POKER FACE

—   ( SUMMER RAIN )

˚ SUMMARY. two unlikely students are paired together for a documentary — but sometimes love finds us in peculiar ways ( aka an our beloved summer au. or also in other words high school unlikely match / rival au )

˚ FEATURING. ayato, albedo, childe, kaeya, thoma, xiao x gn! reader

˚ WARNINGS. mentions of “pretty” in albedo’s. mild swearing. usage of mx

˚ LINKS. masterlist

˚ NOTES. im posting this even though it technically isnt valentines day yet for me but by the time i post this tmrw it wont be valentines for most people so … enjoy !! all fluff :D

( interlude )

“a documentary,” you say, slowly.

“yes,” the cameraman says. “it’s only for a month. we’re pairing up the [pair] and we’ll basically filming you throughout the month. just pretend we aren’t there — it’s just a documentary about youth life, and you just go on about your day-to-day lives.”

you hesitate. this sounds like a mistake.

it’s one month, a voice in your head whispers. you can do one month, can’t you?

you clear your throat. “so who’s the other person going to be?”

ayato: most proper and least proper

kamisato ayato has a rep around inazuma high and it isn’t necessarily a bad one

the only thing you know about him is that his family practically runs the town

and apparently, an asshole

he has a rep for being closed off – you never see him hang out with anyone other than his sister and thoma. and you’re on good terms with thoma - but you’ve never talked to ayato

you’ve never had reason to; you’re never in the same class as him, and he always seemingly disappears every time you approach thoma

stuck up ass, is basically what you’ve always thought of him; he often had an air to him that said he’s too good for everyone

you think he looks down on you because you’re not as prestigious as he is - he’s proper, he comes from a rich family. he probably doesn’t even need the money from the documentary

still, at first, in the documentary, you try to be friends with him.

it goes horribly wrong.

on the first day of the documentary, you buy yourself a coffee at the local coffee shop. and you end up buying him one as well

however, when you try to give it to him, you end up tripping it and spilling it all over his business project that he’s stayed up all night to work on

there’s a beat of absolute silence as he slowly looks up to stare at you. you swear his eyes are burning holes into your head

and then he slowly looks back down, grabbing his water bottle, unscrewing the top lid, presumably to take a drink.

“sorry” you say, hurriedly. “i was trying to give you coffee, because i know you always stay up-”

he dumps the water over your head

a small shriek gets stuck in your throat, as you get soaked from head to toe

“i said sorry,” you say. your voice isn’t angry, still in shock. but the anger rises in your chest all the same

“oh.” he looks back down at his project. his voice is nothing short of sarcastic. “sorry.”

and then, at that moment, you decide that you hate this kid. with a burning passion

and of course he never gets into trouble because nobody would ever suspect ayato of doing something bad

the only person who sympathizes with you is thoma who just shrugs with a crooked grin and says “he’s sly. there’s a reason he’s never gotten caught.”

you’re forced to sit in the same classes, next to each other, for the sake of the documentary

but even through the filming, you’ve never been afraid to tell the camera how much you dislike ayato

“oh things i hate?” you ask, staring at the camera. “kamisato ayato.”

he doesn’t turn his head to you but you can see his scowl all the same. “funny, i was going to say the same.”

your arguments are equivalent to a child’s argument — often times, when arguments spark, they’re accidents like the coffee; it only gives him more fuel to dislike you, and you to dislike him

once, he decides to give you coffee with a “sorry :(“ sticky note attached to it

and like the fool you are, you decide to drink it

he watches from outside the door, not being able to resist a smirk

salt floods your taste buds, but instead of spitting it out, you make eye contact with him in the door and continue to down the entire thing

ayato also basically has this claim to a parking spot in the school - it’s not technically his, but everyone’s agreed it’s ayato’s spot

you stole it as soon as you could

it becomes a competition on who can get to school first to steal the spot. and that leads to both of you being to school two hours earlier

which means you actually spend a lot of time together ! and soon, your dislike for him, melts into something softer

you like spending time with him. in fact, you look forward to it

and you don’t miss how his smiles become fond - sometimes, when you’re on the verge of falling asleep in class, you see him smile softly as you rest your head on his shoulders

or sometimes, when you wake up, you just find his jacket over your shoulders

and there’s this one time when someone else makes an off hand comment about your clumsiness

the next day, the kid doesn’t show up to school. and when he shows up again, his face is bright red and his hair has been dyed green

when you turn to ayato, he just gives you his signature smirk with a shrug. “i don’t get caught.”

you two end up terrorizing your teachers. they never figure out who has been leaving alarm clocks around the building to disturb class, and ayato always turns to you with a fond smile

“how do i feel about y/n now?” he breaks into a soft smile. “i love them — i couldn’t ask for a better partner in crime. but don’t tell them i said that. i will never hear the end of it.”

albedo: smart & smart

you’ve never talked to albedo before this - but you’ve noticed him from afar

you’re both top of your class - both of you competing for number one spot

he’s never had many feelings towards you, other than the fact that you’re smart. he notices your name on the top scorers of exams, but knows nothing of you other than that

you never see albedo hang out with anyone - he has a few people he talks to, but none that he ever seems to be friends with

and it’s not for a lack of trying either - you ask kaeya about him once, wanting to get an idea of who albedo was

and kaeya just says “albedo — a strange one. he’s nice. but don’t interrupt him while he’s working. or ask him to hang out. he will always say no. it’s quite embarrassing.”

but when you talk to albedo, he’s actually quite nice! he’s never been anything but kind to you

you work together on a lab, and he’s always been patient with you. you’re able to bounce ideas off each other, and you’ve never worked with someone better

the rivalry doesn’t kick in until the second day. and then oh boy

but you also work at a daycare after school hours — and there, you take care of a child named klee

and you love klee ! klee’s the best !

sometimes, you help klee make these little water bombs as pranks to help her terrorize this “big bad brother” she complains about in daycare

and you share all your knowledge with her

and then, one day, when klee decides to set off her bombs on “big bad brother” albedo asks klee where she learned to make these new kind of bombs

klee — the absolute icon she is — isn’t able to keep a secret. “mx y/n helped me,” she says, sheepishly, swinging back and forth

albedo stops. “y/n l/n?”

klee shrugs. “i think. they says they’re your age. i like mx y/n more than you. they let me go fish blasting!”

so the next day, albedo, naturally comes to ask if you work in a daycare and you know klee

“yeah, i know klee.” you chuckle, thinking about her. “the other day, i helped her make mini water bombs — not a dangerous kind, don’t worry — to prank her brother. she’s amazing.”

he gives you a deadpan look. “klee’s my sister.”

oh. oh shit.

“and by the way,” he says, “i make better water bombs than you.”

and if to prove it, the next day, you find a container on your desk. and when you open it, water sprays in your face

and next to you, albedo is chuckling

oh it is so on.

you do most of your pranks through klee, bribing her to prank albedo. and albedo does the same

you both compete to be klee’s favorite — and whenever albedo comes pick klee up, you both have to tone down on the swearing

but you two are never mean to each other - it’s always been fun little pranks, with no mean intentions behind it, something you both know

“how do you feel about albedo?” the cameramen ask you, once, for the documentary.

“albedo?” the cameras don’t miss the small smile that spreads across your face. “he’s kind. a little closed off, but an absolute menace.”

but even though your words don’t say the whole truth, the cameras catch it

the cameras catch every time when you’re working late in the lab and he brings snacks for you

or every time either of you don’t understand something, you’re always patient, while explaining it to the other

or sometimes, during class, if you’ve pulled an all nighter, he’ll let you rest on his shoulder as he takes a little more notes as usual that way you’ll be caught up in class

and one day, when you’re taking of klee, she tells you

“my brother says he likes you.” she grins from ear to ear. “he says you’re very pretty.”

needless to say, you played a clip of your documentary at the wedding

“how do i feel about y/n?” albedo hums. “don’t tell them i said this, but i’m happy klee likes them. i want to make them apart of our family.”

more undercut !

Keep reading

revolver | the salesman x fem! reader

*.✧ synopsis: what's supposed to be an early day off with your coworker, gong ji-cheol, turns into a dangerous game of cat and mouse, and russian roulette. as danger escalates, so does the magnetic pull between you, blurring the line between survival and sexual desire. *.✧ word count: 7.1k *.✧ warnings: squidgame season 2 spoilers, violence, death, reader smokes descriptive fight scenes, guns, sucking on guns, gi-hun dies instead of the salesman, the salesman is a warning on its own, reader is also craycray like the salesman, use of gong yoo's real name (do let me know if i should not), co-workers eye fucking, sexual innuendoes, tbf its hinted they fuck after the end. 18+ SCENES (no actual smut, just your typical moaning and sucking of the gun). *.✧ note: not my proudest work but i hope u like it! chances of part 2 is close to none btw, I, for the love of god, was stuck for an hour on that goddamn gun sucking scene, but who knows. masterlist | request here

You let out a heavy sigh as you sank onto one of the worn benches in Tapgol Park. The air was crisp, and the faint hum of city life surrounded you. You were currently waiting for Gong Ji-cheol, your one and only co-worker. He had asked you to meet him here, promising to wrap up his final task for the day before heading to his humble home together.

Your cheek throbbed as you pressed a small bag of ice against it, wincing at the sting. The last girl you played against had been a real piece of work. Not only did you lose much faster than usual, but her slap had left an unforgettable impression—literally. It was as if she had mistaken you for her runaway fiancé who had left her high and dry.

“Damn, she packed a punch,” you muttered under your breath, the memory making you scowl.

With another sigh, you brought a cigarette to your lips, holding it between your fingers as you lit it with practiced ease. The familiar burn in your lungs was oddly comforting. Crossing your legs, you leaned back against the bench’s headrest, letting the smoke escape in a slow exhale that curled into the night sky.

‘Where the hell is he?’ you thought irritably, your foot tapping an impatient rhythm against the pavement. Your eyes scanned the park, catching glimpses of couples strolling by and the occasional jogger.

Just as you were about to pull out your phone to check the time, you spotted a familiar figure entering the park. Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. Gong Ji-cheol strode in with an air of nonchalance, his hands laden with paper bags that seemed ready to burst at the seams.

You didn’t call out to him, opting instead to watch as he navigated the park with his usual flair. His expression was focused as he finished whatever errand had delayed him. You leaned back further, cigarette perched lazily between your fingers, content to let him finish his business before approaching him.

The two of you had met as guards in a sick, twisted game designed to bleed people dry for the amusement of the elite. Starting out as a lowly Worker, you two slowly climbed the ranks—first a Soldier, then finally a Manager. It wasn’t common for guards to bond, no. Trust was scarce in a world built on deception and survival, yet somehow, Ji-cheol had cracked through your armor. Maybe it was his sharp wit, or the way he could read you like an open book, but whatever it was, you found yourself gravitating toward him.

Just as you were about to take another drag of your cigarette, you noticed something unusual: two men standing awkwardly at the park’s edge, their attention locked onto Ji-cheol like predators stalking prey. They weren’t subtle, either, holding up newspapers as flimsy disguises that barely hid their faces.

You cocked a brow, biting back a chuckle at their obvious act. Amateurs. Still, their presence made your senses sharpen.

Your attention shifted back to Ji-cheol just in time to see him come to a halt in the park’s center. He looked at the bags in his hands, before dropping its contents to the ground with deliberate carelessness. One by one, he stomped on the bread he’d been carrying, flattening each loaf under polished shoes.

You’d seen him do it before—hell, you’d done it yourself—but something about the way he carried out the task tonight was different. There was a certain sharpness in his movements, an edge that hinted at more than just routine. Was he putting on a show for the two men who were watching him, or was this his way of venting the frustrations of the day? 

Either way, you couldn’t deny that he looked downright intoxicating as he stood there—his jaw clenched tight, shoulders tense with barely contained aggression, and his eyes gleaming with something dark and dangerous. The raw power in his posture was magnetic, and you felt a jolt of lust rush through you at the sight.

You smirked, taking in the scene. Slowly, you stood, your movements deliberate as you reached for your suitcase. You tossed the cigarette to the ground, watching it fall with the finality of a decision made, before crushing it under your heel with a swift, confident stomp.

With a casual flick of your wrist, you brushed yourself off, smoothing your clothes. Then, you gave a small wave, your fingers barely lifting, but the motion was enough to catch Ji-cheol’s attention. His gaze snapped to yours instantly, the fire of the moment in his eyes briefly shifting to something more focused, more intent. He stomped on the pile of wasted bread one last time, before fixing himself and walking in your direction.

“Good day, [Name]. How are you? Have you finished your rounds?” he asked with a smile, his tone formal, almost mechanical.

You rolled your eyes and stepped closer, brushing back a stray lock of his hair and fixing it with a familiarity that always seemed to catch him off guard. “Drop the formalities, Ji-cheol. It’s me,” you said, your voice soft but firm.

His posture eased, the stiffness leaving his shoulders as he allowed himself to relax in your presence. “To answer your question, yeah, I’ve finished my rounds. It was a fast day for me.”

“Is that so?” he replied, his tone warmer now. But as his eyes landed on the swelling on your cheek, his smile faltered. Concern flickered across his face. “That mark wasn’t on your pretty little face before. Trouble today?”

You let out a soft laugh, dropping your hand from his hair. “This? It’s nothing. Just a parting gift from my last client—a pregnant girl scammed by her ex’s fake cryptocurrency. She was better than I expected, though. Won more rounds than me.”

He tilted his head, his lips curling into a teasing smile. “Did she really win more, or did you let her? I know you, [Name]. You find pleasure in pain—don’t even try denying it.”

You stepped closer, lowering your voice to an alluring murmur, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear. “Oh, Ji-cheol, pain is only a pleasure when it’s coming from you. You should know that by now.”

His eyes darkened at your words, and a slow, rich chuckle escaped his lips. “Careful, [Name],” he murmured, his voice a low rumble, his hand brushing against your lower back. “You keep teasing me like that, and I might just test your theory.”

You raised an eyebrow, your smile turning into a sly smirk. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” you whispered, tilting your head slightly, challenging him.

His lips quirked upward, his gaze holding yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. “You’d be surprised at what I can deliver,” he said, his voice dropping a notch.

Before the tension could spiral further, you stepped back abruptly, breaking the moment with a grin. Turning on your heel, you called over your shoulder with playful finality, “Come on. I’m done for the day, and I need a drink—or at least a cigarette that doesn’t taste like stress.”

Ji-cheol let out a chuckle before falling into step beside you, his presence a constant heat at your side. As you walked, a flicker of curiosity tugged at you, and you subtly turned your head to check for any sign of the two men from earlier. But before you could get a proper look, Ji-cheol’s hand reached out, firm but controlled, gently turning your face forward again.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice low and calm, though there was an edge of authority beneath it. “I know what you saw—I saw them too. Just keep walking like a good girl. Let them think we’re clueless about their little act.”

His fingers lingered for a moment before he let go, stepping ahead of you to hail a cab. The gesture was quick, efficient, and almost as if he’d done this a hundred times before.

When the taxi rolled to a stop, Ji-cheol turned back to you with a grin that was equal parts mischief and charm. “After you,” he said, his tone teasing as he bowed dramatically. He even went so far as to open the door for you, gesturing with exaggerated politeness like a chauffeur entertaining a particularly important client.

You played along, rolling your eyes but stepping into character anyway. “Why thank you, good sir,” you said with a mock curtsey, gathering the hem of your imaginary skirt as you slipped into the cab.

Ji-cheol followed closely behind, settling in beside you as the driver glanced over his shoulder. “Where to?” he asked, his tone flat, his gaze flicking between the two of you in the rearview mirror.

Saying a quick thank-you to the cab driver, you followed Ji-cheol into a narrow alleyway. The quiet buzz of the city surrounded you, but your attention was on your co-worker’s back as he strode ahead.

“Hey,” you said, breaking the silence, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Wanna play a quick game? Whoever guesses why those clowns are following us treats the other to dinner.”

Ji-cheol cast a glance over his shoulder, one brow arched in confusion.

“What? It’s a good pastime, no?” you added, shrugging. “Humor me a bit!”

He shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he turned a corner. You followed close behind, your grin fading as the sound of hurried footsteps behind you grew louder.

“Hey, you two! Stop!”

“Stop right there!”

Ji-cheol didn’t respond, instead quickening his pace. But you could hear it in his voice when he muttered, “Idiots.”

The chase ended when Ji-cheol led you into a dead-end alley. He stopped abruptly, spinning around with a calmness that felt almost unsettling, while you turned to face your pursuers. They were close now—two men, one in a dark blue shirt and the other in red, both with the kind of looks that screamed trouble.

“Well, well,” you said, tossing your briefcase from one hand to the other. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves some company. Lucky us.”

Ji-cheol didn’t say a word. He simply adjusted his grip on his own briefcase, his eyes narrowing in calculation.

The men didn’t waste time, rushing toward you with the reckless aggression of people who thought they had the upper hand. Big mistake.

You locked your focus on the man in the dark blue shirt, narrowing your eyes as you sidestepped his first swing with practiced precision. The moment his fist whizzed past you, you didn’t waste a second. Your briefcase swung through the air, connecting with his ribs with a satisfying thud. He grunted in pain, stumbling back, and you let out a small, mocking laugh.

"Hey, handsome," you teased, your voice dripping with playful mockery. "You should really think twice before picking a fight with us. I’m a sucker for a challenge. But..." You grinned wickedly, dodging another wild punch as you leaned back. "...I’ve got a thing for aggressive men, you know? My type."

The man’s face twisted in frustration and fury. His lips curled, and he spat, “Shut up, you bitch!”

You grinned even wider. "Ooh, getting personal, huh?" you teased, barely dodging another wide swing. “You should take me to bed and that’s where I’ll show you how much of a bitch I can be…”

Your dirty quip was abruptly interrupted when the man unexpectedly grabbed your arm, twisting it painfully. You winced as a sharp jolt of pain shot through your body, forcing you to drop your grip on the briefcase. The metallic clatter of it hitting the ground echoed in your ears.

"Hey! That’s expensive, dumbass!" you snapped, frustration flaring. You wrenched your arm free, trying to shake him off, but his grip was firm.

Before you could fully react, the man kicked your briefcase, sending it sliding towards Ji-cheol, who was tangled in his own fight with the man in red. The sound of metal scraping across the concrete grated on your nerves, a surge of irritation washing over you. That briefcase was yours—nothing was going to ruin it, not even this asshole.

You didn't hesitate. In a flash, your foot shot out, landing a perfect kick right into his shin. He yelped in pain, releasing your arm as he staggered backward. You wasted no time. With a burst of energy, you shoved him hard into the wall behind him. His back collided with a pile of scrap materials with a satisfying thud, the sound reverberating through your body.

You stood tall, brushing off your clothes with an air of nonchalance. As you bent down to retrieve your briefcase, your attention shifted for a moment. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught a flash of metal—a glint of something sharp catching the light. Your heart lurched in your chest as you realized what it was.

The man in the red shirt had drawn a knife. Worse, he was heading straight for Ji-cheol, the blade aimed directly at his back.

“Ji—” you started, your voice cutting through the tension, but your warning was abruptly cut off as something hard slammed into the side of your head.

The world tilted violently. A burst of blinding pain exploded through your skull, and you staggered, your vision blurring. You brought a hand to your temple, trying to steady yourself, but your legs felt weak. Through your dazed vision, you saw him—a cruel grin on his face, the bloodied stone still gripped in his hand.

Before you could do anything, he struck again, the stone connecting with your skull with a sickening crunch. Pain blossomed across your face, and your legs buckled beneath you, sending you crumpling to the ground. Darkness rapidly encroached upon your vision, and the last thing you registered was the faint, mocking sound of his laughter as everything went black.

Ji-cheol’s eyes snapped to you the moment your body hit the pavement, the sickening thud reverberating in the air. His heart hammered in his chest as his gaze locked onto the sight of you: crumpled on the ground, limp, with blood trickling from a wound on your head. His breath caught in his throat. The man in blue, still standing over you, clutching the stone with a sick grin on his face, and the man in red, knife gleaming, were the last things he needed to process before his instincts took over.

Without thinking, his body moved with a kind of ferocity that stunned even him. His muscles tensed, adrenaline coursing through his veins, making him feel like a machine, unstoppable and unrelenting.

In an instant, he spun around, his hand flying out to disarm the red-shirted man. The knife wrenched from the man’s hand with brutal efficiency, and he followed up with a lightning-fast blow to his temple. The man collapsed instantly, crumpling like a ragdoll, out cold before he even hit the ground.

After dealing with him, Ji-cheol's gaze shifted to the man in dark blue standing with the bloody stone in his hand, looking as if he were ready to take another swing at you.

And that was the last thing he would allow.

He closed the distance in two strides, his fist launching toward the man’s jaw, a punch so hard that the stone slipped from his hand, clattering to the ground uselessly. Without hesitation, His fists continued their brutal onslaught. He delivered blow after calculated blow, his knuckles connecting with the man’s ribs, and face, each hit precise and unforgiving. The man in dark blue crumpled, gasping for breath, barely able to comprehend what had happened to him before another punch landed, and he slumped unconscious to the ground.

Once he was sure that the two were passed out, Ji-cheol immediately dropped to his knees beside you, the panic rising in his chest. Seeing you like this, the blood marring your face—it felt like a punch to his gut. His stomach churned, nausea rising with each passing second as guilt seethed through him like poison.

He reached out with trembling hands, carefully wiping the blood from your face, his fingers lingering on your features, brushing along your jaw and hairline. The blood made it worse—it made everything worse.

His thoughts crashed into him like waves. He should’ve seen it coming. He should’ve known this was a bad idea, that taking you into this mess had been a mistake. He should’ve canceled the hangout, he should’ve protected you better. But here you were—hurt, unconscious, vulnerable—and it was his fault. Every pained breath you took, every soft exhale he could hear, was a reminder of how badly he had failed you.

“Damn it, [Name],” he muttered under his breath, his voice rough with guilt and frustration. His hands moved to gently tilt your head, checking for signs of serious injury. You were breathing, thank God. But the blood on your face made him feel like he was drowning.

His fingers hovered near your lips, then slid down your neck, checking for a pulse. Steady. A little too fast, but steady. He exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

As he sat there beside you, his body still trembling with adrenaline, something cold and hard settled in the pit of his stomach. The scene around him—the violence, the bloodshed—it was all becoming a blur. There was only one thing that mattered now, and that was you.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, just kneeling beside you, watching for any signs of life, his mind racing. All he could think about was how much he had to make this right. He couldn’t lose you—not like this. Not because of his own damn mistakes.

“It’s been a long time, Mr. Seong Gi-hun.”

Ji-cheol’s voice carried a calmness that felt unnervingly detached, but his words were deliberate, each syllable measured. He stood with an air of nonchalance, a drink dangling loosely in his hand, as if the weight of the situation didn’t faze him in the slightest.

Gi-hun’s sharp gaze fixed on him, his face a mixture of anger and suspicion. Ji-cheol stepped aside slightly, revealing the passed-out figure slumped in one of the chairs behind him. Gi-hun’s eyes immediately darted to them, worry flashing across his features as he took in the bandaged state of their face.

The sight unsettled him. Like a caring father, he instinctively wanted to rush forward, to check if they were alright, to ensure they were still breathing. But he stopped himself, forcing his feet to remain planted as he redirected his focus to the man standing in front of him.

“I hope you don’t mind another visitor,” Ji-cheol added with a faint smirk, watching Gi-hun’s reaction with mild amusement. “Anyways, you should’ve gotten on that plane.” 

Gi-hun’s hands curled into fists as he turned back toward the towel he’d been using to dry his hair, his movements slow and deliberate. “I changed my mind when I saw you,” he said, voice low and simmering with anger.

With an approving nod, Ji-cheol tossed his now-empty can into the trash with a casual flick of his wrist. It clanged loudly, the sound echoing in the tense silence. He gestured toward a map pinned to the wall, annotated with markings and notes, pointing at it with his revolver as if he were holding a pointer in a lecture.

“It looks like you’ve been trying hard to find me,” He remarked, his tone laced with mock praise, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the map.

“I wanted to thank you.”

The words made Ji-cheol stop mid-motion, his head snapping toward Gi-hun. He blinked, genuinely taken aback, before narrowing his eyes. “Thank me?” he repeated, the disbelief dripping from his voice.

Gi-hun stepped forward, slowly, deliberately. His movements were calm, but there was an undercurrent of malice in every step. Ji-cheol noticed it immediately—the tension in the way Gi-hun carried himself, the suppressed fury barely held in check.

“For inviting me to the game,” Gi-hun said, his voice tight and edged with bitterness. He settled into one of the empty chairs, sitting across from Ji-cheol. The anger burning in his eyes completely contradicted the words spilling from his mouth. “I won. I made it out with a fortune. The decent thing to do would be to thank you for it.” He dragged out the words, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Ji-cheol chuckled softly, a hollow, humorless sound. He leaned back against the table, swirling the liquid in his glass before looking at Gi-hun with feigned delight. “I, no— we—are just messengers who deliver invitations,” he replied smoothly, as if dismissing the very weight of the accusation.

Gi-hun’s jaw clenched as he turned his gaze back to the unconscious figure. The sight of them, bandaged and vulnerable, only seemed to stoke the fire in his chest. He whipped his head back to Ji-cheol, his voice firm and unwavering. “Who had you deliver those invitations? Let me meet him. I have something to say.”

Ji-cheol’s face didn’t change, his expression neutral. “Give me the message,” he said casually, his tone as smooth as silk, “and I’ll pass it along.”

Gi-hun didn’t flinch. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing as his voice grew sharper. “It’s not something I can discuss with an underling like you.”

For the first time, Ji-cheol’s expression shifted—just slightly. An eyebrow arched, and a flicker of amusement danced across his face as he tilted his head.

Gi-hun pressed on, his voice growing colder. “You prey on people who are hanging by a thread, conning them at subway stations with your pathetic games. Someone like you wouldn’t understand what I’m trying to say.”

The words struck a nerve. Ji-cheol’s smile turned razor-sharp, a glint of something darker flashing in his eyes. He straightened up, stepping closer to Gi-hun with calculated precision. “Mr. Seong,” he began, his voice low, the edges laced with venom. “How do you think I got to where I am now?”

“I don’t care how you became their dog,” Gi-hun spat back, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. His fists clenched at his sides, every muscle in his body taut with anger. “Bring me your master. Now.”

For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. Ji-cheol’s grip tightened slightly, his knuckles whitening as he stared down at the man in front of him. The tension crackled between them like a live wire, each word loaded with unspoken challenges.

But he didn’t break. Instead, he calmed himself down, his lips curled into a faint, mocking smile. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way, Mr. Seong,” he said coolly, his tone almost taunting. “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

Gi-hun’s glare didn’t waver. The air between them was thick with unspoken threats, the weight of their animosity pressing down like a storm waiting to break.

You didn’t know what had happened. One moment, you were grappling with the two men who had been tailing you and Ji-cheol, your pulse pounding in your ears as you threw every ounce of strength into your movements. The world had been chaotic, filled with sharp grunts, the scrape of shoes on concrete, and Ji-cheol’s distant voice cutting through the noise. Then, just as suddenly as the fight had started, everything had gone dark.

Now, consciousness crept back slowly, each sensation arriving in fragments. Your head throbbed, a deep ache that pulsed in time with your uneven breathing. Your body felt heavy, as though weighed down by something unseen, and your surroundings were a muddle of indistinct sounds and shadows. Somewhere nearby, a voice pierced through the haze—clear, calm, and chillingly familiar.

“Let’s play a game,” You hear Ji-cheol say, his voice unnervingly casual. The words broke through the thick, suffocating silence, pulling you from the disorientation. Your senses sharpened, snapping into focus as you locked onto the sound of his voice. Slowly, other details began to bleed into your awareness, each one clearer than the last. A faint melody lingered in the air, haunting, delicate, a melody that sent a shiver down your spine. The tune grew clearer with every passing second, and then it hit you—Time to Say Goodbye by Andrea Bocelli and Sarah Brightman. One of your favorites. 

“I’m sure you’ve seen this in the movies,” He continued, his voice floating through the tension of the room. There was no urgency in his words, no thrill of danger—only a casual amusement. It was as if he were describing a mere game, a joke, instead of a life-or-death scenario. “It’s called Russian Roulette.”

The unmistakable click of the revolver’s cylinder spinning sliced through the thick air, sharp and metallic. It was the kind of sound that clawed at your insides. The revolver clicked again, a sound that seemed louder, more pronounced in the silence of the room. Ji-cheol’s voice returned, light and nonchalant. “Usually, you load one bullet, spin the cylinder, and…”

You dared to open your eyes just a crack, curious on what was happening. What you didn’t expect was your gaze being met with the barrel of the revolver, inches away from your face. A rush of anger surged through you, sharp and electric. The nerve of this bastard. 

Across the room, Gi-hun stirred. You could hear him, his breath ragged and loud. He moved forward, instinctively, as though to intervene, to stop Ji-cheol, but his feet faltered. He paused, his whole body tight with tension. His eyes locked onto the weapon, his posture rigid. 

“Hey—” Gi-hun’s voice cracked, faltering under the pressure. “Don’t do this—”

Ji-cheol silenced him with a smoothness that only made the threat more chilling. His voice slipped through the air like silk, but it carried an edge that cut deep. “...And pull the trigger.”

The sound of the revolver’s cylinder clicking into place reverberated around the room. Ji-cheol’s finger tightened on the trigger, and for a split second, the world seemed to freeze. 

Your eyes remained steady, focused, determined. Your pulse quickened, but you forced it into submission, grounding yourself in the stillness of the moment.

Click.

The sound was deafening in its emptiness, an echo that reverberated in your skull, louder than any bullet could ever be. The revolver hadn’t discharged. Ji-cheol lowered the revolver with a smirk, his gaze flicking between you and Gi-hun. His movements were unhurried, his demeanor calm, as though this had been nothing more than an amusing game. 

“And before the next round,” Ji-cheol said smoothly, the revolver spinning in his hand with a sharp flick of his wrist, “you spin it to reset the odds back to one in six.”

The metallic click of the cylinder spinning reverberated through the air, the sound sharp against the eerie backdrop of soft music. It was a calculated move, each spin designed to remind everyone in the room of what was at stake. Ji-cheol’s grin stretched wider as he leaned back, as if savoring the power he held.

Gi-hun’s face was carefully neutral, but his body betrayed him. His jaw was clenched so tightly that you thought his teeth might crack, and his fingers drummed a nervous rhythm against the edge of the table. He exuded frustration and unease, barely restrained beneath his calm facade.

“But,” Ji-cheol continued, leaning forward slightly, his eyes glinting with malice, “I like to make the game a little more interesting.” His tone was playful, almost conversational, but the words carried a sinister edge. “Because you’re special, Mr. Seong.”

“Cut to the chase,” Gi-hun snapped, his voice hard and brimming with irritation. He was done playing along, his patience stretched to its limit.

The salesman chuckled, low and mocking, clearly reveling in the tension that crackled in the room. He thrived on it, his grin widening as though Gi-hun’s defiance only added to his amusement. “Fine,” he said, the word drawn out, almost lazy. “We’ll take turns pulling the trigger without spinning the cylinder again. The bullet will be fired within six attempts, and the game will be over. What do you say?”

For a moment, silence stretched taut, the weight of Ji-cheol’s words pressing down like a physical force. Gi-hun hesitated, you could see the gears turning in his head, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. The hesitation was brief, but it felt eternal. After a while gave a sharp nod. “Let’s get this over with,” he said, his voice tight, his resolve brittle but intact.

“Wonderful.” Ji-cheol’s tone was dripping with delight as he placed the revolver in the center of the table. The polished metal gleamed under the dim light, catching your eye like a predator’s snarl. With another flick of his wrist, he sent the revolver spinning.

It slowed, the barrel’s alignment seemingly random until it stopped. The revolver’s menacing end pointed directly at Gi-hun.

Gi-hun’s hand moved toward the gun with a reluctant slowness, as if even touching it might curse him. His fingers trembled when they wrapped around the handle, and he lifted it with a carefulness usually reserved for handling fragile, dangerous things.

The room felt smaller as he raised the revolver to his temple, the weight of the weapon mirrored by the crushing silence that followed. His breaths came quick and shallow, each inhale louder than the last as he steadied his hand. The barrel pressed into his skin, a cold kiss of steel. He hesitated, his knuckles white as his grip tightened.

Just pull it, get it over with. You could almost hear the mantra running through his mind, though the beads of sweat rolling down his temple betrayed the fear he tried to mask.

Finally, with a sharp intake of breath, He squeezed the trigger.

Click.

The sound was deafening in the stillness, a hollow, empty note that echoed in your chest. Gi-hun released a shaky exhale, his body sagging slightly as relief flooded through him. For a brief moment, the gun felt lighter as he carefully set it back on the table, as though handling a venomous snake.

Ji-cheol didn’t wait. The second Gi-hun’s hand left the revolver, he snatched it up, his grin unwavering. He pressed the barrel to his temple with none of the reluctance Gi-hun had shown, but there was something in his movements—subtle, fleeting—that contradicts with his confidence. His hand trembled just slightly as he adjusted the weapon, his knuckles tightening.

He took a long, measured breath, his cocky grin faltering for a brief moment as a flicker of uncertainty passed over his features. Then, with an almost feral determination, he pulled the trigger.

Click.

The sound hung in the air like a thunderclap, Ji-cheol’s shoulders visibly relaxing as his grin returned, sharp and triumphant. He laughed softly, the sound devoid of any real humor, before setting the revolver back in the center of the table. His gaze flicked to Gi-hun, and his eyes were practically alight with sadistic glee.

Gi-hun’s expression tightened, it was his turn again. As his hand started inching toward the revolver, Ji-cheol raised a hand suddenly, halting him mid-motion.

“Wait,” He said, his voice lilting with a mockery that sent a chill down your spine. His gaze shifted—predatory and deliberate—landing squarely on you.

“[Name], would you like to join us?”

Ah. Ever the gentleman.

A low groan escaped your lips as you finally stopped your act, breaking the stillness with a deliberate slowness. Your head throbbed as you shifted upright, every movement calculated, every second drawn out. Gi-hun’s gaze landed on you with a mixture of disbelief and shock, his mouth parting as though to ask how long you’d been awake.

You met his eyes with a faint, sardonic smile, dipping your head in acknowledgment. “How thoughtful of you, Ji-cheol…” you murmured, your voice light but edged with mockery.

You didn’t wait for anyone to respond. Your hand reached for the revolver on the table with a startling calmness, fingers curling around its weighty grip. The tension in the room thickened, every breath measured and shallow as you lifted the weapon.

The barrel’s cold steel kissed your temple, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause. Your heart raced, the adrenaline flooding your veins almost intoxicating. Was it courage or recklessness driving you? You couldn’t tell, and you didn’t care. All that mattered was the here and now—the sharp, electric rush that drowned out everything else.

Your finger tightened on the trigger.

Click.

The empty sound was deafening, a hollow echo that filled the room. Your breath slipped out, slow and steady, though you weren’t sure if it was relief or something far darker that made your chest feel so tight.

Lowering the gun slightly, you glanced at Ji-cheol. The edges of your lips quirked upward, your expression sharp, your voice cutting through the silence with quiet venom. “... Allow me to return the favor,” you said.

Before anyone could stop you, your finger pulled the trigger once more.

Click.

The second dry sound rang louder than the first, and you felt the weight of every pair of eyes in the room. Gi-hun’s voice erupted in the stillness, a harsh, disbelieving shout. “Are you insane?!”

His words crashed into you, but they were distant, unimportant. Your focus stayed locked on Ji-cheol, and the smirk plastered across his face. It had widened—twisted with something primal, something that mirrored his love for chaos.

But as you shifted the gun in your hand, as the barrel turned from yourself to your lovely coworker, the room seemed to shift. Ji-cheol’s composure faltered, his smirk flickering like a flame about to die. The odds had changed, and now they were against him.

For the first time, his confidence wavered.

“Come on, Ji-cheol,” you teased, your voice dripping with mock affection. The words rolled off your tongue with an ease that felt unnatural, but the thrill of the moment made it all too satisfying. “Don’t tell me you’re scared now?”

For the first time, the salesman hesitated. His usual cocky demeanor faltered, the confident smirk slipping away as doubt crept into his eyes. Was this how it ended for him? Was he about to face the cold reality that he had pushed things too far?

His gaze fixed on you, wide and searching. You could practically see the wheels turning in his mind, but there was no escape. Your words had hit him where it hurt. The balance of power had shifted, and he could feel it. It was a strange feeling, one he hadn’t experienced with you before.

“What’s the matter?” You pressed, your voice now almost playful, but laced with venom. You could see the shock in his eyes, the disbelief that you—someone he thought he knew—had turned the tables in such an intimate, dangerous way.

He stared at you, mouth agape, unable to form words. His breath quickened, chest rising and falling, as if trying to figure out how to respond. Slowly, you stood up, each motion deliberate, your legs aching from the stillness. But the tension, the palpable charge between you two, made your body feel alive.

In all honesty, you were annoyed. Your day has already been a mess, from the last heated match to the delay in the promised hangout to the injury that will definitely cause weeks to heal from. You just wanted peace—just a moment to collect yourself. But instead, here you were, playing this twisted game because of your annoying coworker. 

You moved closer to him, your presence towering over him in a way that felt almost suffocating. With a push of your hand, his back hit the cold wall with a thud. The barrel of the gun remained unwavering, still aimed to his face, as you maneuvered yourself closer, your body brushing against his with precision.

One leg was planted firmly on the ground while the other was pressed between his legs, the proximity undeniable, intense, and erotic. You could feel the heat of his body beneath your fingertips, the tension radiating from both of you. Your breath was shallow now, your senses heightened in ways that made you almost dizzy. You leaned closer to him, your mouth dangerously near his, your lips only inches apart. Your breath mingled, and for a moment, the world outside seemed to disappear.

Then, using the barrel of the gun, you tilted his head back slightly, forcing his mouth open just enough for you to slip the cold steel inside. Below you, Ji-cheol's body started to shake, and you felt it. The tremor in his form wasn’t just from fear. There was something else there—something deeper, primal, as if the situation was pushing both of you to the edge of something neither of you could fully comprehend.

The power was in your hands now.

A part of you reveled in it—how easy it was to rattle him, to strip away the confident exterior. But that other part of you, the part that longed for release from the mess of emotions you were drowning in, just wanted it to be over.

You pulled the trigger, the sharp sound of the click ringing in your ears, and for a moment, everything went still.

Click.

It was a dud.

The tension broke, but only for a moment. Your gaze immediately snapped towards Gi-hun. The final bullet was in play, and you could feel the man's eyes burning into the back of your neck. His hands trembled violently, his whole body shaking with anticipation, fear, and death.

Without removing yourself from Ji-cheol, you extended your arm out, offering the revolver to Gi-hun, expecting him to take it and end it all. To live up to the end of his deal. However, any possibility of that happening changed when his wide-eyed stare locked with yours, and you saw the raw terror in them—something you hadn’t expected from him. He wasn’t just afraid of the situation, but of you.

“What's wrong, Mr. Seong?” you asked, keeping your voice calm, though there was a sharpened edge to it now. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Gi-hun opened his mouth to speak but faltered. His lips parted, then pressed together tightly, as if wrestling with the storm of emotions raging inside him. You could feel his hesitation thickening the air between you both, a heavy tension that pushed you closer to the brink. Finally, he stood, his anger spilling over, his voice rising. 

“You’re insane!” he snapped. “If you hadn’t pulled the trigger twice— if we followed the damn order, you would be the last one to shoot. You’re the one who’s supposed to die!”

The words hit you like a slap. It was true after all. But his fury, his concern—it didn’t matter. You were the one who risked it, and you were the one who will be rewarded. The game had already ended, and there was no turning back now. His words, even if they were meant to stop you, only served to push you further, deepening the anger seeping in your chest.

“And you think that’s my fault?” you said, voice cold as ice, your gaze never wavering from his. The words stung, but you didn't flinch. “You think I give a damn about that?”

Without warning, you aimed the revolver at him and fired. The final click rang out, breaking the heavy silence with cold, brutal finality.

The room held its breath. Gi-hun’s body jerked once, his wide eyes still locked onto yours in disbelief as the realization hit him. His legs gave way, and he collapsed, blood beginning to pool beneath him. There was no more struggle, no more fight. Just the soft, final exhale of his breath, leaving the world in silence.

Below you, the voice of your coworker pierced the thick air, a low murmur in your ear. “Well done, [Name].”

You turned to him. His usual smirk was gone, replaced by something darker, more dangerous—something like admiration, but tinged with something possessive.

You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, like a tangible pressure. The heat between your bodies simmered, an undeniable force that threatened to pull you closer. You didn’t need to say anything, because at that moment, everything was clear between you two.

“Really?” you said, your voice lowered in a husky sultry tone, as if you were challenging him. Your fingers tightened around the revolver, the weight of it no longer heavy, but oddly comforting.

Without a word, Ji-cheol moved with swift precision. One moment, you were standing tall, the next, his hands were beside your head, pinning you against the wall with a force that made your breath catch in your throat. 

“Don’t think for a second I’m done with you, [Name],” he growled, his voice low and dangerous, but there was something else in it now—a layer of hunger, an edge that felt almost possessive.

Slowly—as if to test him—you raised the revolver to your lips, your eyes never leaving his. Ji-cheol watched with intensity as you seductively sucked on the gun's barrel. His eyes trailed down, watching as saliva began dripping on your hand as you swirl your tongue around the barrel with such intensity that he wished you were doing it to him instead.

Watching his throat constrict as he swallowed deeply and feeling his bulge harden on your thigh. You pulled the gun out your mouth with a satisfying pop before throwing it to the ground. Without wasting any time, Ji-cheol immediately grabbed your chin forcing you to look at him. And instead of hurt, his touch sent a jolt of pleasure through your body. 

He placed his knee up against your crotch—the action earning a low, hungry moan from you—before using his free hand to pull your body closer to him, his hard bulge colliding with your thigh. Ji-cheol released a low, and drawn-out moan before leaning in closer, his breath, which was just a hair away from your lips, was weak and warm—full of yearning and lust.

“You’re playing with fire, and I can’t promise you won’t get burned,” he murmured, the words dripping with an unsettling mix of desire and threat.

The heat in his voice made your pulse quicken in excitement. Your body responded to the proximity, to the rawness of the moment. Every inch of you was alive, and Ji-cheol, for all his calm control, couldn’t hide the dark hunger in his gaze. You could see it, feel it, as though it were an invisible thread pulling you together.

For a fleeting moment, it was almost as if the rest of the world had disappeared. It was just you, Ji-cheol, and the dangerous, magnetic pull between you both. With his lips hovered just inches from yours, you knew this was the moment that would change everything between you two.

“But if you forget to reblog Madame Zeroni, you and your family will be cursed for always and eternity.”

in which childe is really in love with you

a/n: i really like whipped men

"i like you, let's get married!"

paimon's random screeches right next to your ear feel distant as you can feel your soul leaving from your body. even lumine isn't sure how to react.

it was definitely a mistake to accompany lumine on her trip back to liyue. especially after meeting this stranger who seems way too eager to make conversation with you for the past week you've met him.

with the best, politest, brightest, professional smile you could muster, you beam at childe.

"no."

lumine gives a comforting pat on the back for the ginger.

.

.

.

"childe, for the last time, stop sending me gifts that cost more than my entire life savings!!" you barge into his office with a new set of sapphire jewelry in hand. none of the fatui recruits really blink an eye anymore, used to seeing your presence in the past few days.

he clicks his tongue in disappointment, and then pouts with a sound huff.

"is this set still not to your liking? i made sure to chose the best one.."

"best as in the most expensive?"

"...the prettiest."

"childe i-"

"i said you could call me ajax when we're alone" his frown deepens along with the crease in his brow. you can't lie to yourself when you say that it didn't make your heart twinge with a little guilt.

"....ajax, i don't need you to be sending me all these lavish items." you mutter softly. you notice him flinch a little, before masking it with his normal playful expression.

"ahh... i don't know what to do.." he dramatically sighs. you lift your brow. "i'm sure my face is plenty attractive, and i'm still young all things considered. and my body is up to standards i suppose."

"..?"

"but you're not falling for it!! is my face not your type? or is it my personality? what is your type? i can change to be whatever you like." his rambling causes him to unintentionally lean closer towards you, pressing for answers to his desperate questions. you should deviate, somehow. he's close enough that his scent washes over you, pleasantly surprising you.

"what cologne do you wear?" his eye widens in glee. uh oh.

"do you like it? i'll wear it everyday for you." his charms really flow out of him as naturally as he breathes. you shake your head. no. you shouldn't be swayed this easily.

"do whatever you want." you place the box of jewelry on his desk. his eyes follow your movement.

"you didn't answer my question."

"yeah it's nice. reminds me of the ocean"

"not that one." your eyes meet his. the eyes that also resemble the ocean that you think of. the one that has gentle swaying waves, a soothing breeze that wisps through the air, soft melodies whispered in the depths of the water. an ocean that brings you comfort like no other.

oh. oh. oh.

in your silence, childe slowly inches his hand towards his rejected gift. snaking the necklace out of its hold, grabbing the clasps.

the cold tingle against your collarbone pulls you back to reality.

"hey stop it. i never accepted it." your words go ignored as you feel his hands fumble to clasp each end together, his gaze tenderly tracing around your face. an overwhelming gaze that you can't get used to with how much emotion you can feel from him. a rare thing.

"just give me a chance. please." his fingers dance around the nape of your neck, sending shivers down your back with how intimate you've let him get with you.

"...fine." you suppose it's alright to indulge in this feeling a little.

the pure joy that radiated off the man in front of you could really blind you.

"really!!!?! no take backs okay?? you swear?? promise me right now!!" his animated words come out quickly, with one of his hands lifted right in front of you with his pinky extended. cute. you extend yours as well and wrap it around his.

"you know what a pinky promise means snezhnaya right?"

"mhm." you've heard it from him one time during a midnight walk on the beaches of liyue (he insisted to come along so he could 'protect' you). "you make a pinkie promise, you keep it all your life. you break a pinkie promise, i throw you on the ice. the cold will kill the pinkie that once betrayed your friend, the frost will freeze your tongue off so you never lie again."

childe's mind reels for a second, hearing you recite a simple nursery rhyme from his home country makes his heart pound even harder, yearning for your presence by his side.

"then we can get the rest of this set on with a cute little dress for our date later tonight at wanmin-"

"no."

"what~!! fine, minus the jewelry."

"no."

"why.."

"i don't want to eat at some fancy restaurant."

"...then at my place.?" his face has a light dust of pink on it.

"...fine. meet you at 7."

with that, you twist out of his hold (his hand snuck to the small of your back) and walk out of his office. childe is unable to push down the stupid grin that takes over his face throughout the whole day. the fatui recruits shiver at the thought of the maniacal smile that covers his murderous mood that day.

.

.

.

it doesn't take more than a few seconds before you hear a noise barreling at the door, flinging it open before tugging you inside, in a deathly embrace.

"hey!! i'm almost done with the last dish, come with me!!" his excited state pulls you with him barely letting you take off your shoes as you follow his long strides towards the kitchen.

his place his clean, light decor sprinkled around some corners. you see a lot of frames on the wall, with various people in each photo, all slightly resembling the ocean eyed man that you know. he must cherish his family.

the air is filled with the aroma of many fragrant dishes foreign to you. childe settles you on a dining chair before rushing towards the stoves. it allows you to see him don an adorable pink apron. you wish you brought your kamera.

"do you need help?"

"no, just sit there prettily and wait for me." he chimes out. you roll your eyes are his comment, but fail to keep your lips from stretching into a smile. your eyes don't leave his form, taking note of how this light makes him look softer, more domestic. you look at the way the muscles of his arm tense with every movement of the pan, the way his fingers expertly sprinkle spices, the way he hums a tune while cooking.

it's a nice view.

"enjoying the view?" his voice is filled with a teasing tone, as his face reads nothing but amusement and mirth.

"no, i'm looking at the food." you scoff, feeling your face heat up. he laughs and turns back to the pan.

eventually he finishes the last dish, and lays everything in front of you. you take note of the lack of ingredients you dislike.

"uh, i didn't know what dishes you like, so i hope you like these. they're some snezhnayian dishes i grew up with.." he's visibly worried, but you quickly quell those thoughts.

"it smells amazing. i want to try them all." he perks up and settles down.

"please, help yourself."

each bite you take makes you delight in the flavors that hit your tongue, your face lighting up with every dish you try.

childe can't describe the tugging in his heart as he observes each of your positive expressions as you enjoy the dishes he made.

the usually lonely and empty dinner table is filled with light chatter and giggles, replacing the void that left a cold bitterness in childe's heart.

after everything was completed finished with no leftovers, you take it upon yourself to wash the dishes, leaving no argument for childe when you threatened to take back your promise (he thinks that was too cruel of you to pull that over him).

he stands by you while you wash each dish, eventually shifting to tugging you against his chest as he rests his head on your shoulder. you bite back your complaint of the difficulty to move in the position when you hear his content sigh.

his heart is drunk on the pleasure of your presence that feels so natural in his life. the presence that fits perfectly in his present and future by his side, as his only lover.

he can't help but let his mind wander, thinking of the moments when you would visit his hometown, when you would meet his beloved family, when you would carry his younger siblings in your arms, when his family would dress you in traditional snezhnayian clothing.

these thoughts don't leave his mind, even as you finish up and he leads you to the couches, filling the silence with mindless chatter of his family when you ask more about himself.

you planned on leaving sooner or later, but you couldn't help but give yourself a few more minutes, listening to his voice for a little longer. the longer you stayed, the more comfortable you felt. eventually, you let yourself be lured into the darkness as you drift off.

childe carefully directs your head towards his shoulder when he sees you start to drowse off. he thinks you're attractive even when you're asleep. an angel sent from heaven.

the item in his pocket weighs a little heavier now. with a little hesitance, he carefully pulls it out, making sure not to disturb your sleep,

opening it up, the crystal gleams the same crimson glow as the one that dangles off his ear every day.

with cautious movements, he gently puts it on your ear. it rests softly against your jaw. his heart pounds so loudly he worries that it would wake you up.

ah, he should have given this to you sooner.

brine jean kirschtein/reader (AOT) word count: 1.5k tags: hurt/comfort, jean being the best most sweetest boy, just an extremely self indulgent piece if i'm being honest, tw: implied mental illness/distress

"Wanna go to the beach tomorrow?"

"What's the occasion?" It's the same thing he always asks, and has as long as you've known him, no matter what you're proposing. The same thing he'd respond to the proposition to go to the grocery store on a Wednesday afternoon.

You take comfort in that familiarity.

You clear your throat, voice a little thick as you reply: "I just don't really wanna be alone right now."

Jean doesn't need you to say anything else.

He doesn't need you to apologize for the fact it's been days since he's heard from you.

He doesn't need to ask if you're okay.

And so the next day, even though it's far from summer and way too cold to properly enjoy the sun and sand of a beach, the two of you load into his car and make the forty-five minute drive to the coast.

You listen to music along the way, playlists you took great pride in crafting when you'd felt a little less blue, and the familiar songs and sound of Jean humming along to his favourites from his place behind the wheel slowly helps you feel better, if only a little bit.

You stop at a gas station to buy some snacks and drinks which you pack away into your beat-up little backpack, keeping out only a package of salty pretzels and bottle of soda to share between the two of you while you finish the drive.

The beach is grey when you get there. Fog hovering over the water about a mile off shore; cold, briny mist hanging in the air and kissing your cheeks as the two of you settle down into the sand. You can taste the salt on your lips as your tongue peeks out to moisten them--though that could be leftover from the pretzels.

Jean brought blankets to sit on, grabbing them from the trunk before he locked his car, and even a few more to wrap around yourselves-- having anticipated the less than ideal climate.

You sit in silence for a long time, listening to the waves rush up the shore.

"You've been quiet."

He doesn't just mean today. You know that. You've been absent for the past week or so, emotionally distant even longer than that. It had been days since you'd responded to anyone's text or calls.

You were just in one of your moods.

It happened sometimes, as much as you loathed it. Like something in you just stopped working, failed to cooperate with you no matter how desperately you wanted it to. Synapses failing to fire.

"I know," you reply softly to his comment.

He doesn't tell you he's been worried. The way his eyes have been scanning your face when he thinks you don't notice from the very moment you slumped into his passenger's seat has already given that away.

Heat burns behind your eyes, a familiar tightness in your throat.

You draw your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them with your warm blanket draped around your shoulders.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize, I know this happens sometimes," he tells you, gentle yet firm in his resolve.

"I hate it," your voice breaks halfway through the words. "I hate feeling like this-"

You watch a big wave swell a few metres out from the shore.

"-I hate not feeling like myself. I hate not being able to take care of my shit. I hate not knowing how to reply to text messages-"

The wind cools the hot tears as they track down your cheeks.

"-I hate feeling like people hate me."

Jean's arm winds itself around your shoulders, sidling up beside you on the blanket. Warm and solid and there at your side.

As ever.

"No one could ever hate you."

"Connie might," you snort, but the sound is wet with tears, "I have 432 missed texts from him."

You pull your phone from the pocket of your hoodie and pass it over to Jean. He unlocks it with your passcode that he's long memorized, wincing when he sees the number of red notifications dotted across your home screen. He taps his way across the device, handing it back to you after a moment.

When you look again all of the notifications have been cleared.

You feel a little better.

"They're just checking in. They all care about you, 's all," Jean uses the corner of his blanket to wipe at the tears clinging to your cheeks. You slump into his side.

"I miss them."

"I think they'd like to hear you say that."

"I just don't know how to reach out."

You never do, when you get like this. Scared to break the silence that you'd created between you and all of the people that you loved.

"It's fucking freezing!"

A familiar voice has your head snapping towards the stairs leading down to the beach from the parking lot.

A handful of faces you recognize are rapidly approaching, arms laden with blankets and cold winter beach day accessories.

Your breath hitches in your throat.

Connie flops down onto your blanket the minute he reaches you, kicking up sand along the way.

"God what a shit day to wanna come to the beach--lemme in there," he says, prying his way under your blanket, nestling himself into your warmth.

"Fuck Jean, that text couldn't have come at a better time, I've had to piss for like 25 minutes," Eren says, helping Mikasa spread another blanket out across from yours while Armin weighs the edges down with rocks he'd found laying about.

"Nasty," Jean replies with a curl of his lip.

"He kept saying he was gonna pee in a bottle if you didn't tell us we could come out soon," Connie chirps, head poking up from where it had been resting on your shoulder. "I bet him 15 bucks he wouldn't."

"Please tell me you didn't," you say warily, looking up at Eren with wide eyes.

He grins. "Nah, went in the bushes on the way down."

"Stay away from my food with your nasty piss hands, dumbass." Jean bats Eren's arm away as he reaches for a bag of chips that rests in front of you.

"Oh, I have sanitizer," Armin says helpfully, reaching for the bag he has strapped across his chest, producing a small bottle from its contents.

Sasha plops down on the other side of Connie, peeking over at you. She has orange dust crusted on the tips of her fingers and around her lips from the cheesy snack she's eating.

"Wan'some?" she asks, holding a (borderline industrial sized) plastic jar of cheese balls towards you, already half-eaten.

You nod, picking out a handful for yourself.

"We brought stuff for a bonfire, do you think it's too damp to get it going?" Mikasa asks, staring out at the fog rolling in as the ends of her short hair lift with the breeze.

"Oh, I can get it going," Eren says confidently, pulling a lighter from the pocket of his sweatpants and flicking it on.

"Eren," the dark haired girl sighs, "don't you remember what happened last time?"

Last time meaning the time he'd burned off half of his own eyebrow trying to light a fire to celebrate your high school graduation so many moons ago.

"Yeah, the spock brow was not your best look," Connie chimes in, waggling his finger at his brows demonstrably.

You choke on a laugh.

After numerous assurances that he would not lose any hair in the process, Eren, Connie and Armin set to work building a modest bonfire a few paces away.

You curl into Jean's side, one blanket now wrapped around you both, burying your face into the collar of his hoodie. He smells like clean laundry, the salt air, and the same cologne he's worn since you bought him a bottle of it for Christmas years prior.

"Thank you," you say quietly as you listen to the dulcet tones of Eren and Connie bickering about log placement while Armin tries his best to mediate between them.

Jean's arm tightens around your shoulders, drawing you even further into his warmth.

He doesn't need you to say it though.

He sees the gratefulness in the way your shoulders have eased.

The way your eyes shine when the boys finally get the fire to spark to life, cheering exuberantly at their own success.

He hears it in your quiet giggles as you watch Sasha and Mikasa squabble playfully over the last handful of cheeseballs.

Feels it as you go slack against his side, the sky long gone dark, your chest rising and falling with a sleep that comes easier to you than any had for weeks.

This is what the occasion is.

And it's a great one, at that.

The endless saga of drawing him shirtless under the guise of practicing anatomy continues✍️

If you saw me posting these earlier just now no you didn't

❛ what’s new, scooby doo?  ❜

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ aoba johsai is having its annual halloween festival, and oikawa has the great idea to go as mystery incorporated this year. none of you guys expected to have a run in with a “real” ghost yourselves, however.

➼ pairing! aoba johsai vbc x manager!reader, iwaizumi bias this time lol

➼ warnings! cursing

➼ type! fluff, humor, a little spooky

➼ author’s note! last one of my halloween fics, others linked at the end! please keep in mind that this is the first time i’m posting on here and first time i’m writing for hq, so i apologize beforehand if there are any mistakes or the characters seem ooc. anyways, happy halloween! have fun and stay safe. enjoy this little treat! <3

Keep reading

two sworn enemies pt. 2 — draco malfoy

pairing: draco malfoy x female!reader

summary: maybe being fancied by draco malfoy isn’t so bad, after all.

requests are closed for now. please refrain from plagiarizing my work!

click here to read pt. 1!

“Why is it so bloody cold?”

[Y/N] is decked out in full winter apparel; a knitted Gryffindor sweater, ear-muffs, and a scarf that she has half of her face buried in.

Sitting in the Quidditch stands with the rest of her friends, she grumbles, “It’s not even a Gryffindor match. We don’t really have to be here freezing to death.”

“Well, it’s common courtesy,” says Hermione, but she’s just as cold as [Y/N] is; there’s bits of snow stuck in her hair and the tip of her nose is pink.

Ron snorts loudly. “We’re here to watch Slytherin lose,“ he says matter-of-factly, still in the process of smearing streaks of blue paint across his cheek.

[Y/N] watches him, nose scrunched. "Well, aren’t you the Ravenclaw fanatic.”

He gives her a grin and holds out the small tub of paint. “Want some?”

She bunches up her lips in thought, then reaches out to take it. Annoyingly enough, Ron pulls back at the last moment, grinning wider than ever, and says, “Or d'you want to show support for your boyfriend Malfoy? Hermione, why don’t you turn this green—”

[Y/N] dives over Hermione and Harry to smack Ron round the head, only for the pair to hold her back and push her into her seat.

Exasperated, Hermione huffs, “Honestly, Ronald, will you stop bringing that up?” She glares at him. “You know fully well [Y/N] doesn’t like it.”

Ron (and Harry, although he isn’t as boisterous about it as the redhead), thinks that the “blond ferret” taking a fancying to her is one of, if not the most hilarious thing to have ever happened in history. Annoyingly enough, Ron has made it a habit to tease her about it every chance he gets—this one being one of them.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought Ron fancied Malfoy with how much he talks about him,” grins Harry. This earns him a smatter of blue paint across his face; Ron had flicked it at him.

With one last eye-roll, [Y/N] tears her gaze away from Ron and digs her nose further into her scarf. It really is very cold; snow is falling from the sky, seeping into her clothes, some landing on her hair and on her face. Thankfully there’s not so much of it that the players on the pitch wouldn’t be able to see around them, but still—[Y/N] imagines that it’d be a lot colder for them, having to fly around the stadium with the cold wind whipping at their robes.

There’s a buzz of loud chatter hanging in the air as conversations from all around them overlap over one another. The entire stadium is slowly filling up; students trickle into the stands, a majority of which have adorned themselves with blue accessories as a show of support to Ravenclaw. One side of the stands, however, is entirely green. Through the snow, she can see a big serpent-shaped balloon hovering over the Slytherin side.

“They’re coming out!” someone exclaims.

Sure enough, when [Y/N] looks down at the pitch, players from both teams have appeared and congregated at opposite ends of the pitch. Slytherin and Ravenclaw; whichever house wins will play Gryffindor for the house cup. Most bets are on Slytherin, but [Y/N] would have to be dead before she is caught anywhere supporting them.

“Look, it’s [Y/N]’s boyfriend,” gushes Ron.

More out of habit than anything, [Y/N] shoots the redhead yet another brief, scathing look. Draco Malfoy is there, even though he’s nowhere near being her boyfriend, pale face set into a stoic expression of calm as he stands with the rest of his team, one hand on his broom and the other on his hip—and this specific image has her thinking back to what happened two weeks ago on this very same pitch, except the stadium was empty and it was only the two of them on the grounds; when he’d confessed to liking her.

As if Malfoy has somehow heard her thoughts over the noise of excited chatter coming from all over the stands, he looks up, eyes sweeping the seats in search for someone before finally, they land on her.

When he meets her gaze, [Y/N]’s breath isn’t knocked out of her chest, nor does she start blushing madly. But she doesn’t burn red with annoyance, either. All she does is stare at him, eyes narrowed, watching as his lips split into a wide grin and he raises his hand to wave at her.

She rolls her eyes, but thankfully—thankfully, the scarf tucked around her neck, reaching up to her nose, conceals the smile that tugs at her lips.

“May I ask everyone to please find themselves in their seats before the match begins,” McGonagall’s voice echoes around the stadium, giving [Y/N] a reason to break eye contact.

She tears her stare away from Malfoy’s, inhaling a deep breath through her nose, feeling oddly exhilarated.

But this isn’t anything new. That slight feeling of breathlessness, that unfamiliar sensation tickling at her stomach whenever she spots a certain someone in the hallway; she’s been feeling it a lot lately, and though the cause seems to be pretty obvious, that is another thing she’d have to be caught dead before doing: admitting that she reciprocates some of Malfoy’s.. peculiar feelings.

“And they’re off!” Dean Thomas announces. [Y/N] watches as the players soar high into the air until they’re mostly level with the stands, a blur of blue and green robes rapidly zooming around the pitch. Slytherin is already in possession of the quaffle; not a surprise, considering Ravenclaw isn’t exactly known for their exceptionally talented Quidditch team.

Malfoy, meanwhile—[Y/N] tells herself that the way her eyes dart around the pitch in search of a certain platinum blond is because she wants to watch the game properly and not for other reasons.

She spots him hovering somewhere above the rest of the players, face screwed up in concentration as his gaze moves around the pitch in search for the golden snitch. He looks even paler in winter, set against a backdrop of a cloudy sky and snow—

[Y/N] jars herself out of her thoughts and blinks, side-eyeing her friends (specifically Ron) to make sure they hadn’t seen her.. observing the Slytherin seeker. (Not like it matters; it’s not as though she fancies him, but Ron would certainly take it the wrong way.)

“Go Ravenclaw!” Ron practically screeches, waving his Ravenclaw banner in the air—when did he get that? “Kick Slytherin’s arse so Gryffindor can crush you in the finals!”

[Y/N] snorts. “Have it all thought out, don’t you, Ron?”

“Go on and cheer for your Slytherin boyfriend, [Y/N], no one’s stopping you,” says Harry, grinning. She turns to face him, mouth open in disbelief, and lets out a quick breath of incredulous laughter.

“So, Harry,” [Y/N] says, suddenly deadpan. ”I see you’ve chosen Ron’s side.“

Harry snickers, then shrugs.

"Oh, Malfoy’s seen the snitch!” someone shouts from beside them. [Y/N] turns back to the game to see Malfoy zooming down the pitch, clutching the front of his broom as he swerves past Slytherin and Ravenclaw players alike in pursuit of the tiny golden ball all the way on the other side of the stadium, where [Y/N] and her friends are sat. He has the upper hand—Ravenclaw’s seeker is only just now starting to fly after him, but she’s a good distance behind and Malfoy is gaining speed.

“He’s gonna catch it!”

“Ravenclaw’s even worse than I thought,” grumbles Ron, slumping down in his seat.

But just as Malfoy passes by them, somehow, despite the fact that he is in pursuit of the bloody golden snitch and on the brink of securing victory for his team, he slows down just the tiniest bit, and then, in true Malfoy fashion—theatric as always in his displays of affection—he catches her eye and yells “This one’s for you, [Y/N]!”, a grin on his face before he hurtles down the pitch, stretching out his hand towards the fluttering snitch—

“Malfoy’s got the snitch!” Dean Thomas screams into his microphone. “Slytherin wins!”

[Y/N] stares, feeling oddly warm despite the wintry weather, as Malfoy spins around in mid-air, triumphantly holding up the snitch for the rest of Hogwarts to see.

“Blimey,” gapes Ron, wide-eyed, staring not at the Slytherin seeker but at [Y/N]. “That was—”

[Y/N] looks away from Malfoy to meet Ron’s gaze, maintaining indifference. “He’s quite the charmer, isn’t he?” she mutters, and hopes that her friends will think that the blush on her cheeks is because of the cold and not because of something—someone else.

But that’s ridiculous. It is because of the cold, isn’t it?

“It may be Malfoy,” says Ron slowly, shaking his head, “But you can’t deny that was bloody romantic. Felt like I was watching something out of one of those Muggle films.”

“Yeah, we’ll have to ask him for tips,” says Harry, and starts laughing when [Y/N] rolls her eyes in response.

—

Malfoy may have stopped sending her Howlers, but that hardly matters because he has found every other way to pester her.

This includes consistently yelling out her name and shouting random pick-up lines every time he spots her in the hallway, as well as sending people to do her bidding—no longer first-years, but Crabbe and Goyle, who show up at random intervals everyday presenting her with a batch of different pastries. She always sends the pair off, but only after Ron and Harry accept said pastries for themselves.

“Blimey, this is heavenly!” gushes Ron, taking a passionate bite off of his second red velvet cupcake. “You sure you don’t want a bite, [Y/N]? Hermione?”

[Y/N] offers him an exasperated smile. “No, thank you, Ron.”

“Don’t thank me, thank your boyfriend.”

The four of them walk into the dingy Potions classroom. Snape is nowhere to be seen, but it’s only a matter of time before he swoops in all bat-like, so [Y/N] and Hermione quickly take a seat at their regular desk, right next to Ron and Harry.

“Have you done your homework?” asks Hermione, pulling out an assortment of parchment from her bag.

[Y/N] hums in response. “I doubt mine is half as good as yours, but hopefully I’ll scrape an acceptable.”

“Oh, you’re a good student, [Y/N]. Don’t bring yourself down.”

“Hard not to when I’m sitting next to the brightest witch in our year,” she nudges Hermione’s shoulder, smiling. Hermione huffs, rolling her eyes, but it’s clear by the pleased look on her face that she doesn’t hate [Y/N]’s honest flattery as much as she lets on.

[Y/N] drums her fingers on the desk to pass time, not quite paying attention to the students filtering into the classroom. Or at least not until one of them calls her name and drawls, “Is someone sitting here?”

[Y/N]’s head snaps around to see none other than Malfoy, gesturing to the desk to the left of hers and Hermione’s. “Mind if I,” he pauses, grinning, ”Slytherin?“

She purses her lips into a thin, tight line, inhaling deeply as she fights to keep her cool. Yes, there are times when Malfoy’s gestures have her questioning her own hatred for him, but this—this is not one of them.

"That,” she says, voice mostly level. “Is your seat, Malfoy. I don’t see why you have to ask me.”

Which is a lie. [Y/N] knows why, of course. To get her attention. To woo her. But part of her wishes that Malfoy would realize that everything he is doing, from the overbearing pick up lines to the cupcakes to his constant public declarations of love, isn’t something that [Y/N] thoroughly enjoys. Does she want him to stop yelling at her in the hallways? Yes. Does she want Crabbe and Goyle to stop bumbling up to her everywhere she goes (outside of the girl’s bathroom is one example) offering cupcakes and pie and tarts? Yes. But does she want Malfoy to stop trying entirely?

Maybe not. Maybe part of her wants to give him a chance. He does seem to truly hold feelings, judging from his confession back at the Quidditch stadium, unless he’s a terribly good actor.

And it wouldn’t just be him she’d be giving a chance, either. Perhaps she’d also be doing so to herself. Because, over the past month, it’s baffled her how quickly her feelings for him have shifted. Or maybe it’s not a change of feelings, but rather realization that under all that sneering and pureblood prejudice, Draco Malfoy is a boy.

An annoyingly attractive one.

But there is so much more that [Y/N] dislikes about him. His snootiness. His arrogance. His lack of consideration for other people’s feelings. He may be tall and lithe and undeniably handsome, and he may have very soft-looking platinum blond hair and stormy grey eyes like dark clouds, but he is also a prick. And that wins over everything else, no matter how.. visually pleasing he is.

So when a paper bird flutters in front of her halfway through the lesson, when Snape’s back is turned, [Y/N] hesitates. She knows fully well who it’s from, despite not having to look to the side and meet his gaze.

From beside her, Hermione whispers, “Get rid of it, before Snape sees.”

Exhaling, [Y/N] snatches the paper bird and quickly unfolds it.

She doesn’t know what she’s expecting to see, but it’s certainly not the words “meet me at the Astronomy tower after dinner” scribbled across the parchment. And with a drawing of a face blowing kisses, no less.

[Y/N] sighs.

—

[Y/N] has no real feelings for Malfoy, so succumbing to his mysterious evening request at the Astronomy tower shouldn’t mean anything.

Scratch that: it doesn’t mean anything. Not to her. (Or so she tells herself.) This is a chance for her to tell Malfoy to sod off and to stop courting her. And for good, this time. No matter what that annoying little voice inside her head tells her, she can’t possibly even consider the idea of actually giving in to him. (And to herself.)

So she’s going to put a stop to it, once and for all.

“I’m going,” she decides over dinner, slamming her palms down on the table.

“Going where?” asks Harry.

“The Astronomy tower,” she replies resolutely.

“What, to go star-gazing?” Ron snickers. [Y/N] glances at him and realizes, quickly, that telling them had slipped her mind—she’d been far too preoccupied with her own conflicting thoughts.

She shifts in her seat. She doesn’t necessarily need to tell them, does she? It’s not as though it’s important enough to share. And besides, Ron would only badger her about it. Mercilessly. [Y/N] can already picture him in her head, talking about Malfoy and snogging under the stars and Merlin-knows-what-else.

“Nevermind,” says [Y/N], taking a bite out of a muffin and looking away. They don’t need to know; it’s not as though it’s important.

—

After [Y/N] has walked up all of the stairs to get there, only taking one or two shortcuts, she’s out of breath, but she creeps into the Astronomy tower anyway. It’s mostly dark save for the faint moonshine filtering in from the open sides, and, well—there he is.

Malfoy’s arms are crossed over his chest, his back mostly turned as he stands dangerously close to the railing, looking out over the dark landscape. Dim light catches on the side of his face, illuminating the grey of his eyes.

The curve of his nose.

Pale skin.

White-blond hair.

[Y/N] finds herself staring, one hand on the doorframe as though for support, brows furrowed in the middle in a slight frown as she watches him.

He looks lost in thought. Even from a few feet away, [Y/N] can see the far-off, distant look in his eyes. Like storms brewing behind dark clouds, she thinks to herself. It’s a quiet little whisper in the back of her mind that has her heart doing odd little flips inside of her chest that she never knew it was capable of.

But then she blinks.

This is the last thing [Y/N] needs. To see Malfoy stripped of his arrogance—to see him as he is, bathed in moonlight, glowing, almost. To look at him and to see a boy with eyes like molten silver and nothing more—it’s the last thing she needs to convince herself that she doesn’t feel something for him that isn’t hatred.

No, she doesn’t need this.

She turns around, breath caught in her throat, and starts walking down the steps. Accidentally, stupidly, her foot catches on a metal step and a loud clang echoes around the silent tower.

[Y/N] pauses, eyes wide.

“[Y/N]?” Malfoy’s voice says. He can’t see her. It’s too dark, and [Y/N] is too far down the steps.

She swallows. But instead of dreading what could come, she finds herself waiting, half-hoping that he’d check the staircase, that he would see her and—

And then what?

[Y/N] rushes down the steps, ignoring the loud noise her footsteps make on the way. This is the last thing she needs.

—

[Y/N] doesn’t like Malfoy.

[Y/N] doesn’t like Malfoy, and she is determined to make that clear. (Both to herself and to her friends, although the former seems to be taking a lot more convincing.)

“What is there to like about him? He’s nothing but an annoying pain in the arse who has an overwhelming amount of pride and arrogance simply because of his blood—which is not only something that he never rightfully earned but is also something that shouldn’t even bloody matter, except he thinks that it does solely because he is an absolute nutter who has nothing better to do with his life other than leech off of his parents’ money and shove it in other people’s faces.”

Ron meets Harry’s gaze from across the table, who seems to be trying very hard not to laugh. Swallowing down a forkful of pancakes, Ron looks back at [Y/N]. “I’m sorry,” he begins slowly. “But remind me again why we’re talking about Malfoy?”

“I’m not finished, Ronald,” [Y/N] snaps, shooting him a dirty look. Ron raises his eyebrows. “As I was saying before someone so rudely cut me off, Malfoy is a nasty little git who finds joy in making other people suffer. he probably has tiny puppies locked up inside his basement just so he can laugh in their faces and revel in their misery because he is that horrible of a person—”

Harry lurches with poorly suppressed laughter.

“An absolute terrible excuse for a human being! He basks in other people’s humiliation—mine, for example!—and I would much rather snog the Giant Squid than ever actually consider his—” She pauses, gritting her teeth. “Odd.. requests.”

“It’s not like he’s asking you to murder house-elves,” Ron mutters.

“Something that I would rather do than date him!”

“[Y/N]!” Hermione gasps, looking genuinely offended as she, for the first time since they’d arrived at the Great Hall for breakfast, looks up from the homework she’s rushing to finish. (As if her five pieces worth of parchment aren’t enough—Flitwick had only asked for three!)

“Sorry, Hermione,” [Y/N] says, offering her an apologetic look that she only half-means. This quickly turns into a fierce look of challenge as she swivels back around in her seat to face the redhead sitting next to her. “Honestly, since when have you started defending Malfoy?”

Ron blanches. “I’m not defending him!” he says indignantly, setting his fork down on his plate. “It’s just.. yeah, it’s a bit odd that he’s declaring his undying love for you out of bloody nowhere, but he’s stopped badgering us, hasn’t he? Nasty little ferret hasn’t said a word to Harry for weeks! And that goes for me and Hermione, too!”

[Y/N] narrows her eyes at him. “So you think it’s great that he’s stopped annoying you at the cost of my suffering?”

“What suffering!” Ron exclaims. “He’s been treating you like a bloody princess!”

“Oh, why don’t you just snog him yourself, then, if you think so highly of him?”

Ron’s jaw drops in shocked offense.

“Alright, that’s enough!” Harry announces, reaching over the table to shove the two apart from each other. “Why doesn’t one of you switch seats with me before you end up strangling each other?”

“I don’t know, Harry,” [Y/N]’s lip curls. “I might have to hold Ron back before he goes running off to his ferret prince—or should we just let him? Merlin knows he’d love to, won’t you, Ronald?”

Ron’s teeth are gritted; his eyes dart around the food on the table as though looking for the most effective weapon. He seems to be choosing between a green apple and rhubarb pie.

Thankfully, Ron never gets to take his pick. The bell rings, saving everyone in the Great Hall from witnessing what could have possibly been a brawl between friends. “Come on, let’s go,” says Harry quickly, relief evident in his tone of voice as he ushers the pair to their feet. “Wouldn’t want to be late for class.”

—

[Y/N] doesn’t like Malfoy.

[Y/N] doesn’t like Malfoy, but why does she find herself staring at him whenever she comes across him in the hallway the next day? Why, when Malfoy meets her gaze, does she look away and pretend to be immersed in something else?

And why in the bloody hell, when Malfoy playfully winks at her during Potions class, does she find it very, very hard not to smile?

She walks out of the dungeon classroom in a hurry with Ron, Harry, and Hermione, not wanting to spend a minute more in Malfoy’s presence; she doesn’t particularly enjoy being suddenly hyperaware of every move he makes, every little glance he sends her way when he thinks she isn’t paying attention. It’s as though something in her system has gone awry. Is that why her heart feels like it’s about to hop right out of her chest? Is that why she can’t stop wondering what would’ve happened if she’d stayed at the Astronomy tower?

“Hey, wait up!” Harry calls loudly as they walk up the stone steps leading away from the dungeons and into the main hallway, which is bustling with students.

[Y/N], who had been walking far too fast in front of the three, looks back over her shoulder and sees that they’re a few feet away. She stops, seemingly flustered, and waits for them to catch up.

"You look like you’ve wet your pants,” says Ron.

“I’m not you, Ron,” she retorts.

“Oh, can you two please stop bickering for once?” says Hermione, exasperated.

From behind the three, Draco Malfoy emerges from the potions classroom and begins walking up the stone steps. [Y/N]’s hands clench into fists at her side as she discretely presses her back to the stone wall at her sides.

The blond doesn’t even as much as glance at Ron, Harry, and Hermione as he passes by them on the steps. [Y/N], however—once Malfoy has reached the step below the one she’s standing on, he pauses, no less than two feet away from her, and quirks an eyebrow.

“What?” [Y/N] scowls, trying not to look at the strand of blond hair dangling in front of his eyes.

Malfoy’s gaze dances over her face. “Was it you?”

She meets her friends’ eyes over Malfoy’s shoulder. Ron and Harry have their eyebrows raised; Hermione looks concerned. [Y/N] takes a moment to compose herself—tries to force her heart back into her chest—before she folds her arms across her chest and looks at the Slytherin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“At the Astronomy tower,” Malfoy says, and moves up one step so that he’s standing on the same one she’s on. A foot away. “I heard someone last night, while I was waiting for you.”

Oh, Merlin.

“You came, didn’t you?” he presses on.

“No,” [Y/N] lies, and hates how defensive she sounds. She shifts a little on her feet, her eyes skirting away to look at a random spot behind Malfoy. “I was.. at the library. Doing things of actual importance.”

There’s a slight pause as Malfoy’s nose wrinkles. “Must’ve been someone else spying on me, then,” he finally says through a scoff, but [Y/N] knows disappointment when she sees it. He rolls his shoulders back and puts on his signature smirk, inclining his head towards her as he takes another step up the stairs. “Better hurry and give me an answer, [Y/N],” he tells her, grinning. “Before one of my admirers get to me first.”

[Y/N] watches as he walks up the steps and disappears into the hallway.

“The library?” a voice says incredulously. She turns back to Ron, whose face is scrunched in disbelief. “No, you weren’t! We were waiting for you there and you never came.”

[Y/N] folds her arms across her chest indignantly but doesn’t respond, instead walking up the stone steps.

“Malfoy said he was waiting for you at the Astronomy tower,” says Hermione slowly as they trail after her; [Y/N] speeds up her pace. “Is that why you mentioned going there during dinner last night?”

[Y/N] emerges into the main corridor first. “No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did!” bursts Ron, sounding downright triumphant.

“Congratulations, Ron, you don’t have the memory range of a teaspoon, after all,” [Y/N] mutters, looking around. Malfoy is walking down the hallway a few feet ahead of them, Crabbe and Goyle at his side.

Ron ignores her. “I bet you did go. I bet you did spy on him—” And then he gasps, looking as though he’s unearthed the secret of life. “Merlin’s beard, you really do fancy him, don’t you?”

[Y/N]’s footsteps falter. Ron, Harry, and Hermione stop right with her.

Hermione is the only one who doesn’t look stunned out of her mind. Looking between the two boys, she rolls her eyes and scoffs. “Honestly, is that so hard to believe?” says Hermione, frowning. “I understand that it’s Malfoy and he is a prick, but [Y/N] is perfectly entitled to fancy whoever she likes.” She turns to [Y/N]. “It’s fine, [Y/N], you don’t have to feel guilty about it. Anyone would catch feelings if someone started doing such sweet things for them, even if it were someone like Malfoy.”

“Blimey,” says Harry, breathless. “Which part sealed the deal, [Y/N]? The pick-up lines? Or was it the cupcakes?”

[Y/N], who had been opening and closing her mouth like a fish blown out of water, finally stops trying to find words that just aren’t there and instead drags her palm across her face in frustration. “I don’t..” she says, sounding defeated, but really—now that she’s faced with such confrontation, it’s easier to admit to herself that maybe.. maybe she does fancy Malfoy.

Ron’s lips have split into a jubilant grin. ”I called it!“ he says, smacking Harry’s shoulder. "Bloody knew it!”

Hermione reaches out to rub [Y/N]’s back. “Don’t feel too bad about it, [Y/N]. I sort of knew—you looked at him differently after he confessed to you on the pitch.”

[Y/N] sighs, realizing that no amount  of denying it will convince her friends. Or herself.

She does fancy Malfoy.

Properly acknowledging it—finally admitting it to herself—is oddly relieving. She’s been keeping her feelings cooped up inside of her chest despite the fact they are so much bigger than her, and now that she’s letting them burst free.. now that she’s coming to terms with them..

Well. It’s not the worst feeling ever.

Ron is still beaming, looking as though he’s won the lottery. And apparently, in a way, he has: “Fred and George said it’d take you a month longer to give in. I said it’d take you less—guess I’ve won myself two galleons!”

[Y/N]’s mouth falls open. “You bet on this?”

Ron raises his eyebrows, as though surprised to hear that she didn’t know. “Uh, I and the entire bloody castle.”

Struck by a sudden burst of both annoyance and confidence, [Y/N], scowling, detaches herself from her friends and strides down the hallway towards Malfoy, full of intent. He hasn’t noticed her yet; his back is still turned, but she catches up to him easily. And when she does, she unceremoniously bumps her shoulder into his and grabs his hand, quickly interlacing her fingers through his.

“What the hell—”

Malfoy, obviously taken aback, tries to pull his hand away, sneering, until his gaze lands on [Y/N].

“Keep walking, Malfoy,” she says scathingly, not quite looking at him.

Baffled, Malfoy stares at her, then down at their hands, which are now tightly interlocked between them. [Y/N] scowls resolutely at the hallway ahead of her.

And then Malfoy laughs, more out of disbelief than amusement.

“Keep walking,” [Y/N] repeats, this time turning to look at him, fighting to keep her gaze indifferent. The last thing she wants Malfoy to know is that there is an onslaught of tiny little butterflies rampaging in her stomach and a tingly feeling spreading from their hands all the way up her spine and into her heart.

Malfoy’s lips tug up into a wide grin—a real one, [Y/N] thinks. Not an arrogant smirk or a deprecating sneer; one that she can’t ever recall seeing. But now that she has, she finds herself wishing he’d do it more often.

[Y/N] tugs him along as she walks, feeling the stunned stares of her friends boring into her skull from behind. (Ron is going to have a field day about this.)

“So,” Malfoy begins, and she doesn’t have to look at him to know that he’s still grinning down at her. “Changed your mind, haven’t you?”

[Y/N] rolls her eyes; she doesn’t fail to notice the way that the students they’re passing by are staring at them, eyes wide, whispering to themselves. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

Malfoy shrugs. “Among other things.”

She side-eyes him, muttering, “Does that include snogging?”

He makes an amused sound at the back of his throat. “You said it, not me.”

[Y/N] has to grit her teeth to stop the corners of her lips from tugging up. They turn a corner down the hallway, disappearing from both their friends’ views (assuming they haven’t followed them). At this thought, [Y/N] takes a brief glance over her shoulder—and sure enough, there’s a redhead peeking out of a group of very confused Ravenclaws.

Cursing Ron Weasley inside her head, she turns her gaze back ahead of her. ”I have Charms class next.“

Malfoy raises his brows. "And what do you expect me to do with that information?”

“Walk me there,” says [Y/N] briskly.

She can practically feel the surprise radiating off of the blond next to her. A moment later, he throws his head back in a loud laugh. “And you want me to be late to Transfiguration? It’s all the way on the other side of the castle.”

[Y/N] hums. “Can’t even do that for the girl you fancy?”

There’s a beat of silence. His grip on her hand falters a little as he says, voice still nonchalant and yet at the same time holding an undeniable sense of sincerity, “I could if I knew she wasn’t leading me on.”

“She isn’t,” [Y/N] says, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

Malfoy is staring at her with his brows pulled in together just slightly at the middle, giving off the impression that he’s trying to decide whether or not she’s being serious. He slows down his pace until he comes to a full stop, urging [Y/N] to halt alongside him until they’re standing in the middle of the hallway, oblivious to the stares following them and the redhead a mere few feet away.

“How do I know this isn’t a prank?” says Malfoy, lip slowly curling as he narrows his eyes at her, the first few traces of suspicion etching itself onto his face now that the whole ridiculousness of the situation has finally sunken in. [Y/N] can’t blame him; her antics—suddenly marching up to him in the hallway, grabbing his hand and walking with him as though they’ve been doing it for years—all of it is uncalled for after having ruthlessly turned him down so many times before. But [Y/N] can’t delve into a discussion of her conflicting emotions—at least not right now—so she hopes, at least for now, that he will take her word for it.

She clears her throat.  "Well,“ she begins, looking down at their hands; Malfoy’s grip has gone slack. "If I wanted to hold your hand, I’d do it because I wanted to. Not because I wanted to get a rise out of you.” She lets her gaze go back up to his, brows rising in familiar challenge. “I don’t stoop that low, Malfoy. You’ve been in love with me for years—shouldn’t you know that by now?”

There are a few seconds in which the blond standing before her still looks at her with a scrutinizing gaze, lips set into a thin, hard line and his eyes swimming with conflict that [Y/N] wouldn’t have been able to see from afar, but sees in perfect clarity now that she’s standing a mere foot away from him. But then, after what feels like ages, Malfoy nods, slowly, frown smoothing out into an expression of—could that be relief?

“I will be late for Transfiguration, you know,” he says, lips quirking up into a grin.

[Y/N] laughs. (A real one, Draco thinks to himself.) This time she doesn’t try to stop herself from smiling; just lets her lips do so of their own accord. It feels nice. Freeing. “Better just one of us than two, don’t you think?” she says, mirroring his playful grin. “And besides, Goyle can stand in for you. You two do have quite the resemblance.”

“Oh, sod off.”

And it really is very odd, because everything about this shouldn’t feel right; they’ve been enemies for the longest time, and a year ago, [Y/N] would have been revolted at the mere idea of ever coming close to Draco Malfoy—but it does. That is, it feels right. Like they’ve been this way for ages and this playful, harmless banter is the most natural thing.

Draco isn’t perfect—Merlin, does he have a long way to go—but if he means to stop being a prat as long as [Y/N] is at his side, then she is willing to venture into whatever has formed between them.

And if this little bond is going to involve any more of this—this being her and Draco exaggeratedly swinging their arms between them as he walks her to Charms class with their fingers still intertwined, snickering, waiting for one of them to start complaining about their arm sockets hurting—then maybe it isn’t the worst thing ever, after all.

You got a masterlist baby?

hii! I have one ready in the drafts but I'll be posting it when at the end of this week when I finish my in-ho and salesman fic!

currently, you can access all my fics with the tag #wqnsho.writes :>

❛ in the middle of the night when the wolves come out, they head straight for your heart like a bullet in the dark. one by one, i gotta take them down. ❜

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  mattsun is prepared to fight off anyone who attempts to steal your heart

➼ song! wolves - one direction

➼ pairing! matsukawa issei x fem!reader

➼ word count! 2.3k

➼ warnings! a lot of talk about murdering oikawa, inaccurate representation of how valentine’s day is celebrated in japan, not properly edited

➼ type! fluff, humor??

➼ author’s note! happy valentine’s day! (i am in fact, not late. it’s still the 14th in california). here’s a slightly inspired valentines matsukawa one shot. part of my haikyuu x one direction series!

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