#ic ;; trying to behave ;; asks

[snkts]

With all the eggs everyone gave (or 'gave') him, Logan is making tamagoyaki! Let's see who's on the list to get some!

@hacker-codeq egg: 🥚 - penguin egg *nod nod*

Well, it's gonna taste weird, but he'll see what he can do.

YOU GET FED.

@linewrk egg: 🥚 a Cadbury cream egg for Logan compliments of Andrew

He can't make an omelet with it, but he will trade food for chocolate.

YOU GET FED.

@fartemis-crock egg: 🥚

Simple, straight forward, perfectly egg. A+ no notes.

YOU GET FED.

@should1st4yz egg: 🥚 e g g

You're so skinny he wonders if you've ever had an egg before. Have an extra heavy plate.

YOU GET FED.

@mutatiio egg: Send a 🥚 for my muse to receive an egg + akihiro pls 😂

HE GETS TO FEED HIS SON HOLD ON THIS IS NOT A DRILL THIS HAS TO BE THE BEST EGG EVER HOLD ON OH GOD

YOU GET 3 PLATES.

@tcrrifiesall egg: 🥚

Sure, he'll cook for death. Adult life is already so goddamn weird.

YOU GET FED.

@ciglock egg: 🥚 (can I offer you an egg in these trying times)

He'll make you an egg, but no funny business, magic man...

YOU GET FED.

@warriorscend egg: 🥚🥚🥚🥚 monotreme life

Why do you have so many.

YOU GET FED BUT HE IS CONCERNED.

@boyimpossible egg: 🥚 hard boiled…

Well- He'll trade an egg for an egg. Also his daughter used to babysit you so you're basically his nephew, prepare to get uncled.

YOU GET FED.

@untaimed egg: 🥚 🥚 🥚 🥚 🥚 🥚 🥚

LAURA YOU THREW THEM AT HIM. YOU PELTED YOUR FATHER WITH EGG. JAIL. JAIL FOR LAURA FOR 10 MINUTES.

YOU GET FED WITH THE EGGS HE CAUGHT BUT YOU HAVE TO CLEAN UP THE OTHERS FIRST.

@clochanam egg: 🥚

Absolutely he'll make an egg for her. One for Advik, too - it's only fair after all the cookies they keep giving him.

YOU GET FED.

@onlyarogue egg: 🥚

He made it look like a teddy bear for her cause she's been having a rough few days.

YOU GET FED AND A HUG.

@katzchn egg: 🥚

C'mere pun'kin, let him teach you how to roll an omelet the right way.

YOU GET FED AND DAD TIME.

@k1d0m3g4 egg: gives him 6 eggs ..... thrown at his head >:(

God DAMNIT he was WORKING ON YOUR FOOD

YOU GET FED BECAUSE HE THINKS YOU'RE MAD BECAUSE OF YOUR BLOOD SUGAR BUT YOU HAVE TO CLEAN UP THE EGGS FIRST.

@roquish egg: 🥚

Absolutely you get an egg. X-Manning is hungry work.

YOU GET FED.

@smilingmxsk egg: 🥚 It's an evil egg... specified as evil because an evil face and devil horns have been scribbled on it. And blood colored in marker. Very evil egg, much caution.............

... He's cracking the face right against the edge of the pan.

YOU GET FED AND HE IS NOT AFRAID OF THE EGG.

@pharmakeus egg: 🥚

Another case of a flawless egg. How remarkable. What a specimen.

YOU GET FED.

@amalgamatus egg: 🥚🥚🥚🥚🥚 (egging this man's house)

He's keying your car with his claws.

NO EGG FOR YOU.

@ablinkntime egg: 🥚

This might be her first omelet ever... He's taking this very seriously.

YOU GET FED.

@bladedflower egg: 🥚

This is a hangover cure. Thankfully, he does not get hungover.

YOU GET FED.

@capt3n egg: 🥚 get confetti egg'd

He's throwing the pan at you.

NO EGG FOR YOU.

@itsbeentwelveyears egg: (_) <- Egg -Gambit

He'll make you one, but no shit-talking his cooking.

YOU GET FED.

@auroradicit egg:

He has never seen this movie before.

YOU GET... A MOVIE NIGHT?

@zimwy egg: 🥚 this too. several hard boiled (but unpeeled) hidden around his living quarters to sniff out like enrichment

... Okay, this was fun. Good enrichment for the tracker/hunter instinct. Fair play, Soldier.

YOU GET FED.

@xlianovna egg: 🥚 - late, but Nat had to ;)

Ah yes, his most perfect niece. Sit down let him fuss over you.

YOU GET FED.

[asce-of-hearts]

some Toji domesticity hehe hoho. not proofread!!!!!!

CW: TSUMIKI AND MEGUMI ARE YOUR CHILDREN, TSUMIKI IS LIKE 11 AND MEGUMI LIKE 5, HUSBAND TOJI, FAMILY DRABBLE AND STUFF U KNOW, SUGGESTIVE AT SOME PARTS BC TOJI IS A PERV WITH ZERO SELF CONTROL, TECHNICALLY HE'S A ZENIN BC HE NEVER BECAME FUSHIGURO IDK.

“Toji, you’re not a child. Either hold the cart or fuck off.” You grumble at him. Trips to the grocery store are always an adventure with your little family. Between Tsumiki starting her pre teen years and Megumi’s attitude you already have enough on your plate, but with Toji clinging to your waist like an overgrown baby you feel about to boil and explode.

“I’m telling you, I will get lost, ma. So lost, and I’ll die of hunger,” He tries to make you pity him, voice muffled in the crook of your neck as he nuzzles you. Your eye twitches. “That’s why I have to hold you.” You take a deep breath, and take note of little Megumi glaring at his father. Possessive little bastards.

“Are you sure it isn’t because there’s other people at the store? And you feel the need to mark territory like a fucking dog?” You ask, your grip on the shopping cart tightening as you try to walk towards the fruit aisle. And he grins, hand snaking down to grope at your ass. “Toji!” You scold him, and he lets go of you for a moment. Hands in the air as a sign of surrender.

“Fine, fine. I thought I was being subtle.” He excuses himself, and walks alongside you, still wrapping an arm around your waist. 

For the first fifteen minutes, everything is fine. Toji manages to control himself, Megumi is behaving inside his little cart-seat, and Tsumiki is in a strangely good mood. You think today will be a normal day, a normal trip, a normal everything. Tsumiki asks if she can buy thirteen thousand flavors of a sugary mess that attempts to call itself a drink, Megumi tries to grab things at the toy aisle, and Toji continues to cling to you like a leech. Everything is manageable for the most part.

“Only three things, baby. I already told you that’s all you can get.” You say to your daughter when she asks for some nail polish, still focused on choosing some cleaning products, doing math inside your head for discounts. “That goes to you too, Toji…” You whisper, and he grins. His hands leaving your waist to cup your tits.

“I’ll take these two melons and a peach then—” He licks his lips, and you smack his hands away with a big blush covering your face. He howls in laughter, and kisses your temple before stretching to lower some cleaner you mentioned you needed earlier. “Has a discount, ma. Want me to put it there?” He asks, trying to be innocent, kissing little Megumi on the cheek too as he walks closer to the shopping cart. And you give him a glare.

“You’re walking on thin fucking ice, Zenin.”

Toji M.List

TAG LIST

TAGGING : @sunnymmoon  @lilithlunas @imvivian @eroscastle @goldenglow149

@lurexin @stranger00001 @kitzusune @mizzhellsingsstuff @lakxcpsta

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[sapphicandgraphic]

Sick As A Dog—Chapter 2

Summary: You’re a dog walker. When your favorite clients notice you’re not feeling well, they insist on taking care of you.

Chapter: 2/? In which the healing properties of bubble baths and movie nights are intimately explored!

Warnings: Mostly still fluff and sick!fic hurt/comfort with a couple moments of explicit sexual tension and mutual longing thrown in. Also some allusions to parental loss, family drama, runaway experiences. Reader struggles with accepting help, relying on others.

A/N: Thank you to everyone for reading and commenting and getting in touch to request the next chapter! I worked really hard to turn this around ASAP, and I’m planning to continue this story since it’s striking a chord with people. If you want to show me some love, please subscribe to my Patreon channel — you can vote on what happens next, and get early access to future chapter updates!

Natasha placed her hand at the small of your back, guiding you into the bathroom. Immediately the bright, invigorating smell of eucalyptus and citrus filled your lungs. Tendrils of steam curled up from the hot bath she’d drawn, the humidity soothing your scratchy throat. Even your headache seemed to diminish slightly.

Natasha turned and busied herself at a linen drawer near the sink, retrieving a fresh wash cloth and towel. You eyed the massive freestanding tub longingly. The other woman had already added a generous amount of soap, and there was a thick layer of bubbles. You quickly shimmied out of your bra and boxers, then slipped into the water. The relief was instant, overwhelming.

“Fuck me,” you moaned, sinking down into the warmth.

Natasha dropped the washcloth she was holding, her mouth going dry at the raw, wrecked sound of your voice.

“Uh, I should call ‘Lena,” she stammered, backpedaling away from the sink with none of her usual catlike grace. “Let her know you’re here.”

“Kay,” you said, eyelids heavy. You didn’t notice the pink tint in her cheeks, the way she hurried out of the bathroom. The only thing you cared about was the awful chill in your bones retreating inch by inch, your tense muscles relaxing.

Natasha stepped out into the bedroom and ran a hand over her flushed face. Get it together, Romanoff.

She had just dialed Yelena when Wanda walked in. She was holding a bottle of Tylenol and a glass of ice water. Her dark eyes scanned the room instantly, looking for you.

“Where’s our little wolf?”

Nat pointed toward the bathroom.

“Is she behaving?” Wanda asked, kissing her wife on the cheek. Then she lowered her voice, threading a hand through Nat’s hair and tugging softly. “Are you?”

Natasha barely suppressed a groan just as the line stopped ringing. “H-Hey, it’s me! What? I don’t sound weird. You sound weird.”

Nat glared at Wanda, who just laughed and knocked softly on the bathroom door before stepping inside.

She expected to find you lounging in the tub, but you were nowhere to be seen. The surface of the bathwater was still, ominous. She called your name, moving quickly across the room. In an instant, her hands were outstretched, ready to plunge into the water. But then your head resurfaced. You flicked your hair out of your eyes, surprised to see Wanda standing so close.

“What?” You coughed.

A small crown of bubbles adorned your wet hair. Water trailed down your smooth skin in rivulets, gathering between your lips. Your pink tongue darted out, licking the beads away, and Wanda felt her heart flutter at the sight.

“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head slightly.

“You thought I drowned in a bathtub,” you accused, feeling a twinge of exasperation in your foggy brain.

Wanda twisted her mouth to one side, like she was trying not to laugh. “Maybe,” she admitted.

“Y’know,” you said, petulance creeping into your voice. “This ‘little wolf’ managed to survive for the past 24 years without anyone’s help.”

Your headstrong claim was slightly undermined by the mountain of suds around you. A rubber ducky wouldn’t have been out of place. But Wanda kept this particular observation to herself.

“So,” she said instead. “You heard that.”

“I’m delirious, not deaf.” You eyed her curiously. “Why little wolf?”

She knelt beside the tub, leaning against the ceramic edge. “First, take these,” she instructed, depositing a couple of pills into your hand. “They should reduce your fever and help with the ache in your muscles.”

Your eyes widened slightly. “How did you know…”

Wanda just smiled that mysterious smile of hers. You accepted the medicine gratefully and took a drink of cool water.

”I can’t remember how it started exactly,” Wanda murmured. “I suppose it’s because when we first met you…you seemed a bit of a loner.”

You ducked your head, considering this assessment. You tended to keep your guard up around new people. Not unfriendly…just careful.

“Wolves are actually pack animals, you know?” Wanda continued, reaching out to grip your chin, drawing your attention back to her. “They need each other to survive.”

She held your gaze for a long moment. You felt a funny ache in your chest that had nothing to do with your fever. Something warm and tender was rising up, something long dormant. The way Wanda was watching you—so patient, like your trust was something worth waiting for—made your heart flicker with hope, longing.

Before you could think of what to say, Natasha came back in the room. She waggled her cell phone. “Yelena wants to talk to you directly,” she said, perching on the edge of the tub beside her wife. “Claims she needs proof of life.”

Wanda stood up, drying her hands on a towel.

“Dinner will be ready in half an hour,” she announced, ghosting a hand over Natasha’s bicep. “You’re on lifeguard duty.”

Her wife winked at her, then handed you the phone.

“Hello?” You braced for Yelena’s usual tirade.

“So it’s true,” she said. “You’re shacking up with my sisters.”

You rolled your eyes, fighting a blush. “They kidnapped me, alright?”

Yelena laughed. “That’s not what I heard.”

You glared as Yelena recited her sister’s version of events. “I didn’t faint,” you hissed, flicking water at Natasha. “Stop telling people that. I just…lost my balance or something.”

“You don’t remember, because you were unconscious, because you fainted.” Yelena’s flat voice rumbled through the phone speaker, sounding far too smug.

“Whatever,” you sighed. “The point is, I’m fine now. Just waiting for the storm to pass.”

“Do me a favor,” Yelena said, exasperated. “Just let them spoil you for a bit, okay? Enjoy the high thread count and the gourmet food. It’s one of the only real perks to being in this cuckoo crazy family.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Instead, a silly smile worked its way across your face as you processed her words: being in this family. Something about that phrase felt so good, so right.

“This bubble bath is really nice,” you finally muttered, realizing the silence had stretched on a beat too long.

“Bubble bath?” Yelena repeated. “Are you in the big tub? Come on, Nat never lets me use the big tub!”

You winced, handing the phone back to Natasha. “I may have said too much.”

The older woman held the phone away from her head. “You’re breaking up, ‘Lena! We’ll call you later! Gotta go.”

Nat ended the call and sank down beside the tub, running her fingers through the warm water to check the temp. Then she reached out, playing with a strand of your hair, gently twirling it around her pointer finger.

“Want some help with this?” She asked.

The question caught you off guard. You blinked, slowly, brain catching up to her words.

“Sure,” you said.

Natasha leaned over, grabbing a shampoo bottle and lathering a dollop between her hands.

“Sit up,” she instructed.

You complied, giving her better access. Nat gathered your hair to one side and began massaging the base of your scalp. Your eyes slipped closed and you sighed as her fingers threaded through your hair. Nat swallowed. From this angle, she couldn’t help admiring your broad shoulders. Then she glanced lower, where the swell of your breasts was just visible above the bubbles.

The older woman cleared her throat. She cast around for a conversation starter.

“Where did you grow up?”

You didn’t open your eyes, and for a moment Natasha wondered if you had drifted off. Then finally you answered.

“Middle of nowhere.”

A non-answer. Natasha followed your lead and didn’t press. A few more seconds passed in silence before she tried a different approach.

“What brought you to New York?”

You laughed, a humorless hollow sound that made Natasha’s skin prickle with alarm. “I came here to disappear.”

She stilled, processing your quiet confession. Something about the statement rang piercingly true, and she got the immediate impression that you hadn’t meant to say it at all. Her suspicion was confirmed when your eyes snapped open a second later.

“Sorry,” you said. “Fevers make me talk too much.”

But it was more than that. Something about the warm bath water and Natasha’s patient expression made you feel safe enough to keep talking.

“Don’t apologize,” she said. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know.”

You gathered a few bubbles between your hands, playing idly with the suds.

“I watched a lot of movies when I was a kid,” you said. “All the characters were always running off to New York. The place where anything could happen. You could get a fresh start, reinvent yourself. So when I was sixteen I bought a bus ticket and never looked back.“

Natasha’s hand stilled.

“Sixteen? How did your parents feel about that?”

“No idea,” you sighed, eyes slipping shut again. “My mom died when I was born, and my dad...”

Blamed me. Hated me. Couldn’t stand to be in the same room as me. You swallowed, fighting not to be dragged back into memories you had worked so hard to forget. Natasha’s hand slipped down, gripping your shoulders and massaging you gently, like she could sense your turmoil. You groaned in appreciation as she kneaded the tender muscles carefully.

“He wasn’t around a lot,” you finished. Natasha could sense there was more to the story.

“That must have been hard,” she murmured.

“Nahhhhhh.” Your objection elongated into a moan of pleasure as she hit a sensitive spot. “I liked the freedom. No one to answer to.”

Natasha could just picture you at sixteen, arriving in Port Authority with nothing but a duffel bag and a desire to prove everyone wrong. Clearly you were street smart, resourceful. But the city could be a hard, unforgiving place for runaways. She felt a sudden irrational wave of panic for that young girl. Who would notice if she got hurt, got lost along the way?

Natasha shook her head, told herself she was being silly. After all, you were right here. Safe and sound. All grown up. Still, she wished she could somehow reach back in time and protect you.

Natasha rinsed your hair, careful to avoid getting soap in your eyes. Then she started massaging conditioner into your scalp. You leaned into her touch.

“Feels so good.” Your voice was barely more than a whisper. “Thanks, Nat.”

Natasha smiled, still focused on her task but hanging on your every word.

“You’re very welcome,” she said. “Little wolf.”

When your hair was finally clean and detangled, Natasha stood and brought you a towel, a white fluffy robe.

“Dry off,” she said. “I’ll find you some fresh clothes.”

She disappeared into the bedroom as you reluctantly climbed out of the tub. Your skin was soft and warm from the hot water. Almost immediately, you started shivering again. You toweled off quickly and pulled the robe on, luxuriating in the soft fabric.

The late afternoon sky had darkened with even more storm clouds, and the bedroom was bathed in soft amber lamp light when you joined Natasha. You looked around properly for the first time. A king-size mattress dominated the center of the room, but there was also a lounging sofa tucked beneath an enormous bay window on the far wall beside a book case.

It wasn’t until Natasha emerged from the walk-in closet carrying black cashmere joggers and a matching hoodie that it clicked. You weren’t standing in a guest room, as you had originally assumed, but in their bedroom. Where they slept. Where they…

An image suddenly flashed through your mind, of Natasha between Wanda’s legs, worshipping the other woman with her mouth, her fingers, her tongue. Wanda’s head thrown back, face slack with pleasure, auburn hair fanned out across the pillow. You tried to ignore the flare of heat in the pit of your stomach.

“What?” You blinked, realizing Natasha had just said something.

She gave you a worried look.

“I said, you’re a little taller than Wanda, but I think these should work.”

Natasha hung your towel and robe up in the bathroom while you got dressed. The clothes were a perfect fit, extremely soft against your tender skin. Plus, they smelled like Wanda’s perfume. Sandalwood and bergamot.

“Ready?”

Nat wrapped an arm around your waist and guided you downstairs. You would normally have shrugged her off, but as soon as you hit the landing, a wave of exhaustion jackknifed through your body. It was actually a little frightening to feel so weak, and you clung to her arm.

“We should take your temperature,” Nat said, feeling the unnatural heat of your fever still rolling off your back.

“Kay,” you said, leaning against her more heavily with every step. She deposited you carefully in a chair at the dining room table.

“I think there’s a thermometer in the medicine cabinet,” she said. “You’ll be ok for a second?”

You laughed despite the pain in your throat. But the look in her eyes was so sincere you couldn’t bring yourself to tease her. “Yeah, Nat,” you said. “I’ll be ok.”

Natasha narrowed her eyes. She pointed a finger at you. “Don’t go anywhere.”

You leaned forward, closing your tired eyes. “I wound’t make it very far.”

Natasha ducked into the hallway.

“Wands?” She called, rummaging in a closet. “Where’s that thermometer?”

The other woman appeared a few moments later, insinuating herself into the search. “Let me,” she said. “You set the table and serve dinner.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Nat purred, smacking her wife on the ass as she walked away.

Wanda found the thermometer and made a beeline for the dining room. You were hunched on the table, head bowed slightly, eyes pinched together. She frowned, and immediately dimmed the overhead lights.

You blinked, looking up at her gratefully. “Thanks.”

Wanda didn’t say anything, just watched you with those owlish eyes—like she could peer into your soul. She pushed the damp hair off your forehead. You gravitated toward her feather light touch, feeling your stomach flip pleasantly at having her undivided attention.

“Open,” she said.

Your lips parted automatically and she placed the thermometer in your mouth.

“Good girl.”

For a second you stared up at her, dumbstruck by how beautiful she was. The kind of beauty that armies went to war for. The kind of beauty that heroes and gods braved the underworld for. And here she was, absently playing with the baby hairs at the nape of your neck, like she had nothing better to do.

Natasha appeared a few moments later, breaking your feverish reverie. Guilt and shame instantly gathered in your chest. They were married. You had no right to be pining like a puppy dog at their table, looking for scraps of affection.

“Dinner is served,” Nat said with a smile.

A wonderful aroma—salty, savory—drifted into the room with her. The large serving dish in her hands was steaming slightly. She set it down and began ladling the hearty stew into bowls. Then she carved a loaf of bread into slices.

The thermometer beeped and Wanda withdrew it from your mouth. “101.4,” she said with a frown.

Natasha sat down across the table. “I think we should call him.”

You picked up your spoon, stomach growling. “Call who?”

“Careful, sweetheart,” Wanda cautioned as she took the seat directly beside you. “It’s hot.”

You blew on the spoonful of stew dutifully, looking to Wanda for approval. She nodded and you took a bite.

The broth was rich and flavorful with a little undercurrent of spice. You tasted carrots, peas, celery, chicken, and some type of noodle. It instantly soothed your scratchy throat, spreading warmth through your chest.

“Strange?” Wanda asked, tucking into her own food.

Natasha nodded, tearing her bread into pieces and dunking one in her own bowl.

“What’s strange?” You asked in between bites.

Wanda chuckled. “Not a what, a who.”

You furrowed your brow. Sometimes it felt like these women spoke their own secret language.

“I’ll see if he has any availability tomorrow,” Natasha said, reaching for her phone. Before she could send the email, a weather alert illuminated the screen. “Whoa, flash flood warning for lower Manhattan.”

As if on cue, a clap of thunder rolled overhead. “Guess you’re staying here tonight.”

You felt your stomach tighten anxiously.

“No, I should go,” you said, reluctantly pushing back your unfinished bowl of food as your appetite failed. “I’ve taken up enough of your Friday night.”

Wanda leaned back in her chair, taking a sip of wine as she regarded you with a thoughtful gaze. For the first time, it occurred to her that maybe she and Nat had read this whole situation completely wrong. “Do we make you uncomfortable, little wolf?”

Her tone was quiet, curious.

“What?” You nearly choked on your water. “No, of course not! You’ve been so generous, made me feel so….”

Wanted. Loved. Safe. You clasped your hands in your lap, afraid you’d say something you might regret, and you missed the look that passed between Wanda and Nat.

“I just don’t want to overstay my welcome,” you said shakily, trying to reign in your emotions.

Wanda reached out, tracing a finger along your jawline until you raised your head and met her gaze. “That would be impossible,” she said firmly. “Do you understand?”

Her gray, piercing eyes seemed to pin you to the chair. You swallowed, wanting to believe her.

“I don’t understand,” you admitted quietly, because that was the truth. No one had ever offered to take care of you like this, unconditionally. “But I believe you.”

Nat’s lips quirked into a hopeful grin. “So you’ll stay?”

You nodded.

Wanda tucked your hair behind your ear, clearly pleased. “Good,” she said. “Now, do you think you can finish your dinner?“

You glanced at the half-eaten bowl uncertainly. Your hunger had vanished.

“Stomach kinda hurts,” you said. “Sorry.”

Wanda looked torn. On the one hand, she guessed (correctly) that you hadn’t been eating enough lately. But she also didn’t want to pressure you.

“Just a couple more bites,” she encouraged. “You need your strength, milaya.”

When you didn’t move, she picked up your spoon and scooted her chair closer to yours. “For me?”

You couldn’t deny her anything when she asked so sweetly. “You don’t play fair,” you groused.

Wanda laughed. “Is that a yes?”

You nodded, and she brought the first bite to your lips. Letting her feed you should have been humiliating. But pride required energy, and you had precious little of that.

Wanda smiled. Getting to baby someone who was usually so self-reliant was a special privilege, one she didn’t take lightly. Especially considering she didn’t know when you might indulge her like this again.

Natasha watched you both from across the table. There were dozens of things she loved about Wanda. But it was this—her ability to be firm and gentle in the same breath—that always left her speechless. It was like a superpower.

Wanda wiped the corner of your mouth with her finger. You scrunched up your face at Nat, trying to look threatening. “Not a word to Yelena,” you managed hoarsely.

Natasha grinned. “Our secret,” she said. “Scout’s honor.”

When Wanda was satisfied you’d eaten enough, she sat back and sipped the last of her wine. The sound of rain on the roof created a pleasant white noise. Your throat was a little less scratchy and your headache had receded. Maybe the meds had finally kicked in. The delirious fever feeling was still there, making your emotions spike and dip in unpredictable patterns. But with a full belly and a warm bed waiting upstairs, you felt a deep sense of calm and safety descend over you.

Natasha checked her watch.

“It’s still early. Why don’t you two go get comfy on the couch?” She stood up to clear the plates. “I’ll clean the kitchen and then we can…watch a movie?”

Wanda hummed noncommittally, looking at you. “I don’t know,” she hedged. “Someone looks pretty sleepy.”

“Not sleepy,” you insisted. “Wanna watch a movie.”

Natasha could tell you wouldn’t last long, but she wasn’t ready to let you out of her sight. She looked at Wanda. “Please?”

“Only if I get to pick the movie.” Wanda arched a playful eyebrow at her wife.

Natasha rocked back on her heels, considering. “Deal.”

The sofa was big and obscenely comfortable. You sank into the middle section, cushioned by several pillows. Wanda tucked a blanket around you, scolding Oscar when he leapt up and laid across your body protectively.

“He doesn’t know he’s not a lap dog,” she said, shooing him away.

“I don’t mind,” you laughed, scratching his ear.

“I know you don’t mind,” Wanda said. “But he’s not the only one who wants a cuddle.”

“Well in that case,“ you said, heart leaping at the chance to cuddle and be cuddled by Wanda Maximoff. “Get lost, Oscar.”

You gave the dog a gentle shove. He turned and licked your hand once, then moved to the far corner of the sofa and curled up in a ball.

Wanda sat down, pressing her body close against you. She fiddled with the remote, tracing her hand up and down your arm absently. The feeling of her fingertips gave you goosebumps.

“What do you like?” Her words hung in the air, open-ended. She could be talking about movies. Something told you she wasn’t.

“Whatever you like,” you replied instantly. The answer worked for either question.

Wanda’s gaze flickered to you, her smile shifting ever so slightly from fond to flirtatious. “Is that right?”

You nodded, not sure you could formulate words with the full force of her gaze leveled at you. Your faces were just inches apart, so close that you could feel her warm breath on your neck.

She looked away first. It felt like a pause, not an end, to your conversation. Wanda shifted, placing one hand on your upper thigh and giving you a gentle squeeze. You relaxed against her, letting your head fall onto her shoulder.

She scrolled through different movie titles until you saw Dirty Dancing and pointed. “Please? It’s one of my favorites.”

“Excellent choice,” Natasha said, entering the room balancing two mugs of tea and a big bowl of popcorn. “Nobody puts baby in a corner!”

Wanda wrinkled her nose in confusion. “Who is putting babies in corners?”

“Wait,” Nat said, grabbing a handful of popcorn and wedging herself in on the other side of you. Her warmth made you shiver pleasantly. “Have you never seen Dirty Dancing? How did I let this happen?”

Nat lifted the edge of the blanket, pulling it over her own legs as well. “I made you a special tonic, little wolf,” she murmured with a wink. “Honey, lemon, ginger, and a dash of cayenne pepper.”

You curled your fingers around the mug, taking a sip. “Thanks, Nat.”

“Course,” she said. “Now, are you comfortable? Need any extra pillows? Blankets?”

“No,” you laughed, burrowing against her side. “I’ve got the perfect pillow.”

Natasha smiled, settling her arm around your shoulders. She caught her wife’s eyes over your head, blew her a quick kiss. “Perfect Friday night right here.”

Wanda rolled her eyes at the other woman affectionately. “You’re such a softie,” she teased.

“Just press play, woman!” Natasha barked.

You could feel your eyelids drooping before the title credits even finished, but that didn’t bother you. You’d seen Dirty Dancing about a hundred times. The last thing you heard was the rumble of Natasha’s soft laugh as she explained the Borscht Belt to Wanda.

“Yeah, baby, like the soup,” she said.

You fell asleep with a smile still on your lips.

——————

Taglist: @lizziescutiepie @lizzieslover129 @tvseries-writings @natascharomanoff21 @boowhobabe (If you want to be added for future chapters, just leave a comment!)

[heartsiebyul]

Twisted Wonderland characters reacting to their lover—flushed and glistening with sweat—saying 'It's so hot,' completely unaware of how seductive he look.

— Heartslabyul : Savanaclaw : Octavinelle x male!reader. cw: slightly suggestive.

— Heartslabyul

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle was mid-sentence about the proper way to organize summer tea sets when he saw you wipe sweat from your brow, cheeks flushed, shirt clinging ever so slightly to your back. The way you absentmindedly fanned yourself and sighed, “It’s so hot,” made his voice catch in his throat. His words faltered, his face nearly matching yours in color. He quickly turned away, ears red, muttering something about sunstroke.

“Y-You should change into something lighter,” he stammered, grabbing a fan and thrusting it toward you like a weapon. But even as he handed it over, he couldn't stop glancing at you—his proper, rule-abiding brain spiraling into chaos at how unfairly tempting you looked. You had no idea the kind of effect you were having on him… and that made it so much worse.

Trey Clover

Trey did a double-take when he saw you panting, red-cheeked and fanning yourself, clearly miserable in the summer heat. “You okay?” he asked, but the glint in his eye said something else. His gaze lingered a little too long on your flushed lips and glistening skin. He swallowed and looked away, rubbing the back of his neck as a crooked smile played at his lips.

“You’re lucky I’m not the kind of guy to take advantage of the situation,” he said, voice low. “But you’re making it real hard to behave.” He got up, brought you an ice-cold drink, and pressed the frosty glass gently to your lips himself. His eyes never left yours. “If you keep looking at me like that… heat’s not the only thing we’ll be sweating over.”

Cater Diamond

Cater practically dropped his phone when he looked up and saw you sprawled on the couch, flushed, panting, glistening from the heat. “Whew~ okay, you cannot just say ‘it’s so hot’ while looking like that, (name),” he drawled, clearly flustered but very into it. He sat beside you and angled his phone like he was scrolling… but he was definitely trying to sneak a few pics of your glistening face.

“Don’t worry, I won’t post them,” he winked. “These are for the private gallery~” Then, more sincerely, he leaned in and murmured, “You look way too good like this. It’s dangerous.” The teasing tone dropped into something deeper, more real—Cater’s playful flirtation tinged with craving. “You seriously don’t get how much I wanna kiss you right now, huh?”

Ace Trappola

Ace raised a brow, looking at you like you’d just dared him to sin. “It’s so hot,” you mumbled, flopped on a bench, glistening and panting softly. You didn’t even realize how your shirt had ridden up slightly or how red your lips looked. Ace did. And he was grinning. “Yeah, I know what else is hot,” he snickered, shamelessly looking you up and down.

He dropped beside you and slung an arm around your shoulders, his fingers deliberately brushing your neck. “You trying to tempt me, babe?” he teased. “'Cause if not, you’re doing a hell of a job on accident.” He leaned in close enough that his breath ghosted your ear, voice dropping just enough to send chills down your spine. “Should I help you cool down, or... make you hotter?”

Deuce Spade

Deuce was trying to act normal—really, he was. But the moment you said, “It’s so hot,” with your flushed cheeks, sweaty brow, and glistening collarbones on full display, his brain stopped functioning. He stared for a solid three seconds before violently whipping his head away, his face the definition of panic. “I-I’ll get water!” he yelped, almost tripping as he scrambled to his feet.

Behind his back, he was chanting every rule and moral he knew. This was his boyfriend, and you looked like that?! Was this a test?! He splashed cold water on his face in the nearest bathroom, berating himself for the mental images invading his head. The whole time, he couldn’t stop wondering if you knew how irresistible you looked—or if you were just that innocent.

— Savanaclaw

Leona Kingsholar

Leona had just been lying back, eyes half-closed, pretending to nap when your voice cut through the air—"It’s so hot"—followed by the sound of your slow, heavy breathing. He cracked an eye open, and the sight of you panting lightly, your cheeks red and shirt sticking to your skin, hit him like a punch. His gaze sharpened instantly. You had no idea, did you? No idea what kind of thoughts that look was stirring up in his lazy lion brain.

“Tch. You really gonna say stuff like that while lookin’ like you just rolled outta one of my dreams?” he grumbled, sitting up with a grunt. His tail flicked, betraying his rising interest. He reached out and tugged your collar a little. “You’re the one makin’ it hotter, herbivore. Don’t blame the sun.” His voice dropped low as he leaned in close enough for your sweaty foreheads to nearly touch. “Want me to help you cool off… or overheat?”

Ruggie Bucchi

Ruggie paused mid-bite of his sandwich when he noticed how breathless you sounded. “It’s so hot,” you said, completely unaware of how sinful you looked, chest rising and falling with each pant, skin shining in the sunlight. He blinked. “...Wha?” He gawked for a second, then quickly turned his head, laughing nervously. “Oi oi, you tryna kill me or somethin’?”

“You can’t just say stuff like that while lookin’ like a whole snack,” he mumbled, face red despite the grin on his lips. He leaned back with an exaggerated sigh. “This is karma for stealing that extra donut this morning, huh?” But the longer he stared, the more he fidgeted—his eyes flickering over you, lips parted just a little. “If you're gonna keep lookin' that good, don’t be surprised if I pounce.”

Jack Howl

Jack froze when he heard you sigh and fan yourself, and the moment he looked over… it was over. His eyes widened, catching the sight of you flushed, panting softly, sweat trailing down your neck. “Wha—?!” He nearly dropped his water bottle and stood up way too fast. “Y-You should go inside! It’s… dangerous to stay out here in the sun!”

He turned his back to you quickly, ears twitching and face flushed redder than yours. He paced a little, clearly flustered, muttering under his breath. “Get it together, Jack. He didn’t mean it like that.” But when you asked what was wrong, his tail thumped against the ground in betrayal. He exhaled through his nose and mumbled, “Nothin’. Just… try not to look so good when you're overheating.”

— Octavinelle

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul had been trying to maintain his composure while reviewing contracts, but the moment you leaned against the wall and exhaled, “It’s so hot,” with that look—skin glistening, face flushed, lips parted—he forgot how to breathe. His pen froze mid-signature. “Oh dear…” he muttered, eyes flicking up over the rim of his glasses.

He stood slowly, clearing his throat, adjusting his tie even though it suddenly felt too tight. “You should hydrate… and perhaps… consider wearing less,” he said, voice faltering as he offered you a glass of water with a trembling hand. “N-Not that I’m suggesting you—! I mean—!” He looked away, his face red as a lobster, silently begging the sea to swallow him before his thoughts betrayed him further.

Jade Leech

Jade noticed immediately—the way your breaths came slow and heavy, the way your shirt clung to your form. His smile turned sharp, unreadable. “Is that so?” he said when you muttered, “It’s so hot,” fanning yourself absently. “I hadn’t noticed the heat… until now.” He leaned in, his gaze trailing over you like he was memorizing every flushed detail.

“Are you trying to tempt something out of me, darling?” he asked calmly, even though his voice had a husky undertone. He reached out and brushed a damp lock of hair from your face, fingers lingering far longer than necessary. “You look rather… delectable like this. Are you sure it’s just the sun making you burn up?” His tone was playful, but there was something possessive in the way his eyes refused to leave you.

Floyd Leech

Floyd’s eyes lit up the second you sighed and panted out a whiny, “It’s so hot,” without even realizing how flushed and shiny you looked. “Eeeeh~? You look super tasty right now, Shrimpy,” he purred, already looming behind you before you even knew he moved. He wrapped his arms around you from behind, pressing his cool cheek to your sweaty one. “Wanna get even hotter~?”

He wasn’t subtle—his hands snaked beneath your shirt just to feel the heat of your skin. “You always look this good when you’re sweaty?” he asked with a lazy grin. “Cuz I think I just found my new favorite weather.” Floyd laughed when you squirmed, tightening his grip a little. “Nah, no running now~ you look like you need to be taken apart.”

bye-

[anthotneystark]

Had an idea at work but couldn't write it out until now lmao

Down on his luck Steve who refuses to give in to his parents and is desperately trying to figure things out for himself. But putting himself through school (i can never decide between nursing or education) is expensive. So he works two jobs, trying to save up and taking a few classes here and there, and the one job is in a restaurant. It's a fancier place, usually gets him decent tips, but the best nights are the ones where he's not waiting tables. The best nights are the ones where he plays the piano and sets the mood and has a little more freedom to enjoy himself.

Enter Rockstar!Eddie, who got out of Hawkins quick and never looked back. Who's at this fancy place for a work dinner and, as his bandmates (Jeff) demanded, he's trying to behave himself and remember which fork is which. But that's just not possible, not entirely, when he catches glimpses of a beautiful face, a face only rarely darting up from the piano in front of him. And look, Eddie's only human. He's smitten just from glimpses. He manages to get through the dinner, constantly watching to see if the piano man will look up again, but he's still playing by the time they're wrapping up.

So he skips out on riding back to the hotel with the others, goes to the bar area and decides it's not that creepy to wait for him. He waits and waits and waits and listens for the music to stop. The bartender is all but shoving him out the door when it does. With no other choice, he waits outside, smokes a cigarette to calm his nerves while he looks for a head of chestnut hair with an angel's face. Just as he's about to give up, he sees him. And he recognizes him. But just as much as that dismays him, he's still got hope enough to give it a shot.

He doesn't think Steve will recognize him anyway, but even if he does, Eddie's never been accused of making the best decisions.

So he slinks out from the shadows, which is a bad decision, and tries to get Steve's attention, which is a bad decision, and surprises Steve, who's first instinct is a fight response, resulting in Eddie getting punched in the face.

Because bad decisions.

Steve is obviously very apologetic, takes Eddie back home to get him ice for his face, and Eddie can't even protest because Pain. But once his face is numb and Steve's cleaning up the blood from his nose (very bruised but not broken) he's kinda staring and Steve, clearly embarrassed, is doing concussion tests. When asked "what's today's date" he responds with "our future anniversary". And when Steve asks him "what's your name" he responds with "your future husband" and Steve gives up on questions after that.

They obviously make out about it, even though they keep accidentally injuring Eddie further by knocking his nose.

And Eddie is right, it is their anniversary after all.

[cremeful]

Today was fun.

Sammie and you were sitting on a bench in the town square enjoying ice cream to combat the hot summer day, while waiting for the twins to finish up business at bo chows. you two were laughing, sharing memories of embarrassing stories of childhood and bonding over your found love for music

until it wasn't.

you promised the twins you would be good and you meant it. your devotion to them was serious for you, always being at their beck and call. never putting anything between you three.

Sammie mentions something about going to throw his trash away before standing up, turning to you and asking if you have any too throw away. you hand him your now empty ice cream cup and offered him a small 'thank you!'

once Sammie heads into the ice cream shop, you look at your phone giggling while reading the text stack sent you, asking if you were behaving; of course you were. you were too engrossed into watching tiktoks to notice a man standing just a few feet from you. " i'm sorry, was i being too loud?" you say feeling apologetic, the man just laughs "no, darling! i just noticed how beautiful you were and had to come tell you."

your face heats up, your stomach feels off. "oh..um thank you?" by now he his sat on the bench too close for your liking. "so, what your name? a pretty girl like you must have a pretty name too match." he questions, a sleazy grin plastered on his face.

you let out a nervous chuckle, before you could stutter out a lie you see sammie walking back towards you. He notices your body language and picks up on the situation. "yo!" he calls out, the mans smile drops with irritation looking over at sammie.

"why you up on her like dat, back up fr!" Sammie says, coming closer. you stand up to move near your friend but the man grabs your wrist, holding tight. you turn around, trying to pry his fingers away "ow! let go of me!" crying in pain. the man doesn't listen, he tries to pull you into his chest but Sammie yanks you away.

Sammie is now face to face with the man "you like putting your hands on girls, huh? put your hands on me nigga." the man scoffs, titling his head to the other side. before sammie or the man could do anything else you hear smoke.

"the fuck goin on out here?" smoke's voice is clear, loud and booming with authority. He looks over at you, your cheeks are wet from tears. he looks down at your hand covering your wrist. "baby." he says it quietly. you know that tone from a mile away, he's assessing the situation before acting.

"what happened to your wrist?" his voice on edge. you don't respond right away, looking down sniffling and putting your injured arm behind you. that's all he needed.

Smoke moves towards Sammie and the man, stack not too far behind him. Sammie now off the man goes towards you, arms reaching out and wrapping around your waist, head burying into his chest.

"you put your fuckin hands on my girl?!" smoke seething with anger pushes the mans chest sending him flying on the ground. stack reaches down gripping the man by the collar and roughly picking him up to his feet "get the fuck up pussy." the man is trying to mutter out excuses but smoke tunes it out, clocking his fist back and punching the man in the mouth, before looking over his shoulder and directing Sammie to take you back home. "we gonna handle this nigga."

[rinawantstosleep]

𖹭༉‧°𓂃 𓈒𓏸‪‪

bf satoru x fem single mom reader

wc: 1.1k

— a pair of troublemakers residing in your house; both of whom are (unintentionally!) dead-set on making themselves the death of you.

"I don't like your stupid, white hair." 

"And I don't like your boring, brown hair, buddy."

"W-well... well, I don't like your ugly, doo-doo face!"

"Your mama does." 

The two could go bickering like this for hours on end if you let them. What may seem to be a mutually digressive arrangement is actually an oddly adorable bonding in disguise. Satoru and your son put on a front of being annoyed at the other's presence, but you've never seen them apart for longer than a few minutes at a time. They've grown on each other; much like how moss grows on a statue that's been lingering out in the open. An indispensable cycle of life that's truly inevitable. 

"No, she doesn't! She doesn't! She likes... sof- sofis... sofistogated guys."

"You mean sophisticated?"

"Shut up!" 

You'd been terrified that your little one wouldn't have a father-figure to rely on anymore after you divorced your husband. However, it was something you had to do for his sake. The child deserved to live in an environment that wasn't always reeking of alcohol, where he wasn't subjected to the constant, drunk yelling of a pathetic excuse of a father who couldn't get his shit together and lazed around at home all day while you did all the work. If that meant that you'd have to raise him on his own, then so be it. At least he'd be raised properly. Signing those papers was, by far, the easiest decision you'd ever made. 

"I'm not shutting up because a kid in clothes too big for him is telling me to."

"You... you're the one always wearing tight clothes around the house to impress my mama."

"No, that's because I'm ripped. Gotta show off what I've got. And your mama loves that." 

"Oh, yeah? That means you show off your... your - um... ugly, doo-doo face!"

Would you regard it a miracle that Satoru just so happened to stumble into your life around that very time? Well, relatively. Meeting him wasn't something you'd planned, nor anticipated. The kind stranger who offered to pay for your order at a café a year ago has somehow, thanks to quite a romantic sequence of events, turned into your boyfriend; a rock to lean on for when you need the support. And, also, someone that your little one can look up to (with the fun, bonus benefit of the pair getting into silly, childish quarrels nine times out of ten). What is Satoru if not a three-hundred-and-thirty-six-month-old toddler, too? Puts your five-year-old to utter shame with the way he acts. 

"Enough. Baby, we've been over this before. Behave."

"But, mama, he's being a meanie!" "But, babe, he's acting all pretentious." 

The responses come simultaneously: one is high pitched and whiny, and the other is your son. Sometimes, you have to pause and ask yourself how you haven't gone insane yet. It's the love that keeps you from falling apart. How could you ever harbor any other feeling for these two, except for wanting to cherish them? You just... need to work on a pet name that doesn't apply to the both of them at once.  

"I don't want to hear it. Sweetie, finish your lunch. And, Satoru?" 

"Yes, honey-who-loves-me-and-my-'ugly, doo-doo'-face?" He's smirking, snickering, while saying this, the sly bastard. When will the pair ever relent on trying to one-up the other? 

"Why have you got one of my hair ties on your wris- never mind. Don't forget to change the sheets in our room. I'd do it myself if not for the meeting I need to get to in an hour." 

"Yes, ma'am." 

Cue a tiny gasp. 

"But, mama..." The voice of your little one breaks the peaceful silence at the dining table once again. His legs start kicking back and forth - a sign that he's growing restless - from the chair they're dangling off of. He's got a protest already forming up in that head of his. "Toru said he'd take me to the skate park today. And he promised to get ice cream after."

Toru, huh? That's new. You can't help the smile that paints itself on your lips. The two have been getting along pretty well, it seems, contrary to all the bickering they do. That's always nice to know. It's amusing to see the dynamic they've built. One second, they're riling each other up to no end, the next, they've already formed a secret alliance to go out and have fun together. How cute. "Is that so?"

"Mhm! So that means we need to leave riiight after I finish my lunch. Don't get mad, okay?" 

It's the small things like these that warm your heart. Some sacrifices can be made if it's in regards to this adorable (step, even though you haven't married Satoru yet)father-son moment. The sheets are insignificant right now. "Awwh. Of course I won't get mad, baby. It's good for you to want to spend more time with Satoru. Isn't he a fun guy?"

"... maybe." 

. . . 

"Just make sure he's safe out there. Helmet and gear on at all times, no big ramps. And don't let him eat too much sugar. He'll get hyper. Once the rush dies down, he'll get cranky -"

Satoru's arm wraps around your waist before you can finish your sentence, pulling you overwhelmingly close to his frame. Instinctively, your arms move to wrap around his neck, just the way Satoru likes it. Oh, how he wants to just throw everything else out the window and drag you to the nearest room with a lock in place.

"You -" A quick peck to your lips, followed by a nibble on your bottom lip. "- worry -" Another peck. "- too -" Another. "- much." Then, an unexpected bite on the shell of your right ear. "I'd never allow myself to let that little demon get hurt; or hyper."

Large hands wander across the curve of your back, resting firm on your butt. Satoru doesn't want to expose your son to the way he's squeezing your plush flesh with his long digits, so he shifts to have your back pressed against the wall. A perfect opportunity to kiss you - which the man can't help but seize. What else is a smitten boyfriend to do while waiting for your son to get ready and come down from his room upstairs? Lips against lips until one of you pulls away for air. "He's safe with me, okay?" 

"Okay." 

"Atta girl. Now, you go to that meeting of yours. And, tonight, after we both get back- oww."

"Groooss! Don't kiss my mama, or you'll make her ugly! Like youuu!"

"Baby, no. Don't kick Satoru's ankles-"

"I'm saving you, mama."

with 𖹭, rina !!

[ineedpaigebuckets]

this is pure filth so 🥰

Could you do like azzi walks in on Paige like ykkk to herself and then like Paige stops and wants azzi to come help her but then like azzi is like no I wanna watch

i wanna watch

it’s late.

the dorm is quiet, save for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional stretch of the old pipes in the walls. azzi’s just finished her treatment session—ice bath, stretches, deep tissue massage she hated every second of. she’s tired and sticky and already thinking about crawling into bed when she opens the door to their room.

the light’s off.

but the window’s open, and the moon’s full—soft, silvery light spills across the floor like water. it’s quiet. azzi almost assumes paige is asleep until she hears it—a breath, sharp and cut off. then a soft whine, swallowed against the back of a hand.

she steps in without thinking. the door closes behind her with a gentle click.

and there she is.

paige, curled up in her bed, her hoodie half-zipped and her hand between her legs.

it’s slow. lazy. desperate. her other hand’s gripping the hem of her blanket, her legs bent and pulled up a little like she was trying to be quiet, like she didn’t want anyone to see—but she didn’t lock the door.

her head tips back when she hears azzi, mouth parted. her eyes flutter open slow, pupils blown wide, flushed and already sweating.

“shit,” paige breathes. but she doesn’t pull her hand away. not right away.

azzi stands there, frozen, gym bag slipping off her shoulder and thunking quietly to the floor. she should turn around. she knows that. but paige looks wrecked, red-cheeked and soft and needy, her breath catching like she’s been trying to hold back for too long.

paige lets out a tiny, frustrated sound, yanking her hand away but only for a second—long enough to reach out, fingers grasping the edge of her blanket like she might try to hide. but her eyes are locked on azzi’s, blown open, pleading.

“azz,” she says, voice breaking around it. “can you… fuck. can you come here?”

it’s not even subtle. it’s all over her face—she doesn’t just want help, she wants her. wants azzi’s hand instead of her own. wants azzi to see how badly she needs her.

azzi swallows. her heartbeat’s loud in her ears.

“what were you thinking about?” her voice is quiet. too steady. she drops her jacket on the desk chair and takes a step forward, not to the bed yet. “me?”

paige nods instantly, like her brain can’t form words anymore. her hand flexes against her thigh.

“you,” she breathes. “fuck, you. i missed you. you were gone so long.”

azzi raises a brow. “you couldn’t wait?”

“i tried,” paige says, like it hurts her to admit it. “i swear. i just—i kept thinking about the way you looked this morning. how you kissed my neck and left and didn’t even touch me, you’re so mean.”

azzi’s lips twitch.

“mean?” she repeats, voice low, amused.

paige makes a broken little sound, half-laugh, half-groan. “you know what you do to me.”

azzi’s almost at the bed now. she stops at the edge, crosses her arms lightly over her chest. her hair’s still wet from the shower. she looks down at paige, and paige looks so small like this—like she’s trying to behave but already undone.

“so what now?” azzi murmurs. “you want me to fix it?”

paige nods again, breath catching.

but azzi doesn’t move.

she tilts her head, slow, and her eyes are dark in the low light, glinting with something dangerous. “no,” she says softly. “i wanna watch.”

paige blinks, like she didn’t hear her right.

“w–what?”

“you heard me.” azzi moves to sit down at the edge of the bed, turning toward her, one leg tucked under herself. “i want to watch you. just like this.”

paige flushes bright, like the words go straight through her, but her thighs shift and her hand twitches against her stomach. “azz…”

“keep going,” azzi says, voice barely above a whisper. “please.”

that word undoes paige more than anything else—please. it’s rare. azzi doesn’t ask for things often. she usually just has them, takes them. but now she’s asking to watch and paige would give her anything.

she swallows, fingers trailing down again, hesitant at first. azzi watches the way her hips shift, the way her lashes flutter as she bites her bottom lip and slides her fingers back between her thighs.

“good girl,” azzi says, so soft.

paige’s whole body twitches.

she starts to move again, this time not bothering to hide the sound she lets out. it’s quieter with azzi watching, more restrained, like she’s shy but also turned on because she’s being seen.

azzi never looks away. her hand drifts to her own leg, fingers tracing lazy circles against her jeans. she watches the way paige moves, the slow rhythm of her hand, the way her free arm curls up near her face, knuckles pressed to her mouth to keep from getting too loud.

“you’re so pretty like this,” azzi murmurs. “so desperate for me.”

“i am,” paige chokes out. “fuck, i am—azz, please.”

“please what?”

paige’s voice cracks. “please touch me.”

azzi just leans forward slightly, brushing her fingers over paige’s hair, gentle, but doesn’t move further. “not yet,” she says. “i like this.”

paige whines, hips stuttering, but she doesn’t stop.

azzi watches the whole thing.

watches the tension build in paige’s legs, the way her back arches just slightly, the way she says her name like a prayer and a curse, over and over again. the sheets are twisted under her knees, her shirt bunched up, and her cheeks are damp now, just a little, from the sheer intensity of it all.

“you wanna come for me?” azzi asks, her voice velvet-soft. “right in front of me?”

paige nods, almost frantic, breath hitching. “yes. please. i’m so close.”

“then look at me,” azzi says.

and paige does.

and that’s what does it.

it crashes over her in a rush—hips stuttering, mouth falling open around a soundless cry. her whole body curls in on itself, legs trembling, hand working her through it until she’s whimpering from the overstimulation and still trying to drag it out just a second longer because azzi is still watching.

when it’s over, she collapses back against the mattress, chest heaving, eyes glassy.

azzi leans in and presses a kiss to her cheek.

“good girl,” she whispers. “you did so good.”

paige blinks up at her, still dazed. “you didn’t even touch me.”

azzi smirks. “didn’t have to.”

paige swallows. “can i… touch you now?”

azzi laughs, low and warm. “eventually,” she murmurs, brushing hair back from paige’s forehead. “right now, i wanna hold you.”

and she does.

she pulls paige into her arms, skin still flushed and trembling, and kisses her slowly, like she’s soothing the ache she just watched unfold.

[mochinomnoms]

I'm in such a family fluff mood. I'd imagine floyd and Jade would be particularly protective of there kids and spouse after the birth. They're probably use to seeing infants already swimming and fighting so seeing there baby if it's more human than mer be so frail and dependent along with seeing the pain there spouses went through those boys will probably try and fight anyone or anything they see as a threat to them. Poor doctors and nurses would have to wear protective gear

I LOVE DOMESTIC SHIT MY ASKS ARE ALWAYS OPEN FOR THEM

But human birth is a really big, often painful experience. Birth in general for mammals is a big thing, but for humans in particular it seems that it's such a taxing process. For merfolk, who I think probably mostly lay eggs with a few outliers, this is probably a terrifying fact of human biology!

And seeing how fragile their human child is, alongside their partner being in such a venerable state, puts them into a massive state of anxiety.

Now, i will say that either Leech would have to behave themselves if they want to stay in the room with their spouse and child, as hospital staff will kick people out if they're getting violent with them. So they're lanky balls of anxiety.

Floyd is more likely of the two to pace around the room and constantly come to your side to see if you're still okay. He has a lot of pent up energy, but he doesn't want to get kicked out or leave you to do something, but he needs to do SOMETHING! Ask him to get you ice or jello or something, he needs to walk around. But once the baby is here and laying in the bassinet, he's so eerily quiet. Sitting and staring at the little thing swaddled, wrinkly looking and so so sooooo small. He's utterly enchanted, his hand in yours as he squeezes your fingers every so often. It's sweet.

Jade similarly needs something to do, but in his way, he's eyeing the room you're in and moving around to adjust things. Is your bed comfortable? He has more pillows and blankets, let him help you adjust. Sun in your eyes, he's adjusting the blinds. Oh, it's hard to find anything in this cabinet, time for him to rearrange, doesn't this look much nicer and easier to find things? He's halfway to asking the staff for cleaning supplies to wipe and disinfect everything in the room by the time you're ready to give birth. Once the baby arrives, he's immediately attending to the two of you, making sure you're comfortable and healing, checking on the little one to make sure they're not fussy. This time though, it's not from an anxious need to nest, but rather a need to happily dote.

[snkts]

Slice the bread with your claws. Do it! Slice the bread!

Send my muse intrusive thoughts and they'll react as if they were having them. || ACCEPTING

This is actually normal for him. Why bother making more dishes to be washed? Plus, if he heats his claw up just enough, and moves his hand at just the right speed...

There! Toast, ready and waiting the jam.

And yes, he is going to use his claws to spread that, too - not like anyone's around to stop him.

[bunny-jpeg]

how can i take your order? all you have to do is pick a dessert, drink and driver/character of your choosing! are you in the mood for a mille-feuille or a big slice of chocolate cake! please, please, please indicate who you want me to write about!!

the servers are from the following: formula one, call of duty, baldur's gate 3, haikyuu, one piece, jujustu kaisen, detective comics (dc), marvel comics (but i am open to any other fandoms you might have in mind! please do not hesitate to ask!!)

i do also accept polyam relationships! (pairing + reader), up to about four people! just to make it manageable on my end!

all orders can be made to the inbox for @bunny-jpeg and i'll get your order together asap! also let me know if you want it extra sweet or a little more spicy !

mille-feuille: “that’s it, fuck, that’s a good girl.”

butter tart: "let's ruin ourselves for anyone else."

sugar pie: “gonna let daddy hear ya?”

zebra cake: "well, what do we have here?"

carrot cake: "swallow it. all of it."

millionaire shortcake: "if they saw you now, you'd be the biggest shame to your family."

pots de crème: "if a picture is worth a thousand words, then i could probably get a million dollars for this photo."

oat flapjacks: "i'm not scared of you."

persian rolls: "it's mandatory i finish. you getting to finish is a treat."

spice pie: "i didn't know it was possible to be a liar and a slut."

mushroom pie: "if you don't shut up. i'm going to shut you up."

lemon slice: "i'm sorry, what was that? i can’t hear you over all that noise you’re making."

swiss roll: "everything you own, everything you wear i paid for. so i guess that means i own you."

pumpkin pie: "i've met strays who were more obedient."

pastry braid: "your job is to make me cum. now get to work."

sausage roll: "i wonder how much i could get for photos of this cunt."

pithivier: "if you don't behave, i'll let the boys take care of you."

tiramisu: “my little slut to ruin.”

sponge toffee: "aw, is someone mad that they can only cum because of me?"

pull-apart bread: "i love you"

powered sugar donuts: "marry me."

blueberry bars: “gonna make you a mamma and you're gonna make me a daddy.”

pudding chomeur: "i don't share."

ice cream bars: “did you see the way he was eyeing you? he need to know you're mine."

chocolate cake: "do you feel that? that's what happens when i think about you all day."

soufflé: "i'll be gentle."

fried dough: "i know virginity is a stupid concept... but i want to take yours."

apple pie: "now be good and beg. thank you."

vanilla cheesecake: "where are your manners?"

berry trifle: "wrong. try again."

maple cream pie: "either you wear the necklace with my name on it, or wear my bruises around your neck."

s'more: "The accent gets to you, doesn't it?"

belgian waffles: "i cum in that every night."

pancakes: "if you bite me. i'll bite you back."

loaf of whole wheat bread: "you're going to shut that mouth and take me."

jos louis: "does someone need a daddy?"

maple taffy: "oh my god you're stupid."

snowballs: "don't worry, drug tests aren't till next week."

shortbread cookies: "and who does this belong to?"

flan: "i'm not possessive... i'm obsessive."

peach cake: "if you spill a drop, we start all over."

angel food cake: "if he fucks with me again, i'm finishing inside of you."

red velvet cupcake: "if you don't like being called a whore, then stop acting like one."

mince pie: "i'm not jealous."

banana bread: "i'm going to fuck that sweet pussy of yours until the only word your little brain can form is my name."

crumb cake: "if you just listened, all of this could've been avoided."

chocolate chip cookies: "you're beautiful when you smile, but you're the prettiest when my cock is in your throat"

nanaimo bars: "who's my pretty girl? c'mon say it."

coffee cake: "knees. now."

sourdough bread: "i'm going to breed you."

blueberry muffins: "i don't think it'll fit."

pound cake with strawberries: "you know i hate going over rules, but just because i like seeing you embarrassed, i'll tell you them again."

croissant: "i wonder if your father knows what happens during the off hours. if he knows you're here with me."

crepe: "pretty girl."

french toast: "you're trying to make me jealous!"

churros: "if you don't shut that little mouth of yours, i will stuff it full. okay?"

shortbread squares: "you're just mad that that my cock fits perfectly in you now. must be a blow to the ego that we're a perfect match."

savory pastry: "let your brother find out."

sweet pastry: "i'll make it all better."

eclairs: "the family's precious little girl. under me like a slut."

boston cream pie: "yeah, i'll use protection."

bagel: “gonna paint you with my teeth.”

crostata: “stupid slut, this is what you wanted huh? wanted me to fuck you like i hate you.”

tres leches: "i wonder if your brother know i cum in you."

peanut butter bars: “scratch me, bite me, just mark me sweetheart. show them I’m yours.”

eton mess: "be careful. your breath smells like cum."

scones: "but what if they see us!"

english muffin: "aw, is someone crying?"

honey cruller: "i forget how small you are sometimes."

banana split: "don't look at me like that."

beer brownies: "stick your tongue out anymore and you'll look like a dog."

fudge: "your father is pissing me off."

sticky toffee pudding: "the only way this is ending is you getting pregnant."

hot cross buns: "don't hide your face from me. i'd hate to have to tie you up."

brownies: "you're so much more agreeable when you have something to occupy that mouth of yours."

chocolate mousse: "the only necklace you need is my hand around your throat"

tim bits: "stupid little thing."

fruitcake: "i'll make tonight special."

cornmeal muffin: "i need you most."

devil's food cake: "you're my most unhealthy obsession."

crème caramel: "oh. you thought you were getting away from me?"

banana & chocolate muffins: "i'm only doing this because you need to learn how to behave, rules are rules, and you need to follow them."

custard tart: "i've never done this before."

cinnamon rolls: "no one needs to know."

mango sorbet: "you are by far the dumbest thing i've ever fucked. how did they even let you graduate?"

date squares: "you look better with my marks on you."

figgy duff: "if i buy it, will you stop pouting?"

spicy upside down cake: "let's play a game: don't get caught."

cream puffs: "let me finish inside."

profiteroles: "come away with me. for a week, together. anywhere you want, we'll go."

with a side of:

coffee: rivals

tea: semi-public/public sex

juice: cockwarming

mocha coffee: breeding kink

bubble tea: daddy kink

a vodka shot: rough sex

sparkling water: gentle sex

coconut water: alternate universe

energy drink: doggy style

champagne: sugar daddy situation

hard lemonade: possessive behaviour

espresso shot: dirty talking

a glass of wine: cowgirl position

ice capp coffee: werewolf au

bloody mary: vampire au

martini: mafia au

frozen latte: dumbification

frozen lemonade: consensual non-consent

cranberry juice: mean!character

glass of water: aftercare

chocolate milk: tenderness

milkshake: size kink

pina colada: pregnancy

cider: body worship

mai tai: loss of virginity

margarita: unprotected sex

mint julep: punishments

chai: biting/hickies

earl grey: big cock

fishbowl cocktail: protected sex

tonic water: age gap

matcha latte: collars/bondage

root beer: filming/recording

soda: jealousy

americano: oral sex

whisky: degrading language

vitamin water: dom/sub dynamic

irish coffee: high sex

sangria: drunk sex

dark roast coffee: sub!character

dark hot chocolate: sub!reader

iced tea: accidentally launching relationship

lemon water: university/college au

naked & famous: bimbo/ditzy!reader

on the house: author's choice!

ORDER UP!

[spicy-apple-pie]

Listen. I know canonically Damian acts out against his father for very valid reasons, but what if Damian was like… very submissive towards Bruce (for lack of a better term)

Like his mother has been hyping him up for his whole life, he thinks the world of his father. And because he’s only known greatness in terms of the LoA. Strict hierarchies, professionalism, no chit chat etc.

So Damian gets there and obeys Bruce with no questions asked. He won’t talk unless spoken to and stands at attention when addressed. Also the problem of him thinking that Tim and Alfred fall under him and should behave the same way. And they both recognize how tragic it is because he’s just holding them to his standard, if that makes sense? Like Damian is expecting Bruce to treat him the way he treats them kinda thing so they’re like “>:(“ but also “:(“

And then Bruce is like “okay, I’m going to take a whole day off and hang out with Damian to show him that we’re chill.” But Damian takes this as “ah yes, the test to determine whether I’m worthy to stay.”

And they spend the day at the park and Bruce is trying the whole day to pry Damian open like “what kind of ice cream do you want?” Or “what would you like to do?” And Damian replies with “what ever you see fit, Father.”

Until Damian breaks down because he doesn’t know the right answers. And he sees it in Bruce’s face when he answers that he’s getting it wrong somehow, but he doesn’t know. And then Father is going to send him back, and Mother will be disappointed.

And Bruce holds him, tells him to take deep breaths, and kisses his head. And Damian cries harder because it reminds him of Mother and desperately wants his Mother right now.

Idk, I just love hurt/comfort and good dad Bruce.

[edenesth]

02. The Gentleman — By Order of the Black Pirates

An 'Ice On My Teeth' Comeback Special Series

Pairing: gang member!Seonghwa x fem!reader

AU: gang au

Word Count: 21.5k

Summary: The Black Pirates' poised diplomat, celebrated for his refined demeanour, sharp wit, and unmatched negotiation skills, is always in control. But his composure falters when he encounters an unwilling captive trapped in the Red Room—a ruthless training ground for spies. Driven by an unexpected urge to save her, he finds his carefully maintained boundaries beginning to unravel.

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Trigger Warnings: violence, torture, abuse, human experimentation, scars, murder, language, contains dark themes in general

SERIES MASTERLIST | ATEEZ MASTERLIST

"Ooh, look who's in charge of the Red Room alliance now," Wooyoung teased, sauntering into Seonghwa's office with his usual swagger. The eldest, meticulously double-checking the contents of his briefcase for the upcoming critical meeting, barely spared him a glance. "I'm busy," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "Go bother someone else."

Unfazed, the Charmer smirked and plopped into his brother's vacant chair, spinning it around before propping his legs up on the desk. "Oh, come on, hyung. You're about to be surrounded by women—not just any women, mind you—the finest of the fine. Think you could put in a good word for me? Maybe convince Hongjoong hyung to let me tag along? You know we'd make an unbeatable duo." He winked cheekily, his grin as mischievous as ever.

Seonghwa sighed, snapping his briefcase shut and securing the safe after confirming everything was in place. He turned to face the younger man, his expression deadpan. "You? Of all people?" he scoffed. "I'd sooner bring Yunho—if only he were available. A word of advice: focus on your own mission. You can't even handle one bodyguard, let alone navigate an entire organisation of trained spies."

Wooyoung gasped dramatically, clutching his chest in mock offense. "Ouch, hyung! Why so harsh? Last I checked, Cap's the one nursing a broken heart, not you."

At that, the Gentleman's demeanour shifted, his gaze sharp as he stepped forward and smacked the younger man's feet off the desk. Wooyoung stumbled forward with a surprised yelp, glaring up at the elder. "That's quite enough, Woo," Seonghwa said sternly. "I'd advise you not to push your luck with Hongjoong right now. One Mingi is already more than enough."

There it was—the unshakable calm and maturity of the Black Pirates' eldest member. Even the most chaotic among them couldn't rattle him. Recognising defeat, Wooyoung grinned sheepishly, standing to nod at his brother. "Fine, I'll behave since you asked so nicely," he mused, watching Seonghwa nod in approval and stride toward the door. "Safe journey, hyung. Get back in one piece."

The taller man paused, glancing over his shoulder to offer one of his rare, gentle smiles. "I will," he replied confidently. "When have I ever let you down?"

For fuck's sake, who the hell was I kidding?

Now, he wished he could smack himself across the face for his foolish confidence. If only he had known how it would all turn out, how the plan would go sideways so suddenly. He reclined against the stiff guest room bed, the pristine white ceiling offering no answers to the storm brewing in his mind. He rubbed his face with both hands, trying to sort through the frustration. The weight of his earlier decisions pressed against his chest like an iron vice.

Just what in the world was he doing? He replayed the day in his head for the thousandth time, dissecting every detail. The mission had started seamlessly—his confidence unshakable. He had left the mansion that morning, projecting the poise expected of the Gentleman, cautioning his brothers to behave in his absence, and promising Hongjoong he'd return triumphant.

His arrival at the spy training facility had gone smoothly, his awe carefully masked by quiet professionalism. The place's grandeur was undeniable—dark, imposing, yet breathtaking in its meticulous design. He marvelled silently at how these women had built something so formidable, so self-sufficient, despite centuries of systemic oppression.

The security was tight, the multiple checks before getting to the building's main entrance were a testament to their efficiency. By the time he was greeted by Madame Scarlet, an elegant woman who appeared to be in her fifties and the enigmatic founder of the Red Room, his admiration had only deepened.

"We hope you had a wonderful journey here. The Red Room welcomes you, Captain Kim of the Black Pirates," the woman had said, her tone formal yet inviting.

Seonghwa had bowed lightly, offering his most disarming smile. "Thank you, Madame. But I must clarify—the Captain was unable to attend due to urgent matters back home. I am his right hand. You may call me Gentleman Park."

The lady's subtle reaction—a raised brow and the slightest tightening of her lips—didn't escape his notice. Still, he handled the rest of the meeting with the same elegance, navigating their discussions with ease. Everything had been on track.

Until it wasn't.

One step—one final step—was all it took to close the deal and forge the alliance. All he had to do was say yes and sign the contract. He cursed under his breath, recalling the words that had left his mouth—words that had deviated from every carefully laid plan.

"I would like to think this over a bit more. While I agree that this would be in both parties' best interests, I would just like to spend some more time here to have a clearer picture of how things work, to better understand our ally, if you will. I hope that's alright with you."

The room had stilled, the practised neutrality of the Red Room's representatives masking their surprise. But one person couldn't hide their reaction—the sole reason for this madness—you.

He saw it, the way your shoulders stiffened, the slight lift of your head as you dared to glance his way. Your wide eyes met his, and for a fleeting moment, the world around him disappeared.

That moment was his undoing.

It was supposed to be simple: finalise the alliance, leave without looking back, and report a flawless success to Hongjoong. But you... you had thrown a wrench into his perfect plan.

The deal could have been closed smoothly, had it not been for one of the trainees who captured his attention almost the moment he stepped through the doors. You stood out like a sore thumb among the neat lines of female operatives in training—your trembling eyes and subtle gulp betraying your struggle to hold back tears. Maybe you were just having a bad day, he reasoned, perhaps a failed performance during a gruelling session. Training couldn't be easy here; the Red Room was notorious for its brutality.

But his curiosity refused to fade. Throughout the visit, his gaze kept drifting to your fragile, trembling figure trailing behind Madame Scarlet and her trusted aide. It wasn't just your withdrawn demeanour or the way you seemed to shrink into yourself—it was the unmistakable fear etched across your features. Pure, unadulterated terror surfaced when a trainer called on you, and in that fleeting moment when your eyes met his, there was desperation—a silent plea for help that cut through his composure like a blade.

You didn't belong here, not even the slightest. Something deep within him stirred, a compulsion he couldn't ignore—a need to act, to intervene, to save you.

His reasons for staying defied logic, and he knew it. By lingering, he jeopardised the alliance, risked his position in the gang, and invited potentially disastrous consequences. Yet the pull was undeniable—an unrelenting drive to uncover the truth about you and why he couldn't let you become just another face in his memory.

Now, in the stillness of the guest room, Seonghwa sat up, elbows resting on his knees, his head cradled in his hands. With you finally out of sight and his mind beginning to clear, the sharp sting of rationality returned. He couldn't help but imagine how the rest of the gang would react once they learned of his recklessness. Everyone had trusted him to seal this alliance, especially Hongjoong. The man was already grappling with enough turmoil—this was the last thing he needed.

And then there was Mingi. If he messed this up, the Firestarter would never let him or the Captain live it down. Not that the tall bastard's teasing mattered in the grand scheme of things, but the stakes here were monumental. This alliance was vital; without it, the White Serpents could easily exploit their instability. So, what the hell was he doing, letting himself get derailed by a girl—a trainee, no less? If only he had minded his own business, he'd already be on his way home, mission accomplished.

But no, here he was...

Yet, deep down, he couldn't shake the memory of your terrified expression. That raw, unfiltered fear—it wasn't something he'd seen in a long time. Not like this. Fear wasn't new to him; in their line of work, it was an almost daily occurrence. But those pleas for mercy typically came from people who deserved their fate, criminals and scumbags who'd wronged others. This, however, was different. Your fear wasn't rooted in guilt but in helplessness.

For a brief moment, Seonghwa wondered if this was what Hongjoong had seen, too. Was this the same spark that had ignited his leader's own impulsive choices?

Shaking his head, he let out a quiet groan. Even if he wanted to help you, how? He had no plan, no resources. He was alone here, without the gang's collective strength. Yunho and Yeosang's clever solutions weren't at his disposal, nor were San and Mingi's brute force. Jongho's unshakable composure, which always kept their missions on track, was sorely missed. Hell, he even found himself longing for Wooyoung's antics, if only to lighten the suffocating tension.

If Hongjoong were here, none of this would have happened. The Captain would have stayed focused, unyielding. But then... what would have become of you?

"Goddamnit," he muttered under his breath, the weight of frustration and uncertainty bearing down on him. He dragged a hand through his hair, his voice dropping into a bitter whisper. "We're fucked."

ـــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

The dim light of your cell-like room flickered faintly, casting long shadows against the stark walls. Sleep, elusive as ever, teased the edges of your consciousness but refused to claim you. Your mind was restless, tumbling through a cascade of thoughts, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, they weren't entirely about the nightmare you endured daily.

They were about him.

The man—the Gentleman, as Madame Scarlet had introduced him—was unlike anyone you'd seen before, not just because he was the first male face in years, but because he looked at you as though you were more than just another broken thing in this place. His dark eyes had lingered on you, his gaze following you like a soft, unspoken question. You felt it, even when you tried not to.

You had no idea why he stayed. It was madness, sheer idiocy, for him to risk what should have been a clean, uncomplicated deal. That was how it always worked—outsiders came, signed the agreement, and left as fast as they arrived, never daring to peel back the pristine mask of the Red Room's operations. But he didn't follow the script.

Why?

The question burned in your chest, twisting into an unfamiliar ache. You wished it were annoyance, that you could dismiss him as another arrogant man playing a dangerous game. But it wasn't. It was fear—raw and desperate fear—not for yourself, but for him.

He had no idea what he had walked into. You could tell he wasn't oblivious; his calculating demeanour and sharp wit proved that much. But he was still a fool to stay. What did he hope to accomplish? Surely, it wasn't because of you.

Your heightened senses—the ones the Red Room had painstakingly sharpened until they bled into paranoia—picked up on every stolen glance, every small, deliberate movement. From the moment he entered, you knew he had noticed you, not just as an anomaly but as something... else. You'd been trained to anticipate motives, to understand what people wanted, but his attention baffled you.

It scared you.

The others didn't miss his glances, either. You'd caught the sidelong looks of the senior operatives, the way Madame Scarlet's lips had curved just slightly at the edges, a subtle acknowledgement that she was watching too. It was only a matter of time before they decided he was a liability.

If he stayed, they'd break him.

You clenched your fists tightly against the rough sheets beneath you, trying to quell the overwhelming tide of emotions threatening to drown you. Emotions—weaknesses, as they called them here—were the enemy. You had learned that the hard way. But now, despite everything, your heart betrayed you, pounding with the terrible clarity that he wouldn't last a day if he truly understood what went on here.

You shut your eyes, trying to block out the memory of his face, his voice, the ridiculous bravery in his words as he locked eyes with you and said he needed more time. If he knew—if he lived even a fraction of what you endured—he would've bolted at the first opportunity.

"Fool," you whispered into the stillness, your voice barely audible over the quiet hum of the facility. "What did you get yourself into?"

You hated him for staying, for giving you this fragile, fleeting sense of hope that things could change. You hated him for being so careless with his life. And yet, more than anything, you hated yourself for wishing—just for a moment—that he might be strong enough to do what you couldn't.

Run. Escape. Fight.

Save himself.

Because if he stayed, the Red Room would devour him whole, just as it had done to you.

Perhaps it was already beginning to.

On the other side of the building, the guest room felt colder than it should have. Seonghwa, too, lay sprawled on the rigid mattress, the pristine white walls around him offering no comfort, no reprieve from the maelstrom of thoughts battering his mind. He flipped onto his side, then his back, then his stomach, a frustrated growl escaping his lips as sleep evaded him entirely.

His mind was a battlefield, each thought warring for dominance. Was this all a trap?

It would make sense. The Red Room was too efficient, too methodical, to let someone like you slip through the cracks unnoticed. Maybe your fear, your weakness—it was all calculated. Perhaps they had planted you there, your trembling frame meant to bait him, to test him. Maybe the terror in your eyes wasn't actual terror at all but a meticulously crafted act designed to lure him into a false sense of sympathy.

What if you were a rebel?

His fists clenched tightly against the sheets, jaw set as the possibility burned in his mind. If you were working against the Red Room, you'd have every reason to use him, to exploit the cracks in this precarious alliance. And if you weren't a rebel, then what? Were you a spy? An assassin in training? A failure?

"Dammit," he muttered, running a hand through his dark hair. He couldn't shake the image of you—those wide, haunted eyes that seemed to plead with him, even though you hadn't said a single word. He cursed himself for the millionth time that night.

This wasn't like him.

He wasn't the kind of man who acted rashly. Calculated precision was his forte, keeping his emotions locked behind an impenetrable wall. Yet the moment he saw you, it was as though something inside him had cracked, and all the logic he prided himself on was thrown to the wind.

What the hell was he doing?

His brothers were counting on him. Hongjoong, who had trusted him enough to send him in the Captain's stead; Yunho, who would've meticulously planned every contingency if only he'd been given more time; Yeosang, who'd always had a knack for seeing through deceptions; Mingi and San, whose combined strength could've handled this mess in a fraction of the time. Even Jongho, with his unflappable calm, would've been a better choice to stand in this precarious position.

And Wooyoung... God, Wooyoung would never let him live this down.

The Gentleman sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, head cradled in his hands again. He felt the weight of their expectations, of the responsibility he carried, bearing down on him like an iron chain. He had to get this done. He had to sign the deal, leave, and return home with good news.

Not fuck this up over some girl.

You weren't supposed to matter. You were just another face, another casualty of this ruthless place. He had seen plenty like you before—broken people trapped in broken systems. He had told himself he was immune to that kind of thing, that the world was too harsh for him to care.

And yet, when he thought of you, the logic he so carefully cultivated unravelled.

The terror in your eyes wasn't like the fear he was used to seeing—the kind born of guilt or desperation. This was deeper, rawer, something that twisted in his chest in a way he didn't understand.

And he hated it.

He hated that he was here, that he'd let himself get dragged into this, that he'd let himself care.

But no matter how much he hated it, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was already in too deep.

"Tomorrow," he muttered, his voice a low growl in the empty room. "I'll get it done tomorrow."

He repeated the words like a mantra, as if saying them enough times would make them true. He would go through with the deal, close this chapter, and walk away.

But deep down, he knew the truth.

Things weren't really going to go his way.

ـــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

Come on, you can do this.

It has been hours since the chamber door hissed shut with a deafening finality, the sound echoing in the narrow space like a harbinger of dread. You sat on the cold metal chair, your wrists clamped to the armrests by invisible shackles of terror. The fluorescent lights buzzed above you, their harsh glare illuminating every crack and scratch on the otherwise featureless walls. No windows. No exit. Just four oppressive walls closing in on you with every passing second.

The robotic voice came through the unseen speakers again, its clinical tone devoid of any humanity.

"How do you feel?"

Regret. Endless regret.

You squeezed your eyes shut, teeth clenched as if that could hold back the flood of emotions threatening to betray you. Your hands trembled in your lap, but you forced them still, your fingernails digging into your palms hard enough to draw blood.

"Nothing," you whispered, the lie cracking in your throat.

The tears you had fought so hard to suppress welled up in your eyes. Regret clawed at your insides like a caged animal, howling against the walls of your mind. It had been there since the day you were dragged into this living nightmare, growing stronger with every dehumanising test, every soul-crushing exercise designed to strip you of your essence. But they couldn't know. They could never know.

"Tell the truth. How do you feel?"

The voice was a hammer against the brittle shell of your composure, striking again and again.

You let out a shaky breath, your chest tightening as if a vice had clamped around your lungs. "Nothing," you repeated, louder this time, willing yourself to believe it even as the walls seemed to close in on you.

The isolation chamber had become your recurring purgatory. You had been here so many times you'd lost count, but the panic never abated. No matter how many hours you spent in its suffocating grip, the claustrophobia seeped into your bones like a cold fog.

The lights dimmed suddenly, plunging you into darkness. You stiffened, knowing what was coming next. A low hum reverberated through the walls, growing louder until it drowned out the sound of your own heartbeat. The vibrations rattled the chair beneath you, a disorienting rhythm meant to shake loose any remnants of control you clung to.

Your mind spiralled back to where it all began.

Regret.

You were just a struggling college student, barely scraping by, when you saw the advertisement. It promised compensation for volunteers to participate in what seemed like harmless clinical trials or government-sponsored programmes. The language was vague, but the money was too tempting to ignore. You signed up, thinking it was your ticket to financial stability.

And then they took you.

Regret.

You learned too late what you had walked into—a secret experiment buried in the heart of this monstrous training facility. Madame Scarlet's calculating gaze haunted you at every turn, her icy demeanour radiating an unsettling confidence. She watched your every move, her success hinging on breaking you, the so-called pioneer of their new programme.

Regret.

You were their first, their proof of concept. The goal: emotion suppression and control. To strip operatives of fear, guilt, and compassion, leaving only a cold, efficient shell. They chose you because of your heightened emotional sensitivity, believing that if they could break someone like you, they could break anyone.

And so they broke you.

The lights flickered back on, brighter this time, the sudden glare piercing your eyes like needles. Your breathing quickened, panic clawing at your throat, but you swallowed it down. You couldn't let them win.

"Repeat your response. How do you feel?"

Your lips quivered, the taste of iron on your tongue from where you had bitten the inside of your cheek. You couldn't let them see.

"Nothing at all," you said, the word hollow and lifeless.

The voice paused, as if deliberating. Then, with clinical detachment: "Well done, Subject 01. See you in your next session."

The door hissed open, and you sagged in the chair, your body trembling with the effort of holding yourself together. You were alive. For now. But the endless regret followed you like a shadow, a constant reminder of what you'd lost and what you could never reclaim.

Fortunately or unfortunately, you weren't the only one drowning in regret. Unbeknownst to you, someone else shared the same sentiment.

The dining room exuded a haunting elegance, its dark, polished wood surfaces and deep red drapes creating an ambience that felt both regal and oppressive. Seonghwa sat stiffly at the long table, his hands clasped on the white tablecloth as he worked to maintain a composed exterior. The weight of his regrets pressed down on him like an anchor, but his resolve was firm.

Today, he would end this. No more distractions. No more detours.

He tightened his tie, adjusted his cuffs, and forced a charming smile onto his face as Madame Scarlet settled into the seat opposite him, her presence both commanding and chilling. Her sharp gaze landed on him, and he inclined his head respectfully.

"Good morning, Gentleman Park. I trust you had a restful night?" she greeted, her voice smooth and calculated.

"Good morning, Madame. I did, thank you," he lied, his tone courteous but distant.

This was it. Today was the day he would close the deal, leave this place behind, and never look back. No more pity for doomed souls. No more foolish meddling. He had learned his lesson the hard way.

He was done—done trying to help people whose fates were already sealed. He should have learned from his past mistakes, should have known better than to get involved. But flashes of a helpless child's face resurfaced in his mind, haunting him. He squeezed his eyes shut momentarily, willing the image away.

That child… the one he'd thought he was saving, only for his interference to lead to a fate worse than the one he'd tried to prevent. The memory was a dagger he couldn't dull. He had sworn back then that he was finished with helping anyone. From the moment he became a sworn member of the Black Pirates, he had vowed to leave his misguided sense of justice behind.

With a deep breath, he straightened his suit, slicked back his hair, and forced his face into an impassive mask.

This is it—no more nonsense.

But then you entered the room, and every shred of determination faltered. Oh, fuck me.

Your entrance was unassuming, yet the impact was seismic. The elegant wisteria ruffle lace ballerina dress you wore flowed around you like a delicate mist, a stark contrast to the utilitarian uniform he had seen you in the day before. You looked almost otherworldly, as though you didn't belong to this cold, merciless world.

His breath caught, and he cursed himself silently. He quickly averted his gaze, chastising himself for the slip. But it was too late—the image of you was already seared into his mind.

You bowed respectfully to the founder, then to him, your movements poised but weighed down by an invisible heaviness he couldn't ignore.

"Ah yes," the lady said, a hint of amusement lacing her words. "Our star trainee has arrived. Gentleman Park, you mentioned wanting to better understand our work and methods. As requested, we have arranged for only our best girl to accompany you."

Seonghwa's polite smile tightened, his jaw clenching slightly at her words. Our best girl.

The way she said it unsettled him, her tone almost lecherous, as though you were a prized possession rather than a person. He caught a fleeting look in your eyes—disgust, fear, or perhaps both—before you quickly masked it with a practised smile.

His stomach churned. Something was deeply wrong here.

You moved to take the seat beside him, your steps graceful but hesitant, as though the act of simply approaching carried an unspoken risk. He noticed the stiffness in your posture, the way your hands folded tightly in your lap as if to stop them from trembling.

The elderly woman continued speaking, her voice droning on, but the gang member could no longer focus. He nodded along automatically, his mind elsewhere.

You were too composed, too controlled. Every subtle movement screamed restraint, like a bird in a gilded cage. And while he knew the Red Room's operatives were trained to suppress emotion, there was something uniquely disconcerting about your demeanour. This wasn't the hardened stoicism of a seasoned spy. This was survival.

Why were you so different from the others? Why were you here?

The questions swirled relentlessly in his mind, chipping away at the resolve he had built that morning. Curiosity gnawed at him, and worse—a protective instinct he didn't want to feel.

He stole a glance at you, catching the way your gaze remained fixed downward, avoiding both him and Madame Scarlet. The tension in your shoulders was palpable, and he swore he could feel the unease radiating from you.

What were they doing to you?

The founder's voice snapped him back to reality.

"Gentleman Park, I trust you will find her guidance enlightening. She is one of our finest examples of what the Red Room can achieve."

He forced another smile, though his mind was spinning. "I look forward to it," he replied smoothly.

Beside him, you shifted slightly, your hands tightening in your lap. He wondered if anyone else noticed the subtle cracks in your otherwise perfect facade.

As the conversation continued, Seonghwa found it harder to concentrate. The more he observed you, the more his suspicions grew. Every interaction, every gesture seemed to hint at something darker lurking beneath the surface.

And despite the thousand regrets that weighed on him, despite his earlier resolve to stay detached, he felt the pull again—that unshakable need to understand. To help.

But helping had only ever led to ruin.

Under the table, his fists clenched in frustration. No more distractions, he told himself, repeating the mantra like a prayer.

Yet as you sat quietly beside him, your presence a silent cry for help, he couldn't help but feel that fate had other plans.

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The dining room was suffocating. Every clink of cutlery, every flicker of the ornate chandelier above, felt like a weight pressing down on you. You sat rigid in your chair, the elegant wisteria dress clinging to you uncomfortably—a constant reminder of how little say you had in your own existence here.

The meal in front of you might as well have been poison for all the effort it took to take a bite. Every mouthful felt like swallowing stones, your throat tightening against the gnawing anxiety twisting in your gut. You tried to focus on anything but the endless discomfort—tried to ignore the way your skin crawled at the thought of what Madame Scarlet had planned for you.

Your mind drifted back to earlier, to the icy shower they'd thrown you into after pulling you from the isolation chamber. You'd been scrubbed raw, the roughness of their hands leaving you feeling violated, though that was nothing new. That had been your reality since the day you were dragged into this hell. But today was different. Today, they'd put you in this dress.

You knew what it meant.

The dress marked you as "special," a chosen one to entertain the esteemed guest. But this dress… this wasn't like the others. The fine fabric and intricate lace were almost too much, too extravagant. And that terrified you. This wasn't going to be simple. Whatever they had planned for you—and perhaps for him—wasn't ordinary.

You risked a glance at the man seated beside you. Gentleman Park of the Black Pirates. He didn't belong here, not like the others you'd encountered before. He was the only one foolish enough to willingly extend his stay in this nightmare.

Why?

Before you could dwell on the question, the elderly woman's smooth voice broke through your thoughts. She was halfway through one of her rehearsed speeches—the kind meant to dazzle and manipulate—when her right-hand woman entered the room, leaning down to whisper something in her ear.

Her sharp eyes flickered, and she nodded, her painted lips curving into a smile. "Goodness, I'm so sorry to have to excuse myself, but there is an important phone call that I must take," she said, her tone dripping with saccharine politeness.

The man beside you inclined his head slightly. "Of course," he replied, his voice courteous but distant.

Madame Scarlet turned to you then, and you immediately straightened in your seat, your spine going rigid under her gaze.

"I shall leave you in the good hands of our chosen one," she announced, her smile growing sharper. The weight of her words made your stomach churn, and your blood turned cold as she continued, "I trust you to take care of our guest, darling. Show him around a bit, dance for him, won't you? Do what you do best."

Her wink sent a shiver down your spine.

"The success of this deal depends on you, I'm afraid," she added with a lilting laugh that felt like nails against your skin.

You swallowed hard, lowering your gaze as you bowed your head. "Yes, ma'am," you said softly, your voice steady despite the panic clawing at your insides.

The Gentleman beside you cleared his throat, the sound breaking the heavy silence. "Don't worry about it, Madame," he said, offering a polite smile. "I'm sure this young miss will do excellently."

You caught the faintest flicker of tension in his jaw as he spoke, his discomfort almost palpable. But that didn't stop the lady from seizing the opportunity to twist his words.

"Oh, I'm sure she will," she said, her grin turning suggestive, her tone dripping with implication.

The room seemed to freeze.

You felt your cheeks flush with humiliation, though you forced your expression to remain neutral. This was nothing new; you were used to being reduced to a pawn in their games, to being paraded and objectified.

But the gang member's reaction caught you off guard. His polite smile faltered ever so slightly, and you saw the flicker of realisation in his eyes—realisation of how his words had been twisted. He cringed, his discomfort evident as he averted his gaze, a faint flush colouring his cheeks.

"I didn't mean it like that," he murmured, almost to himself.

But the damage was done. Madame Scarlet's laughter echoed through the room as she swept out, leaving you alone with him.

The silence that followed was suffocating. You kept your gaze fixed downward, your hands folded tightly in your lap as you tried to make yourself invisible.

For his part, Seonghwa stared at the table, his mind racing. He hadn't meant it that way, hadn't meant to disrespect you or contribute to whatever hell you were enduring here. But the way the elderly woman had twisted his words, the way she'd left you here as if you were some sort of offering… it churned his stomach.

The tension in the room was suffocating, thick enough to choke on. You tried to steady your trembling hands by folding them in your lap, resisting the urge to fidget.

He cleared his throat again, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He could still feel the weight of the founder's suggestive tone lingering in the air, her insinuations poisoning the atmosphere even after she was gone.

You didn't dare to look at him, your eyes fixed on the untouched plate of food in front of you. The silence stretched between you, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the distant clinking of cutlery from the other rooms.

He studied you from the corner of his eye, his brows furrowing slightly. There was something deeply wrong about all of this. He couldn't place it exactly, but your subdued, tense demeanour set off alarm bells in his head.

"Look, I... I really didn't mean it like that," he said suddenly, his voice low but firm.

You blinked, startled by his words. Slowly, you turned your head to glance at him, wary and confused.

"I mean what I said earlier," he clarified, his expression earnest now. "About you doing excellent. I just meant… I trust you're good at what you do. Whatever that may be."

Your lips twitched in the faintest semblance of a bitter smile, but it didn't reach your eyes. Good at what I do? You wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. What were you even supposed to be good at here? Surviving? Being obedient? Being… entertaining?

"Thank you," you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. It was the safest response you could muster, even though the words felt hollow.

Seonghwa's jaw tightened. Your tone only deepened the unease coiling in his chest. He leaned back slightly, forcing a casual posture, though his mind was anything but at ease. "They really put a lot of pressure on you, don't they?"

Your fingers tightened in your lap, but you didn't answer. It wasn't safe to.

"I'm sorry," he added after a pause, his voice softer this time. "If I made you uncomfortable earlier."

His apology caught you off guard. You glanced at him again, searching his face for any sign of insincerity. But his eyes—dark and guarded—seemed genuine.

"It's fine," you murmured, though the words tasted bitter on your tongue.

It wasn't fine. Nothing about this was fine.

The silence that followed was heavier than before. The man struggled to focus on the reason he was here, on the deal he needed to secure, but your presence was proving to be a distraction—a quiet, aching reminder of things he'd tried so hard to bury.

He hadn't come here to get involved. He hadn't come here to care.

But the way you sat there, so small and subdued, made it impossible not to wonder. Impossible not to remember.

His thoughts drifted unwillingly to a certain little boy from his past—the one he had failed so utterly, so completely. The one whose blood was on his hands, no matter how many times he told himself he'd been trying to do the right thing.

And here you were now, another fragile soul caught in a similar cruel web.

He clenched his fists under the table, willing himself to stay focused. He couldn't let himself care. Not again.

But then you spoke, your voice trembling just enough to make his heart lurch.

"What deal is she making with you?" you asked cautiously, barely looking at him. "If you don't mind me asking."

The question threw him. For a moment, he didn't know how to answer. Madame Scarlet's words echoed in his mind: The success of this deal depends on you.

He hesitated, studying your expression. Your guarded eyes, the slight furrow of your brows, the way your hands trembled ever so slightly in your lap—it all spoke of someone desperate for answers, for any shred of control in a situation that offered none.

"I'm here for… business," he said vaguely, trying to sound nonchalant.

You didn't press him further, but your expression betrayed your thoughts. Business. Of course. That's all anyone came here for. Deals made in shadows, forged with blood and broken spirits.

He didn't miss the way your gaze dropped back to your lap, your shoulders sagging slightly as though his answer had only confirmed what you already knew.

Something twisted in his chest—a pang of guilt, perhaps, or regret. He wasn't sure anymore.

"Listen…" he began, his voice low and hesitant. "Whatever this is… whatever they're making you do…"

You looked at him sharply, your eyes wide with alarm. "Don't," you whispered urgently, cutting him off.

Seonghwa froze, startled by the intensity of your reaction.

"Please... don't say anything," you said, your voice trembling but firm. "It'll only make things worse."

The fear in your voice was palpable, and it hit him like a punch to the gut.

He nodded slowly, though the knot in his stomach only tightened. He didn't know what they'd done to you—what they were still doing—but he knew enough to see the cracks in your facade, the quiet desperation you tried so hard to hide.

And despite every warning screaming at him to stay out of it, he felt the pull again. That damnable instinct to help. To fix. To save.

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"Dance for him, won't you?"

The phrase echoed in your head, relentless as you changed out of the heels they'd given you and slipped on your worn pointe shoes. Your fingers trembled as you tied the ribbons securely, each movement automatic from years of practice. Ballet—your biggest nightmare—had been drilled into you until it became second nature. It was one of the Red Room's many requirements, justified with cold rationale: flexibility, endurance, stealth, elegance, performance. They were all virtues of an operative, but here, ballet wasn't just about utility. It was a tool of awe and seduction, a weapon veiled in grace.

Perhaps, on some cruel level, this was what you did best—or what you were left with no choice but to excel at.

You stepped into the mirrored practice room, the walls reflecting infinite versions of yourself. The grand mirrors felt more like prison bars than windows of elegance.

And there he was. Seonghwa sat stiffly in the centre of the room, the single chair isolating him like a king on a throne. Except he didn't look like a king. He looked like a man caught in the wrong place, his discomfort etched into every line of his tense body. His hands gripped his knees as though anchoring himself, and when you entered, his gaze darted to you and quickly away again, like he couldn't bear to watch but couldn't bring himself to look away.

You curtsied, the movement sharp and deliberate, your head dipping just enough to complete the mockery of submission. "Enjoy the show, Gentleman Park," you said, your voice carrying an edge of bitter politeness.

His jaw tensed as he sat up straighter, trying to project composure. "Please, you don't have to do this," he said, his voice tight, a plea slipping through the cracks.

A smile ghosted across your lips, brittle and humourless. If only that were true. Madame Scarlet's orders weren't optional. If you refused, she would know. She always knew. And the consequences of disobedience… No, there was no room for refusal.

"Nonsense," you said, shaking your head as though dismissing his concern. "You are our esteemed guest, and I have been bestowed with the duty of entertaining you. So, please—allow me to do what I do best." The words were delivered with a practised calmness, but the insincerity in them hung heavy in the air.

Seonghwa slumped back into his chair, defeated. He didn't believe you, and you didn't expect him to. His hands fidgeted on his lap, his fingers clenching and unclenching as he watched you take your place. The way you carried yourself—head high, movements precise—might have fooled anyone else into thinking you were eager, even proud. But he wasn't fooled. He could see the misery you carried like a weight on your shoulders, even as you rose to your full height, poised and elegant.

And then you began.

The first step was light, a delicate glide that barely disturbed the air. Each movement flowed seamlessly into the next, your arms creating arcs of motion while your legs executed every step with breathtaking precision. The choreography was mesmerising, a performance of impossible beauty.

But to him, it was unbearable.

You were stunning—he couldn't deny that—but beneath the grace and poise, he saw the truth. Every pirouette, every leap, every extension of your arm carried the bitterness of a caged bird forced to sing. This wasn't a gift. It was a sentence.

He clenched his fists in his lap, nails digging into his palms. This was his fault. If he hadn't asked to stay, hadn't let Madame Scarlet pull him into this world, you wouldn't be here, dancing for him like a puppet on strings. He should have known better. He always did this—lingered too long, cared too much, and inevitably made things worse.

When will I learn?

His gaze dropped to the floor as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the image of you, but it was futile. Flashes of the past flooded his mind. The boy's face haunted him—a child he'd thought he was saving. His naivety had cost that boy everything.

He could still feel the small hand clinging to his, the hope in the boy's eyes as Seonghwa had whispered promises of escape. He had meant well, but his actions had backfired spectacularly. The traffickers had found them, dragged the boy back, and exacted a punishment so horrific that he could barely think of it without feeling sick.

He had thought himself a hero, but he had been a fool. Good intentions didn't save anyone—they only destroyed.

Now, as he sat there, forced to watch your anguish play out in the guise of artistry, that guilt returned with a vengeance. He wanted to save you, to rise from his chair and demand that you stop. But what good would it do? He knew better. Intervening would only bring more pain, more suffering, and this time, it would be yours.

"No more," he whispered to himself, his voice trembling. "No more of this madness."

As you spun into another turn, the sight of his head bowed, his attention elsewhere, sent a jolt of despair through you. I've already lost him, you thought, the words clawing at your confidence. A failure, even at this. So much for excellence. The self-criticism came sharp and unrelenting, and in your distraction, you misstepped. Your foot slipped out from under you, and you tumbled forward, a small, startled yelp escaping your lips.

The sound shattered his trance. His head snapped up, eyes wide with alarm. In an instant, he was on his feet and kneeling before you. The swiftness of his reaction caught you off guard, but it was the touch that followed that left you paralysed. His gloved hands found your bare shoulders, steadying you with gentleness so foreign, so alien to you, it almost broke you.

Concern radiated from him—real and unguarded. It was something you hadn't felt in so long that it almost hurt more than the fall. Your chest tightened, the ache unbearable. Why was he doing this? Why was he making it harder to keep the walls up?

But you couldn't afford to dwell on the warmth of his touch, nor the kindness in his gaze. The room felt smaller, suffocating now, as the weight of your mistake bore down on you. You had tripped, faltered—something they would undoubtedly notice. And in the Red Room, mistakes weren't just mistakes. They were crimes. Punishable ones.

Shit.

The realisation hit you like a punch to the gut, and it took every ounce of control not to let the panic show. You forced yourself to meet his eyes, but as you did, your gaze flickered past him—toward the cold, unblinking lens of the camera perched high on the wall. You knew it was watching. They were always watching.

He followed your line of sight, turning his head slightly. By the time his eyes returned to yours, you had schooled your expression into something harder, even as your heart hammered in your chest. The trembling breath you took gave you away, though, as you leaned closer and whispered, your voice barely audible, "Never let your guard down. Not here. No matter how untouchable you think you are, no one is immune to the hands of the Red Room. Not even you, Mr. Park."

His brows furrowed in confusion, but before he could respond, you tilted your head ever so slightly, drawing his attention to the camera again. That was when it hit him. The room wasn't just a stage—it was a cage. For you. For him. For both of you.

When his gaze returned to you, your words came softer but with an edge sharp enough to cut. "If you know what's good for you, you'll finish whatever business brought you here and leave. Today." Your voice wavered, but your warning was resolute. "Do yourself a favour. Go. Run while you still can. And forget."

The words cut through him, a dagger sinking deep into his chest. He stared at you, his throat tightening, the air around him thick and suffocating. He hated this—hated the helplessness, the way your truth wrapped around him like chains. The echoes of his past whispered cruelly in his mind: You can't save anyone, not without destroying them first.

After a long, agonising silence, he released you, his hands falling away slowly, reluctantly. The absence of his touch left you colder than you wanted to admit, but you forced yourself to push that feeling down, deep where it couldn't hurt you. This was for the best. It had to be.

He nodded, the motion stiff, his jaw tight. "You're right," he said finally, his voice strained, every word sounding like a defeat. "I'll go."

You offered him a sad, weary smile, one that didn't quite reach your eyes. "Good."

The weight of your final word lingered in the air between you. As if on cue, a firm knock on the door had you both stiffening, like deer caught in headlights. The door creaked open, revealing the founder's right-hand woman. "Gentleman Park, the Madame is ready to see you again," she announced, throwing you a sideways glance that sent chills down your spine.

It did the same to him. Rising to his feet, Seonghwa hesitated, casting one last glance in your direction. His eyes spoke volumes, but you knew there was nothing he could do. And then, with a quiet exhale, he turned and walked away. The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed was deafening.

Your knees buckled, and you sank to the floor, the ache in your chest blossoming into something unbearable. You pressed a hand to your heart, willing the trembling to stop. But it didn't. It never did.

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The founder's voice was a symphony of mockery, laced with faux regret. "Oh dearie, I heard our star trainee did not perform too well. We deeply apologise for that, Gentleman Park," she said, her smile sharp and deliberate as she gestured to her aide. The woman stepped forward with a sleek black folder, placing it delicately on the polished mahogany table between them. "Rest assured, we will train her better. We do not tolerate such mistakes in the Red Room. Please know that through this alliance, we will only provide our best spies where needed. After all, one bad apple does not define an entire tree, now does it?"

Seonghwa's stomach churned at her words, the subtle cruelty wrapped in politeness. He straightened in his seat, his jaw tightening. "Not at all," he said quickly, shaking his head. "There's no need to apologise for that. She did—" he hesitated, swallowing down the knot in his throat, "—amazingly."

Madame Scarlet tilted her head, her smirk widening as if she found his words amusing. "That was hardly amazing," she countered, her voice silk laced with venom. "There's no need to be lenient on her behalf. She lost your attention early on and completely butchered her routine. A failure through and through." Her eyes glinted as she slid the folder closer to him, a pen perched on top. "But we appreciate your understanding. If all is well, the Red Room is happy to finally solidify this treaty with the Black Pirates."

His hand hovered over the pen, his fingers trembling as he picked it up. He tried to steady his grip, but the weight of her words bore down on him like a crushing tide. Look at what you've done, his mind hissed. Your hesitation, your distraction—it's your fault she'll suffer for this. She'll pay for your mistakes.

The pen hovered over the pristine paper, but his vision blurred as a storm of conflicting thoughts raged inside him. You need to leave, he reminded himself. That's the mercy you can give her. Don't make it any worse by staying.

The faces of his brothers flashed in his mind—waiting for him, relying on him. He couldn't jeopardise their safety over this. Caged birds like you existed everywhere, caught in a world of power and cruelty he couldn't fix. He had to let it go. This isn't your battle.

His resolve hardened as he straightened his back, forcing all thoughts of you from his mind. He tightened his grip on the pen, its barrel pressing against his fingers with an almost painful intensity. It would all be fine, he told himself. As long as he got out of here, far away from whatever nightmares took place in the Red Room, it wouldn't be his problem. None of it ever was. He exhaled shakily, lowering the pen to sign.

Then, a sudden, sharp thud jolted him from his thoughts.

He froze, turning toward the source of the sound. Through the decorative latticework of the lounge's window, he caught a glimpse of movement in the corridor beyond. His breath hitched as his eyes landed on you—stumbling, tears streaking your face, a trainer gripping the back of your neck like you were some unruly beast.

The trainer yanked you forward, her other hand poised in warning, but it wasn't the rough handling that made his chest tighten—it was the bruise blooming dark and vicious on the side of your face. Even from a distance, his sharp gaze caught the slight trembling of your legs, the way your breath hitched as you struggled not to cry out.

This is what "train her better" looks like, he realised, the Madame's earlier words reverberating cruelly in his head.

His heart clenched, a searing ache spreading through his chest as the sight of you being dragged away ignited something primal within him. The pen in his hand creaked under the force of his grip, nearly snapping in two. He closed his eyes briefly, drawing in a shaky breath to steady himself.

But he couldn't.

The image of you—broken, trembling, afraid—was etched into his mind, refusing to let go. Every instinct screamed at him to do something, to stop pretending he could walk away unscathed. The storm inside him threatened to break through, but he forced himself to bury it, replacing the turmoil with the practised mask of a Gentleman.

He set the pen down deliberately, the click of it against the table sharp in the heavy silence. "No," he murmured to himself, his voice barely audible.

Straightening in his seat, he lifted his head, a disarming smile curving his lips despite the turmoil beneath. "I agree, Madame," he said smoothly, his tone light and persuasive. "It would be our greatest honour to solidify this union. But where's the rush?"

The lady raised a sharp eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Do you reckon it would be alright for me to stay another day or two?" he continued, the words flowing effortlessly despite the storm within. "I believe it would be to our benefit to get to know one another better before taking such a significant step."

Her eyes flickered with intrigue at his sudden shift in tone. Her sharp smile widened, but it was the calculating glint in her eyes that unsettled him. "Hm, a Gentleman who values thoroughness. How admirable," she purred, leaning back in her chair as though savouring the upper hand she thought she held. "I see no harm in prolonging our discussions. After all, alliances built on patience tend to be the strongest, wouldn't you agree?"

Seonghwa nodded, though his throat felt dry, each word a bitter pill. "Absolutely."

Inside, his heart was a cacophony of regret and determination. The image of you, bruised and terrified, was burned into his mind. The sight of you being hauled away like some disposable object clawed at his resolve, unravelling all the arguments he'd carefully constructed to justify his departure. You can't save her, you fool, a voice whispered in his head, cold and unforgiving. You'll only make it worse. For her. For yourself. For everyone.

But another voice—quieter, trembling yet insistent—refused to be silenced. What if you can?

The Madame's voice cut through his thoughts like a blade. "Well then, Gentleman Park, consider yourself our guest of honour for another day... or two, if you'd like." She gestured to her aide, who deftly whisked away the unsigned contract. "We'll arrange better accommodations for you. Do let us know if there's anything you require during your stay."

His lips curved into a polite smile, though his stomach churned with unease. "Your hospitality is most appreciated."

The elderly woman inclined her head graciously, but there was no mistaking the glimmer of suspicion in her eyes. "It's always a pleasure to work with someone who values... thoroughness," she repeated, her words deliberate. She waved a hand dismissively. "You're free to explore as you please, though some areas remain restricted for your safety, of course."

Seonghwa bowed his head in acknowledgement and rose to his feet, his body moving automatically, though his mind was elsewhere. The moment he stepped out of the room, the air felt heavier. He couldn't shake the image of your trembling figure, the bruise on your face, the sheer hopelessness in your eyes.

He paused in the corridor, clenching his fists so tightly that his nails bit into his palms. Get it together, he told himself. One wrong move and you'll only get her killed.

But what was the alternative? Walking away while you endured unspeakable horrors? Letting his silence serve as complicity in your suffering? He felt as though he were drowning, the weight of his choices crushing him from all sides.

The sound of muffled cries pulled him from his thoughts. His head turned sharply in the direction they came from, his steps unsteady but driven by an undeniable force. He trailed the sound through the maze-like corridors, his heart pounding in his chest. His mind screamed at him to stop, to turn back before he did something reckless. But he couldn't. Not when the echoes of your pain were right there, slicing through the walls like jagged glass.

He rounded a corner and froze. Through a half-open door, he could see you kneeling on the floor, a trainer standing over you, barking orders. Her boot slammed into your ribs, and you crumpled further, a choked gasp escaping your lips. The sight hit him like a physical blow, and he felt the air leave his lungs.

He should leave. He should turn around, walk away, and pretend he'd seen nothing. That's what he'd been taught—to compartmentalise, to prioritise the bigger picture over fleeting emotions. But as he watched you struggle to breathe, watched you choke back sobs and force yourself to stand under the trainer's cruel gaze, something inside him snapped.

This wasn't about logic. It wasn't about alliances or gang politics. It wasn't even about you, not entirely. It was about what this place represented. The Red Room was a cesspool of power wielded without mercy, a machine that broke people and discarded the pieces. And you—you were a living reminder of everything he despised about this world, everything he'd tried to escape.

He turned on his heel, his jaw set, his movements deliberate. There was no time for hesitation. No time for second-guessing. If he was going to do this, he had to do it now, before his courage faltered. He made his way back to the lounge, his stride steady but his heart pounding.

Madame Scarlet raised an eyebrow as he re-entered the room. "Back so soon? I trust everything is—"

Fuck it.

"I have a request," Seonghwa interrupted, his voice calm but firm. He saw her brows lift in surprise, but he didn't give her a chance to speak. "I'd like to oversee her training."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Her expression shifted, her eyes narrowing with interest. "Her training?" she repeated, her tone laced with curiosity. "And why, pray tell, would a Gentleman of your standing wish to concern himself with such matters?"

He met her gaze, unwavering. "If this alliance is to succeed, I want to ensure that every asset provided is of the highest quality. She shows potential, but she needs refinement. Let me handle it." His lips curved into a disarming smile, one that masked the storm raging beneath the surface. "Consider it my contribution to strengthening this partnership."

The founder studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she leaned back in her chair, her smile returning. "Very well," she said, her voice dripping with amusement. "Let's see what Gentleman Park can do."

He inclined his head, hiding the relief that flooded through him. He had no plan, no clear idea of how to fix this. But for now, he'd bought you time. And he'd be damned if he let that time go to waste.

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"He's extending his stay... indefinitely?!" Wooyoung burst out, pushing his chair back with enough force to send it skidding against the floor. His voice, sharp with disbelief, rang through the meeting room. "What in the world is going on there?!"

Hongjoong sighed deeply, pressing his fingers against his temples as if willing away the tension. "That's what the messenger said. I don't—"

Mingi cut him off with a scoff, leaning back in his seat with arms crossed, his expression a storm of frustration and doubt. "First, it was a day. Then another. Now, who knows if Seonghwa hyung's ever coming back? What kind of lion's den did you send him into, huh?" He tilted his head, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "So much for being the 'best leader.'"

Jongho shot him a warning look and reached out as if to calm him, but the taller man pulled away, his resentment tangible.

The Captain's gaze turned icy, his composure hanging by a thread. "What exactly are you trying to insinuate, hm?" His tone was sharp, the growl in his voice betraying the pressure he was under. His mind was already a whirlwind of guilt and worry. First, his love was sent away, and now his closest brother was stranded in that infamous and dangerous training facility. What was keeping him there? Had the Red Room made unreasonable demands? Was the alliance at risk? Why hadn't he gone himself instead of sending Seonghwa? He should've been the one bearing the risk.

The Firestarter laughed bitterly, rising to his feet, his frustration reaching a boiling point. "What I'm saying is that you think everything's fine just because you were noble enough to send her away? Don't act like we haven't noticed you're still wasting our resources to keep tabs on her, to protect her from afar!" His voice was biting, the weight of his accusation filling the room.

Hongjoong stood as well, the anger in his chest clawing its way to the surface. "Watch your damn mouth, Song Mingi," he snapped, his voice low but dangerous.

Before either could escalate further, San slammed his fist on the table, the resounding thud silencing the brewing argument. "Will you two just stop already?!" His tone was sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade. "Is fighting about the same damn thing over and over going to bring Seonghwa hyung back? Will it help us figure out what's happening to him?"

His words hung in the air, and for a moment, no one spoke. The Tempest sighed, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. He hated this—hated how divided they'd become, the bond they once shared splintering under the weight of their choices. They used to be united, inseparable. Now, everything felt fractured, and the cracks were only growing. Didn't they see how short life was? How fragile their bond could become?

"Listen to me," San continued, his voice quieter now but steady with resolve. "I say we go after him."

The leader's jaw tightened. His instincts screamed at him to agree, but Yunho shook his head, breaking the silence. "Absolutely not," he said firmly. "We can't make a hasty move like that. What if it backfires? What if we put him in even more danger?"

Yeosang nodded, his voice calm but resolute. "Exactly. Have you all forgotten the code for danger? If Seonghwa hyung were truly in trouble, he would've used it. Whatever's happening, it doesn't seem like he's in immediate danger."

"Not yet, at least," the Anchor murmured, drawing everyone's attention. His voice was quiet, but the weight of his words settled heavily over the group. He opened his notebook, flipping through its pages until he found what he was looking for. "If we're serious about helping, we need to focus on crisis management. Let's map out every possible outcome and prepare contingency plans for all of them. We need to be ready for anything."

The room fell into a heavy silence as Jongho's words sank in.

Hongjoong exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. He hated the idea of waiting, of being passive, but he knew the youngest was right. Losing his temper, indulging in Mingi's provocations—none of it would help their brother.

"That's the best course of action for now," he admitted, his tone quieter but steady. "Thank you, Jongho."

The team nodded in reluctant agreement, though unease lingered in the room. As they began strategising, one truth resonated in each of their hearts—no alliance was more important than Seonghwa. He was family, and they weren't about to let him go without a fight—even if it meant jeopardising the entire deal.

Forgive me, my brothers.

While the Gentleman shared their sentiment, something else weighed heavy in his mind as he strode through the shadowed halls of the Red Room, every step measured, deliberate. His brothers—his family—would never understand this choice, this betrayal of their trust. But they weren't here. They hadn't seen what he'd seen, hadn't felt the cold weight of torment that clawed at his insides. For now, he had to shut them out. He had to focus.

Stopping just outside the door where he had last seen you, the memory of your broken form flashed like a burn mark across his mind. He straightened his shoulders, setting his expression into a mask of indifference—a carefully crafted lie. The trainer inside sensed him immediately, turning to meet his gaze. Her eyes, calculating and hard, met his as though he were an accomplice rather than an outsider. Seonghwa offered a curt nod, polite but distant, and received the same in return.

His gaze flickered to you, and time seemed to stretch thin for a moment.

There you were—collapsed on the cold floor like a discarded doll. Your body was unnaturally still, save for the faint tremble in your fingertips and the shudder of your uneven breaths. Whatever they'd done to you had left you completely drained, your small frame appearing even more fragile than before.

The trainer crouched beside you, the scrape of her boots against the floor grating against his ears like nails on stone. The gang member remained rooted to the doorway, his body rigid, his expression unreadable as she reached out to you, fingers threading mockingly through your tangled hair.

"Look at you," she sneered, tucking a strand behind your ear with a gentleness so condescending it twisted something sharp in his gut. Her hand shifted, suddenly locking around your jaw with enough force to make you flinch and whimper. "This should teach you. The Madame has high hopes for you, little one. Stop disappointing her like this, will you?"

Your red-rimmed eyes rose weakly, glazed and unfocused, but you managed the smallest nod, your breath stuttering painfully in your chest.

It wasn't enough.

Her grip tightened cruelly, claws pressing into the soft skin of your cheeks until you whimpered again, the sound soft but devastating. "Answer me," she demanded, her tone low and icy.

"Y-yes, ma'am," you choked out, the words barely more than a whisper.

Satisfied, she released you, and you slumped forward like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Seonghwa's fists curled tight at his sides, his knuckles white from the pressure. Every muscle in his body screamed to move, to tear her away from you, but he forced himself to remain still. The mask didn't crack—not yet. When the trainer finally turned her gaze to him, he managed to shift, allowing a smug, composed smile to play on his lips as though none of it mattered to him.

"You've worked hard, comrade," he said smoothly, his voice calm and polite. "Let me handle the rest."

The trainer smirked, standing to dust off her hands as though your pain had tainted her. "How kind of you, Gentleman Park," she cooed, her mockery like acid on his ears. "Very well, then."

With one last unsettling grin, she turned on her heel and marched off, her boots echoing ominously down the hall until she disappeared.

The silence she left behind was suffocating.

He remained still, standing by the door, though his chest burned with the need to move—to act. He was cautious, his sharp mind reminding him of the cameras lurking in unseen corners. He couldn't afford to rush to your side, not yet. Any show of care, any crack in his facade, would confirm their suspicions. They had eyes everywhere.

He forced himself to stay rooted in place, his gaze lingering on you as you stirred faintly. Slowly, painstakingly, you began to force yourself upright. Seonghwa's heart twisted at the sight of your trembling hands and the way your body shook with every small movement. It was as though each muscle screamed in protest, but still, you pushed forward. The sheer determination etched into you was unlike anything he'd seen. You weren't just enduring—you were surviving.

Blinded by pain, you didn't notice him.

Your silent tears fell unchecked, and you hugged your bruised arms to yourself as you limped toward the exit, your steps slow and agonising. Every inch you covered showed your strength, but it also burned an ache deep in his chest. You shouldn't have to fight this hard just to move.

Finally, you reached him. Your head was still lowered, so at first, you only saw his shoes. You froze, your breath hitching sharply. Slowly, your wide, tear-streaked eyes lifted, and when you registered him standing there, shock overtook your features.

Your legs wavered, weakened beyond their limit, and you began to fall forward.

That was it. Seonghwa moved without thought, his body acting on pure instinct as he lunged to catch you before you hit the ground. His arms came around you securely, holding you steady. You gasped softly, fresh tears clouding your eyes as you struggled weakly to push yourself away from him.

"Stop it," he murmured, his voice low but steady, as he bent to scoop you into his arms. "You're hurt enough as it is."

The fight left you at his words, and you slumped against him, the side of your forehead pressing tiredly against his cheek.

"You goddamned idiot," you whispered brokenly, your voice trembling as quiet sobs escaped you. "I told you to go. You're going to get yourself killed…"

Your words hit him like stones, each one carrying the weight of your desperation and anger. You hated him for this—for being so stubborn, so damn stupid. And yet, there he was, carrying you like you weren't a burden at all.

You hated him for giving you hope. Hope that maybe the world wasn't entirely cruel. Hope that not all humans are monsters. Hope that maybe, someday, you'll get to escape this hell.

He didn't speak, but his hold on you tightened just a fraction as he carried you toward your room—the place they'd told him was yours at least. In that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the Red Room, not the cameras, not the precarious alliance.

All that mattered was you.

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Seonghwa tightened his hold on you as he carried you through the cold, labyrinthine corridors of the facility, the weight of your frail body pressing against his chest. Every step he took was deliberate, his movements careful to avoid jolting you any further. He didn't speak, the silence filled only by your shallow, uneven breaths and the faint sound of his boots against the hard floor.

Somewhere along the way, he felt you soften in his arms. The tension in your body—a tension he imagined had been present since you first stepped foot in this hellish place—began to ease. Your head nestled into the crook of his neck, and your arms, though weak, clung lightly to him as if afraid he might disappear.

Then, your breathing evened out, soft and rhythmic, and he realised with a pang in his chest that you had drifted into sleep. He couldn't explain the mix of emotions that overcame him. Relief? Guilt? Fury? That here, in this wretched place, in the aftermath of torment, his presence could bring you enough comfort to let down your guard. It shouldn't be like this. You shouldn't have had to fight so hard just to feel the smallest sliver of peace.

You, meanwhile, were lost in the strange sanctuary of his embrace. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, the gnawing sense of danger and fear slipped away. You couldn't understand why—what it was about him that allowed you to let go—but it was undeniable. The warmth of his body, the gentle rhythm of his heartbeat, the steady strength of his arms around you—it was unlike anything you had felt since the days when life was simpler, kinder.

Your mind wandered back to those days. College. Classes. Part-time jobs. A life that was chaotic in its own right but filled with a kind of normalcy you now yearned for. You missed that life, the one where being tired meant something as mundane as staying up late to study or pulling extra shifts. Not this. Not exhaustion born from fear, pain, and endless suffering. You wished, futilely, that all of this was some terrible nightmare you could wake from.

But it wasn't.

As if your subconscious sensed the reality of your surroundings, your eyes shot open, your body jerking in reflex. A cry of pain escaped your lips as fire shot through your nerves, the abrupt movement too much for your battered body.

"Whoa, hey, it's okay," came a deep, familiar voice, steady and calming. Gentle hands pressed against your shoulders, guiding you to lie back down. "Don't push yourself."

Your gaze darted toward him, and the memories came rushing back. Park. The Red Room. The training. The punishment. It all settled over you like a heavy fog, suffocating and undeniable.

Blinking against the dimness, you squinted at your surroundings. The room was unfamiliar. Plain walls, a bed—a proper bed—and a small desk. Your breath hitched in disbelief.

"Wh-where the hell am I?" you croaked, your throat raw.

Seonghwa frowned, his expression confused but soft. "It's your room, is it not?" he replied, his tone gentle, almost questioning.

You let out a humourless laugh, shaking your head weakly. "My room?" you repeated, incredulity lacing your words. "People like me don't get rooms."

Your voice was a whisper now, bitter and hollow. "They lied to you."

The implication of your words made his chest tighten painfully. His mind raced with the possibilities, each one worse than the last. Where have you been sleeping? On the floor of some cold cell? In a corner, chained, left to fend off the darkness alone?

He didn't ask. He couldn't. Not yet.

Instead, he looked at you, his jaw tightening as he swallowed back the anger boiling within him. You didn't need his rage right now—you needed his steadiness.

"I'll make sure they don't lie to me again," he said quietly, a promise woven into his words. He reached for the blanket at the edge of the bed and gently draped it over you. "For now, just rest. You're safe."

Safe? Here...?

You sighed, shaking your head. "I don't think that's something within your control, Mr. Park. Clearly, they're deceiving you for a good reason. If you know what's best for your own safety, you'd go along with their every wish and leave this place at your first chance."

Your eyes burned with tears forming in frustration, but you were too drained to argue, muttering weakly again, "Why... God, why are you even still here? You're insane..." You trailed off, the blanket's warmth and the bed's softness—luxuries you hadn't known in so long—lulling you into an uneasy but welcome stillness.

Perhaps you were right. Perhaps he really was insane for this. But Seonghwa knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that if he walked away today and left you behind, he would never be able to live another moment in peace.

As he sat by your bedside, his dark eyes lingered on your face, the faint lines of pain etched into your features even in sleep. He couldn't stop the rush of emotions building within him—a storm of guilt, admiration, and something else he couldn't quite name.

Your earlier words echoed in his mind. "Why are you even still here? You're insane..." Even in your weakened state, you had been more concerned for his safety than your own. How was it possible for someone who had suffered so deeply, endured such unspeakable cruelty, to still care for someone else? For him, a stranger who had inadvertently become the reason for your suffering.

His chest tightened painfully as he thought back to the chain of events that had led to this moment. If he hadn't pushed so hard for answers, if he hadn't drawn their attention to you...

I'm so sorry. You suffered all because of me.

His jaw clenched. It wasn't your fault. None of this was. You had simply been caught in the crossfire of forces far beyond your control. And yet, you bore the weight of it with a quiet resilience that humbled him.

If only he knew the truth—how your unyielding empathy had been the very trait that had landed you in this nightmare. The kindness that allowed you to care for others, even at the cost of your own well-being, had marked you as a failure in their eyes. To them, your compassion was a flaw to be eradicated, not celebrated. If their experiments had succeeded, if they had stripped you of every last shred of emotion, perhaps you wouldn't have to feel any of this now. Perhaps it would have been mercy.

But mercy wasn't what they had given you.

Seonghwa exhaled shakily, forcing himself to focus on the present. His gaze dropped to the small bundle he had brought with him—an emergency kit he'd tucked into his coat before leaving his quarters. Pulling out the small jar of ointment, he opened it carefully, its sharp medicinal scent filling the air.

This seemed as good a time as any to use it.

He dipped his fingers into the ointment, its cool texture spreading easily against his skin. His movements were slow and deliberate as he leaned closer to you, his free hand brushing your hair aside to get a clearer view of your wounds. You stirred slightly under his touch, but he froze, waiting until your breathing evened out again before continuing.

As he worked, the Gentleman couldn't help but notice the scars that marred your skin, each one a painful testament to what you had endured. His hands hovered over the worst of them, as if hesitant to touch. But he pressed on, spreading the ointment with a feather-light touch, determined not to wake you.

The faint lines of pain on your face seemed to soften as the salve worked its magic, and he found himself watching you again. Not just your wounds, but you—the curve of your cheek, the faint flutter of your lashes, the subtle rise and fall of your chest. He wondered how someone who had been through so much could still carry this quiet strength, this humanity that he wasn't sure he would have been capable of holding onto if he were in your position.

Something shifted in him then, something he couldn't quite name. It wasn't just guilt or admiration anymore—it was something deeper, something that unsettled him even as it stirred a strange sense of purpose within him.

"You shouldn't have to feel this," he murmured softly, the words meant more for himself than for you. "None of this."

His hands paused briefly, trembling as the weight of his emotions threatened to spill over. But he steadied himself and resumed his task, meticulously tending to your wounds until every last one had been treated.

When he finally sat back, exhaustion tugging at his own body, he couldn't bring himself to leave your side. Instead, he stayed there, his gaze never straying far from you.

Seonghwa had made many promises to himself over the years, but as he watched over you in the dim light of the room, he made one more—a silent vow that whatever it took, he would find a way to free you from this nightmare. Even if it cost him everything.

I won't leave you behind... not this time.

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The next morning unfolded in a fog of tension and fleeting memories that lingered in his mind as he sat across from Madame Scarlet. The dining room, grand and dripping with opulence, felt more like a gilded cage than a place of comfort. The soft clink of silverware and the hum of hushed conversation grated against his nerves, the air heavy with artifice. His grip on his utensils tightened as your words echoed in his thoughts, each syllable etched with quiet despair.

"It's not as simple as you think, Mr. Park. There's more to this place than merely spy training. They have more... elaborate plans. And I'm... part of that plan."

Your voice had wavered, the fear laced within it unmistakable. He could still see the way your eyes darted to the door, your movements taut with the paranoia of someone constantly monitored. Your unfinished confession repeated itself in his head like a haunting refrain.

"I'm not just a regular trainee here... I'm—"

The memory was interrupted by the sharp sound of boots in the hallway, the rhythmic echo cutting through the tension like a blade. Your voice had faltered, replaced by a gasp as the footsteps grew louder. And then she had entered—the woman you called your trainer. Her expression was stern, impassive, as she spared Seonghwa a curt nod before dragging you away without explanation. The sight of you, so resigned yet terrified, had left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Before he could so much as process what had happened, another figure had arrived, the right-hand woman, beckoning him to breakfast as though nothing had transpired.

And now, here he was, a mask of calculated charm concealing the storm within as he faced the Madame. The founder, draped in her cold authority, watched him with an unsettling smile, her words poised and deliberate.

"So, you find our ways effective?" she asked, her voice dripping with saccharine diplomacy. "I knew we could trust decisive men such as yourself from the Black Pirates to agree with our methods."

Her praise felt like poison, each word curdling in his gut. Seonghwa forced a smile, swallowing his revulsion with practised ease.

"Of course, Madame," he replied smoothly, his voice betraying none of the turmoil beneath. "It is only necessary. After all, the best diamonds are produced in the rough."

Her approving nod was like ice slipping down his spine. As she turned her attention to the next topic, his thoughts drifted back to you, unable to ignore the gnawing questions.

What were you going to say? If you're not just another trainee, then what are you? What twisted plans are they weaving around you?

He pictured you before this nightmare—living a life untouched by the horrors of this place. Perhaps you had once been a girl who laughed freely, who dreamed without fear. The thought felt like a knife twisting in his chest.

What are they doing to you now? What are they turning you into?

"Gentleman Park?" Madame Scarlet's voice cut through his spiralling thoughts, sharp and expectant. He blinked, his façade unbroken as he nodded and delivered a fabricated report of your supposed punishment. Each lie tasted bitter, but he forced it down.

I'll find out. Whatever it takes.

Deep under the building, the isolation chamber felt alive, its oppressive darkness wrapping around you like a suffocating shroud. The relentless hum of machinery echoed in your ears, each vibration a cruel reminder of your imprisonment. Your body trembled, exhaustion weighing heavily on your limbs, but it was nothing compared to the weight of your thoughts. Then came that voice, cold and devoid of humanity, slicing through the silence.

"How do you feel?"

Your fists clenched, nails digging into your palms as a spark of anger flickered to life. "Nothing," you bit out, your voice shaking with frustration. But even as you said it, the word felt hollow, a lie you couldn't quite believe. You didn't feel nothing—no, it was anger, sharp and scorching, that had taken root inside you. Frustration flared hotter with every second, fed by the memory of Seonghwa's words, echoing in your mind like a cruel whisper.

"I'll be here to stay... indefinitely now."

You had stared at him, disbelief coursing through you like a tidal wave. "Wh-what do you mean indefinitely?" you had asked, your voice unsteady, heart pounding with the weight of implications you couldn't yet comprehend.

He hadn't looked at you, his gaze fixed on the jar of ointment in his hands. You hadn't noticed it then, but now, in the suffocating dark, the memory of his careful hands tending to your wounds replayed with an unexpected tenderness. The way his fingers had moved—gentle, deliberate—like someone who cared. His voice, soft and almost hesitant, echoed in your mind.

"I... proposed to oversee your training."

You had blinked at him, confusion and frustration crashing together in a storm of emotions. "What...? Why? Whatever for?" you had demanded, searching his face for answers.

And then his eyes met yours. Determination burned there, fierce and unyielding. It caught you off guard, stole the breath from your lungs. "I'm going to help you," he said, his voice steady, as though the very idea of failure didn't exist.

The memory of his words ignited a whirlwind in your chest—anger, disbelief, and something else you weren't ready to name. Help me? The thought had made you scoff, a bitter laugh escaping before the tears threatened to follow. You had shaken your head at him, the hopelessness in your heart spilling out like poison.

"You don't even know what's happening here—hell, you don't even know me. Why would you risk everything for someone like me? You can't save me from something you don't understand. And they... they'll never let you find out."

You remembered the crack in your voice as you pointed to yourself, desperation seeping into every word. "This... this isn't something you can fix, Mr. Park."

The robotic voice snapped you back to reality, the chamber's suffocating atmosphere closing in again. "Subject 01, how do you feel?"

You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood, trying to steady your breathing. You needed to focus on something, anything, to keep the darkness at bay. And there he was again in your mind, that damned determination lighting up his face. His words refused to let go of you.

"Well, they don't have to let me. I'll find out myself, one way or another. And besides..."

You could see it so clearly—the way he smiled at you then, soft and genuine, so different from the carefully constructed smiles he wore for everyone else. It wasn't fair, the way it disarmed you, the way it stirred something you didn't want to feel.

"I have you."

Tears pricked at your eyes again, but this time they weren't born of despair. They carried something heavier, something far more dangerous. Hope. And you hated him for it—for giving you something to hold onto when you had spent so long letting go.

The voice interrupted again, clinical and uncaring. "Subject 01—"

Your eyes flew open, defiance blazing in them as you glared into the black void where you knew the camera was. "Nothing at all," you said, your voice steady, though the fire within you burned hotter than ever.

"Wonderful," the voice responded, its detachment grating against every nerve.

But for the first time, you didn't care. Your focus was sharp, your resolve harder than steel. You would convince him to leave, to abandon this reckless idea before it consumed him too.

And yet... a part of you wanted him to stay.

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The week crawled by in a haze of calculated cruelty and simmering defiance. With Madame Scarlet's permission, Seonghwa was now a near-constant presence in your training sessions, his sharp eyes watching from the shadows or perched casually at the edge of the room. Most of your sessions, anyway. The ones he was allowed to witness.

The others—those sessions—took place far away from his sight, shrouded in secrecy and hidden deep within the facility's labyrinthine corridors. Those sessions were the ones that drained the light from your eyes and left you stumbling back to your dormitory, wearier and more hollow than before. And each time, he noticed.

Though the trainers and the founder kept him occupied with mealtime conversations or endless discussions about "enhancements" to your regimen, he saw it. He saw the shadows under your eyes deepen. He saw the tremor in your hands as you reached for water. He saw the stiffness in your movements, as though your body were fighting a losing battle with pain.

It enraged him, but he hid it well. He always hid it well. Instead of letting his anger show, he catalogued each new bruise and each broken look. He filed it away as fuel for his determination.

Today was no different. Another training session, another round of impossible tasks. The founder herself was present, her sharp gaze piercing through the room like a predator sizing up prey. She pushed you harder than ever, setting you up for failure with tasks that even the strongest would falter under.

"Faster," she barked as you stumbled mid-sprint. "You call that speed? A child could outrun you."

The other trainees averted their eyes, some wincing at the venom in her tone. But you kept going, jaw tight, pushing your battered body to obey despite its protests.

When you managed to finish the drill, she sneered. "Pathetic. And here I thought we were cultivating something special."

Seonghwa, standing to the side with his arms crossed, broke the silence. His voice was calm but firm, cutting through the tension like a blade. "I've seen worse recover faster. She's more resilient than you think, Madame."

The founder turned her sharp eyes on him, her expression unreadable. "Resilience isn't enough, Gentleman Park. What we need here is excellence."

"Excellence takes time," he replied smoothly, his face a mask of polite detachment. "And she's proven capable of rising to challenges when given the opportunity."

His words deflected her attention just enough to ease the pressure on you. And you hated it.

You hated the way he intervened, hated the risks he was taking by challenging the founder—no matter how subtle. It was reckless. It was dangerous. And it was entirely unnecessary.

When the session finally ended, you didn't linger. You stormed out of the training hall, your body aching and your mind racing. But as you turned the corner into the hallway, there he was. He leaned casually against the wall, waiting for you with an unreadable expression.

Your anger boiled over. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" you hissed, marching up to him. "You don't need to make my battles yours!"

His calm demeanour didn't waver. He straightened, meeting your glare head-on. "I'm not trying to fight your battles."

"Then what the hell was that back there?" you snapped, gesturing wildly toward the training hall. "Do you have any idea what you're risking? Why do you keep—"

"I'm just trying to make sure you live to fight them," he interrupted, his voice low but steady.

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. Your breath hitched, the anger in your chest faltering as something else crept in.

His gaze softened just slightly, but the determination remained. "You don't have to like me being here. Hell, you can hate me for it. But if I can take even one ounce of that weight off your shoulders, then it's worth it."

Your fists clenched at your sides, words caught in your throat. You didn't know what to say. You didn't want to believe him, didn't want to let that flicker of hope take root again.

But damn him, he made it so hard.

You're being stupid, Park. You'll regret this.

Later that night, the training room was cloaked in dim light, the overhead bulbs casting fractured shadows across the walls like shards of glass. It was late, long past curfew, but the ache in your chest and the founder's voice echoing in your mind wouldn't let you rest. The sting of humiliation lingered like a wound left raw, and you poured it all into the combat routine—every sharp strike and block an attempt to claw your way free from the weight crushing you.

But your body betrayed you, trembling under the strain of endless days without reprieve. Exhaustion blurred the edges of your movements, and frustration burned hotter with every imperfect step.

The quiet sound of a door opening went unnoticed until a voice sliced through the haze, steady and low.

"Your form's a little off."

You spun around, fists raised on instinct, only to find Seonghwa leaning against the doorframe, his presence unassuming yet commanding. His gaze lingered on you, calm but observant, and it unsettled you in ways you couldn't name.

"What are you doing here?" you snapped, wiping sweat from your brow, your voice sharper than you intended.

He stepped closer, each movement deliberate but unthreatening. "Couldn't sleep," he said simply, his tone betraying no judgement. "Figured I wasn't the only one."

Your glare hardened, walls snapping into place like armour. "I don't need you here. Go back to your room."

Instead of retreating, he crossed the room with measured steps, his eyes flicking over your stance. "You're letting frustration get the better of you. It's making you sloppy."

His words struck a nerve, cutting deeper than they should have. "I don't need your help," you bit out.

"I'm not offering help," he countered, his calm tone steady as steel. "Just advice."

Before you could fire back, he gestured to the training mat. "Show me what you're working on."

For a moment, you hesitated. Letting him see you like this—raw, vulnerable, struggling—felt like exposing a wound to someone who could twist the knife. But there was no mockery in his gaze, no condescension. Just an infuriating patience that chipped away at your defences.

Reluctantly, you demonstrated the routine, your movements sharp but uneven. He watched silently, his brow furrowed with concentration, and when you finished, he stepped closer.

"Your footing's off here," he said, nudging your leg into position with his foot, the warmth of his touch seeping through the fabric. "And your weight—it's leaving you open to counters."

You flinched at the proximity, but he didn't retreat. Instead, he adjusted your arm with a careful, steady hand. "Try it again."

This time, your movements flowed with more control, more precision. When you stopped, he nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Better. But there's still something missing."

"What?" The word slipped out before you could stop it.

He stepped behind you, his hands hovering just above your arms, his voice a quiet murmur. "You're too rigid. Combat isn't just about strength—it's about flow. Anticipation. Trusting yourself."

His closeness was overwhelming, the heat of his presence and the steadiness of his breathing weaving into the moment. His hands guided your movements, the gentleness of his touch unravelling something tightly wound inside you.

The routine transformed, no longer a drill but a dance. Each motion flowed seamlessly into the next, and for the first time, you felt a sense of grace beneath the weight of your exhaustion.

"You're stronger than they'll ever give you credit for," he murmured, his voice soft, like a secret meant only for you.

And just as the moment began to settle, he stepped away, leaving a hollow space where his presence had been. You stood there, breathless and unmoored, the room suddenly colder without him near.

He turned to leave, his steps quiet, but something within you resisted. Before you could think better of it, you called out, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Mr. Park... thank you."

He paused, glancing over his shoulder, his expression unreadable.

"Seonghwa," he corrected, his smile faint but disarming. "Just... call me Seonghwa. And you're welcome, my lady."

And then he was gone, leaving you alone in the stillness, your thoughts tangled and your heart betraying you in ways you hadn't thought possible.

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"Message from Seonghwa hyung."

Jongho's voice cut through the suffocating silence of the Captain's office, and Hongjoong's head shot up from his hands immediately. The younger man stepped forward, closing the door firmly behind him before placing a neatly wrapped package on the desk.

"He sent this through the secret messenger," the youngest continued, his tone laced with urgency.

The leader's stomach churned. That alone spoke volumes. Seonghwa wouldn't have risked using such a method unless it was vital. His hands trembled as he tugged at the twine, unwrapping the package with uncharacteristic clumsiness.

"A secret messenger…" he muttered under his breath. "If the Red Room finds out—"

"They won't," Jongho interjected firmly. "He knows what he's doing. But you need to see this, hyung. It's important."

The package fell open, its contents spilling across the desk in a disorganised heap: photographs, documents, and a few unmarked videotapes. Hongjoong froze, his unease morphing into dread. With a sharp nod toward the small TV in the corner, he gestured for the Anchor to play the first tape.

As the screen flickered to life, a chilling silence settled over the room.

The grainy footage revealed sterile white rooms filled with cold, metallic equipment. A girl restrained on a table. Her eyes, wide with terror or dulled by sedation, seemed to pierce through the screen. The audio crackled with muffled voices—clinical orders interspersed with the occasional scream.

"What the fuck…" Hongjoong whispered, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the desk.

Jongho's face remained impassive, though his jaw was set tight. The footage shifted, showing a stark, windowless chamber—a single chair in the centre equipped with electroshock restraints. The same girl. The same hopelessness.

"This isn't just training," the youngest said, his voice thick with disgust. "This is something else entirely."

The Captain's fingers sifted through the documents spread before him: test results, progress notes, and schematics outlining the chilling details of the experiments.

"They're not just training spies," he murmured, his voice hollow. "They're manufacturing weapons. Breaking people down and rebuilding them into... into something inhuman."

His hand faltered as he reached the bottom of the stack. A profile sheet caught his eye, its clipped photograph grainy but unmistakable.

A lab rat.

No—a person.

His stomach dropped as he scanned the page. The subject's identity was stripped away, replaced with a mere clinical description:

Female. Mid-twenties. High pain tolerance. Physical capabilities surpass expectations.

Jongho broke the silence, his voice grim. "They're trying to turn her into a machine. Stripping away everything that makes her human."

"And Seonghwa..." Hongjoong's voice cracked, the weight of it crashing down on him. His eyes caught the scrawled words on the package's exterior:

Project Android by the Red Room.

A cold shiver ran down his spine. The eldest wasn't there for diplomacy anymore. He was trapped in the epicentre of something far darker than they'd ever anticipated.

The leader slammed the final page onto the desk, his gaze locking onto a message scribbled in their coded language:

"Keep this evidence safe. I'll work on getting her out while securing this deal. I'll use the code if I need help. For now, have faith in me. Sorry for letting you down, Joong."

His jaw tightened, his gaze snapping to the Anchor. "We need to come up with a backup plan. If things go south for him—"

Jongho nodded sharply. "And the girl?"

For a moment, Hongjoong faltered. The weight of it all—the impossibility of what they were up against—threatened to break through his composure. But then his resolve returned, hardened like steel.

"We don't leave anyone behind," he said firmly, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. "Not if we can help it."

He leaned back in his chair, his mind already racing through contingencies. Sure, the Black Pirates weren't exactly saints, but even they had their limits.

And this?

This crossed every single one of them.

Back at the Red Room, Seonghwa could only hope his package had reached its destination safely. It was the sliver of hope keeping him tethered amidst the suffocating tension that defined this place. What you didn't know—what no one knew—was how far his determination had driven him. Every moment he wasn't with you or under the watchful eye of Madame Scarlet and her loyal hounds, he was spying. Not because he trusted the system but because he trusted himself more.

He knew he couldn't endure this oppressive environment much longer, and he refused to leave without you. So, he worked tirelessly. Nights passed with little sleep as he used his sharp senses and meticulous skills to catalogue every camera, memorise the labyrinth of hallways, and navigate spaces no one else dared to. His stealth was unmatched, a testament to his experience. At times, he found it bitterly ironic—this was a spy training facility, yet he roamed freely, undetected, a shadow in a house of shadows.

He'd known for some time now what you were to this place. He knew the pain you carried, the torment hidden behind the veneer of precision and obedience. But he hadn't found the courage to confront you about it, not until tonight.

Like many other nights, he found you awake past curfew. Tonight, you were in the ballet practice room—the same room that had led to your punishment, all because of him. This time, you finished your routine with precision, each movement a testament to your perseverance. When you stopped, his soft applause startled you, but only for a moment. By now, his late-night appearances had become so common you no longer questioned them.

And yet, you feared the comfort they brought you. Comfort felt dangerous here.

You sighed, turning away as the corners of your heart warmed against your will. "Can't sleep again, Mr. Park?" you asked, your tone guarded but laced with weariness.

He clicked his tongue in mock annoyance as he sat beside you, just far enough to respect your boundaries but close enough for you to feel the warmth of his presence. "Told you to call me Seongh—"

"Mr. Park," you cut him off, sharp but not unkind. Your eyes met his in warning, firm enough to halt his words.

He sighed in surrender, leaning back against the mirror beside you. The room fell into an uneasy silence, the tension between you as palpable as the moonlight streaming through the tall windows.

You broke the quiet, your voice hesitant but unwavering. "Why..." The single word hung in the air, weighted with the unspoken questions you hadn't dared to voice until now. "Why are you still here? Be honest with me. You're Gentleman Park—a feared member of the Black Pirates. Mercy isn't exactly your calling card. And yet, you're here. Risking everything. For what?"

His lips curved into a bittersweet smile, his eyes unfocused as if staring at a memory only he could see. For a moment, you thought he wouldn't answer. Then, in a voice as soft as the moonlight, he began.

"I once tried to save someone like you," he said, the weight of his confession pressing against the fragile quiet of the room.

"When I was young, before the Black Pirates, I wanted to make a difference. Believe it or not, I was studying to join the police force, still naive enough to think I could change the world." His voice carried a bitterness that made your chest tighten. "One day, I met a boy begging on the streets. He looked so lost, so scared. I found out he was trapped in a human trafficking ring. I thought I was saving him when I helped him escape."

You watched as his expression hardened, his jaw clenching against the flood of memories.

"For a little while, I thought I'd done it. I believed I'd saved him. But those bastards retaliated. They found him again. And they punished him." His fists curled tightly in his lap. "What they did to him… It was worse than anything he'd suffered before. And he didn't survive."

Your breath caught at the raw anguish in his voice.

"I thought I was his hero, but I was the reason he suffered more. After that, I joined the gang and stopped trying to save people. I told myself the world didn't need heroes—it needed survivors." He looked at you then, his gaze piercing but soft. "And then I saw you. At first, I thought I'd learned my lesson. That getting involved would only make things worse. But—"

"Your first instinct was right," you interrupted, your voice calm but resolute. "You should've left me behind."

Seonghwa flinched, your words slicing through him. "You don't mean that," he said softly, almost a plea.

"Don't I?" You turned to face him fully, your eyes sharp but heavy with exhaustion. "You think I don't know what I am to them? What I am to this place? My life is already ruined. But you… Look at what you've dragged yourself into because of me."

The words hung in the air, a thick, suffocating silence settling between you. If you thought your harshness would drive him away, you were wrong. For, instead of retreating, something inside him warmed, a flicker of hope igniting in your pain. You weren't angry at him for making your life worse. You were still thinking of him. You were still asking him to leave, to protect himself. And that thought alone was enough to keep him from walking away.

"No," he said at last, his voice steady, more resolute than you'd ever heard it before. "My first instinct was wrong. The old me wasn't strong enough to protect the people I cared about. But now, I won't make the same mistake. This time, I'll protect you. No matter what it takes."

People he… cared about? Me?

The weight of his words hit you like a freight train. For a moment, you were speechless, the walls around your heart trembling under the sheer force of his unwavering conviction. He wasn't just speaking to you; he was believing in you. And for the first time, a small, fragile seed of hope took root inside you. Maybe, just maybe, he was someone you could trust. Someone you could believe in.

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"Quick, in here!" Seonghwa whispered urgently, pulling you into the narrow closet in the corner of the ballet practice room. The door shut softly behind you, his hand lingering on your wrist to steady your trembling form. You were both about to leave for the night when the unmistakable echo of footsteps down the hall froze you in your tracks. Instinct took over as you tugged him toward the nearest hiding spot—the changing room.

The space was suffocatingly cramped, every breath shared between you as you tried to steady your racing heart. The faint rise and fall of his chest told you his was no calmer. Only a sliver of moonlight seeped through the slats of the door, illuminating the tension that now filled the air.

You swallowed hard, throat dry as you became painfully aware of how close he was. Barely an inch separated you, his broad chest right there, the faint, intoxicating scent of leather and spice curling around you. When your eyes met his, they held a storm of unspoken emotions. Another inch closer, and your lips might have touched. The thought made your breath hitch, but the sound of approaching footsteps snapped you back to the danger at hand.

The two of you froze—not from the proximity this time, but the unmistakable panic that crept in as the footsteps entered the room.

Turning away from him, you leaned forward slightly to peek through the slats in the door. As you shifted, your hair moved, revealing the nape of your neck. In the dim light, Seonghwa caught sight of something he hadn't seen before—seared into your skin was a barcode. Below it, the words: Subject 01.

He stiffened behind you, and though the footsteps eventually faded, it wasn't until silence filled the room again that you dared to exhale.

"She's gone," you whispered, relaxing slightly as you turned back to him. You reached for the door, but his grip on your arm stopped you.

"Did it hurt?" His voice was soft, almost tender, but the barely concealed edge betrayed the anger simmering beneath the surface.

"Did what hurt?" you asked, frowning. Then his gaze dropped to the back of your neck, his fingers brushing the spot lightly, almost reverently. The touch sent a shiver down your spine. Realisation hit you like a wave. He'd seen it.

The gasp that left your lips was involuntary as you instinctively stepped back, but his hold on you was firm, steady, as though he feared you might crumble under his touch.

"It's okay," he murmured, his tone calm despite the fire in his eyes. "I know. I know everything—what they've done to you, what they plan to do. I know that you're... Subject 01 of Project Android."

His words sent a chill down your spine. The strength drained from your legs, and you would have fallen if not for his steady arm supporting you. "H-how…? They'd never—" you stammered, your voice barely a whisper.

He sighed deeply, leaning forward until his forehead rested gently against yours. His breath was warm, grounding, even as your mind spun in chaos. "Like you said," he muttered, his voice laced with a hint of bitter irony, "I'm Gentleman Park of the Black Pirates. There's nothing I can't uncover when I put my mind to it."

Your hands balled into fists against his jacket, your voice trembling with anger and despair. "So you knew?" you asked, incredulous. "And you stayed? Do you have any idea what these people are capable of? You should've signed that contract and left. There's nothing you can do for me. Like you said, doomed souls are everywhere. I'm just another one."

Your eyes narrowed, challenging him. "Why are you even here? Why are you working so hard for me? It's not because of me, is it? It's because this experiment poses a threat to your crew. If Project Android succeeds, it'll be a threat to the Black Pirates too, won't it? That's the real reason—"

"Stop." His jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he wouldn't answer. Then his expression softened, his eyes meeting yours with a raw, unfiltered vulnerability you hadn't expected. "You silly girl," he said, shaking his head lightly. "Do I really seem like that to you? After everything I've told you? It's… it's because I can't leave you here."

The quiet admission hit you like a punch to the gut. His voice was raw, carrying the weight of emotions he wasn't trying to hide. "I tried convincing myself this wasn't my fight," he said, his tone steady despite the tremor of emotion beneath it. "That it wasn't my place. But I can't look away—not from you."

You stood there, stunned, his words unravelling every defence you'd spent years building. For so long, you'd believed no one cared, that you were nothing more than an expendable experiment. And yet here he was, defying all logic, holding on when anyone else would have let go.

For a fleeting moment, it felt like more than just a declaration of resolve—something deeper lingered in his tone. But there was no time to entertain such thoughts. Survival was the only thing that mattered now.

"Seonghwa…" His name escaped your lips in a fragile whisper, but he shook his head gently.

"We'll talk later," he said firmly, the resolve in his voice leaving no room for argument. "Right now, we need to focus on getting you out of here."

And for the first time, you didn't argue.

The hallway was eerily silent as he guided you through the winding maze of corridors. His hand hovered near your arm, not quite touching, as though even the smallest contact might betray too much. You followed in reluctant steps, each one heavier than the last as the realisation sank in: he wasn't leading you to the fake room they'd assigned you for appearances. No, this route was different. Familiar.

Your heart clenched when you recognised it—this was the way to your actual room. Or cell, as it truly was. The sterile walls, the reinforced door, the cold, suffocating solitude that awaited you there. He really did know everything.

Your thoughts spiralled as you walked. Did he also know how you ended up here? Did he also know the pieces of you that had been stripped away, piece by agonising piece, until nothing but a shell remained? Did he also know about the dreams you used to have—the kind of dreams the old you had cherished? The ones where you imagined falling in love with someone kind, someone who could see the best in you? Someone like him.

But he wasn't supposed to be here, warming the frozen corners of your heart, making it ache in ways you'd long forgotten. He wasn't supposed to make you hope.

"We're here," his voice broke through your thoughts, soft yet steady. You stopped, realising you'd reached the corridor just outside your cell. He'd led you to a blind spot—where no cameras could see—but this was as far as he could go.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You stared at the path ahead, the one that led to your isolation, and swallowed the lump in your throat. "We are," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

"Seonghwa," you started, your gaze dropping to his hand. Your fingers twitched, hesitant, unsure whether to reach out. The war between your heart and your mind raged louder than ever. Before you could decide, he closed the distance, his larger, warmer hand enveloping yours.

Your breath caught as his touch sent a jolt through you. His grip was firm yet gentle, grounding you in a way nothing else ever had. You looked up, finding his eyes already on you—deep, searching, and unguarded in a way that made your chest tighten.

"Yes?" he asked, his voice a soft murmur that carried so much weight it made you dizzy. He didn't know it, but your world shifted with the way he looked at you, as though you were the only thing that mattered.

You opened your mouth to speak, only to falter as the emotions welled up, threatening to spill over. Gratitude. Guilt. Longing. Words felt inadequate. Instead, you squeezed his hand, a small, fragile gesture that felt monumental in the space between you. "I…" You swallowed hard, summoning the courage to continue. "I just want to thank you for trying so hard. For… caring."

His brow furrowed slightly, but he stayed silent, letting you finish. "I need you to know," you continued, your voice trembling. "It doesn't matter if I get out of here. I'm just… glad to have met you."

Your heart ached with the weight of the truth behind your words. You knew what you were saying wasn't fair to him, that it sounded like a goodbye. Slowly, you began to pull your hand away, but he held on, his touch firm yet tender, as though he couldn't bear to let go.

And then he did something that made your breath hitch—something you didn't expect.

Leaning in, Seonghwa pressed his lips to your forehead. The gesture was soft, deliberate, and filled with more emotion than any words could ever convey.

Your eyes closed instinctively, your breath catching as his warmth lingered. When he pulled back, his gaze burned with a fierce determination that left no room for argument.

"No," he said, his voice low but resolute. "Don't say that. Don't act like this is the end. I already have a plan, and rest assured…" His hand tightened around yours, his determination radiating through his touch. "I will get out of here tomorrow—with you."

The certainty in his voice left you stunned, your chest tightening as tears brimmed at the corners of your eyes. For a fleeting moment, the silence between you spoke louder than any words could. How...? you wanted to ask, but the question stayed lodged in your throat. You were exhausted—exhausted from fighting, from merely surviving. For once, you wanted to let someone else carry the weight for you. So, you didn't question him.

You simply nodded, unable to summon your voice. Turning to walk the final stretch alone, your steps felt heavier with every inch that separated you. Still, an inexplicable pull made you glance back one last time. His eyes were on you, unwavering, filled with a promise that neither of you dared put into words.

The moment stretched, unspoken yet profound, and though nothing was said, everything was understood.

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"How has he been?" Madame Scarlet asked, her tone sharp and expectant as she gazed at your trainer.

The woman lowered her head respectfully before responding, "He's… unexpectedly cooperative and professional, ma'am. He's provided us with some excellent ideas for enhancement and has never once intervened in any of Subject 01's training—the sessions he was permitted to supervise, at least."

The founder raised a brow, a self-satisfied grin curling her lips. "Hm. Perhaps the Gentleman truly does admire our ways," she mused, leaning back in her chair. "I suppose his extended stay would only be beneficial to us. After all, we'd be foolish not to recognise his value as an influential figure within his group. His prolonged presence serves as leverage. Keep him close—subtly manipulate his loyalty and extract information. The Black Pirates wouldn't even realise we're gaining the upper hand in the alliance."

A low chuckle sounded from the doorway, smooth and familiar. "How smart," Seonghwa drawled, stepping into the room with deliberate confidence, "but not nearly smart enough."

The founder's grin froze, her eyes snapping to the intruder with disbelief. You followed closely behind him, your heart hammering as you caught the flash of unease in her expression—a crack in the armour of control she always wore.

"G-Gentleman Park," she stammered, rising from her seat. Her composure wavered, but she quickly tried to mask it with a welcoming smile. "You're surprisingly early today. And you, my darling," she said, her gaze shifting to you with forced sweetness. "Aren't you supposed to be—"

"At her daily isolation chamber session?" the gang member interrupted smoothly, his lips curling into a sardonic smirk. "Ah, Madame, do you take me for a fool?"

The trainer stiffened, her hand twitching toward her hidden pistol. Madame Scarlet's smile faltered as her eyes flicked to the briefcase in his hand. Her mind raced, trying to assess the situation.

Seonghwa stepped closer, placing the briefcase on her desk with a measured grace. "I believe I've overstayed my welcome," he said casually. "On behalf of my Captain, I declare it's time to finalise our alliance and take my leave—on one condition."

The lady narrowed her eyes, her voice cold and sharp. "Name it."

"I'm taking her with me," he said, gesturing to you without hesitation.

The founder's face darkened, her calm slipping further. "Over my dead body," she hissed.

He chuckled, a low, dangerous sound. "That can be arranged."

The trainer moved, but he raised a hand in mock surrender, laughing lightly. "Relax. I'm only kidding. How would our alliance flourish if you were dead, Madame?" He tilted his head, amusement dancing in his eyes, though his tone carried a weight that silenced the room.

"You're playing a dangerous game," Madame Scarlet warned, but her voice lacked its usual confidence.

"Oh, I never play without knowing I'll win," he countered, his smirk sharpening as he opened the briefcase. Inside lay meticulously organised files, a hard drive, and a stack of DVDs. He slid a folder across the desk toward her.

"In here," he began, his voice dropping to a measured calm, "you'll find all the proof you need of your inhumane operations. Experiment logs, surveillance footage, and even testimonies from staff who've grown tired of being complicit. What do you think would happen if a third party were to get their hands on this?"

The lady's hand trembled as she opened the folder. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes scanning the damning contents.

"You wouldn't," she said, her voice low and dangerous.

"Oh, I would," Seonghwa replied, leaning forward slightly. "And I'll make sure your rivals and the authorities receive copies if you refuse my terms. Imagine the chaos that would bring to your empire."

Her composure shattered for a moment, her nails digging into the desk as she glared at him. "You underestimate me."

"No," he said, his voice soft but firm, "I don't. I know exactly who you are, Madame Scarlet. That's why I'm giving you a choice: agree to let her leave with me, or watch your empire crumble under scrutiny."

Her fury was almost tangible, her chest rising and falling with barely contained rage. But she was cornered, and they both knew it.

Madame Scarlet's nails dug into her palm, her usual composure shattered as she took a step closer to him. Her voice, laced with venom, quivered just slightly. "You realise what you're risking, don't you? My network reaches farther than you can imagine. The Black Pirates may be formidable, but do you truly believe your Captain will protect you once I make you a liability?"

Seonghwa didn't flinch. Instead, he tilted his head, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Oh, Madame, threats only work when they hold weight. Do you think I'd walk in here unarmed? The Captain knows everything. This"—he gestured to the briefcase—"was sent with his blessing. Your reach ends where my ship begins."

The elderly woman's jaw clenched, her desperation now thinly veiled. "If you expose me, you'll bring chaos to yourself as well! The Black Pirates thrive on secrecy and reputation. Do you want to be the man who compromises that for some… experiment?" Her gaze flickered to you, cold and calculating.

"Nice try," he said, his tone turning colder. "But let's not pretend this is about me. The difference between you and me is simple: I protect the people I care about. You exploit them."

She growled in frustration, turning her attention to you. "And you?" she demanded, her voice suddenly softening as she changed tactics. "You're really going to leave with him? After all we've done for you?" Her words dripped with artificial kindness, a mask of sympathy stretched over her true intentions.

"I saved you from a life of obscurity," she continued, taking a step closer to you. "You'd still be a nobody if not for me. I gave you a purpose, a reason to exist. Is this how you repay me? By abandoning everything I built for you?"

You hesitated, her words striking a nerve. But the warmth of Seonghwa's hand slipping into yours steadied you, his unwavering presence a reminder of what truly mattered. Taking a deep breath, you turned to face her fully, your voice trembling at first but growing stronger with every word.

"You didn't save me," you said, your eyes locked on hers. "You broke me. You took everything I was—everything I could have been—and turned it into a weapon. You didn't give me a purpose; you stole it from me."

Her face darkened, but you pressed on, the weight of your emotions spilling over. "And now, you want me to feel sorry for you? To believe that what you did was for my own good? No, ma'am. The only thing you ever gave me was pain. And I refuse to let you keep me in chains any longer."

Her façade cracked completely, her expression twisting with rage and disbelief. "You ungrateful—"

The Gentleman's voice cut through her outburst, sharp and final. "Enough." He stepped between you and the founder, his presence a wall of protection. "You've lost, Madame. Accept it with what little dignity you have left."

Her hands shook, her gaze darting between the two of you. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. The power she had wielded so effortlessly for years was gone, slipping through her fingers like sand.

As the gang member led you out of the room, you cast one final glance over your shoulder. Madame Scarlet stood frozen, her empire teetering on the brink of collapse. The desperation in her eyes was a silent scream, her ironclad control shattered. For the first time, you felt no fear, no guilt—only a liberating wave of freedom as the door began to close behind you.

But then, in a heartbeat, that freedom threatened to slip away. Your blood ran cold as you spotted your trainer's hand darting to her concealed weapon as she muttered one last, "You're not going anywhere." The barrel of her gun gleamed, aimed directly at your saviour's back.

"Seonghwa—" you started, your voice catching in your throat.

He didn't need the warning. As though he had anticipated every move, he spun around with fluid precision. The room seemed to freeze, the air electric with tension. Before she could even pull the trigger, a single gunshot cracked through the silence.

The trainer's body crumpled to the floor, her lifeless eyes wide in shock. A gaping wound marred her forehead, blood pooling beneath her as her weapon clattered uselessly from her grasp.

You stood rooted in place, your breath caught in your chest. The woman who had tormented you for so long was gone—forever silenced, her cruelty ended in an instant. A part of you felt the weight of her death, but a stronger, quieter part of you reveled in the knowledge: she could never hurt you again.

Seonghwa lowered his gun with practised ease, his expression unreadable as he turned to the elderly woman. The faintest smirk tugged at his lips as he tilted his head, mock apology dripping from his voice. "Oops," he drawled, his tone light but laced with menace. "I warned you there'd be consequences."

He took a deliberate step toward her, the dominance in his presence impossible to ignore. "This alliance between us is hereby solidified, by order of the Black Pirates. I trust the terms and conditions are now clear, Madame Scarlet?"

Her gaze flickered from the corpse of her loyal trainer to his unyielding stare. Fury bubbled beneath her trembling exterior, but she nodded sharply, biting back the venom she longed to unleash.

As Seonghwa turned back to you, his hand steady and reassuring on the small of your back, you caught the flicker of regret in the founder's expression. She had underestimated him, underestimated you. Letting your paths cross was her greatest mistake—a mistake she would carry for the rest of her life.

With every step you took away from that room, you felt the weight of your chains fall further behind. This time, freedom was not just a fleeting thought—it was real. And nothing could take it from you now.

The tension in Seonghwa's shoulders finally eased as he guided you into the sleek black car waiting outside—a vehicle Hongjoong had discreetly arranged to ensure your safe departure. The weight of what had just transpired lingered heavily in the air, but for the first time in what felt like forever, the Gentleman allowed himself a quiet moment of relief.

The engine purred to life, and as the car rolled away from the Red Room's shadowed compound, he turned to you. His smile was soft, almost hesitant, as his dark eyes met yours. There was no victory in his expression, only a quiet resolve.

"You're safe now," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "With me."

But even as he said it, his mind remained sharp, calculating. He knew the cost of what he'd done. The alliance between the Black Pirates and the Red Room is now balanced on a precarious thread of necessity rather than trust. Madame Scarlet's eyes would always be watching, her reach always extending, waiting for an opportunity to regain the upper hand.

And then, there was home. The gang wouldn't welcome you without question. The members' wrath would be swift and fierce—his brothers would demand an explanation for his actions, for the risks taken, for the unknown you now represented. What would they do with you? The uncertainty gnawed at the edges of his thoughts, but he pushed it aside for now.

The road ahead would be anything but easy, but Seonghwa had made his choice. He couldn't promise to bring you back to the life you once had, couldn't undo the scars left behind. But what he could do—what he would do—was protect you. No matter what it took, he vowed to keep you safe.

As the car disappeared into the night, leaving the hellhole behind, he leaned his head back against the seat. His fingers brushed yours, a silent reassurance. Whatever came next, you would face it together.

ـــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

"Huh, so he actually managed to threaten the Red Room and come out on top?" the figure mused, his lips curving into an impressed pout. "Looks like the rumours about him weren't exaggerated after all. The Gentleman really isn't someone to be underestimated."

With a smirk, he snapped the file shut and tossed it carelessly onto the pile beside the Captain's already-closed dossier. "Too bad he's gained a weakness in the process. Watching the Firestarter's reaction to this is going to be... entertaining."

His subordinate stepped forward, handing him another file. "Indeed, sir. But for now, the Enforcer appears to be making some interesting moves at the Prestige Asylum."

"Oh, is he now?" The figure's grin widened. "How charming."

So, uhh... if I said I wasn't at all feeling pressured while writing this after the amazing reviews Hongjoong's chapter received, I'd be lying. I'm worried it might be slightly disappointing since this contained a lot less of the 'romance' aspect compared to the Captain's story - but I wanted it to be realistic, and realistically speaking, I don't think the danger would leave them much space for romance.

Anyway, I still hope you enjoyed this! I'm super excited to hear what you all think about the concept and whether or not you've noticed the subtle details relating to the ATEEZ lore.

As always, thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts! <3

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All Rights Reserved © edenesth // DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, PLAGIARISE OR REPURPOSE.

[kiryoutann]

i feel like this was wayyy too cute not to share now, so… sneak peek??? and i'm convinced simon is the most patient girl dad out there.

Walking over slowly so as not to scare her, he then asked, “What’s goin’ on ‘ere then?”

Gianna whipped around in a flash like a criminal caught in the act, her big brown eyes gleaming with a touch of guilt but not a trace of fear. "I dropped my cereal," she confessed succinctly, mirroring a trait she had unquestionably inherited from her father.

He crouched down next to her. “’Ere, let me help you with that,” then reached out, taking the paper towel from her tiny hands and started cleaning up.

Gianna just watched him until she finally spoke. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean to make a mess.”

“’S alright, darlin’. Accidents ‘appen.” Simon stated, rising to his feet and tossing the used tissues into the trash can. He then turned his attention back to his daughter. “But you could’ve woke me up. I’d ‘ave helped you clean it up straight away.”

“I know, but you were sleeping. An’ mum says you sleep like a… like a… clog?”

At that, he couldn't help but chuckle. “I think you mean a log, love.” He corrected.

“Oh right!” The little girl exclaims, nodding her head. “Tha’s the word. You sleep like a log.”

“Yeah, alright, whatever yer mum says.” He glanced at the box of cereal still sitting on the kitchen counter, then decided to keep himself and his daughter away from it. “So cereal is no option then. What d’you want for breakfast instead?”

Without missing a beat, Gianna chirps, “Ice cream!”

Simon snorts, shaking his head. “Can’t ‘ave ice cream for breakfast, darlin’.”

Gianna tilts her head to the side, eyes looking up at him questioningly. "Why not?" she asked. “Mummy 'as coffee for breakfast, alllll the time!” she spreads her arms out for dramatic effect—he chuckles at that. Definitely got it from mommy.

“Yeah, don’t be like yer mum, alright?”

The girl frowns slightly. “But why not? Mummy’s pretty, an’ she cooks good food.”

Something he couldn’t disagree with. He nodded, reaching out to ruffle her blonde hair. “That she does, darlin’. But we still don’t want you havin’ coffee or ice cream for breakfast, alright?”

"Okay, then can we go to Uncle John's house?" she asked.

“An’ why’s that?”

Gianna bounced on her toes, her arms swinging. “I miss Buddy an’ Daisy!”

Simon groaned inwardly. Should’ve known she’d bring that up. Ever since that one time he brought her to Price’s place and she met his dogs, Gianna has been begging to go back. Every time after school—“Can we go to Uncle John’s house?” Every weekend—“Can we go to Uncle John’s house?” And the thing is, the bloody mutts aren’t even there anymore, not since Price and his missus divorced.

“The dogs ain't there anymore, love.” He watched her face fall.

"Why not?" she asked, eyes wide in confusion.

Simon shrugged. “Cause,” he trailed off, not really wanting to explain the whole messy divorce situation to a five-year-old. “Nevermind that. What d’you want for breakfast?”

Instead of answering, Gianna crossed her arms while frowning. “I don’t want breakfast. I want Buddy an’ Daisy!

A sigh escaped Simon as the results of his parenting bit him in the ass. Bloody hell, he had to stop surrendering to her big eyes and pouting lips—just like her mum. She had learned from the best, hadn’t she? Got him wrapped around her tiny finger. There was only one trick up his sleeve to get her to cooperate.

“If you don’t eat breakfast, then then we won’t be able to go an’ watch yer mum later.”

And sure enough, Gianna’s whole expression lit up, renewed. She gasped, hands flying up to cover her mouth in an exaggerated gesture. Seems like he got himself a drama queen.

“We’re gonna watch Mum?!” she asked, full of hope.

Simon nodded, trying to maintain a serious expression but always failing because of her antics. “As long as you behave an’ eat breakfast.”

The five-year-old was cheering, jumping, and doing her little dances in unbridled energy—just like her mum. He guessed it was true what Garrick said that day the lads visited the two of you at the hospital after Gianna was born—“She’s a perfect blend of the both of you.”

[thesilmarillionblog]

𝐁𝐄𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐒

Summary: You play Soldier Boy's wife in the new movie. He's a method actor, and so are you. 

Pairing: Soldier Boy / F! Reader

Warnings: +18! (Minors DNI), SMUT, Soldier Boy is cheating CC, rough sex, oral sex (m! receiving), kinda role playing, kinky, unprotected sex, dirty talk, porn without plot lol, set in late 1970's

Word Count: 3283

A/N: English is not my first language.

"Cut!"

Soldier Boy winked at you, pulled his lips back, and loosened his firm arms over your back as the director ordered. His hand continued to touch you daringly during the romantic scenes, so it must have been fun for him to witness your heart race. After licking your lips, you faced the director, who had been discussing the specifics with the rest of his staff.

With an anxious expression on his face, the director wanted to tell Soldier Boy something, but he was too scared to say anything since Soldier Boy wasn't the most sensible person when it came to providing guidance. Whatever was said to him didn't matter. Never.

The director then collected all of his stuff and gestured for you to join him. After taking the iced coffee, Soldier Boy turned to face the anxiously breathing and sweating director in front of him. 

“Now what?” Sitting in the chair, Soldier Boy stretched out his muscles and asked in a harsh voice.

Soldier Boy became irate every time he was given instructions to act with greater enthusiasm and better, suggesting that the director, Mr. Nathan, must be dying of dread and worry. 

“It's a romantic film,” Mr. Nathan remarked, appearing to become agitated as he brought up his hands on his hips. “And the subject at hand is war. It's meant to be intimate and heartfelt.”

“And?”

“You shouldn't behave as though you're going to have sex like you're in an adult film. I hope you don't take offense, sir. You're an excellent actor. However, would you mind being a bit more romantic? It would be quite beneficial.”

Snorting, Soldier Boy said, “Fuck that. A sentimental war film, huh? Jesus... I have no doubt that young soldiers would find greater use for pornographic films if we produced some. Believe me, If I fuck her and then leave her to join war, that would make women and men all cry their eyes out. Are we really making this trash movie for housewives only? Who approved this fucking script anyway?”

“Sure and no, sir—no, definitely not. I'm among those who approved, of course, and I can tell you that the script is excellent. Act a little more genuine. This is a movie that everyone should see. If you'd prefer, we could change the actress. If it would help you to be partners with Crimson Countess, maybe we can arrange that.”

The director looked at you, and you crossed your arms over your chest. Stupid coward. That would be the beginning of your best work, but his terrified ass was prepared to destroy your career before it had ever begun. 

“Oh fuck no!” Soldier Boy gulped down his cold coffee. “Not her dry pussy coming over here. My co-star is talented and fine enough.”

You were going to defend yourself in front of the director, but luckily Soldier Boy was kind enough to stand up for you, which made things much better. You were giving him every indication that, in the end, you would do anything to get this job. You would never have taken part in a greater movie before, and Soldier Boy would be the ideal match for it. That was the top of your career already. He was attractive and interesting, but it was difficult to resist and melt into him at the moments when he was meant to give you a gentle kiss. Clearly, that wasn't his thing—being gentle and loving.

It wasn't your thing either.

Mr. Nathan sighed and answered, “Sure,” becoming tired of Soldier Boy not caring at all about what he was trying to say. “We're all going to have some break, and then we can go on filming, is that alright?”

“All right. Whatever,” Soldier Boy said. His specialty was not romantic war films, obviously. He sounded so corny in situations that you could be positive he detested every single love phrase he ever delivered. But none of you had the guts to tell him that out loud. 

If he wasn't concerned about his acting in the first place, that didn't matter to you. There were times when you found it amusing that he was exaggerating in order to enrage the director. It was difficult for you to not break your character in these situations. The kissing scenes, however, were exceptional. You would have let him fuck you if he had made the move right then. He was only getting you wet with his tongue. 

As soon as Mr. Nathan left, Soldier Boy stood up and stepped toward you, looking intently at you. Your entire body tingled with anticipation. Desire was already causing your legs to tremble. 

With a low tone, he said, “Follow me,” and handed his empty cup to someone. 

With joy, you followed instructions. You had already been thinking filthy stuff since the morning. Your pussy was swollen, and your underwear was already wet since he had been teasing you so much. 

He locked the door when you followed him to his trailer.

He approached your body and looked at your long skirt before saying, “So,” and licked his lips. “What are you thinking about that guy who said that? About acting and anything else?”

As his thumb lingered on your breast, stroking it to make you go wild, you put your hands over his chest, excited about what was about to happen. Your thighs tensed with yearning. 

Whispering, "He might be right," you ran a hand down his chest and felt his hardness through his trousers. 

He smiled a bit at you when he realized you were ready for a quick fuck. You continued to softly touch him there, and his cock hardened. 

With a sigh, “About?” he began to undo your dress so he could see your tits. 

“About your acting,” you muttered as his harsh hand continued to torment you. “You should act more romantically and intimately.” 

“Hmm,” was all he said. 

He palmed both of your tits after he had finished unbuttoning your dress. 

“I consider myself to be a method actor,” he said, grinning arrogantly at you. 

You smirked and said, “What a coincidence; me too,” as you unzipped his pants. You lowered his pants and waited for him to give you guidance. “But what would your girlfriend, Crimson Countess, think about that?”

“I don't see an issue if you seal your pretty mouth. I also don't want to fuck her dry cunt forever. Now, get on your knees,” he said rudely, then, putting his hand behind your head, he pushed you on your knees.

Your pulse was pounding as you followed instructions. It wasn't that you were inexperienced, but it also wasn't that you were doing it for the first time. It had only lasted a minute or two until you had completed it in the past. It hadn't pleased you. You had immediately stopped. 

You were ecstatic to see Soldier Boy's massive, pulsating cock, though. You wrapped your hands around his thick shaft, and you licked your dry lips, sensing its weight in your palm. It was exciting and tantalizing to consider sucking the strongest superhero on the planet. 

You murmured, looking at his face and lightly brushing the tip with your lips, “What do you want me to do?” It was apparent that he was beginning to take pleasure in and enjoy what he was seeing. “Sir.”

He grinned at you and tightened his grasp behind your hair when he heard the final word, letting you know how weak you are in comparison to him. After all, you were both method actors, and the game you were playing was harmless. He was definitely thrilled.

He continued, taking his big cock in his hand and pressing it against your lips. “You're a naughty one, aren't you? About to be railed and excited to suck your co-star's cock. Not because you want to get the job, but simply to be fucked.”

“Maybe,” you said, licking the tip with your tongue. It didn't taste horrible, but it was salty. “Maybe I just want to get fucked by a supe; maybe it's because I want to keep my job.”

He finally lost patience with you and shoved his cock inside your mouth when you continued to tease him. You obeyed and took his cock in your mouth. You could take the head since his shaft was far too big for you, yet it was clear that he wanted more.

“Or perhaps I agree with the director's wish for my co-star to act more intimate in his part.” You teased him and palmed his heavy balls, adding, “Would you act more romantic just like you are expected if I was there, standing while your cum inside me?” You were certain that he would come early enough.

“You shouldn't worry about it. My cum will be flowing between your legs as you wander around,” he groaned. “But you'll suck that cock nice firstly.”

He pushed his cock into your mouth again before you could respond. You started to lick it by slowly getting used to the size of it before figuring out the right rhythm.

“Take it more,” he moaned, pressing your head on his cock. You were too aroused to resist, yet it was difficult to withstand his strength.

You attempted to take more of his throbbing cock by opening your mouth wider and placing your hands on his knees for assistance, but it was too huge.

“Fucking take it,” he snapped, annoyed by your poor attempt. Taking complete control, he then reached behind your hair with his other hand and stilled your head.

He made you choke around him by forcing half of his cock into your mouth with such power that you gagged uncontrollably. But you were determined to push yourself to the very limit. Under the mercy of the most powerful supe made you feel things. You had no idea that you needed such treatment in order to suck a cock properly. You became more and more wet as he applied more pressure, made you choke, and filled your mouth with his cock. 

When you finally had enough of him, he withdrew so he could grab your mouth and start to fuck your face.

"You like that, don't you?" He moved your head to his cock because he enjoyed it. "You like being used like this? You like being controlled, huh? Yes, fuck. Take it!"

His cock, which was covered in your saliva, began to pulse in your mouth as he continued to fuck it. You clenched up, knowing what was about to happen. Your fingers gripped his legs more tightly as you tried to keep up with his power. 

He asked, “You want it in your mouth?” However, it was obvious that it wasn't a question. Both of you and him were lost in pleasure. 

Soldier Boy pulled back his cock and rubbed it on your reddening lips and waited for your response. 

“Yes, please,” you moaned. “I need you finish in my mouth.”

He groaned, “Anything for my co-star,” and pushed his shaft back into your mouth as hard as he could. It was hot inside your throat. 

You shivered in delight and disbelief as he started to flow in your throat, releasing his hot sperm. You moved a bit to relax, but he gave a loud grunt and stilled your head. 

He moaned, “Fucking swallow,” as he continued to thrust his cock farther. You were so out of breath that tears were streaming down your face. He was cursing as he filled your mouth with his thick cum.

When he makes you taste him, you close your eyes and let him release his hot semen into your mouth fully. Though you weren't sure whether you liked the taste at all due to how strong and salty it was, you really enjoyed the whole process. You felt slick there; the way he was controlling your body was beyond perfect. 

He withdrew his cock back once he had finished fucking your mouth. 

Grasping your chin firmly, he said, “Let me see it.” 

Your mouth opened. Excited, you could feel your legs quivering and hoping he wasn't done with you just yet. Even though you weren't sure whether you had enough time to go all the way, you needed to be touched so desperately. 

He said, “Good girl,” seeing that you swallowed all. “Get up now.” 

Without allowing you to react, he made you stand once more. It was absurd how he was still hard destipe spilling inside your mouth seconds ago. You wondered how frequently he would need to come in order to soften. It may have been because he was a supe. The cause didn't matter to you. Thank goodness he had the energy to continue. After all, you had your own needs. 

“I hope we are not finished yet,” you stated, indicating your intentions with another stroke of his now firm cock. 

“You want to be fucked badly, don't you?” Your long skirt was pulled up by the tough hands of Soldier Boy, who gave you a sly smile. “You enjoy getting fucked by engaged men?”

When his erect cock brushed your thighs and you felt out of breath, you taunted him, “Only the supes.”

He chuckled and had a brief look at your underwear. You were relieved he hadn't ripped them off. He removed your tits from your white bra and pushed your unbuttoned shirt down. You arched back properly when he gave your nipples a little play.

“Let's check to see whether you're wet enough to handle it all now. Tell me you're not a virgin.” He gave a warning but added, “I'm going to fuck you raw anyway.”

“I'm not,” you moaned, impatient for him to get inside. This time, you were unable to stop pleading. “Could you please fuck me already?”

The way you begged him made Soldier Boy smirk. “Since you're begging so nicely...”

He grabbed your hair into his palm, then gave his cock five or six firm strokes to make himself completely erect. He then bent your body into the trailer's wall and positioned himself behind your entrance. 

When you actually noticed how much bigger he was than your hole, you gasped. Not that you didn't get fucked, but it had really been a while. 

“Relax a little for fucks sake. Take it properly, or it's going to hurt. I won't give a fuck,” he warned, pressing himself farther inside of you.

You tensed up. He was pulling your hair a little and knowing that if he utilized his strength a little more, he could break your neck. That should have alarmed you, but instead it enhanced your excitement. Being at a supe's mercy as he fucked you was more exciting than any other sex you had ever had because you never knew if he might lose control while trying to get his pleasure. 

He made you scream with pleasure and pain as he pushed his entire cock inside of you, pushing back with one strong motion. You began to moan and tried to fix your balance, but he instantly stilled your body by pulling your hair.

He moaned in rage, “Don't fucking move,” and proceeded to fuck you senselessly. Your eyes watered with every move he made, and your insides ached a bit. Both the pleasure and the pain that you experienced were immense.

“That's how you should get fucked. Like a slut you are. You are a slut, aren't you? You wanted me to fuck you there?” He groaned while continuing to penetrate you from the back. Your hair was tugged again by his hand. He needed a response. 

“Yeah,” you moaned, placing a hand against his severe grip on your hip. “I needed you to fuck me right there.”

He was obviously pleased with your response since you could almost hear him smirking. 

“Oh, yeah. Are you not embarrassed to want to have sex with an engaged man? Allow him to use your body any way he chooses. Show him that you are better than his future wife. You like the idea of a supe cheating on his girlfriend with you?” His filthy words caused your walls to contract as he gave you a strong and quick fuck. You were embarrassingly wet. 

You teased him, “So what?” in between moans. “In the film we're in, we're husband and wife, right? We need to get into the role properly.”

“Do you think you can wear my sperm right there and yet perform your role properly? What would they say if they knew? Will you tell them you wanted me to fuck you so that you could do your role more effectively? Do you want everyone to know your cunt is full of my cum? Is that it?” 

You knew that the game you were playing was making him more thrilled, so when he bent your body harder, you let out an excited gasp. He widened your legs and placed both of his hands on each side of your hips. Without his support, you would have already fallen. 

You screamed out, “Yes, please, please,” as your walls continued to clench around his thick cock. “Husband.” 

“Oh fuck,” he groaned as he got closer. He firmly gripped your bouncing tits and gave them a firm squeeze. “I'm going to fill you so good. Going to satisfy my wife's small greedy cunt nicely. Do you really want that, baby?         Where do you want me to cum?”

Moaning, “Yeah, oh fuck, fuck. Please come inside, husband.” Your orgasm hit so hard you had to scream his name this time. You were sure some of the staff heard your screaming. Your walls clenched badly. You got his dick wet with your slick as your legs were trembling frantically. You felt like you were about to pass out from the intense fucking you were getting from him during your peak.

He moaned, “Whatever my wife wishes,” as he continued to penetrate you despite your oversensitivity. He then began to come inside of you with a loud grunt. Before he came, he held your hips so forcefully that you felt he was going to break your body till he was satisfied. 

He cautiously removed his cock after giving you a bit more pleasure and making sure he had emptied his balls within your pussy. He gave you a hard spank on the ass and complimented you on your well-done move, seeing how his sperm was flowing between your legs. 

You grinned to yourself and pulled up your underwear when you knew you were fucked well for real. You could let him fuck you again since his hot sperm in you felt so nice. 

As he was complimenting you, you could hear him stuffing his dick back into his pants. “Now that was a good fuck.”

You looked at him and fixed your shirt, skirt, and hair. “I'm glad you enjoyed,” you said, biting your lips. You could still taste him.

“I'm sure I'm not the only one who enjoyed it,” he said, immediately lighting a cigarette and giving you a sly smirk. 

You were told to expect on the set in five minutes when someone knocked on the door right then. You smiled to yourself, undisturbed by the stares from the staff, and spent the remainder of the day with Soldier Boy. You both believed that the method of acting had had the intended impact on you and him. The director was pleased with the two of you. After the break, Soldier Boy was acting better, at least. If only they knew the reason.

It's true that method acting helped you get into your roles better. Particularly behind the scenes.

⋆⋅☆⋆☆⋅⋆───⛥───⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───⛥───⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Comments and reblogs are very appreciated. Let me know what you think please. For more, here's my MASTERLIST. ♥︎

[snkts]

What the fuck. What the fuck, what the fuck. Why in god’s sweet name was everyone in this fucking place an asshole?! This was a waste of goddamn time! The longer he was here, the longer it took for him to fix things. The longer it took for him to get home. 

He couldn’t let that happen.

He wouldn’t let that happen. 

And yeah - he needs Wade to help him fix everything. So he can’t let him get his ass handed to him here. 

“Sorry, lady.” He snarled. “But I don’t have time for this shit-!” And he lunges. The world blurs. His claws flash. A growl rips through his chest. And the fight is on. And it is chaos. He doesn’t mind - he thrives on it. The store doesn’t. Shelves are crashed through, walls are crumbled. Glass shatters around them like diamond rain. Blood falls with it. This place was never gonna be on any magazines, but it’s a damn dump now. If he was paying more attention, Logan would be amazed it was still standing. And so was she. 

She was holding up pretty well. He almost respected it. 

Key word, almost. He wasn’t going to make nice with anyone that stood between him and seeing his family again. 

And then there’s a knife at his throat. That doesn’t bother him. (Well, okay, it pisses him off that someone got that close, but it won’t do anything that matters.) He presses against the blade with a growl, just to get his claws even more firmly against her throat. 

Then something shifts. 

He isn’t sure what. Just- Something. Something felt different. She was looking at him different. She moved back, and he tilted his head. That wasn’t what he’d expected to happen. And she didn’t smell so ticked off anymore - more surprised, confused. That made two of them. Her knife falls to the floor with a clatter, and Logan straightens and lets his claws slide back into the sheaths of his arms. He studies her with a tilt of her head. She’s… Well, she’s beautiful. No way around that. The weirdest part is, he doesn’t recognize her. For some goddamn reason, it felt like he recognized every poor son of a bitch in this place - except Wade and Cassandra, that is. Most of them seemed like knockoffs of people from his world. (... Or his world was the knockoff. That felt more likely. After all, he remembered how that Paradox guy spoke about him. He deserved it. He’d let them all down.) Some of them, like that Johnny kid, had the same face, but a different name. But he’d never seen her before. 

He would’ve remembered. 

“Dunno.” He tilted his head towards Wade, but didn’t take his eyes off the stranger. “But shut up, before you give us a reason to start again.” Then, he gave his full attention to the stranger, righting his posture. 

“You done?”

That voice makes her tense.

It is not one of the Deadpools. No. While their voices and accents vary from Deadpool to Deadpool, they all have a certain SOMETHING to it that makes them unmistakably themselves. This man is not a Deadpool, nor is he a Sabertooth, or a Toad, or any of the others that tend to end up here.

He's definitely a newbie. Otherwise he would know better than to play hero.

But now is not the time to think about such things. She can figure out who the other is once he is dead— one both he and the mouthy red idiot are dead.

Silver Fox lunges. One grows used to violence in The Void— it is a natural part of life there. A necessity, even. Those who don't kill get killed instead. Silver Fox found out a long time ago that she cannot die, so those who make the mistake of attacking her have to. Few opponents scare her, and this one does not. Her blade found itself free of its sheath. Metal clashes with metal and she has to admit, it catches her slightly off guard. Claws. Three on each hand. Long and sharp and coming out not from this man's fingers, but from between them. Something Silver Fox hasn't ever seen in The Void before.

Shelves and racks get knocked down, things fly as she tries to free her blade while avoiding those of his other hand. The whole time, Wade fights to break free from the barbed wire that's cozied up into his flesh.

The Deadpool's savior is strong. The fight lasts less than Silver Fox is proud to admit before they're both at each other's throats. Literally. Her knife pressed to his neck, while his claws make her all too aware of her own fluttering pulse. Big brown eyes full of anger focus on his own.

Something happens. Like electricity, or a fist straight to the chest. The air gets knocked out of Silver Fox's longs, lips parting in a soundless gasp.

She doesn't know him. From the colors of his suit she can tell that he is most likely one of those that the others call Wolverine. But Silver Fox hasn't ever met him, and yet... her gaze studies his features, his jaw, the slight curve of his nose, his eyes. She hasn't ever seen them and yet, it is as if she has been searching for them her whole life. Looking for him her whole life. A ridiculous notion, as any possibility for progress in life was stolen from her the very day she was dumped into The Void without explanation. But it feels true.

Her knife clatters to the ground. A mistake that could cost her her life. Yet, she doesn't feel threatened nor helpless. Something deep inside her tells her he won't kill her. In that moment, it is as if there is no danger, no need to fight or kill.

Until, through the corner of her eye, she catches sight of the damn Deadpool, managing to be extremely obnoxious even as he whispers:

"Why did we stop fighting?"