilated blue eyes blinking up drunkenly, “My tongue only.”

Geto raises a dark brow, “Yours only?”

Gojo pipes up with a glistening grin, slapping away Geto’s tuggin’ fingerpads to suckle on your clit like a sweetened piece of candy. “Yeah. Too fucking late now, aren’t you?”

Chilling spheroid tongue piercing licking down your salivating lips, “You sure?”

“Positive.”

Almost in response, Gojo’s wrapping his beefy forearms back around your inner thighs. Planting your overstimulated cunt even deeper across his mouth, digging his glasses back into his straight nosebridge - it didn’t matter if Gojo would suffocate if it meant he could go out with the syrupy taste of your slick drivelling down the sides of his mouth.

But Geto only coos, looking down at the other man through his inky locks. “Don’t be like that— didn’t all your books ever teach you about sharing?” 

“M’not sharing my girl’s pussy.”

“Mhm?”

It was a challenge. 

And both treated it as such.

You’re being tugged ‘round in the middle like some boneless ragdoll, the hazy state of your mind spinning once Geto stands up. For a split-second. 

And seats you down all prettily on the armchair he was in, with your legs splayed wiiiide open with a deafening wet squelch of your pussy. Gojo’s coral pink lips parting into a soft oh! when the other man kneels down right beside him on the ground - both of them on their knees for you.

Both of them latching onto one of your legs with pawing hands, nudging them further open to accommodate their hulking sizes. To accommodate the way that both Geto and Gojo tackle themselves down to eat your drippin’ pussy at the same time.

Again. 

“H-hold on- both of you- oh, mmm, fuck.” And you can’t do anything but cling your clammy palms onto both of their heads. “I don’t know if I even can hck! cum again so soon.”

“You will, princess.”

“We’ll make sure of it.”

Gojo on your left, Geto on your right- they’re flopping out two lengthy pinkish tongues between your trembling thighs. Sloshing against each other, fighting against each other, each of their pretty features plastered upon the inner side of each leg. 

And where Gojo was eager, Geto was teasing. He was mean- lining the slick slit of your cunt with looooong, tender glides. He snickers once he’s feeling the other man impatiently thrust into your hole, “Mmm–fuck! Sweeter than I ever imagined.”

“I know.” Gojo’s snowy brows knit, chin polishing with ribbons of your juices each time he nodded his head down to shove past your first tight ring of muscle. Pumping you full. Beading your every nook and cranny with a thorough probe of his tastebuds, “And she’s my hah- miss valedictorian- isn’t that right, princess?”

“Y-you’re both acting so- hck!” It’s a wonder you even could speak with how much they were ruining your damn pussy. “-ch-childish- fuck.”

Lapping up every dribbling ounce of slick you gave off, licking into every and any spot on you that they could scour. And you were so much extra aroused now, a pure translucent waterfall sticking down the fronts of their chins with every too-sensitive touch.

Hell, you’re blinking your watery eyes down to watch the way that Gojo’s thumbing apart your swollen folds just so that he could plunge his tongue inside deeper. Faster. 

Sloppier. 

Slipping over each other, chins knocking, greedy.

With the rawest, loudest squeeelch–! Geto lingers his piercing over your clit, taking full claim with the way he’s sucking. “She might be your ‘miss valedictorian’...” Groaning, you’re feeling his glinting canines bite down once on the nearby flesh of your thigh, and then twice on your oversensitive clit - enough to leave a slight mark. “-but she’s my pipsqueak. So if I wanna taste, m’getting it. Isn’t that riiight—?” 

THWACK!

Spanking your clit just so you’re crying out-

“S’what I thought.” Geto hums.

And that’s exactly what he was doing - what they both were doing.

Two soppily wet tastebuds rubbin’ your pussy all over until you were oversensitive, and the way they’re fighting to see who occupies the most of your sweet, sweet cunt is just animal.

Gojo pushin’ his face deeper until the line of his glasses left bright red marks on his flushed face, Geto instead moving you- gluing a palm on the side of your hips and jerking you to him.

“O-oh nghhh it feels shoooo good-” You’re slurring, so stimulated that your hands wrestle for purchase on the chair’s cushion each time you’re throwing your head back and bucking up, up, up. 

“Good? Good, gorgeous–?”

“Mhm—”

Cunt throbbing oh-so-badly at every slash of their tongue, the way that Geto grips a hand onto the back of Gojo’s head to guide him into your favorite spots. Nudging your earliest bundles of nerves with his probin’, thumping tastebuds.

Your breath catches with a sob within your clogged throat at the sight of Geto usin’ that tight leverage to tilt Gojo’s head ever-so-slightly so that their tongues meet each other. 

Filthy oodles of saliva watering over the edge of the other man’s tongue as he moans, Geto’s grinning when he’s kissing both your sappy cunt and him. “Don’tcha even know how ta properly eat a girl out, nerd?”

“I-I do-”

“Spit.”

“What?”

“Spit.”

In a sultry split-second, your already drenched pussy is being swamped by two steady streams of saliva. Spitting. Geto’s tongue everywhere, he sucks on your perked clit while Gojo back takes over sinking his honed muscle inside your gummy walls. “Tch, s’that all you got, Suguru? You clearly don’t even know the nghh- benefits of stimulating her adventitia-”

“That’s not shit, what you’ve gotta do is- hahh-” Geto departs a sweltering hot gust of breath, letting Gojo’s curling pink tongue thrash inside your pussy while he snagged three ringed fingers on your rim and push-push-puuuushes inside. “-stretch her pretty lil’ cunt wiiiide open.”

“F-fuuck why is it so big–” You’re whining, crying. Legs hooking over both their shoulders to bring them together. The sheer scrape of Geto’s metallic rings against your sweet spots makes you see stars, “Don’t think m’gonna last long…”

“C-close, huh?” Gojo drags out through a breathy tone - and there’s something higher-pitched in his tone, something that almost sounded gone. Such a primal tinge to his tone, he’s nuzzling his nose against your clit and making such a mess. 

Geto grunts, rosy lips pulling back into a snarling grin by the time he gives you one-two-three sloppy strokes. Reaching for the plush area of your g-spot “What did I say? Gotta stretch her reeeal big so she can take me-” Hitting it - hard. “-isn’t that right, pretty lady?”

He wasn’t even talking to you at this point - just your pussy. And you swear you’re feeling the pointed nib of even Gojo’s falter slightly on your clit as he speaks.

Squelch after squelch, they’re both pulling out of you when you’re only growing wetter. The tips of your toes curling inwards as you’re feeling your tummy spark near familiar bliss, “S-Sugu–!”

THWACK!

The stinging noise rings out before you’re even feeling the burning ache, the way that Geto’s firm fingerpads stick to your plump cunt in a sharp swat. Him snickering, “See?”

“You’re insane.” Gojo titters back, prattling. 

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve waited for ngh- this, nerd.” Ever since he first met you that fateful orientation day, in fact. Tongue piercing tickling your clit, fighting Gojo’s tongue for purchase. “Have no- fucking- clue-”

“Don’t give a fuck-” And he didn’t - really, really didn’t. The glasses-clad man doesn’t think he could even register anything other than the streaming sap your cunt was gushing out onto his tongue, and the way your hole quivered in that way that told him you were close. Again. “Just wan’ you to cum on my t-tongue, princess.”

“Heh- you’re better like this, Toru.”

“Shut up and cum.”

Long, ivory bangs soft against the bottom of your tummy with how close he’s diving himself nose-deep. More. Gojo ruts against the cushion of the armchair, knees dragging against the carpet as he’s lunging even further- and he doesn’t even notice. 

“Easy there, gonna suffocate-”

You run your hands through his sweaty scalp, breath heightening. “Yeah, you ngh- okay?”

Grunting at the texture of Geto’s own tongue, “Mmmm– no.” Gojo’s classes are completely fogged-up at this point, and he’s only clashing them further. Adding one of his own lengthy fingers past your hole so that he can pump furiously. Both their hands so dexterous. “Muscularis contracting- ngh, even more leukorrhea- wet. Gonna cum- gonna cum gonna cum—”

And that’s exactly all it takes - the slightest, tiniest bend of Gojo’s stifling digits thumping your g-spot in carnal unison with Geto’s ringed ones, and then you’re reaching your orgasm. For the second time.

Hips fully wrenching off of the dampened chair cushions to push your two boys with a generous mouthful of your candied pussy- one they’re salivating over gratefully. Repeatedly targeting your favorite spots with their fingers, maws further agape, eyes rolling to the back of their heads.

You can only hit your chin against your chest to take in the lewd, lewd sight of being eaten out by both Gojo and Geto. “Sh-shiiit–” Cheeks wet with tears, “Never cum like this- ngh, it’s so- oh.”

“Please- that’s it, use me.” Gojo recants back, giving his features up for you to conduct such long, slobbering drags. “Use me, princess- ngh- m’fucking starved. Ohhh, fucking love this pussy. M’gonna eat you out for the rest of my life, miss valedictorian.”

Smirking, Geto pins your gyratin’ hips down and watches as Gojo blindly whines. Chasing the taste of your cunt just so he can lap you through your wet high. “Heh- you’re damn pussydrunk, nerd.” Turning to you with hooded eyes, your best friend’s making sure he murmurs this into your overstimulated pussy. “And you’re dumbified, my cute lil’ pipsqueak.”

Though, it’s not like he was any better.

But before Geto’s forced to bite down on his lower lip and bite back pure whimpers at the oversaturation of your taste, he pulls away.

Painfully, with a final sopping thwack! of his palm coming down to strike your cunt. Your eyes are just barely open enough to make out the fuzzy shapes of Geto pulling Gojo backwards, too, with a hand at his throat. 

Watching as his lips detach from your pussy with a wet plop! strings of slick scattering all over his maw. Watching as his neat glasses stick to your pussy n’ he has to manually smear them back up his nosebridge, “Oi- the fuck do you think you’re doing, punk?”

“Well, you can make out with her pussy all you want, nerd.” Geto’s piercings glint as he pinches his index and thumb into a circle. Sticking his tongue lewdly between that hole, “I wanna fuck it.”

“Oh…” You can only ogle unabashedly once the two make quick work of discarding your top n’ bra, then their own clothes - Gojo’s two layers of vests, his formal pants, and Geto’s torn band t-shirt and washed jeans. All in a pile somewhere by your throne of an armchair. 

They couldn’t be more different.

And that went for their hot, rock-hard cocks, too - where Gojo was longer, Geto was thicker. 

Both oh-so-massive that it has your thighs clenching in both fear and anticipation, you can’t help but stare at the way that Gojo was so fuckin’ red that the bulging end of his shaft looked like strawberry. And just as thick, he’s glazing himself with so many layers of slick pre that fall down his lengthy member. 

And Geto- oh, Geto’s was the sexiest tannish pink at his tip. Covered with so many puffy veins that you’re almost missing the line of a few silver barbells lining his fat shaft. A Jacob’s Ladder piercing - with a studded Prince Albert’s at the very bottom of his thoroughly flared tip. 

Where Gojo’s cock was utterly pretty and made your cunt water, Geto’s looked like he was about to positively ruin you.

“Heh, that’s cute.” Your best friend croons, catching both your gaped staring. Gojo quickly snaps himself out of it, hands reaching for your open thighs to-

“Ah ah, dibs.” Geto slaps his hand away, and it takes him only a second to pick you up as if you were weightless. All carried in his broad arms - his shoulders were so muscular - to the nearby bedroom and lay you flat on the bouncy mattress. 

Hovering over you, you take the opportunity to mindlessly gawk at him in a way you didn’t allow yourself to before. Everything from the sinful silver piercings that punctured his rosy nipples, to the stark black dragon tattooed across his back and down to his hips- and wait.

Your eyes damn near pop out of your head- right on the left side of his prominent v-line…was that…a tattoo of your first initial? 

Geto catches the beeline of your eyesight and muses, “Got it in secret honor of my- ah, best friend.” Leaning in, “N’ you’re gonna feel it reeeal up close and personal now, best friend.”

Gojo calls out as he follows inside, “Oi- first come first haaaah- serve. Isn’t that right, princess?” 

Before you can answer, Geto cuts in- “Then, I’m first-‘ Shoving the other man slightly, fighting for who gets the first touch of your pussy on their aching cocks. Geto’s cleanly pushes your boneless body onto all fours, stood by the edge of his bed. “-because you were my gorgeous girl first, riiiight—?”

“O-oh–! Yes- I mean no- I mean…” You’re yelping the very instant his cold, orbed piercing runs lazily down your slit from behind. And you whimper as the bed dips with a creak, revealing Gojo in all his needy glory - pale thighs parted about the length of your head, so towering where he was starin’ down at you through his thick glasses. 

“Ya hear that, nerd?”

Gojo rolls his eyes, one hand smearing the plump pinkish curvature of his cock between your glossed lips. “Tch- my princess disagreed. Clearly.”

With a cackle, Geto slobbers his drooling mushroom tip down your folds- making sure that Gojo’s ears burn at the lecherous squeeelch-! that’s sounding out once he does. And you swear you’re seeing fucking stars by the time that he manspreads his sculpted thighs part and presses his thick circumference in—

“Shit- shit shit shit—” You’ve never been so stretched, and the utter fuckin’ girth of his circumference makes your eyes tear up pathetically. “How are you so bi- mmmpf!”

If you thought that stretch between your shaky, sheened legs was incredible- then you absolutely weren’t ready for the way that Gojo’s barging his prolonged cock right between your gawking mouth. Filling up your hot gummy maw with a few solid inches of his length, he wasn’t even bottomed-out yet, and you swear you could already feel him at your throat.

“Easy there, pipsqueak. Eeeasy does it.” Geto croaks out from behind you, shuffling his toned hips ever-so-slightly closer. Just the merest deepening entrance enough to make you salivate.

“Shiiiit- dunno who’s glands are l-leaking more- ” Gojo hisses, heavy lids flapping at the feeling of your treacly saliva gluing against the underside of his shaft. “Your pretty mouth, or your cunt…”

And you didn’t know either- hell, you couldn’t even think at this point.

It was just rendering you so dumb having both your slick orifices plugged up, Geto’s tattooed hips relentlessly pushing in half-thrusts from behind. Gojo clawing on top of your clammy crown and nudging your lolling head down further—

Managing to somehow muffle out, “Ngh- hck- so mm-much—” 

“Yeahhh, as you like it, g-gorgeous.” Something in Geto’s voice shatters the very moment he’s able to slip his rigid cockhead in n’ swab your entrance with the point of his piercing. 

Usin’ it like some cute lil’ searchlight as he’s pressing the cold metal against the sides of your stretchy walls, scouring down each side of your pussy for that spot of your nerves. The rub of his Jacob’s Ladder was mind-numbing, miniscule knobbled barbells poking tender crevices you didn’t even know existed. “Want you and this ngh- p-pretty lady right here nice n’- happy- and-”

Each word was punctuated by the most probing thrust of Geto’s powerful hips, easing the measurement of his cock inside you with the sloppiest noises. 

Damn near muffling out your shrills when his pure pressure forces you forwards to pump even more of Gojo’s leaking shaft down your relaxed throat. Deeper. Harder. 

“And taking- this-” With a hand on your hips, Geto reels you in- only for Gojo to scramble a grip on your throat and keep you with him. A tug-of-war. Pushing. Pulling. 

And the only thing that both can think to do is urge their capped knees closer to you on the bed and split you wiiiide open-

“-biiiig stretch.” Geto finishes off.

Just as he bottoms out inside of your sweltering cunt, your initial kissin’ your skin, just as Gojo scratches the edge of your nose on his tufted white happy trail.

Both of them.

And they’re not wasting a single second - not even a split-second. 

Because once your hot, clenchin’ holes have greedily swallowed up both of them, they’re rutting their hips back and half-thrusting. Not even fully- just half just to feel your heat, the sweet softness of you.

“Fuh-fuck, your buccal mucosa just feels sooo ngh-” Gojo’s babbling away, neck still held deftly within his fingers as he’s swervin’ his hips back to dab the very back of your throat with the fleshy circle of your tip. “Th-think I’m hitting all the way at your ngh- palate-”

Geto rolls his hazed eyes, tugging your hips back to strike your ass cheeks against his toned v-line. Hard enough that your mouth leaves Gojo’s bulbous tip with a pop! “D’you always needa talk like ngh- that, nerd?”

“Do you always need to be s-so filthy, punk?” The other man snarls, tempting his hips closer so that you’re almost squished between the two.

“Mmm—” Geto pretends to think, tapping the point of his chin with one hand, whilst the other smears your ass cheeks open to take a vulgar look at your cunt from behind. And he doesn’t answer- not at first, what he’s doing is spitting a cool wad of saliva that darts straightly down to your slit. “Hell yeah.”

With a roll of his shoulders, he’s thrashing the globular ends of his reddened, swollen shaft into your deepest depths. And it feels like you’re just melting around him, “So shut up and fuck, nerd.”

And Gojo Satoru was always first in class - if you weren’t, that is - you think he ever needed to be told anything twice?

Nibbling onto his pouty lower lip, Gojo darts one of his carnally itching fingerpads up and squeezes your flared nostrils - already rubbed raw by the massage of his ivory, curly hair. 

Giggling something drunken as you sputter and choke on his throbbing shaft, “Fuck nnngh- you’re a dirty fucking girl, miss valedictorian-” He hisses, he’s spitting through clenched teeth every time the bumpy texture of your tastebuds were rovering down his tender underside. 

Were latching onto the pulsating lines of his veins, and making him groan. Heavy, pink balls tighening each time they strike-strike-strike your chin, “S-sooo much better with my hah- fat fuckin’ cock stuck between those lips.”

Whining, you couldn’t even pant out in wailing gasps each time Geto’s bulbous piercings were crazing your bubblegum walls like a ladder. “F- mm fuck y-”

Squeezing your nose even tighter- “Fuck me?” Gojo titters out from above, and it’s almost humiliating the way he blushes as he looks down at you above his pecs, flexing core rippling with each hasty jackhammer.

Mean. His mouth was so mean, and the way his thumb drifts down the forefront of your throat, feeling for that bulge where his cock was driving was even meaner. 

He could feel himself. Feel you taking him. “Y-you’re the one being fucked right now, princess.” 

“Mhm— and by me.” And the very second that Gojo lets your nose free to breathe, Geto snakes his clit down to pinch your sopping wet clit. 

“No- yes! Please-” You’re mewling, “Close- I-I’m so close- ngh-”

Your best friend leans in so close to whisper against the shell of your ear; letting his tattooed pecs glue to your back, lengthy locks tickling the arch of your sweaty spine. Holding on close. Hard. “No? Close? Make up your mind.”

You can only spit through an open maw—“No- yes- fuuuuck m-more.”

Absolutely ruined, and neither of them have ever seen you like this.

“H-her nucleus accumbens is going into overdrive-” Gojo sputters out, and you’re starin’ through your teary lashes at the cute way his condensation-filled glasses slip down his nose with each battering ram of his ravaged cock. “Which- hck! which means decreased activity in the cerebral cortex and- and it means…”

“Spit it out, nerd.”

“She’s close.”

“Haaah- coulda told you ngh- that.” And, truly, you’re squeezing your pretty bubblegum walls ‘round him so tight that it’s almost hard for Geto to pull back and forth in repeated thrusts. “Gonna cum f’me, pipsqueak? C’mon cooome on- let your best friend hah- fill you up, would you?”

You’re whining, “Please-” Heard sparking with whatever jumbled mess that Gojo had talked about and you couldn’t even begin to make sense right now. “Close- gonna- ngh-”

“Wait- you’re cumming inside fir- fuck!” Gojo gapes, only to hunch his washboard abs forwards and drive into you at the flick of your velvety tongue on his sensitive slit - his favorite. Only to cum- and the sight of you gulping down his milky mess, letting it dribble all down your bobbing throat was so sexy that Geto can’t help but lose it, too. 

Shit- that was fast. Faster than he’d ever been with your panties snugly wrapping his cock and your photograph in hand - but your quivering, wet pussy just felt so good that he’s squelching out his orgasm once he’s feeling yours.

Long, ribbony bouts of seed that were just scalding puddling at the bottom of your pussy- you swear you’re feeling it slosh about inside of you with each tiny motion. Splashing inside your mouth.

All for you to swallow. 

All three at once, you didn’t even think you could cum again before Geto’s giving you a carnal pinch to your clit. “Cum—ing– ngh.” You’re heavily gulping the ivory sap that glazes your tongue, eyes rolling back in utterly stupid bliss. “Please- oh.”

“No one taught you not to talk with your- haaah- mouth full, hm?” The man above you gruffs out through a dry gasp, hips sloppy. Chest heaving. Ringed, sticky digits twitching. “No one-” His breath hitches as he’s feeling your unsteady hips sliiide off of his pummeling cock, “Oh, where’d you think you’re going?”

“Nononono- no-” Gojo snarls, properly bearing his glinting canines like he was more animal than man right about now. Tuggin’ you back with the hand bruising your throat, “If m’fucking your creampie then I get to ngh- have her to myself a bit. Open.”

Breathless, you’re lolling out your tongue and gazing up at the way the towering man’s eyes widen at the lack of anything in your mouth. The way you’d swallowed it all. “M’gonna have so much fun this time.”

Wait…your eyes widen. Still jolting bodily with sparking bouts of electricity, your third - was that even the correct number - orgasm wasn’t even bating before they’re talking about the next.

Unaffected, Geto only rolls his eyes- and his fingers over your drivelling slit. Practically turned into a waterfall of his buttery white cum, making you pull off of Gojo’s cock with a hiss at his rude fingertips. “Oh, shut it.” 

Before either of you can blink- before you can even breathe, your best friend’s stuffing your breaths all the way back into your screaming lungs. 

All by sticking his cum-glazed finger inside your mouth, swirlin’ that creamy polish into your deepest crannies. “Hm…you, too.” And in mere nanoseconds, Geto has his white syrupy fingerpads stuffed inside Gojo’s mouth. 

“What- mmpf–” Your mouthy academic rival just looks so pretty with thick fingers plunged between his spit-glittered lips. Pale brows scrunching together, face red-hot, a thin line of cum trickling slowly down the side of his suckling mouth.

And it’s enough so that your ravenous hips start lurching down the expanse of Geto’s cock- as if to milk him for more. 

“Hehhh–?” He’s grinning through his shaggy raven strands at your motions, pulling back his fingers with a squelch. “What a filthy girl- stuffed you with so much cum you’re over ngh- overspilling, and you still wan’ more?” 

With only your cutesy babbles for an answer, you’re feeling him straighten his muscular core up to face Gojo even more. “So, you either fuck her w’my cum inside- or, watch as I fill her up with s-so much of my cum she can’t not feel it inside-”

“Shut up n’ let me fuck my girl, punk.”

“Mm— that’s not having the hah- reaction you want, nerd.” As if to prove his point, Geto’s gleaming cock twitches when he’s easing out of you with a raw slurp. Slowly, but surely, he takes his sweet, sweet time to remind you of the pattern of piercings lining his frenulum. “Our girl, you mean.”

You’re swearing he’s only getting even bigger at the sight of you- draped across Gojo’s thoroughly sculpted front not even a moment later. Your cunt frosted white with his own cum, Gojo’s bulbous mushroom tip bulging your pussylips wiiide open. Impatient.

“Oh.” Geto manages to pant out.

Just barely lets himself even breathe before he’s dropping further down the protesting bedsprings, all the way until his hot breaths breeze across your oversensitive pussy in a lil’ ‘hello.’

Grunting, Gojo tugs your chin back over to face him - resting flatly on his back so you’re trembling n’ limp on his abs. 

“Mmm– hello, princess.” He’s crooning out with his deep, rasping voice. And you answer with a whimper of your own at the sexy feeling of his core flexing underneath you, pecs all bouncy in the way they had no right to be.

He was so big - both of them were, Gojo being taller where Geto was broader. 

Yet, both numerous inches over six feet and sandwiching you with their chiseled weights as you’re settling on top of Gojo. Cushioned over his broad, flushed chest, you feel him cup your sweaty cheek,  “Heh, d-don’t think you can be valedictorian like this.”

You’re marrying your brows in what looked like such adorable annoyance to his half-lidded eyes. “Mmm—how are you gonna say that when hck! you’re the one that got pussydru- oh, fuck.”

Fuck, and then you’re promptly shut up by Geto’s tongue slithering slimily between the folds of your pussy. Letting his curly tip lap up every wadded ounce of cum overspilling out of you, “Oh, don’t stop on mmm- my accounts. Always so cute when yer mad, pipsqueak.”

“I was thinking more hot—” Gojo’s moaning out, bucking- and he was still so rock-hard. So needy that just the slightest slip n’ slide across your outer pussy makes him rut- “Fuck.”

And it makes him sink inside, just the slightest push of his thick, rotund crown. Your filthy hole plugs up with his strawberry-pink tip and you’re finding yourself gasping.

“Not gonna help me clean up, nerd?”

“Sh-shut the fuck up-” Gojo’s scrunching his brows until he’s feeling dizzy- or maybe that was just the sopping, soft feeling of your pussy. Opening up such a primal part of him once he’s listening to the swampy noises being pulled out, “Her pussy- o-ohhh this pussy…your adventitia stretches so, the way you’re- I can’t…”

You’d made one of the smartest, most eloquent men on campus speechless. 

“And you call me filthy.” Geto chuckles darkly from behind you, still not stopping. Still letting the pierced muscle of his tongue swirl right near your entrance, each solid inch that Gojo was bullying inside made you leak onto his tastebuds with a splat!

Filthy.

Absolutely filthy. You couldn’t even begin to describe the sensation when Gojo’s starting to pick up his pace- to start driving his hips in a back n’ forth that only lets him pound you with half-thrusts.

Shaft so plump that it won’t even fit- he’s arching his slam-reddened hips up from the mattress to push and push and push. “S’my turn now- my- hck! gonna take this fucking cock, right, princess?” Gojo strangles out, “Right- right?”

Voice pitching higher, unsteadily cracking.

He can’t stop himself from firmly planting his two feet spread further just so he can cling onto your hips and gift you direct slams. Deeper. 

“Please- s-so biiig— will it even fit.”

Gojo shoots a prideful glance down at Geto, who only thumbs apart your bruised n’ battered pussylips with a smirk. “Of course, it will.” And you’re jolting at the burning sensation of his ringed thumb pushing inside of your wet hole, just to stretch you out even wider for Gojo. 

THWACK!

He’s tittering meanly as the little spank leaves you leaking from the sides of your stretched-out hole, a little trail of creamy white for him to lick down. Frigid orb of his piercing just lightly skimming Gojo’s own tender shaft, “If you’re good that is, gorgeous.”

“Yeah- yeah.” Gojo’s panting out, so drunk on the sappy texture. He felt like your elastic walls were just molding to his exact size, so tight n’ warm. “Why don’tcha count for me, miss valedictorian?”

“C-count? Satoru, what do you- oh.”

Oh was right- by the way the inches of his cock flinched inside of you. He wanted you to count how many inches he was - and you swear you hear even Geto hum in interest from behind. 

Smirking to himself, oh, he’s got his mouth open to drool and make such a mess as Gojo starts stirrin’ your dewy insides with the ragged lines of his veins. Pulling back all the way until his rounded cockhead stretches your entrance, “One- c’mon, one.”

“O-one-” You’re echoing out after Gojo- but oh, even that was a fucking feat. Especially with Geto’s twirling tongue piercing rubbin’ all over your overstuffed slit. Hiccuping, “Two-”

“Mhm—?”

“Three- ngh- five.”

Geto snickers, “Does five come after three?”

“Heh, not so smart now, huh?” Gojo lazes his tongue out for you to suckle on whilst you quietly sob at the utter size of him, he just kept going and going. Like it was never-ending, Gojo’s pretty pink girth kisses the very area of your g-spot without even trying- 

“Then just shut up and fuck me, Toru- oh.”

He does. Oh, you think Gojo could ever deny you?

Bottoming out with an angry jackhammer, “Ten–!” You find yourself throwing your head back with a keen, feeling that shuddering thump of his weepy shaft strike the back of your cervix. Hard. With ten solid, throbbing inches somehow shovelled inside of you, you’re bucking backwards in figure-eights, “Ten- ten ten ten- please-”

“Mmm, my turn, pipsqueak.”

Stupidly, your maw splits open with a gush of saliva- “H-huh?”

“You heard me- heh, or are you that fucked out, already?” Geto was just so mean, taking his sensual time to finish drinking up the salted caramel taste of his gooey cum dripping out of you. Until you were all niiiice and clean.

Gojo gives you another few repeated whacks to your most tender spots, almost like he was staking his claim. Eyes narrowed through slimy, slick-sprayed glasses, “Oi- you already got your turn.”

“Yeah n’ now m’fucking hard again.” Rolling his lavender eyes, Geto tuts at the impatient, sloppy way Gojo was fucking into you. “Make yerself useful and open her pretty legs a little wider.”

Grumbling, you’re oh-so-shocked to find that Gojo Satoru actually does what he’s told. 

“You hafta teach me how to do that-” You’re jesting, only to get punished with another merciless bruise gliding down your cervix.

“Hahhh- yeahhh, you know it.” Your best friend nods down at you, “That’s it. Now arch those hips up f’me now.”

Something like a territorial growl rips from the back of Gojo’s throat as he feels Geto hover onto his knees from behind. Leaning forwards until his silky, Stygian hair fell like a curtain around you two. “Now, wan’ you to count again- both of you.”

Both?

Evidently, the same thing is registering in Gojo’s mind because he squawks- “B-both?”

“Ya heard me.” Turning your head over your shoulder, you’re noticing that there’s something devilish glinting within Geto’s priggish smile. With a tilt of his head he’s pushing his plump cockhead to kiss the entrance to your cunt. Your already-full entrance. “Count. And m’not talking about how many inches.”

You whine, “Then what do you expect us t-to…”

Oh, and then you’re getting it. And Gojo is, too.

Because in that instant, Geto’s drawing that cold, circular piercing of his slit along the outside of your pussy folds. The down Gojo’s shaft, then slipping it inside-

“One- ohhh-fuck!” It comes tumbling out of your mouth before you can control yourself, and your hips are gyrating back crazily to chase the incredible stretch of a second thick cock entering you. Struggling to. Aching to. “One, ngh– Sugu, please.”

“Atta giiiirl-” Geto coos, the long locks of his bangs flying as he turns his head to Gojo. “Yer falling behind, nerd.”

“…”

With a tut, he’s rolling his hips, “Come on-”

“Oh-” Comes out that pretty, pretty gasp from the edges of your spit-glossed lips. Feeling the cold line of Geto’s second piercing - his Jacob’s Ladder, this time - just grazing the treacly base of your pussy. “T-two…?”

“Two.” Gojo spits out, in reluctant unison with you as that chilling metal touches his fragile shaft- and he hates to admit that it just made his mouth water.

“Theeere we go.”

With one hand groping the backs of your thighs to stretch you out wiiide open for him, and the other rovering underneath your tummy to feel you bulge with two monstrous cocks- Geto sinks his way inside. 

Twitching his red, flared tip upwards to bash the roof of your channel once the both of your two below him start babbling in sync- “Th-three. Four. Five?”

Letting his back arch so sensually at the slip n’ slide of your velvety walls, “Fuck.” He has to fight to not throw his head back stupidly, because shit- watching your cute circular hole get stretched out so tightly was fucking heaven to see. “C’mon-” Each word, each breath punctuated by a mindless rut to squeeze inside. “C’mon c’mon c’mon-”

“W-will it even fit, Sugu–?”

“Of course it will, pipsqueak.”

“As if, punk.”

Geto raises a dark brow in challenge, “Heh- you speak- what- five languages and pussy isn’t one of them?”

Face burning red, Gojo only tilts his head down until his bangs cover up most of his face. Enough of playing patience, enough of humping you like some dog in heat- he’s perking his hips up and dragging them in tandem with Geto’s- who only seems to be enjoying the music of your pretty squelches. 

“Mmm– see?” Oh, those lecherous noises were only spurring him on. The double penetration makes you slurp as if you were greedily gobbling him whole, and Geto just can’t stop smiling. “Otherwise you’d know that she’s just cryyyyyying for-” Bottoming out, initial tattoo gluing to your skin. “-both.”

You gasp, “Suguru, you have six-” Just as he nuzzles his dark happy trail, fully sheathed inside of you and like he never wanted to pull out now. “-seven piercings?”

Seven piercings in all, one at the very tip scraping along your bubblegum walls, and the others massaging up n’ down Gojo’s length. “Only for you, my girl.”

“My girl, you mean.” It was a challenge. 

And Geto takes the bait. “Well then—” Purring out his sinful words, he leans over to restrain your gasping throat in a headlock. Big, beefy hands cutting off your airway- and Gojo’s dexterous fingers smushing your cheeks together embarrassingly, “Tell us. Tell us who you want.”

It comes out a whine- and then a beg—“More.” And you’re feeling the way that both men halt, as if your very voice had just shocked them into freezing. “M-more, I wan’ more- Toru- Sugu-”

Well, whatever you want…you get.

It’s like something’s snapping- audibly, in later hours you’d realize that it was Geto’s aged bedframe, but right now you’re dazedly wondering whether it was the last remnant of their sanity.

Because in such precise unison, Geto pulls his cock nearly all the way out- enough for Gojo’s fattened length to take up every mass of space inside you and bludgeon all the way to the back of your pussy. 

Reeling back, letting Geto nuzzle his startling metal piercings against your cervix- your walls. Back n’ forth back n’ forth- it’s like they’re milking themselves on you.

So big that you’re being constantly pumped forwards with each of their thrusts. Being sandwiched between Gojo’s eagerly pumping strokes, and Gojo’s mean teasing. 

The sheer carnal stretch was just so incredible that you cry out, “O-ohhh, fuck. H-how does it feel this good- s’like you’re ngh- taking me from the- inside-”

“We are takin’ you from the inside, silly girl.” Geto’s tittering out, oh, it was just so cute how cockdrunk you were for them that he just can’t help but take extra sensually long to rub your g-spot raw with his Jacob’s Ladder. “Taking every inch of you, every spot, every pulse, everything inside this cunt.”

And that’s when Gojo pipes up, pushing his thoroughly foggy glasses up his nosebridge. “A-according to my calculations with time n’ speed and- ngh, stretch, s’at least triple the- the pressure on your anterior wall and Gräfenberg spot, princess.”

You can only look stupidly along down at the scorched blush covering his cheeks, a slim line of saliva drooling down the side of your chin that Gojo has the audacity to flop his tongue out and lap up. 

“In other words…” Looking at you with such heady blue eyes- you swear you’ve never seen him look more gone. Cherry-pink lips twitching as he’s folding them into a grin, “Two is better than one.”

Geto chuckles from behind, “Now now, Satoru…don’t think our girl even ngh- understands that right now.” With the powerful headlock, he’s tugging you up to look at him instead.

And you don’t think you’ve seen either of them look so fucked-out. They weren’t any better than you.

Eyes wide, mouths parted, blushed the exact same sappy shades of pink as their bulbous tips. Each thump grazing your g-spot just makes your pussy bulge with the sagging weight of them- enough so that you almost don’t even hear Geto’s next few words.“Mm– heh, you’re sooo cockdrunk right now, pipsqueak. What’s two plus two?”

“T-two plus…” Trailing off, you can only chase their two smashing lengths for more more more. Bawling out just as much as your dripping pussy was right now, “Ngh- hck!”

“Look at you, miss valedictorian.” Gojo’s never looked more accomplished- not even during all those times he’d beaten you during a final or quiz. 

Blowing the sweat-plastered white bangs out of his face, he croaks out- “S’the only thing you know how t-to ngh-” Hissing at the ridges of Geto’s cock, the way it was just suuuuch a tight fuckin’ fit inside of you, he has to put extra pressure just to fuck up into you. “-t-take both our- cocks, huh?”

Geto drags out a lil’ ‘aw’, but there was nothing nice about the way he was starin’ down at you. “Now now, Satoru. We should ask-” And he times his slender hips just right, “-d’you even know your own- hah- name?

“I- ngh- I–” It’s just so pitchy how you’re trilling out after each gash of Geto’s thick, split-ended tip. And Gojo’s- oh, Gojo’s was just rapid. You’re feeling them both probe against your cervix at once, and shriek– “Close- ngh- hah. I’m gonna- ohh, I’m gonna-”

“Close? S’that her name, Satoru?”

“Seems so, Suguru.”

Chortling, Geto’s sodden fingerpads find themselves moving from that tummy bulge of yours to your clit. Pinching. “Then, how hah- fitting that m’gonna make you cum, gorgeous.”

“Nuh uh, I’m gonna make her cum.” Gojo hisses- ah, there was that old challenge again. And both are taking it as such - determined to be the first to make you cum.

Gojo with his rapid, half-thrusts that bash your g-spot until you’re seeing stars. And then Geto with the filthily sensual rubs n’ dubs of his piercings that make you drool. Chasing that high. Ruining yourself. 

Harder and harder- you didn’t even know if you could cum again. But it only takes one-two-three more synchronized pumps straight into the deepest depths of your pussy for you to find out - you weren’t just cumming. You were squirting.

Body shaking, eyes bawling by the end of it.

And by the looks of it, neither of the two were fully expecting that either. 

Because Gojo gasps, he flushes- muscular pelvis hitting upwards into yours as he cums, too. Thick, ropey wads of seed that clog up the channel of your pussy, “Sh-shit. Shit shit shit- s’too much.”

It really was, and it was pouring out of you in hot, ivory bucketloads. So much that you never even thought could be cooped up inside you.

And Geto? Oh, this was way more than he’d ever seen in his wildest dreams- you with your stinging lips chanting his name, and his. “Sugu- Toru- cumming. Nghh fuck, m’cumming cumming cumming-” Hips sloshing over sparkly gushes of your slick with each bounce, still sucking him up so–

“F-fuck.” If any of you were in a better state, you’d have wondered about the way that Geto’s voice pitches. Cracks. About the way his breath hitches when he’s noticing that he’s cumming dry. 

Heart thumping in his throat, rouge lips wobbling. It’s perhaps the first time that he’s officially lost for words, “I-I’m…” Remembering that conversation you had back in the café from what felt like years ago. Tongue parched, heaving- “-actually cumming…d-dry.”

“Told you.” You’re shooting him an impish grin.

“Join the club.” Gojo growls out- but that’s not what he’s worried about right now. Not at all, his forearms n’ abs were all shiny with your juices- pushing in the wiry knots of cum that sprays out of you like a fountain. “Inside- fuck, I need it inside, princess.”

Thighs trembling, you can only watch in speechless awe once Gojo’s taking up the job of webbing your pussy up with his leaking mess. Drawing an unsubtle S-A-T-O-R-U on your cunt all the while.

“Satoru…” You’re warning, throat alright tight with the feeling of Geto twitching- 

Still rock-hard.

Still needy.

“W-well…” It takes him a few seconds to collect his fucking wits - absentmindedly, he dips the crowns of his fingers inside your creamy pussy and draws out his very own S-U-G-U-R-U on the forefront of your tummy, your womb. 

Possessively, he bites down on the crook of your neck and it felt like you were being impaled by his snake bites. Burning once he guides one of your hands back to his v-line- to his tattoo of your initial. “Y’know what I love about ngh- science experiments, gorgeous?”

“Wh-what…?” You’re looking confusedly between him and Gojo- who apparently understands way before your cockdrunken mind does.

And so your nerdy rival grins with a push of his glasses. Bucking up, up, up- “They have twenty-five trials.”

.

.

.

“Oh my god- thrown to the wolves or…”

“Look at those marks—can barely even walk, is that Gojo’s doing-”

“Wait- Geto’s right behind, and he’s so close…you don’t think they’re-”

You’re fairly certain that a zoo could run through your lecture hall right now and no one would even notice. Not when they’re oh-so-occupied ogling and pointing out at the bites across every inch of your skin, the hand marks peeking from underneath the hem of your shirt. 

Hell, a few were even secretly recording- surely to send to the betting pool groupchat. And somewhere in the student body you swear you see Shoko exchange cash with Ijichi. Traitors! 

Though, to be fair you did look ruined - no matter how much you tried to tug at your sleeves and douse yourself in foundation. They’d simply run you ragged last night, if the broken bed, two broken couches, and five noise complaints were anything to go by. 

And it really didn’t help that you had Gojo clinging onto one of your sides, and Geto dangling off of the other. Almost like they were stuck to you with adhesive. 

They walked when you walked, they sat when you sat. And once you’re settled into your usual seat at the front row, surrounded by the two, you swear you hear Professor Yaga sigh something or the other about ‘not being paid enough.’

“I swear-” You start to whisper to the two underneath your breath, “If we make it out of this alive, I’m killing the two of you.”

Geto smiles, picking at one of his heavy rings. “Mm– anything for you, gorgeous. A bit kinky, however, no?”

“Hah-” Gojo only crosses his sweater-clad arms and leans back priggishly in his chair. “I’d like to see you fuckin’ try, miss valedictorian.”

Dear lord, what have you gotten yourself into?

But before you can open your mouth - or maybe stand up and run out of this hellscape of an exhibitionistic lecture altogether - a low, grouchy baritone drawls from the row right behind you.

And you don’t know what you’re more surprised at - the fact that you’re still recognizing the voice of your ex-boyfriend, Sukuna, or the fact that a nationally-acclaimed student athlete like him was attending class when he usually never did. 

“So…” Sukuna’s swole biceps bulge as he leans over his desk exactly behind you- and you didn’t know whether it was the skin-tight boxing jacket with an emblazoned ‘SUKUNA’ or the fact that he’d gotten even bigger since your break-up. Everything from the meaty thighs damn near ripping through his sports shorts, to the way he seemed to take up two seats at once. 

Obnoxiously, he hits the back of Gojo’s chair with his overly-long legs. “You three fucked. Everyone knows.”

Gojo sputters. 

Geto grins.

And you can’t rip your eyes away from the sheer ripe curve of Sukuna’s tattooed pecs- coral pink hair still damp after training, athletic figure inching even closer as he smirks. 

“I want in, ma.”

A/N. Slight Part 2 to this but can be read alone!! ALSO Y’ALL I’VE BEEN GETTING CALLED UNC HERE AND THERE TODAY I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS…

Plagiarism not authorized.

[aplpaca]

Do you have any cool bird facts

female raptors (eagles, hawks, falcons, etc) are larger than male raptors in pretty much all species. this happens even in groups not closely related to each other (ex: hawks and falcons), so its beneficial enough in their niche that its evolved independently a few times, though its unsure exactly what that benefit is atm (bc unlike males being larger in a lot of mammals, female raptors dont make a habit of fighting each other or using size to attract mates as far as we know). ex: heres a male and female Cooper's Hawk

somewhat mentioned above but falcons are more closely related to parrots than they are to hawks

Gray Catbirds and American Robins have been witnessed raising young in the same nest at the same time. In one instance (reported by Mulvihill and Murray), they were recorded caring for the young of both species in the nest, and when the Catbird young fledged, the adult Catbirds continued to provide food for the not-yet-fledged Robins. heres a pic of the nest from the report

the worlds oldest known bird as of 2024 is a wild Laysan Albatross named Wisdom who's 72-73 years old (at minimum, we dont actually know her birth date, just that she was at least 5 years old when she was banded in the 50s) and still raising chicks. here's her with one of her chicks

also Albatrosses have wingspans of up to 3.5m/11.5ft and have been recorded flying 49,700 miles without touching land (they do land in the water to eat tho)

this is from personal experience but if you walk around in a north american grassland for long enough, you Will get jumpscared by a Mourning Dove bc they make their nests on the ground in the grass and like to hang out on the ground in the grass and they also like to wait until youre right overtop of them to freak out and fly away from you

Bald Eagles don't get their fully white heads and tails until theyre about 5 years old

A lot of birds have been observed incorporating cigarette butts into their nests, and a study in Mexico on House Finches found that this actually results in drastic decreases in parasites affecting young compared to nests without them

Cedar Waxwings (and Waxwings in general) just look so smooth. they look like someone airbrushed them. look at this shit

in Jacanas, females lay eggs in multiple males' nests, and then the males raise the young by themself. Also they carry their babies under their wings like this

Horned Guan. Theyre endangered and live in a small area of central america. both the males and females have the little horn fez, the males just have taller ones

[thesewordsareallihavetogive]

Life imitates art - Dr. Jack Abbot x amputee!reader

Summary: 2.6k words. Jack is sent into a tailspin when the woman he’s been eyeing for months at his amputee support group arrives at the Pitt in a gurney. Based on this request by @seasiren212! (this is now a series! Here's the master list)

Warnings: canon-typical depiction of wounds and medical situations, cancer in remission, some medical jargon, reader’s history of BKA, Jack’s history of BKA & accident, age gap, angst, etc. The most unrealistic part of this fic is a doctor spending this much time with one patient (live laugh love the U.S. healthcare system).

a/n: ugh I cried a little bit while writing this. I’m so passionate about oncology care mwah. Abbot is working day shift in this fic. Surrender yourself to the plot and pretend he’s covering for Robby if you must. Divider credit!

At 23 years old, your leg was amputated just below the knee. You’d been fighting bone marrow cancer for a while now, and you were running out of treatment options. To mitigate the risk of significant metastasis, your oncologist recommended an amputation.

So it was off with your leg.

Before the amputation, you’d spent months in and out of the hospital. Somehow, despite the fatigue, aches, and genuine existential crisis over whether this reality was a fate better than death, you graduated with your Master's degree in art history after completing most of the program virtually from your hospital bed. You got special permission from the dean of your university’s college of the arts to defend your thesis from the hospital. Your nurses arranged for you to use a conference room on the floor and made sure everything was thoroughly cleaned to prevent the risk of secondary infection.

Your IV was hooked up to some medications you couldn’t pronounce, but by now, you’d learned how to wave your arms around wildly without letting the tubing hinder you. The thesis committee didn’t go easy on you during your defense just because you were sick. Good. You didn’t want them to. You’d researched and studied your ass off, and earned the right to defend your thesis. The one you’d spent countless sleepless nights and nauseating days working on. So what if you were presenting at UPMC’s Cancer Center?

The oncology unit staff were the first to celebrate you as soon as you made it out of the conference room with happy tears in your eyes. In the time you’d been presenting, the halls had been decorated with streamers. Balloons surrounded your hospital room, and you were given an elaborate bouquet of artificial flowers. You did it.

The RN who’d been caring for you the longest was the one to push your wheelchair across the stage during your hooding ceremony. The oncology unit staff lined the front row of the audience and cheered louder than you’d ever heard.

“MA” looked pretty damn good after your name in your email signature. The Master of Arts degree hung proudly on the wall of your apartment, a forever reminder of your resilience through it all.

It took grueling months to find the right prosthetic and get it fitted properly, and even more years of physical therapy to allow you to be here today, giving narrated walking tours through the Carnegie Museum of Art.

Jack met you at his amputee support group.

At first, he assumed you were there as a student. You were quiet. Observant. Some of the local clinical psychology degree programs assigned students to attend open support group meetings. The large, structured tote bag that followed you to every meeting supported his theory. He imagined you had a laptop, a textbook or two, and a can of Red Bull in the bag, if he had to guess.

You didn’t take notes like other students Jack saw in the past, but you didn’t seem like the type that needed to take notes in the moment, anyway. You were a breathtaking wallflower at the meetings, it was hard not to notice you. The floor-length dresses that complemented your body and draped across you in all the right places were delicate and dainty. Jack was dying to know if your personality matched your exterior.

If Abbot had to guess, he’d say the mystery girl at the amputee support group was in her mid-to-late twenties, though she didn’t necessarily dress like it. Your wardrobe was all maxi skirts and long flowy dresses, cardigans and cable knit sweaters, statement earrings and small chain necklaces. Jack overheard one of the younger group members complimenting your clothing style one day, describing it as “serving cottage core meets coastal grandma chic.” Whatever the hell that meant.

At one of the meetings, you barely showed up on time. You were flustered and a bit disheveled, blowing a stray strand of hair out of your face, but still beautiful as ever. An intricately decorated lanyard and your employee badge hung out of the purse’s wide mouth.

Your name, MA. Art Historian, Curator, and Guest Guide. Carnegie Museum of Art.

Hmm. Jack wasn’t really one for the arts. He was most creative when figuring out how to perform complex medical procedures in unconventional situations. He was methodical and analytical in his life. He approached situations and his work with scientific precision, but he could be tempted to give the museum a visit if it meant he might run into you.

The Pitt’s ambulance bay was never empty for long. Gurneys rolled in and out of the ER all day and night. After all his years in emergency medicine, few things surprised Doctor Abbot anymore.

Until you rolled in.

Dana was the first to reach the EMTs, taking report as she guided them to an available room. Doctor Abbot watched from the provider desk, his mouth slightly parted as his eyes tracked you the whole way across the Pitt.

The charge nurse barely made it out of the room and assigned the patient to Abbot before he jumped out of his seat and bee-lined to room five. “On it,” he said, to no one in particular. Dana stood back and observed his uncharacteristic movements for half a second with her hands on her hips before returning to her millions of other tasks.

Doctor Abbot pulled back the exam room curtain to reveal you sitting on the gurney, fidgeting with your museum badge and shaking your exposed shoe back and forth.

“Hi, kid,” he greeted, donning gloves. He took note of the prosthetic leg covered in floral designs resting next to your hip. Not a student. An amputee. Abbot hummed inwardly.

“Oh. Hi, Jack,” you responded, surprise gracing your face. You knew he was a doctor; he mentioned working at the hospital a couple of times during support group meetings, you just didn’t know he was a doctor here. You took him in. Frustratingly, he was handsome as ever in his black scrubs with toned, muscled arms that threatened to burst out of his short sleeves, with a badge that read Dr. Abbot. Attending Emergency Medicine Physician. Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

Despite the situation, you couldn’t help but notice that his gray curls were a little more mussed than usual, like he’d run his hands through them at least half a dozen times. You yearned to follow suit.

Mateo followed Doctor Abbot into the exam room not long after and glanced between you and the physician a couple of times, trying to decipher the dynamic. It was obvious the two of you knew each other, but he kept quiet and set up the WOW for orders in case Doctor Abbot needed it.

Jack sat down smoothly on a rolling stool and scooted close to your bedside. Maybe closer than was necessary, but no one in the room objected to it.

“What brings you in?” He swept his eyes over you analytically. You looked fine on the surface, sans the removed prosthetic accompanying you against the bed rails.

“Bum leg,” you sighed. This was embarrassing. Even when you leaned back against the gurney, unsuccessfully attempting to relax, you never broke eye contact with Jack.

“Figures. Mind if I take a look?” Abbot replied without missing a beat. He rubbed his chin, eyes darting between your face and the raised slope of your leg underneath your dress.

You hesitantly pulled up your skirt to reveal the angry red skin surrounding what was left of your knee joint. For some reason, exposing your thigh felt intimate, even in the hospital. It didn’t look good, and it admittedly had Jack concerned, but he wouldn’t let you know that. At least not yet. It didn’t look like cellulitis, at least not on the surface. There was no wound weeping or skin dimpling. He’d still run cultures just to be safe.

“Are you resting your leg often? Do you remove the prosthetic?” He ran through a slew of questions. Sure, he knew more about amputations and prosthetics than the average physician, but he wanted to know more about your story.

“Well, I’ve given roughly 8 hours of walking tours through the museum every day for the past week, plus 2 hours today,” you rattled off your schedule. It was strenuous, but this was the life you worked and studied and fought to build for yourself. You had no regrets.

Jack gave you a stern look, and you shrank under his gaze. You almost reminded him that he was being hypocritical, with his 12-hour shifts at the Pitt, but decided against it.

“What else?” He pressed. You sighed.

“I can put my socks and sleeves on, but they’re tighter than normal. The prosthetic will fit on, but it hurts.” The a lot was silent, but you both knew it was there. “I was limping this morning, and I eventually fell while giving a tour,” you continued. Doctor Abbot immediately scanned you for signs of any other fall-related injury. No bruises or bumps as far as he could see. “But a guest caught me. And the museum director insisted that I get checked out. Even though I’m fine,” you finished, exasperated.

“You and I must have different definitions of ‘fine,’ my friend,” Jack exhaled and leaned back, just far enough to not topple off the stool.

A comfortable silence fell between you two while Jack weighed treatment options. This was more of an outpatient specialist matter, but he was glad you came in. He’d learned more about you in the past 15 minutes than he had in the past 3 months of staring longingly at you during the amputee support group meetings.

Mateo felt like he was intruding on a private moment. He cleared his throat and started preemptively entering orders in your chart.

“Cultures? For cellulitis rule-out, Dr. Abbot?” The physician nodded thankfully to the nurse. Jack didn’t miss the flash of fear that crossed your face. Doctor Abbot ordered an ultrasound as well, just to make sure there wasn’t an underlying abscess forming, potentially evidenced by the edema at the end of your limb.

You cleared your throat. “Could you also run a CBC?” you asked, wringing your hands together. Abbot nodded again and stood, dusting his hands on his pants to keep them busy.

“Why?” It wasn’t accusatory. He’d do it anyway if you asked for it; he just wanted to know why.

“I’m in remission. Bone marrow cancer. Doesn’t hurt to check for signs of recurrence when funky things happen,” you shrugged, though you were obviously tense as you gestured to what was left of your left while pulling your dress skirt back down.

The room went silent.

That definitely would’ve been added to your chart’s medical history if you hadn’t come in by ambulance and instead had the pleasure of meeting Lupe at registration.

Up until now, why you attended the support group meetings wasn’t Jack’s business. Now, you were his patient. Your health and history were absolutely his business now.

Doctor Abbot offered a small smile and agreed to the additional test. You didn’t want his sympathy, he knew that better than anyone. He knocked on the door frame on his way out with a promise to be back shortly.

For a minute, Jack pondered what it would’ve been like to know he’d be losing his leg before it happened. When he had his accident, the decision was made for him. The blood loss had been near fatal. He’d long since passed out when the military medics realized they were forced to decide between his life or his limb, the lesser of two evils. He wondered if he had the time to plan a new reality beforehand, if things would be any different. Any better. He didn’t think they would.

He thought you must’ve been young when you were diagnosed with cancer. You were young now, notably younger than him. He wondered when you had the amputation, how old you were—how young you were. The ‘stump’, as you called it, was healed. The multiple incisions left silvery scars on your marred skin. You had lived without the leg for quite a while now.

Mateo drew your blood panel and cultures. He carefully added the bottles and tubes into a stat biohazard lab bag with the promise that an ultrasound tech would be by soon.

“Good news and bad news,” Doctor Abbot strolled back into your exam room with results as soon as he could, true to his word.

“Good news: Blood cultures were negative and the CBC was all within normal limits. And the bad news,” he continued, scrolling through your chart on an iPad before looking up at you. You nodded with a sharp inhale and gripped the gurney’s side rail, prepping for whatever diagnosis he might deliver. His eyes softened.

“Bad news,” he said quieter, “is you’ll need to stay off that leg for a while. At least until some of the inflammation goes down. I’ll leave the specific guidance up to your prosthetist. But for now, doctor’s orders are to cut back on the 8-hour walking tours. You got a wheelchair?” He asked with his arms crossed over his distractingly broad chest. He was solution-oriented, but not convinced you would heed the medical advice. You were strong-willed, that much was evident.

You groaned and threw an arm over your face to cover your eyes. You thought of the wheelchair you’d shoved to the back of your closet years ago. After a few beats of silence, you nod. You’re not happy about the plan of care, but you agree to it nonetheless.

“Do you have someone to take you home?” Jack asked, shuffling your discharge paperwork to keep his hands busy. Otherwise, he might give in to the urge to reach out to you. 

Everyone you knew was either working or busy. Internally, you felt like a burden. The people in your life didn’t feel that way, but it didn’t make the guilt go away. You chuckled inwardly. What doesn’t kill you gives you a dark sense of humor.

“I’ll figure it out,” you replied nonchalantly, already opening the rideshare app on your phone. Jack frowned. If he weren’t in the thick of his shift, he’d offer to let you hang around in the lounge and take you home himself, but that wouldn’t be for another 5 hours. At least.

“I’ll come check on you after my shift,” he resigned. It wasn’t a question or an offer.

“You don’t have to do that,” you looked up at him from beneath your lashes, shocked that he would even suggest such a thing.

“I insist. It’ll make me feel better knowing you’re okay,” Jack replied without missing a beat. So he cares about you. Hmm. His hands found his hips, only adding to his inherent sass factor.

“You don’t know where I live,” you retorted. The banter was fun. God forbid a girl take advantage of her amputation to flirt with a silver fox trauma doc.

“I’m literally two taps away from finding your address in your chart,” Abbot smirked. He wasn’t lying. A couple of gestures on the iPad later, he was parroting your address back at you.

“Fine. But you better bring food with you.” It was your turn to leave no room for argument. You eyed him up and down, watching the way he squared his shoulders with confidence.

“It’s a date,” Jack replied easily, without thinking. You couldn’t tell whose cheeks were more flushed, yours or his. He didn’t dare take it back, though. Either way, you agreed.

“It’s a date.”

a/n: At the risk of sounding desperate, I'm begging y'all to leave comments and interact with my work. The likes are so super duper appreciated but I kind of feel like I'm posting into a void when 99% of the engagement is likes with no comments. anyway!! COMMENTS ARE REALLY APPRECIATED!! They keep me motivated to write more <3

Find more of my writing on my master list.

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[cressidagrey]

delulu girl autumn

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Caitlin Pritchard thought she actually stood a chance with Oscar Piastri at Haileybury in 2018. Reader, she did not. 

Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Caitlin had only been at Haileybury for a day when she saw him.

Tall-ish. Sharp jaw. Easy smile. Accent unmistakably Australian, like hers. But smoother somehow, more Melbourne than Gold Coast. And he was laughing at something—shoulders relaxed, eyes crinkling, head tilted toward the girl walking beside him.

Caitlin had stopped in her tracks.

Finally, she thought. Someone normal. Someone who didn’t speak in clipped boarding school vowels and ask what her father did before they asked her name.

She leaned over to the girl next to her in form. Mia, or Leah or maybe Thea? “Who’s that?”

The girl followed her gaze and blinked. “Oscar Piastri. He’s nice. Smart. Does motorsport. Always winning stuff.”

Caitlin hummed. “And the girl he’s with?”

“Felicity Leong. Genius. Bit intense. She’s been here forever. Lives in the attic room, actually. Kind of…weird, but she’s nice. Don’t cross her in a debate.”

Caitlin squinted.

Oscar had just nudged Felicity’s arm. She rolled her eyes and said something that made him grin, like she always knew how to make him grin. But she didn’t touch him. No hand-holding. No kiss on the cheek. Just two people walking side by side like they knew all the same secrets.

Huh, Caitlin thought. Maybe she’s just one of those super smart best friend types.

Maybe Caitlin had a chance.

By the second week of term, Caitlin had “accidentally” started showing up near the physics lab at the exact time Oscar had free period. She’d dropped a pen in the courtyard and watched—heart fluttering—when he was the one to pick it up.

“Thanks,” she’d said, flashing a smile.

“No worries,” he’d replied with a nod. Polite. Casual. Australian.

Home.

That’s all she needed. One moment. One shared flag. Surely, once they actually talked…

But every time she tried, Felicity was there.

Gorgeous, quiet, smart. The kind of girl who made the headmistress beam at assemblies and never got her phone confiscated. She always had her hair in a braid, and she somehow looked effortlessly expensive, even in a regulation uniform and the ugliest brown shoes Caitlin had ever seen.

Oscar walked her to class. Sat next to her in the common room. Gave her the last cookie at dinner.

But, Caitlin reasoned, that was probably just a long-time-friend thing. Or maybe she was the mom-friend and Oscar just liked the way she shared her highlighters.

Felicity didn’t act like a girlfriend.

She didn’t sit on his lap or link arms with him. She didn’t get jealous when Caitlin joined them for group study one night and asked Oscar (with perhaps a little too much lip gloss) if he wanted to split a Red Bull.

Felicity had just smiled politely and gone back to solving some ungodly advanced physics problem like Caitlin wasn’t even speaking.

Oscar, for his part, had blinked and said, “Nah, I’m good—but thanks.”

Not interested, maybe. But also not unavailable.

Caitlin just need to separate him from the satellite girl who always orbited his shoulder.

Caitlin had a chance. 

***

Caitlin wasn’t obsessed, okay?

She was just… observant.

Which was perfectly normal when someone as cute and talented and Australian as Oscar Piastri walked the same halls you did and occasionally smiled at you with that very symmetrical face.

So what if he was always with that girl—Felicity Leong?

That didn’t mean anything. Boys and girls could be close. Felicity was probably just his study partner. Maybe a cousin. Or a very intense academic rival he was contractually obligated to have polite conversations with. Sure, she always looked like she knew every thought in his head before he said it, and sure, he never looked at anyone else the way he looked at her—but that could just be stress.

Or sleep deprivation. 

Or mutual trauma bonding over too many A-levels.

Besides, Caitlin had time. She was charming. Australian. Had a solid hair routine. And if she played her cards right, Oscar might notice that she wasn’t just some new transfer who tripped over her own backpack in front of the science block last week.

She just had to be patient.

That Thursday afternoon, she was sitting outside the canteen with a few girls from her form when one of them mentioned something in passing that made her freeze mid-sip of orange squash.

“Can you believe Oscar and Felicity are graduating next year?”

Caitlin blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Oh yeah,” the girl said, balancing a yogurt pot on her knee. “They’re in Upper Sixth now. Well, technically. They skipped a year. Did, like, an insane amount of independent studying. Finished early. It was a whole thing last term.”

Caitlin frowned. “But they’re seventeen.”

“Yeah, and smarter than the rest of us combined. Oscar does racing on the weekends. He was gone last weekend for a competition, and I heard he won.”

Won. That word stuck.

Caitlin nodded slowly, storing it away. Racing. Trophy. Real-world stakes.

Interesting.

Later that day, she was cutting through the front quad when she ran into Oscar. Literally. Walked right into his shoulder as he came through the gate, duffel bag slung over one arm and a giant freaking trophy in the other.

“Oh my God—sorry!” she squeaked, stepping back.

Oscar caught her elbow lightly to steady her. “It’s okay. You alright?”

Caitlin blinked up at him, struck by how tired he looked—jet-lagged, probably—but still managing to smile like it was instinct. His curls were a bit flatter than usual, but he was holding a trophy like it weighed nothing.

It was golden. Shiny. Definitely taller than her forearm.

“I—yeah! You won?” she asked, trying to keep her voice from squeaking again.

Oscar laughed a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Hockenheim. Long weekend.”

Hockenheim.

Oh. He was worldly.

“That’s amazing,” Caitlin said, widening her eyes slightly. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I’m just glad to be back. Haven’t seen Fliss since Thursday, so—” He trailed off, smiling again, something soft flickering in his eyes.

But Caitlin cut in quickly. “Well, maybe I’ll see you around? If you’re not too busy being famous or graduating early or…” She laughed.

Oscar nodded, polite and vaguely distracted. “Yeah, maybe. I should—uh, I promised Fliss I’d meet her before dinner.”

Of course he did.

Caitlin watched him walk off with that massive trophy and the easy kind of stride that said he belonged somewhere. He didn’t look back.

But still.

He hadn’t said no.

Caitlin smiled to herself.

Still a chance, then.

***

Felicity Leong.

Gorgeous, effortlessly intimidating, lived in that weird attic room nobody else wanted, wore her uniform like it was tailored by Prada, and had this way of looking at you like she already knew what you were going to say—and how wrong it was.

People whispered about her. How she was on first-name terms with half the faculty. How she submitted essays a full week before the deadline. How she once corrected a physics teacher mid-lecture and was right.

But Caitlin didn’t get the big deal.

She’d seen her around with Oscar, obviously. Always hovering nearby. Always tucked under his arm at lunch or passing him a pencil looking like they were one collective brain. But Caitlin had told herself that was just proximity. Comfort. Maybe they were from the same side of Australia. Maybe it was platonic.

Besides, Felicity couldn’t be that smart.

People exaggerated. Nerds got hyped up all the time, especially when they were hot.

Then came double history.

Caitlin hadn’t even realized Felicity was in the class until Caitlin slipped into the seat next to hers—late, looking vaguely annoyed. Felicity meanwhile had a black coffee in one hand and three uncapped highlighters in the other.

Caitlin blinked.

“Oh,” she said, “Hi.”

Felicity didn’t look up from her notes. “Hi.”

Caitlin offered a smile. “I’m Caitlin. I just transferred—”

“I know. Caitlin Pritchard.” Felicity said, finally glancing over. “You’re in Samir’s economic class. You were late twice last week.”

Caitlin opened her mouth. Closed it.

“Well. Yeah. I had trouble finding the classroom”

Felicity hummed, scribbled something in the margin of her paper, and then underlined it twice.

Caitlin stared.

She wanted to say something else. Something casual. Charming. Something that might explain why Oscar seemed to orbit this girl like she was a fixed point in the universe.

So when the teacher walked in and launched straight into a discussion on colonial resistance movements, Caitlin pounced.

“Sorry,” she said, cutting across the room. “Can we go back? Didn’t the Sepoy Rebellion happen because of, like… pork grease? On bullets or something?”

A few people laughed. The teacher smiled thinly. “Yes, Caitlin, that was one of the catalysts. Though, of course, the issue was more complicated—”

“It was never really about the grease,” Felicity said suddenly, without looking up. “That was just the final insult. The British had already eroded Indian sovereignty through unfair taxation, disrespect of local customs, and widespread economic disenfranchisement. The cartridge issue was symbolic—it touched religion, identity, and trust. Which, when combined with long-standing resentment, triggered the uprising.”

Caitlin blinked.

Felicity continued annotating her page like she hadn’t just delivered a university-level mini-lecture.

The teacher looked delighted. “Exactly, Miss Leong.”

And that was the first time Caitlin realized two very important things:

Felicity Leong was terrifyingly smart.

She had grossly underestimated the girl Oscar Piastri smiled at like she was his whole damn world. 

Still.

Caitlin glanced sideways at her.

She could recover.

Probably.

Maybe.

***

Caitlin was still replaying the moment in her head when she flopped into a beanbag in the common room an hour later.

“‘It was never really about the grease,’” she muttered under her breath, mimicking Felicity’s deadpan tone. “Like, okay, Google Scholar, relax.”

Across from her, Aarya Kumar— vice captain of the debating society, and possibly the only person more feared in a podium setting than Felicity herself—arched an eyebrow.

“Oh no,” she said mildly. “Did you challenge Felicity?”

“I asked a question,” Caitlin said defensively. “I wasn’t trying to start a revolution.”

Aarya snorted. “With Felicity, it’s the same thing.”

Caitlin grabbed a nearby cushion and hugged it to her chest. “She’s just—she’s kind of cold, isn’t she?”

Aarya looked up from her laptop with the slow blink of someone deciding whether or not to waste time correcting an idiot.

“Cold?” she repeated.

“Yeah. I don’t know. Like, she’s obviously really smart and everything, but she’s a bit… sharp. She didn’t even smile when I introduced myself. She just recited my attendance record.”

Aarya leaned back in her chair, looking extremely entertained.

“Caitlin,” she said, “Felicity Leong is not cold. She’s clinical. There’s a difference.”

“Oh, sorry, clinical. That’s so much more warm and inviting.”

Aarya smiled like a shark. “She just doesn’t waste energy on things she finds boring.”

“And I’m boring?”

“No,” Aarya said, sipping her tea. “You’re just not particularly relevant.”

Caitlin stared. “Wow.”

“Don’t take it personally. She’s like that with everyone who isn’t on her shortlist of priorities.”

Caitlin frowned. “And who’s on the list, then?”

Aarya tilted her head, like the answer was obvious. “Well, there’s Oscar. And—actually, I guess it’s mostly just Oscar.”

Caitlin sat up straighter, hopeful. “So… they’re, like… best friends?”

Aarya raised an eyebrow. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

Caitlin clung to the ambiguity like a life raft. “Right. Because he is super friendly with everyone.”

Aarya didn’t say anything. Just went back to typing.

Caitlin leaned back, trying to ignore the way her stomach twisted.

Because technically, no one had said they were together.

No kissing. No hand-holding in public. No PDA.

It was probably one of those ultra-close platonic friendships. The kind that seemed romantic but wasn’t. Maybe they’d grown up like siblings. Maybe Felicity was just a little possessive. Maybe Oscar just hadn’t met the right girl yet.

Maybe—maybe—Caitlin could still be the exception.

It wasn’t like they were dating.

Right?

***

It started in the library.

Caitlin was flipping through flashcards, half-studying, half-scanning for Oscar (which was a completely innocent form of multitasking), when she caught the sound of his voice coming from two rows behind her.

“Fliss.”

The tone was casual. Familiar. The syllable dropped like second nature.

Caitlin frowned.

Fliss?

She peered around the bookcase just enough to glimpse him—Oscar, leaning on the edge of the table where Felicity sat, surrounded by a ridiculous number of open books and a mug that probably held black coffee and ambition.

Felicity didn’t look up. “What?”

“You forgot your physics notes in the study room.”

He held out a folder. Her hand came up automatically to take it.

“Oh. Thanks, Oz.”

Caitlin blinked again.

Oz?

Fliss and Oz?

Since WHEN were they nickname people?

She hadn’t even known he went by Oz. Nobody else called him that. Everyone else just said Oscar. Osc rarely, from some guys on the cricket team. 

Caitlin tilted her head. Okay, maybe it was a smart-people thing. Maybe if she ever helped him with physics, he’d let her call him that too.

And then Felicity, still scribbling, added absently:

“You’re not getting another cookie for this, by the way.”

Oscar laughed. “Didn’t ask for one, love.”

Caitlin’s brain stuttered.

Love?!

He said it so casually. Like it wasn’t a thing. Like it was something he’d said a hundred times before and would say again in the hallway or in front of God and Aarya and everyone.

Felicity didn’t even react.

She just circled something in her notes, then muttered, “You’re lucky I still have any goodwill left after The Great Béchamel Disaster.”

“You said you forgave me,” Oscar said, nudging her elbow.

“I lied,” she replied, but she was smiling.

A real smile. Small. Private. Quiet and warm in the way a person only smiles when they’re with someone who knows all their weird habits and loves them anyway.

Caitlin sat there in stunned silence, still holding her flashcard on Newton’s Third Law, like gravity had just personally attacked her.

Oscar Piastri had a nickname. And a backup nickname. And Felicity had one too. Multiple, probably. He probably called her things like “hey you” and “genius” and “mine.” Caitlin was spiraling. She hadn’t even gotten a solid hi this week.

She told herself not to read into it. Some people just had nicknames. That didn’t mean anything.

Did it?

…Did it??

She turned back to her flashcards with renewed determination.

She still had time.

Still had a chance.

Probably.

(Maybe.)

***

It was just after prep when Caitlin wandered into the shared sixth form kitchen in search of a snack and maybe a slightly flirty conversation with Oscar Piastri.

What she found instead was chaos.

The counter was covered in flour. Someone’s blazer was draped over a chair. The oven light was on, the whole place smelled like vanilla and sugar, and at the center of it all—like it was completely normal—stood Oscar and Felicity Leong, side by side at the counter, making cookies.

Oscar had chocolate smeared on his cheek.

Felicity was wearing a hoodie that she was drowning in, from the Richmond Tigers. 

Caitlin blinked.

“Um. Hi?”

Oscar looked up, grinning immediately. “Hey, Caitlin. Want one? They’re a bit misshapen, but Fliss says that’s ‘charm.’”

Felicity, still focused on placing the next tray in the oven, didn’t glance up. “Because it is.”

Two other students—Aarya and a boy named Samir—were sitting nearby eating cookies like this was a regularly scheduled Wednesday night tradition.

Caitlin stepped cautiously inside. “You guys… bake together?”

Felicity closed the oven and finally turned around, brushing flour off her sleeves. “Only when we both have a free evening and Oscar’s not flying from Spain or Monaco or whatever.”

“She says that like I don’t make time,” Oscar said, nudging her with his shoulder.

Caitlin watched as Felicity gave him a look. Not annoyed. Not even teasing.

It was warm. Familiar. Like this was their thing.

Oscar smirked. “Anyway,” he said, holding out a cookie, “these have caramel bits. Still hot.”

Caitlin accepted it, trying not to overanalyze the way Felicity casually stole a cooling rack from behind him and bumped her hip into his like it was second nature.

“Oh my God,” Aarya muttered to Samir behind them. “Is she still trying?”

“She must be,” Samir whispered back, mouth full. “This is brutal.”

Caitlin turned. “What?”

“Nothing,” Aarya said quickly, looking at the ceiling. “Just… nothing.”

Caitlin took a bite of the cookie. It was genuinely good. “I didn’t realize you were, like… domestic,” she said to Oscar, with what she hoped was a charming little laugh.

Felicity looked unimpressed.

“I make a mean pasta bake too,” Oscar said easily. “But Fliss doesn’t let me cook anything unsupervised since The Great Béchamel Disaster.”

Felicity nodded solemnly. “He thought you could substitute almond milk for béchamel.”

“It was a theory.”

“You nearly set the microwave on fire.”

Oscar pointed at her. “You said you forgave me.”

“I did,” she said sweetly. “After you bought me new pyjamas.”

Caitlin laughed awkwardly. “Wow. You two really know each other.”

“Since we were 14,” Oscar said. “It’s kind of hard not to.”

Caitlin wanted to ask more, but Aarya was now fake-coughing aggressively into her biscuit, and Samir looked like he was trying not to choke from suppressed laughter.

“Anyway,” Oscar added, smiling at Felicity again, “you wanna do the next batch or switch?”

“I’ll mix,” she said, already reaching for the bowl. “You always under-fold.”

Oscar rolled his eyes but obeyed. “Yes, Fliss.”

Caitlin watched them—Felicity focused, Oscar content just to orbit around her—and something unspoken flickered in her chest.

But then Oscar caught her eye again. Friendly. Easy.

He was still nice to her.

Still smiling.

And so Caitlin told herself—again—that if it was something romantic, someone would’ve said so. Or at least made it clear. They weren’t kissing. They weren’t holding hands. Maybe this was just… how they were. How they’d always been.

She still had a chance.

Caitlin took another bite of her cookie.

It burned her tongue.

***

Caitlin wasn’t technically stalking Oscar.

She just… happened to sign up for gym block at the same time as him. And then happened to show up early. And then happened to secure a treadmill with a very good view of the weights section.

That wasn’t a crime.

And honestly, she was doing it for herself. Self-improvement. Endorphins. Definitely not to stare at the way Oscar Piastri filled out a nike shirt...

He wasn’t even doing anything fancy. Just basic reps. But his arms? Defined. Shoulders? Unfair. And the fact that he wasn’t even out of breath while talking to someone? Offensive.

Also—he was lifting more than Samir. Samir was on the rugby team.

Caitlin glanced around like someone should be noticing this.

But no one cared. Because of course they didn’t. They’d all seen it before.

And then in came her.

Felicity Leong.

Hair braided. No makeup. Oversized red shirt. ARDEN written over her chest. Black leggings. Looked like she could do calculus while sprinting.

Caitlin tried not to stare.

But then she saw Oscar’s face light up when Felicity walked in and any hope she had left melted like protein powder in lukewarm almond milk.

They greeted each other with the kind of ease that made Caitlin want to scream into a dumbbell rack.

Then they trained together.

Felicity wasn’t flashy. She was fast. Precise. Focused. Caitlin watched her fly through circuits like her body was a machine and she’d never once felt fatigue. Meanwhile, Oscar was at her side, timing her sprints, correcting her posture, offering her his towel like it was nothing.

“Water?” he asked during their rest.

Felicity reached for the bottle, took one sip, and muttered, “You’re still folding your lunges.”

Oscar grinned. “Still bossy.”

“Still inefficient.”

Caitlin was starting to believe in soulmates and consider drowning herself in the gym water cooler at the same time.

And then it happened.

Felicity slipped mid-rep. Nothing dramatic—just a wrong angle coming down from a box jump—but the sound her ankle made was sharp, sickening, real.

She hissed through her teeth and staggered.

Oscar was at her side in less than two seconds.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Don’t move. Is it bad?”

“Twisted,” Felicity gritted out. “Might be sprained.”

He crouched beside her, eyes scanning her ankle, hands gentle as he tested the pressure. And then—before Caitlin could even process what was happening—

He scooped her up.

Like she weighed nothing. Like it was automatic. Like he’d done it before.

Arms under her knees and back, no strain, no hesitation. Felicity didn’t even protest. Just looped one arm around his neck like this was a routine Tuesday.

“C’mon,” he said softly. “Let’s get you iced.”

Caitlin gaped.

And no one else reacted.

Not Samir. Not the girl by the rowing machines. Not the PT. They barely looked up.

As if this happened all the time.

As if Felicity regularly got princess-carried out of the gym by her brilliant F1-adjacent boyfriend like it was part of the warm-down routine.

Caitlin blinked.

Her heart hurt.

Oscar was strong. Like—really strong. Quietly strong. The kind that didn’t flex, just lifted people like they were paper.

And Felicity?

Felicity was tiny. Not weak. Not fragile. Just built like the universe decided someone should be genetically optimized to be carried by Oscar Piastri.

As they disappeared into the hallway, Felicity mumbled something.

Oscar laughed and said, “It’s not my fault your centre of gravity is adorable.”

Caitlin still had a chance. 

Probably. 

***

Caitlin had known Oscar Piastri was cute.

Obviously.

That had been Day One material: waves, dimples, polite voice, Australian accent. It was instant. It was unavoidable. It was textbook crush.

What she hadn’t expected was the slow realization that Oscar Piastri was hot. Like… unfairly hot. Like betray-your-bestie-and-your-God hot.

It didn’t hit her all at once.

It was gradual.

It was the library, when he’d leaned over Felicity’s desk to hand her a flash drive and his shirt had shifted, and suddenly his forearms were right there, and Caitlin had nearly highlighted the entire Treaty of Versailles out of order.

It was the way he always ran one hand through his hair when he was concentrating—pushing it back, curls falling forward again five seconds later, like he was in a shampoo commercial directed by the gods.

It was the back muscles, which she first clocked during PE when he’d taken off his jumper and casually did push-ups like they didn’t reveal everything.

And then there was the shoulder stretch incident.

One Friday morning in study hall, he’d lifted both arms behind his head to stretch—and his shirt had ridden up just enough to show a sliver of toned lower back and hip. Caitlin had dropped her pen, her dignity, and a solid 80% of her vocabulary in the same moment.

Every time he laughed, it was a problem. Deep, full-body, throw-his-head-back laughter that made people turn and smile reflexively. Except Caitlin didn’t just smile. She short-circuited.

And God help her when he swore.

Oscar didn’t swear much—but when he did, it was low and Australian and effortless and usually muttered under his breath in the most devastatingly hot tone imaginable. Once it had been “bloody hell, Fliss”, and Caitlin had ascended into another dimension.

Even his hands were unfair. Long fingers. Casually spinning a pen. Good at everything. 

One time he’d run laps for warm-up and pulled his shirt off over his head as he walked off the field, sweat glistening, curls sticking, and Caitlin had genuinely seen a bird fly into a tree because the universe was clearly overwhelmed.

But the worst part—the absolute worst—was how unaware he was of it.

Oscar Piastri had the audacity to be hot and nice. The kind of boy who helped carry books and always shared his last cookie with Felicity without even blinking.

It was a public safety hazard.

***

It was a rainy Thursday afternoon, and most of Sixth Form had retreated to the study hall. The floor-to-ceiling windows rattled with wind, someone had put on a low jazz playlist, and everyone had resigned themselves to pretending they were productive.

Caitlin was “working” on a history essay (read: rewriting the intro for the fourth time), when Oscar dropped into the seat beside Felicity at the windowsill bench. She barely looked up from her notes, just shifted sideways to make room for him in the way of people who didn’t ask—they just expected each other to be there.

He leaned over her shoulder, reading something upside down.

"You need a break," he said softly.

"I need a functioning global economy," she replied, underlining a sentence in red.

Oscar snorted. “Come on. Fifteen-minute truce. Stretch. Look at a cloud. Touch grass.”

Felicity didn’t move. But she looked at him. And then, in the most deadpan voice imaginable, she muttered:

"Alright, Tin Man. Let’s walk."

Caitlin blinked from her corner of the room.

Tin Man?

Tin. Man.

Was that… a dig?

A pet name?

An insult wrapped in affection?

She stared after them as they walked out, Oscar brushing his hand lightly against Felicity’s as they passed through the door. He was grinning. She wasn’t—but there was a crinkle in her eyes that looked suspiciously like she was trying not to smile.

“What,” Caitlin said aloud, turning to Thea across the table, “was that? She just called him Tin Man.”

Thea didn’t even glance up from her colour-coded notes. “Yeah. That’s her thing.”

“Her thing?”

“She calls him that when he gets too sentimental.”

Caitlin blinked. “Wait, what?”

Thea sighed like she was explaining physics to a moth.

“When Oscar first came to Haileybury, some of the guys used to tease him for being a bit—cold. Like, he was brilliant at everything but didn’t show much emotion. You know, kept to himself. Never really… reacted.”

Caitlin’s mouth opened. “So they called him—?”

“Robot Boy,” Thea finished. “No emotions. You get it.”

“That’s—awful,” Caitlin said.

“Yeah. But then Felicity came along, and he started reacting.” Thea finally looked up, eyes sharp with amusement. “First time he ever raised his voice in public was when someone made a comment about her. You should’ve seen it. He went full protective rage blackout.”

Caitlin blinked, stunned.

“Anyway,” Thea continued, “he started thawing. Laughing more. Getting teased for having feelings, instead of not having any. So now when he gets too soft with her—like, says something sweet or looks at her like she put the stars in the sky—she calls him Tin Man.”

Caitlin sat in silence.

Outside, through the rain-streaked glass, she could just barely make out Oscar and Felicity under the trees. He was walking so close beside her their arms brushed with every step. Felicity said something, and he threw his head back laughing.

And then she bumped him—gently, with her shoulder.

He bumped back.

They kept walking.

They weren’t holding hands. 

So Caitlin still had a chance. Right?

***

Caitlin joined the dance club because she needed something.

Something that wasn’t academic. Something that wasn’t tied to being “the new girl.” And, ideally, something that would make her look effortlessly hot in a leotard.

She had a background in jazz, had done a few summer workshops in Sydney, and figured it’d be a good place to make some friends. Plus, Oscar might notice—if she mentioned casually that she danced.

So when she walked into the studio for her first Thursday meeting, wearing her black tank and brand new split-sole ballet shoes, she felt good. Confident. A little nervous, but in a cute way.

And then she saw her.

Felicity Leong.

Hair in a flawless bun. Dressed in a leotard and a worn black wrap top that looked somehow elegant. Not flashy. Not even trying. But immediately magnetic.

Caitlin blinked. You’ve got to be kidding me.

“Is she part of this club?” she whispered to the girl next to her.

The girl gave her a look. “She’s the senior lead.”

“Oh,” Caitlin said weakly. “Cool.”

Cool.

Felicity didn’t look like she was about to ruin lives. She was sitting against the mirror, stretching calmly, headphones in. Calm. Focused. Untouchable.

Then the teacher clapped. “Alright, let’s warm up. Miss Leong—lead us in pliés?”

Felicity nodded once, stood, and—

Transformed.

It was like watching a poem in motion.

No overthinking. No hesitation. Just muscle memory and precision. Her arms curved perfectly. Her turnout was textbook. Her every movement landed in that devastating sweet spot between softness and control. And her face didn’t change once—like grace wasn’t a performance for her, just a setting she never turned off.

She wasn’t just good.

She was ballet.

Caitlin barely remembered the warm-up. Her legs did something, sure, but her brain was short-circuiting.

Felicity flowed through port de bras like she’d been born with music in her veins. Executed a développé with the kind of restraint that said she could go higher, but didn’t need to prove it.

By the time they got to center work, Caitlin was pretty sure she’d stopped blinking.

“Felicity, would you mind demonstrating the adagio solo from last year?” the teacher asked.

Felicity gave a soft, almost reluctant nod. “Sure.”

And then she danced.

No music. No fanfare. Just her body moving like it had already heard the score.

Every extension was art. Every balance was deliberate. Every turn was smooth enough to make the world spin slower. When she reached the final pose—arms lifted, chin angled upward like she was made of light—nobody clapped.

Because everyone was stunned.

Even Caitlin.

She barely breathed until the teacher finally said, “Thank you. That was… as always, exquisite.”

Felicity just shrugged like it meant nothing and walked back to her spot like she hadn’t just outdanced God.

Caitlin sat down slowly.

Silently.

And had a minor identity crisis.

Because not only was Felicity Leong intimidatingly smart, casually attached at the soul to Oscar Piastri - she could also do ballet like she was on loan from the Paris Opera.

Caitlin didn’t know whether she wanted to cry, scream, or change schools.

So she settled on tying her shoes tighter and pretending it didn’t bother her.

Even though it absolutely did.

***

It was a rainy Tuesday evening, the kind that turned the Haileybury dorms into a sanctuary of hot chocolate, fleece blankets, and half-finished homework sprawled across common room tables.

Caitlin was curled on the edge of a beanbag, pretending to annotate her literature essay while sneakily watching Oscar argue with Samir about some Grand Prix controversy. It was one of those low-effort nights—everyone a little too tired to be productive, a little too comfortable to care.

And then Felicity walked in.

Hair down.

Caitlin almost dropped her pen.

Because up until that moment, she hadn’t even realized Felicity Leong had hair.

That’s how tightly she always wore it. Braids, buns, perfect French twists that looked regulation-ready even on Sundays. But now—

Now it was loose.

A dark, glossy sheet that spilled over her shoulders and down her back like a black silk curtain, nearly to her waist. Smooth, thick, flawless. It looked less like hair and more like something airbrushed onto a Vogue cover.

Caitlin blinked. Was she allowed to just—walk around like that?

Felicity padded over to where Oscar sat cross-legged on the floor, tugged a cushion closer, and dropped herself unceremoniously between his knees like it was a routine chore.

“Hands?” she asked, already gathering her hair over one shoulder.

Oscar grinned. “Clean. Promise.”

And with that, he gently took the mass of hair in his hands and began to braid.

Just like that.

Like it was something they’d done a hundred times. Like this was normal.

Caitlin watched, frozen, as he sectioned it expertly—two smooth parts, fingers moving with unconscious ease. He wasn’t even looking, just chatting with Samir about tyre compounds while looping her hair over and under like he knew it better than she did.

Felicity leaned forward a little to help him get the tension right.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t supervise. Just… trusted him.

Caitlin wasn’t sure what was more shocking—the fact that Oscar Piastri could braid at all, or the fact that Felicity Leong, terrifying genius and dance prodigy, had somehow allowed a boy to touch her hair.

And not just touch it, but casually French braid it in front of other people like it wasn’t the most intimate thing Caitlin had ever seen in her life.

Oscar tied the end with a small black elastic from his wrist, then tugged the braid gently to make it fuller.

“There,” he said. “Symmetry achieved.”

“Better than last time,” Felicity said, glancing over her shoulder.

He tapped her temple with his knuckle. “I get better under pressure.”

Someone across the room muttered, “You two are so weirdly domestic, it’s terrifying.”

Neither of them looked offended.

Oscar just smiled. Felicity leaned back slightly against his knee. And they went right back to talking about whether or not the new history teacher was secretly unqualified.

Caitlin sat there, quietly imploding.

Because never, not once, had she seen Oscar that comfortable with anyone. Not in the flirtatious way she’d been fantasizing about—but in the quiet, unconscious belonging kind of way. Like he wasn’t even thinking about it.

But Caitilin still had a chance…right?

***

It started with a phone ringing.

Not a notification. Not the subtle ping of someone’s locked screen lighting up. This was a proper ringtone—some soft, instrumental chime that sounded like it belonged to a very calm person who did yoga and paid their taxes early.

Caitlin glanced up from her seat in the common room just in time to see Felicity Leong pull her phone out of her cardigan pocket.

“Sorry,” Felicity murmured, already stepping toward the hallway.

Oscar was sitting on the couch, legs stretched out, textbook balanced across his knees. He didn’t even look up.

Caitlin narrowed her eyes.

“Wait, where’s your phone?” she asked, leaning toward him a bit. “I thought I heard your ringtone earlier?”

Oscar didn’t glance up. “Dead. Forgot to charge it.”

“Classic,” Samir muttered without looking up from his laptop.

But Caitlin was still watching Felicity, who had now stepped just out of sight—though her voice still carried through the open doorway. Calm. Familiar. Just slightly exasperated.

“Hi Nicole. No, he’s alive,” Felicity said lightly. “Phone’s dead again. I’ll tell him to call you.”

A pause.

Then, quieter: “No, Oscar’s fine. Tired. He’s had a headache all day, that’s why he didn’t call. Yeah. I’ll remind him to check in tomorrow.”

Then Felicity laughed softly, eyes fond. “Yes. He misses you too. I’ll make sure he actually eats something green tonight.”

She listened for another beat, nodding, then added, “Love you too.”

Then she hung up and tossed the phone back onto the sofa.

Oscar caught it with one hand without even looking. “She say hi?”

“She said to tell you to eat a vegetable.”

“She’s so mean to me,” he said dramatically, eyes closed.

“She birthed you,” Felicity replied, deadpan. “She’s earned it.”

And Caitlin suddenly wasn’t paying attention to her annotated Hamlet anymore.

“Wait,” she said slowly. “Was that… your mum?”

Oscar glanced up like it was no big deal. “Yeah.”

“She called Felicity?”

Oscar blinked, confused. “Yeah?”

“Instead of, like, you?”

He shrugged. “She knows I never answer. Felicity always does.”

That… was apparently that.

Nobody else reacted.

Not Aarya, not Samir, not the Year 13 boy flipping through a copy of The Economist like his soul depended on it. They just kept working or scrolling or sipping lukewarm tea, as if it wasn’t insane that a boy’s mum had defaulted to calling a teenage girl for updates on her son.

“Your Mom just calls Felicity?” Caitlin repeated.

“Has since Year 10,” Samir said without looking up. “Honestly, Felicity usually knows where Oscar is before Oscar knows where Oscar is.”

Oscar shrugged. “It’s a system. If I miss three texts, she goes to Fliss.”

“I think Nicole called her during exams once because she couldn’t figure out Oscar’s calendar,” Aarya added. “Felicity had it memorized.”

Caitlin blinked. “But… that’s like… really personal, right?”

“Not really,” Oscar said mildly. “Just easier. Fliss keeps my schedule on her laptop.”

“She’s basically his external hard drive,” Samir muttered.

“His mum calls her,” Caitlin said again, dazed.

And yet… still.

Still.

She told herself maybe it was just one of those weird family dynamics. Maybe Felicity had just gotten swept up in the Piastris’ orbit because she was organized. Maybe Nicole liked her because she was polite and good at reminding Oscar to take his iron supplements or whatever.

Caitlin clung to denial with the strength of a thousand delusions.

Because maybe Felicity was just close with the family.

Maybe she was like… the childhood friend who became an honorary sibling.

It didn’t have to mean anything.

She definitely still had a chance.

Didn’t she?

***

The Winter Formal was two weeks away, and Caitlin was ready.

This was her moment. Her chance.

She’d been at Haileybury long enough to know that Winter Formal wasn’t just some dance—it was a statement. A social chessboard. The perfect opportunity to be seen, to be asked, to be unforgettable.

And Caitlin was not going to let it pass her by.

She’d already ordered a dress from Australia—a sleek, midnight blue satin thing with a thigh slit and delicate straps that made her feel expensive just looking at it. Her mum had mailed it express with handwritten instructions about which earrings not to pair it with. S She’d even practiced walking in heels on the quad during lunch.

All of this, of course, was part of Operation: Oscar Will Finally See Me As A Woman™.

So when the girls’ dorm corridor started buzzing with excitement and dress talk, Caitlin took her usual spot near the common room couch, flipping through lipstick swatches on her phone and casually steering the conversation.

“I feel like everyone’s going for red or black,” she said, examining a cherry gloss. “I want something classic, but… memorable, you know?”

Thea, who was painting her nails, nodded. “Honestly, I just hope someone asks me. Last year was so dry.”

“I heard Samir’s organizing a group to go together,” someone else said. “Just friends, but, like, cute coordinated outfits?”

“Ugh, that’s sweet,” Caitlin said, smiling. “I mean, obviously, if someone asked me, I’d say yes. But if not, I’ll just look stunning on my own.”

The group hummed in agreement.

Then the door opened, and of course, in walked Felicity Leong—casual, composed, hair in a clip, hoodie two sizes too big.

No Richmond Tigers this time. but once again something emblazoned with HP Tuners on it. Caitlin seriously wondered where she kept finding them. 

She looked like she was just passing through, but Thea called out, “Fliss! Are you going to the Winter Formal?”

Felicity paused. “Yeah, probably.”

Caitlin glanced over, trying to sound breezy. “Do you have a dress yet?”

Felicity shrugged like the entire concept of formalwear bored her. “I’ve got a few. I’ll pick one.”

“You mean, like… from your closet?” Caitlin asked, lips parting in disbelief. “You’re not getting one new?”

Felicity blinked. “I already own dresses. I don’t need another.”

Caitlin opened her mouth. Closed it. “Right. Sure.”

“So who are you going with?” Thea asked teasingly. 

Felicity just smiled faintly. “Don’t worry about it.”

Caitlin’s heart kicked. Her mind raced.

That could mean anything. It could be a friend. A joke. A bluff. There had been no announcement. And Oscar—Oscar still hadn’t said anything about going. She’d know if it were him.

Probably.

Hopefully.

Definitely.

…Right?

Felicity turned to go, already halfway down the corridor, when she called back casually:

“Don’t stress too much about the dress. The dancing is the best part.”

And just like that, she disappeared.

Caitlin sat very still for a moment.

Her lip gloss suddenly felt… desperate.

But no matter.

Felicity Leong could wear a paper bag to Winter Formal and still pull off mysterious. Caitlin, however, was going to show up looking like a star.

She still had time.

She still had a chance.

***

Winter Formal at Haileybury was everything Caitlin had dreamed it would be.

The great hall was transformed—strings of fairy lights hung from the beams, candles floated on tables like something out of a movie, and the DJ actually understood how to mix orchestral pieces with chart hits. Students filed in dressed to the nines, heels clicking on polished floors, laughter echoing across the velvet-draped room.

Caitlin felt stunning.

Her navy satin gown fit like a dream. Her curls were glossy, makeup dewy, everything rehearsed and poised. When she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror-lined hallway, she thought: This is it. This is my main character moment.

Oscar hadn’t arrived yet.

She was mid-conversation with Thea and half-scanning the crowd when the noise in the room dipped. Not stopped. Not hushed. Just… shifted.

She followed the direction of a few stares—and there they were.

Oscar and Felicity.

And Caitlin forgot how to breathe.

Felicity was in a deep forest green dress—floor-length, off the shoulder, with a subtle silk sheen that looked so expensive it had to be designer. Her hair was down for once, falling to her waist pin straight and thick. Her makeup was minimal, but somehow she still looked like she stepped out of a fashion editorial.

Oscar was in a classic black suit. Crisp white shirt. And he was smiling at her—her, meaning Felicity—like she was the only person who existed.

The room wasn’t silent, but it didn’t matter.

It bent around them anyway.

Caitlin stared. There’s no way they’re just friends.

But nobody said anything. There was no announcement. No hand-holding. So it was still ambiguous, right?

She had hope.

Until the dancing started.

The DJ called for a traditional waltz—something Haileybury insisted on every year for the old-money aesthetic—and most students awkwardly shuffled into pairs, giggling through their two-left-feet attempts.

And then—

Oscar and Felicity stepped onto the floor.

And they danced.

Not fumbled.

Not swayed.

They danced.

He led effortlessly, one hand pressed against her back like he was born to guide her. She followed with impossible grace, her green skirt swirling just above her ankles. They moved in tight, perfect circles, their footwork synchronized, their expressions focused and just barely smiling, like the moment was just for them.

And then—because of course—

He picked her up.

Clean, elegant lift. Like she weighed nothing. Like he’d done it a hundred times before. Her feet left the ground, and she laughed—actually laughed, head thrown back—and when he set her down again, she didn’t even wobble.

The room applauded.

Caitlin clapped too, mostly because she forgot how not to.

Thea leaned over. “Okay, they’re disgustingly perfect.”

Caitlin forced a laugh. “Yeah, I guess they… practiced?”

Samir, somewhere nearby, snorted. “They’ve been practicing since Year 9, mate.”

Caitlin blinked. “What?”

But Samir had already turned away.

Since Year 9?

That had to mean something else. Dance class. PE. Maybe Oscar’s mum had hired them a coach. It didn’t confirm anything.

Even when the slow songs began, and Oscar pulled Felicity close—one hand at her waist, the other brushing the back of her neck, foreheads nearly touching—Caitlin still thought:

Maybe he’s just that affectionate with close friends.

Even as he whispered something that made Felicity laugh and tuck her head into his shoulder.

Even as they moved in a slow, gentle rhythm that looked less like dancing and more like existing in sync.

Caitlin took a sip of her sparkling juice.

She still had a chance.

...Right?

***

The Winter Formal afterparty wasn’t technically sanctioned, but Haileybury looked the other way as long as nobody died, broke curfew, or set off the fire alarm like last year.

So a group of Upper Sixth students had ended up back in one of the common rooms, still in formalwear but now barefoot, jackets discarded, and half-asleep on beanbags and mismatched sofas. The music was low. The fairy lights from the dance still blinked lazily around the windows. Someone passed around leftover sweets from the dessert bar.

Caitlin was feeling… hopeful.

Oscar was lounging two cushions away, his jacket tossed over a chair, his tie hanging loose around his neck. Felicity sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him, sipping from a paper cup. 

Then someone suggested Truth or Dare.

It started off tame.

“Truth: who did you originally want to go to formal with?” “Dare: text your sibling ‘you up?’” “Truth: have you ever cheated on an exam?”

The group laughed, groaned, teased.

Caitlin felt herself relaxing. It was fun. Casual. Normal.

Then Aarya, ever the chaos agent, turned toward Oscar with a shark-like grin.

“Oscar,” she said sweetly. “Truth or dare?”

Oscar didn’t blink. “Dare.”

Aarya’s eyes lit up. “Kiss your girlfriend like you actually mean it.”

The room stilled.

Caitlin choked on her drink.

Felicity blinked slowly, then looked up at Oscar with one eyebrow raised.

He laughed softly. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” Aarya said, sipping her juice. “Here we are.”

Oscar leaned forward.

Caitlin’s heart started pounding.

And then—without fanfare, without hesitation—he tipped Felicity’s chin up with one hand and kissed her.

Not a peck. Not polite. Not friend-coded.

It was full-on, no questions asked, get-a-room kissing.

He kissed her like it was muscle memory. Like he’d done it a thousand times. Like he had no idea anyone else was in the room.

Felicity kissed him back with the same energy—slow and familiar and undeniably his.

When they finally pulled apart, Felicity just tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and stole a sip from Oscar’s drink like nothing had happened.

Oscar smirked and leaned back like he was settling into home.

The room erupted.

Whistling. Groaning. “You are horrible,” someone muttered.

Aarya grinned with no mercy in Caitlin’s direction.

“Oh my God,” Caitlin said faintly. “Wait, are you—?”

Felicity looked at her. “Together? Yeah. Since we were fifteen.”

Caitlin stared.

Aarya, feigning deep shock, added, “You didn’t know?”

The silence after that wasn’t cruel—but it was loud.

Caitlin tried to find her voice. “I just thought—no one ever said—”

Oscar blinked, genuinely confused. “I thought it was obvious?”

And somehow, that was the worst part.

Because to everyone else, it was.

The braids. The cookies. The phone call from Nicole. The dancing. The goddamn waltz lift. All of it had been real.

Caitlin had never stood a chance.

And now she knew it.

Fully. Completely.

Unmistakably.

***

@/caitlinfromoz: ✨okay so now that oscar piastri and felicity leong are publicly Official™ and married… a thread about how teenage me was DELUSIONAL and thought i had a chance ✨ (yes. i was that girl. i’ve grown.)

@/caitlinfromoz:  i transferred to haileybury in 2018. i was 17. oscar was cute. australian. quiet. smart. devastatingly nice to literally everyone. INCLUDING ME. obviously, i decided we were endgame.

@/caitlinfromoz: There was just one obstacle. Her name was Felicity Leong.

@/caitlinfromoz:  Gorgeous. Terrifying. Looked like she ate straight A’s for breakfast and ballet-danced in her sleep. Hair always in a perfect bun. Vibes of a girl who could ruin your life with a well-written paragraph.

@/caitlinfromoz: I tried to talk to her once in history class and said the Sepoy Rebellion was about pork grease. She proceeded to verbally destroy me and rewrite my understanding of British colonialism in one breath.

I still think about it at night.

@/caitlinfromoz:  nobody told me they were together because apparently “it was obvious” spoiler: IT WAS NOT OBVIOUS TO ME. 

@/caitlinfromoz:   I never saw them kiss. She didn’t sit on his lap. I spent three months thinking I had a chance. 

Reader, I did not have a chance.

@/caitlinfromoz: Things I ignored in pursuit of this delusion:

@/caitlinfromoz:  He was the only person that called her Fliss. (Side note: He also called her Love.) She was the only person that called him Oz. Or Tin Man. 

@/caitlinfromoz: His mother called her when he didn’t answer answer his phone. And that was generally accepted as normal. Nobody blinked. i thought she was just close with his family. 💀

@/caitlinfromoz: They made cookies together like an old married couple. They were the best cookies I have ever eaten. (He’s also not allowed in the kitchen without supervision. Something about The Great Béchamel Disaster?)

@/caitlinfromoz:  there was this one time i saw him french braid her entire waist-length hair in the common room while talking about tyre compounds. and i was like “they’re probably just childhood friends :)” girl.

@/caitlinfromoz:  also felicity could do actual ballet. like real swan lake coreography. i joined dance club to be graceful. she FLOATS. i left dance club two meetings later.

@/caitlinfromoz: but the REAL nail in the coffin was winter formal. i thought “this is it. this is where he sees me in a dress and FALLS.”

@/caitlinfromoz: and then oscar & felicity arrived like they’d just stepped out of a slow-burn fanfic and casually performed a literal waltz. with lifts.

@/caitlinfromoz: like, lifted her.

in time with the music.

in front of witnesses.

and i still thought “huh… maybe they’re just really good friends??”

teenage me was determined to die on that hill. and oh god, die i did 🥲

@/caitlinfromoz: Cut to post-formal hangout, someone suggests Truth or Dare. Aarya (bless her ruthless soul) dares Oscar to “kiss your girlfriend like you mean it.”

@/caitlinfromoz: He proceeded to snog Felicity like we weren’t all sitting 5 feet away in formalwear with Red Vines and sparkling juice. When they broke apart, she casually took a sip from his drink.

@/caitlinfromoz:  I had an out-of-body experience.

 turned to the group like: “Wait… they’re DATING??”

Felicity, sipping her juice: “Since we were 15.”

Everyone else: 👀

Oscar: “I thought it was obvious?”

@/caitlinfromoz: Reader, it was. I was just dense.

@/caitlinfromoz: turns out they’d been dating for over 2 years. everyone knew. except me. i think i stared at the wall for ten full minutes.

@/caitlinfromoz: to be clear: they weren’t hiding. everyone else knew. they just… were. no theatrics. no announcement. just two teenagers sharing tea, physics notes, and apparently a long-term romantic commitment 😃👍

@/caitlinfromoz: anyway. it’s years later. they’re still disgustingly in love. her hair’s still perfect. he’s still absurdly nice. and i’m now emotionally stable enough to laugh at my teen self.

@/caitlinfromoz: teenage me had confidence, delusion, and absolutely no awareness.

i salute her.

but she was so, so dumb.

RIP to her.

@/caitlinfromoz: thank you for attending my TED Talk on delulu girl autumn 2018 💀💀💀

***

@/nicolepiastri: This was a hilarious read. Thank you for the reminder that Oscar once thought almond milk could substitute béchamel. And yes, I called Felicity when Osc wouldn’t answer. I still do. Caitlin, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. You never had a chance. Loved the thread though 💕

➡️@/caitlinfromoz:  WHY IS OSCAR’S MUM HERE i was a CHILD i didn’t know i was just trying to thrive in maths and a floor-length gown

➡️@/NicolePiastri: You were lovely, but Fliss had already reorganized his entire life by the time you arrived. Including his sock drawer. And his heart.

@/f1roseshard:  SHE SAID "YOU NEVER HAD A CHANCE" I’M SCREAMING

@/chaosinthepits:  nicole piastri coming in like a mother with the final shovel of dirt for the grave 😭😭

@/oscarlovrs: someone frame this whole interaction and hang it in the haileybury hallway i’m serious

@/piastribetterhalf: @/NicolePiastri when did you start calling Felicity instead of Oscar?

➡️@/NicolePiastri:  When he forgot to tell me he’d landed and Felicity texted “Don’t worry, I fed him.”

@/caitlinfromoz: @/nicolepiastri ma’am with all due respect i would’ve loved a warning like maybe a little sign. a polite letter. a fortune cookie.

➡️@/nicolepiastri:  Replying to: @caitlinfromoz I thought the braid should’ve been a giveaway, darling x

@chaoticconstructors: “i thought the braid should’ve been a giveaway” IS THE GREATEST CLOSING LINE I’VE EVER READ

@/piastrisbuns:  what was felicity like irl?? did she ever TALK to people??

➡️@/caitlinfromoz: she talked. just… efficiently. like her words had a budget. she once ended a debate in 3 sentences and someone cried. i respect her. i feared her. i may still fear her.

@/chaosinthepits truth or dare. full snog. in front of everyone. my GOD. did you die. did you ascend.

➡️@/caitlinfromoz:  i think i dissociated tbh. someone passed me a cookie. i bit it and stared into space like i’d just seen a horse speak fluent italian.

@/oscarlovrs: be honest… was it at least a good kiss??

➡️@/caitlinfromoz:  listen. i’m woman enough to admit… it was an excellent kiss. cinema-worthy. soft hand placement. forehead bump. mutual giggling after. 

@/aussieoscarfans:  so you’re telling me his mum had her on speed dial he braided her hair slow danced with her picked her up IN FRONT OF THE SCHOOL and u still thought u had a chance?

➡️@/caitlinfromoz:  yes but in my defense: ✨delusion is a powerful drug✨ (i was 17. my brain wasn’t fully online.)

@/softpitwall:  Be honest. Did you ever consider throwing yourself down the stairs at school just to get Oscar to carry you?

➡️@/caitlinfromoz: no but I did once fake confusion near the physics lab hoping he’d walk me to class felicity appeared out of NOWHERE i swear she just sensed it 😭

@/formula1girlie: THE WAY I GASPED AT “he picked her up” 😭😭 you were fighting for your life against a woman who literally waltzed

➡️@/caitlinfromoz: i was fighting for my life against someone who could quote voltaire and do fouettés there was no battle. i was collateral damage

@/teamsoftlaunch: i’m obsessed with the idea that everyone else knew. like no one even thought to say “hey they’re dating btw”? lmao

➡️@/caitlinfromoz: i think Aarya tried once and then gave up. she probably put money on how long it would take me to catch on

@/piastrilicious: can you PLEASE drop a photo of what you wore to winter formal?? we need to see how hard you tried

➡️@/caitlinfromoz: i will NOT be bullied into posting that navy satin thigh-slit disaster okay fine here it is but please understand i believed it was my villain origin story

<attached image: Caitlin in full formal glam, looking gorgeous and heartbreakingly confident> caption: “she really thought she was gonna change the plot 💔”

@/flissleongstand: this thread is my roman empire. i think about felicity leong just shrugging and saying “yeah, since we were fifteen” DAILY

➡️@/caitlinfromoz: she said it so calmly. meanwhile my entire worldview collapsed in 0.2 seconds

@/oscpiastriluvr81:  GIRL YOU THOUGHT YOU HAD A CHANCE AGAINST THE GIRL HE FRENCH BRAIDED WHILE TALKING ABOUT TYRE COMPOUNDS??? 💀💀💀

➡️@/caitlinfromoz:  i didn’t think i had a chance. i built an entire ROMANTIC NARRATIVE. i was the main character in my head. he was the love interest. she was… a subplot. i was wrong.

@/oscarstanpage: soooo who dared him to kiss her 👀

➡️@/caitlinfromoz:  Aarya. if you’re out there: i forgive you. you were right. i needed the reality check.

@/piastricorners:  you had a crush on oscar when he was braiding hair and baking cookies?? be honest. you liked the domestic vibes didn’t you

➡️ @caitlinfromoz listen. there’s nothing more dangerous than a teenage girl witnessing an emotionally intelligent boy sift flour

@/thepiastrileongfiles: are you ok now

➡️ @/caitlinfromoz: i’m healed. i have a job, a dog, and the emotional distance to find teenage me absolutely hilarious. but i am blocking anyone who makes an edit about that truth or dare kiss with “ceilings” by lizzy mcalpine.

@/oscarp_brasil:  sooo how hot was the kiss. scale of 1 to my soul left my body

➡️@/caitlinfromoz: like if a jane austen novel and a wattpad fic had a baby. there was hand cradling, forehead touch after, she drank from his cup like nothing happened. i was spiritually vaporized.

@/mclarendownbad: @/OscarPiastri bestie ur fans need u to confirm the french braid thing

➡️ @/OscarPiastri I can do a Dutch braid, too. And a crown braid.

[todropscience]

CAN FISH RECOGNIZE INDIVIDUAL HUMANS IN THE WILD?

The ability to recognize individual humans is often associated with mammals and birds, yet research suggests that some fish are also capable of this cognitive feat. While diving in the Mediterranean Sea, a team of scientists observed something intriguing: every field season, they were followed by groups of local fish known as pargo or dorado, stealing food intended to reward other fish in their experiments.

In controlled experiments, wild saddled sea bream (Oblada melanura) and black sea bream (Spondyliosoma cantharus), were trained to follow a human diver to obtain a food reward. Remarkably, they can differentiate between dozens of individuals with high success rates, even when superficial features such as colour or brightness are altered. This suggests that their recognition is based on specific patterns rather than simple visual cues. Similar capabilities have been observed in cleaner fish (Labroides dimidiatus), which adjust their behaviour depending on whether they recognize a familiar diver, implying that this skill might have adaptive benefits in natural environments.

-Maëlan Tomasek (Max Planck Institute of Animal Behavior), one of the study's authors, next to a wild fish. The researchers found that wild fish start to follow humans for food and are able to identify individual divers by their clothing.

If fish in the wild can recognize individual humans, the implications extend beyond academic curiosity. Species frequently interacting with humans—such as those in ecotourism settings or research projects—may learn to associate specific individuals with positive or negative experiences. This has been observed in sharks, where some individuals appear to recognize divers who regularly feed or tag them, approaching more readily or avoiding interactions depending on past encounters. Understanding these cognitive abilities could inform conservation strategies by highlighting the impact of repeated human interactions on fish behaviour.

Despite these insights, much remains unknown about how fish process facial recognition and whether this ability is widespread across different taxa. Future research will need to examine whether this recognition occurs naturally in the wild without training and how it influences social interactions within fish populations. As we continue to challenge outdated assumptions about fish intelligence, it becomes increasingly clear that their cognitive world is far more complex than previously thought.

GIF: Trained fishes following diver

Reference (Open Access): Maëlan et al., 2025. Fish use visual cues to recognize individual divers. Biol. Lett.

[kashverse]

your boyfriend coaching a girls’ sports teams is a fascinating study of chaos, discipline, and emotional whiplash. it is also a terrifying display of how much power one person can have over impressionable minds. if anyone ever questions how deeply a coach can shape the future, they need only observe the absolute mayhem that unfolds under the leadership of said boyfriend.

gojo’s football team

“ladies, we must slay,” gojo declares, standing in the middle of the field, sunglasses perched on his nose like he’s about to give a ted talk instead of coaching a group of five- to fifteen-year-olds in a sport that he just barely understands. he claps his hands once. the team stands at attention. the youngest, a tiny but fierce five-year-old named mei, raises a hand. “coach gojo, what’s slay?”

“good question, mei dear!” gojo beams. “slay is when you dominate in style. it’s when you flip your hair after a touchdown, when your cleats match your energy, when—” he pauses dramatically, lowering his shades to wink at them, “—you leave your enemies in the dust and look good doing it.”

“what about actual football?” asks misaki, one of the older girls, clearly tired of his nonsense.

“yes, yes, there’s that too,” he waves a hand dismissively. “but listen, coordination is key. we can’t just play well, we have to look well. what’s our game plan today?”

the team groans in unison: “flip the hair, score the goal.”

“atta girls.”

the game begins, and despite his ridiculous antics, gojo’s training somehow works. every single touchdown is punctuated with a dramatic hair flip. even the girls with short hair have perfected an imaginary one, jerking their heads back in a movement so fierce that their opponents are momentarily stunned. “see?” gojo says smugly as the team wins their game. “dominance. in style.”

geto’s swim team

in contrast, geto’s approach is far calmer. he leans against the pool’s edge, arms crossed, nodding at his team with an approving smile. “good work, everyone,” he says, high-fiving a seven-year-old who looks like she’s about to pass out from exhaustion. “coach, can we rest now?” asks hana, one of the older girls, between gasps for air. “of course,” he says kindly. then he claps his hands together. 

“right after you double up.”

there’s a moment of silence. someone whimpers.

“coach—”

“you heard me,” he says, and suddenly, his previous warmth is gone. “double up.”

“but—”

“double. up.”

and then, like a switch has been flipped, the entire team triples their swimming speed. they slice through the water like sharks chasing prey, their strokes precise, their turns flawless. geto watches with quiet satisfaction, nodding approvingly as a twelve-year-old girl overtakes her teammate with the determination of an olympic athlete. once the session ends and the team is gasping at the edge of the pool, he pats them on the back like nothing happened. “great job today, girls.”

“you’re a menace,” one of them wheezes. he chuckles. 

“i know.”

sukuna’s badminton team

if gojo is chaos disguised as charisma and geto is warmth that turns to terror, sukuna is just terror. “victory at all costs,” he says before every game. before every practice. before every team dinner. it is their mantra, their religion, their unshakable truth. the team does not question it.

“if your opponent is faster, be faster. if they’re smarter, be smarter. if they want it more,” sukuna crosses his arms, voice dangerously low, “rip it from their goddamn hands.”

this is why his team plays like demons. they lunge for the shuttlecock like it’s the last meal on earth, their movements so aggressive that referees often ask if they’ve been trained in hand-to-hand combat. during one particular match, his youngest player, aki, executes a perfect smash that sends the shuttlecock flying into the opposing team’s side with such force that it bounces off the ground and hits the net.

“hell yeah, kid!” sukuna roars, slamming a fist into his palm. aki beams, vibrating with murderous joy. when the match ends and his team emerges victorious, they march off the court like soldiers who have conquered a nation. and then, the moment they step off the court—

“hiiiiiii, coach!” aki chirps, her demon-like aggression completely gone as she waves at him sweetly. “hello, aki,” he deadpans.

“did i do good?”

“you crushed their spirits,” he says approvingly.

“yay!”

the duality is terrifying.

toji’s american football team

if gojo is about style and flair, toji is about pure, unrelenting rage. “alright, listen up, you little punks,” toji snarls, pacing up and down the field. he has the kind of presence that makes even the stadium lights feel dimmer. “you wanna throw that ball? you wanna make it count? then stop thinking like soft little kids and start thinking like warriors.” the team stares at him, waiting. he stops, narrows his eyes. 

“who here has an ex?”

silence. then, one of the older girls, yuki, hesitantly raises a hand. “me.”

“he cheat?”

“…yes.”

“good.” he gestures to the ball. “that’s him. throw him to hell.” 

she blinks, then flings the ball so hard it nearly breaks the goalpost.  “holy shit,” one of her teammates mutters.

toji smirks. “next.”

one by one, the girls line up, channeling heartbreak into sheer destruction. passes become bullets, tackles become acts of war. by the end of practice, the opposing team’s coach is watching in terror as toji laughs darkly from the sidelines. post-practice, toji sits on the bleachers, grinning as his players gather around. he knows his power. “so,” he says casually, leaning forward. “what’s the latest?”

“mai said rena kissed her ex at the pep rally,” one of the girls whispers.  toji nods solemnly. “truly disgusting. use that next practice.”

nanami’s fencing team

nanami does not play games. he does not deal in nonsense. fencing is about skill, precision, discipline. unfortunately, fencing is also mental warfare, and sometimes, nanami indulges.

“focus,” he tells one of his fencers before a match. “your opponent is skilled, but you are better.” she nods, shifting her grip. then, nanami leans in slightly.

“also, i overheard her coach say she doesn’t think you’re fast enough.”

the fencer freezes. her head snaps toward him. “she said what?”

“mm,” nanami hums, adjusting his watch. “just a passing remark. perhaps she was right.”

“she wasn’t.”

the match is over in seconds.

nanami watches as his fencer destroys her opponent, a quiet smirk forming as the referee announces the win. he nods once when his student turns back to him, eyes burning. 

“i knew you had it in you.”

she exhales, looking down at her foil. “…was that even true?” 

nanami checks his watch again. “does it matter?”

choso’s basketball team

how choso became a basketball coach is a mystery, but no one dares to question it. he is too pure, too kind. the girls adore him. even the referees, who should remain unbiased, get emotional when they see him cheering. “you got this,” choso tells his team before a match, his voice soft but certain. “i believe in you.”

his team believes in him. they run faster, shoot cleaner, steal like their lives depend on it. when one of his players gets a foul and has to step off, she almost cries—not from the penalty, but from the fact that she has disappointed choso. “it’s okay,” he says gently, kneeling beside her. “you did your best.”

“…i’ll do better.”

“i know you will.”

by the time the team gets back on the court, they are playing with a vengeance. it is not about winning. it is about making coach choso proud. when they clutch the game-winning basket, choso pulls out a homemade banner. he made it himself.

the girls almost start sobbing.

“you guys did amazing,” choso says, smiling. one of his players full-on cries into his shoulder. 

“he’s too good for this world,” one of the opposing players mutters.

[wqnsho]

crossroads | hwang in-ho x fem! reader

*.✧ synopsis: after losing his wife, hwang in-ho buried his emotions. but when he meets you, a player in his deadly games, his carefully guarded walls begin to crumble, forcing him to confront feelings he thought he’d left behind. *.✧ word count: 20.3k (i'm deadass) *.✧ warnings: squidgame season 2 spoilers, violence, death, mentions of exploitation and abduction, implied suicide, additional character (player 143 - hanni) , usage korean words and suffixes, angst, fluff. reader has no canon age but has a kid. backstory is inspired by acrobatic silky from dandadan. your number will be 132. *.✧ note: requests are open! (please). I wrote this to the entirety of squidgame season 2, so it's gonna be long. (from the second game till the end). i wanted to add an oc decided to add my baby hanni instead so i hope it doesn't come off as cringe. part 2 will be posted once season 3 comes out :D i love in-ho so much he's so yummy. masterlist | request here

As everyone shuffled into the area for the second game, Hwang In-ho smirked beneath his mask, his dark eyes scanning the crowd. Among the players, Gi-hun stood out, his gaze darting around the unfamiliar room. Instead of the playground with shapes on the walls that promised, the players were met with two gigantic circles on the floor. Discontent quickly erupted as the crowd realized they’d been tricked. Voices rose in anger, some calling him a fraud, others voicing their disappointment. Most dispersed in frustration, but In-ho, ever the calculated observer, comforted his "friend" with feigned concern. Inside, however, he was ecstatic.

In-ho, operating undercover as "Young-il," watched Gi-hun carefully. He observed the way his mind worked, his expressions shifting as he processed the situation. Every movement and every decision captivated him. This “hero” was an enigma In-ho couldn’t stop studying.

The guards began dictating the rules of the second game. Instead of the anticipated Dalgona candy challenge, players were introduced to the Six-Legged Pentathlon. Teams of five would have their legs tied together and had to complete a pentathlon on a circular path within five minutes. Failure meant elimination.

The scramble to form teams began. In-ho found himself grouped with Gi-hun and two others, players 388 and 390. They needed one more member, and player 388 eagerly volunteered to recruit. Soon, he returned with player 096. Before they could finalize, a loud yet nervous voice interrupted them.

"Excuse me, can she join your group?"

All eyes turned to you and another woman, player 222. Your determined gaze contrasted with 222’s startled expression.

In-ho’s eyes scanned you, noting the [hair characteristic] [hair color] hair framing your tired but kind [eye color] eyes. Your presence radiated something unusual for this cutthroat environment. As 222 tugged at your arm, whispering protests, you stood firm, making it clear your decision was final.

"I'm sorry, but we're already—" In-ho began, only to be cut off.

"Please," you pleaded, your voice steady. "She's pregnant."

The words hung in the air, silencing any objections. Reluctantly, they agreed, replacing 096 with 222. You bowed deeply in gratitude, offering an apologetic smile to 096 before turning to leave.

"I'm really sorry about that," you said earnestly. "But if you'd like, can you team up with me? I'm very skilled at gonggi. I promise! Cross my heart!"

Player 096 hesitated before nodding, following you to form a new team. As you and 096 walked away, two pairs of eyes lingered on you—In-ho’s, as he silently praised your selflessness, and 222’s, her expression a mix of guilt, gratitude, and betrayal.

In-ho couldn’t shake his fascination. Your kindness, despite in a setting like this, reminded him of someone dear, slowly stirring feelings he thought long buried.

Luck favored In-ho’s team; they were the last to compete. This allowed ample time to strategize as they observed the others. Your team’s turn came, and In-ho found himself unexpectedly invested. You and your teammates executed the challenges flawlessly, clearing the first four games in under three minutes. As your team moved on to the final station, In-ho couldn’t suppress a small sigh of relief. But that relief quickly turned to tension when the last player started messing up.

In-ho’s gaze never wavered from you. He knew your team was skilled, but with only 30 seconds left, the stakes were higher now. His heart raced, the pressure mounting as the seconds ticked down. Would they pull it off? The jegi soared into the air, and In-ho held his breath, watching with bated anticipation. The first kick, then the second, the third… each landing perfectly, and still, there was no room for error. It was the final kick that would determine everything. His pulse quickened as your teammate sent the jegi flying, and with one flawless strike after another, they nailed the fifth and final kick.

The crowd erupted into cheers, but all In-ho could hear was the pounding of his own heart. The relief that washed over him felt far too intense. He paused. Why was he cheering so loudly? Why was he worried? His eyes lingered on you as your team crossed the finish line, your victory adding warmth to his chest that he couldn’t explain.

His mind raced, trying to shake off the strange emotions. But then—[eye color] clashed with his black ones, and the world around him seemed to stop for a brief, breathless moment. There was no game, no betrayals, no stakes. It was just the two of you, alone in your own world. You gave him a small wave, and his chest tightened. He waved back, but the gesture felt like a lifetime of unspoken words.

As you were escorted away, the warmth lingered, and In-ho stood there, rooted to the spot, wondering why his chest felt so heavy and yet so alive.

Back in the main area, you found yourself bonding with a cheerful teen, Player 143. Since the first game, you, 143, and 222 had found a quiet camaraderie. You found 143 comforting 222 at the corner at the finish line and decided that you’ll protect those two with all your might. 143 had a bubbly energy that reminded you of home. Her lighthearted teasing about your "crush" on 001 made you laugh, despite the grim circumstances.

"Sure, sure, whatever you say, you little rascal," you replied, ruffling her hair. Her youthful spirit was a balm in this harsh environment, offering a welcome distraction from the tension of the games.

The conversation shifted as she shared bits of her past. Hanni, as she revealed, told you that her debt stemmed from an exploitative contract with her peers, which promised fame and opportunities but left her and her friends in the dark about everything. Despite the weight of her story, she kept her optimism, her dreams still burning brightly. You couldn't help but wonder how someone so young had ended up in such a terrible game, but something was inspiring about her ability to hold onto hope in such a hopeless place.

When she asked about you, you hesitated for a moment but then decided to share. "My name’s [Name]," you began. "I’m a fashion designer and a part-time preschool teacher. I also… have a talent for guns."

Hanni’s eyes widened in surprise. "Guns? How does that fit into designing clothes and teaching kids?"

You chuckled softly. "It’s a long story. Let’s just say I’ve always been drawn to shooting ranges. It started as a hobby, and somehow, it turned into something I’m pretty good at."

You paused, feeling the weight of the conversation shift. The topic of your debt hung in the air. You faltered, not sure whether to open up, but the teen’s unassuming curiosity made you want to share more.

However, before you could speak, the last group of players returned, signifying the end of the game. Hanni immediately perked up, her attention shifting to Player 001 and their group as they found a place to sit together, which was conveniently located just a few steps from your bed. She gave you a sly grin before playfully pointing toward him with her eyebrows.

"Hey, hey, unnie! Look, it’s your man!" she whispered-yelled, clearly enjoying playing matchmaker.

You chuckled before waving her off with a signal to be quiet. The last thing you needed was for word to get out about your little crush, especially in the middle of a deadly game.

As you shushed Hanni, she had other plans. With rapid hand gestures, she invited Player 222 over to your small corner. The unsuspecting woman gave the two of you a confused look before excusing herself from her group of men and heading your way.

When she reached you, you both greeted her gently, concern evident in your voices.

“Welcome back unnie! Congrats on finishing the game, I knew you could do it!”

"How are you feeling? Is the baby alright? Are you in any pain?"

Player 222, shook her head and waived off your concerns, giving a small smile. "I’m alright. Thank you for asking."

Hanni, the chatterbox, didn’t waste a moment. "By the way, unnie, can we know your name? I really don’t know what to call you other than 222. You don’t have to tell us if you’re not comfortable, though!"

Player 222 chuckled softly at the teen's eagerness. "Well, I suppose I could introduce myself." She smiled and then shared her name—Kim Jun-hee. She explained how she had been scammed, abandoned by her boyfriend, and now found herself here, in this deadly game, pregnant and alone.

You offered her your sympathy, relating to her pain. You’d been in similar situations, dealing with your own painful experiences with men over the years. "Unfortunately, we all have our stories," you said, your voice steady but tinged with sadness. "We just have to keep going, don’t we?"

The three of you sat there for a while, chatting about your pasts, your dreams, and your shared longing for a life outside of this twisted game.

"When I get out and get justice, I’ll become a popular idol with my friends!" Hanni declared excitedly, her eyes shining with ambition.

You and Jun-hee exchanged surprised glances, both of you impressed by her optimism despite everything. "You’ll definitely make it, Hanni. You have the spirit for it," Jun-hee encouraged her with a smile.

"Of course we will! And when you’re on TV, you better send us some VIP tickets for your show!" you added, making Hanni beam.

"You better pose cutely for those photocards, okay?" Jun-hee teased.

Hanni shot her a playful look. "Of course! Will this pose be enough?" She asked as she gave a dramatic pose, and you all laughed.

"Hey!" Hanni looked at the two of you with an exaggerated pout. "You’re not doubting me, right?"

You laughed, shaking your head. "No, no, I’m sure you’ll make it. Just don’t forget us when you're famous, alright?"

As Hanni and Jun-hee bickered over the finer details of idol life, you couldn’t help but smile with a bittersweet feeling in your chest. These two didn’t deserve the cards they’d been dealt, and they certainly didn’t belong in this twisted game. But at least for a brief moment, you all found comfort in each other’s company.

You silently prayed for them—no, for all of you. For everyone here who didn’t deserve to be part of this nightmare. You hoped you could all make it out alive and live better lives. But deep down, you knew the path ahead would be treacherous, and the price of survival would be steep.

The conversation ended when the pink guards entered the room. Everyone watched in anticipation as the guards displayed the updated prize pool: 20.1 billion won, or 78,823,530 won per person, with 255 players still alive. The room was suddenly filled with murmurs. Most were in disbelief that the money per person was still under 100 million, some even demanded a recount. The guards paid no attention to the chatter and continued speaking.

"We always keep the door open for you to pursue new opportunities. Therefore, you will take a vote to decide whether to continue the games or not. Whether to continue the games for a bigger prize or to stop here, please feel free to exercise your right to choose in a democratic manner."

Once the guard finished speaking, Jun-hee ushered the two of you to join their group. Hanni nodded with a smirk before standing up. You rolled your eyes, hoping she won't cause a scene once she made her way down. "The two of you go first. I'll follow you shortly," you said, making hand gestures for them to go ahead. Thankfully, the two of them followed without question, although you were sure Hanni whispered something to Jun-hee as they walked down the stairs.

With the girls out of sight, your gaze drifted back to the piggy bank hanging from the ceiling. ‘78 Million won...’ The number flashed in your mind, but instead of the excitement you’d hoped for, a deep sense of emptiness settled within you. Your hand unconsciously rubbed your stomach as memories of what was lost surged into your thoughts.

A pained expression flickered across your face as you stared at the money. It wasn’t enough. It could never be enough to make up for everything you had sacrificed, everything you had lost.

“Just one more game...” You whispered to no one in particular.

The moment you made your way down to the others, the group welcomed you warmly. You offered a polite smile and greeted them back. As was customary, you bowed to the familiar men you had met earlier.

"Thank you again for accepting Jun-hee into your group earlier. I’m glad you all got out safely," you said, your voice sincere.

"Ah! No, no, don’t worry about that, it’s all fine!" Player 390 immediately replied, his voice light and reassuring. He waved his hand dismissively. "If anything, we should thank you! That girl quickly finished her game, gave us much more room to breathe."

You smiled at his words, feeling a small spark of warmth. "Really? Well, I’m glad. Before we found you, she kept boasting about her skills in ddjaki and how she won multiple times with the salesman. Glad to know she wasn’t lying."

Jun-hee rolled her eyes at your comment before giving you a playful shove. You laughed, brushing it off before turning your attention back to the group.

"My name’s [Name] by the way. [Last name], [Name]. I’d rather you call me that rather than this stupid number," you said with a teasing grin.

The rest of the group followed suit, introducing themselves in turn. Player 456 was Gi-hun, Player 390 was Jung-bae, Player 388 was Dae-ho, and last but not least, Player 001 was Young-Il—whose name, when revealed, earned an unexpected pinch from Hanni. You tried not to show any discomfort at the gesture, but you couldn’t help but feel a little awkward. Who were you to ruin a teenager’s fun, though?

As everyone continued to chat, the conversation quickly fell into a comfortable rhythm. It was just nice to talk with someone, anyone, who wasn’t a threat to your survival.

“Woah, ex-marines, huh? I don’t tell this to anyone, but I have a collection of guns at home…” you mentioned, trying to make light of the situation.

“That so?” Jung-bae remarked, his tone casual, as if discussing firearms was just another part of his day.

“Woah, that’s so cool! When did you start collecting?” Dae-ho chimed in with enthusiasm, genuinely interested.

“Let’s see... maybe when I was 19? That’s when I got introduced to shooting ranges, and that’s where my addiction started,” you replied with a nostalgic smile. The conversation felt like a brief escape from the madness of the games.

But then, just as quickly as it began, the conversation slowed. You couldn’t help but notice that, in the midst of it all, everyone was still acutely aware of the situation—life or death hung over every word. You looked up once more at the piggy bank. The money glinted in the low light, but it didn’t comfort you. It only served as a reminder of how far you had come and how much you had lost.

You stared at it for a while, lost in thought. The weight of everything—the game, the choices, the people who would never make it out—pressed down on you, and it was hard to escape the ache in your chest. Your mind wandered, consumed by memories and questions, as you stood frozen in place. Too engrossed in your own thoughts, you didn’t notice familiar black eyes fixed on you. In-ho watched your every move intently, shamelessly staring as you absentmindedly stared into oblivion. His gaze was steady, silently studying you from where he stood. But you were too lost in your thoughts to feel it. There was something about you, something he couldn’t quite place, yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away. It wasn’t the same as before—his cold indifference slowly shifting into something else he didn’t know how to name.

Maybe it was the way you carried yourself despite everything. Or maybe it was the faint sadness he saw in your eyes, something that mirrored his own. But as he continued to watch, something unfamiliar stirred inside him—an unsettling warmth that didn’t make sense, something that he thought he stopped feeling a long time ago. He quickly turned his attention away, pretending to focus on the group.

But that warmth lingered, an ache in his chest that refused to fade. What was it about you?

Hanni gave you a playful shove, snapping you out of your trance. Her bright smile flickered for a moment, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. You could feel her gaze linger on you, a slight shift in her expression that suggested she noticed something was off. You returned a hesitant smile, one that you hoped would mask the swirl of thoughts in your mind.

As the group huddled up, you quickly placed your hand on top of the pile, trying to shake off the discomfort despite the underlying tension. Hanni’s smile faded as she watched you, her eyes narrowing just slightly. Something in her seemed to pause, a flicker of doubt creeping into her gaze as if she was starting to see through the facade you were putting up.

It was as if she could tell that there was more to looks, something that wasn’t quite aligned with what you let on. But, instead of pressing, Hanni gave a soft shrug, her playful demeanor returning. Yet, the doubt lingered in her eyes, like she wasn’t fully convinced of the person she found comfort in.

"In one, two, three... Victory at all costs!" Hanni and Dae-ho shouted, their voice full of energy despite the dark atmosphere.

"Victory at all costs!"

"This time, the vote will begin with Player 001. Player 001, please cast your vote."

Young-il's gaze swept over the six of you, his eyes calm, but with an unwavering trust and determination in them. He nodded subtly at Gi-hun, as he began to move forward without hesitation. As he stepped up to cast his vote, you exchanged a brief, fleeting moment of eye contact with Young-il. The intensity in his eyes made your heart race, but there was something else there too. You couldn't quite place it, but it made your chest tighten. The moment passed quickly, and you looked away, focusing on the task at hand.

When it was finally your time to vote, you felt the weight of everyone's eyes on you, but you didn’t allow yourself to meet anyone’s gaze. You couldn’t stomach the judgment, the disappointment that would be there. Instead, you stepped forward, heart pounding, and pressed the "O" button, committing to the choice you knew you had to make. A cold knot formed in your stomach as you did, but your mind remained focused. You weren’t about to back down now, no matter what the others thought.

As you turned and walked back to your side, you kept your head low, trying to hide the turmoil brewing inside. You heard some murmurs around you, a mix of disbelief and anger from your teammates, but you couldn’t bring yourself to listen. The guilt gnawed at you but so did the hope that this one last game would be enough. You glanced at the piggy bank hanging overhead, feeling the weight of the prize pool, but also the weight of your decision.

The voting ended with 140 votes for “O” and 117 for “X,” meaning the third game would proceed tomorrow. Some players cheered, relieved that they could move forward, while others were disappointed, worried for their survival. You stood frozen as the room around you buzzed with varying reactions. You could feel the stares of your team members who clearly weren’t happy with your decision. You couldn’t meet their eyes, couldn’t bear to see the betrayal there.

Jung-bae’s hand suddenly clapped on your shoulder, pulling you out of your reverie. You looked at him, searching his face for some sign of judgment. Your eyes went down and stared at the "O" patch on his tracksuit. His gaze was full of understanding, a silent comfort that you couldn’t quite put into words. He gave you a quick nod before turning his back, signaling the two of you to move forward, away from the team.

You ignored the whispers, and the betrayed looks from Dae-ho and Hanni. You couldn’t let it matter now. Call it selfish, call it greed, but 78 million won was not enough. Just one more game, and then maybe, just maybe you could end this.

Once the guard handed you your food, you took it mechanically, your hands numb as you walked back to your bed. You couldn’t face anyone—not Hanni, not Jun-hee, and especially not the ones who still believed in you. The weight of their disappointment was more than you could bear. Before you could even sit down, a loud voice called out for you.

"Hey! [Name]ya!" The sudden intrusion startled you. You turned, your heart racing in your chest, and saw Jun-hee and Hanni behind you. The former’s concern was written clearly across her face.

“Why?” she asked softly, her voice trembling.

You avoided her gaze, not trusting yourself to speak. “I... I have my reasons,” you said, your voice cracking just a little, even though you tried to sound convincing.

Hanni, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, muttered under her breath, "I hope it’s worth it." Her words were heavy with something you couldn’t quite define—was it disappointment? Concern? Either way, it cut deeper than you expected. You wanted to say something, anything, to make her understand, but you couldn’t. Not now. Not when everything felt so fragile.

Before you could open your mouth, two sets of hands grabbed each of your arms, forcing you to stand up. With a startled yelp, you asked, "What are you doing?" in a nervous tone. The two remained silent, their grip firm as they dragged you toward where the group was sitting. You quickly noticed that Jung-bae was also being pulled along by Dae-ho, confusion and tension radiating from him. It wasn’t until you reached the group that the weight of everyone’s gaze settled on you. You couldn’t escape the questioning looks from your teammates.

You and Jung-bae exchanged guilty glances before finally looking your teammates in the eye. “I… I’m very sorry, Dae-ho, Gi-hun, Young-il,” you started. Jung-bae hesitated for a moment before following your lead, offering a quick bow. “I’m sorry too, Hanni, Jun-hee, Young-il… Gi-hun, I’m sorry.”

When nobody acknowledged your apologies, Jung-bae went on to explain his reasoning, his voice faltering slightly. “You see, I borrowed some emergency cash, and the creditors are harassing my ex-wife and kid. If I play one more game, I think I’ll be able to settle my debt. So—”

“Jung-bae.” Young-il cut him off sharply. His tone was cold, his expression unreadable, as if disappointment weighed heavy on his words. “You of all people shouldn’t have done that. It wasn’t righteous, not twice, not even once.”

The words stung more than Jung-bae expected, and the silence between them grew thick. Without waiting for Jung-bae to respond, Young-il turned to you, his gaze steady and searching. “And you,” he began, his voice quieter but no less firm, “You’ve made your own choice,” He continued, his voice measured, “but don’t try to justify it as something you had no control over.”

You looked at him one more time before looking down, the weight of his words sinking deep into your chest, tightening your throat. Your mind raced, but there was no way to explain it—not to them, not to yourself.

“I know…” you whispered, the guilt rising like a tide, swallowing your words. “And I’m truly sorry…”

The sincerity in your apology felt hollow. You had made the decision. No one had forced you, but the pull of the money, of the chance to end it all, had made it feel like a necessity. And yet, as you stood there, with their disappointed gazes burning into you, it felt more like a betrayal than a choice.

“But looking at the results, even if you two voted against it, we would still have been outvoted,” Young-il said, his voice calm, like he had already made peace with it.

“Right? So it’s not really our fault,” Jung-bae added quickly, trying to make light of the situation.

Dae-ho, who had been quietly observing, scratched his head and gave Jung-bae a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Honestly, I get why you did it. Even for me, ¥78 million isn’t enough. So when I went to vote, I really thought about going for ‘O’ too.”

Hanni and Jun-hee didn’t say much. They nodded, agreeing in silence but not wanting to add anything more. Everyone was feeling the pressure. The reality of it all was sinking in too fast.

Jung-bae, still holding on to hope, added, “Next game, I promise. I’ll—”

“Next game?” Gi-hun’s voice cut through the air, sharp and honest. “Next game, we might have to kill each other.”

The room went still at his words. Everyone seemed to freeze. Gi-hun was right, and his words hit harder than anyone expected. No one spoke right away; the thought of what might happen in the next game was too much to face. The quiet grew heavy as the reality of what they were really up against settled in.

You opened your mouth to say something but stopped when Young-il spoke up. “Gi-hun, that’s a bit much. We all know there’s nothing we can do about it now. Let’s just stay focused. We need to eat, get ourselves together, and prepare for the next round.”

With that, he handed his milk carton to Jun-hee, saying he didn’t drink plain milk. Jung-bae did the same, offering his bread to Hanni, saying he didn’t deserve to eat. Everyone’s gestures, though small, felt like they were all trying to comfort each other in their own way, but it only made the situation more real.

Dae-ho, trying to lighten the mood, asked for Jung-bae's milk carton, but when the male shot him a glare, he stayed quiet, not wanting to argue.

A soft laugh slipped out of you, and without thinking, you handed your milk to Dae-ho. He immediately accepted it with a soft, grateful smile and mumbled a quiet thanks. 

You found yourself sitting next to Young-il, feeling more tired than you’d ever felt before, the mental and physical exhaustion had settled into your bones, dragging you down. The male was silent beside you, his presence heavy yet comforting in a way you hadn’t expected. He didn’t say anything at first, but you could feel his gaze on you. It wasn’t intrusive, just there—steady, unyielding, like a silent support.

After a long silence, he spoke, his voice low and steady. “You did what you had to do.”

You blinked at him, not sure whether to be relieved or uncomfortable. “Did I?” you asked softly. “I voted to keep going. I went against you all. I wanted to believe it would be worth it, but I’m not sure anymore.”

“You can’t change it now,” he said, his tone gentle, almost comforting. “We all made our choices. It’s over. What matters now is what we do next.”

For a moment, you felt a knot in your chest loosen. He turned to you, his gaze unwavering, “You made a choice,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “And no one else can tell you whether it was right or wrong.”

The simplicity of his words hung in the air. You couldn’t fix what had been done, but hearing those words from him somehow made it feel a little less like you were alone in your decision. The guilt that had gnawed at you seemed to quiet, even if just for a brief moment.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice softer than you intended. There was a quiet sincerity in it, more than you realized. It was the kind of reassurance you hadn’t known you were craving.

He nodded once, acknowledging your thanks with a slight tilt of his head. “Don’t mind what Gi-hun and I said earlier,” he murmured, his voice steady but softer now. “In a place like this, it’s hard not to be on edge. Everyone’s just trying to survive.”

You nodded slowly, letting his words sink in. “Yeah… I get it. It’s just hard to not feel like the bad guy sometimes.”

“You’re not,” he said simply, his gaze meeting yours for a moment before shifting away. “We all made our choices. Doesn’t make anyone better or worse. Just… human.”

A small smile tugged at your lips, and before you knew it, the two of you had slipped into an easy conversation. It wasn’t much, shared observations about the others, light teasing about Dae-ho being comparable to a golden retriever, favorite movies and hobbies, but it felt like a break from the weight pressing down on you both.

At one point, you let out a genuine laugh, surprising even yourself. Young-il turned his head, his gaze curious as he asked, “What’s so funny?”

You shook your head, a small smile still lingering on your lips. “I don’t know,” you admitted, brushing a hand over your face as if to hide the slight flush there. “Maybe it’s just everything… or nothing. Maybe I just needed to.”

He tilted his head, his expression softening slightly, though he still didn’t smile. “Laughing over nothing, huh? Guess there’s worse ways to handle this mess.”

“You should try it,” you said lightly, teasing just enough to test the waters.

He huffed, not quite a laugh but close, the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes. “Maybe one day.”

For a little while, it was just the two of you, sharing quiet moments and fleeting bits of lightness in the shadow of everything else. The sound of quiet conversations and muted movements surrounded you, but it all felt distant, like you and Young-il existed in a world apart from everyone else. Eventually, the men began excusing themselves to head toward the bathroom. Young-il stayed seated a moment longer, his reluctance obvious in the way he lingered.

“You’re stalling,” you teased softly, a smile tugging at your lips.

He huffed, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe I am.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Go. They’re waiting for you, and if you stay any longer Dae-ho might wet the floor.”

He chuckled. For a moment, he didn’t move, his gaze meeting yours. “Fine,” he said, shaking his head as he stood slowly, there was a flicker of something—playful or thoughtful, you couldn’t quite tell. As he walked away, you watched him join the others, the soft smile still lingering on your face.

Once the coast was clear, Hanni slid over almost immediately, her eyes sparkling with mischief. Jun-hee joined her just as quickly, both of them zeroing in on you like a pair of mischievous siblings ready to pounce. “You’re smiling,” Hanni said, a teasing tone lacing her words.

Jun-hee, tilted her head, her expression somewhere between amused and curious. “We’ve been with you since the first game and that’s not like you. Care to explain?”

You blinked, immediately feeling awkward. “Really? Now? In a place like this?”

Hanni leaned closer, her expression turning more playful. “C’mon, we’re not gonna bite. Just curious.”

With a chuckle, you let out a dramatic sigh before rubbing your temples. “This isn’t the time for that. We’re stuck in a death game, not a dating show.”

“So, what you’re saying is if we are in a dating show you would totally go for him?”

You raised an eyebrow at Hanni, a smirk tugging at your lips. "I never said that," you replied, shaking your head in disbelief.

Jun-hee joined in, her voice teasing but not unkind. “Come on, don’t play coy with us. You have to admit, something’s up.”

You let out a sigh, but this time it was more amused than anything. “You two are unbelievable.” You leaned back, trying to shift the mood. “Look, it’s not like that. We’re just… having a conversation. It's not that deep.”

But they didn’t back off. Hanni gave you a knowing look, her eyes twinkling. “Having a conversation my ass! You’re out here giggling like a highschooler!”

“I do not!”

“Do too!”

You crossed your arms, trying to hide the smile creeping onto your face. “I’m not giggling, I’m just—” you paused, trying to find the right words, “I’m just… enjoying the conversation, alright?”

Jun-hee leaned in, her eyes narrowed with playful suspicion. “Uh-huh. Sure, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help yourself from laughing again. “Just so you know, we’re stuck in a life-and-death situation, and I’m way past the age of having crushes and all that nonsense.”

Hanni leaned back with a satisfied grin, clearly enjoying the teasing. “Sure, whatever you say! We’ll let you off the hook for now, but don’t think we’ve forgotten.”

“You’re impossible,” you muttered under your breath, shaking your head. Despite the playful banter, the weight in your chest lightened. The tension between you all had shifted, and for the first time in a while, things didn’t feel so heavy. The teasing was light, comforting, and in the middle of everything that was going on, it was exactly what you needed.

You gave her a half-smile. “You’re not gonna let me live this down, are you?”

Jun-hee joined in with a gentle laugh. “Probably not. But it’s good to see you smile for once, even if we’re making fun of you.”

“You two are such troublemakers, you know that?”

Hanni shrugged innocently. “What can we say unnie? We just like seeing you flustered!”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile stayed on your face. “Yeah, well, enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Lights out in ten minutes. Please prepare for bedtime.”

Currently, you and the group were passing out mattresses, following Gi-hun’s insistence that all of you sleep on the floor together, huddled under one of the bed frames with someone keeping watch. While the rest of you questioned whether such precautions were necessary, none dared to speak up, not wanting to provoke Gi-hun’s temper.

As you handed a mattress to Dae-ho, who passed it to Jung-bae, the latter decided to voice what everyone else was thinking. “Hey, is this really necessary? I don’t like sleeping under there.”

Gi-hun didn’t look up as he smoothed a blanket onto the floor. “Once the lights go out, someone might attack us.”

That caught everyone’s attention. Kneeling down to sort through pillows and blankets, You, Dae-ho, Jun-hee and Hanni paused, curiosity piqued. “Why would anyone do that?” Dae-ho asked cautiously.

Gi-hun let out a humorless chuckle. “The prize money goes up every time someone dies. It’s part of the game they designed.”

You frowned, giving his words some thought. At first, his claim seemed far-fetched, but the more you considered the desperation you’d seen in yourself and in others—the way some eyes lingered too long on the prize board—it started to make an unsettling kind of sense.

“That’s insane,” Jung-bae muttered, shaking his head. “Nobody’s that cold. Nobody’s gonna—”

“Nope, Gi-hun is right. You shouldn’t be so sure,” you cut in, your tone sharper than usual. All eyes turned to you. “We’re lucky to have each other, but outside of this group? Desperation changes people. If someone thinks they have a better chance alone, or if they’re blinded by that kind of money, they won’t hesitate.”

Young-il narrowed his eyes at you, clearly uncomfortable with the idea. “You’re saying we should expect someone to try and kill us tonight?”

You shrugged, your expression grim. “I’m saying we’d be stupid not to prepare for it.”

The weight of your words settled over the group like a heavy blanket. Even Hanni and Jun-hee, who usually tried to keep things light, exchanged uneasy glances. Gi-hun nodded as if your words confirmed everything he’d been thinking.

“Well,” Dae-ho said after a moment, his voice forced and upbeat, “at least we have each other, right?”

“Exactly,” Gi-hun said, setting down the last mattress. “We stick together, we’ll make it through. Now, everyone settle in. And keep your eyes open.”

Reluctantly, the group followed his lead, arranging themselves in a tight circle under the frame. You caught Young-il’s eye as he sat down across from you, his expression unreadable but his gaze steady.

Morning arrived faster than you expected, and soon, the guards were leading you to the next game.

The circular room you entered was unsettling. Bright, white walls surrounded a massive platform in the center, and atop it stood three eerie carousel horses, their painted eyes glossy and cold. Around the perimeter of the room were several doors, painted with plain colors.

You stared in quiet dread, trying to piece together what this setup might mean. The atmosphere was heavy, the air almost suffocating.

A light shove jolted you back to reality.

“You okay?”

Young-il stood beside you, his hand brushing your arm. His face, though calm, held a trace of worry as he took in your frozen stance.

“Stay close to me,” he said firmly. “And don’t freeze up now. I know it’s hard, but mistakes…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Just don’t make any. Not here.”

You nodded, swallowing hard, and forced your legs to move as the guards directed everyone to the platform.

The rules were announced in the same monotone voice you’d grown to fear. This game wasn’t just a test of strength or skill—it was a race against time. Mingle. A game where players had to form groups according to the number that appeared and enter a room within 30 seconds. Failure to do so meant death.

The tension in the room became unbearable as the platform filled with nervous shuffling.

Hanni, standing beside you, clutched at your jacket with trembling hands. Her grip was tight and desperate, her pale face mirrored the fear you felt but tried to bury.

You placed a steadying hand over hers. “Stay close to us okay?” you murmured, glancing at her wide, frightened eyes. “We’ll figure this out.”

The platform began to spin, the movement disorienting as the room blurred around you. An eerie, childlike song played from unseen speakers, the melody jarring in its mockery of innocence.

Just as nausea began to creep in, the platform screeched to a halt.

12

Panic erupted immediately. Players screamed and shoved, desperate to find others to form a group.

“We need two more!”

“Who has five?”

Gi-hun moved quickly, scanning the chaos. He approached a nearby cluster of players, tapping one on the shoulder. “How many are you?”

“Four,” Player 120 replied.

“That makes us eleven,” Jung-bae said, pulling the rest of you closer into a huddle.

Before you could fully regroup, others swarmed around, shouting over one another in frantic bids for survival.

“Join us! We’re five!”

“No, come with us! We’re seven!”

The crowd was chaos. People were being pulled apart and dragged into groups as the countdown loomed. Hanni clung tighter to you, her breathing uneven. Suddenly, Player 120 ran off and dragged a woman toward your group. Her face was pale, and her steps stumbled as if she could barely keep up with the force pulling her forward.

“Here! This makes twelve!” Player 120 shouted, shoving the woman into your group before anyone could react.

“Come on,” you urged, grabbing Jun-hee and Hanni by the arms. “Let’s go. Stick close to me.”

Gi-hun directed your group to room 44. One by one, you made sure everyone got through the door, your eyes scanning for anyone falling behind. Once inside, Young-il slammed the door shut.

The locks clicked as the timer hit zero.

A chilling silence followed before the sound of gunfire tore through the room. Cries of desperation from players left behind filled the air, only to be abruptly silenced.

Hanni trembled violently, her hands covering her ears. You knelt beside her, brushing her hair back in an attempt to soothe her. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you,” you said, though your own hands weren’t quite steady.

The tense quiet was broken by a sudden, sharp voice.

“You are all alive thanks to me!”

The outburst came from the woman 120 dragged, her wild eyes scanning the group. She began to approach Jun-hee with a strange intensity, her smile twisted and unsettling.

You immediately stepped in front of the girl, blocking her from view. Your movements were calm, but your heart pounded as the woman’s gaze landed on you instead.

She tilted her head, her smile widening. “There’s a reason you’ve lived this long,” she said, her tone cryptic. “A reason you were brought here.”

Her words hung heavy in the air as she looked past you, her focus shifting to Gi-hun.

Before she could say more, the announcer’s voice crackled through the speakers, listing the eliminated players. The doors unlocked. Everyone returned to the platform.

Another round began.

4

All seven of you froze, exchanging frantic glances. The tension in the room was suffocating, everyone hyper-aware of the seconds slipping away.

"I'll find one more," you said abruptly, already moving before anyone could protest.

Gi-hun called after you, his voice strained with alarm, but you were already lost in the chaos.

"Wait—!" Hanni started to follow, but Gi-hun grabbed her arm.

"No!" she yelled, pulling against him. "You go! I’ll wait for [Name]-nim!"

"But—"

Young-il stepped in, placing a firm hand on Gi-hun’s shoulder. "Go, Gi-hun. She won’t move unless [Name] is back. I’ll stay with her."

Gi-hun hesitated, his jaw clenched. He looked between them and the dwindling time before nodding sharply. "Take care of them."

Without another word, he ushered Dae-ho, Jun-hee, and Jung-bae into a room. Once inside, Gi-hun hesitated to shut the room, opting to keep it open for a bit as he watched over your group.

Meanwhile, Young-il stayed by Hanni's side, his sharp gaze darting through the chaos, searching for any sign of you. The noise of panicked shouts and pounding footsteps filled the air, but he barely noticed. Instead, his attention was fixed on the spinning platform and the frenzied crowd.

Hanni clung to his arm, her small frame trembling against his. Her breaths came in short, uneven gasps, her grip tightening with each second that passed. Young-il glanced down at her, his usually stern expression softening for a moment.

"You’ll be okay," he said quietly, his voice steady despite the storm around them. He rested a hand lightly on her shoulder, giving her a firm yet gentle pat.

Hanni didn’t seem to hear him. Her lips moved in a near-silent mantra, repeating over and over, "Please come back. Please come back."

Her words hung heavy in the air, a fragile plea against the backdrop of chaos. Young-il’s jaw tightened as he turned his focus back to the crowd. He had to believe you would return, not just for Hanni's sake—but for all of theirs.

Inside the room, Dae-ho’s voice broke the silence. "Will they make it?" he asked, his tone trembling. Gi-hun didn’t respond, his gaze fixed outside, searching for any sign of you. With ten seconds left, hope began to waver—until a familiar voice cut through the noise.

"Hey! I found someone! Let’s go!"

Bursting into sight, you ran towards an empty room with Player 256 in tow. Without hesitation, you grabbed Young-il’s outstretched hand, pulling everyone toward the door. The locks clicked shut just as the timer hit zero.

Inside, your legs gave out, but before you hit the ground, you felt a strong pair of arms catch you. Young-il steadied you, his worried face inches from yours.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice low but urgent.

You nodded quickly, pulling yourself upright. "Thanks," you said, flashing a weak smile before turning to Player 256, who looked pale and shaken.

"Are you alright? Sorry for dragging you like that. I just saw you on the floor and didn’t think twice."

The young man gave you a pained smile, his breaths still uneven. "I’m fine. Thank you—really. If it weren’t for you, I’d be dead."

You patted his shoulder gently, suppressing a sigh. "What’s with young people getting into so much debt these days?"

Before you could say more, a small figure collided with you, wrapping their arms tightly around your waist.

"Don’t ever leave me again, unnie." Hanni sobbed, her voice muffled against your shirt. Warm tears soaked through the fabric as she clung to you.

Your heart twisted at her desperation. "I can’t promise you that, Hanni. But Jun-hee’s always there when I’m not okay?" you murmured, gently running your hand through her hair, trying to soothe her.

Her grip on you loosened a little, but her wide eyes stayed locked on you. “I know… but I still need you two with me,” she whispered, her voice shaky but full of that same hope she always had.

You gave her a soft smile, brushing away a tear that had fallen down her cheek. “We’re not going anywhere,” you said, holding her just a little tighter.

The announcer’s voice suddenly boomed through the speakers, listing the names of the eliminated players. The stark reminder of the game’s stakes sent a chill through the room.

As the list ended, you glanced toward Young-il. His eyes betrayed the fear he had been holding back, relief washing over his face as he met your gaze. For a brief moment, it felt like the world had paused, the chaos outside fading into the background.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He gave a small nod, his lips pressed into a thin line.

The sound of the doors unlocking snapped you both back to reality. Player 256 bowed deeply to you before sprinting off, murmuring another hurried "thank you" as he disappeared into the crowd.

Taking Hanni’s hand, you and Young-il moved quickly to find the rest of your group. Voices called your names, and you followed the sound until you spotted them.

"There they are!" Jung-bae shouted, relief evident in his tone.

Young-il barely had time to react before Jung-bae threw his arms around him in a tight hug. Meanwhile, Jun-hee rushed toward you and Hanni.

The three of you broke into a tangle of hugs, clutching each other tightly, the fear and relief of survival intertwining in an unspoken bond.

“I knew you were gonna be okay!” Jung-bae exclaimed in relief, pulling Young-il into a tight hug. Jun-hee did the same with you, and you returned the hug, pressing a few affectionate forehead kisses on her before patting her head gently. Gi-hun looked at you and Young-il, his face breaking into a relieved smile. “I was so worried. I’m glad you all made it.”

“Luckily, [Name] found someone in time. If she stayed with us a little longer, she might’ve had a hard time,” Young-il chuckled, praising you.

You laughed, shaking your head. “If anything, I was lucky. I found the guy on the ground. I hope he’s okay.”

The two of you then turned to Jun-hee, asking if she was alright. She reassured you, telling you how glad she was that the three of you came back safely.

“Wait a minute.” Young-il’s voice cut through the conversation. Suddenly, all eyes were on him. “If the next number is eighth, then we won’t need anyone else, right?”

Everyone looked at him with confused expressions. “Why?” Dae-ho asked, genuinely curious. Young-il didn’t respond immediately; instead, he just nodded, thinking.

Jung-bae snapped his fingers, pointing at Jun-hee’s stomach. “Ah, it’s in her tummy.”

A sudden realization spread across Dae-ho’s face as he finally understood. “Ohh, that’s right. That makes eight.” The group shared a lighthearted laugh, while Hanni rolled her eyes, quietly laughing to herself. She muttered something about how corny the joke was. You couldn’t help but laugh, pinching her cheek and telling her to just go with the flow.

“What if it’s twins? Triplets?” you joked.

Amid the laughter, a pair of lingering eyes belonging to Player 333 was watching the group with an unreadable look on his face.

The atmosphere shifted slightly before you were all instructed to return to the platform. The tension in the air was palpable. Another round started.

3

“You three, go–” Gi-hun began, but Young-il cut him off.

“No. I’ll go. You stay with them.”

You all looked at him in surprise, not wanting to leave him behind. However, there was no time to waste. With a determined nod, you immediately grabbed Jun-hee and Hanni before running toward the nearest room. Gi-hun, Jung-bae, and Dae-ho followed closely behind, while Young-il ran off to find two other players.

You three finally approached the only vacant room near you. As you opened it, your blood ran cold. A figure was curled up in a ball in the corner of the room, its stillness unnerving— as if they had already given up already. You glanced at the timer—20 seconds. Your heart raced. Grabbing Jun-hee and Hanni’s arms, you yelled for the curled up figure.

"Hey!" you shouted. The person stirred and looked up at you, confusion in their eyes. You raised the arms you were holding, signaling clearly. The person understood, standing up and moving toward the door. You pushed Jun-hee and Hanni toward the player, making sure they would be safe with her. Once inside, Player 380 quickly closed the door. As you ran away, you heard their voices calling out to you.

“Hey unnie! Come back!”

“[Name]nim!”

You cursed your heart for being soft and getting attached, you cursed your mind for wanting to be a hero. With 13 seconds left, you turned and ran as fast as you could, hoping to find a room, or maybe even Young-il.

10 seconds.

You frantically scanned the area, but there was almost nothing. No sign of Young-il. No sign of anyone else making their way to a room. No group of two finding their last member.

8 seconds.

Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed your arm. You were shocked but didn’t hesitate. You had no time for hesitation now. You kept your pace, determined to survive.

6 seconds.

You spotted someone standing idly, diagonally to you. Wasting no time, you shouted to them. Together, you ran toward the person, desperate to find the last empty room.

4 seconds.

The two of you reached her and grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her toward the nearest open door.

2 seconds.

The three of you rushed inside.

1 second.

The doors slammed shut behind you.

The timer rang. 0 seconds.

Back in room 27, Hanni and Jun-hee peeked anxiously through the window, watching the chaos unfold outside. As the announcer listed the eliminated players, they held their breath, waiting. The second your number wasn’t called, they exhaled in relief.

Inside your room, you collapsed onto the floor, gasping for breath. This was the consequence of playing the hero. You were too old for this, yet here you were again, caught in the madness. Once your breath steadied, you looked at the player you had dragged in. You froze in shock. It was Player 149—the mother of Player 007. The two were peas in a pod, but you hoped nothing bad would happen now that they were separated.

Deciding not to disturb her, you let her have some space and turned to the person who had saved you. Standing up, you immediately bowed in their direction. When they didn’t make a sound or movement, you slowly lifted your head.

To your shock, you were met with Young-il’s face.

Your shocked face clashed with his angry one, but before you could process it, you leapt at him and wrapped him in a tight, warm hug. His initial surprise faded as he returned the embrace, his anger melting away. As he gently patted your hair, he quietly asked, “What happened?”

“The room we entered was already filled with someone. I wanted to stay with Jun-hee and Hanni, but there were no more rooms nearby. I couldn’t let Jun-hee run anymore, so I left them there and ran,” you explained, your voice muffled against his shirt.

He patted your head again before slightly pushing you away to look at your face. Still holding you, the two of you locked eyes. “You’re lucky I was there to save you like a superhero.”

“Yeah,” you chuckled, “Thanks, superhero.”

You gave him a sweet smile before pulling away and knelt in front of the older woman. “Ma’am, are you okay?”

She snapped out of her thoughts and bowed, immediately responding, “Yes, yes. I am. Thank you so much for saving me.”

“Where’s your son?”

“Sorry?”

“Weren’t you with him?” Young-il asked, his concern growing for their safety. You watched her closely, hoping nothing bad had happened. Her eyes bounced between you and Young-il as she tried to formulate an answer. “Oh, well, I lost him. He told me to wait while he brought one more person, but in all the chaos, I lost him.”

“He didn’t come back?” Young-il’s question made her stand up abruptly.

“My son isn’t that kind of person!” she said, standing defensively. “We may be poor, but he has a good heart. He’d rather be bullied than hurt another person. He’ll never harm anyone, so watch what you say about him!”

You stood up quickly and gently placed your hands on her shoulders, trying to ease the tension. “Ah, it’s nothing like that, ma’am. It’s just that the two of you have been together from the start, so we were worried when we saw you alone. We didn’t mean to upset you.”

She looked at you for a moment before averting her gaze, calming down. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that,” Young-il added, apologizing as well.

The doors opened then, signaling it was time to move on. With a bow, you grabbed Young-il’s hand, pulling him toward Jun-hee and Hanni’s room. When you saw the two of them, your eyes met, and without hesitation, you let go of Young-il’s hand and hugged them both tightly. You whispered your apologies as they cried into your neck. Young-il watched the scene with a bittersweet smile, the sight of you and the others reminding him painfully of his late wife. It felt like a love he could never return to, yet he couldn't look away.

Once they stopped crying, you gently pulled away and pointed them toward Young-il. Without hesitation, they ran to him, wrapping their arms around him and thanking him.

The four of you then returned to the platform, where you met the rest of your group. A silent understanding passed between your team and player 120’s team, as you all stood next to each other, ready for the next round. The music started. The platform began to rotate. 

6

“Three women and three men, go!” Gi-hun shouted. Luckily, you all had enough members so only finding the room was the problem, Jun-hee and Hanni stuck close to you as you followed Young-il, Gi-hun, and Jung-bae to a room. 

When you returned to the platform, you immediately noticed the lonely figure of player 120, with player 095 nowhere near, you assumed the worst. Standing close next to her, you offer comfort by rubbing her back. “It’s gonna be hard but please stay strong, she now lives through you.” She gives you a pained nod as you placed yourself between Hanni and Young-il. 

“What do you think will be the next number?” Jung-bae asked you all.

It was quiet for a moment as everyone contemplated the answer. Without hesitation, Hanni spoke up. "Two."

Gi-hun looked at her, silently asking her to explain her answer. Instead of her, Young-il’s voice broke through the tension. "Yeah, she's correct. It's two. There are 50 rooms, and 156 people are still alive. Everyone will have a pair, but there won't be enough rooms. That's how they conduct these games."

Everyone else looked at him, some expressions confused, others with a hint of surprise, as if they hadn’t expected him to be the one explaining. And they were right.

2

The group stood in silence for a second, each person wondering who would pair with whom. The fear of the rooms being occupied quickly spread so without a second thought, Young-il grabbed your hand and hurried you away. Hanni called your name, and the others followed suit. Dae-ho grabbed Hanni, Jung-bae grabbed Gi-hun, and Player 333 grabbed Jun-hee as they all ran to secure an empty room.

You and Young-il reached the open door of an empty room, but before you could step inside, another player tackled you to the ground. As Young-il rushed to help you up, the player bolted for the room you had been eyeing. Without hesitation, Young-il grabbed the man, yanking him away and throwing him outside with unexpected force.

"Go in!" Young-il shouted at you, as he held the player in his grip.

Your heart was racing, adrenaline flooding your system. You scrambled to recover and quickly glanced around, making sure the coast was clear. With urgency, you rushed inside, positioning yourself near the door, ready to barricade it in case someone tried to steal the room from you. You signaled for Young-il to come in, and as he rushed in after you, you slammed the door behind him, using your body to hold it shut while the player left outside shouted curses at you.

Suddenly, Young-il pulled you into his arms, his hands gentle but firm, as he placed your head against his shoulder. You melted into him, the brief respite giving you both a moment of peace. But that moment quickly shattered when your eyes caught a figure in the corner of the room.

Your breath hitched. In a panic, you pushed away from Young-il and shouted at the figure, your voice trembling, "Leave! Get out!"

The timer was ticking down, and every second felt like an eternity. Panic surged within you as you watched the figure not move—your heart raced. The seconds were slipping away.

12 seconds.

"No way, we got here first," the man argued, his voice laced with defiance.

“Well your partner is not here isn’t he?! Get out!”  you demanded, your voice firm despite the tension.

11 seconds.

“Shut your tramp whore! We got here first! Make yourself useful and get out of the room!” he spat back, growing angrier.

10 seconds.

Without a word, Young-il lunged at the man, grabbing him by the throat and forcing him toward the door, his strength overpowering the man’s resistance. You watched in horror, your eyes flickering between the timer and the brutal scene unfolding before you. With only three seconds left and the man still struggling. Young-il didn’t hesitate. His actions were swift and decisive, final and cold. With one swift move, the room fell silent, and the door locked.

0 seconds.

Young-il stood over the lifeless man, his face distant, his expression hollow. It was a look that didn’t belong on him. In the short time you’d known him, he’d always had this warm, protective energy, this quiet tenderness that made you feel safe. But now, his usual caring nature seemed clouded by something else.

Without thinking, you crossed the room to him, gently taking his hands in yours. You could feel his tension, his unwillingness to meet your gaze. Your heart ached to see him like this, and you whispered softly, “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry,” his voice barely above a whisper, as though he was apologizing for something you hadn’t even asked him to do.

“What for?” you asked, trying to meet his gaze. He avoided it, looking down at the body in the room, his face shadowed with regret.

“You did what you had to do, Young-il. If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t be here. We’d be dead. So, thank you.” You squeezed his hands, trying to convey the depth of your gratitude, even if the words felt too small.

“But—” he started, voice faltering.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. I promise.” You could feel his fear—fear that you might look at him differently now. You could see it in his eyes, that vulnerability he tried to hide. You slowly reached up, your hand finding his cheek, your touch gentle and comforting. His eyes closed as he leaned into it, the tension melting from his body for just a moment. "Murder is something I’m used to, Young-il. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine… as long as you’re here."

The air between you thickened, charged with unspoken words. The closeness, the way your fingers lingered on his skin, the way your breaths synced together—it felt like everything was leading to this moment. Slowly, instinctively, you both leaned in, drawn to each other like magnets.

But just as your lips were about to meet, the loud sound of the doors unlocking shattered the moment. You both froze, hearts pounding in your chests, reality crashing back in. You pulled away quickly, your face flushing with embarrassment.

You stepped back, flustered, and gave a quick bow, mumbling, “I—I should check on Hanni and Jun-hee.” You turned to leave, nearly tripping over your shoes in the rush. That shared moment lingered in the air, and even as you fled, your heart still raced with what almost happened, you could feel the warmth of his gaze lingering on your back, the connection between you stronger than ever.

After the third game, you found yourself back in the fort Gi-hun had organized. The group was scattered, tending to their own thoughts or conversations. Across the room, Jun-hee was deep in conversation with Player 333, the man you now knew was her ex-fiancé—the one who’d abandoned her. Hanni stood by your side, her expression a mix of curiosity and concern as the two exchanged words that seemed both loaded and cautious.

Meanwhile, Gi-hun instructed the others to count the remaining players and determine how many wanted to continue playing.

“There are 55 players who voted in favor of continuing,” Jung-bae reported as he returned.

“Are you sure?” Gi-hun asked, his voice tense.

“I counted twice.”

Dae-ho pointed to the “O” patch on Jung-bae’s uniform. “Did you count yourself?”

Jung-bae glanced at the “O” patch on his chest, pausing before muttering, “Fifty-six.”

“Fifty-seven,” you added, raising your hand while still keeping an eye on Jun-hee and her conversation.

Dae-ho exhaled heavily, frustration evident. “We have forty-five on our side. We’re outnumbered by twelve.”

The weight of the statement settled over the group like a cloud of despair.

Young-il stood up, breaking the silence. “It may seem like a big gap, but if six of them change their minds, it’s tied. Seven, and we win.”

“But what if some of the X votes switch to O?” Dae-ho countered.

“They likely won’t,” Young-il replied evenly. “Those who voted X wanted out even when the prize was smaller. Now they can leave with even more money. Why risk their lives again?”

You joined in. “Me, and Jung-bae will definitely vote X. That’s two already. If four more switch sides, it’s a tie. Five more, and we win.”

Gi-hun nodded decisively. “Then let’s go try to convince them.” 

“No,” Young-il said firmly. “That’s too risky. Most of them want to continue playing. If we start making moves, they won’t sit back and let us sway their votes.”

Gi-hun’s frustration boiled over. “So we just stand here and pray they change their minds? What if we lose again? Are we supposed to march into another game like sheep?”

Hanni hesitated before speaking, her voice soft but steady. ��Gi-hunnim, I don’t think it’s wise to provoke them. They might do the same to us, and they have the upper hand. People are here for money. If we start something, it could lead to a fight before we even vote.”

Her words calmed the rising tension, and the group fell into silence as guards entered the room, signaling the start of the next vote.

After the third game, only 100 players remained. The prize money now totaled 35.6 billion won, meaning each player will earn 356 million won if they would go home now. Jung-bae approached Gi-hun, his face grim yet determined. “With that kind of money,” he began, his voice low but certain, “some might change their minds. If we can convince six more people to vote X, we’ll tie. Seven, and we win.” His words hung in the air, filling the room with a fragile sense of hope.

The guards soon interrupted, announcing that the voting would proceed in reverse order of player numbers. The tension thickened as Gi-hun approached the booth, the echo of his footsteps amplifying the silence. “Player 456, please cast your vote,” one guard intoned, his monotone voice chilling in its detachment.

One by one, players approached the booth, many clinging to their original decisions. The scoreboard slowly reflected the changes. When it was Jung-bae’s turn, he strode forward with purpose, slamming his hand on the X button. As he returned to Gi-hun’s side, he showed off his X patch and declared, “Seven more to win,” his voice carrying the first flicker of confidence the group had heard in hours.

Player 380 voted X. Relief swept through your group—six more to go.

Player 185. X. Five more.

Your turn came, and you didn’t hesitate. X. Four more.

Player 125. X. Three.

Player 120 followed, then Player 015. Each X vote brought you closer to the tie. When Player 007 slammed the X button, he shouted, “Let’s go home!” and tore off his O patch triumphantly.

“That’s seven!” Jung-bae yelled, grinning in excitement. “We did it!”

The celebration was short-lived. The next player, an elderly woman, calmly voted O. The room fell silent as her choice appeared on the scoreboard: 49 for X, 50 for O.

Everyone turned toward the last player, Player 001. The atmosphere shifted, the tension nearly suffocating. The air felt heavy with anticipation as he slowly made his way to the booth. Young-il’s slow steps toward the voting booth felt endless. Every step seemed deliberate, as though he were savoring the weight of the moment.

Hanni, looking at Young-il, quietly gripped Jun-hee’s arm, her face pale. “What’s wrong?” Jun-hee asked quietly, her voice tinged with concern.

Hanni hesitated before speaking, her words barely audible. “Young-ilnim... he scares me sometimes.”

Jun-hee frowned. “Why? Did something happen?”

“When we were waiting for [Name]nim during the third game, I thought I saw him making eye contact with the guards,” Hanni murmured. “It was like... like they knew him. I don’t know, maybe I imagined it, but it didn’t feel right.”

Jun-hee’s brows furrowed, her protective instincts kicking in. “We should tell [Name]nim.”

“No!” Hanni shook her head rapidly. “I don’t want to ruin what they have. [Name]nim deserves to be happy. If I’m wrong, I don’t want to mess things up.”

Jun-hee looked at her with a mix of worry and understanding, her hand coming to rest on Hanni’s shoulder. Before either could say more, the sharp sound of Player 001’s vote echoed through the room.

X.

A stunned silence followed before the scoreboard updated, displaying an even 50 for X and 50 for O. Young-il turned to the group, a smile on his face as he raised his hand in an okay sign. Your side erupted into quiet cheers, exchanging looks of disbelief and relief.

“It’s a tie. We did it!” Dae-ho exclaimed, grabbing your shoulders in excitement. You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking him back as a rush of emotion coursed through you.

Relief swept through the room, but a palpable tension lingered as everyone waited to hear the outcome of the tie.

"Wait, since it’s a tie, what does it mean?" Player 100 asked.

The guard responded flatly, "Clause Three: If the voting ends in a tie, players will vote again. To give you time to think, the vote will be conducted tomorrow." He glanced around the room, his gaze cold and impassive. "Until then, please consider your future carefully."

As dinner commenced, your team welcomed new members—Players 120, 149, 007, and 246. The mood was a bit lighter, though tinged with underlying anxiety. Small talk carried the group through the meal, with some making half-hearted jokes to distract from the harsh reality of their situation.

“I’m surprised by the food today,” Hanni remarked, biting eagerly into her roll of gimbap. “I thought it would be bread and milk until the end.” You gently nudged her to slow down, worried she might choke.

Jun-hee, chewing thoughtfully, leaned closer to Hanni. “I was so scared earlier, especially with Young-ilnim. I thought for sure he’d vote O like the first time.” She hesitated, then whispered, “Hey, we really should tell her—”

“Tell me what?” you interjected, raising a brow.

“N-nothing!” Hanni stammered, her cheeks coloring as she avoided your gaze.

“Hmm, I’m watching you two,” you teased, making a gesture before turning your attention to Dae-ho, who was animatedly chatting with Jung-bae.

“I really thought you were going to vote O, like on day one,” Dae-ho admitted, glancing at Young-il. Jung-bae, clearly done with the male's rambling, stuffed a piece of gimbap into his mouth before addressing Young-il directly. “Thank you, Young-il. You gave us another chance.”

Young-il shook his head slightly, his expression neutral. “I just want to stay alive. The money’s enough now, so I need to get out of here. Alive.” His eyes flickered briefly to Gi-hun as he emphasized the last word, the intensity of his gaze sending a chill through the group.

The moment was interrupted by Player 246, who spoke up, his voice laced with apprehension. “Do you think we’ll be able to win the second vote?”

Reality hit like a blow, extinguishing the fragile flicker of hope that had momentarily lit the group. A somber silence followed until Young-il broke it. “We’ll have to go for broke,” he said, his tone measured but firm. “Like Gi-hun said earlier, we should try to convince some of them to change their minds before the second vote.”

“Will they, though?” Player 007 asked, his skepticism clear. “Most of them are blinded by the money now.”

“My son,” his mother chimed in with an oddly cheerful tone, “When you’re hungry, you start to miss home. All we have is this good roll of gimbap, and everyone will feel the pangs of hunger tomorrow.” Her logic was far-fetched, but no one dared contradict her.

007 stood and tried to address the opposing team, using the oll of gimbap as leverage. However, instead of having the result he expected to get, he got the total opposite. The men shouted over each other, their voices rising to a chaotic crescendo. Gi-hun, visibly conflicted, stared at his gimbap before unrolling it. Inside was a fork, its sharp prongs gleaming ominously. A weapon.

Unbeknownst to most, a fight had broken out in the bathroom. The announcement of eliminated players startled everyone into silence. Gasps and murmurs filled the room as the piggy bank suddenly rang. With 95 players remaining, the prize money now stood at 36.1 billion won, increasing each player’s worth to 380 million won.

“What’s happening?” Jung-bae whispered, his voice trembling with unease. His question hung unanswered as the bathroom doors opened. Players emerged, bloodied and bruised, their faces marked by fear and rage.

Player 124 from Team O stumbled into the middle of the room, his voice shaking with anger. “Listen, Team O!” he shouted. “When we were in the bathroom, these X bastards tried to kill us! They killed some of us, including my friend—”

“Bullshit!” Player 047 from Team X shouted back, cutting him off. “You’re the ones who started it!” He gestured toward where Team X sat, his voice rising with fury. “They threatened one of our people! They attacked us to win the second vote!”

The room erupted in chaos. People were shouting, pointing fingers, and some even started pushing and shoving. The tension in the air was thick, and it felt like everyone was on edge, afraid of what might happen next. You could feel the anxiety creeping in as everyone seemed to turn on each other.

In the midst of the chaos, Player 100 quickly rounded up the O team, ordering a headcount. Player 047 did the same with the X team, trying to keep control. The numbers were close, with 47 players on the O team and 48 on the X team. The X team now had the advantage in the voting.

“Two people died on our side,” Player 047 said, sitting down. “That means we lost three, and now they have the upper hand.” A player on their team pointed out, “We still have a better chance. We’re one vote ahead now.”

Jung-bae, trying to stay positive, spoke up. “As long as we don’t change our minds, we’ll win by one vote tomorrow.” The room quieted down as everyone whispered amongst themselves, the weight of the upcoming vote heavy on their minds.

Suddenly, the announcement broke the silence. “Attention, please. Lights out in 30 minutes. All players, please return to your beds and prepare for bedtime.”

Player 047 stood up, trying to rally his team. “Listen, no one can change their mind, okay? We’ll win tomorrow. Stay strong, we’ll make it through.” His words were filled with determination, and the room filled with a low hum of agreement from his team.

Once everyone started to settle down, Dae-ho leaned in, speaking in a low voice to your group. “Those guys are acting really suspicious. They’re planning something, I can feel it.”

Jung-bae, not paying much attention to the others, just waved him off. “Whatever. Once we win tomorrow’s vote, it’ll all be over.” He sounded confident, but you could tell he was just trying to keep the morale up.

You turned your gaze to Gi-hun, his face unreadable. You knew he was thinking about the situation carefully. After everything that had happened, you weren’t sure what he was planning. But something about the way the O team had been looking at you all, with a certain malice in their eyes, told you that there was more to this than just a vote.

Finally, Gi-hun spoke, his voice calm but filled with tension. “Once the lights go out, they’ll attack us.” The group went silent at his words, the weight of his statement sinking in. 007’s eyes widened in disbelief as he asked, “Are you serious?”

“Yeah.” You replied this time, everyone looked at you waiting for your explanation. “These people, they didn’t vote O because they wanted to play. They voted O to get more money. And now that they know killing increases the prize, they’ll do whatever it takes to do it.” 

Young-il, who had been quiet up until now, spoke up. “Then we should attack first. We need to take them by surprise.” His suggestion was met with agreement from Player 047, who nodded, adding, “We have the women and elderly on our side. If they attack first, we’ll be at a huge disadvantage.”

But Gi-hun wasn’t on board with the idea. “No. We can’t start a fight like that.” Everyone looked at him, confused. “We need to stay calm. If we kill each other, that’s exactly what they want.”

Jung-bae frowned, clearly not understanding. “Who are they? Who are you talking about?”

“The makers of the game,” Gi-hun said bitterly, his eyes burning with anger. “They’re the ones who want us to kill each other. They’re watching us right now.”

The room fell silent as the others absorbed this revelation. You felt a chill run down your spine. “Where are they?” Dae-ho asked, his voice tight. You could hear the fear in his words, even if he was trying to hide it.

Gi-hun didn’t flinch. He simply looked up at the ceiling, his gaze steady. “Up there,” He murmured, his voice barely audible but filled with conviction. Slowly, everyone looked up at the ceiling, following his gaze. Gi-hun’s eyes were fixed on the higher levels. “The control rooms are above us. Their leader wears a black mask. If we capture him, we’ll have leverage.”

Young-il’s skepticism was evident. “How are you going to fight them? They’ve got guns.”

“We’ll take their guns,” Gi-hun answered plainly, locking eyes with Young-il. His words weren’t a suggestion—they were a plan.

“From the masked men?” Player 246 asked, his voice filled with disbelief.

Gi-hun nodded resolutely. “Yes. We’ll catch them off guard. They won’t expect it.”

“That’s too dangerous,” Young-il said, shaking his head. “Even if we manage to steal their guns, we’ll be outnumbered.”

Gi-hun’s eyes hardened. “What’s your plan, then? Sit around and wait to die? Watch as they pick us off, one by one? Is that your idea of survival?” His voice was harsh, the desperation in his words cutting through the tension.

The silence that followed was thick, as everyone contemplated the harsh reality they faced.

120 spoke up, her voice uncertain but full of fear. “Do we even stand a chance?”

“We do,” Gi-hun said, his voice unwavering. “If we strike first, we catch them off guard. They’ll never see it coming. The people running this game think we’re powerless, but we have the upper hand now. This is our last chance to end these games once and for all.”

“How do you plan to take their guns?” Young-il asked again, his skepticism still evident.

Gi-hun didn’t hesitate, as if he had already thought it through.  “Once the lights go out, we’ll have our chance.”

Lights out in 5 minutes.

As everyone made their way to their beds, Jun-hee excused herself, telling you she needed to talk to someone. You offered to go with her, but she waved you off, saying she’d be quick.

You turned to Hanni, who had a distant, absent look in her eyes. She wasn���t fully there, trapped in her own thoughts. You rubbed her back gently to snap her out of it. Poor Hanni. She was so young, and she didn’t deserve any of this. She shouldn’t have been thrown into this nightmare.

She deserved a future, a chance to grow and live, not this. It pained you to see her face filled with confusion and fear. There was so much darkness surrounding her, and she was so small, so vulnerable. It made your heart heavy.

“Stick close to me, okay?” you whispered, your voice soft but firm as you brushed her hair behind her ear. “If you can’t find me, go to Jun-hee, okay?”

Hanni nodded, but her expression didn’t fully match her words. You could see the uncertainty in her eyes. You gave her a hug, pressing a kiss to her forehead, trying to offer what little comfort you could. Rocking her gently, you tucked her in, smoothing the blanket around her, and gave her one last kiss before heading to your own bed.

Lights out in 10.

The countdown echoed. You lay down, staring up at the ceiling, your thoughts racing. The seconds felt like hours.

9. What if this is the night? The thought couldn’t help but cross your mind, but you pushed it aside. You couldn’t afford to think that way now. You had to stay focused.

8.

7. The sound of your heartbeat in your ears was almost deafening, the pressure of the countdown like a vice around your chest.

6.

5. Keep it together. You told yourself. Focus. You had to be ready.

4. You thought about Hanni, about Jun-hee. What would happen to them if you didn’t make it? The thought alone made your chest tighten.

3. You forcefully removed them from your thoughts. This was not the time to think about them, they'll be fine, they'll be safe. They'll get out of here alive.

2. The darkness was getting closer. The room was quiet, but you could feel the tension, the electricity in the air. Everyone was waiting, bracing themselves.

1.

The lights flickered and then went off, plunging the room into darkness. Your mind immediately went to Gi-hun’s words: Once the lights go out, get under the bottom beds quickly. You must not get caught by those planning to attack us.

It was quiet.

Then it was loud.

The sounds of screams and footsteps filling the air as people were attacked and killed left and right. You could hear the unmistakable sounds of struggles, the sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground. Panic rippled through the room. You prayed silently, hoping that Young-il, Hanni, Jun-hee, and everyone else would make it through the night. You clung to the hope that you would survive, that you wouldn’t be one of the unlucky ones who wouldn’t make it to the morning.

After minutes of waiting, the sound of doors opening signaled the end of the wait. You immediately crawled out from under the bottom bed following phase 2 of Gi-hun's plan.

Playing dead, you stayed as still as possible, listening for the guard’s footsteps. When you heard one approach, you tensed. As the guard scanned your ID, you reached out and grabbed them, pulling them into a headlock. They struggled, fighting to break free, but you tightened your grip, whispering a soft apology. With one swift movement, you snapped their neck. The familiar crack echoed in your ears. Without hesitation, you grabbed their gun, firing at nearby guards, taking them down one by one.

Quickly, you crawled under another bed, planning your next move. The guards on the upper beds were your next target. You fired a shot at an unsuspecting guard, laughing quietly as they looked around, confused. Before they could react, you shot again, taking them out.

From bed to bed, you moved stealthily, inching closer to the stage. Hidden in the shadows, you waited, watching the guards’ every move. You knew patience was key—waiting until they were close enough. When the retreat announcement echoed through the room, you sprang into action. Leaping from your hiding spot, you unleashed a spray of bullets, taking down the remaining guards one by one. Even as they tried to retreat into the gate, you kept firing, not giving them a chance to escape.

But just as the last guard made it to the gate, you pulled the trigger, only to hear a click. You were out of bullets. Panic surged through you. You needed to reload, but before you could, you heard Gi-hun shout, "Hold fire!" You stopped, nodding as you obeyed his command.

Jung-bae and Player 246 rushed forward and forced the last guard to his knees, making him raise his hands in surrender. Slinging your empty gun over your shoulder, you quickly ran to the back, where Hanni and Jun-hee were waiting for you.

“Unnie!” Hanni whispered-yelled as you came into view, her eyes lighting up in relief. Jun-hee was right behind her, giving you a big smile and waving you over with an expression full of warmth. You didn’t hesitate, pulling both of them into a tight hug. The moment felt comforting, but the danger still lingered in the air. You held their faces gently, searching for any signs of injury.

“Are you both hurt?” you asked, voice steady but filled with concern.

In the background, you could hear Gi-hun telling everyone to come out, reassuring them that you wouldn’t hurt them. His voice was low but commanding, a sense of authority settling over the group.

Jun-hee and Hanni shook their heads before telling you they were okay. You exhaled softly, a sigh of relief escaping you as the weight in your chest lifted slightly. You gave them a small smile.

“When you mentioned collecting guns and gunmanship, I really thought you meant some online FPS game,” Hanni said, trying to lighten the mood, a playful glint in her eyes. You chuckled, shaking your head.

“Really now? Well, I might be old, but not that old. I’m still strong enough to do these things,” you said, flexing your arms with an exaggerated grunt. Your muscles were hardly impressive, but the action was enough to make the three of you laugh. It felt good—too good for the situation you were all in.

You continued to smile as the laughter settled, but your thoughts flickered back to the reality. “Alright, you two, go ahead. I’ll catch up with you soon. I need to collect the guns and ammo from the guards first,” you said, your tone firm but affectionate. You ushered them toward the center before you set about your task.

As you moved toward the fallen guards, your hands quickly went to work, collecting the weapons and ammo. You moved with precision, and were so in the zone that you barely noticed a figure following you.

“Are you alright?”

A sharp breath caught in your throat as you jerked your head toward the sound. In an instant, your fingers gripped the handle of your gun, and you pointed it at the source of the voice. When you saw who it was, your tension loosened, but only slightly. Your breath came out in a shaky exhale as you lowered the gun.

“Young-il, you scared me!” you said, pressing a hand to your chest, heart still racing from the sudden scare.

“Ah? That so?” he replied, a small, teasing smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m very sorry then.”

“Oh, shut up. That’s not the look of someone who’s sorry,” you shot back, though a smile tugged at your own lips.

The two of you shared a brief laugh before the tension in your bodies dissipated enough for you to focus on the task at hand again. “Help me out with these, will you?” you asked, gesturing to the weapons scattered on the ground. He didn’t hesitate, moving to gather the magazines and guns.

The two of you worked in relative silence, the only sounds the shifting of metal and the occasional clink of ammunition being loaded. Despite everything, the atmosphere between you felt strangely light. It was as if, for a moment, the world outside was forgotten and it was just the two of you working together. You didn’t know why, but it was oddly comforting.

“May I ask how you’re so familiar with guns?” he asked, genuinely curious now. He hadn’t expected you to be the type, but he wasn’t in a position to judge anymore.

You hesitated for a moment before replying, your voice softening. “Well, I used to have an aunt who was really into guns. She married a fellow gun enthusiast, and together they opened up a shooting range near our home. At first, I wasn’t that interested. Guns weren’t my thing, really.” You paused, remembering the past. “But then I started noticing someone—someone I had a crush on. He was always reading about guns, and I thought maybe I could get him to teach me. I thought it’d be a way to connect, you know?”

Young-il nodded as he stayed quiet, finding comfort in your voice as you talked him away. You took a deep breath before continuing, the words spilling out freely.

“When I asked him about it, he just brushed me off. Told me that girls like me should stick to cooking and cleaning and that guns were for ‘big boys’ like him. Some bullshit like that.” You scoffed, shaking your head. “I didn’t take it well. It pissed me off, actually. And from that day on, I got serious about guns—just to prove I could be as good as any guy.” You let out a bitter chuckle. “Now, I’ve got a collection at home.”

The air around you seemed to shift. The lightheartedness had drained from the conversation, and you felt the past creeping up on you. Young-il must’ve noticed the change in your mood, because he didn’t speak right away. Instead, he gave you space, knowing you needed it.

A few moments passed before you spoke again, your voice distant. “A few years after we met again, things just... happened. One thing led to another, and I ended up having a beautiful baby girl.” You smiled softly, but it quickly faded. “You should meet her. I think she’d like you.”

Young-il’s face softened for a moment, but he didn’t say anything. You felt the smile fade completely as you continued. “I’m happy to have her, I really am... But it wasn’t supposed to happen that way. The guy... he wasn’t in it for the right reasons. He just wanted to drain me dry and disappear. He never told me about his debt. And the collectors...”

You trailed off, the heaviness of the past taking over. Young-il stayed quiet, giving you the space you needed to process everything.

“You don’t have to continue if you don’t want to,” Young-il said gently, his voice softer than before.

You shook your head, offering him a reassuring smile. “No, no… it’s okay. You deserve to know.” A brief silence passed between you two before you started explaining, the weight of your words settling heavily in the air.

“When the collectors came to my house, I found out that he had put my name and address down as the guarantor. In their eyes, I owed them around 1 billion won, but that was far from the truth. They told me that since I was their ‘favorite’ debtee, they struck up a deal. They’d lower the debt to 800 million... and another form of payment to cover the remaining 200 million…” You paused, your breath catching in your throat. “In return... they’d keep my kid hostage until I paid them every last cent.”

Young-il looked at you, his eyes filled with a mix of disbelief and sympathy. He didn’t know what to say, but his expression was enough. He opened his mouth as if to speak but closed it, opting for silence. After a while, he let his mouth open. “Thank you for sharing that with me. It must’ve taken a lot of courage to tell me, especially to someone you’ve only just met.”

Grabbing the last available gun, you smiled back at him, but it was a smile tinged with sadness. “It’s alright, Young-il,” you said, your voice steady despite the heaviness in your heart. “I know this is not the right time for these things, but you’re definitely more than just someone I’ve only just met.”

Young-il froze, your words sinking into him like a knife he hadn’t seen coming. He kept his face neutral, but inside, a storm raged. He had tried to suppress it—whatever it was that made his chest tighten whenever you spoke to him, that made his thoughts drift to you in moments of quiet. But now, hearing you say those words, the feelings he had buried clawed their way to the surface.

His gaze flickered to you, trying to gauge if you understood what you had just done. But your eyes met his with a casual earnestness, as if you hadn’t realized the impact of your words. Of course, you didn’t. You couldn’t.

You didn’t know that every small interaction with you chipped away at the walls he had built around himself. That every glance, every word, every fleeting moment made it harder for him to maintain the facade of indifference he had perfected over the years.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, his jaw tightening. What was he supposed to say? That you were right? That you were more than just someone he’d met in the chaos of the games? That you had become something he didn’t know how to handle?

No. He couldn’t say any of that. Not now. Not ever.

So instead, he said nothing.

“Are you ready?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, completely unaware of the turmoil brewing inside him.

He nodded once, stiffly, as if the motion required more effort than it should. “Let’s go,” he said, his voice low and even.

As you turned away, he lingered for a moment, watching you. His chest ached with a mix of emotions he didn’t want to name—ones he thought he had locked away when he lost the love of his life. He had told himself there was no room for them, especially not now, especially not with you.

And yet, here they were, threatening to unravel him.

He shook his head, forcing himself to follow after you, his steps heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid. He couldn’t afford to let himself feel—not here, not in this place where feelings were a liability.

But as much as he tried to bury it, he knew it was too late. He had already let you in, even if you didn’t know it.

You stood beside Young-il, both of you observing the remaining players, the silent anticipation thick in the air. The guns and ammo laid before you, the weight of the upcoming mission pressing down on everyone. Gi-hun, at the front of the group, finally broke the silence, his voice steady yet resolute.

“We will capture those who captured us, putting an end to this game, and making them pay.”

The weight of his words hit hard, but there was no turning back now. Everyone knew what was at stake. Beside Jun-hee, Hanni's gaze lingered on Young-il, watching him carefully. There was something off about him, something she couldn’t quite place, but she was determined to figure it out. She was always one to notice the little things.

Gi-hun’s voice rang out again, more direct this time. “Anyone who knows how to use a gun and wishes to join us, please step forward.”

For a long moment, no one moved. Fear was a suffocating blanket that kept them frozen in place. Then, Jung-bae stepped forward, his presence almost a defiance against the tension in the room.

“I know you’re scared,” he said, his voice firm, though tinged with his own nervousness. “We’re scared too. But this might be our last chance to make it out of here alive.” A beat of silence followed, heavy and thick. Then, with a quiet resolve, Jung-bae continued, “Fight with us, so we can go home together.”

One by one, four men stepped up, their faces a mix of fear and determination. They grabbed their guns and ammo, preparing for the fight ahead. Gi-hun began instructing everyone to check their ammo, his eyes scanning the group for any sign of hesitation. Jung-bae handed out radios, the weight of their importance not lost on anyone.

“We’ll be using channel 7, the lucky number,” he announced. Everyone nodded in unison, following his instructions.

Gi-hun turned to Young-il, who was checking his ammo with meticulous care. “Thank you for earlier,” He said, his voice quieter than usual. Young-il didn’t look up, his focus still on the gun in his hands. “You can buy me soju when we get out,” he muttered, his voice gruff but carrying a faint hint of amusement.

You overheard their exchange and couldn’t resist the urge to tease. “What about me? Where’s my thanks?” You pushed the ammo back into its place, a smirk playing at your lips as both men glanced at you in surprise. Your chuckle filled the tense air, lightening the mood for a brief moment. “I’m just messing with you. Good luck out there, Captain. Get us out of here.”

Gi-hun smiled back at you, nodding before turning to check the rest of the team.

Meanwhile, Player 120, noticing Player 246 struggling with his ammo, stepped forward without hesitation. She called for everyone’s attention, and the group grew silent as she began to demonstrate how to operate the gun in her hands.

“This is the MP5, a submachine gun,” she said with a confident grin, her hands moving smoothly as she demonstrated how to load, unload, and switch the mode of the weapon.

You couldn’t help but watch her, fascinated by the fluidity of her movements. There was something almost hypnotic about the way she handled the weapon, and you felt a rush of excitement. You exchanged a glance with Young-il, catching his teasing look. Your eyes narrowed playfully in return.

“What?” you said, your voice light, but with a hint of a challenge. “It’s not every day you find another girl with the same interest as me.”

“Well, I didn’t say anything,” Young-il replied, his tone nonchalant, but there was a subtle spark of amusement in his eyes as he glanced at you. His lips quirked slightly, as if he was trying to suppress a smile but failing just a little.

You shot him a playful glare, your eyes narrowing in mock annoyance. "Just saying, it's rare to find someone who gets it." You crossed your arms, leaning back slightly as you met his gaze, your voice teasing but with a quiet warmth.

Young-il raised an eyebrow, his smirk lingering. "I get it, trust me," he said, his voice a lot softer.

As player 120 returned to her spot, You and Player 246, who seemed just as curious as you, looked at her in astonishment. “Where did you learn so much about guns?” 246 asked, his tone a mix of awe and genuine interest. You were itching to ask the same thing, and when Player 120 answered, you couldn’t help but grin.

“Ah, I was a sergeant first class in the ROK Special Forces,” she said, her tone casual but proud.

You practically beamed at her answer. “Wow,” you muttered, feeling a newfound respect for the woman who had so confidently shared her experience. You turned to the male beside you, ready to share your thoughts, but as your gaze flickered over to Young-il, you noticed something you hadn’t seen before—a distance in his expression, something off. The familiarity of his stoic face was still there, but there was a coldness behind it now that you couldn’t place. You felt your chest tighten, and for a moment, your confidence faltered. The words you wanted to say got stuck in your throat. Was there something bothering him?

You hesitated for a second before turning your attention back to Player 120, deciding not to press. You wanted to focus on the task ahead, but that nagging feeling in your chest refused to subside.

Gi-hun’s voice broke through the quiet, cutting through your thoughts. He pointed a revolver at the guard on the ground, demanding that he remove his mask. You felt your stomach turn as the young guard’s face was revealed. He looked no older than 25, his eyes wide with fear. Jung-bae’s reaction mirrored your own—he was visibly disturbed by the sight. He approached the guard, his voice filled with genuine concern. “Do your parents know what you’re doing?”

Before the guard could answer, Gi-hun cocked the revolver, silencing the room in an instant. The tension in the air was almost unbearable, and you couldn’t tear your eyes away. 

His voice was low, almost a growl, but it carried with an unyielding edge. “Take us to your captain.” His words hung in the air, final and unwavering.

You followed the group, positioning yourself toward the back of the line just in front of Player 120. Before stepping through the door, you cast a glance back and saw Hanni and Jun-hee's worried faces. You offered them a warm, comforting smile, trying to reassure them, even if you weren’t sure how much comfort you could offer in that moment.

As you stepped through, you seized the opportunity to strike up a conversation with the other woman in the group.

“Hey, uh… my name’s [Lastname] [Name]. I just wanted to say, I really admire how fearless and knowledgeable you are with guns, especially for a girl. Not that it means much, I’m a girl too. It's just... the only other woman I knew who was into guns was my aunt,” you said, trying to keep the tone casual despite the nerves gnawing at you.

Player 120, Cho Hyun-ju, gave you a surprised but warm smile. “Nice to meet you, [Name]. I didn’t expect you to be so open, especially with how tense everything is.”

Before you could respond, the sound of Gi-hun’s revolver firing cut through the air. The loud shot echoed, silencing the recorded announcement urging everyone to return to their beds. “Down!” Gi-hun barked. Your eyes snapped up, spotting the movement of pink guards approaching from the corner.

"At one o'clock!" Gi-hun yelled, his voice urgent. You quickly ducked, instinctively reaching for your weapon. Hyun-ju, without hesitation, took cover and began firing.

“Cover me!” she shouted as she moved, using the new position to get a better shot. You returned fire, covering her as she positioned herself to pick off the guards. Every few moments, you switched between ducking for cover and popping up to fire. The rhythm became second nature, the cacophony of gunfire almost drowning out your thoughts. Bang, cover. Bang, cover.

“Cease fire!” Gi-hun ordered, his voice cutting through the chaos. You dropped behind cover, a sharp breath escaping you as the last of the guards fell. Gi-hun quickly checked in with everyone. You gave him a thumbs-up, signaling you were good.

"Alright, we move up," he said, his voice steady as always. You nodded, scanning your surroundings. Your eyes flicked to the CCTV camera near you. With a quick movement, you raised your gun and fired, taking out the lens. You saw Hyun-ju doing the same on her end. The two of you exchanged a brief nod, silently acknowledging the trust that had formed in the chaos.

Gi-hun led the group forward, signaling everyone to check corners as you moved.

Suddenly, you all halted as Gi-hun interrogated a guard. Gun to his face, the guard meekly pointed ahead. “The entrance to the management area is around the corner. The control room is right above it,” he said, fear evident in his voice.

“Move it then,” Gi-hun ordered, pushing the guard forward.

The guard hesitated, then started to reach for his mask.

“What are you doing?” Gi-hun demanded.

“I need to get my mask to bypass security,” the guard replied quickly. Gi-hun hesitated but allowed the guard to move, sensing no immediate threat.

But then, the unexpected happened. The guard froze, staring blankly ahead, paralyzed. Before you could react, a bullet pierced his skull, sending him crumpling to the ground. Chaos erupted immediately as the sound of rapid gunfire filled the air. Guards flooded in, and you scrambled for cover, adrenaline pumping through your veins.

The gunfire was relentless. You moved, ducking and shooting, ducking and shooting, covering every angle as you fought for your life. The intensity of the moment was blinding, but you couldn't afford to lose focus.

“I’ll go for the management area!” Gi-hun yelled, his voice cutting through the noise.

“Will you be able to find it? Should I come with you?” Young-il called after him, a note of concern in his voice.

“No,” Gi-hun responded sharply. “I’ll go with Jung-bae. You need to buy us some time.”

Young-il nodded, his gaze sharp. Gi-hun and Jung-bae moved off in one direction, leaving the rest of you to handle the remaining guards.

Noticing two of your friends had bolted, you immediately motioned for cover, weaving between Young-il and Dae-ho. You glanced at Young-il, asking where they were going and what their instructions were. Young-il quickly relayed their plan, his voice steady despite the urgency.

With a firm nod, you raised your gun, ready to provide the cover fire needed. The next few moments were a blur of bullets and evasive maneuvers as you helped keep the guards at bay. You could only hope that Gi-hun and Jung-bae would find what they needed before it was too late.

As you continued to fight off the guards, you noticed Dae-ho's frantic movements. He was wasting bullets, shooting wildly without even aiming. The gunfire echoed around you, but his shots were going wide, not hitting anyone. You could tell he was struggling.

When he ran out of ammo, you placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to steady him. “You good there, Dae-ho? Do you have some extra ammo?”

His eyes were wide, panicked, and full of fear. You could see the signs of someone who had experienced more than they should have, someone who had been pushed to the edge. His reaction was familiar to you—too familiar. He was struggling with some kind of trauma, possibly PTSD. Despite his fear of gunshots, he had still volunteered to fight, a true marine in spirit, but the weight of it was starting to break him.

Young-il noticed the exchange, his gaze shifting between you and Dae-ho. You handed Dae-ho some of your extra ammo, keeping your voice calm as you tried to keep him grounded. “You have to be resourceful. It’s okay to take a breather. I’m here to cover you.”

Dae-ho gulped, nodding shakily as he began to reload. You took the moment to shoot a few guards, hiding behind cover to keep your position steady.

“This isn’t getting us anywhere!” Player 047 shouted, his frustration evident. “Let’s follow them up to the upper level!”

You immediately shook your head, disagreeing with the idea. “We might get surrounded if you don’t have a plan! We need to wait for Gi-hun and Jung-bae’s signal!”

Young-il nodded, agreeing with your assessment. “Let’s wait until they find the control room.”

You were about to reposition when a bullet grazed your cheek, the sharp sting making you flinch. Blood seeped out, but thankfully it wasn’t anything fatal. Still, the pain was enough to remind you of how dangerous the situation was. You cursed under your breath as you pressed a hand to your face, trying to stop the bleeding.

Young-il noticed immediately. Without hesitation, he shot the guard who had fired at you, his sharp eyes never leaving your form as he checked on you. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah… thanks, ah shit, that hurts!” you winced, but you quickly resumed your position, peeking out to shoot, then ducking back into cover. Peak, shoot, hide. Peak, shoot, hide.

But then came the dreaded sound of an empty magazine clicking. Shit, you were out of ammo. You reached for your pockets, frantically searching for spare magazines when Hyun-ju’s voice rang through the hall. “Everyone, check your magazines!”

The tension in the air grew as you all checked your remaining rounds. It was bad for everyone—almost all of you were running on fumes, ammo running dangerously low. Even Young-il was out.

Just as you were about to panic, the radio crackled to life.

“Young-il, Dae-ho, [Name], can you hear me?” Jung-bae’s voice came through, sounding strained.

Young-il looked at you, signaling for you to cover while he responded. You nodded, raising your gun to keep the guards in check.

“Yeah, we hear you. What’s the status?” Young-il replied, his voice steady despite the chaos around you.

Jung-bae’s voice came back quickly. “I think we’re below the control room now! But we need backup and more ammo!”

“We’re running low on ammo too!” Young-il yelled.

“There should be spare magazines in the soldier’s pockets in our quarters. Go get them!” Gi-hun ordered.

“Got it!” Young-il responded immediately, turning to the group. “Did you hear that? They need backup! Four of us will go, and the rest will stay here. Join us once you’ve gotten more magazines.”

“Who wants to go with me?” Young-il asked, looking around. Without hesitation, you raised your hand, determination in your eyes. “I’ll go!”

Young-il looked at you with a troubled expression, about to argue, but before he could stop you, two other voices spoke up in agreement. Player 047 and Player 015 both volunteered to join, and Young-il, after a final look at your determined face, gave a resigned nod. “Alright, follow me.”

The four of you moved cautiously, alert as you made your way toward the stairs. The hallways were dimly lit, bathed in an eerie purple hue that made everything seem surreal, almost as though you were walking through some twisted version of reality. The stairs seemed endless, twisting upward in the haze of the purple glow.

Young-il gave the order for you three to go ahead of him, signaling you to take the lead. Without hesitation, you followed. What you didn’t notice however, was Young-il making eye contact with the CCTV camera, and silently ordering the guards—through hand signals—not to shoot you.

As you turned the corner, your eyes immediately locked onto Gi-hun and Jung-bae. Relief surged through you for a second before you remembered the danger. “Did you find the control room?” you asked, your voice a mix of urgency and hope.

“I think it's right up there, but we can’t go this way,” Gi-hun said, his voice tense. “I want you to find another way.”

“I did a scan of the layout here,” Young-il said, sounding calm, but there was a quiet determination in his voice. “I’m sure there’s a way to go around them.” He turned to you, his gaze steady but full of unspoken concern. “You stay here with Jung-bae and Gi-hun. You still have more ammo, so guard them, okay?”

You blinked, feeling your heart tighten in your chest. “What?” you asked, surprise creeping into your voice. “Are you sure about that?”

Before you could press further, Young-il’s voice softened but carried an edge of finality. “I want you guys to keep their focus on you. We’ll hit them from behind.” He paused, his gaze meeting yours for a long moment, his eyes betraying just how much this weighed on him. There was tenderness there in his look, desipte that, there was no room for argument.

You saw the worry in his eyes, but also something else—a protective instinct that almost made your heart skip a beat. You knew there was no way to change his mind so you just nodded, pushing down the tightness in your chest and grabbed your last magazine. “Take this, Young-il, and be safe.”

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes lingering on you. “You sure?”

You nodded firmly, despite the fear gnawing at your insides. “Dae-ho will be back with more.”

His hand brushed yours as he took the magazine from you, and for a split second, it felt like time slowed down. The touch, however brief, left a lingering warmth in your palm, and when his gaze lingered on you, there was an almost imperceptible softness in his expression that made your heart flutter, even if only for a moment.

With a final, decisive nod, Young-il, 047, and 015 ran as you peeked out from the wall, your pulse racing as you provided cover for him and his team. The tension in the air was palpable, and you could feel the familiar sting of adrenaline coursing through your veins.

After a while you heard Young-il’s voice crackle over the radio: “We found it. Start attacking and draw their attention. Then we will hit them from behind.” Gi-hun’s voice followed shortly after, giving you the go signal. There was no turning back now.

Your grip on the gun tightened, and as you moved into position, you didn’t hesitate. With one last glance at Gi-hun and Jung-bae, you stepped out from your cover and opened fire, the rapid succession of shots echoing off the walls. You kept your aim steady, focusing on their movements, keeping them distracted. Each shot rang out, but the weight of the situation pressed heavily on you—your mind was focused, but there was a constant undercurrent of worry, the feeling that you were too far from where you needed to be.

It had been a few minutes since you saw Young-il. The soldiers were still there, and a tightness formed in your chest. Something wasn’t right. You pushed the thought away, staying focused on the fight at hand, but you couldn’t ignore the nagging worry. Every time the radio buzzed, your heart skipped a beat, hoping to hear something from him.

And then, your prayers were answered. Hope rushed through as your radio buzzed to life. However, everything came crashing down when heard his voice. Weak. “Gi-hun… Jung-bae… [Name]… I’m sorry…”

Your stomach dropped. You could barely breathe as the world seemed to slow around you. You grabbed for your radio with shaking hands, putting it up to your mouth as your heart raced. “S-stay where you are, Young-il. I’m coming.” The words barely left your mouth before you were already running, ignoring the shouts from Gi-hun and Jung-bae as you pushed forward.

Your feet pounded against the ground as you ran, the urgency flooding your veins. You couldn’t think. Your focus was a single thought—get to him, and get to him now. The radio fell silent as it slipped off your hands, and you were left with nothing but the sound of your breathing and your footsteps echoing in the halls.

You didn’t want to believe it. You didn’t want to accept it. But as the minutes passed, and the distance between you and your goal seemed endless, something inside you shifted. Desperation took hold of you, and with each step, it felt like you were running out of time. Tears blurred your vision, and you wiped your eyes, but the fear that gripped you didn’t let up.

You stumbled, tripping over your own feet, the exhaustion starting to catch up with you. Your mind screamed at you to keep going, but your body couldn’t take it. You hit the ground, scraping your palms. But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. You needed to find him.

And then, you saw it. A flash of white. A shoe, just barely visible around the corner. Your heart skipped a beat. Ignoring the pain, you propped yourself up, the desperation pushing you forward.

You ran toward it, praying, hoping—maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance. But as you turned the corner, everything seemed to stop. A sudden thud behind you—the sound of heavy footsteps, too close. You spun around just in time to see a black-clad guard standing before you.

Instinct kicked in. You raised your gun, fingers wrapped tightly around the grip, your eyes locking on the target. You squeezed the trigger, but instead of the sharp report of a shot, the only sound was the click of an empty chamber. Panic surged in your chest. You were out of ammo.

Before you could react, the guard lunged forward, and with brutal precision, he slammed the barrel of his gun into your face. The impact was jarring, sending you stumbling back, your vision spinning and your body fighting to stay upright. Blood poured from your nose, warm and thick, but you had no strength left to retaliate. The world blurred as your knees gave way beneath you, and you collapsed to the floor, the darkness swallowing you whole.

The last thing you heard was the guard’s voice, distant and cold, as he spoke into his radio: “I have Player 132.”

And then, the world went silent.

“Good.” In-ho’s voice replied, “bring her to where I am.”

As Jung-bae and Gi-hun knelt with their arms behind their heads, In-ho, wearing his uniform, walked down to greet them.

“Player 456,” he said, voice masked. “Did you have fun playing hero?”

Gi-hun looked up at the familiar voice, anger flashing across his face. Before he could respond, he watched as his enemy gestured to the black-clad guard to step forward. As the guard approached, both Jung-bae and Gi-hun’s eyes went wide. In the guard's hands was you, battered and bruised, unconscious and lifeless. Blood soaked your clothes, and your head hung limply. The guard dropped you unceremoniously to the ground. Your body hit the floor with a sickening thud, and they couldn’t look any longer, their hearts shattering at the sight. Despite only meeting each other for a short period of time, you had felt like a little sister to them, someone who had always been there, and now you were being discarded as though you meant nothing.

In-ho, unfazed, pulled out his Deagle and aimed it at your motionless body. A surge of anger flooded Gi-hun, but he was too late to stop what was happening. He had helped you through so much, and now, despite everything, he couldn’t even protect you.

“Look closely,” In-ho’s voice cut through the silence, “at the consequences of your little hero game.” Before turning the gun towards Jung-bae.

Jung-bae, his face pale with fear, barely managed to speak, his voice trembling, “Gi-hun—”

A loud bang echoed through the room, and Jung-bae’s body crumpled to the floor, lifeless, blood pooling around him.

“No!” Gi-hun screamed, unable to contain his grief. He scrambled over to Jung-bae’s body, pulling him close. His eyes then flicked to yours, and he rushed to hold you too, calling out your name in agony. “No, please...”

He tried to charge toward the masked man, his anger and desperation overpowering him, but the guards quickly tackled him, pinning him down. The sound of his cries filled the room, but none of the guards moved to stop it. He wept for both you and Jung-bae, unable to process the loss.

In-ho stood watching with cold indifference, finding satisfaction in Gi-hun’s torment. With a simple gesture of his hand, he commanded the guards to knock Gi-hun out. As the guards subdued him, In-ho turned his attention to the aftermath.

“Clean up this mess,” he ordered. The guards began clearing away the bodies, but when they reached for you, In-ho stopped them. “Leave her be.”

Once the area was cleared, In-ho instructed everyone to leave, and the guards filed out. Alone in hallway, he looked down at your peaceful face, his expression softening for a moment. He removed his glove and gently wiped the blood from your cheek.

The action seemed to rouse something in you, as your eyes fluttered open. Disoriented, you blinked, taking in the unfamiliar sight of black shoes in front of you. Your senses kicked in immediately, and with quick reflexes, you grabbed the revolver hidden beneath your shirt and aimed it at the figure in front of you.

Your finger squeezed the trigger, but instead of the expected thud of a body dropping, you heard the sharp crack of shattering glass. The CCTV camera behind the masked figure had been destroyed. The sound echoed, and for a brief moment, everything paused.

In-ho didn’t flinch. His gaze never left you, cold and unwavering. You, on the other hand, stood frozen, unable to process what had just happened. The gun in your hand felt foreign, heavy. The glass that scattered across the floor seemed to mock you—your aim had been off. You hadn’t meant to miss. But what had you really aimed for? The camera? Or something else?

His posture remained unchanged. Silent. Watching. Calculating. He didn’t seem angry or pleased. He was just... waiting.

The silence pressed down on you, suffocating. Your heart pounded in your chest as you looked between the broken camera and him. You weren’t sure what you expected—more movement, an immediate response, or maybe... nothing at all. The question lingered in the air, but you couldn’t bring yourself to ask it. You were waiting, too. Waiting for the next move.

Your body tensed. Was this the end? After all this was the enemy Gi-hun told you about. Every thought in your head felt like it was colliding, spinning in a storm. Taking a step back, your body reacts before your mind could catch up. What was he going to do? Was he still going to kill you?

Suddenly, the words you hadn’t even realized you were thinking slipped out, barely a whisper. “W-what do you want?” The sound of your voice startled you, hoarse and raw from everything leading up to this point.

“Answer me!”

He didn’t answer, he simply extended his arm, his palm open. A gesture. A question. It felt like he was waiting for something more than just your answer—maybe a reaction, maybe a choice. But you didn’t know if there was even one left to make.

The silence stretched out, thick and heavy. Your pulse thudded in your ears, drowning out everything else. And then, for the briefest of moments, everything cleared. A strange, unsettling calm swept over you. The fear, the anxiety—it all faded, replaced by something deeper, darker. You were done running. Done fighting. It was all too much.

Without thinking, your hand lowered, the revolver slipping from the aim you had kept steady for so long. Slowly, almost in slow motion, you brought the gun to your temple. Your breath hitched, shallow and ragged, but the world around you felt distant, quieter.

It wasn’t a decision. It was a release. A way to escape all of it.

But just as you gathered the strength to pull the trigger, you heard a slight sound. The faintest of movements. The sound of unclasping. You blinked, dazed, as something shifted in the air.

His hand lowered.

And then, with slow, deliberate motion, he removed his mask.

Your heart stopped.

For a moment, everything else ceased to exist. The room, the tension, the gun still pressed against your temple—everything blurred. The world shifted.

You stared at him, unable to process what you were seeing. The face that had once been a stranger now felt... familiar. But it wasn’t supposed to be him. It couldn’t be. The man standing in front of you wasn’t the same one who had fought beside you, who had once shared your vision, your cause. No, this wasn’t him.

And yet... it was.

"...Young-il?"

The name escaped your lips like a memory you weren’t sure you wanted to reclaim. He didn’t answer. He just raised his hand again, his gesture the same, his eyes locked on yours.

It wasn’t just a question—it was an invitation.

You stared at his outstretched hand, the choice heavy in the air. The revolver trembled in your grip.

This time, the decision was yours to make.

[drytacomeat]

Yandere!Femboy who keeps “accidentally” sending you nudes.

It started with intentional soft porn basically: him making little videos or taking little pics showing off some new lingerie he bought. He just wanted your opinion of course! No ulterior motives.

Then he began exclusively sending close ups of the front of his panties, cock hard through them or close ups of his ass.

Still…you thought nothing of it. He loved you, but he hated how oblivious you could be so he reasoned that it would be best to get more…intense.

First, he sent you one particular picture in a pair of pink panties. He was standing up in front of the camera with his arms holding up his (your) fluffy pink hoodie that he hadn’t washed since he stole it from you. His slight abs were on show for you as was his tiny waist.

But that wasn’t the star of the show, no. If you would be just a little more observant, the tip of his leaky cock was sticking out of the hem of the underwear!

When you mentioned it to him, he was quick to defend and claimed he hadn’t even noticed! Silly him!

The next occurrence was a step much farther than the previous one because…why the fuck hadn’t you made a move on him yet?

You both had lecture that morning, but you noticed that your yandere had not come to class. He usually never missed a class, so you thought that was weird.

Just when you were about to text him and ask him about his absence, you noticed he had sent you a video!

You figured the poor thing was probably sending you a rant about how sick he was feeling or how his car broke down or something!

But no, when you clicked on the video, there he was laid upon his bed of pink and white covers. Sure, that wasn’t weird, but he was lying there completely bare accept for a pair of knee high socks.

Your eyes widened as you realized that he was pumping his oddly thick and long cock quickly. It was so pretty too, nice and pink right at the tip. He had put lots of lube on his cock so it was shining and shlicking as he pumped himself. Thank god you had your headphones in!

His moans were so sweet, and his whimpers were oh so needy.

He was staring directly into the camera as he began to speed up his movements, biting his bottom lip harshly. His tongue lolled out of his mouth as he began pumping himself faster. Drool dripped down his tongue, his stomach flexed and tightened, and he was pumping himself at the speed of light almost.

Next thing you know, you heard a particularly whiny and high pitched moan as he came all over himself. His face was scrunched so prettily and lewdly, white pearly droplets of cum falling all over his hand and stomach.

As he came down from his high, he began to smile cutely at the camera before dipping his finger down into the cum and sucking it off with a loud *pop!*

He fluttered his eyelashes prettily before he reached for the phone, ending the video.

You came back to yourself, mouth gaping and eyes blinking as your screen went dark. Nobody sat behind you or beside you expect for him, so you were able to take a second to just process what you were sent.

When you gained function of your brain again, you shot off a text:

“Did you mean to send this to me?”

The situation that really ticked you off though?

You were assigned a group project for your physics class. The group you had been assigned to happened to be some people who were mentors in an association you were planning to join.

You were so excited about getting an opportunity to converse with them, you had forgot that you and your yandere had planned on watching movies together that night.

He was so pissed off when you canceled on him last minute that he had to figure out a way to sabotage the entire meeting.

He snuck into the study room you all had booked for the evening and cut the wires on the projectors. Then, he stole all of the paperwork you had for the project and shredded it! Don’t worry, he made copies so you wouldn’t receive a complete zero! He know how important your studies where to you.

But, your project was practically done for and your colleagues thought you were incompetent and irresponsible.

Don’t you worry, though. Your sweet yandere had a nice, lovely surprise for you.

As you arrived back to your dorm, absolutely drained from the day, you unlocked your phone to check up on any unread messages.

Of course your yandere has bombarded you with messages. You open up you guys’ chat to be met with a bunch of random messages and other stuff. You sighed as you continued to stroll down until the very bottom.

Weird. It seems he sent you video the exact moment you got home. The video had a cover photo of two kittens with the caption “us” on it.

You smiled as you clicked on the video, but your face quickly dropped as the cover photo went away. After about a second, you were met with you yandere sat directly in front of the camera, sat on his knees on the floor. He was bare ass naked on the hardwood floor of his apartment and his ass sat taut faced away from the direction of the camera.

He had a clear dildo nestled between his cheeks. He looked towards the camera with a pout before positioning the dildo towards his hole and dropping down onto it immediately.

His eyes rolled to back of his head as he let out a lewd mewl.

You quickly gasped and shut your phone off.

What the fuck was his problem?

Sorry for any errors! I’m a bit of a lazy writer and hoping to answer some requests soon!

[luvashli]

PRIVATE SHOPPING

Synopsis -> When Chrome Hearts employee Y/N meets global idol Ni-ki, a professional encounter turns into forbidden tension. Despite the rules, their undeniable connection pushes them to risk everything for a chance at something real.

PAIRING: idol!ni-ki x fem!chromeheartsemployee!reader

GENRE: oneshot, romance, forbidden love, Celebrity/Non-Celebrity Relationship, Workplace Drama

STARTED: 1/26/2025

STATUS: complete

WC: 2.9k

Note: haha i just wrote this for fun, after seeing all those videos of ni-ki in the chrome hearts store on tiktok. Enjoy :)

The quiet hum of the air conditioner filled the otherwise silent Chrome Hearts shop. You were used to the serene atmosphere, where the only sounds were the clinks of jewelry and the murmurs of clients admiring the pieces.

Today, however, the shop wasn’t open to the public. A private appointment had been scheduled for someone important—so important that the entire store had been rented out for the occasion.

You adjusted a display of necklaces for the third time that morning, your hands steady but your thoughts racing. Your manager had emphasized the importance of professionalism today, which you found slightly redundant. Being professional was second nature to you.

When the glass door finally swung open, the sound startled you out of your thoughts. You straightened instinctively, your gaze falling on the figure walking in.

He was taller than you’d expected, his dark hair slightly tousled and his oversized hoodie making him look effortlessly casual. You recognized him immediately—Ni-ki, the youngest member of one of the most famous idol groups in the world.

His fame wasn’t something you actively followed, but even you couldn’t avoid hearing his name. It was everywhere—on billboards, in magazines, and in playlists.

“Good afternoon,” you greeted politely, bowing slightly as he stepped further into the shop.

He looked at you, his eyes curious but guarded. “Afternoon,” he replied, his voice quieter than you’d imagined it would be. He pulled down his mask slightly, revealing a polite smile.

“Feel free to let me know if you need assistance,” you added, keeping your tone neutral.

He nodded, his attention already wandering to the displays around him.

For a while, you let him browse in peace, watching discreetly as he moved from one case to another. Despite his casual demeanor, there was a sharpness to the way he observed each piece of jewelry, as if he were studying it.

Finally, he paused by a display of rings. You stepped forward, maintaining a respectful distance. “Are you looking for something specific today?”

“What would you recommend for someone who already owns a lot of Chrome Hearts?”

The question caught you slightly off guard. “That depends on what you’re looking for,” you replied smoothly. “Are you interested in adding to your collection, or are you looking for something unique?”

“Both,” he said, leaning casually against the counter. “I’ve been collecting Chrome Hearts for years. It’s kind of an obsession at this point.”

You raised an eyebrow, curious despite yourself. “An obsession?”

He smiled, sensing your interest. “Yeah. I think I was fifteen when I got my first piece—a ring. It was a gift from a stylist on one of our first shoots. Ever since then, I’ve been hooked. I love the craftsmanship, the designs... everything about it feels timeless.”

You nodded, genuinely impressed. “You don’t hear that often. Most clients are more interested in trends.”

“I’m not really into trends,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “I like things that have meaning, things that last. That’s why I keep coming back to Chrome Hearts. Every piece feels like it has a story.”

You considered his words for a moment, then reached into a nearby display case. “If that’s the case, you might like this.”

You handed him a silver chain with an intricately designed cross pendant. “This piece is part of a limited collection. The design is inspired by vintage Chrome Hearts from the early 2000s. It’s subtle, but the detail makes it stand out.”

Ni-ki examined the necklace closely, his fingers brushing over the pendant. “This is perfect,” he said after a moment.

“I’m glad you like it,” you replied, stepping back slightly.

As he continued to look at the piece, he glanced up at you. “You know a lot about this brand,” he remarked.

“It’s part of the job,” you said simply.

He smirked. “Yeah, but you sound like you actually care. That’s rare.”

You didn’t respond immediately, unsure how to take the compliment. Instead, you focused on returning the other pieces to their proper places.

“So, what about you?” he asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

“What about me?”

“Do you have a favorite piece from the collection?”

You hesitated, not used to being the one answering questions. “I don’t own any Chrome Hearts,” you admitted.

“Really?” He looked genuinely surprised.

“It’s not exactly in my budget,” you said with a small shrug.

He chuckled softly. “Fair enough. But if you could pick one piece, what would it be?”

You thought for a moment before pointing to a sleek silver cuff bracelet in one of the displays. “That one. It’s simple but versatile.”

Ni-ki followed your gaze, nodding in approval. “Good choice. Maybe one day I’ll see you wearing it.”

You glanced at him, unsure how to respond. Before you could say anything, he placed the necklace and a few other items on the counter.

He looked up at you then, his gaze lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “How long have you been working here?”

“Long enough to know what fits our clients,” you answered, deflecting the question slightly.

He chuckled softly, slipping the ring onto his finger. “You’re good at this.”

“Thank you.”

There was a brief silence as he admired the fit of the ring, and you took the opportunity to step back, giving him space.

“What’s your name?” he asked suddenly, catching you off guard.

You hesitated. “It’s Y/N,” you said eventually, keeping your tone polite.

“Y/N,” he repeated, as if testing how it sounded. “I like it.”

You offered a polite smile but didn’t respond, returning to rearranging a nearby display.

Ni-ki continued browsing, occasionally asking for your opinion on a piece. As the minutes turned into an hour, you found yourself impressed by his genuine interest in the craftsmanship. He wasn’t just buying for the sake of it—he seemed to truly appreciate the designs.

Still, you kept a professional distance, even as he grew more conversational.

“You’re really serious about this, huh?” he said at one point, leaning against the counter as you placed a necklace back into its case.

“It’s my job,” you replied simply.

“And you’re good at it,” he said again, his tone sincere this time. “I mean it.”

“Thank you,” you said again, not letting his compliment fluster you.

He smiled at your calm demeanor, clearly amused by your lack of reaction. “You don’t get nervous around clients, do you?”

“Why would I?” you asked, meeting his gaze evenly.

His smile widened. “Most people do.”

“Well, I’m not most people,” you said before you could stop yourself.

He laughed at that, the sound warm and genuine. “I can see that.”

The rest of the appointment went smoothly, though Ni-ki’s subtle attempts at small talk didn’t go unnoticed. By the time he’d chosen a ring and a necklace, the tension between professionalism and casual conversation hung in the air.

As he approached the door to leave, he turned back to you. “Thanks for your help, Y/N.”

“Of course,” you replied, bowing slightly.

“Have a good day, Mr. Nishimura,” you replied, your tone as professional as ever.

He paused by the door, looking back at you one last time. “See you around, Y/N.”

You didn’t respond, watching as the door closed behind him. Shaking your head, you returned to organizing the displays, telling yourself it was just another workday.

But deep down, you had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time you’d see him.

The Chrome Hearts event was in full swing, a buzzing culmination of celebrities, designers, and photographers mingling under the warm glow of chandeliers. You stood off to the side of the bustling fitting area, adjusting racks of jackets and accessories while trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach.

This wasn’t your first time working an event like this, but it was your first time with stakes this high. Chrome Hearts had pulled out all the stops, and ENHYPEN, one of the biggest names in the industry, was headlining the night.

You’d been assigned to assist with styling, specifically to help dress Riki Nishimura.

Your mind flashed back to your first encounter with him at the store. Despite his playful demeanor, he’d left an impression that was hard to shake. And now, here you were, preparing to see him again, knowing full well that professionalism was non-negotiable.

“Y/N, they’re here,” your manager said, motioning toward the private fitting area.

You turned just in time to see the group of seven walk in, their presence commanding the room instantly. Cameras flashed as they greeted the event organizers, each member exuding confidence in their own way.

Ni-ki trailed at the back, dressed casually in ripped jeans and a hoodie, but his sharp gaze scanned the room until it landed on you. A flicker of recognition crossed his face, followed by a small, knowing smirk.

You quickly looked away, busying yourself with the clothes rack in front of you.

“Y/N, you’ll be with Mr. Nishimura,” your manager reminded you, handing you the clipboard with his outfit details.

“Understood,” you replied, keeping your voice steady.

When Ni-ki stepped into the fitting area, you greeted him with a polite nod. “Good evening, Mr. Nishimura.”

“Y/N,” he said smoothly, his tone teasing. “Nice to see you again.”

You kept your expression neutral. “Let’s get started. Your outfit is over here.”

He followed you to the rack, where a carefully curated ensemble awaited—a tailored leather jacket, silver accessories, and sleek black boots. As you began arranging the pieces for him, he leaned against the wall, watching you with an intensity that made your skin tingle.

“You’re really good at this,” he said after a moment.

“Thank you,” you replied without looking up, focusing instead on adjusting the jacket’s cuffs.

“Have you been doing this for long?” he asked, his voice low and casual.

“Long enough,” you said curtly, stepping back to give him space to change.

He chuckled softly, after hearing nearly the same answers to his questions like the last time. “Still keeping it professional, huh?”

“It’s my job,” you reminded him, crossing your arms.

As he slipped into the jacket, his movements deliberate, you couldn’t help but notice how effortlessly the pieces fit him. He had a natural presence that made even the simplest outfits look like high fashion.

When he turned to face you, fully dressed, you adjusted the silver chain around his neck, your fingers brushing against his skin for the briefest moment. The contact sent a jolt through you, but you quickly pulled back, masking your reaction.

“Looks perfect,” you said, stepping away.

“Thanks to you,” he said, his voice quieter now. His gaze lingered on you, and for a moment, the air between you felt charged with something unspoken.

You turned away quickly, busying yourself with the clipboard. “You’re ready for the photos.”

As he joined the rest of the group, the atmosphere shifted. The other members greeted you briefly—Jay’s charismatic smile, Sunghoon’s quiet nod, Sunoo’s cheerful wave—but your focus remained on keeping everything running smoothly.

It wasn’t until the group dispersed for a break that Ni-ki found a moment to approach you again, this time in a quieter corner of the venue.

“Y/N,” he said softly, his tone different now—less playful, more serious.

You glanced up from the accessory case you were organizing. “Yes, Mr. Nishimura?”

“Drop the ‘Mr.,’” he said with a small smirk. “It’s just Ni-ki.”

You hesitated, your professionalism warring with the tension that seemed to grow every time he was near. “How can I help you, Mr. Nishimura?” You emphasize his last Name.

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I was wondering if you’d let me have your number.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “That’s against the rules,” you said firmly, though your resolve wavered under his gaze.

He tilted his head, a sly smile playing on his lips. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

You stared at him, torn between the strict boundaries of your job and the undeniable pull of his presence. Finally, with a quick glance around to ensure no one was watching, you reached for a notepad on the counter.

“Don’t make me regret this,” you muttered, scribbling your number down and tearing off the piece of paper.

His fingers brushed yours as he took it, his smile softening. “I won’t,” he promised.

Before you could respond, your manager’s voice called you back to work, and the moment ended as quickly as it began.

As you walked away, you felt Ni-ki’s eyes on you, the forbidden tension between you lingering like an unspoken secret.

Weeks passed after the Chrome Hearts event, and though you tried to maintain a professional distance, everything had changed. The slip of paper with your number on it had been the beginning of a line you never thought you’d cross.

It started with late-night texts.

The first one came a day after the event:

[Unknown Number]: Is it weird that I can’t stop thinking about how you chose that bracelet?

You stared at the screen for longer than you wanted to admit before typing a response.

[You]: It’s weird that you’re texting me when this is technically against the rules.

He replied almost instantly.

[Ni-ki]: Rules are overrated. Especially for something that feels this… different.

And that was how it began.

Over time, the texts turned into calls, the playful teasing evolving into deeper conversations. Ni-ki wasn’t just a global idol with an obsession for Chrome Hearts; he was surprisingly down-to-earth, funny, and honest in a way that caught you off guard.

But as the weeks went on, keeping things secret grew harder.

The first time he showed up at the store unannounced, you nearly had a heart attack.

He arrived disguised in a plain hoodie and cap, his presence still unmistakable. “I was in the area,” he said with a grin, leaning casually against the counter.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you hissed, glancing nervously at your manager, who was busy in the back.

“And yet here I am,” he replied, his tone light but his gaze serious. “I couldn’t help it.”

Against your better judgment, you allowed him to linger, though every minute felt like a risk. When he left, he slipped a small silver ring onto the counter, one you’d once admired during your conversations.

“For you,” he said simply.

You stared at it, shaking your head. “Ni-ki, I can’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted softly. “Just don’t tell anyone.”

And just like that, the line blurred even further.

The turning point came during another Chrome Hearts event, this time at a private gala where the brand unveiled a new collection. You were there to assist again, your role similar to before, though now the tension between you and Ni-ki felt almost unbearable.

He arrived with the other members, dressed impeccably in a tailored black suit adorned with silver accents. When his eyes found yours across the room, the connection was instant, as if the noise and chaos around you didn’t exist.

As the evening wore on, he found small excuses to be near you—a whispered question about his cufflinks, a fleeting brush of his hand against yours as you adjusted his collar. Every interaction sent your pulse racing, though you tried to hide it.

But it wasn’t enough for him.

Toward the end of the night, he cornered you in a quiet hallway outside the main ballroom. His expression was serious, his usual playful demeanor replaced by something more vulnerable.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low, “this thing between us… I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t exist.”

You crossed your arms, trying to put up a wall you knew would crumble under his gaze. “We shouldn’t be doing this, Ni-ki. If anyone finds out—”

“I don’t care,” he interrupted, stepping closer. “I know it’s risky, but I can’t ignore how I feel. Can you?”

His words left you speechless. For weeks, you’d tried to convince yourself that it was just harmless flirting, that you could keep things professional despite the way your heart raced whenever he was near. But now, standing so close to him, the truth was impossible to deny.

“Ni-ki…” you began, your voice faltering.

“I’m not asking you to break every rule,” he said softly. “I just want a chance. A real chance.”

You hesitated, the weight of his words sinking in. Part of you wanted to say no, to walk away before things got even more complicated. But the way he looked at you—as if you were the only person in the world who mattered—made it impossible.

Finally, you nodded, your resolve crumbling. “Okay,” you whispered.

His expression shifted into a mixture of relief and joy, and for the first time, he let his guard down completely.

From that moment on, everything changed.

The relationship that followed was equal parts exhilarating and terrifying. You met in secret, stealing moments when his schedule allowed it. Late-night car rides, quiet dinners in hidden corners of the city, and whispered conversations that stretched into the early hours of the morning.

But the secrecy only fueled the intensity. Every touch, every glance, every stolen kiss carried the weight of what was at stake.

And though the risk was always there, neither of you could walk away.

Because in the end, some rules were meant to be broken.

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