#fleabag reference

[corelle-vairel]

Fleabag x Disco Elysium

[imjustatorturedpoet]

Meet me in the Hallway

chapter 9: I won't be able to stop, Jagiya.

Pairing: Hwang In-ho x Reader

also available on ao3!

word count: 9.2k

The third game was over, but the weight of it clung to you, thick and suffocating. Every step down the labyrinth of stairs felt heavier than the last, like your body was only just catching up to the things your mind had been trying to ignore. Your legs ached—not from exertion, but from the tension of staying alive. Your chest felt tight, breath just a little too shallow, like the air itself was pressing down on you.

The line of players moved slowly, trudging downward in eerie silence, no one daring to speak.

Young-il was just in front of you. Close enough that if you stumbled, he would turn and catch you without hesitation. The way he always did.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Not after that. So you focused on the steps beneath you, forcing each step to be careful, deliberate. Not because you were afraid of tripping. But because you knew that if you looked up, if you so much as glanced at the back of his head, and he turned around in that exact moment, you wouldn’t be able to school your expression in time.

Your foot hovered over the next step for a second too long. You forced it down, quick, steady, like the hesitation had never been there.

The moment between you—if it had even been a moment—was still burning at the edges of your thoughts, refusing to be buried. A second too long, a breath too close, something in his eyes that made your stomach tighten. And then nothing.

But it had been enough. Enough to leave warmth on your cheeks. Enough to make your heart stutter if you let yourself think about it too much. Enough to make you want more.

Your fingers twitched slightly at your sides. You clenched them into fists.

It was stupid. You were stupid for letting yourself get caught in that moment. And yet, every time it surfaced, your skin still tingled, your heart still stuttered. You swallowed hard and forced yourself to exhale, to keep walking, to focus on something, anything else.

A voice cut through the silence ahead, low and solemn.

“When we get back, let’s count the number of people remaining”, Gi-hun’s words were casual, but the meaning behind them sat heavy in the air.

“Why?” Young-il’s voice came from in front of you, even and composed, as if he were merely asking for the time.

“If we count the numbers of O’s and X’s, we’ll be able to see who’s likely to win the next vote.”

Gi-hun’s reasoning was solid, logical. You knew that. It made sense. The vote hadn’t been decided yet. It was still hanging, waiting, teetering between the people who wanted to stay and the people who wanted to claw their way back to their home—if there even was one waiting for them.

You should have been thinking about that. About the weight of the decision, about the way things could shift in an instant.

But instead, all you could think about was how close Young-il was. How much you wanted him to turn around and just finish what he was doing in that room.

You stared at the ground harder, blinking rapidly. Your body felt too warm, like the heat from before hadn’t left your skin. It wasn’t the time for this. It wasn’t the place.

Young-il spoke again, his voice smooth, thoughtful.

“We’ll have to hope more people from the other side died.”

The way he said it—so effortlessly, like it was just another fact, just another step forward in the game. No hesitation. No second thought.

His words should have made your stomach twist. Should have made your skin crawl. Should have planted something ugly inside you—something that would recoil, something that would scream, this isn’t right, this isn’t normal, this isn’t who you are.

It should have terrified you. But it didn’t. Because you had thought it first.

Because, somewhere between the gunshots and the silence that followed, between the bodies that fell and the ones that kept walking, you had already made peace with the truth: death was just a calculation now. A numbers game.

And that was the worst part. Not that Young-il had said it. But that when he did, it felt less like a revelation and more like a confirmation.

That if he could think it so easily, then maybe you weren’t so different from him.

That maybe the line you thought existed between you—between the person you were and the person he was—had never been as thick as you wanted to believe.

That maybe it had already blurred.

And that, somehow, was worse than the games. Worse than the killing. Worse than all of it.

Because the moment it stopped feeling wrong, the moment survival became instinct, the moment those thoughts slipped through your mind without resistance—how many of them are left, how many of us are left, what does that mean for me?—

That was the moment you lost. Not the games. Not your life.

Something worse.

And if it had already started to happen, if you were already thinking like him, then maybe…

Maybe it was too late.

The realization settled in slowly, curling at the edges of your mind like smoke. It hadn’t even been a conscious thought—just something quick and passing, a flicker of strategy beneath all the noise. But it had been there.

You swallowed.

You glanced up. Just once. Just to see if he’d turn. He didn’t. But you wished he had.

You kept walking.

The entrance to the dormitory loomed ahead, but you barely noticed. Your mind had drifted too far, tangled in thoughts you didn’t remember inviting in. The weight of the last game pressed down on you, thick and suffocating, wrapping around your chest like a vice. It made the air feel heavier, made each breath a little harder to take.

You didn’t even realize the rest had stopped walking until you nearly crashed into Young-il’s back.

Your heart jumped as you caught yourself just in time, stopping so close that you could feel the lingering warmth of him despite the chill in the room.

He didn’t react, didn’t turn around, but you knew he had noticed.

He always noticed everything.

You swallowed hard and took a small step back just as the guards pulled the heavy doors open.

The moment you stepped inside, the difference was impossible to ignore.

There was more space now.

The numbers had dwindled. The room hadn’t changed, but it felt different. Too open. Too hollow. And yet, the world kept moving.

The group naturally strayed toward the usual spot, but you hesitated, eyes scanning the layout. The missing beds had shifted everything slightly, creating a new gap at the back of the room. Unlike before, there was enough space to walk behind the remaining bunks, to sit where the shadows stretched a little further.

It was a perfect hiding place. A place to sit unseen.  

Without really thinking, you made your way toward it, lowering yourself onto the floor in the newly formed space. The others followed, each of them settling in as if they were just as exhausted as you felt.  

Young-il sat on the opposite side, deliberately putting distance between you. 

You pretended not to notice. He did the same.  

Your eyes flickered elsewhere, landing on the walls. It was easier to focus on that. On anything other than the presence you could still feel across from you, heavy even in silence. But then something else caught your attention.  

The drawings on the walls, created by black tiles. They had been there the entire time, hidden in plain sight, obscured by the very beds that once crammed the room. Now, with so many of them gone, the images stood stark and unmistakable—a silent message that had been waiting to be seen.

Your stomach twisted as you took in the shapes—an oversized chessboard, figures frozen in place like pieces on a battlefield. Monkey bars stretching above an abyss, tiny silhouettes dangling mid-air, suspended between survival and death. The games? The next ones. Right there, in front of you, in plain sight. 

The drawings had been there the entire time. Silent, waiting, like a cruel esoteric joke. A roadmap to your destruction, hidden beneath their beds like a whispered warning you were never meant to hear, before it was too late.

Had everyone been walking past them, sleeping beneath them, completely unaware of the warnings carved into the very walls that surrounded you? Had anyone else noticed? Or were they too exhausted, too numb, too caught up in their own survival to even look? 

Your gaze flickered toward your group. How could they not pay attention to this? You looked at Young-il, he was always so observant, he had to see.

He wasn’t looking at the walls. He was staring at nothing, his face unreadable, his fingers drumming lightly against his knee, slow and methodical.

Had he seen it before? 

You parted your lips, the words sitting at the edge of your tongue, heavy and waiting to be spoken.

Someone needed to know.

Your eyes flickered between the others, scanning their tired faces, the way they moved like ghosts, drained and hollow. Would they even listen to you? 

But if they did—if they understood what those images meant—maybe it could change something. Maybe, for once, knowing ahead of time would give you some kind of control.

Your fingers twitched against the floor.

You turned your head, just enough to find Young-il across from you. He wasn’t looking at the walls. Wasn’t looking at anything. His expression was unreadable, his hands resting loosely on his knees. You hesitated.

Maybe it was better to talk to him first.

Just as you made the decision, shifting slightly to stand up and walk toward him, Dae-ho dropped down beside you. The movement startled you, making you snap your mouth shut before anything could slip out.

He exhaled, tilting his head toward you without fully turning, his voice low. “Hey.”

His presence was warm, a stark contrast to the chill in the room. He hesitated for a second before leaning in slightly, lowering his voice so only you could hear.  

"What happened back there?"  

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. "What?"  

"The last game," he clarified, voice quieter now. "You and Young-il came out of that room looking like you'd seen a ghost. You’ve barely said a word since. What happened?"  

Your breath hitched slightly, but you masked it quickly, shaking your head, ”Nothing," you said. "It was just... a tough round."  

Dae-ho didn’t look convinced. His eyes searched your face, brow furrowing slightly, ”Come on," he said, voice softer now. “I don’t know you for very long but I still know you. You’re not just shaken up over the game itself. Something happened in there."  

You felt your jaw tighten, fingers curling into your palms. He wasn’t wrong.  

The air in that room had been thick, suffocating. The moment had stretched longer than it should have, had lingered on your skin even after it had passed. You could still feel it, still feel him, even when you weren’t looking at him. But how were you supposed to explain that?  

You forced a shrug, dropping your gaze to the floor. "It’s nothing, Dae-ho. Just drop it."  

Dae-ho sighed and leaned back, relenting, "Alright," he muttered. "But you know you’re a terrible liar, right?"  

You huffed a quiet breath, not quite a laugh, but not quite an argument either. Before you could think too deeply on Young-il or the drawings again, Gi-hun’s voice pulled you back.  

"Jung-bae," he said, voice low, thoughtful. "Go count how many players have an O patch on their chest."  

Jung-bae nodded without question, pushing himself up and slipping into the crowd.  

Across the space, Young-il finally looked at you. The moment stretched between you again, unspoken and fragile.  

Your eyes locked for a few seconds too long, something unsaid lingering in the air. And then you looked away first, your heart thrumming just a little too fast.  

A few minutes passed. The silence stretched.  

Then Jung-bae returned.

The tension in the room felt like a coiled spring, wound too tight, ready to snap at any moment. Every conversation felt heavier now, every calculation carrying the weight of survival. You sat still, muscles tense.

The drawings burned into the back of your mind, but before you could say anything, Jung-bae spoke.

"Gi-hun, there are 55 people who voted in favour of continuing," he said, his voice even, but there was something behind it—a frustration, an exhaustion, a resignation.  

Dae-ho immediately stood up, pushing himself off the cold ground. He didn’t say anything at first, just let the number settle in.  

"Are you sure?" Gi-hun asked, his tone measured, but you could hear the edge in it. He was holding something back, but for how long?  

Jung-bae nodded, "I counted them twice."  

You stood then, your body moving before your mind had fully caught up, stepping next to Dae-ho. The weight of the number, the reality of what it meant, settled into your chest. Twelve people. Twelve people standing between you and the possibility of escape.  

You suppressed a grin, forcing a lightness into your voice that you didn’t feel. "What about you? Did you include yourself?"  

Jung-bae looked down as if he had forgotten, his eyes trailing over the O patch on his chest.  

"It’s 56."  

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, but the amused huff still slipped out. It was ridiculous, in a way—after everything, after life and death hung in the balance, he had managed to miscount himself. The absurdity of it almost made you forget where you were. Almost.  

Then, from across the space, Young-il looked up at you.  

The moment was fleeting, nothing more than a brief flicker of acknowledgment, but it made your skin prickle. His eyes stayed on you a second too long, and when you turned away, you still felt them lingering.  

Dae-ho let out a deep sigh, the sound dragging you back into the conversation. "We have 44 people on our side," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "So we’re outnumbered by 12."  

Jung-bae exhaled sharply, throwing his head back against the bunk. "Shoot, that means we’re likely to lose again."  

A silence stretched between all of you. The weight of that truth was unbearable.  

Then Young-il stood.  

His movement was slow, controlled, but the shift in energy was immediate.  

"It may seem like a big difference," he said, stepping forward, his voice calm, methodical. "But if six of them change their minds, it’ll be 50/50, all tied. If seven of them change their minds, we could win."  

The logic was sound, but Dae-ho wasn’t convinced.  

"But those who pressed X might change their minds too," he pointed out, his brows furrowing.  

Young-il barely reacted. "They probably won’t change their minds easily."  

You frowned. "What makes you so sure of that? It happened before."  

The moment your words left your mouth, Young-il looked at you. And for just a split second—so brief you could have imagined it—his gaze dropped to your lips before flickering back up.  

You swallowed, throat dry, but he spoke before you could process it.  

"They wanted to quit even when the prize was smaller," he said, voice steady, reasoning sharp. "Now they can leave with even more money. They wouldn’t want to risk their lives playing another game."  

You studied him, your eyes searching his face, trying to find something—anything—that would tell you what he was thinking.  

Jung-bae nodded, "I’m going to press X this time. That means we’ll have a tie if five others change their minds. With six more, we win."  

Gi-hun exhaled, nodding in understanding. "Then let’s go over there and try to convince them."  

But before anyone could move, Young-il was already stepping in. 

"No," he said immediately, his voice firmer now. "That’s too risky. Most of them will want to continue the games. If we make a move, they won’t just sit back and watch."  

Gi-hun’s expression darkened. "So you think we should just stand here and pray they change their mind? What if we lose again? We march down, hand in hand, to play another game?"  

His voice was rising, frustration spilling into every word. You glanced at Jung-bae, whose head was now resting against the bunks, eyes closed like he was trying to drown out the argument.  

You took a slow breath and spoke before the fight could escalate.

”Gi-hun,” you said carefully, trying to keep your voice even, "I think Young-il is right. I also want to leave right now. But this is the moment to stay calm. They will notice that they have the upper hand in this." You hesitated for a second, then added, "You said that during your games, the people attacked each other at night. If we tell them, they’ll have another reason to attack us."  

Gi-hun sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. He understood. He hated it, but he understood. Dae-ho and Jung-bae exchanged a glance, both of them watching the three of you argue.  

"Look, Gi-hun," Jung-bae said finally. "I’m too scared to play another game. I’m sure there are more people like me."  

"That’s right. That’s what I think too," Dae-ho added. "If it’s just five or six people, we’ve got a shot. I did the math, and the prize is now over 300 million per person. I think that gives us a pretty good chance."  

You nodded in agreement, but your mind was already somewhere else.  

You wanted to grab Young-il’s wrist and pull him aside. You needed to talk to him. About the drawings on the walls. About what they meant. About what was coming next. But that wasn’t all.  

You needed to talk about Mingle.  

The thought pressed against your ribs, unwelcome but impossible to ignore. You had tried to bury it, to pretend that whatever happened in that room had been insignificant, just a fleeting moment swallowed by the weight of the game. But it wasn’t going away. It had followed you out of that room, clung to your skin, settled in your chest like an ache you couldn’t shake.  

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it had been nothing more than exhaustion, adrenaline, the way people reached for anything solid when everything else was crumbling. But if that were true, why was it still burning at the edges of your thoughts? Why did your body still react before your mind could stop it?  

Your fingers curled into your palms. Maybe Young-il had already shoved it into the part of his mind where unspoken things went to die. Maybe it didn’t weigh on him the way it weighed on you.  

Or maybe he was doing exactly what you were—pretending it never happened, while feeling the aftershocks every time you so much as looked at each other.  

You needed to talk. About the drawings. About whatever was happening between you.  

Your gaze flickered toward him, toward the space between you that felt too wide, too distant, too unnatural. You wanted to pull him aside, away from everyone else, where the weight of all these unspoken things could finally collapse. There wasn’t time for this. But there had to be.  

Because if the drawings are what you thought they are—then you had to say something.  

Before it was too late.

But before you could act, the doors buzzed. The sound sent a ripple of unease through you. Several guards stepped into the room. 

And just like that, the chance was over. The chance to pull Young-il aside, to figure out what the hell they were supposed to do next, slipped between your fingers like sand. And just like that, the world moved on without you.

The square guard stepped forward, his voice calm but carrying that ever-present authority.

“Congratulations to all of you for making it through the third game. Now, here are the results of the third game.”  

The moment he spoke, the other guards moved in practiced unison, setting up the voting counter with a cold efficiency that sent a shiver down your spine.  

You exhaled slowly, pressing your palms against the floor beneath you before pushing yourself up. The others did the same. One by one, you all stepped out from behind the staircase, leaving the sanctuary of your hiding place and stopping just in front of the beds. The air felt heavy, like the room itself was pressing in on you.  

Gi-hun and Jung-bae stood slightly to the side, their postures tense, their gazes locked onto the voting booth. Dae-ho stood firmly on your right. And on your left—Young-il.  

He was close. Close enough that if you shifted just slightly, your arms would brush. Close enough that it took effort not to look at him.  

But your attention was pulled elsewhere. Something was missing.  

Your eyes drifted across the hall, searching, scanning. Where was Jun-hee?  

Your chest tightened, but before you could say anything, the guard clicked a button on a small remote. The lights dimmed.  

A second later, a mechanical whir filled the air as a thick cascade of bills descended into the giant glass piggy bank. The money rained down like confetti, filling the silence with a sound so distinct, so mocking, that it made your skin crawl.  

It should have been exciting. It wasn’t.  

Your gaze flickered upward. The screen above the entrance flashed, and the numbers shifted rapidly before settling.  

35,600,000,000. 356 million per person.  

The number was staggering, far beyond anything you had ever even dreamed of having. And yet, as Jung-bae leaned toward you, whispering, “It’s 356 million won. With that kind of money, some of them will change their minds,” his voice felt distant.  

Like the money didn’t matter at all.  

“If we get six more people, it’s a tie. If it’s seven more, we win,” Dae-ho announced quietly, though there was a sharpness in his voice, a desperate kind of hope that none of you could afford to fully acknowledge.  

The masked manager stepped forward. His presence was suffocating.

“The vote will be once again conducted in reverse order of your player numbers,” he announced. “Player 456, please cast your vote.”  

Gi-hun nodded at all of you before stepping forward, weaving through the crowd. As he moved, the manager continued, “To ensure fair and democratic voting, we will not tolerate any disruptions from this point onward. Please bear that in mind.”  

It was a warning. A reminder that, no matter what happened next, no one was going to be able to change the outcome.  

Gi-hun reached the voting booth, and without a single second of hesitation, he pressed X. 

The vote continued. Player after player stepped forward. More people pressed O at the beginning than you had hoped. Too many. The tension in the room thickened. You felt it in the stiffness of Dae-ho’s shoulders, in the way Jung-bae exhaled sharply with each disappointing result.  

It felt hopeless at first. But then—Jung-bae stepped forward. And his hand hovered over the button for just a second too long before he pressed X.  

Your heart jumped. Then, a moment later, Player 380 followed. Your stomach twisted, your pulse racing.  

It was happening. It was actually happening. You only needed five more.  

The vote pressed on, each result like a heartbeat, too fast, too loud.

Jun-hee and Player 333 split apart, the space between them deliberate. You’d noticed him during the fight on the first day, but after the last game, you couldn’t shake the feeling that they weren’t strangers. She walked up to the counter and pressed her vote for X. You made a mental note to ask her about it later. You two hadn't talked much, but you still cared for her.

Then it was your turn.  

You knew you should just walk up and do it, but the weight of it crushed you in place for a fraction of a second. You turned your head, instinct guiding you before logic could step in. 

You looked at Young-il. Your eyes met. You swallowed, hesitating, before grazing his arm with your hand—a touch so light, so fleeting, that you weren’t even sure if it was real. And then, without another thought, you stepped forward.  

Each step felt slow, too slow. You reached the counter. The buttons gleamed beneath the dim light. You lifted your hand, pressed X, and walked back. No hesitation.  

You joined your group, and the moment you did, Hyun-ju approached the counter. 

She stopped. The hesitation was painful. The seconds dragged as she stared at the buttons, unmoving. Your hands clenched into fists at your sides. Then—finally—she pressed X.  

The deep beep echoed through the room like the first crack of thunder before a storm. And then cheers. Dae-ho grabbed you from the side, hugging you tightly before pulling away. 

“Only two more now!” Jung-bae reminded, his voice brimming with hope.  

You grinned, unable to help it, glancing at Gi-hun. His expression was nothing but relief. More players casted their vote. Then—the mother’s son voted X. The cheers grew louder, the energy in the room shifting so violently that it almost felt like a celebration.  

X: 49 | O: 49 

A perfect tie. 

You turned to Dae-ho, a smile already forming on your lips, ready to tell him that you could go home. That you could finally leave.  

A light ping echoed through the room.  

Your body went rigid. Player 006 had changed her vote from X to O. Your jaw dropped. For a second, your brain couldn’t even process it.  

“What—” you whispered, barely audible. Your head snapped toward the voting booth, toward the screen, toward her.  

How could she do that? How could she stand there and steal that from you?  

The room shifted again. Not celebration. Not relief. Frustration. Disappointment.  

Dae-ho tensed beside you, his entire body dropping slightly, deflating.  

“Lastly, player 001,” the square guard announced.  

All eyes turned. The dormitory fell silent. Young-il moved. Slow, deliberate steps, his expression impossible to read. Dae-ho whisper-called his name. When Young-il turned his head slightly, Dae-ho raised a fist in encouragement. “Let’s go.”  

You swallowed. You knew Young-il. You knew he would vote X.  

But still—the doubt. Still—the weight in your chest.  

Young-il glanced at you. The moment was too short, too quick. And then he turned back, his eyes trained ahead, and continued walking.  

Dae-ho leaned toward Jung-bae, toward Gi-hun, toward you. “It’s going to be 50/50, so it’s still a tie, isn’t it?”  

You nodded. But your stomach was twisting itself into knots.  

He reached the counter and stopped. Seconds passed. Too many. Too long.  

You felt every heartbeat. Finally he moved. His fingers pressed X.  

Your breath left your lungs in a rush. Dae-ho dropped his head into his hands, crouching, laughing in sheer relief. Young-il turned, a slow, easy smile breaking across his face. He lifted a hand and formed an ‘OK’ sign, looking straight at your group.  

He walked back, and the X voters stepped aside to let him through. Dae-ho touched your shoulder, smiling wider than you had ever seen. “Oh my god. We did it. It’s a tie.”  

You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. Young-il stopped beside you. And for the first time all night, you allowed yourself to believe—  

Maybe this was finally over.

“The vote has ended.” The masked manager’s voice carried through the air, cold and absolute. Silence settled over the room like a heavy fog.  

You exhaled slowly, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. Every muscle in your body was tense, wound so tightly that you felt like you might snap at any moment. The relief you had felt just minutes ago had vanished the second Player 006 had changed her vote.  

That single decision had unraveled everything. And now, here you all stood, at a stalemate. A tie.  

“What happens now?”  

It was Player 100 who asked the question, his voice laced with that same casual arrogance he always carried. The same arrogance he had when he had cornered you in the arena before the second game.  

Your stomach twisted as the memory surged forward, unbidden and unwanted. His threat. His voice in your ear, laced with venom.  

“Let’s see how clever you are when you’re all alone.”

The words played on repeat in your mind, clinging to you like smoke, impossible to shake off. You hadn’t forgotten. And yet, here he was, acting as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t tried to use intimidation to get what he wanted.  

You wanted to glare at him, wanted to remind him that you hadn’t forgotten, but the masked manager spoke first.  

“Clause three of the consent form,” he said, his tone unwavering, unaffected. “In the case of a tie, players will vote again.”  

A murmur rippled through the room, the sound of shifting feet, of hushed voices, of weary souls trying to comprehend what this meant for them. Someone behind you raised a hand hesitantly. “So when are we going to vote again?”  

You held your breath. If it was tomorrow, then tonight was going to be hell.  

The O players had already made it clear that they wanted the games to continue no matter what. Some of them were desperate. Some of them were angry. And desperate, angry people were dangerous. They had lost their first chance at a majority. Now they had to know that their odds of winning were thinner.  

Thinner—but not impossible. If they couldn’t convince enough X players to switch sides, then what would stop them from taking matters into their own hands? They had to know. They had to know that killing us would make the prize money go up. But then again… what if they didn’t?  

What if they were still under the illusion that this was all just a fair vote? That it wasn’t a game of survival outside of the scheduled rounds?  

Your mind churned, running through the possibilities, the threats, the things you couldn’t predict.  

“To give you some time to think,” the masked manager said, his voice cutting through the murmurs, “the vote will be conducted tomorrow. Until then, please think carefully about your future.”  

A groan slipped past your lips before you could stop it. 

Tomorrow.  

You could already feel it—the tension that would build, the fear that would fester, the whispers in the dark. No one in this room was safe.  

People began murmuring among themselves, breaking off into their groups, moving back toward their usual spots. Some wore expressions of relief. Others—frustration. Some looked ready to fight. 

Your stomach turned. You needed to get out of this crowd. You needed to think, to plan. 

Your gaze flickered to Young-il. He was already turning away, already taking a step toward the bunks, already pulling himself back into that familiar quiet solitude. Your fingers moved before your mind could catch up.  

You reached out and grasped his arm, “Can we talk?”  

He stilled. For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t react. 

Your grip tightened slightly, like you were afraid he would pull away before you could say anything else.  

When he turned to face you, his expression was unreadable. But his eyes—  

His eyes searched yours. 

A flicker of something you couldn’t name crossed his face before he nodded, slow, measured.  

“Yes, of course.”

The weight in your chest didn’t ease, not yet. Because now that you had him here, now that you had his attention—  

You had to decide what to say first.  

The drawings? Mingle? The night ahead?  

All of it swirled in your mind, tangled together in a mess of urgency and hesitation.

You exhaled, forcing yourself to focus. There was too much—too much you needed to say, too much you couldn’t ignore—but there wasn’t time to hesitate. The dormitory was still alive with hushed conversations, some players slipping back into their usual routines, others watching each other a little too closely, the unspoken threat of what tonight might bring hanging over everyone like a storm cloud.

Not here.

You looked past Young-il, scanning the room for somewhere less exposed. The bunks weren’t safe. The stairs weren’t safe. Then it clicked.

“The bathroom,” you said. “No one’s in there right now. We’ll talk there.”

Young-il didn’t ask questions. He just nodded.

You released his arm and turned, slipping through the crowd. You could hear his footsteps behind you, steady but light, careful not to attract attention. You resisted the urge to glance back at him. If you looked at him too long, you might lose track of what you were supposed to be doing. 

After asking the guards and being escorted, you reached the bathroom door, glancing around once more before pushing it open and stepping inside. It was empty. 

The cold tile echoed beneath your feet as you moved further in, the fluorescent light flickering slightly above. The door swung shut behind you, leaving you alone with Young-il in the still, sterile quiet.

You turned to face him. He was watching you, arms crossed, waiting. Your heart pounded, but you took a breath and forced the words out.

“The walls,” you said, voice lower than you intended. “The drawings. You saw them, right?”

He frowned slightly. “Drawings?”

Your stomach twisted. He hadn’t noticed? 

You stepped closer, lowering your voice further. “On the walls of the dorm. The black tiles. They show the games.”

Something shifted in his expression. His arms uncrossed, hands slipping into his pockets as he processed your words. 

“How do you know?” he asked.

“I saw them after the beds were removed,” you said quickly. “The games—the ones we’ve played, and the ones we haven’t yet. The next ones are human chess and monkey bars.” You swallowed. “They were always there. We just didn’t see them.”

Young-il’s jaw tightened slightly, but otherwise, he remained still. Thinking. Processing. Then, finally, he exhaled, his gaze flickering to the ground before meeting yours again.

“Who else knows?” he asked.

You hesitated. “No one. I was going to tell them later.”

He shook his head. “Not all of them.”

“What?”

“If the O players find out, it’ll change everything,” he said. “They’ll start thinking ahead. Figuring out strategies. We can’t let them have an advantage too. More X players need to survive tomorrow.”

If they had a blueprint of the future, they would use it. And not in a way that helped you.

You exhaled slowly. “So we only tell the X players.”

He nodded. “It’s safer that way.”

And it made sense. But something about it still made your skin prickle. Keeping things from people—choosing who deserved information and who didn’t—it felt like playing the same kind of game the masked men were playing. But you weren’t naive enough to ignore reality. 

You nodded. “Okay.”

A quiet pause stretched between you. You weren’t sure what to say next. The plan was set, at least for now. The real conversation—the one that made your stomach twist, the one you had been putting off—was still waiting. Mingle.

You opened your mouth. Then—  

Footsteps.  

Your body tensed immediately. Not just one pair. Several. Voices, too.  

You turned toward the door just as the doorknob turned, the sound of laughter cutting through the silence.  

Shit.  

Young-il stiffened beside you. The realisation hit you both at the same time—there was no way to explain why he was in here in the woman’s bathroom without causing people to have inappropriate thoughts. 

Without thinking, you grabbed his wrist. He barely had time to react before you were pulling him toward the nearest stall, shoving the door open, stepping inside with him, and locking it behind you.  

Your back pressed against the cold metal as you caught your breath.  

The space was too small. Young-il was too close.  

You could hear the voices outside, could make out the casual chatter of players who had no idea they weren’t alone. But it was hard to focus on that when Young-il’s body was inches from yours, the warmth of him stark against the cold air.  

You held eye contact. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Seconds passed.  

Then, finally, he leaned in, just enough that his breath ghosted against your ear when he whispered, “Are you serious?”  

You swallowed hard. “It was either this or let them see you,” you whispered back, just as quiet.  

You felt it before you saw it. The slight shake of his shoulders. The barely-there exhale. Young-il was trying not to laugh.  

You scowled, “This isn’t funny.”  

He exhaled through his nose, amusement still lingering at the edges of his voice. “It kind of is.”  

You glared up at him. Bad idea. Too close.  

His face was half-shadowed in the dim light, but his eyes—his eyes were focused, sharp, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite place.  

You felt warmth crawl up your neck.  

“I'm not the one who’ll get caught in the wrong bathroom,” you muttered, looking away.  

Another quiet chuckle. But then the voices outside grew louder, and the amusement slipped from both of you.  

You held your breath. Young-il went still.  

One of the players was standing right outside the stall.  

If they tried the door—if they so much as glanced under the gap—  

"Young-il we need to-"

You felt Young-il’s hand press against your mouth to keep you quiet.  

Stay still. Stay quiet.  

Your breath hitched as Young-il’s palm covered your mouth, warm and steady. The weight of it was firm but not forceful, a silent command to stay quiet. You hadn’t even realised you were holding your breath until the warmth of his skin against yours made you hyper-aware of everything—the closeness, the heat radiating off him, the way your pulse pounded beneath his fingertips.

Outside, the voices were getting closer. The stall door beside you creaked as someone leaned against it. You could see their shadow shifting slightly under the gap. Too close. 

A giggle. Then a low and teasing voice.

“Did you see how pissed off the X players were? Thought they had it in the bag.”

Another voice, sharper, cutting through the first. “They’re desperate. Think they can go home and everything will be fine.”

Young-il’s hand tensed slightly, the movement so subtle you might have imagined it. But you knew he was listening. Really listening.

You swallowed, barely resisting the urge to shift against him. His hips pressed against yours and you desperately wanted to move. He must have felt it because his eyes flickered to yours, a silent warning before he removed his hand from your mouth, slow and careful.

Your chest rose and fell with shallow, measured breaths.

“Not like it matters,” the first player continued. “The next vote will tip in our favour. The ones who picked X tonight will cave once they realise they have no power.”

“Some of them won’t,” another voice interjected.

A pause.

“Then we’ll make them.”

Something cold slithered down your spine. You didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare breathe.

The voices continued, lowering to murmurs before someone turned on the sink. The rush of water drowned out most of their words, but you caught pieces.

“… gonna take things into our own hands.”

“… scared? Just like before.”

“…be grateful we didn’t try anything yet.”

Then—finally—footsteps. The door creaked open, then shut.

Silence.

You didn’t move. You didn’t trust it. Young-il didn’t move either.

Seconds passed. The hum of the fluorescent light filled the space, buzzing low and insistent. Then, a slow exhale.

You barely realised you were still pressed against him until he shifted slightly, giving you the tiniest fraction of space. The air between you wasn’t nearly enough.

“We should go,” he murmured.

You nodded. But neither of you moved.

Your heartbeat was still too fast. Your skin was still too warm. And his hand—his hand had been on your mouth, his breath had been close enough to feel, and now that the immediate danger had passed, your brain was catching up to all of it at once.

Young-il’s gaze flickered downward, catching the way your fingers had unconsciously curled into the fabric of his sleeve. You released him immediately.

He huffed a quiet breath, shaking his head. “We really need to go before someone else walks in.”

“Right.”

You turned toward the door, but just as you were about to unlocked it, Young-il caught your wrist. Your breath hitched.

“Wait,” he said quietly.

You looked up at him. His grip wasn’t tight, but his fingers lingered just long enough to keep you from moving. 

There was something unreadable in his expression, something careful and deliberate. His fingers traced the inside of your wrist, slow and absentminded, like he wasn’t entirely aware he was doing it. 

Young-il exhaled through his nose, gaze flickering to the locked stall door behind you, then back down to you. “I need to finish what I started earlier.”

Your throat went dry. 

His gaze flickered down to your lips before snapping back up. 

Your mind knew exactly what he was talking about, but your body still reacted first, heat curling in your stomach before you could stop it. The memory of Mingle, of his lips so close, his voice low, the way the air had crackled between you, came rushing back with an almost violent intensity. 

He had stopped himself back then. Had walked away. 

And now, here, in the dim, sterile bathroom, with the walls too thin and your heartbeat too loud, he was bringing it back up. 

You forced yourself to keep your voice steady. “I thought we were ignoring that.” 

A faint smirk ghosted over his lips, but his eyes didn’t hold their usual amusement. This wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t lighthearted. There was something sharper behind it. Something he had been holding back. 

“I wanted to,” he admitted. “I thought I should.” He exhaled, slow, measured, gaze flickering over your face like he was deciding how much to say. “But I can’t keep pretending it didn’t happen forever.”

Your stomach twisted. “Young-il—”

“Do you regret it?” he asked, voice lower now. 

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. 

That was the worst part. You didn’t. You didn’t regret any of it. 

Not a single second of it. Not the closeness. Not the way he had looked at you, like you were something worth reaching for. Not the way he had almost kissed you before pulling away, like he was fighting something much bigger than himself. 

And you definitely didn’t regret wanting more. 

But you thought he surely did.

You swallowed, tilting your chin up. “No. But you do, right?” 

His fingers twitched around your wrist. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. 

Then, after a beat— “No.”

It was barely a breath, but it landed between you like a spark to gasoline. 

Young-il moved first. In one swift movement, he pulled you into him, pivoting you both into the farthest corner of the stall. His arm braced against the wall behind your head.

You sucked in a breath, instinctively pressing further back against the stall, but that only pushed you closer to him.

There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to escape him. Not that you wanted to. 

His head tilted downward, his lips just inches from yours, his breath warm against your cheek. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the way his breathing wasn’t as steady as he wanted it to be. His free hand hovered near your waist, fingers curling like he was trying to stop himself from touching you. 

It was intoxicating. Maddening. 

“You think I regret it?” His voice was lower now, rougher. 

You swallowed. “Yeah. You practically stormed out of there.” 

His eyes searched yours, something unreadable flickering behind them. “I was scared.” 

Your breath caught in your throat. He had never admitted that before. Never once let you see past the control, past the sharp, composed exterior. 

He let out a slow, unsteady breath. “Not because of you,” he murmured. “Because of me.” 

You frowned. “What does that mean?” 

His gaze flickered down for a second. “The last time I felt like this…” He trailed off, jaw tightening slightly. “It was with my late wife.” 

You had known. Hell, you had been there. But still, you didn't know everything. Not the details. But you knew enough. Your fingers twitched at your sides. You weren’t sure what to say. 

Young-il exhaled through his nose. “I thought if I ignored it, it would go away,” he admitted. “But it hasn’t.” 

Your pulse roared in your ears. “Young-il…” 

He shook his head, just slightly. “I can’t keep pretending that it doesn’t feel fucking amazing to have you by my side.” 

He wanted this. Wanted you. 

You barely had time to react before he was moving, shifting even closer, pressing his body flush against yours to keep you in the tight space of the stall. 

You sucked in a sharp breath, eyes going wide. His thigh slotted between yours, dangerously close to where you wanted him most. 

His gaze flickered down to your lips again. This time, he didn’t look away.

“I can’t keep pretending,” he murmured, voice low, rough. “Not when I know you feel it too.”

Your chest rose and fell too fast. You could feel the warmth of his breath fanning across your skin, feel the way his fingers flexed at his sides, like he was restraining himself, like he was testing his own willpower.

Like he was waiting for you to break first.

And you wanted to. God, you wanted to.

You clenched your fists, forcing yourself to stay grounded, but it was impossible when he was looking at you like that, like he was drinking you in. His pupils were blown wide, his breathing just a little too uneven.

You licked your lips, and his eyes flickered downward again. You had the exact same expression on your face. His jaw tightened.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he murmured, voice dangerously low, “and I won’t be able to stop.”

Instead, you tilted your chin up slightly, testing him. Teasing him.

“You think I would want you to stop?”

His hand was at the back of your neck in an instant. You barely had time to register the movement before he was kissing you.

It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t tentative. It was urgent. Desperate. Like he had spent every second, since seeing you again, trying to ignore this, to push it away, to bury it beneath logic and restraint—and now that the dam had broken, he was drowning in it.

His hands tightened on your neck, pulling you against him even deeper, his mouth pressing hungrily against yours. His lips were warm, rougher than you expected, moving with a controlled desperation that sent heat spiralling down your spine.

You gasped against his mouth, your fingers instinctively twisting in the fabric of his shirt, and he took advantage of it immediately—deepening the kiss, his tongue brushing against yours, slow but deliberate.

Your knees almost buckled.

The stall was too small, the air too thick, the heat between you unbearable. His body pressed into yours, his chest flush against yours, his thigh still slotted between yours in a way that made your stomach clench. He teasingly pushed his thigh against your clothed pussy, making you groan. 

His other hand started, under your shirt, at your waist and slid higher, up your sides, his fingers tracing the shape of your ribs before settling just beneath them, thumbs brushing against your skin.

You made a noise—a soft, breathless whimper—and Young-il inhaled sharply, like he was barely holding himself together.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips.

You felt his breath, hot and ragged, before he kissed you again, even harder this time.

Your body responded without thinking. You tilted your head, pressed closer, let your hands roam—one sliding up to his shoulder, the other gripping the back of his neck, fingers threading through the short strands of his hair.

He exhaled through his nose, like he was trying to stay composed, like he was fighting something bigger than himself.

But he wasn’t winning.

His grip on you tightened. He shifted, pressing you further back against the stall, his hips aligning with yours, his weight pressing you down in a way that made your entire body burn. You could feel it.

You whimpered again, and his breath stuttered against your lips.

“This is so fucking wrong,” he murmured, but he didn’t stop.

Neither did you.

If anything, you kissed him harder, letting yourself fall into it, into him, into the way his hands explored your waist, your ribs, the way his lips moved against yours like he was memorising you, the way his thigh pressed into you just enough to make your head spin.

He groaned softly when you tugged at his hair, his grip tightening, his body pressing impossibly closer.

Your name left his lips, barely a whisper, barely a breath. 

And it was over. The last thread of restraint snapped like it had never been there at all.  

His hands pulled you against him, and his mouth was on yours before you had time to brace for it.  

It was rougher this time—less careful, less controlled, like the dam had fully broken and there was no stopping the flood now. His body pressed flush against yours, and you moaned into his mouth, your hands fisting into the front of his shirt just to keep yourself from collapsing.  

His fingers dug into your sides, like he was trying to hold himself back and failing miserably.

Your entire body was burning.

His grip on you tightened as his lips moved against yours, his breath uneven, his restraint slipping more and more with each passing second.  

He pulled back from your lips to move his lips down to your neck with wet, sloppy kisses.

You could still taste him, still feel the way his lips had moved against yours—hungry, desperate, restrained but barely. You could still feel the way he had kissed you like he was memorising you, like he wasn’t sure he’d ever get the chance again.  

And that was the problem.  

Because now he knew. Now you knew. Now you both knew how good it felt. How right it felt. How the hell were you supposed to stop now?  

Young-il exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing against your ribs before moving up to cup your breasts over your bra. His lips hovered near your jaw, so close that you swore you could feel the heat of them burning into your skin.  

"This isn’t where I want you," he murmured against your skin. "Not like this. Not here.”

His lips hovered by your jaw. His thumb brushed over your waist, slow, deliberate.

"When this is over, I want to take my time with you.”

A loud beep echoed through the bathroom, followed by a voice over the speaker system.  

"All players, return to the dormitory immediately. Meal distribution is about to begin."  

The world slammed back into focus. Young-il stilled. You stilled.  

For a moment, neither of you moved, neither of you breathed—your lips still inches apart, his hands still gripping your waist.

Then, finally, he exhaled, low and shaky, his forehead pressing lightly against yours as he muttered a quiet, almost furious curse under his breath.  

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way your body was still aching for him, trying to pretend that this interruption wasn’t the cruelest thing that could’ve happened.  

Slowly—too slowly—Young-il started to move. He didn’t step back completely, didn’t put distance between you right away. Instead, his thumb brushed over your waist in a slow, absentminded motion.  

He looked down at you, his gaze hooded, pupils blown wide. His lips were swollen from kissing you. A slow, incredulous smile crept onto his lips, like he was seconds away from laughing in disbelief.

“Swear to god, that announcer is personally out to ruin my life.", he muttered, shaking his head.

You hummed, tilting your head like you were actually considering it. “You might be onto something. They do seem committed to keeping me out of your lap.”

His smirk twitched—part amusement, part something darker.

He exhaled through his nose, gaze flickering down to your lips, then back up.

“Next time,” he murmured, low and certain. “I won’t stop, Jagiya.”

A slow, involuntary shiver ran down your spine. Your pulse was still too fast, your breath still uneven, your body still burning from every second he had pressed against you. But you weren’t about to let him walk away that easy.

You tilted your chin up, gaze locking onto his, voice low and taunting. “Oh, fuck you, calling me ‘Jagiya’ like it doesn’t turn you on just to say it.”

The reaction was immediate. His jaw flexed, and for a single, dangerous moment, it looked like he was about to prove you right.

His fingers twitched at his sides. His tongue darted out, wetting his lips in a way that made heat coil low in your stomach.

Then—he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with a slow, exasperated smirk. “You’re really testing my patience.”

You grinned. “I’d hate to make things easy for you.”

A quiet chuckle left him, dark and amused, but his eyes were still hooded, still watching you too closely. He reached past you, unlocking the stall door, but didn’t move away yet.

“Careful, Jagiya,” he murmured, voice dangerously low. “You won’t be able to smart-mouth your way out of it again.”

You exhaled through your nose, running a hand through your hair like you’re trying to steady yourself. He reached past you to unlock the stall door.  

The second it clicked open, reality slammed back into you.  

You had to go back out there. You had to walk back into the dorms like your entire body wasn’t still on fire, like Young-il’s hands weren’t still leaving invisible burns on your skin, like your lips weren’t still tingling from his kisses.  

When he opened the door and set a foot outside, you grabbed his wrist.

You scoffed, still breathless, still reeling from the way his mouth had just devoured yours like he was starving.

"Fuck dinner, Young-il. You’re just gonna leave me standing here all hot and bothered to go eat?" You crossed your arms. "Do I look like a ditchable prom date to you?"

Young-il’s gaze darkened, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. For a second, you swore he was going to grab you again. Instead, he smirked.

"I don’t know," he mused, voice low, teasing. "Ask me after I’ve had my hands on you somewhere better than a bathroom stall."

And with that, he turned and walked away—leaving you standing there, heart hammering, legs weak, and absolutely ruined. 

The walk back to the dorms felt longer than it should have.

You could still feel him—his touch, his breath, the warmth of his hands where they had been on you just minutes ago. 

You stole a glance at him. He was walking beside you, his expression unreadable. But the smirk he was trying to hide was still noticeable to you.

[thewholelemon]

WIP Wednesday

hello hello. I'm traveling today and scheduling this in advance because I am very organized. :sus:

sharing another texting excerpt from a future Carry On Countdown prompt because these silly little things are eating my brain in a fun way. but before we go there, perhaps you want to suggest a fic cover for Mad to gift (i love this idea so, so much) @stillmadaboutpetra.

ok! texting excerpt for the prompt "cross":

Baz: I'm sorry, WHAT the FUCK:

Baz: YOU KNOW I GET AN EMAIL EVERY TIME YOU BUY SOMETHING WITH MY AMAZON PRIME ACCOUNT

Dev: Fuck

-----

Simon: mate srsly wtf is that ur priest outfit in prev orders

Dev: Niall and I watched Fleabag mate it’s gonna be worth it. you can borrow it when I’m done 😈

Simon: i hope you mean the tv show. If u give me that outfit i’m burning it

-----

Penny: ?????????? can you get your own prime account for your weirdo cosplay?

Dev: one to talk:

Penny: point taken

------

Agatha: tell me you’re taking orders to become an actual priest because I’d rather imagine that than what I think this is

Dev: wellbelove. how many ppl r on this fucking prime acct. jfc

Agatha: says the man of God

I hope you're getting days off work and eating a lot of pie this week:

@hushed-chorus @raenestee @facewithoutheart @bookish-bogwitch @larkral @onepintobean @martsonmars @technetiumai @brilla-brilla-estrellita @shrekgogurt @ileadacharmedlife @ivelovedhimthroughworse @youarenevertooold @iamamythologicalcreature @erzbethluna @alleycat0306 @rimeswithpurple @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @prettygoododds @blackberrysummerblog @orange-peony @artsyunderstudy @cutestkilla @mostlymaudlin @yellobb @run-for-chamo-miles @theearlgreymage @ic3-que3n @sillyunicorn @theimpossibledemon @stardustasincocaine @melodysmash @katatsumuli @stillmadaboutpetra

[blooms-in-april]

“It’ll pass.” Jaskier says.“That’s what people say, isn’t it. It’ll pass, it'll pass. It doesn’t pass. Some things you can’t pass through, you can’t get over. They’re too fucking hard and too fucking wide. You just have to- live around them.”

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[general-dweebous]

I want to call Gale “Professor Dekarios” just so he can say “fuck you calling me Professor, as if it doesn’t turn you on just to say it”

[dtrvdtrv]

"Kneel"

[quail-z]

[wing-ed-thing]

“I joined the Survey Corps for you. To be with you.” “We all have our own reasons for being here. You’ll find a better one.”

is my

"I love you." "It'll pass."