#and in the way that the the cruelty was supposed to be helpful and they both have a creepyish side to them even though theyre gentle

[crustyfloor]

This parallel this parallel this parallel, it's cute how surprised Sua looks when people are affectionate with her, but I wonder if Ivan ever reminded Sua of her sister at times with the way he treated her, sometimes being reminiscent of how she used to be treated by her sister, and the cruelty was just as familiar(?)

[earthtooz]

because throwing an apple at someone's head was a sign of professing one's love in greek myth.

fluff, gn!reader, i wrote this in a blip

When you told yourself today was the day you confessed to Phainon, you weren't expecting it to turn out like this.

The very ripe, very red, very ready-to-be-consumed apple was not supposed to fly out of your grasp the way it did. It was not supposed to hit him on the head, silencing his laughter as he dumbfoundedly blinks at the item that broke him out of his giddy stupor. It was not supposed to land perfectly in his hands as he glances between your face and your snack, which has now decided to work against you.

You definitely were not supposed to just mutter a meek 'I like you', and you definitely were not supposed to turn on your heel and run away from him!

And why is he chasing after you? Can't he tell you need alone time to recover from the unfortunate series of events that just unfolded?

"Y/n, wait!" He calls, barely sounding out of breath. Your feet hit cement, grass, climb up and down flights of stairs, they don't stop as you dash through every bit of the Grove of Epiphany, all for the sole purpose of shaking Phainon off your tail.

However, it was your mistake for believing someone like him would be willing to give up, and his stamina outpaced yours by a landslide, so just what were you thinking? Running away like that in the spur of the moment?

"No!" You shout back. "Leave me be!"

"But I have something to say to you!"

"I'm sorry for throwing an apple at your head!"

"It's okay! I don't mind- just, stop running!"

"Maybe you should stop chasing me!"

"For Titan's sake-"

As you round a pillar that lead to a short staircase, Phainon had jumped over the ledge and landed by the time you descended the flight, and with a lunge, his hand had securely wrapped itself around your elbow. You had lost. Lost the chase, the fight, your dignity as you gaze up at him, your stomach stirring with unease at his imminent rejection.

There's an unreadable look in his eyes but you don't try deciphering it because you're certain you seem like a mess right now. Your face felt flushed, sweat stuck to your skin, and your hair was all over the place, and worst of all, Phainon was going to reject you while you were in this state.

Titans, please help. This was not what you intended at all.

"You're too fast," he huffs, chest heaving like yours. "You really know how to steal someone's breath away."

"If you're gonna let me down just get to it already."

"Let you down? You think I was chasing you all this way just to let you down?"

"Or were you going to return my apple? It was my afternoon snack-"

"What? No, it's my apple now, you gave it to me!"

"Well, I... threw it at your head-"

"-I accept your confession!" He blurts boldly.

All you can do is splutter out a pathetic 'huh???'.

Phainon is exasperated at this point, desperate to confess the feelings that's been dwelling in his chest for the entire time he's known you. When he's waited this long, he wasn't going to let the moment go, not when you're the one who took the first step, having the nerve to capture his heart and take off bolting with it.

"I like you- a lot! You're everything I've ever wanted and I've waited so long for this, Y/n, please don't make me suffer any longer."

He doesn't blink as he looks at you, as if stubborn to not miss anything about you, not a single micro-change in your expression, the way your breath hitched at his passion, the tweaks of a small smile beginning to pull at your lips.

"Just how am I making you suffer?"

"You tell me the one thing I've been waiting to hear from you and instead of letting me speak, you run away and have me chase you like a Spirithief, does your cruelty know no bounds? Fine, if you're still unsure about my feelings then-"

He takes a big bite out of the apple, the crisp crunch speaking more than it should have to as you blink at his unwavering will.

Phainon's confession settles in the silence, and the first thing you do is laugh in a way that has him almost crumbling to his knees in relief. It was an ode to something beautiful, the start of a new beginning, and as he split your apple in half and handed you the unbitten part, the dull ache on his head finally began to subside.

© EARTHTOOZ 2025, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[luna-azzurra]

10 Soul-Level Secrets Your Character Is Carrying (And Hiding Like Their Life Depends on It)

These are the kind of secrets, that keep your character up at night. The kind that twist their decisions, poison their relationships, and build a wall between who they are and who they pretend to be.

» They think they ruined someone’s life, and no one knows.

It wasn’t murder. It wasn’t obvious. But maybe they said the wrong thing. Maybe they didn’t show up when it mattered. Maybe they walked away and something irreversible happened. No one connects the dots. But they do. Every day.

They smile like everything’s fine. They help people. But underneath? They’re trying to atone for something they never confessed.

» They don’t believe they’re capable of being truly loved.

They might flirt. They might date. They might even say “I love you” like it’s nothing. But they don’t believe it when it’s said back. They think people are just being kind. Or delusional. Or lying. It doesn’t matter how good they are—it never feels like enough. So they self-sabotage. Quietly. Strategically. Like clockwork.

» They’re living a life that’s not theirs.

Maybe they took someone’s spot, figuratively or literally. Maybe they’re fulfilling someone else’s dream, wearing someone else’s name, carrying someone else’s story. They were supposed to say no. Walk away. Be honest. But now it’s too late. Too deep. Too tangled. So they pretend this version of their life is real. Even when it doesn’t feel like it.

» They’ve buried a part of their identity because it was safer.

Their queerness. Their culture. Their belief system. Their softness. Their rage. At some point, they decided—this part of me makes people leave. So they buried it. Cut it off. And now they move through life like a shadow of who they were supposed to be. They blend. They perform. But deep down, something sacred is starving.

» They still love the person they say they hate.

They’ll deny it. They’ll joke. They’ll talk sh*t with a smile. But the truth? They never really let go. And they never will. It’s in the way their voice shakes. The way they remember the smallest detail. The way they get weirdly quiet when that person’s name comes up. Love laced with bitterness is still love. That’s what makes it so hard.

» They’ve hurt someone on purpose—and never apologized.

It was calculated. Or maybe impulsive. But they knew what they were doing. And they did it anyway. Now they pretend it didn’t matter. They laugh it off. “We all make mistakes,” right? But in the quiet moments, it haunts them. They remember the look in that person’s eyes. They remember the moment they chose cruelty. And they hate themselves for it.

» They think they’re a bad person deep down.

They might be kind. Loyal. Brave. But they’re convinced it’s a performance. A mask. That underneath all the good, they’re something rotten. Unforgivable. Wrong. So they wait. For the slip-up. For the fallout. For someone to finally say it out loud: “I knew you were never really good.”

» They’re still shaped by something they pretend didn’t happen.

That thing? The trauma? The grief? The shame? They’ve never talked about it. Maybe they’ve blocked it out. Maybe they minimize it. But it’s everywhere—in the way they react to conflict, touch, silence, love. They don’t think it matters anymore. But it does. It always has.

» They dream of leaving. But never will.

Every day, they imagine packing a bag. Burning it all down. Starting over. But they stay. Because of guilt. Obligation. Fear. They smile while doing the right thing. But in the back of their mind, they’re screaming. They’ve built a prison out of choices that looked noble on paper.

» They’ve built a whole personality around keeping people from seeing who they really are.

The loud one. The chill one. The one who always makes the plans or always fixes the mess or always has a snarky comeback. It’s not fake. But it’s not all there is. They’ve decided that the real them? The soft, scared, selfish, angry, insecure them? Can’t be loved. So they keep the performance airtight. But some part of them still hopes someone will see through it anyway.

[littlcdarlin]

Into Temptation

summary: old!Joel obsessively watches sweet reader from across the tipsy bison each night, until one day he walks her home. read on AO3 warnings: girthy age gap (reader is 20, Joel’s age isn’t mentioned but I imagined late 50s), daddy kink, praise kink, breeding kink, mention of pregnancy (Joel wants to knock her up so bad), naive/sweet reader, Joel calls reader “kiddo”, Joel is a bit of a pervert but so are you for reading this

note: this is written in head-canon format but sort of reads like a cohesive story. It allowed me to churn this out much more quickly than writing it my usual way!

He watches you from his spot at the bar, across the tipsy bison, how you laugh with your friends, how your cheeks gain colour with every drink, how you politely refuse any man who makes advances

He knows you’re barely in your twenties, all fresh-faced and so sweet looking, the world can’t possibly have gotten to you yet — that’s what intrigues him, how untainted by cruelty you seem

Tommy catches him staring and scolds him for it — she’s off limits, Joel, there’s a million men better suited for a girl like her

Yes, a million men who you refuse, night after night, offering them your sweet apologetic smiles, and returning to playing cards with your friends. He can’t help but wonder if you’ve got a man already, if that’s why you refuse everyone

One night you make your way over to the bar, stumbling in your cowboy boots, your cheeks slightly flushed from the alcohol, your movements a little fuzzy, a vague smile on your face that he recognises from his own youth — the kind of smile only brought out by carefree evenings in bars, cigarettes, and flirting without a goal

You ask the barkeeper for another drink, and accept his wink with a sweet smile when he puts the glass down in front of you. It bothers Joel, this new development. You’re supposed to refuse everyone here

That guy cheats on his wife, he tells you, and your big Bambi eyes land on him, surprised. You two haven’t spoken before. Thought you oughta know.

You cock your head curiously, and lift your glass to your mouth. It’s sweating from the ice, pearly drops of water drooling over your fingernails. You know everyone’s business, Mr. Miller?

You know his name — Joel’s spine tingles. For a sweet girl, you sure manage to hold his gaze, most people would have looked away by now. He’s not known for his pleasant small talk

He wants to ask you to come home with him, but he can feel the eyes of your friends on the two of you, so he restrains himself. Your small hand comes to rest on top of his shoulder, and the touch sends a bolt of electricity through him

I wasn’t flirting with him, Mr. Miller, just being polite. You’d know if I was, you say, and then you’re gone, off to your friends again, your dress swaying around your thighs and for a second he has to fight the impulse to drag you back over to him and sit you down on his lap

But he can’t do that, won’t do that, not when you’re so young and half of Jackson would want to see him hang

From then on, you talk to him every time you get a drink — and you start getting them for your friends, too. Any more town secrets to spill, Mr. Miller? How’s that whiskey for the eighteenth night in a row, Mr. Miller? Mr. Miller, I heard Tommy’ll be a Daddy soon — looking forward to being an uncle?

So what if he indulges you? He’s making conversation, people can hardly judge him for it — so long as they don’t know about what he does when he gets home from the bar each evening, imagining it’s your little hand instead of his own

You keep denying all of your admirers, which are more than Joel would like to admit, ever friendly about it. They leave with bruised egos, but glad you were polite about it — all but one. A tall kid, a little older than you but barely 25, and he keeps pestering you night after night. Joel watches the way your brows furrow, the corners of your mouth turning downward rather than up into that sweet smile he adores

The fifth night, the boy touches your shoulder, and your friend pushes his arm away, but he persists. Before Joel can stop himself, he’s on his feet. There a problem here?

Your eyes are round and relieved when they find Joel, and even subconsciously you move towards him. It’s fine, we’re just making conversation, the kid says, so Joel looks at you. You shake your head so slightly he almost doesn’t see it, but it’s all it takes

How ‘bout you ‘n I make some conversation outside? The boy is gone before Joel can put his fist to his jaw, which he’s been itching to do for days now, but after he gives you a slight nod, and you thank him, he leaves your table again to make sure the boy won’t be back as soon as he’s gone

Before he can step outside, he feels your little hand on his arm, and he turns around to look at you. Could you walk me home, Mr. Miller?

He can’t possibly refuse you, doesn’t want to, so he gets your jacket from the coat rack by the door — you don’t question how he knows it’s yours — and leads you outside with a heavy palm on your shoulder

You don’t speak much, but you walk closer to him than you have to, and a sick satisfaction pools inside his belly. You feel safe with him, you trust him to get you home safe, you want to be near him

Right before you reach your house, you look up at him, the apples of your cheeks violently flushed by the cold, snow dotting your hair. Stay a while?

He can’t, he really shouldn’t, not when you’re clearly desperate for him to do so, not when your eyes are all hopeful and innocent and unknowing of what you’re asking of him. Please, I get so lonely at night.

Now, he can’t have that. Sweet girl like you, anyone would be happy to keep you company, and yet Joel’s the one you’re asking. So he agrees, and you open the door into a warm corridor that smells of cinnamon and apples

You take off your boots, revealing your bare legs, only covered by a pair of white stockings to keep you warm, and one of your cotton dresses that can’t possibly keep you warm in this weather. He wants to wrap you up in a blanket and rip it all off at the same time

He stays to ease your mind after he incident at the bar, and after a while you dose off to sleep on the couch, your head drooping and snapping upwards again every few seconds. And he knows you need your sleep, you’re still only twenty after all, so he picks you up to carry you upstairs, but you stir in his arms

Come on, let’s get you to bed, kiddo, he mutters, and in your sleep-drunken state, you rest your head against the crook of his neck, your soft mouth pressing a wet kiss there, and he’s done for, beyond help

When he puts you down on your bed, your eyes open, and he wants so badly to kiss you, to claim you. Sleep with me, you mumble, and God help him, he gets into bed with you, still wearing his jeans

You cuddle up to him, stealing his warmth, his scent, dizzying him with yours. He doesn’t get a wink of sleep, not with the sweet sounds you make while you dream and the way your body molds so perfectly against him

In the morning you smile up at him like you can’t quite believe he’s still there, and then you kiss him, and he knows there’s no turning back from any of it now, not when he’s got you rested and pliant and warm in a bed, not when your legs are wrapped around his thigh so sweetly

So he does what he’s been wanting to do, climbs on top of you, his body weight pressing you into the mattress and pulling the sweetest sounds from your pretty throat — your hands grasp at his shoulders, his back, his arms, when he kisses and licks and bites whatever part of you he can reach

You’re so responsive, like this is the first time someone’s touched you like this, and the thought makes him dizzy. You’re whining for him and he hasn’t even gotten you out of your little dress yet. By the time two of his fingers find your clit, you’re positively trembling under him, and he watches in fascination as you shake and come for him so easily, like you’ve been waiting to do just that, like it’s been building all night. Good girl, my sweet, good girl.

That makes you twitch for him, a broken sound coming out of your mouth that he knows is supposed to be a word. Speak up, kiddo, can’t hear ya.

You do, your hips still moving after your orgasm has faded. D-daddy. His blood starts to boil, and it’s all it takes for him to roughly open his belt buckle, ignore the way his joints pop at the movement, hike up your dress, pull down the cotton panties you’ve soaked, and press the tip of his aching cock against your dripping entrance

When he finally presses himself inside of your tight body, you mewl for him with wide glassy eyes, and it takes all his strength to not just slam into you. He knows you need to adjust to his girth, especially if he’s right and this is the first time someone has fucked you

When he’s fully sheathed inside of you, your breathing comes in little pants, and you throb and clench around him. It makes him want to come inside of you, fuck you until it takes, until that little pussy has what it’s so desperately trying to drain from him

He starts fucking you deeply, as deeply as he can, and you cry for him with every thrust, sweet chants of DaddyDaddyDaddyDaddy. You don’t just want it, you need it, eyelids fluttering and your soft red mouth slightly agape. Your hands tangle into his greying hair, tugging and trying desperately to hold onto something

When you come for him again, he rubs at your little clit until you’re done, but even then, you keep letting him fuck you, his cock moving in and out of you easily, your whole body shaking with overstimulation. Want it inside please, Daddy, you moan, your muscles limp. He grips your hips, and empties his balls deep inside of you, keeps thrusting until he’s sure his spent can’t possibly be deeper inside of you

You smile up at him when he calls you his good, sweet girl, a blissed out and happy look on your face

So he stays, fucks you again and again that day, barely lets you leave your bed, until Tommy knocks on the door and tells him he missed patrol and the whole of Jackson is talking about you and him. But Joel doesn’t care, not when the second the door is closed you kiss him

People stare when the two of you walk through the streets of Jackson, your hand in Joel’s, smooth fingers against weathered, calloused ones. You don’t mind, kiss him in the tipsy bison in front of everyone, ignore even Tommy and your friends when they tell you to take some space

He knows it’s bound to get worse once your belly starts to swell, which is inevitably going to happen with how often he pumps you full of his load, his back aching and yours arching off the bed. He pays it no mind, though, not when you beg him for it so sweetly every night, please Daddy, want it inside.

[writinginatree]

Too Sweet

Relationship(s): Xaden Riorson/female!reader

Summary: Xaden never understood how opposites could attract — not until he meets you and realizes that he doesn't have to understand your sweetness to cherish it.

Anonymous requested: I was thinking in a xaden fic based in "too sweet" from Hozier, where he's all like wanting the reader but also thinking like she deserved more, but with a happy ending ( maybe smutty too ✋🏻

Part 2

Xaden never understood that opposites were supposed to attract. On a physical level, sure. But when it comes to personality and ideology? How could anyone be with someone so wildly different from themselves that they can't possibly understand the other? Someone whose whole attitude to life is completely unlike their own? To him, it just seemed like a recipe for heartbreak. Then again, the saying only claims that opposites attract, not necessarily that they're compatible.

Since meeting you, this is something he's been thinking about a lot.

You're everything he is not; happy, bubbly, energetic, adored by just about everyone and making friends left and right. You're... sweet. There's no other way to put it. What someone like you is doing in the Riders Quadrant, Xaden doesn't know.

He tries to keep his distance at first — liking people is dangerous, and you're much too likable. Needless to say, it doesn't work. Being in the same squad, he constantly finds himself in your presence, and while he keeps to himself as much as he can, he finds it hard to outright avoid you. Almost against his will, he slowly gets to know you. He can't exactly help it, seeing as you sit next to him in almost every class, seek him out at mealtimes, asking him to come sit with the rest of your squad, offer smiles every time you pass him in the halls. You're everywhere, a persistent ray of sunshine piercing into the darkness of his life.

He doesn't understand you. Doesn't have a clue why you're so nice, or how you always manage to be so sociable, no matter what time it is or what lethal bullshit you're about to face, let alone why you seem to genuinely like him. Unlike most others, you have no prejudices against the marked ones, but even so, Xaden is not an easy person to like these days. He can't afford kindness, weakness. Not with all the lives that quite literally rest upon his back.

But no matter how curt he is, no matter how often he only gives one-word answers to your steady stream of chatter or declines your offers to study together, your friendliness never wavers. Every morning your beaming smile greets him in the gathering hall at breakfast, and as days turn into weeks, he often finds his gaze automatically scanning the room for you upon entering, hoping to catch a glimpse of that precious smile. Your presence becomes a comforting part of his routine, always there and yet never intruding. For all your persistence in trying to include him, you're never overbearing. You don't push him when he doesn't join your squad's study session, give him opportunity to join a conversation should he want to, but accept when he doesn't.

He shouldn't get too used to your presence — two of your year-mates have died already, and there's no guarantee you won't be next. Life is dangerous in the Riders Quadrant, and Xaden keeps wondering why someone so sweet would choose this life. You seem more like the type who would be a healer — or maybe even a baker or gardener, far away from the cruelty of war. And yet you thrive even in this environment. He supposes he could just ask you about it, but he doesn't want to get to know you, gods damn it.

Thinking back later, Xaden will realize that the superficial attraction he felt for you from the first starts to grow toward something more the first time your squad leader pairs him with you for a sparring session.

He has already seen you fight at Assessment, but facing you on the mat himself, he gets a much more intimate feeling of your fighting style. You're fast, full of the same energy that is in everything you do, smiling even as you struggle to dodge his punches and get past his defense. You're good. Not as good as him, but your enthusiasm makes up for that. Xaden has to admit — at least to himself — that sparring with you is actually fun. The training session seems to be over in the blink of an eye, and as you step off the mat, both of you sweaty and breathing hard, Xaden is already looking forward to the next, hoping he'll get you as his sparring partner again.

For once he allows himself to be drawn into conversation, answering your questions on how to improve your technique as you walk out of the gym side by side.

The better he gets to know you, the more he has to keep reminding himself to stay away from you, that you're too sweet for him. But, oh, it's hard; he enjoys your company so much. Garrick has caught on, too, teasing him about what he calls his crush on the sunshine girl every time he sees him talking to you. And though Xaden vehemently denies having such a silly thing as a crush, he can't even convince himself of that, let alone his best friend. Having known him as long as he does, Garrick always sees right through him.

The relief Xaden feels at Threshing when he lands and spots you already standing on the flight field in front of a Red is immense. He quickly shoves the feeling down, preferring not to think about what it implies. He does not have a crush, and the last thing he needs is for his dragon to think him a lovesick fool and change its mind about bonding him while it still can. He feels the unfamiliar presence of her in the back of his mind, her golden eyes piercing into him after he dismounts.

He feels all the other people's gazes on him, too, the disapproving stares from where leadership is seated on the dais, their disdain for him permeating the very air. He keeps his head high as he walks to the rollkeeper, refusing to so much as look at the people who'd doubtlessly been hoping he would meet his end in the woods today.

Blood keeps trickling into his eye from the cut Sgaeyl gave him. It stings, but the annoyance of it is worse than the pain. Pain is fine. But constantly having to blink away the blood blurring his vision, feeling it run down his cheek like tears — it makes his skin crawl with discomfort. He's not going to seek out the professors giving first-aid, though. Bothersome as it might be, it's just a little cut, and he can't afford to look weak.

As he walks back to Sgaeyl, his eyes automatically find you in the crowd of mingling first-years, just as they always do. You're watching him, too, but unlike everyone else whose gazes darken, you smile at the sight of him. When you notice him looking, you wave and start toward him. As you get closer, Xaden notes a split in your lip and a blood-soaked bandage around your thigh, but since you're hardly even limping, Xaden assumes that the injury can't be very bad. No, if anything, there's even more of a spring to your walk than usual, your hair bouncing with every step.

Instead of stopping in front of him when you reach him, you throw your arms around him, squeezing him tight, and suddenly, Xaden doesn't remember how to breathe. No one just hugs him out of nowhere like that. No one would even dream of hugging him at all. And yet here you are, doing just that and apparently thinking nothing of it, judging by the easy smile on your face when you let go after a couple of seconds.

"I'm glad you made it," you say. "I mean, I never doubted it, but still."

"I'm glad you made it, too," he admits, quiet enough that none of the people nearby will hear. He allows himself to return your smile, just for a moment, absentmindedly lifting his hand to wipe blood from his eye again. Your gaze immediately snags on the cut, a small crease appearing between your own brows.

"Your dragon?" you ask.

Xaden nods.

"You'd think the relics they'll give us should be enough to mark us as theirs, but apparently not. Mine stabbed me in the thigh."

"Daggertail?"

"Swordtail. Went right through and back out on the other side, but luckily she didn't cut through anything important." You shrug, the grin reappearing on your face as you tilt your head to the side, studying him. "That'll be one hell of a badass scar you're gonna have there."

Xaden bites back another smile, watching with slight confusion as you remove the kerchief you're wearing around your neck today. For a moment, Xaden catches a flash of glitter dotting the black cloth, then it's too close to see clearly as you bring the balled up fabric to his brow and dab up the blood. Your touch is much gentler than his own, and, with the cloth soaking up the blood, much more effective, too.

After a few seconds you pull back, pressing your now bloody neckerchief into his hand. "Keep it."

"Thanks," he mutters past the lump he suddenly seems to have in his throat.

He'll never get used to how kind you are. It's such a little thing, to notice how much the blood in his eye was bothering him and do something about it, and yet it means more to him than you could ever know. It'll probably take a while until the wound completely stops bleeding, but with your kerchief to wipe at it, at least it won't bleed all over his face anymore.

He pretends to listen as you start rambling about your dragon and the thrill of the short flight here, and though Xaden agrees that there's nothing that can compare to the feeling of flying, he can't focus enough to keep up with the sheer endless rush of words. It should be annoying, he thinks. The constant happy babbling, the needless touching — even now you're standing much closer than necessary, shaking his arm as you bounce on your feet while telling him about a particularly exciting part of approaching Milis. If anyone else did that, he'd shove them away to get some space, tell them to stop being so childish. But for some reason it doesn't bother him when you're the one doing it.

Spotting Garrick in the crowd, Xaden hurriedly uses the excuse to walk away toward his best friend. Turning his mind to more practical matters, he forces his thoughts away from you with great difficulty, still reeling from your unreasonable kindness.

After Threshing, something changes, and Xaden finds himself spending more and more time in your company. Maybe it's just that you and him are slowly crystalizing out to be the most powerful in your squad. Or maybe he's going down a slippery slope, no idea where it might lead but unable to stop the descent.

Too sweet, that's what you are. But then, Xaden has always liked sweet things. He remembers when he was a child, being told that all those sugary things he liked so much would hurt his teeth. With you, he feels similar to how he did then; afraid of the hurt he might be causing himself in the long run and wishing to preserve himself from it, but unable to resist the immediate temptation of sweetness. He craves it, that contrast you bring to the usual bitterness that is his life.

And it's refreshing to be around someone who isn't scared of him, even if he still doesn't understand why you aren't intimidated of him like everyone else. Despite your easygoing attitude and bubbly personality, you're far from a fool, unrelenting and self-preservative when need be.

It's an uncomfortable thought, the idea that maybe you're seeing past the stoic facade he keeps, know that he wouldn't hurt you unless you hurt him first. He's not used to people seeing him for who he is anymore, only for who he has to be. The Great Betrayer's son, the heir apparent, the revolution's leader. Traitor or hero, depending on who you ask. But with you, he can simply be Xaden. It scares him, that vulnerability you bring out in him, but he'd be lying if he claimed not to like how simple everything seems when he's with you.

The only difficulty is the secrets he is forced to keep. Luckily, you're very understanding when he says he doesn't want to talk about anything to do with his father's rebellion, and if you suspect that he's up to anything illegal, you don't show it. Some of it — like the meetings with all the marked ones in the quadrant to make sure everyone is helping each other get by — he could probably trust you with. By now, he knows you well enough to know you wouldn't immediately jump to the worst conclusions, would probably even help him sneak out. But in a way, the worst possible conclusions are uncomfortably close to the truth, and he can't risk revealing even such a comparatively harmless secret. No, the less you know, the better — for both of you.

Enjoy your company as he might, sometimes it does grate on his nerves, that seemingly endless happy energy you radiate. Like today, sitting at breakfast and tired out of his mind as he sips on his second mug of coffee when you come bouncing into the gathering hall, fresh from the gym. If he didn't know you get up before sunrise every morning to lift weights with another girl from your squad before breakfast, he'd think you came straight from your bed after a full night's sleep. Of course, even with getting up almost two hours earlier than necessary, you're most certainly still getting more sleep than he is.

Sliding into your usual seat beside him, you greet everyone with more enthusiasm than anyone should have at this time of morning. Xaden returns only the barest of nods, which is more than he's spared anyone else so far. He can already tell this is not going to be his day, and he doesn't feel like wasting energy on being sociable.

You know better than to take it personally, humming a happy little melody under your breath as you start to eat.

As much as Xaden normally enjoys the sound of your voice, the noise in the hall is already bad enough, and he doesn't need you adding to it. "Would you stop that?" he snaps, more harshly than he had intended.

You fall quiet with an apologetic smile, and Xaden immediately feels bad about losing his patience on you.

He downs the rest of his coffee, contemplating whether or not getting another mug of it would help his mood. Probably not, but it's worth a try to keep from snapping at you again. You're trying to be considerate, doubtlessly having noticed that the dark circles under his eyes are even more pronounced than usual, but it simply isn't in your nature to be quiet for long. He likes that — most of the time, at least. The silence he takes refuge in can feel suffocating at times; having you around to break it makes life decidedly more bearable.

"Maybe you'd be less tired if you tried going to bed a little earlier," you tease.

The glare he levels on you is the kind that would have a lesser person shrinking in their seat, as evident by the wary looks from your squadmates, but you're not intimidated in the least. If anything, your smile only widens.

Unbelievable.

"How do you want to know what time I go to bed?"

You shrug. "You know I have the room next to yours. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, and when I look out of the window then there's always light coming from your window."

"Stalker," he mutters, rolling his eyes when you giggle. The sound effortlessly melts away the worst of his irritation, leaving him still tired and moody, but decidedly less likely to kill anyone for testing his patience.

"I wasn't stalking you on purpose," you defend yourself, the laughter lingering in your voice, "I just like looking at the snow in the moonlight. It's always so pretty, don't you think?"

Xaden shrugs. It's been a long time since he's spared any thought to the beauty of nature. The next time he can't sleep — which is almost all the time — he'll try to enjoy the nightly view from his window too, he decides, if only so he can understand what you like about it.

"The snow would be all nice and well if we didn't have to fly in it," your squadmate inserts themself into the conversation. "Have you seen how much is coming down right now?"

You nod. "Maybe it'll let up until our turn on the flight field. Milis says if this keeps up, she and the other dragons might just refuse to show up." Quieter, only for Xaden, you add, "Let's hope they don't, then you can use the time for a nap instead."

"I don't need a nap," he grumbles back, just as quietly. Truth be told, he probably could use one, but if he were able to sleep, he wouldn't be this tired.

"You sure? I'll even sing you a lullaby if you'd like."

You wink at him, grinning in that way only you can, and Xaden knows that despite your playful manner, you're serious about helping him fall asleep if you can.

He shakes his head, smiling against his will. "You're a dork."

"And you're an insomniac."

"I'm fine."

"Whatever you say."

People's intimidation of him turns to outright fear once his signet manifests, shadows stirring wherever he goes. As usual, you're the exception. Your eyes shine with awe and something like pride as you watch him demonstrate his newfound powers to you with rapt fascination, not a trace of fear to be found.

"That's amazing!" You bring a hand to the shadow closest to you, gingerly brushing your fingers along it. Xaden feels goosebumps rise on his skin, as if it had been him you touched. "They're actually solid! How is that even possible?"

"No idea," Xaden admits. "I'm only just starting to figure out how it works."

As his signet grows stronger, your shadow is the one he's most aware of. Even when you're not in the same room — or even the same building — as him, he always knows exactly where you are and what you're doing. It's not what he should be using this power for, but the shadows seem to have a mind of their own. They're very attached to you. Or maybe he's just making that up to excuse his embarrassing lack of control. It's not like he wants to be some kind of obsessive stalker; he simply can't help the fact that you're constantly on his mind.

If you have noticed that the shadows near you always seem more alive than is natural as of late, you haven't mentioned it. Not very surprising, considering you're occupied with trying to control your own water wielding signet. Xaden has taken more than one involuntary bath since it manifested a couple weeks ago, and has learned to keep his distance from you while drinking water. When you lose control, it's always him getting drenched, as though your water is drawn to him the same way his shadows are to you. It wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't the middle of fucking winter. You always try to remove the moisture from his clothes afterwards, but while you have already gotten a little better at it, even your best efforts don't get them any less than damp, so Xaden — or whoever else falls victim to your flood — is left either freezing his ass off in wet clothes, or making himself late to the next class by returning to his room to get changed.

Worst of all, Xaden can't even bring himself to be mad at you about it. He's no better; the only difference is that, so far, his shadows haven't tried to drown anyone.

He probably shouldn't be thinking about that incident as often as he does, and he definitely shouldn't be so giddy about it. It was hotter than it had any right to be, watching you almost murder someone on his account. It also made his heart flutter with a whole array of feelings he can't even begin to name. While Xaden obviously doesn't need your protection, the fact that you're willing to publicly stand up for him means a lot. The knowledge that you got so angry in defense of him, that you wielded enough water to flood a whole stairway without even meaning to because someone had been talking shit about him... Just thinking about it makes him more emotional than he'd like.

But while your signet can be wild and destructive, the water is usually gentle. It's an accurate reflection of you, he thinks, untamed and unpredictable, inherently soft but just as capable of terrible harm when provoked. When you're calm and in control, the water flows steadily along like the ever present stream of your chatter, lively and somehow soothing at the same time. Xaden enjoys watching it, how it can flow through even the smallest crack, how it glitters in the light. He enjoys watching you wield it even more, the look of concentration on your face, the beaming smile when you get it to do what you want. It's hypnotizing. A dangerous distraction he really can't afford. He loses track of everything else all too easily when he's with you. You're an undertow, irresistibly pulling him in, and Xaden would happily drown in your sweet waters.

When his lips finally meet yours for the first time, you taste as sweet as Xaden's favorite chocolate cake, and he's instantly addicted.

Afterward, he's not even sure how it happened. You'd been sitting in commons after doing homework together, enjoying a few more minutes of quiet in each other's presence before turning in for the night. You'd rested your head on his shoulder, smiling up at him as he teased you about already being tired so early in the evening, the only other sound the dripping of the melting snow outside the window. Then, before he even knew what he was doing, Xaden had leaned down and kissed you.

Lying in bed that night, he still can't believe it. Even harder to believe is the fact that you'd kissed back, smiling from ear to ear and gracing him with another peck of your lips when he'd wished you a good night and fled to his room. He still feels the ghost of your lips against his, imagines he can still taste you as he licks them.

Trying to form a coherent thought feels like swimming through an ocean of thick, cloying sweet honey. When he closes his eyes, there's only you. Your bright smile and soft eyes, the sound of your laugh, the feeling of your lips, over and over again. The tiny part of him still capable of logic is telling him he made a mistake, that he should stay the fuck away from you. Indulging the feelings for you, which he is no longer able to deny, can't lead anywhere good. He should turn back while he still can, for your sake as much as his own.

You deserve someone nicer, someone you won't be in danger for associating with, who doesn't have so much to hide. Someone who can openly worship the ground you walk on, prioritize you over everything else. Xaden wishes he could be that person, but the burden he took on after his father's death won't allow it.

He plans on telling you as much, but when he sees you in the hall the next morning, he can't bring himself to get the words out. Your face lights up at the sight of him, the awareness of the joy his presence brings you making his heart ache. Then you come skipping over and peck his cheek, first making sure nobody is watching, which has Xaden melting all over again. No, as much as he knows he should end this before it can really start, he simply can't.

You walk to breakfast in companionable silence, which Xaden is very grateful for. He's not ready to talk about whatever this is that's developing between you. You'll have to, eventually, he knows. He'll have to decide if he wants to accept that he's smitten and just see where this will go, vulnerability and problems that would come with it and all, or if he wants to try and shut you out. It's barely a choice, considering how he loathes every moment he's apart from you. He should have never allowed himself to get this close in the first place, but now it's too late.

"You shouldn't be seen with me so much," he tells you a few days later. The both of you are late for math because you'd been too busy making out in an empty corridor to hear the bells, and he can't help but worry what everyone will think when they see you walk in together, kiss-swollen lips and all. "People will say you associate with traitors."

The roll of your eyes is a stark contrast to the gentle tone of your voice when you reply. "People see us together all the time, Xaden. It's not any different just because we're more than friends now. And I don't care what they think, anyway. You're not a traitor, and anyone who thinks you are is an idiot and doesn't matter."

Xaden has to bite his lip to keep silent. If only you knew what he's been up to. Dragging you into the revolution is the last thing he wants, and yet, he can't help but imagine how much nicer it all would be with you by his side. With a sense of justice as strong as yours, you would certainly want to help if you knew the truth of what's out there. No matter. He's not going to put you into that danger, not with how uncertain everything still is.

Twice him and Garrick have managed to smuggle weapons out now, chancing upon a friendly drift by mere luck the first time. Twice is not enough to determine whether they'll get away with it in the long run. For all he knows, someone could already be suspecting them — which is exactly why you should not be seen with him. Even unaware as you are, it's not safe.

And what if you catch on? Xaden knows you know he has secrets, and adores you even more for not pushing the matter, but eventually, your curiosity is bound to get the best of you. If you find out about the weapons runs, he'll either have to tell you what leadership has been hiding — which will sound like madness when he has no way to prove it — or let you believe him to be a traitor without reason. He can't imagine either.

Unfortunately, you choose just then to say, "You know, I missed you at dinner yesterday."

Xaden acknowledges your comment with a nod but doesn't reply, unwilling to lie but unable to tell you that he'd snuck out with Garrick to deliver the weapons they'd stolen for the fliers.

"I'm not saying that because I want to stalk you or anything," you continue. It's become sort of a running joke between the two of you to call the other a stalker for such observations. "It's just that you had me worried. Maybe next time you could let me know when you're going to be busy?"

"Yeah. I can do that," Xaden says, praying you won't ask where he's been.

"Thank you." You smile, briefly halting your steps to give him another kiss, and Xaden is too lost in the sweetness of it to notice you've already reached the classroom until you open the door.

Despite his resolution to not let your relationship — or whatever it is — progress any further, he does. It's like any time he's near you, he loses all common sense.

Sgaeyl is getting annoyed with him, telling him to make up his mind. It is clear he's already made his decision, she says, so he might as well commit to it. She's right, of course, even if Xaden hates to admit it.

He doesn't want to be the selfish asshole he feels he's being by letting himself bask in your presence every chance he gets, by allowing himself to dream of a future with you by his side. It's unattainable, no matter how much he wants it, and yet there's a tiny part of him that dares to hope and refuses to settle for less. You may not have actually talked about your feelings so far, but Xaden knows you want a real, deeper relationship with him as much as he does. It could all be so perfect, if there weren't all those responsibilities Xaden has to think of, the lives depending on him. He can't drag you into that mess in good conscience; just imagining that inherent joy leaving your eyes as the truth destroys your faith in humanity makes him feel sick.

Maybe he could be with you without letting you find out? You always respect his privacy, never probe about the secrets you know he has.

But no, he can't keep you in the dark forever. He'll tell you, sooner or later. You deserve to know the truth, terrible as it is. You deserve to fight by his side, if you so choose. Whatever horrors the future holds, Xaden wants to face them together with you.

"I don't know if this is such a good idea," he admits one night, lying in your bed. One last, half-hearted attempt to make you see he's bad for you. And if you brush it off like you always do, he'll accept that you want him too, consequences be damned.

"What isn't?"

"Us."

"Why not?" you ask, voice as soft as the drizzle of rain falling outside the window.

There's more than a dozen reasons he could list, but most of them have to do with matters he can't — won't — tell you about. Someday he will, if the world keeps turning long enough, but for the time being, it's better you don't know.

"I'm not sweet like you," he mumbles instead.

You just smile, the way you always do when he's being difficult. "No, I guess not. But you're not the bad guy you want people to think you are, either."

"You can't possibly know that."

He thinks of everything you don't know, the secrets he's hiding. Would you still think the same of him if you knew the truth about him, everything he really is?

"I do, though. You're not a bad guy," you repeat with a gentleness he doesn't deserve. "You're just you. A survivor. Maybe a bit broody. But that's okay, 'cause I love you just the way you are."

Your fingers brush a few stray hairs from his forehead, and the last of Xaden's resolve crumbles. Neither of you had dared use the word love so far; hearing it now, Xaden wants you to say it over and over again.

"Good. Because you're not getting rid of me anymore."

"No?"

"No. Even if you probably should."

"Good." You smile, ignoring the second half of what he said, and brush your lips against his. "Now stop worrying so much and go to sleep."

[lokischocolatefountain]

home in three days, do not wash

Fandom: Gladiator II Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Wife!Reader Rating: 18+ Warnings: age gap, mild choking, mentions of child death, hurt comfort, breeding kink, lactation, reader has children, taboo for the time oral sex, talk of war. Word count: 3.6k words Summary: Your General returns home ravenous for you and you cannot decline him, even if any exposure of his act would bring him great shame. A/N: Thanks to @saradika-graphics for the awesome graphics. Napoleon said 'be home in three days, do not wash' and what was I supposed to do? Not use it for our big thicc roman general returning home from war to fuck us? I did research and shit and came to know that eating pussy was a big no no back in the day. dj Khaled would love to be an ancient roman ig. also learned that rich ladies didn't breastfeed and used a wet nurse but they knew that breastfeeding could help and some women did it. Outside all that research, it's just depravity, baby. Anyway, validate my depravity with some comments pls.

Laughter echoed through the hallways of your palatial home and you stood at a balcony with the best view from atop the hill. The campaign that had taken your husband away had finally come to an end with victory for Rome. Far from the hustle and bustle of the city, you were always one of the last people to receive the latest news of importance. This time was an exception to the rule. 

Home in three days. Do not wash.

All you wanted when you received the message was to run in the direction of the roads that would bring your beloved home. Three days were too long. You wanted to curtail the long wait, run to him so you would be in one another’s arms in a day and a half. 

But you chose the more realistic path and prepared the home for his arrival. The servants polished every surface, your handmaiden ensured you had all your most preferred clothing— that which he loved to see on your body. The kitchen was busy preparing every meal that the master loved. Your two older children with your general busied themselves recollecting everything they learned from their private tutor to impress their father. 

Your youngest, your first son, was still so young he had never met his father. He was the child your dearest had longed to have for so long. For all the luck the gods had given him in the battlefield, they had given very little in the way of children to carry his legacy. In his heart, he was father to seven daughters and six sons. The gods had only allowed four daughters to live. Two of his sons passed in infancy, one passed in birth, taking his mother with him. One other was taken by disease and another killed in battle. 

He now had only one son and he hadn’t yet the joy of holding him in his arms. Everyday that Marcus was in the battlefield was torture. Babe on your breast and fear in your heart over whether his father would live to see him. Fear sometimes subsided for anger to have its way. That very anger remained in your chest, prepared to unleash on him the moment he stepped into the home. 

When the sun dimmed, night crept in and so did Marcus. You refused to greet him at the door. A warm welcome was reserved for men who told their wives where they were going before they left. You had half a mind to ask for a bath to be prepared. To wash yourself with milk and fragrant oils in front of him so he could see your defiance in action. 

But you remained in the balcony, eyes set on the moon who served as your companion when he left you. For all the fury you had for him, there was also an ache of sympathy. You wouldn’t sour his mood the moment he entered. He must see his son first. Then you would see to that he groveled at your feet for his cruelty. 

Just as you thought, you had a long time to relax on the settee. He always went to his children first. Be it after months away on the battlefield or a mere day in the city. You asked for your son’s crib to be moved to your daughters’ room so he would be able to see them all at once, saving him the battle of choosing between his great loves. You’d sent word to him on the battlefield after you gave birth, sent him the name of his son so he would know to include him in his prayers. 

You heard whispers of his voice conversing with a servant. Your heart quickened its pace, each thud against your ribs matching the thuds of his feet against the floor. Oh how you wanted to turn around. It had been so long since your eyes were blessed with him. His towering height, broad frame, the pink of his lips and the curls you so loved to comb through with your fingers. You trembled, the cold breeze reminding you how devoid you’d been of his warmth. Yet you were resolved to not give yourself up to him so soon. You stayed in place and closed your eyes.

He stopped behind you and your name spilled from his lips like honey. It had been so long since anyone spoke your name so… The servants called you mistress and your children called you mother. Your birth family only wrote your name in their many letters. He was the only one who spoke your name, leaving you without hearing your own name since his departure. But you stayed, did not turn, did not open your eyes. He spoke it again, his voice gentle but louder as he stopped at your side. 

“Open your eyes, dearest.” 

“Where have you come, General?” You asked, your voice cold enough to be the envy of the winter breeze. 

“General?” He asked, a hint of amusement playing at his lips. 

“Are you not a General?” You taunted, finally opening your eyes. He looked weary from battle and travel. You longed to take him to your chambers and strip him of his armor to count his wounds, kiss each one be it new or old. His hair was grayer than when he left, his skin duller, but his eyes were still the soft brown that gave you peace when you first saw him as his young bride. 

“Your General,” he said with a small smile as though his words were supposed to make you forgive him at once and shower him with kisses. It only strengthened your resolve. If he wouldn’t treat you as a wife, you wouldn’t give him the respect of a husband. 

“You have a son,” you said, stretching your legs out in the settee just as he made to take his seat there. His hand wrapped around your ankle and you kicked it off, daring him to make another attempt at moving your legs so he could sit. He smiled softly, conceding as he moved to stand by your head. 

“He is beautiful, mellilla,” he said, caressing your cheek. You slapped his hand away. All of Rome may fall at his feet and welcome him back with praises of his victory. He was deserving of course, not only for his achievements but for his undying loyalty to Rome. If Rome were a woman, she would be his principal wife and you— you would only be a tavern whore he fucked and left in the dead of night. 

“You block the moonlight, General Acacius.” 

“Marcus,” he said, moving to allow you sight of the moon once again. He sat in the little remaining space on the settee and looked down at you. Despite the toll war had taken on him, he was incredibly handsome. Bold nose, pink lips and graying curls that only made him look ever so slightly more distinguished. He bent down and pressed a kiss to your lips. You did not return the kiss, but you did not push him away. There was an limit even to your anger. You placed a hand on his shoulder, the act of denying yourself the joy of your lover weighing heavy in your heart.

“I’m afraid I haven’t such an honor.” You bit down on your lip, annoyed at yourself for the trembling of your voice as you spoke. Your anger for him had a foundation of pain after all. 

His face fell and he sighed. He looked down at his lap and you hoped it was from shame.

“If you have nothing to say, you may leave. If you need it, you may summon the servants for your meal. But I am sure the emperor did not send his best general hungering for food or cunt,” you spat, rising to sit up on the settee. Hand as strong as iron wrapped around your wrist, coupling with his strong torso that trapped you in place to keep you from getting up. You squirmed in his grasp, but he did not budge.

“Listen to me.” 

“Is that an order?” 

He wrapped an arm around you and held your cheek in his hand. You looked up at him, giving him biting fury to his firm yet gentle gaze. “If it is the only way I will have your obedience, then yes. It is an order.” 

“You may speak, but you cannot make me listen and you most certainly cannot make me respond.” 

“I am your husband.” 

“A husband doesn’t leave for a year long war at the dead of night with no explanation to the woman swelling with his child,” you screamed, fist slamming against his chest. It didn’t affect Marcus. Nothing affected the great General Acacius, you thought with derision. You hit him in the chest again, tears brimming in your eyes and clouding your vision.

“Forgive me,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You ceased your attacks as his apology coupled with the pain in his eyes reduced you to tears. You’d kept everything in for so long, put on a brave face for your daughters and hid your heart in your letter to your father. It was only with Marcus that you didn’t need to hide. He always tore your fears down and pulled you into the safety of his arms.

“I wouldn’t have been able to leave had I said goodbye.” 

“I was so afraid,” you confessed, leaning into his chest. Every pretense of strength and composure left your body as you let him hold you to his chest. The gold earrings you wore to please his eyes pressed cold against your skin under his hand. He moved next to your hair and then you neck, the hand that held swords and spilled blood only to return home to love you. 

“Carissima…You were all I could think of after I left. Forgive me,” he begged, taking your hand in his and pressing a kiss to each finger. 

“Later. I have missed you. Marcus,” you whispered, craning your neck to kiss him. He returned your kiss in an instant, arms cradling you as you devoured each other. He smelled of war— blood, soil, sweat, and leather. It was far more pleasing to your senses than any fragrant oils and flowers. Your Marcus and his distinctly masculine scent was above all but the fragrance of your newborn. 

You whined as he retreated. He laughed and returned to scatter kisses along your jawline like Rome scattered rose petals along the steps of the Colosseum for his feet. He reached under your layers of silk and linen, making you tremble and press yourself closer to his chest. 

“So soft…” 

“I need you, please.” It was all he needed to hear before he walked up to the doors of the balcony and slammed them shut. What he did with you, for you, wasn’t for anyone else’s eyes but your own. 

He unlatched the gold clips that held your palla to your shoulders and set them aside. Your stola and tunic followed, piling up on the marble floor. Cold air caressed your bare breasts, bigger and fuller now as you nursed your son yourself. You traced your hand up his arm, feeling his vambrace before finding his muscular arms. You whimpered from just how big he was in your hands. You squeezed, feeling the hard muscle and rough skin. 

Your General knelt before you and you sat up straight, confused by his action. He couldn’t be… You sought his apologies and regret, but by no means would you ask him to humiliate himself for you. Such a man, superior to you in every way. 

“Dominus!” You shrieked, reminding him who he was even when he came home. 

“Shh…” 

“Are you going to—?”

“Lick you cunt? Yes. Sit back, now,” he said as he guided you to lean back on the settee. You shook your head from side to side, appalled by the circumstances and confused as to how you were supposed to stop him. He spread your legs wide, planting your feet upon the seat. He licked his plush lips and looked up at you, his eyes those of a ravenous beast. 

“You cannot. I only want you to understand the torture you put me through, not debase yourself in front of me. It’s not right.”  

A corner of his lips curled up slightly. He spat on his hand and rubbed it into your cunt. You arched into his palm, your cunt chasing any contact you could have with your beloved. “Tell me, who do you belong to?” 

“You.”

“Speak fully and speak my name.” 

“I belong to you, Marcus.” 

“Correct. Why do you think then, that you can tell me what I can and cannot do with you?” 

He parted your cunt lips and slid a finger inside you. “You belong to me. All of you. This cunt belongs to me. Does it not?” You nodded as he pumped his thick finger in and out of you. It had been so long since you’d been touched that even his finger felt a little much for you to take. You shuddered as you thought of his cock, promising the virility that came with such a size. 

“Speak,” he commanded, every bit the fearsome General who led men into battle. When even warriors couldn’t defy him, how could you? 

“It belongs to you, Marcus.” 

“Mmm,” he rumbled, curling his finger inside you, making you whimper. “If I want to lick this cunt then, do you have any right to stop me?” 

“N-no,” you cried, grabbing his wrist and imploring him to slow down for you couldn’t take such intoxicating pleasure. “If peo— Marcus! If someone knew—”

Then he dove into your core and licked the nub above your cunt, eliciting a squeal from you. He looked up at you from between your legs, tongue still licking you as he smirked. It was sinful, the sight and the act of a man serving a woman. You shook your head, your senses already addled from being so close to him after a long year. It was wrong. Wrong. But oh gods, he made all the wrongs feel right and who were you to deny him? 

Tears rolled down your cheeks, no longer from the agony of separation from your dearest but from the building pressure in your core. 

“Marcus…” you said, unable to say anything else. You reached your hand towards him, needing to be anchored to the Earth as he flew you to the heavens. He enveloped your hand in his and gave a small squeeze. His other hand and his lips were unrelenting, giving him new ways to torment you. 

How did anyone deem it submissive for a man to kneel and lick cunt? Your Marcus still looked as majestic as ever. The picture of victory that Rome worshiped. The Marcus Acacius who slew and killed was home and ruthless in his conquest of you. Even as he licked your core, he was the one with all the power in hand. This was but a new way for him to take you. 

You gasped inaudibly as he inserted another finger in your cunt, stretching you in preparation for his cock. You felt your unraveling come closer. He pulled you deeper into whatever spell he had you under whenever he touched your cunt. You squeezed his hand tighter, saying everything your lips couldn’t. Hold me, keep me safe, never let me go.

The waves crashed against the rocks on the shores of the beach as you came crashing down from the heavens. Marcus kept his wordless promise. You tightened your legs around his head yet he held you in place and kept you safe. 

When you came to, you found your fingers tangled in between his dark curls. You loosened your grip on him but did not let go, needing to feel him even if it was just his hair. 

“I should not have liked that.” 

He laughed and gave your cunt another lick, smirking as he watched you shudder. 

“But you did,” he said, getting up at last. “I knew you tasted divine, but having you directly from your cunt is something else, melilla.” 

“I have not washed in days because of you. I am sure I taste horrendous.” 

“Good girl, following orders well. But you are wrong. You taste and smell like a woman. Not a perfumed woman. This,” he said in a low voice as the tip of his nose traced up your neck. He inhaled your scent and moaned. “This is nothing you can find in a vial. This is your true scent,” he said, stopping at your ear and placing a kiss. 

“I would recognize it anywhere.” He reached under his pteruges and toga and retrieved his cock. Your cunt clenched at the mere sight of him. 

He was far too covered. As much as you loved to see your General in his armor, you loved more to see him bare. You needed to run your fingers over his bare chest and dig your fingernails into his shoulders as he wrung his pleasure out of you.  You found the ties that held his armor in place and began to undo them. 

“Impatient girl,” he chided as he aligned himself with your cunt. 

“Help me out then,” you snapped back as you struggled with the knots. He ignored your request and continued on his path of destroying you, plunging his length inside you much too quickly. You cried from the pain and pleasure of being stretched out by him once again. 

“Marcus!” 

He bent forward and whispered your name against your lips before claiming them. You moaned into the kiss as you rubbed yourself against him for friction. You were loath to pull away from his cock even the slightest as you ached for him too much to part from him. You wrapped your legs around him and pressed your heels down on his back, pulling him deeper inside you. 

He wrapped a hand around your throat, tightening and loosening every now and then. “Day and night, I longed for you,” he whispered, his breath mixing with yours. “Dreamt of the day I would be inside you again.” 

You echoed the sentiment, but he quickly silenced you with a hard thrust that you felt in the deepest part of your core. He wasn’t the gentle Marcus who treated you like you did your fine silks but the General who conquered every land he set foot on. He rammed in and out of you, reclaiming you as his. Your cunt opened up to take its master, molded itself around him like it did each time since your wedding night. He had taken you, his young bride, and shown you a world only he could. He’d taken and taken, made you a woman by showing you what your body could do for you. 

He licked up your neck, growling like he was tasting the finest delicacies from the emperors’ table after being starved for months. “You smell sweet, Carisimma.” 

“You lived in tents with men for a year. I’m sure a pig would smell sweet to you now,” you said, making him laugh even as he wrecked you. He reached down to your breasts and grabbed one in his hand. He pinched your nipple between his fingers and tugged, making you cry out in pain. 

“Marcus!” Drops of milk trickled from your breasts and he swiped it with him thumb before licking it. 

“I only regret that I could not see you grow bigger with my seed.” 

“You ha- you have seen it before.” 

“Yet I am not satisfied. I need more, I need to fill you up with my seed, keep you full with my children in perpetuity.” 

“Marcus! Please…” 

“What do you beg for, girl?” 

“Give me sons, Marcus. Let me give you heirs,” you cried, overcome by the need to become his in that primal way. It was more than just your duty as his wife. It was an innate desire. As frightening as pregnancy was, you wanted it again and again at the hands of your husband. To give him sons carry his name and daughters who would control the great General with their laughter. 

“Give me sons,” he repeated, the hand around your neck squeezing tight. This time, he did not relax, holding your air hostage as he used your cunt for his carnal desires. You gasped for breath. Your cunt squeezed around him, keeping him in so he would give you his seed and refusing to let go even for a moment. 

Every thrust after sent delicious ripples of pain. You knew that you would wake the next morning unable to walk as usual. You would hear your servant girls giggle when they thought you couldn’t hear. He would wreck you day and night, make you scream for all the house to hear. He would take you to high places in the city, an arrogant smile on his lips as he showed you off, rounded again with his child. 

As though he could read your thoughts, he spilled inside you with a cry of your name. You held him close, afraid he would part from your body and rob you of his warmth. 

He showered you with kisses, beginning as a downpour and ending with a drizzle. You melted into his arms, the tension in your muscles leaving now that you had your Marcus home. You were no longer alone, he was here and he would take care of everything. 

“Am I forgiven now?” 

You smiled, burrowing into his chest as draped your discarded silk over you and picked you up in his arms. “I will consider it if you make sure I don’t bleed this cycle.” 

You felt his chest rumble as he laughed. A kiss on the top of your head.

“As you say, melilla.”

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[thatfeelinwhenyou]

SAFE & SOUND — part 7 (finale)

Navigating one year post-apocalypse, when the dead began to walk and the living proved to be no better, you decide that trust is a luxury you can no longer afford. But after a run-in with a group of seven peculiar survivors, you learn that there are bigger problems than just the undead roaming the streets. You also start to wonder if there’s more to survival than simply staying alive.

word count: 27.6k

a/n: heavy trigger warning for depiction of gore, blood, killing, mutilation and death. mentions of self-exit. reader discretion is advised. lowkey want to kay emm ess!

MASTERLIST

Hope.

It has taken root. Not for you—definitely not for you. But for them. For these people who still have a chance, who still have something to fight for. Something to live for.

At the cost of your own life.

It’s ironic, isn’t it? That it’s only now—standing at the edge of oblivion, with death already sinking its teeth into your skin—that your heart decides to start beating.

Hope makes you weak. It opens you up, makes you vulnerable, carves out spaces in your chest where fear and regret can take hold. It makes you susceptible to loss. But not just the kind of loss that comes from losing someone you love—but the kind that lingers, that gnaws at the edges of your thoughts, that whispers about what could have been.

The kind of loss that reminds you who you’ll be leaving behind.

And worst of all—hope makes you stupid.

So stupid that you’d willingly run into a sea of rotting, undead corpses who cannot wait to take a chomp out of your very living flesh.

So stupid that even with a death sentence sinking into your wrist, poisoning your blood, you still care more about them. More about whether or not they’ll make it out of this alive. More about their futures—

Futures you won’t get to see.

Because you probably won’t even make it to sunrise at this rate.

The world is a beautiful phenomenon, an intricate masterpiece woven together by time, ruined and utterly defiled by the cruelty of mankind. And now, standing on the precipice of your own imminent demise, you can’t help but wonder—is this Mother Nature’s wrath finally catching up? 

Is this the earth retaliating, purging the infection that is humanity in the only way it knows how? Have the scales been tipping for too long, and now the universe is finally restoring balance in the only way it can? Is your suffering—your inevitable death—meant to balance the scales? Even when, frankly speaking, it was never solely your fault to begin with?

Maybe it’s the victim mentality clawing its way to the surface, the part of you that refuses to believe you deserve this, the part that screams this isn’t fair, this isn’t right, this isn’t how it was supposed to go. But deep down, you swear—no one else in this godforsaken world is being punished as cruelly as you.

And you can’t understand why.

What crime did you commit to warrant this?

Was it the way you looked down on the people at the community building? The way you condemned them for being selfish, for putting their own survival above others—only to turn around and do the exact same thing? Because when it came down to it, when it was your life on the line, you saved yourself too.

Or was it the countless survivors who passed through, desperate, pleading for help, only for you to turn them away? And then, hours later, when the night was at its quietest, when the wind carried sounds that had no business reaching your ears, you would hear them.

Screams.

Distant, broken, haunting. And you would wonder. Was that them? Did your ignorance, your apathy, your fear—did it cost them their lives?

Or would you be guilty of something far more selfish—something you never even realised until now?

Would you be guilty of constantly throwing yourself into harm’s way, time and time again, because it was always easier to bleed than to watch them bleed? Because as long as you were the one getting hurt, as long as you were the one getting bit, dying, fading away into nothing, then it meant they would still be here. Alive. Safe.

But what does that make of them? The ones you’re trying to protect.

Maybe you were never meant to be part of a group. Not because they wouldn’t have you, not because you couldn’t belong, but because you never truly let yourself belong. Because you never matched their pace. Because while they learned to adjust to you, to move with you, to shift their decisions around you—you never did the same for them.

Would that have been your sin?

Was that the moment the universe condemned you?

Maybe this bite isn’t just a punishment. Maybe it’s a verdict. 

And you, standing here amidst the corpses of the undead, bloodied and breathless—are already guilty.

But you know now that guilt isn’t an excuse to wallow in self-pity. Guilt isn’t some tragic, poetic concept meant to make you suffer in your final moments. It’s a burden, a weight pressing against your ribs, but it doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t undo what’s already happened, doesn’t reverse the choices you made, doesn’t erase the blood on your hands, doesn’t stop the inevitable.

And it sure as hell won’t save you now.

It’s a shame, really. That it took this—this moment, this final breath, this unforgiving death sentence—for you to finally feel it. For you to finally want to live.

And not for yourself.

For them.

For Jay, who has already bled for you once, who would probably bleed for you again, even though you don’t deserve it.

For Sunoo, who has always held onto kindness, even in a world that has given him every reason to let it go, who still believes in laughter, in warmth, in something beyond just survival.

For Jake, who patches wounds and mends what’s broken, even when no one is there to do the same for him.

For Heeseung, who stands between order and chaos, who keeps them together when everything else is falling apart.

For Sunghoon, whose silence speaks louder than words, whose actions hold more meaning than empty reassurances.

For Ni-ki, who at such a young age, had to learn how to survive, how to fight, how to never show weakness—and yet, despite it all, still hasn’t lost his heart.

And for Jungwon, who carries the weight of everyone’s survival on his back, whose bones are breaking under it, whose shoulders have never known relief but still refuses to put it down. 

For Jungwon, who lets no one in but somehow, without even meaning to, lets you in. 

For Jungwon, who despite everything you’ve done, despite every reason you’ve given him to turn away, accepts you anyway. Who welcomes you into the most vulnerable parts of himself, the parts he doesn’t show anyone else, the parts that are too raw, too fragile, too much—but still, he lets you see them. Still, he lets you stay.

For Jungwon, who gently places his heart in your hands, trusting—praying—that you don’t squeeze it.

But you do. In fact, you don’t just squeeze it, you strangle it.

And the sheer thought of it—of what your death would do to him—sends a fresh wave of panic tearing through your already fraying mind.

You’ve seen it before, the way he carries the weight of every decision like a cross on his back, the way he internalises every loss, even when it isn’t his fault. You’ve seen the flicker of self-doubt in his eyes, the guilt of his past that eats away at him in the dead of night, the moments where you swear he looks at his own hands like they’re stained with something he can never wash off.

And now—you’re about to become another name etched into his grief. Another ghost he’ll never stop chasing.

The thought sends a sharp, unbearable pain ricocheting through your chest, burning, searing, suffocating you in a way even the impending infection couldn’t. Because this—this is worse than dying. Worse than the bite spreading its poison through your veins. Worse than knowing you’ll never make it out of here.

You are the thing that is going to break him.

It doesn’t matter how many times you tell yourself he’ll be fine without you, that he’s strong enough to keep going, that the others will take care of him when you’re gone. Because none of that is true. Not really. He’s strong, yes. He’s a survivor, yes. But strength doesn’t erase grief, and survival doesn’t mean living.

And just like that—just like Jay said—guilt and regret, tethered to hope, twists into something else entirely.

Redemption.

Not salvation. Not forgiveness. But a chance.

A chance to make up for the fact you’ll be leaving them behind.

Because if this is the end for you—if this is how it all plays out—then you’ll make damn sure it counts. If death is already creeping towards you, sinking its teeth into your flesh, then you’ll drag as many of those bastards down with you as you can.

You’ll be selfish, one last time. Even if it breaks him in the process.

Your breath steadies. The roaring in your ears dims. You’re not afraid anymore.

You lift your head, exhaling slowly, forcing your gaze away from the material that barely manages to conceal the ugly, jagged wound on your wrist, away from the reminder of what’s coming.

Instead, you look straight ahead at the dead surrounding you, the bodies shifting, the hunger burning in their milky eyes.

And for the first and last time—

You meet them halfway.

The dead move in slow, unrelenting waves, their bodies pressing in, their hands grasping, their hunger festering in the air like a disease. The grotesque mask clings to your skin, the fabric around your wrist concealing the scent of fresh blood, giving you the illusion of time. 

But time is a luxury you no longer have.

You take a step forward, then another, forcing yourself deeper into the horde. The dead shift around you, their rotting bodies pressing in from all sides, brushing against your arms, your shoulders, dragging their fingers across the fabric of your clothes as they shuffle mindlessly forward. Some hesitate, their milky eyes lingering on you just a second too long, as if their instincts can sense that something isn’t quite right.

Your fingers tighten around the hilt of your knife as you force yourself to match their rhythm, your body moving in slow, jerky motions, mimicking the unnatural gait of the undead. 

The whispers have stopped. The unnatural echo of fragmented words that had bounced between the corpses earlier has faded into silence, but you know they’re still here. A’s people. They’re hiding, watching, waiting for their moment.

A flicker of movement catches your eye.

There. 

Through a small gap in the sea of bodies, a pair of eyes stare back at you. Clear. Alive. They’re looking right at you as if daring you to come closer. 

Your heart pounds against your ribs, but you don’t react. You don’t move toward them. You don’t acknowledge them. Instead, you turn your attention elsewhere and keep walking, feigning disinterest. You can see the hesitation in their stance, the slight confusion in the way their body tenses before they realise where you’re headed.

If A has spent all these months hunting Jay and the others down, tormenting them, orchestrating every step that led to this moment, then he’s not going to run. Not yet. Not before he gets what he wants.

And if that’s the case, he’s still here, still lingering somewhere in this mess, watching from the shadows, waiting for the people on the roof to get anxious and fuck up.

They know the others are up on the roof. They must know by now. After all the gunfire, the shouting, the chaos—it’d be impossible not to. You glance up briefly, careful not to be too obvious, and your stomach tightens at the thought of what Jungwon must be doing right now. Or what he must be thinking. If Jay and the others had any sense at all, they would’ve stopped him, restrained him if they had to. There’s no way he’d sit back and just let this happen.

But that’s not your concern right now. Your job is to make sure A doesn’t leave this place alive.

You’re going to cut off the only escape route they have.

Riding the momentum of the horde, you start to make your way toward the gates. The space between the metal bars is jam-packed with bodies, the undead pushing against each other in a mindless frenzy, pressing their weight against the barricade in an attempt to force their way through. On the other side, more of them do the same, caught in an endless cycle of pressing in and pulling back, neither side able to gain enough ground to break through.

Discreetly, you knock against the metal frames, pushing against the rusted material just enough to make noise. A dull, metallic clang rings out into the night, barely audible over the groans and snarls of the dead, but it’s enough. The zombies nearest to you twitch, their heads jerking toward the source of the sound before their bodies follow suit, shifting toward the gate, pressing against it with renewed aggression. The weight of them is unbearable, steel groaning beneath the pressure, the rusted hinges creaking as the force grows stronger.

It’s working.

Slowly but surely, the opening starts to close, inch by painstaking inch.

But then—it stops.

Your pulse spikes as the movement suddenly halts, the weight on the outside pressing back just as forcefully as those on the inside. Something’s jammed in the gap.

You push again, shifting your body weight against the frame, but it won’t budge. 

You need to clear whatever’s blocking it. But just as you’re about to move toward the centre to check, a gunshot rings out.

The gate slams shut.

The sudden sound ignites a frenzy among the horde, the undead jerking violently toward the direction of the gunfire, the noise acting like a spark in dry kindling. The air explodes with movement.

Your breath catches as you look up at the roof. Jay is standing firm, rifle still aimed toward your immediate vicinity. He caught onto your plan.

You push forward, stepping over limp, half-trampled bodies, forcing yourself to move despite the chaos that surges all around you. The horde is in a frenzy now, the echoes of the gunshot linger in the air, the pressure of the undead shifting like an unpredictable tide.

Your fingers close around the rusted chain dangling from the gate, the metal rough and uneven beneath your grip. The chain rattles as you yank it into place, looping it tightly, securing the padlock with trembling hands. The clang of metal against metal feels deafening despite the surrounding noise.

It’s done.

The lock clicks into place, the steel reinforced by layers of rust and time. This is it. The moment that seals your fate—and theirs.

The barricade stands firm, cutting off any chance of escape, caging them in alongside the very creatures they’ve controlled and used as weapons for months. There’s no getting out of this. Not for them. Not for you.

You suck in a sharp breath, willing your hands to stop shaking, forcing the thoughts from your mind before they have a chance to settle, before you can question what you’ve just done. Before you can regret it.

You take a step back, your pulse hammering in your ears. Your gaze flicks back up to the rooftop, scanning the figures above. Jay hasn’t moved. He’s still standing there, still watching. Even from this distance, you can see the tension straining his frame, the tight set of his shoulders, the way his fingers grip the rifle like it’s the only thing keeping him steady. He’s too far away for you to see his expression, but you don’t need to—you know what’s going through his mind. He knows what you’ve just done. And he knows that there is no coming back from this.

Your gaze flickers to Sunoo, Ni-ki, and Heeseung. They’re also scanning the horde, their postures stiff with adrenaline, eyes sharp and calculating as they search for movement that doesn’t belong, for A’s people still hidden among the dead. Now that the gates are closed, now that escape is impossible, there’s no reason for them to keep sneaking around. No reason to hide. You have the upper ground now

Except—

A cold chill slithers down your spine.

Where is Jungwon? 

He is nowhere to be seen. Neither is Jake nor Sunghoon.

Your stomach twists into knots, the unease creeping through you like a parasite burrowing deep beneath your skin. The air feels heavier now, thick with the scent of decay and something even worse—dread.

Where the fuck are they? Did Jungwon break free? Did Jake or Sunghoon try to stop him?  Is he already on his way down here, fighting his way through the chaos, trying to reach you?

And the answer to all your questions?

You don’t know.

And that uncertainty sits in your chest like a coiled viper, tightening, squeezing, threatening to suffocate you. Your hands clench at your sides, every nerve in your body screaming at you to do something. Because you may not know where he is, but you know him. You know exactly what kind of person he is. Jungwon isn’t the type to sit still, isn’t the type to accept defeat. Hell, he might be lost among the horde right now, trying to get to you.

A frustrated growl rumbles in your throat as you mentally curse Jungwon and his goddamn inability to sit still. To listen. To just let you do the job without having to worry about who else would get hurt in the process but yourself.

But the hypocrisy of your own thoughts settles in almost instantly, sharp and bitter like a knife twisting in your gut.

Because you did the exact same thing. You went after Ni-ki despite Jungwon telling you not to. You risked everything, ran straight into the horde, made your own reckless choices—and look where it got you.

You understand him. Because you are essentially two peas from the same pod.

Two stubborn fools, running towards death instead of away from it. Two people who can’t just sit back and watch while the ones they care about are out there, bleeding, fighting, dying.

You glance up, heart hammering, eyes scanning the people on the rooftop—Jay, Sunoo, Ni-ki, until your gaze lands on Heeseung. Confusion riddles your expression. He’s not just standing idly by, waiting for an opportunity; his sharp gaze is tracking something through the chaos below, scanning the horde with a precision that tells you he’s not just watching the dead.

He’s tracking someone.

And then you see it—the subtle, deliberate signals he’s making with his hands, quick flicks of his fingers, small movements meant to be understood only by those who know what to look for. Your mind pieces it together in an instant, the realisation slamming into you like a freight train.

He’s signalling toward you.

And just like that, everything clicks into place.

They’re trying to get to you—all of them.

Not just Jungwon, but Heeseung, Jake, Sunghoon, Jay, Sunoo, Ni-ki—every single one of them. They’re searching for you, closing in, inch by inch, and you realise they’re doing everything they can to keep from calling your name, from alerting the enemy to where you are, from giving away your position before they can reach you.

But why? Why the hell are they doing this?

The thought hits you harder than the reality of your own bite, knocking the air from your lungs, leaving behind a hollow, aching sensation that spreads through your chest like an open wound. You’re a gone case. You’re already as good as dead, already counting down the moments before the infection takes hold, already feeling the weight of what’s coming next press against your spine like an executioner’s blade.

They let you go.

So why? Why are they fighting so hard to bring you back when there’s nothing left to save?

Your breath trembles as you force yourself to process it, to make sense of the irrationality, the sheer stupidity of it all, but the more you think about it, the more the answer eludes you. 

You can barely wrap your head around the fact that they haven’t given up on you yet, that instead of making peace with your decision, instead of accepting the inevitable, they are still fighting for you, still risking everything for you, still choosing you, despite everything.

And something about that—something about their unwavering, reckless refusal to let you go—makes your stomach turn with something far more suffocating than fear. They are coming for you. They will not stop. They will not let you die here, no matter how much you try to convince yourself that this is how it ends.

The realisation hits like a punch to the gut. You stagger forward a step, your fingers twitching uselessly at your sides. You have to find Jungwon. You have to—but what then? Beg him to stop? Hold him back and tell him that if he keeps going, if he keeps chasing after you, he’ll end up just like you?

Your breath stutters, caught between panic and guilt, between the raw, sinking knowledge that you can’t stop him. Not now. Not when he’s already made up his mind. Not when he’s already running straight towards his own destruction.

Your nails dig into your palms, jaw locking as a new, dangerous thought settles deep in your bones.

This is wrong. It isn’t supposed to be this way.

Jungwon is supposed to be safe. He’s supposed to be up there on the rooftop, watching over the rest of them, ensuring their survival—not running blindly into the jaws of death just to get to you.

But that’s the thing about Jungwon, isn’t it? He doesn’t know how to stop. Doesn’t know how to give up. Doesn’t know how to let go. And that’s what makes this so much worse.

Because he will find you. He will chase you down, no matter the cost, no matter the risk, no matter how many people he has to fight through just to get to you. And when he does—it will kill him. And the rest will follow him into his grave.

You squeeze your eyes shut, nails biting into your palms so hard you think they might draw blood.

This is the only way.

If you can’t stop him—then you have to make sure he never finds you. Because if he does, he won’t stop. He won’t turn back. And you’ll have to watch him die because of you.

A cold, shuddering breath escapes you as you take a step backward—one step away from them. One step towards the only future where they get to live.

Because if there’s one thing you can do for Jungwon—one final thing—it’s this.

You can disappear before he gets the chance to break himself for you.

You don’t spare them a glance, don’t hesitate, don’t falter as your body moves on instinct, your mind shutting out every voice screaming at you to stop. The moment you spot one of A’s people, standing just a little too stiff, moving just a little too deliberately among the dead, you lunge, gripping them by the neck in one swift, brutal motion and dragging them down to the ground.

The impact is sickening, a sharp, guttural gasp ripping from their throat, but you don’t stop to acknowledge it, don’t even think about it—because the moment their body collides with the dirt, the reaction is immediate.

The dead turn.

And before you know it, before they even have the chance to cry out, the horde descends.

The first one tears into their arm, the second sinks its rotting teeth into their stomach, and then it’s over, the screams—raw, agonised, inhuman—ripping through the night, calling the rest of the undead to devour what’s left.

Gunshots ring out from the rooftop, sharp bursts of sound cutting through the air, but they’re hesitant, cautious, deliberate. They’re trying to clear the dead, trying to keep you from getting buried beneath the writhing mass of bodies, but they can’t tell which one is you.

They can’t risk it. They can’t risk mistaking you for one of them.

The thought doesn’t even faze you. Not when you’re standing there, surrounded by the towering bodies of the dead, the heat of their decayed flesh pressing in around you, their mouths dripping with fresh blood as they tear into A’s people like animals, completely oblivious to the fact that you’re standing right in the middle of it all.

The scent of death, of mutilation, of torn flesh and spilt guts floods your senses, but you remain still, your breaths shallow, your pulse steady, as you watch.

You don’t flinch at the wet, crunching sound of bones snapping.

You don’t recoil at the way flesh is peeled back, skin stripped away from muscle, muscle torn straight from the bone.

You don’t even blink as what was once a person is reduced to nothing but scraps of meat, scraps that the dead no longer have any use for.

You just wait.

Wait until the screaming stops.

Wait until the feeding slows.

Wait until the dead begin to lose interest, until they start to disperse, until they move on in search of fresher, more desperate prey.

And then, when the moment is right, when their bloated, rotting stomachs are full and their vacant eyes are no longer scanning for movement, you move with them, slipping back into their midst, letting yourself become a shadow among the damned.

Your feet shuffle in tandem with a group of them drifting toward the convenience store, your body moving with disjointed, unnatural steps, mimicking their vacant, lifeless motions, your presence masked by the stench of decay and blood coating your skin.

The rooftop is still alive with movement, still pulsing with the frantic energy of the fight, and you know—you know—they’re searching.

They’re looking for you.

But they won’t find you.

Not when you’re already slipping through the reinforced glass doors of the convenience store, disappearing into the darkness—out of their sight. Out of their reach.

Inside, the air is thick with decay, the scent of dried sweat and old blood clinging to the walls like an ugly reminder of what this place has become. A graveyard. A battlefield. A dying memory of safety that was never meant to last.

A few stragglers shuffle aimlessly through the wreckage, their movements slow, detached, unsettlingly human, and for a brief moment, you wonder if they’re actually dead at all. They must have pushed through during the chaos earlier, drawn in by the screams, the gunfire, the relentless noise coming from the rooftop. 

Now, they roam the space where you and the others once slept, their feet tangling in the sleeping bags carelessly abandoned on the floor, their rotting hands brushing against the last remnants of the lives you were trying to build here.

Something inside you twists, sharp and bitter. You don’t know why, but it annoys you.

Maybe because, in some small, irrational way, it feels like a violation—like they’re treading on something that was yours, that was theirs, that was meant to mean something.

It doesn’t matter now.

Nothing matters except finding A.

Your plan to pick them off one by one is no longer viable. Not with the added risk of Jungwon and the others searching for you. You can’t afford to be seen, can’t afford to let them pull you back into the fight when this isn’t their battle anymore.

There can’t be many of A’s people left by now, but the ones that remain… they’re the worst kind.

The ones who have stripped themselves of everything, who have embraced the rot, the ruin, the slow descent into madness. The ones who have walked with the dead for so long that they no longer fear them, who have become something in-between, not quite living, not quite gone.

You could pick them off one by one, but that would take forever. Too long. At that rate, hunger and exhaustion will get to you first. And after that… 

Well, you’ll be just another piece of the horde yourself.

You exhale slowly, forcing yourself to think, to focus. If you could just find A, just see him ripped to pieces in the flesh, just have that confirmation, that reassurance, that he is dead—

Then you could end this yourself.

You could use yourself as bait, lead the horde away, let them chase after you until there’s nothing left but rotting bodies and silence. It’s not foolproof, not a guaranteed way out for the others, but at least this way—when the horde finally clears, when the dust settles, when the echoes of dying screams fade into nothing—

A’s people will be forced to look at what remains.

They will have to face the wreckage, face the reality of their failure, the shredded, half-eaten corpses of their own, scattered across the ground like discarded meat, their flesh torn and gnawed on until they’re unrecognisable, until they’re nothing but a pile of chewed-up bones and empty, hollowed-out carcasses.

They will have to see it, smell it, feel it seeping into the very ground beneath them.

And maybe then—maybe just for a second—they will understand.

They will understand what real fear looks like, understand what it means to lose, to be powerless, to have everything they built, everything they thought made them invincible, ripped from their hands in an instant.

A warning carved into flesh, spelled out in blood and bones, a message left behind for those who survive—

Never underestimate their opponent. Never think that just because they control the dead, just because they use them like weapons, like shields, like disposable soldiers, that they are untouchable. That they are above the laws of survival, above the cycle of death and destruction that has consumed this world.

And if they value their miserable fucking life, if they have even an ounce of self-preservation left in that rotting mind of theirs, they’ll know never to come back.

Just then, as if the heavens themselves have recognised your sacrifice and decided, in a rare stroke of mercy, to grant you one last favour, the door to the backroom swings open with a slow, deliberate creak, and a figure steps out.

A.

Your breath stills in your throat.

Of course. Of fucking course.

What the hell were you thinking? Why didn’t you consider this sooner? Why didn’t it occur to you that he’d be hiding out in the backroom—the only soundproof room in the entire building, the one filled to the brim with supplies, weapons, resources? The one place where he could sit comfortably, untouched by the chaos outside, while his people bled and burned for his cause?

The anger comes first—hot, sharp, searing through your veins like wildfire—but it’s quickly swallowed by something colder, something heavier, something that grips at your ribs and refuses to let go.

Just beyond the open door, a zombie shuffles past the threshold, its milky, vacant eyes flicking lazily in A’s direction. Its jaw hangs slack, rotting fingers twitching at its sides. For a brief, agonising second, it looks right at him—through him—and then…it turns away. 

Your stomach twists.

Is this what Lieutenant Kim meant? Is this what it looks like to let go of yourself completely? Has he truly sunk so deep into the abyss, into whatever depravity he’s clawed his way into, that he isn’t even human to them anymore?

Because you see him. His posture is too straight. His movements are too smooth, too calculated, too alive—and yet, to them, to the dead, to the creatures that exist to tear apart anything warm and breathing and whole—he is already one of them.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, a single, involuntary movement—a minuscule crack in your otherwise controlled façade.

And he sees it.

A’s eyes snap to yours, sharp, cutting—watchful, calculating. As if he’s been expecting you. As if he knew you’d come for him eventually. And in that split second, as your gazes lock, everything else fades into irrelevance—the distant scuffle of the undead inside the store, the faint hum of wind rattling through shattered windows, even the dull ache of the bite festering beneath the cloth on your wrist.

Nothing exists except you and him.

And rage.

Not just any rage, not something small and fleeting, but white-hot, all-consuming fury, a fire burning through your exhaustion, through your impending death, through every single rational, calculated thought screaming at you to stop. It smoulders deep in your bones, in your gut, in every part of you that refuses to die quietly.

Because he’s the reason for all of this. For the horde. For the attack. For the pain. For the fact that you won’t make it out of here alive.

And the only thing keeping you on your feet now is the fact that you can still take him down with you.

You catch the flicker of recognition in his eyes, the way his posture shifts, muscles tightening just slightly, a nearly imperceptible change in stance—but you see it. He knows.

He knows exactly who you are.

He knows you’re not one of his people.

And most importantly—he knows exactly why you’re here.

The two of you stand on opposite ends of the store, separated only by the handful of stragglers that drift mindlessly between you, their sluggish footsteps scraping against the convenience store tiles, their vacant eyes locked on nothing at all. Their presence is nothing more than shadows in your periphery, a fleeting distraction at best.

Because neither of you is paying them any mind. 

All you see is A.

And the big red target painted on his fucking forehead.

He can’t run. Not with his busted ankle, not with the way his weight favours one leg, his body angled ever so slightly, betraying the injury that makes him vulnerable.

But you? You have nothing to lose

You start forward, feet moving before you can think, body surging toward him with nothing but determination and a blade gripped tight in your hand, a blade that will sink into his flesh, will find his throat, his gut, his ribs, wherever it needs to go to make sure he never walks away from this.

Because he can pretend all he wants. He can stand still, unmoving, playing the part of the dead, but at the end of the day, he is still breathing, still alive, still a man with flesh and blood and fragile bones just waiting to be broken. Even he cannot deny that.

His lips twitch, a small, almost imperceptible movement, his eyes never once leaving yours, never once shifting to the knife in your hand. And for a fleeting second, you swear you see something flicker behind his cold, unreadable stare.

Amusement.

You falter for only a second—because what kind of sick bastard smiles when they know they’re about to die?

But then, as you close the distance, as you near him, as you see that confidence solidify instead of waver, you realise. 

You realise exactly why he’s not afraid. Why he hasn’t run. Why he hasn’t even lifted a weapon.

Because behind him—just barely visible in the fragments of light filtering through the windows—is Jake.

Jake, hands held up behind his head, knees pressed against the floor.

Jake, bruised, but clean from a single drop of blood.

Jake, with one of A’s people standing behind him, pressing the barrel of a gun to his head.

And just like that—the fire inside you dies. Replaced by a cold, suffocating dread.

You catch Jake’s gaze, and at first, you see relief. The briefest flicker of hope, of recognition,  a split second where his shoulders sag just slightly, where his eyes light up with the knowledge that he is no longer alone. But then—his eyes shift downward to the cloth wrapped tightly around your wrist.

And in an instant, that relief shatters, crumbling away like brittle ash caught in the wind, fragile and fleeting, gone before it ever had the chance to settle. In its place, something else takes root—something desperate, something urgent, something so raw, so visceral, so utterly unlike the Jake you know that it makes your breath catch in your throat.

His entire body locks up, his muscles coiled so tight it looks painful, the shallow rise and fall of his chest quickening, his hands clench into fists so hard his knuckles must be turning white.

His eyes burn into yours, wide, frantic, pleading—pleading in a way that digs into your ribs, twists deep inside your gut, something you can’t quite place, something you don’t fully understand.

And it’s strange, isn’t it? That even with a gun pressed to his temple, even in a precarious situation where one wrong move could send a bullet straight through his skull, he’s not thinking about himself.

His panic, his urgency, isn’t for his own survival.

It’s for you.

For a second—just a second—you hesitate, your mind whirling, trying to grasp what he’s trying to tell you, what you’re missing.

But there’s no time to dwell on it. No time to think, no time to question, no time to search for meaning in the way his entire being is screaming at you to understand.

Instead, you turn your attention back to A, who remains completely unmoved, completely at ease, as if he has all the time in the world, as if he has already won.

He’s waiting.

Daring you to make the first move.

You don’t even realise you’ve started taking bigger, louder breaths until the zombie nearest to you stirs, its rotting head snapping in your direction. A low, guttural groan rumbles deep in its throat, and you feel it before you see it, the way the air shifts as it lunges, arms outstretched, grasping for you.

Your body moves purely on instinct, swerving just as its decomposed hands are inches away from closing around your arm, the stench of rot thick in the air, the feel of decayed fingers barely grazing your arm. You move quick, twisting sharply as your blade buries itself into the side of its temple, the force of the impact jarring up your arm.

The body slumps lifelessly against you. Carefully, you lower the corpse onto the floor, moving slowly, deliberately, making sure the thud isn’t loud enough to draw more attention, isn’t enough to stir the other stragglers roaming idly around the store.

You straighten up, closing the already minimal space between you and him, your breath steady despite the inferno of rage burning in your chest. Your voice is low, controlled, barely above a whisper, but it carries enough weight to cut through the stagnant air between you.

"What do you want?"

A’s smirk only deepens, his amusement evident in the slight tilt of his head, the lazy glint in his eyes as if he’s enjoying a private joke only he understands. His gaze flickers—just briefly—to your wrist, to the cloth wrapped tightly around it, to the mark of death you can’t erase.

He leans in slightly, just enough that you can practically feel his breath against your skin, cold, calculated. “Some people aren’t meant to walk with the dead.”

His voice is almost mocking, a quiet, knowing whisper that sends a shiver down your spine—not out of fear, but out of sheer hatred, out of the overwhelming urge to wipe that smirk off his face permanently. Your jaw clenches. Every muscle in your body is coiled tight, fingers curling into fists so hard they shake.

But he isn’t done.

He’s watching you, watching the way your body responds, the way your shoulders tense, the way your pulse ticks at your throat like a countdown.

"You know what I want." His voice is softer now, coaxing, as if he’s talking to a wounded animal that he already knows has nowhere left to run. “Bring them all here. Then, I’ll do you a favour and kill you first so you won’t have to see the rest of them die.”

A muscle twitches in your jaw.

Your nails dig into your palms, the sharp sting grounding you, reminding you to stay focused, to stay in control, to not let him get inside your head. But he’s poking the bear, prodding, testing your limits, waiting to see if you’ll snap, if you’ll give him exactly what he wants.

But you won’t.

You tilt your head slightly, eyes locking onto his, gaze unwavering. And then, you smile—a slow, sharp, deliberate thing that doesn’t reach your eyes.

"You’re lucky I wasn’t with them the first time you came around," you taunt, voice like razor wire slipping between your teeth. "If I was, you wouldn’t be here today."

It’s small, almost imperceptible, but it’s there—the slightest tightening of his jaw, the faintest shift in his smirk. But just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced with something colder, sharper, something that tells you he isn’t nearly as amused as he pretends to be.

He leans back ever so slightly, tilting his chin upward, watching you through lidded eyes, his expression unreadable but for the lazy smirk that lingers at the corner of his mouth. There’s something infuriating about the way he looks at you—like he’s already won, like this is just another game to him and you’re nothing more than a predictable piece moving exactly where he expects you to.

And then, with the same air of condescension, his voice drips with mock sympathy.

“Bold words,” he murmurs, gaze dropping to your wrist again, his smirk curling cruelly. “For someone who’s decaying from the inside out.”

You scoff, a sharp sound that escapes before you can stop it, too raw, too bitter. The sound catches the attention of a nearby zombie, its head snapping toward you with an unsettling quickness. Your pulse spikes, breath halting as you brace yourself, waiting—watching as its cloudy, lifeless eyes bore into you, as its decayed jaw slackens just slightly, the hunger instinctually drawing it closer.

But then—just as quickly—it loses interest. It turns away, wandering aimlessly once more, the absence of immediate movement or sound enough for it to forget you exist.

Still, the close call is a warning, a reminder of the tightrope you’re walking. One wrong move, one misstep, and this entire situation implodes.

Your grip tightens around the handle of your knife, fingers twitching at your sides, restless, itching to do something—anything. It would be so easy to lunge at him, to close the gap and drive the blade right into his throat before he has a chance to react. So easy. But that flicker of impulse is immediately stamped down by the harsh reality pressing into you from all sides.

Jake is still here. Alive, but restrained. One wrong move from you and A wouldn’t hesitate. He wouldn’t need to. He’d give the signal and Jake would be dead before you could even reach him.

And then there’s the other problem.

If Jake is here, tied up and weaponless, then where the hell are Jungwon and Sunghoon?

Your mind races, scanning every darkened corner, every shifting silhouette. But there’s no sign of them. No indication that they’re nearby. That realisation twists deep in your gut. Why is Jake alone? Where are they? What the hell happened?

You don’t have an answer. And that uncertainty sits like a loaded gun in your chest.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, restless, searching, fidgeting with a tension that has nowhere to go. Every instinct in your body is screaming at you to act, to move, to do something, but you’re trapped in this silent battle of wills, locked in a standstill with no clear path forward. Your mind races through every possibility, every potential way out of this mess, every scenario where you and Jake walk away from this moment alive and victorious. But the answers aren’t coming fast enough, and the air in the convenience store feels heavier, thicker, pressing down on you like a slow suffocation.

And then—you feel it.

The cold, unyielding press of metal against your lower back.

Your breath catches in your throat, a sharp inhale freezing mid-motion as the weight of realisation crashes down on you all at once.

A loaded gun.

For a second, you almost don’t recognise it, almost don’t remember that it’s even there, tucked securely into your belt, hidden beneath the layers of fabric and blood. It had been an afterthought, an object tucked away with no real intention of use, something you’d taken before everything spiralled, not because you had a plan for it, but because you needed a safety net. Something—anything—to hold onto in case everything went wrong.

You never learned how to shoot. Not properly, at least. You were never given the chance. Growing up, the idea of wielding a firearm had been as distant to you as a foreign concept, something seen only in movies, something you assumed you’d never have to understand, let alone master. You don’t expect to see guns out in the open for sale in the bustling streets of Seoul. And even after the world fell apart, even after survival became a daily battle against death itself, it’s rare to come across one.

And frankly, you never saw the point. A gun without proper aim is nothing but a loud, clumsy liability, something that could just as easily get you killed as it could save you. So why carry one? Why even bother when you’ve survived this long without one?

There is one bullet in the chamber.

Not for A.

Not for his people.

For you.

It had been your contingency plan, your last resort, the one unshakable guarantee that no matter how bad things got, no matter how horrifying or painful or inescapable the situation became, you wouldn’t suffer. If the horde overwhelmed you, if there was no way out, if you were backed into a corner with no escape, you wouldn’t let yourself be torn apart piece by piece, wouldn’t let yourself become something less than human. You wouldn’t give the world the satisfaction of watching you die in agony.

You’ve seen them clawing at the dirt, crying out, calling for help that never came. You’ve heard the guttural, gurgling sounds of people choking on their own blood, felt the sickening dread of knowing that it could have just as easily been you.

And if you were ever put in a position where the only certainty left was how you would die—you’d make that choice yourself.

And thus, the opportunity presents itself. 

A isn’t armed. You noticed it earlier, a small detail that didn’t quite sink in at first—how his movements were too relaxed, how his hands never once reached for a weapon, how his entire demeanour was soaked in unwavering, untouchable confidence. He never needed a weapon. He never wanted one. Not when he had other people to do the dirty work for him. Not when he truly believed no one could touch him.

That’s how arrogant he is. How assured he is in his control over the situation.

And that’s his mistake.

Because it means the only real threat here is the gun trained on Jake’s skull, the one held in steady, unwavering hands by one of A’s people. That’s the real obstacle. That’s what’s keeping you locked in place. That’s the only thing standing between you and the end of this.

All you have to do is take them out first.

The thought slams into you like a jolt of electricity, sending adrenaline surging through your body. If you can eliminate the shooter before they have time to react, before they have time to pull the trigger—then Jake is safe. 

And A is nothing

Your eyes flicker toward Jake, searching for any indication that there’s more waiting in the shadows, another gun trained on you that you haven’t noticed yet. You can’t afford to make a mistake.

Jake meets your gaze, and without hesitation, he blinks once.

One blink. No other threats. One blink. He’s ready.

A watches you, his lips curling slightly, like he can already see through you, like he knows you’re scheming, planning, biding your time. He tilts his head, voice dipping into something almost casual, like you aren’t standing here, seconds away from tearing him apart.

“You met them a little over a week ago,” he murmurs, his gaze sharp and assessing. “You shouldn’t be tied down to their fate.”

You exhale slowly, carefully shifting your weight, your fingers inching toward the gun, deliberate, unhurried. Keep him talking. Keep him distracted.

“I’ll decide my own fate,” you mutter, eyes locked onto his. “I don’t need you to tell me that.”

A chuckles, the sound quiet but mocking, like he’s already won. Like this is nothing more than a game to him. His gaze flickers briefly to your bandaged wrist, then back to your face.

“Little advice for you, kid.” He takes a slow step forward, but you don’t flinch. You keep your stance firm, your hand still moving, creeping over the fabric of your shirt, closer to the gun. “Getting tied to people gets you killed. But I mean, you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Your fingers brush over the cool metal, curling around the grip.

You offer him a slow, humourless smile, tilting your head just slightly.

“Well,” you murmur, pressing your fingers to the safety.

Click.

“Some of us aren’t total monsters.”

And then, before he can react—before he can move—

You pull the trigger.

The explosion of sound is deafening. The recoil snaps through your arm, a jarring force you weren’t prepared for, and the bullet veers off course. It doesn’t land where you aimed—it buries itself into the shooter’s shoulder instead of their head.

Fuck.

The man staggers back with a choked grunt, his grip on Jake momentarily loosening as pain jolts through his body.

Jake reacts in an instant. He lunges, slamming his full weight into the injured man, the two of them crashing to the ground in a tangled heap of limbs, knocking over supplies and sending debris scattering.

The gun clatters, skidding across the floor.

You barely register the chaos behind you, because the moment the shot rings out, A moves.

Before you can raise your weapon again, before you can so much as take a breath, he’s already on you. He’s fast. Faster than you anticipated. Faster than you.

His hands slam into your shoulders, knocking you backward, the force nearly sending you sprawling. You fight back, snarling, twisting in his grip, but he’s stronger. Too strong. You can’t break free.

The dead outside have heard the gunshot and they are coming.

You feel them before you see them. The groans rising like a tide, the slow shuffle of feet gaining momentum, the weight of their rotting hunger pressing into the air, suffocating and thick.

You twist in A’s grip, your movements frantic, desperate, every muscle in your body straining as you try to break free. But his hold is unyielding, his fingers digging into your arms like iron clamps, his strength overpowering yours with terrifying ease. You can feel it—the walls closing in, the suffocating weight of bodies pressing toward you from all directions, the sharp sting of panic threatening to steal your breath.

“Jake, hurry!” Your voice is sharp, nearly cracking under the sheer force of your desperation. 

But Jake is not a fighter. He’s struggling, barely holding his own as he wrestles with A’s man, managing to keep him from reclaiming the gun but only just. His opponent is heavier, stronger, and the blood gushing from the fresh bullet wound has only made him more reckless, more desperate.

The dead are nearly here.

The scent of blood is thick in the air, drawing them in like moths to a flame. You can feel the heat of their decaying bodies pressing closer, their guttural moans blending into a single, endless drone, the sound of hunger, of death.

If you can’t get out of this, if there’s no escape, then you have to make sure A doesn’t either. You have to make sure that no matter what happens, no matter who gets out of this alive, he doesn’t. No chance to slip back into the horde. No chance to hide among the dead. No chance to run.

You tighten your grip around the handle of your knife and thrash wildly, your strikes reckless, driven by pure instinct. You don’t care if you cut yourself in the process, don’t care if the blade grazes your own skin, drawing shallow, stinging lines of crimson. All that matters is that it lands. That it finds him.

A jerks back suddenly, his entire body flinching, and you see it—the change in his face, the split second of realisation, of pain. Then your eyes drop to the large, red gash on the side of his neck.

You should’ve cut deeper. You should’ve slashed his throat clean through—ended him right then and there. But it doesn’t matter now. Blood is already seeping from the gash in his neck, slow and steady. It’s enough. It’s already too late.

Both of you are exposed.

A’s eyes dart wildly around, searching for an exit, but there’s nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. The dead are closing in from every side, their rotting hands reaching, clawing, desperate to feed. And if A’s man still had any instinct for self-preservation left, he’d leave Jake and slam the door shut behind him, locking both you and A out with the monsters.

"Let go!" A snarls, his voice rough with panic as he struggles to pry you off him, his hands pulling at your arms, trying to shove you away. But you don’t budge. You won’t. You tighten your grip, interlocking your fingers around his waist, locking yourself to him like a shackle, and you’re not letting go.

Not until he’s dead.

And just as you think this is it—just as you feel the first flicker of real, visceral fear rise up in your chest, just as the cold, sharp edges of inevitability sink their claws into you, just as the thought creeps into your mind that maybe you really should’ve saved that last bullet for yourself—

Gunfire.

The air explodes with the sound of gunshots, sharp and relentless, each blast cutting through the night like a violent crack of thunder. The dead closest to you drop instantly, their bodies collapsing one by one, skulls shattering as bullets find their mark.

A’s grip on you falters.

And then, they rush in. Descending upon the chaos with deadly precision, their movements quick, cutting through the horde with ruthless efficiency. The tide turns in an instant.

Sunghoon is the first to reach Jake, his blade flashing as he knocks A’s man off balance, wrenching him away before he can reach for the gun again. Together, he and Jake overpower him, slamming him down against the floor.

Meanwhile, Sunoo and Heeseung step between you and A, weapons raised, forming an impenetrable barrier between you and the man who ruined everything. Their eyes burn with unspoken intent, with the quiet, simmering rage of those who have had enough.

Jungwon, Jay, and Ni-ki hold the line, their gunfire keeping the dead at bay, preventing them from pressing in too close.

“Move!” Heeseung barks. “Inside! Now!”

No one hesitates.

You scramble, breath ragged, every muscle in your body screaming in protest, heart slamming in your chest as you follow the others through the narrow threshold. The door to the back is right there—safety is right there—

And then—

BANG.

BANG.

You turn just in time to see A crumple to the floor, both of his ankles torn through with bullet wounds, both of his legs rendered completely useless.

Jay stands over him, gun still aimed, his breathing heavy, his face cold, empty. He doesn’t say anything. Just watches as A writhes in pain, as he bleeds, as he realises.

Realises that he won’t be running. That he won’t be escaping. That he will be left behind.

And yet—even now, even with blood pooling beneath him, even with the moans of the dead growing closer, even with death right in front of him—A doesn’t beg. He doesn’t plead for his life. He doesn’t ask for mercy.

Because A would rather die than put down his fucking ego.

Jay scoffs, the corner of his mouth twitching in disgust, and then he spits on him before turning his back, walking away, leaving him to his fate.

Jungwon is the last one through the door, covering the retreat, making sure everyone is inside before he slams the door shut behind him.

And then—

Silence.

Except for the sound of the dead finally reaching their meal.

After that, the dead collide against the barricade almost instantly. Fists pound against the door, muffled groans spilling through the matter.  the suffocating chorus of hunger and decay filling the space. The sound is deafening, the sheer force of their weight against the door sending vibrations through the walls, amplified by the echoes bouncing off it.

Heeseung, Sunoo, and Jungwon move fast, dragging a heavy metal shelf in front of the door. It’s not much, but it’ll hold—for now. The dead lose interest when the noise dies down, but that could take hours. And hours are something you don’t exactly have.

Ni-ki moves toward the nearest lantern, striking a match and casting the room in dim, flickering light.

And that’s when you see them. The faces of the people you thought you’d never see again.

“You just signed all of our death warrants, you bitch—” The gunshot splits through the air like a whipcrack, the force of it reverberating in your chest, leaving a high-pitched ringing in your ears.

“Dude, a little warning wouldn’t hurt.” Sunghoon winces, hands flying to the sides of his head.  Your gaze darts toward the source of the shot, chest heaving. 

A’s man slumps lifelessly against the wall, blood seeping from the hole in his forehead, his body sliding to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. For a moment, you had forgotten about his presence.

You shift your gaze to Jungwon standing above him with his gun still raised, smoke curling from the barrel, his face unreadable, eerily blank, like he didn’t just pull the trigger.

Jungwon exhales sharply, pushing his weapon back into his belt before turning to Jake, his tone clipped, demanding, frustration bleeding through the words. “Jake. What the hell happened?”

He doesn’t look at you. Not once. But you feel it—the weight of his awareness, the way his presence feels suffocating, like he’s fighting every urge in his body to acknowledge you.

Jake runs a hand down his face, shaking his head, muttering under his breath before looking up. “I was prepping for the procedure, and he jumped me. God, these freaks are everywhere.”

Procedure?

Your eyes flicker downward, only now registering the assortment of supplies spread out across a tattered t-shirt on the floor. A whole bottle of antiseptic. Some painkillers and a shit ton of gauze. But it’s the saw that makes your stomach twist, the metal edge reflecting back at you.

Your stomach lurches.

“What the hell is going on?” You rip the mask off your head, the stale scent of rotting flesh still clinging to your skin, to your clothes, making you want to peel yourself apart just to feel clean again. The weight of the air shifts, thickening like a storm cloud about to break as every gaze in the room lands on you.

It’s Jake who speaks first, voice heavy with something you don’t want to name.

“We’re taking it off.”

Your breath catches. The words take a second to register. “What?”

Jake doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t waver. He just stares at you, deadpan, like he didn’t just say the most absurd thing imaginable.

“We’re amputating your arm.”

You’re not stupid. You know exactly what they’re suggesting. You’re not oblivious to the ‘Zombie Apocalypse Movie Logic 101’ that claims amputating an infected limb can stop the spread. It’s the golden rule in every survival horror scenario—get bit, cut it off fast enough, and you live.

But that’s the movies. That’s the neat, sanitised version of survival. The one where things make sense, where there are rules to follow and a clear cause-and-effect.

This? This is real. This is your arm. Your flesh and bone and veins and muscle, all still attached to you, still functioning, still yours. And in just a few minutes, they want to rip it from you. To cut it off like it’s nothing more than dead weight.

Your stomach churns, nausea curling at the edges of your ribs, pressing against your lungs.

Heeseung nods, stepping in. “We don’t have a choice. If we don’t—”

“We don’t even know if it’ll work,” you cut in, voice sharp, the panic rising in your chest. “That’s just—movie logic. ‘Cut the limb and you won’t turn.’ But this isn’t a movie, Heeseung.”

Jake shakes his head. “Lieutenant Kim said it would work.”

Your pulse spikes. “And you’re just taking her word for it?”

“She was bit.”

You freeze.

“She came into the treatment facility with her stump that day,” Jake says, his gaze never leaving yours. “Because of a zombie bite. I didn’t know it then, but that’s what happened. She was bit, they cut it off, and she survived.”

You stare at him, your mind racing.

“She told you this? Just gave up that information out of the kindness of her heart?” You scoff, but there’s no humour behind it. “With what intentions?”

Jake’s jaw clenches, his fingers twitching slightly against his thigh, like he’s holding something back. “She said she’d tell us how to keep you alive if we let her go.”

Your breath stutters, your pulse hammering against your ribs, slamming against your skull. Your arm. Your fucking arm.

“Lieutenant Kim survived,” he presses. “She’s living proof that it works.”

“She’s also a manipulative liar,” you snap back, the words sharp, defensive, because you need them to understand. “She told you that to get inside your head. She knew I’d been bitten, and she knew you’d do anything to—”

“To save you.”

You turn to Jungwon instinctively, expecting to see determination in his face, that unwavering resolve, that look he always carries—the one that says he knows exactly what to do, that he has a plan, that everything will work out because he will make it work.

But it’s not there.

“She knew we’d do anything to save you,” he repeats, softer this time, but just as certain. His eyes bore into yours, dark and unyielding, like he’s trying to force you to understand something. Something you already know, but can’t let yourself believe.

"Even if it did work,” you swallow thickly, forcing the words out through the lump in your throat, “It’s been—what, close to an hour since it happened? Wouldn’t it be too late for that?"

Jungwon doesn’t answer immediately. He just looks at you, like he’s seeing through every single excuse you’re trying to build, every wall you’re scrambling to put up. And when he finally speaks, his voice is so quiet, so wrecked, that it nearly breaks you.

"Please, Y/N." His lips part like there’s more he wants to say, like there’s a thousand different ways he’s trying to beg you to let them do this.

It’s not that you don’t believe them. In fact, you want to. Hell, if there’s even the slightest chance that this could save you, shouldn’t you be grasping at it with both hands? Shouldn’t you be clinging to it like a lifeline, like a drowning person reaching for the surface, desperate to breathe? The opportunity to live is being presented to you so clearly, placed right in front of you on a silver fucking platter, and all you have to do is take it. Just say yes. Just let them do this, let them save you.

You don’t have to die.

You can stay. You can keep going. You can keep living with them. You can wake up tomorrow with a future still ahead of you, with people still beside you, with hands that still reach out for you, that hold you.

But it sounds too good to be true. And frankly?

You’re fucking terrified.

Because losing an arm in the apocalypse isn’t just an injury—it’s a compromise, a cost you carry long after the blood has dried and the pain has dulled. It’s not just about surviving the amputation, gritting your teeth through the unbearable agony, or hoping the infection doesn’t creep past the point of no return. It’s what follows. The dull throb of vulnerability that will never quite fade. The countless things you won’t be able to do anymore, the tasks that used to be second nature suddenly becoming battles of their own. The way you’ll be slower, more dependent. The fear that you’ll no longer be an asset, but a burden.

And for someone like you, who’s only ever known survival as a solitary act—who’s always been prepared to run, to fight, to make the hard call alone—that sheer helplessness is the worst fate of all.

Otherwise put, it’s another death sentence all on its own.

But then, a sobering realisation creeps in, subtle and quiet at first, like the distant onset of dawn after a long, harrowing night.

That line of thinking, that desperate need to prove yourself—to do everything alone—that’s exactly what got you bitten in the first place. 

You went after Ni-ki because you couldn’t sit still. Because you couldn’t trust someone else to save him. Because some part of you believed it had to be you. That it always had to be you.

You were wrong.

And now, looking around at their faces—worn, bloodied, exhausted, but here—you finally understand something that’s eluded you until now: you were never alone to begin with. You never had to be. You were so afraid of becoming a burden that you never stopped to realise they wanted you here. That they would’ve carried you if your legs gave out. That if you lost one arm, you still had the arms of seven others, ready to catch you if you fell, ready to fight beside you, to lift you back up, to remind you that survival isn’t about strength—it’s about togetherness.

So what if you’re missing an arm?

You’re not missing them.

And with that thought—terrifying and hopeful all at once—you realise you’re not afraid to try. Not anymore.

There’s hope. And this time, you’re not pushing it away.

You take a breath. You let it out. You force your voice to steady itself when you finally say, “Okay. Do it.”

The moment the words leave your lips, the tension in the room shifts. You hold Jungwon’s gaze, refusing to look away, watching the way his body visibly relaxes, the way his shoulders sag with something close to relief.

But before you can even dwell on it, Jake’s hand is grabbing yours, his fingers wrapping around yours with a steady, grounding pressure. “Which brings me to the part after we cut it off,” he says, and there’s something in his tone that makes your stomach twist.

He hesitates for just a second—just long enough for the weight of his words to sink in—before squeezing your hand, his grip firm, unwavering, serious. “Look, I’m no expert,” he admits, his voice quieter now, but no less intense. “I don’t know the first thing about amputation. But what I do know is that we can’t afford to waste time trying to control the bleeding.” His jaw tightens. “You’ll bleed out before we even get the chance.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears. You know he’s right..

But still, the words land like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from your lungs, making everything feel too real all at once.

“What are you suggesting?” you ask, and even though your voice is steady, even though you manage to keep yourself from shaking, there’s no mistaking the apprehension laced between the syllables.

Jake doesn’t hesitate this time.

“We cauterise,” he says, and the moment the word leaves his mouth, a cold chill slithers down your spine. “We burn the tissue to seal off the blood vessels.”

Burn.

Burn.

The room goes deathly quiet.

You don’t move.

No one does.

The words settle in the air like smoke, heavy and suffocating, curling around your ribs, pressing into your lungs, sinking into the marrow of your bones.

You should have expected this. You did expect this.

But that doesn’t make it any easier to hear.

The image is already forming in your mind—the glowing red metal, the searing pain, the smell of burning flesh—your flesh. You can practically hear the hiss of skin melting away, the crackling of heat against raw, open muscle.

“You had the cloth tied tightly around your wrist. It’s not much, but it probably helped slow the circulation in your arm,” Jake says as he works, his voice steady but urgent. “But just to be safe, we’ll go higher up. Okay?” 

Jake’s hands move quickly now, faster than your thoughts can catch up. He tightens the belt high around your arms—farther up than where the bite is, closer to your bicep—just above the elbow, his knuckles pale from how hard he’s pulling, and you can already feel the tension building, the dull ache beginning to throb beneath your skin as the circulation cuts off, but it’s nothing compared to what’s coming, and everyone in the room knows it.

There’s a kind of silence that falls over the group—heavy, suspended in the air, the kind of quiet that only comes before something irreversible, something violent and sacred and necessary all at once—and you try to focus on their faces instead of the saw in Jake’s hand, on Jungwon’s eyes instead of the blowtorch Sunghoon is igniting in the corner, the hiss of flame catching and the low, anxious murmurs of the group as they brace themselves, not just physically but emotionally, for what this means.

You look down at your arm, really look at it—at the dirt under your fingernails, the faint scab from your tussle with A earlier, the way the bite has already begun to discolour the skin around it, bruised and swollen and festering. You’ve been bracing yourself for pain, for panic, for survival instincts to kick in and take over. But you didn’t expect... grief. And you realise how strange it is to mourn a part of yourself while it’s still attached, still warm, still undeniably yours.

Jungwon must’ve noticed the shift in your expression, the way your shoulders slumped and your eyes lingered a second too long on your soon-to-be missing limb, because he’s suddenly there beside you, silent and steady. He lowers himself to the ground with you, his presence anchoring, warm in the cold haze of panic tightening around your chest. His hand finds yours—tentative at first, then firmer, threading his fingers through yours with a kind of quiet desperation.

When you look at him, he’s already watching you, a faint smile curling at his lips. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes—those dark, storm-worn eyes—but he’s trying. He’s trying so hard to be strong for you. For the both of you.

And in that moment, you’re taken back to the rooftop, to the quiet under the stars and the weight of goodbye pressing on your shoulders like a second skin. To the kiss that felt more like a farewell than anything else. You’d kissed him thinking it would be the last time. Thinking that when you turned away, you’d never see him again.

Except now, he’s here.

He’s here, holding your hand like it’s the only thing tethering him to this reality. Like you’re the most precious thing in this godforsaken, broken world. 

You can’t help but wonder—just for a second—how nice it would’ve been to meet Jungwon under different circumstances. In a world where survival didn’t come at the cost of your body, your sanity, your soul. Where the air didn’t reek of rot and the weight on his shoulders wasn’t made of lives and impossible decisions.

You imagine meeting him as just… people. Two strangers on a campus somewhere, maybe sitting across from each other in a crowded cafe, or bumping into each other at a library, both reaching for the same book. Maybe you’d catch him staring first, his eyes kind and curious instead of shadowed and burdened. Maybe he’d laugh more. Maybe you would, too.

Would it still have been the same? Would the connection have still been as profound, as undeniable, if it wasn’t born from shared trauma, sleepless nights, and the kind of loyalty forged only in fire and blood?

You wonder if he would’ve still looked at you like this—with that mix of fear and hope and something far too deep to name. If you weren’t on the verge of dying, and he wasn’t on the verge of shattering over the thought of losing you… would you still find your way to each other?

Maybe. Maybe not.

But in this cruel, twisted world, you did. And that has to mean something.

Jake’s voice breaks through your haze, quiet but firm. “Y/N,” he says, and when your eyes finally meet his, you’re startled by the fear swimming in them. Not for himself. For you. “Ready?”

It’s not a question you’ve ever been asked before—not like this. Not with everything hanging in the balance. He’s not asking if you’re sure. You’re past that point. He’s asking if you’re ready to survive.

Your lips part, and for a second, nothing comes out. You want to tell him no. That you’re scared. That this is insane. 

Your mouth is dry. “Do it before I change my mind,” you whisper, and the words barely escape your lips, but Jake hears them. He meets your eyes and nods.

Jungwon’s grip tightens on your free hand, and you squeeze his back like a lifeline. You don’t dare look at him. You don’t want the last memory before the pain to be the look of fear in anyone else’s eyes—especially not his. So you stare straight ahead, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the darkened ceiling, trying to focus on the feeling of his thumb brushing small, grounding circles against your knuckles.

You count the breaths—one, two, three—trying to slow your racing heart, trying to keep from shaking. The air feels suffocating, thick with tension and antiseptic, the faint metallic tang of blood already lingering before it’s even spilled.

And then the saw comes down.

The first cut isn’t clean. It never is. You feel everything—every jagged grind of metal against bone, every shred of sinew snapping apart, every nerve ending lighting up like wildfire. Your back arches involuntarily, and a choked scream tears from your throat before you can bite it back. Your vision blurs at the edges. You taste copper. You hear someone—maybe yourself—whimpering through clenched teeth. 

Jungwon’s face twists with every sound you make, like he’s taking on the pain himself, like he’d trade places with you in a heartbeat if he could.

Heeseung is holding your shoulder down now, murmuring something like “You’re okay, you’re okay, just a little more,” over and over again, but the words barely register past the blinding, searing pain clawing up your spine, blooming behind your eyes, threatening to black out your vision.

Jake’s hands are steady, but his jaw is clenched tight, his entire body trembling with effort and urgency as he pushes through. He’s breathing hard, sweat dripping from his brow as he works, and finally—finally—the saw breaks through the last layer of bone and your arm is no longer yours.

A ragged, guttural sound escapes you as your body collapses back against the floor, half-conscious, half-gone.

But it’s not over.

The smell hits you first—burning flesh, acrid and thick, clinging to the back of your throat like smoke. Then the heat follows, sharp and blinding. Sunghoon doesn’t speak as he presses the flat, glowing-red piece of metal—heated over the blowtorch until it shimmered with angry orange—against the raw stump of your arm. The pain that follows is worse than anything you’ve ever known.

You don’t even get the chance to brace yourself. 

Your body arches violently, back lifting off the floor as the searing pain explodes through you. The sound that tears out of you is guttural, inhuman, a cry that fractures the air like glass shattering. You’re vaguely aware of hands holding you down—Jungwon’s voice calling your name, Jake’s arms pinning your torso, Sunoo’s weight across your legs—but all you can feel is the heat, the sting, the way your skin sizzles under the metal, as nerves are seared shut, as blood vessels are cauterised in a last-ditch attempt to keep you alive.

Somewhere beyond the white-hot agony, you feel Jungwon’s hand squeeze tighter, anchoring you to this reality, to the present, to the part of you still fighting. His hold is desperate, unrelenting, like he’s trying to pull you back from the edge just by touch alone.

“Almost there,” Jake’s voice grits out somewhere near your shoulder, but it’s distant, muffled—like everything else right now, dulled beneath the roar of pain.

You close your eyes and focus on the hand still in yours.

Not the missing part of you. Not the blood. Not the fear.

Just the hand. Just the fight. Just the hope that you’ll come out of this still human.

Still you.

When it’s over, the wound is blackened and raw, but closed. The bleeding has stopped. The infection hasn’t had a chance to spread—at least, that’s what Jake says—but all you can do is lie there, broken and heaving and soaked in sweat, your entire world reduced to pain and heat and the gentle pressure of Jungwon’s hand still clutching yours.

You blink up at the ceiling, trying to focus, trying to process, and you can feel the tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. You turn your head, eyes finding Jungwon again, and the look on his face—it’s not just relief. It’s awe. Like he’s seeing you for the first time. Like you’ve done something miraculous. And maybe you have. 

Maybe choosing to live is the bravest, most impossible thing you’ve ever done.

Jungwon holds your gaze, and for a moment, just a moment, it’s like everything falls away—no groaning dead beyond the door, no blood, no rot, no pain. Just you and him. Breathing. Existing. Surviving.

And then, as if your body finally catches up to everything it’s just endured, the edges of your vision begin to blur again—this time not from pain, but from a bone-deep exhaustion that sinks into every inch of you like a slow, heavy tide. Your limbs feel weightless and leaden all at once, your head swimming, the sounds around you warping into something distant and echoing. You don’t fight it. You’ve fought enough. Your fingers, still curled around Jungwon’s, finally go slack as the blackness rushes in like a wave—and just before it swallows you whole, you let yourself believe, if only for a second, that maybe this time, you’ll wake up. 

Alive.

“She’ll wake up”

“It’s been hours, Jake."

“I know I’m trying. Fuck. All I can do is increase her dosage, there’s nothing…”

“We should tie her up”

“No, don’t fucking touch her. She’ll make it.”

“Y/N, hey.”

The first thing you hear as you claw your way out of unconsciousness is Jungwon’s voice—soft, frayed around the edges, trembling like it’s been calling out for hours. You can’t see him yet, not with your eyes still refusing to open, but you can feel him. The warmth of his hand wrapped around yours again, grounding you. Holding on. Not letting go.

The world filters in slowly—muted voices, the shuffling of feet, the low groans of the dead from somewhere far off, beyond these walls. Pain registers next, dull and distant, like it’s been muted under layers of cotton and morphine. Your entire body feels foreign—heavy, stitched together, fraying at the seams.

“She’s awake,” someone whispers. You think it’s Jake. There’s a rustle of movement, the creak of a chair, the scrape of boots on concrete.

Your eyelids flutter, heavy as lead, and when they finally lift, it’s like breaching the surface of water after being submerged too long. The light from the lantern stings, blurry shapes looming into focus. The ceiling. The cracked paint. And then anchoring everything into place—

Jungwon.

His face is pale, his eyes bloodshot, but there’s relief pouring off of him like sunlight after a storm. “Hey,” he breathes again, like it’s a prayer.

You try to speak, but your throat is dry. Instead, your fingers twitch faintly in his grasp—and that’s enough. His breath hitches, and he brings your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth.

“You scared the shit out of us,” Heeseung murmurs from somewhere to the side, his voice quieter now. There’s a kind of reverence in it, a shaky pride. “But… you did it.”

It’s then that you look down—only to find the empty space where your arm used to be. And that’s when it hits you—a phantom sensation, sharp and cruel in its illusion. You feel your arm. Or at least, you think you do. The fingers that aren’t there twitch, curl, ache with a strange pins-and-needles pressure that makes your stomach churn. 

You can feel them. You know they’re gone. And yet, your brain hasn't caught up, hasn’t let go. The absence is louder than the pain, more jarring than the wound itself. It’s like your body is mourning a part of you that still believes it exists.

And as if Jungwon can sense the storm building inside you, his hand moves. Gently, he reaches over and places it over your eyes, shielding you from the sight. 

It’s a kind gesture, but it breaks you.

The tears slip out before you even feel them coming. Hot. Endless. You’re crying—not just from pain, but from grief, from fear, from the shattering weight of everything you’ve endured. You sob, trembling, breath catching in your throat like you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

Your instinct is to push his hand away, to cover your face with your own—but the arm you reach for doesn’t exist anymore.

The moment you realise that, it shatters what little composure you had left.

A sob wracks through your chest, harder, harsher. Jungwon doesn’t speak. He doesn’t let go. He holds your hand like a lifeline, brushing his thumb in slow, steady circles, whispering nothing and everything all at once.

When the worst of it passes and your sobs taper into shaky breaths, they give you a moment—just long enough to collect the scattered pieces of yourself, to gather whatever fragile control you still have left. And then, with gentle hands and quiet encouragement, they try to get you to sit up. Your body feels detached, heavy and weightless all at once, but somehow you manage to push yourself off the floor with your remaining arm, groaning softly as you prop yourself up against the cold, cracked wall. Every muscle protests, trembling under the strain, but you force yourself upright.

Jake is already on his way over, crouching in front of you with another dose of painkillers in hand, pressed into a makeshift paper cup filled with water. You don’t resist. You open your mouth, let the bitter tablet sit on your tongue, let the water burn its way down your throat. It tastes like metal. Like dust. But you swallow it anyway.

“You’re not completely in the clear yet,” Jake says quietly, not meeting your eyes. He’s trying to keep his voice neutral, but the edge of worry bleeds through. “We still don’t know if we managed to cut off the infection in time…”

He pauses, hesitates—and that’s when your gaze meets his. His expression shifts, the corners of his mouth tightening ever so slightly.

“…You could still turn. We just—” He stops, drags a hand down his face, and exhales hard, like he’s trying to breathe out all the things he doesn’t want to say. “We can only wait and see.”

The words settle into your chest like stones dropped into water—silent but heavy, rippling through your body with a slow, suffocating ache. That terrible uncertainty… it's back again. And it’s worse than death. Because at least death is final. But this—this is a slow, crawling unknown. You could still die. Or worse, lose yourself piece by piece, until the thing left breathing isn’t you anymore.

But you don’t flinch. You don’t argue or cry. You nod. Not because you’re hopeful, but because you’ve made your peace with it. You tried. You gave yourself a chance, and maybe that’s more than what most people in this world get. Maybe that alone is something to hold onto.

“I’m cold,” you murmur, turning your head toward Jungwon, who’s still crouched quietly beside you. His hand is wrapped gently around yours, grounding you like it always does. He looks up instantly, eyes full of concern.

“I’ll go grab you a blanket. Wait for me,” he says softly, as if any louder would shatter the fragile stillness of the room. He gives your fingers one last squeeze, then pushes himself up and walks toward the basement.

The second he disappears down the hall, you shift your gaze to Jay.

He’s already watching you.

You give him a small, barely-there nod. A silent summons.

Jay limps closer, his body stiff, his face unreadable—but his eyes say it all. He kneels beside you, wincing as his knee hits the floor, and leans in so he’s eye level with you. His breath is steady, but there’s something tight in the way he holds it, like he already knows what you’re about to say and he’s bracing for impact.

“Can I ask you a favour?” you say, your voice hoarse, barely audible over the sound of your own heartbeat. You feel raw. Hollowed out. Your body is in shambles, and your mind is hanging by a thread.

Jay doesn’t answer right away, but the subtle twitch in his jaw, the clenching of his fists at his sides—it’s enough to tell you he understands.

You look him dead in the eyes.

“Jay… if I turn, I want you to be the one to put me down.” Your throat tightens, and you barely manage to get the next words out. “Don’t let Jungwon do it. Please.”

His expression doesn’t change much—but his eyes do. They flicker with pain, anger, and something dangerously close to grief. You know what you’re asking. You know the kind of burden you're placing on him. But you also know he’s the only one who can carry it. Not Jungwon. Jungwon would never recover. Not from this. Not from you.

Jay’s silence stretches, heavy and unbearable, until he finally gives you a small, solemn nod.

And in that moment, you feel a strange kind of relief.

Not peace. Not comfort.

But certainty.

A mercy, promised.

The others shift uncomfortably at the exchange, their movements small and fidgety—eyes darting between you and Jay, shoulders stiffening, breaths held like the air itself has become too fragile to disturb. You can feel it—how your quiet acceptance, your calm resolve, unsettles them more than if you were screaming or panicking. 

Because if you—the one who fought tooth and nail to live, who threw yourself into fire and fury without hesitation—have already come to terms with the possibility of dying, then what hope is left for the rest of them?

No one says it out loud, but the silence that follows is deafening. Heavy. Final. And for a split second, you wonder if it would’ve been easier for them to keep believing you’d make it. Easier to cling to the illusion that everything would be fine. But instead, here you are, calmly appointing your executioner—and they’re forced to imagine what it will look like if you don’t make it through the night.

You turn your head, eyes drifting toward the ground beside you, and your stomach twists at the sight of dried blood staining the concrete, smeared and congealed like rust. A few meters off to the corner, partially obscured by the shadows, you notice a thin cloth draped over something small and misshapen. You suspect it's whatever is left of your arm.

But before you get the chance to ask, Jungwon returns with a clean blanket, his footsteps hurried and almost frantic. He’s unfolding it as he approaches, his eyes darting over your form, checking, assessing, making sure you’re still here. Without a word, he drapes the blanket over you, his movements careful, almost reverent.

He slides down to sit beside you, his back pressed against the wall, elbows propped on his knees, eyes fixated on some point far away. The others take it as a cue to give you two some privacy, but in a room where every sound echoes off the cracked walls, nothing is truly private. You catch a glimpse of Heeseung pretending to wipe the hinges of a shelf and Ni-ki awkwardly pretending to help him, their attempts at subtlety so blatant it almost makes you laugh. Almost.

“How are you feeling?” Jungwon asks, his voice low, frayed around the edges.

“That’s a very difficult question to ask someone who just got their arm cut off.” You try for a joke, something to break the tension, to convince him you’re still yourself, that you haven’t changed just because a part of you is missing.

He flinches at your words, eyes flickering with something that looks suspiciously like pain. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice strained.

“Hey, don’t apologise. None of this is your fault.” You try to sound reassuring, but the weight of everything is pressing down on you like a boulder. “Actually… I should be thanking you. For… you know, saving my life. All of you.”

He nods, but his gaze remains fixed on the floor, his fingers clenching and unclenching against his knees. The silence stretches, and you realise he’s waiting for you to say more. Waiting for you to voice the thoughts clawing at the back of your mind. So you push through, forcing the words out before you lose your nerve.

“Look, I know this isn’t… ideal.” You glance down at the blanket wrapped around you, the empty space where your arm should be. “But I’m alive. And that’s something. That’s… more than I expected to get.”

Jungwon’s jaw tightens, his shoulders tensing. He’s trying to keep his expression neutral, but you can see the turmoil bubbling beneath the surface. “You shouldn’t have expected anything less,” he mutters, his voice thick with frustration. “You shouldn’t have—” He cuts himself off, exhaling sharply, his hands raking through his hair. “We’re supposed to look out for each other. You… you shouldn’t have gone off on your own like that.”

“I know.” The admission comes out smaller than you intend. “I was reckless. And I’m sorry for making you all worry. I just… I couldn’t let A get away. Not after everything. I thought… if I could take him down, maybe everything would be okay. Maybe you’d all be safe.”

“We weren’t safe. Not with you out there risking everything by yourself.” His tone is clipped, tight, the anger barely contained. “You could’ve died. You almost did.”

“But I didn’t.” You insist, your voice wavering. “I’m still here.”

“Barely.” His retort is sharp, cutting through the air like a knife.

You swallow, your gaze dropping to the ground. “I made a mistake. I know that. But I’m still alive. I’m still here, Jungwon. And I’m grateful for that. I’m grateful to all of you.”

The words sound hollow even to your own ears, but you cling to them anyway, desperate to make him understand. Desperate to make him see that you’re not giving up, that you’re still fighting.

Jungwon’s expression softens just a fraction, but there’s something else there now, something raw and unguarded that makes your chest tighten. “You say that like it’s enough,” he whispers. “Like being alive is all that matters.”

“What else is there?” you ask, genuinely confused. “What else could possibly matter more than that?”

He stares at you, his eyes dark and searching, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. And then he says it.

“It’s not—” His voice cracks over the words, like he’s tearing something out of himself just to say them. “It’s not okay.”

The air between you shifts, thickens. And you can see it now, the way his shoulders tremble, the way his fists clench and unclench at his sides. The way he’s fighting so hard to keep himself together, even as everything inside him threatens to break.

He won’t let himself be angry with you, not fully. So he’s turning it inward, letting it eat away at him from the inside out. And that realisation hits you harder than anything else.

“It is.” You meet his gaze, and something inside of you twists at the sheer desperation in his expression.

“No, it’s not!” His voice rises, cracking under the weight of everything he’s been holding in. “This isn’t okay! How—how can you sit there and say that like it’s fine?! Like you’re fine?!”

You stare at him, words caught in your throat. How do you explain that you’ve already accepted this? That you’ve resigned yourself to whatever happens next because you refuse to let it be for nothing? That you’re not afraid, not of this, not anymore. But the truth is tangled up with too many things you can’t say, too many emotions you can’t unravel, and before you can find the words, something shifts in Jungwon’s expression.

His breath shudders, his hands trembling slightly as they reach for you. The motion is quick, almost frantic. He grips your face between his hands, fingers pressing into your cheeks, his forehead knocking against yours with a force that feels almost desperate. His breath is warm, uneven, breaking against your skin like waves crashing against a shore.

“You don’t get to say that.” His voice is a ragged whisper, but it’s laced with a fury that you’ve never heard from him before. “You don’t get to tell me it’s okay. Because it’s not.”

You don’t move. You can’t. Jungwon is struggling to hold it together. You can feel it in the way his shoulders tremble with the force of his emotions, his grip too tight, like he’s trying to anchor you to him, to keep you from slipping away.

Slowly, carefully, you reach up with your remaining hand and place it over his, feeling the tension in his fingers, the desperation in his touch. You squeeze gently. “Jungwon.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just keeps staring at you like he’s trying to burn your image into his memory.

“You’re right,” you admit, your voice barely a whisper. “It’s not okay. I was foolish. I shouldn’t have gone off like that. I should’ve… I should’ve listened. I should’ve trusted you. I’m sorry.”

“No.” His response is immediate, almost desperate. His eyes widen, raw and searching, the pain in them so evident it makes your chest ache. “No, no, no. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken my frustrations out on you. You were doing what you thought was right. And I— I wasn’t there. I couldn’t protect you.”

You shake your head, the motion weak and unsteady. “You can’t protect me from everything. That’s not fair to you, and it’s not fair to me.”

He swallows hard, his gaze dropping to where his fingers twist together like he’s trying to wring the guilt out of his own bones. “Still… I should’ve been there for you. I should’ve kept you safe. And I didn’t. I’m sorry.” His voice is barely above a whisper now, breaking with each word like a confession he’s been holding back for too long.

For a moment, the two of you sit there in silence, breathing through the cracks and the grief and the terrible, crushing relief of still being here. Still being alive. You can feel his presence beside you, solid and real, his warmth bleeding into the coldness that has settled over your skin.

Then, slowly, Jungwon shifts closer, his hand reaching for yours, his fingers lacing through yours with a tenderness that nearly undoes you. His touch is cautious, like he’s afraid you might break under the weight of it.

He leans in, closing the gap between you, pressing his lips to yours so gently it feels like he’s trying to kiss away the pain, to erase the hurt he thinks he caused. His lips are warm, soft, trembling against yours like a prayer left unfinished.

His lips linger against yours, fragile and uncertain, like he’s trying to imprint this moment into something permanent—something real. You can feel the tremor in his touch, the hesitation tangled with desperation. It’s like he’s terrified you’ll disappear the second he pulls away. And maybe you are too.

Your eyes slip shut, drowning out everything but the warmth of his mouth against yours, the press of his forehead resting gently against yours. His breath mingles with yours, uneven and shallow, like he’s afraid that breathing too deeply might shatter whatever delicate thread is keeping you here, with him.

You feel the press of his fingers squeezing yours, a little too tight, as if he’s trying to anchor you to him. Like he thinks if he holds on tight enough, the universe won’t be able to rip you away. The heat of his palm against yours sends a shiver through you, a grounding touch in the midst of all this madness.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are bloodshot, his cheeks damp. You don’t even know when he started crying. He must not have realised it either because he looks at you like you’re the one who’s breaking, like you’re the one who needs saving.

His thumb swipes clumsily over your cheek, catching tears you didn’t know were there. You’re crying, too. You’re both crying. Everything feels raw and exposed, stripped down to nothing but bruised nerves and shattered breaths.

“I’m so scared of losing you.” His voice is cracked, splintered with something vulnerable and jagged. “I tried so hard to protect you, to keep you safe… but I couldn’t. And I keep thinking… what if it’s not enough? What if I’m not enough?”

The words pour out of him like a wound ripped open, all his fears and failures spilling into the air between you. And it’s painful to hear, to see him like this—so torn apart, so desperate to make things right when all you’ve ever wanted was for him to simply be there.

“It was never about being enough,” you murmur, your voice trembling, your chest tight. “You’ve always been enough, Jungwon. Always. It’s me who kept pushing you away, who kept trying to do everything alone because I was too scared to let you in. Too scared that if I needed you… and you were gone… it would break me.”

His breath stutters, eyes widening like your words just cut him down the middle. You can feel the way his shoulders slump, like he’s crumbling under the weight of something neither of you can control.

“I was reckless,” you continue, forcing the words out even as your throat tightens. “I was so focused on trying to protect all of you that I didn’t even think about what it would do to you if I…” Your voice cracks, and you have to swallow hard before you can continue. “If I didn’t come back.”

A pained noise escapes him, something between a sob and a gasp. His fingers tighten around yours, knuckles white with the force of his grip. “Don’t say that. Don’t—don’t even think like that. You came back. You’re here. You’re—”

He breaks off, his voice cracking, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. You can see the way he’s struggling to keep himself together, to hold back the tide of emotions threatening to consume him. And it’s almost too much—to see him like this, to know that your recklessness has left him so utterly broken.

“I know,” you whisper, the words trembling on your lips. “I’m here. I’m still here.”

But you don’t say the rest. You don’t tell him that you don’t know if you’ll stay. You don’t tell him that the infection might already be spreading through your veins, that this might all be borrowed time. You can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

Instead, you reach up and brush your fingers against his cheek, wiping away the tears still clinging to his skin. His eyes flutter shut at the contact, his shoulders sagging as if your touch alone is enough to loosen the knots of tension twisted through his body.

You stay like that for a moment, your hand cradling his face, his breath trembling against your palm. It’s a fragile, fleeting moment—one that could break apart at any second. But for now, it’s enough.

You let out a shaky breath and pull your hand away, your fingers feeling cold in the absence of his warmth. Jungwon’s eyes open, and the pain there is still raw and bleeding, but there’s something else too. Something like determination.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispers, his voice fractured but laced with a desperate resolve, like he’s trying to will those words into reality.

“You won’t,” you manage to choke out, your voice trembling but certain. You’re not sure if you believe it yourself, but it doesn’t feel like a lie. Even if the worst happens—even if your body gives out—you know a part of you will always be with him. You’ll never truly leave him, not in the ways that matter.

A chill snakes down your spine, settling into your bones despite the blanket wrapped tightly around your body. Your teeth chatter involuntarily, the shivers wracking through you in waves. You must look like death itself, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Everything feels too heavy, too sharp. The world pressing down on you in all the wrong ways.

Without a word, Sunoo carefully slips a few instant heating packs from the MREs under your blanket. The warmth seeps through gradually, cutting through the chill. You offer him a weak smile, your gratitude clear even if you don’t have the strength to voice it. He nods back, his eyes clouded with worry.

“Jungwon.” Your voice is thin, trembling, but it’s enough to draw his attention.

“Hm?” He shifts closer instinctively, his body turning to face you, eyes locked onto yours with unwavering focus.

You lean into him, resting your head against his shoulder. It’s a familiar gesture, one that feels safe and steady even in the midst of everything else falling apart. He adjusts his position immediately, angling himself so you can settle against him comfortably. You feel his arm circle around your back, his touch gentle, protective.

“I’m sleepy,” you murmur, the words slurring slightly. “Will you sing me to sleep?”

His shoulders tense, and for a moment, he’s utterly still. You can hear the faint hitch in his breath, see the hesitation flicker in his eyes. There’s a long, heavy silence stretching between you. The only other sounds are the distant groans of the dead outside, the scrape of their feet against the ground.

You think you’ve asked for too much. That he’ll refuse. That he can’t find his voice when he’s barely holding himself together. But then—

He sings. And everything else—pain, fear, doubt—fades into a dull hum as his voice wraps around you like a cocoon. His singing is soft, unsteady at first, like he’s not sure if he’s doing it right, but then it smooths out, the melody gentle and haunting.

I remember tears streaming down your face When I said, “I’ll never let you go” When all those shadows almost killed your light

His voice is soft, barely more than a whisper, but it reaches you with startling clarity. It’s raw, tender, stripped down, like it’s not just a song but a plea. A promise he’s trying to etch into your bones, to keep you grounded, to keep you here. And you cling to it. To him. 

You can’t explain it—how his voice feels like fresh wildflowers blooming in the dead of winter, a warmth that cuts through the chill of the night. It’s soothing, cradling you in something that feels almost like peace.

I remember you said "Don't leave me here alone" But all that's dead and gone and passed Tonight

The others are quiet, their movements stilled. The faint glow of the lantern casts shadows across their faces, but you can still see the exhaustion etched into every line, the battles they’re fighting within their own minds. Even they seem to draw some measure of comfort from the sound of Jungwon’s voice.

Just close your eyes The sun is going down You’ll be alright No one can hurt you now

The vibration of his chest against your cheek is a steady, grounding rhythm. And as he sings, your eyelids grow heavier, your breathing slows, your body sinking further into his warmth. You let yourself drift, let his voice carry you somewhere else, somewhere safe.

You imagine the two of you sitting on the rooftop, legs dangling over the edge, the air cool but not cold. Your head rests on his shoulder, just like this. The sky is painted in hues of orange and pink, the sun setting gently over the camp. The dead are distant, irrelevant, nothing more than shadows on the periphery of a world that doesn’t matter.

Come morning light, You and I’ll be safe and sound.

As his voice drifts off, the last note hanging in the air like a whisper, you feel your breathing begin to even out. The pain is still there, lurking beneath the surface, but it’s dulled now, muffled by the warmth of his presence, by the lull of his singing.

“Thank you,” you mumble, your voice barely a thread of sound.

Jungwon’s fingers brush against yours, his touch delicate, careful. “Anything for you,” he whispers, the words thick and heavy with emotion.

And with that, you let yourself drift, surrendering to the dark, knowing that if you wake up—if you get through this—he’ll be right there, holding you just as tightly in his arms. Where you’ll hopefully feel safe and sound.

It’s a strange, surreal feeling. Dying. Or maybe not dying. Not yet, at least. You’re not sure where you stand on that precipice between life and death, but it feels like you’re hovering somewhere in between, suspended in a place where time stretches and folds in on itself.

You know you’re unconscious. You can’t move, can’t speak, can’t even open your eyes. But your awareness is still there, fragmented and hazy but present. You can feel things. Not clearly, but enough to know you haven’t crossed over to whatever’s waiting on the other side.

You feel the sensation of being lifted, your body handled with a gentleness that almost surprises you. Strong arms beneath you, cradling you with a care so profound it leaves an ache in your chest. You feel warmth when it comes, washing over you in brief, fleeting waves that seep into your skin like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

Fingers brush over your face, cool and steady, tracing patterns against your feverish skin. You can’t tell who it is, but you can feel the touch, the way it lingers like an unspoken promise. Other hands move along your body—cleaning the grime and blood from your skin, changing the bandage on your arm with delicate precision. You feel the sharp sting of antiseptic, the pressure of gauze being secured, the subtle shifts of weight as someone tends to you, over and over again.

You want to thank them. To open your eyes and tell them that you feel their presence, that you know they’re trying. But the words are trapped somewhere deep inside of you, tangled and unreachable. Your lips refuse to move. Your throat remains closed off, like it’s forgotten how to form even the simplest syllables.

Is this what coma patients go through? Is this what it feels like to be stuck in your own body, powerless and mute, even as the world continues to turn around you?

You hear voices sometimes. They drift in and out, muffled and distorted like they’re coming from underwater. They’re talking to you, you think. But the words blur together, bleeding into a tangle of incoherent sound. You try to grasp at them, try to pull meaning from the noise, but it slips through your fingers like smoke.

There’s something else, too. A presence that lingers longer than the others. Someone who speaks to you more than the rest. The tone is familiar, threaded with desperation and something else you can’t quite name. Grief. Fear. Hope. Maybe all of them, maybe none. But it’s there, always there, like a thread tied around your heart, tugging you back toward the surface.

You don’t know how much time has passed. Hours. Days. Weeks. It all bleeds together in the darkness, in the endless nothingness that presses against your consciousness. You’re starting to get tired, when will this end?

The voices filter through the darkness, warped and distant, like they’re coming from the other end of a tunnel. But they’re clearer than before, threaded with urgency and something raw—grief, maybe, or desperation. Your mind clings to the sound, pulling the words apart, trying to make sense of them even as the fog threatens to drag you under again.

“You need to stop going off on your own. It’s not helping and it’s not going to do anything. They’re already gone.” The voice is steady, calm, but there’s a firmness to it, a caution wrapped in concern. You can’t place it, but something about it feels familiar.

“What if they come back?” The second voice is shaky, strained with the kind of fear that doesn’t fade with reassurance. 

“They won’t,” the first voice insists, its tone flat, resolute. But even you can hear the way the certainty falters, just barely, like the speaker is trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.

“What makes you so sure?” The desperation bleeds through, palpable and sharp. “What if they come back and someone else gets hurt? I can’t risk anyone else getting hurt. I’m already as fucked up as it is with Y/N. Her condition isn’t even improving and I fear what we forced her to endure only extended her suffering.” The voice cracks, and your chest tightens, a phantom ache curling around your ribs. You know that voice. You know the pain threading through it.

“Heeseung, did we make the right choice? Please tell me we made the right choice, fuck I—”

“Calm down.” Heeseung’s voice now, low and controlled, trying to slice through the panic. “No one else is getting hurt. A is dead. They won’t come back. You made sure of that, remember?”

A silence stretches out, heavy and oppressive. You can practically feel the weight of it pressing down on you, thickening the air until it feels like you’re drowning.

But Heeseung’s words echo in your mind. A is dead. They won’t come back. He made sure of that.

And there’s only one person he could be speaking to. Only one person who would tear himself apart over your suffering, who would unravel so completely under the weight of guilt and fear and desperate, clinging hope.

Jungwon.

Your heart clenches, but your body remains unresponsive, your mind drifting in and out of coherence. You try to reach for him, to push through the darkness, to let him know you can hear him. That you’re still here. But all you manage is a twitch of your fingers, a slight movement so small it’s swallowed by the void before anyone even notices.

But you keep trying. Because if Jungwon’s out there, tearing himself apart, then you have to find a way back. For him. For all of them.

The sudden ache that slices through your skull feels like someone drove a knife into your temple and twisted. It jolts you awake, your eyes snapping open with a sharp intake of breath. The sensation is violent, like you’ve been ripped from the clutches of a nightmare, thrust into consciousness without warning.

For a moment, everything is too bright, too harsh. The sunlight streams through the cracked blinds of the convenience store window, painting jagged patterns across the floor.

It’s warm, too warm, and it settles over your skin like a phantom touch—too real and not real enough all at once.

Instinctively, you try to raise your hand to shield your eyes, but your wrist jerks against something cold and unyielding. Bound. To a pipe. The realisation snaps you back to the present, and frustration coils hot and sharp in your chest as you struggle against the restraints. Your fingers twitch, but then the brutal, crushing reality slams into you—you only have one hand now.

You swallow down the bitterness clawing at your throat, the taste of defeat and something sour that you can’t quite name. Great. Just great.

Your throat is dry, sandpaper against itself, and when you try to call out, your voice splinters into nothing. Just a rasp of air, useless and cracked from disuse. The more you try, the worse it gets.

Panic wells up inside of you, desperate and clinging, but before it can take root, you catch the faintest sound of voices approaching. Familiar voices.

“I’ll be right there, just need to change into some clean clothes.” The voice is clear, casual, almost too normal for the chaos your body feels trapped in. Jay. His tone is light, but there’s a strain to it.

You hear the creak of the convenience store door being pushed open, and you catch a glimpse of him stepping through, but his eyes are trained somewhere else, attention diverted.

You can’t speak, can’t call out, so you do the only thing you can think of. You kick your leg against the floor, the dull thud echoing through the silence.

Jay’s head snaps toward you, his eyes widening, and his gun is raised before you even register the movement. The wariness in his gaze is immediate, sharp, but then recognition washes over him, relief crashing through his expression like a tidal wave.

“Oh my God, you’re awake.” His voice is breathless, disbelieving, and he practically trips over himself as he rushes to your side, dropping to his knees beside you. His hands fumble with the knot binding your wrist to the pipe, fingers trembling slightly, but he manages to free you, his grip gentle as he helps you sit up.

Your body feels wrong, hollowed out and strung together with threadbare strings, but you force yourself to lean against him, letting him take some of your weight as you shakily lift yourself off the ground. The muscles in your shoulders protest the movement, sore and strained, but you grit your teeth and push through it.

“Here, have some water.” Jay uncaps a bottle with one hand, his other arm still supporting you. He brings it to your lips, helping you take a few sips. The cool liquid hits your throat and you almost choke on it, coughing weakly, but you manage to swallow enough to soothe the dryness.

“Easy. Slow down,” he murmurs, concern etched into every line of his face. His eyes are searching yours, frantic and careful all at once, like he’s waiting for you to shatter before his very eyes. “Fuck, Y/N, we thought—”

He cuts himself off, voice cracking on the last word, and you feel the weight of it, the heaviness of everything he isn’t saying.

“Jay, how long was I out for?” You manage to rasp out, the words scraping against your throat like broken glass. Even forming a sentence feels like an insurmountable effort, your vocal cords strained and unused.

Jay’s eyes flit over your face, searching, as if trying to make sense of how you’re even speaking. His shoulders sag with a mixture of relief and something else—something darker, like guilt.

“Two weeks.” His voice is steady, but his eyes betray him. There’s a tightness to them, a rawness that makes your stomach twist. “You were out for two weeks.”

Two weeks. The words hit you like a punch to the chest.

Your mind reels, trying to grasp the reality of it. Two weeks lost to nothingness. Two weeks of hovering between life and death, of your body fighting a war you weren’t even conscious to endure. No wonder everything feels wrong—your muscles are stiff and unresponsive, your throat parched, your head pounding like it’s been split open and stitched back together with jagged threads.

Two weeks of them waiting. Of them not knowing if you’d wake up again. Of Jungwon—

“Where’s Jungwon?” The question tumbles out before you can stop it, the desperation in your voice painfully clear.

Jay’s eyes flicker with something unreadable, his mouth pressing into a thin line before he answers. “He’s… he’s out on patrol. He needed some air.” The hesitation in his voice is enough to set off every alarm in your mind.

“Air?” You echo, eyebrows knitting together. “For two weeks?”

“No. Not the whole time.” Jay shifts uncomfortably, his gaze drifting away from you. “He’s been here. By your side. Every damn day, refusing to sleep, refusing to eat properly. It’s a miracle he didn’t pass out himself.” He lets out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “He was starting to lose it, Y/N.”

A pang of guilt twists in your gut, the knowledge of what Jungwon must have gone through sinking in like a knife. You picture him, sitting beside you, day after day, waiting for you to wake up, clinging to whatever scraps of hope he could find.

“And the others?” You ask, the words spilling out before you can overthink them.

“They’ve been taking shifts watching over you,” Jay admits. “Making sure you were warm enough, making sure the wound didn’t get infected. Jake’s been changing the bandages every day. Heeseung’s been… holding everyone together. And the rest of us are trying to… rebuild.”

You blink, your vision blurring slightly as you process his words. They’d all been here. All of them. Holding the pieces together while you lay useless, unconscious.

“Why was I tied up?” Your gaze drifts to the pipe your wrist was bound to, a slight indentation visible on your skin.

Jay’s expression darkens, guilt flashing across his features. “Protocol. Just… just in case you turned. We couldn’t risk… we couldn’t risk you waking up and—” His voice cracks, the words caught somewhere between apology and regret.

“It’s fine,” you interrupt, your voice a little stronger now. “I get it.” And you do. They were trying to protect themselves. From you. From the possibility of you being something other than yourself when you woke up.

“Wait here, I’ll go get the others.” Jay stumbles to his feet, his movements awkward, his gaze flickering away from you like he’s hiding something. His attempt at nonchalance is laughable, the tension in his shoulders giving him away. You can’t shake the feeling that there’s more he’s not telling you, but before you can question him, he’s already pushing through the door.

Moments later, the sound of hurried footsteps echoes through the store, followed by a voice so loud it nearly startles you.

“Y/N!” Sunoo barrels through the doors like a man possessed, clutching a bowl of soup so tightly you’re amazed it hasn’t spilled all over the floor. His eyes are wide, his expression straddling the line between joy and disbelief. The others spill in behind him, their faces painted with the same frantic relief, like they need to see you conscious with their own eyes to believe it.

“Thank fucking God, you’re alive.” Heeseung releases a shuddering breath, his shoulders sagging as he settles down beside you, his hand finding your shoulder as if he needs to touch you to be sure you’re real.

Jake practically beams, his grin wide and unrestrained as he kneels beside you, his eyes locked on your arm—or what’s left of it. He’s examining the stump like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, pride practically radiating off him.

It’s clear he’s been obsessively monitoring your condition, and you owe him your life for it.

Sunoo inches closer, carefully holding out the bowl of soup, his hands trembling slightly. “Here. Try to drink a little. It’s not much, but…” His voice wavers, but his determination is solid. You allow him to help you take a few sips, the warmth sliding down your throat like liquid gold.

“How are you feeling?” Sunghoon’s voice chimes in from the side, his expression cautious but hopeful.

You try to force a weak smile. “I’ve been better. My body feels like it’s not even mine.”

“It’s normal,” Jake says, his hand finding your forehead, his touch gentle and cool. “You were out for two weeks, after all.” He nods, satisfied. “Your fever’s gone down, though. That’s a good sign.”

“Hell, you actually survived a zombie bite.” Ni-ki huffs, his arms crossed over his chest, his smirk almost impressed. “That’s… wild.”

“Yay, lucky me.” The sarcasm comes out dry, but the familiar edge of humour sends a ripple of relief through the group. As if hearing you joke, no matter how weakly, means you’re still you.

For a moment, the room feels lighter, their laughter filling the air like a breath of fresh air after weeks of suffocating tension. But it doesn’t last. Because the question that’s been gnawing at you since you woke up hasn’t been answered.

“What happened?” you ask, your voice tight. “Where did the horde go?”

The shift in their demeanour is instant. Bodies tense, glances exchanged, words swallowed. There’s a heaviness to their silence, a hesitation that makes your stomach twist.

“Guys… where’s Jungwon?” The panic slips into your tone before you can reel it back. “Don’t tell me he’s—”

“God, no. He’s fine.” Jake rushes to reassure you, but his expression is strained, like the truth is something jagged he’s struggling to hold.

“After you passed out…” Heeseung begins, his voice low and careful. “I guess his emotions sort of overwhelmed him. He—he wanted every one of the dead to be gone. Every last one. It was like he couldn’t stand the idea of them being near you.”

“He went out on his own,” Heeseung continues, his eyes darkening with something that feels like guilt. “He wanted to open the gate to draw them away, but… it was already open. Whatever remained of A’s people, they fled. Jungwon spent the next two days leading the horde away from here. And he wouldn’t let any of us help him.”

“Two days,” you echo, your heart sinking. Jungwon’s name leaves your lips like a prayer, like a plea.

“He’s been hunting the rest of A’s people after that, the ones who managed to escape.” Sunoo’s voice cracks slightly. “He’d come back late, just to check on you. He’d sit beside you, take short naps, then leave again.”

“He’s not… he’s not himself,” Heeseung admits, his gaze shifting to the floor. “He’s blaming himself for what happened. And now… he’s tearing himself apart trying to fix it.”

The revelation settles over you like a cold, heavy weight. You can feel the tension in their faces, the worry etched into their expressions as they recount what happened. Jungwon, running himself ragged. Jungwon, fighting alone. Jungwon, refusing help and throwing himself at danger over and over again.

Sounds awfully like someone you know.

You look around the room, catching the strained expressions on everyone’s faces. They’ve all been watching this unfold, powerless to stop him, just as they were powerless to help you when you were dying. The guilt must be eating them alive.

“He’s still out there?” you ask, your voice coming out smaller than you intend.

Heeseung nods, his shoulders slumping. “He’s… he’s been relentless. He comes back just to make sure you’re breathing, to make sure you’re… still here. But he doesn’t stay. Not for long.”

“Where is he now?” Your stomach twists painfully, a combination of hunger, exhaustion, and something far worse—fear.

“We haven’t seen him since yesterday,” Jay admits, his voice trembling. “He said he was tracking some of A’s people. Trying to make sure none of them come back.”

“He’s going to get himself killed,” you whisper, horrified. “Why didn’t any of you stop him?”

“We tried,” Jay interjects, his tone defensive but layered with shame. “He wouldn’t listen. Just… shut us out. Every time we tried to help, he pushed us away. Like he’s punishing himself or something.”

“That sounds like him,” you murmur, your heart sinking. You feel the weight of it now, the sheer magnitude of what Jungwon’s been doing. What he’s been putting himself through because of you. Because of his failure to protect you.

You want to get up. You want to run out there and drag him back yourself, force him to see reason, to stop tearing himself apart. But your body is still weak, your muscles still shaky from the long sleep, your mind still foggy with fever and painkillers.

“Where did he go last?” you ask, fighting to keep your voice steady.

“We don’t know,” Ni-ki admits, eyes dropping to the floor. “He’s not exactly good at giving details before he storms off.”

“But he’ll be back,” Sunghoon adds, though even he sounds unsure. “He always comes back to check on you.”

You stare at the door, the silence stretching out, the air thick with unspoken fears. Jungwon is out there. Alone. Hunting ghosts and chasing vengeance. And the worst part? He’s doing it for you.

You insisted they bring you outside the convenience store, claiming you needed fresh air—something clean, something that didn’t reek of blood and antiseptic. But the truth is, you were slowly losing your mind cooped up inside that building, the walls pressing in closer every hour, the air growing stale and heavy.

It wasn’t just the confinement—it was the not knowing. The isolation. The feeling of being cut off from everything happening beyond the convenience store doors.

You could hear the faint, muffled sounds of activity outside, the occasional barked order, the dragging of something across the pavement. But no one would tell you what was happening, not really. And you couldn’t stand the uncertainty.

The thought of being kept in the dark while the others were out there, exposed, dealing with the aftermath of everything that had happened.

So you’d demanded to be brought outside, your voice sharp and unyielding until they relented. They’d been hesitant, their concern clear in the way their eyes darted between you and each other, like they weren’t sure if moving you would make things worse. But you’d been relentless, and eventually, they caved.

Now, as Sunoo carefully lowers you into one of those old, rickety wheeled chairs they’d scavenged from behind the counter, you feel the cool air prickling against your skin, the sunlight filtering through the clouds like a balm. It’s not clean air by any means—still thick with the cloying scent of blood and decay—but it’s different. It’s real. It’s enough to keep the madness at bay.

And yet, as the wheels creak and groan beneath you, and Sunoo pushes you further into the open air, you realise that knowing what’s happening isn’t always a relief.

Because the aftermath of the battle stretches out before you like a twisted, grotesque canvas—blood smeared across the concrete, darkened and congealed where the sun has begun to bake it into the ground. 

But worse than that is the silence. The absence of groans and snarls from the dead. It’s all been replaced by the laboured breathing and strained grunts of your friends as they work. And that’s when you realise. Even though you wanted to know what was happening, even though you’d fought to be brought outside—it doesn’t make it any easier to face.

The others are working with grim efficiency, their movements mechanical, burdened with exhaustion but fuelled by necessity. They’re piling the bodies into the back of the van. Blood smears the metal doors and the ground beneath it, dark and sticky where it pools in shallow depressions.

Sunghoon and Ni-ki are doing most of the heavy lifting, their shoulders hunched, jaws clenched as they haul corpses over their backs and dump them into the van. The thud of lifeless weight against metal sends a shiver down your spine.

You catch glimpses of A’s people among the carnage—bodies twisted and torn, their limbs splayed at unnatural angles, eyes lifeless and empty. The horde had done its work well, the evidence strewn across the earth like discarded remains of a nightmare. 

You try not to look too closely at their faces but it’s impossible not to see them. A’s people. The horde. Everything blurred together in death, no distinction left between monster and man.

“They’re going to burn them,” Sunoo says, voice low and weary as he pushes you closer to the van. “We didn't know what to do with them. But they started smelling real bad so Heeseung suggested to…yeah.” His tone is flat, resigned, like he’s already distanced himself from the horror of it all.

You swallow thickly, the air tasting of gasoline and decay. Your gaze locks onto the pile of bodies—they are stacked like firewood, limbs twisted and broken, some barely held together by the flesh that remains. It’s a horrifying sight, but somehow you can’t tear your eyes away.

“Guess it’s better this way.” Your voice is a hoarse rasp, the words scraping against your throat. “No more traces. No more reminders.”

Sunoo’s expression flickers, his gaze sharpening as he looks down at you. “Nothing’s ever gone for good,” he murmurs. “We just… pretend it is.”

The heaviness in his words cuts through you, a bleak truth that settles like lead in your chest. Pretending. Isn’t that what you’ve all been doing? Pretending you’re safe. Pretending you’re strong enough. Pretending you’re not terrified of what comes next.

And as you watch them load another body into the van—this one smaller, thinner, a girl who couldn’t have been much older than you were when the world went to hell—you realise Sunoo is right. The bodies might be gone. The blood might be washed away. But nothing is ever truly gone.

You’re all just pretending.

The minutes blur into hours, a cruel, dragging passage of time where every creak of the door, every shuffle of footsteps sends your heart plummeting and soaring in equal measure. The others try to distract you—Sunoo attempts to feed you more soup, Jake checks your temperature again, Ni-ki keeps making offhand comments to lighten the mood. But nothing cuts through the anxiety clinging to your chest. Nothing numbs the gnawing ache of Jungwon’s absence.

He’s been gone too long.

You force yourself to stay awake, eyes fixed on the door like if you look away for even a moment, he’ll slip past and disappear for good. You hate the way your body feels so fragile, like you could shatter if you so much as breathe wrong. You hate that you can’t be out there with him, helping him, keeping him safe. Instead, you’re stuck here—waiting, helpless, counting the seconds as they bleed into one another.

Evening stretches into dusk, the world outside dimming as the sun begins its slow descent. Shadows creep along the walls, the air growing colder, the faint groans of the undead in the distance a grim reminder of the horrors beyond the barricade.

He’ll come back, you tell yourself, over and over again. He has to. He always comes back.

But as the hours continue to slip away, doubt begins to coil around your heart, icy and relentless.

Heeseung is the first to suggest you get some rest, his voice gentle but firm as he tries to coax you away from the door. But you refuse. You can’t sleep. You can’t even sit still. 

You try to imagine what Jungwon must be going through, the battles he’s been fighting—both with the dead and with himself. And it hurts. Because he shouldn’t be out there, tearing himself apart for you. Not for something that was your own fault to begin with.

The sun has almost fully dipped beneath the horizon when you hear it—the sound of the gate creaking open.

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you think you’ve imagined it. But then the others are stirring, their heads snapping toward the door, their eyes wide and hopeful.

You push yourself to your feet, the world tilting slightly as your legs tremble beneath you. The dizziness is immediate, but you force yourself forward, stumbling toward the door just as it swings open.

He’s there.

Jungwon stands in the fading light, his silhouette ragged and hunched, blood splattered across his clothes and dirt smeared across his face. His eyes are wild, haunted—like he’s been to hell and back and barely clawed his way free.

The moment his gaze lands on you, something inside him shatters. His shoulders sag, his knees nearly buckling. But he doesn’t hesitate. He crosses the distance between you in seconds, his arms encircling you, pulling you into him with a force so desperate it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

“Y/N.” His voice breaks over your name, the syllables raw and cracked. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his entire body trembling as if he’s holding back a flood of emotions he can’t even begin to contain.

You feel his tears against your skin, hot and unrelenting. His grip on you is almost painful, fingers digging into your back like if he lets go, you’ll vanish right before his eyes.

“You’re okay,” he chokes out, the words tumbling from his lips in a frantic rush. “You’re okay. You’re awake. I—God, I thought—” His voice breaks completely, his breath hitching as a sob tears its way through him. “I thought you’d never wake up.”

You cling to him just as fiercely, your arm wrapped around him as tightly as you can manage. “I’m here,” you whisper, your own voice thick with emotion. “I’m okay.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his gaze sweeping over your face like he’s trying to memorise every detail, every line, every scar. His eyes are red-rimmed, swollen, his expression so broken it nearly crushes you.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, his fingers trembling as they trace the line of your jaw, his touch feather-light, as if he’s afraid you’ll break under his hands. “I should’ve been here when you woke up. I should’ve—”

“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head. “You did what you had to do. You kept them safe. You kept me safe.”

His shoulders quake with the force of his sobs, his forehead dropping against yours as he struggles to catch his breath. “I thought I lost you,” he whispers. “I thought I’d lost you forever.”

“I’m here, Jungwon. I’m alive. I’m alive.” Your voice cracks, splintering like glass under too much pressure. And somehow, saying it out loud makes it feel real. Like the words themselves are anchoring you to the present, tethering you to something solid and true. You’re alive. The truth of it thrums beneath your skin, a steady beat you’d almost forgotten how to hear.

Jungwon’s eyes widen, his breath stalling like he’s forgotten how to draw air. His fingers tighten around yours, his grip fierce and trembling. “You’re alive,” he echoes, voice raw, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. 

“God, Y/N… you’re alive.” His voice breaks entirely, the words dissolving into a strangled sob.

You wrap your arm around him again, fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt, clutching at him like he’s the only real thing left in the world. “I’m here,” you repeat, the words thick with tears. “I’m here, Jungwon. I’m not going anywhere.”

He trembles against you, his shoulders shaking as he lets himself break, lets himself feel every ounce of pain and relief and desperate, aching hope. And for a moment, it’s just the two of you, tangled together against the cold, cruel world outside. Two people clinging to each other like lifelines, refusing to let go.

And despite the ache in your body, the sheer exhaustion ravaging through your veins like fire, it doesn’t even compare to the yearning. The longing that pulses through you stronger than pain, sharper than fear. It’s like everything you’ve endured, every broken bone, every drop of blood spilled, has only been leading you to this moment.

His hands are trembling as they cradle your face, his touch impossibly gentle even as desperation trembles beneath his fingertips.

He presses his forehead to yours, his breath mingling with your own, both of you drawing in ragged, uneven gasps like you’re trying to remember how to breathe.

And then, his mouth finds yours, the kiss urgent and desperate and filled with everything he can’t say. His lips are rough and unsteady, his hands cradling your face as if you’re something precious, something he’s terrified of breaking.

“Jungwon…” His name leaves your lips like a plea, like a prayer, your voice barely more than a broken whisper.

“I’m here,” he breathes, his words shaking but fierce in their sincerity. “I’m here. I’m not leaving you.”

And you believe him. God, you believe him. Because you can feel it in the way his arms tighten around you, in the way his eyes burn with something deeper than relief—something like love, something like hope.

You press your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in, grounding yourself in his presence. Because no matter how broken you feel, no matter how shattered and battered and barely holding on, Jungwon’s warmth fills the cracks. His presence mends the parts of you that have been fraying at the edges for so long.

When he finally pulls away, his eyes are searching yours, his breathing ragged and uneven. “Don’t ever do that to me again,” he says, his voice trembling. “Please. Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

You nod frantically, the motion sending fresh tears streaming down your cheeks as you cling to him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only solid thing in a world gone mad. “I promise,” you whisper, the words spilling out with a fervency that feels like both a lie and a vow.

But even as the promise leaves your lips, you know it’s one you may never be able to keep. Because this world is a cruel, unpredictable place, where survival is measured in moments and safety is an illusion that can be torn away in an instant. And yet, despite the impossibility of it all, you want so desperately for it to be true.

Still, it’s a promise you’ll try your hardest to uphold. Even if you lose all your limbs, even if your body breaks and bends and folds beneath the weight of this relentless, unforgiving world, you’ll try. You’ll keep fighting for him. For all of them. For yourself. Even if every breath feels like a rebellion against death itself.

Jungwon tucks you in that night, his body angled towards yours as if trying to close every inch of distance between you. He lies on his arm, propped beneath his head, while his other hand gently threads through your hair, fingertips brushing tenderly against your cheek. His gaze is unwavering, his eyes tracing every detail of your face like he’s memorising you—like he’s still struggling to accept that this moment is real.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you murmur, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you nuzzle into the warmth of his touch. His fingers linger against your skin, delicate and reverent.

“I was just thinking how nice it would’ve been if we’d met in the world before all this,” he admits, his voice barely more than a whisper, each word weighed down by longing. The vulnerability in his tone is disarming. And you know exactly what he means. You’d had those thoughts before, fleeting and bittersweet. Wondering what it would’ve been like to meet him, to meet all of them, before the world tore itself apart.

“But if we did,” he continues, his eyes searching yours, “we wouldn’t have met each other the way we did. And I don’t know how I feel about that. I know I shouldn’t be happy that this is our reality. That everything’s gone to shit. But at the same time…” He trails off, a quiet, breathless laugh escaping him. “I’m so fucking happy you’re here. With us. With me.”

Your expression softens, your eyes glistening in the dim light. “Me too,” you whisper. And for a moment, the weight of the world fades away, leaving only the two of you tangled together in the fragile glow of something like hope.

“Gosh, not to break your bubble but some of us have been hauling dead bodies the entire day. Go to sleep.” Ni-ki’s voice cuts through the quiet, his tone laced with mock irritation as it echoes from the other side of the store.

You can’t help but let out a laugh, the sound coming out cracked and uneven but genuine all the same. Jungwon’s lips twitch into a smirk, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement.

“Sorry, Ni-ki. We’ll keep our heartfelt declarations to a minimum,” Jungwon calls back, his voice lighter than it’s been in days.

“Please do,” Ni-ki grumbles. “Some of us actually need sleep to function. Unlike you two, who apparently run on emotional angst and melodrama.”

You snort, burying your face against Jungwon’s shoulder to muffle the sound. “He’s got a point.”

“Yeah, well. He can complain all he wants.” Jungwon’s arm tightens around you, pulling you closer. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

Ni-ki mutters something about “disgusting couples” under his breath, but you can hear the smile in his voice. And as you drift off to sleep, cocooned in Jungwon’s warmth, you swear you catch the faintest hint of Ni-ki’s laughter from across the room.

The days blur together, bleeding into weeks. The aftermath of the battle is a bitter memory, but the world doesn’t stop for grief or guilt. It moves on, drags you with it, demanding blood and sweat and whatever scraps of hope you can muster. 

The camp becomes something of a sanctuary, though the scars of what happened are still fresh. But with each passing sunrise, life finds a way to grow amid the ashes. It’s not perfect. Far from it. But it’s something. It’s yours.

Heeseung and Sunghoon have turned the gas station’s old garage into a makeshift workshop, fabricating weapons, fixing broken tools, and finding ways to reinforce the perimeter.

Ni-ki spends most of his time tinkering with the generator they managed to find, his hands stained with grease and dirt, his eyes constantly scanning the area for new materials to scavenge. He’s been working on fixing the lights inside the convenience store—solar-powered lamps that offer a faint, flickering glow through the darkest hours of the night.

Meanwhile, Sunoo has somehow managed to coax the earth into giving life. He and Jay have cultivated a small patch of vegetables in the cleared lot behind the station, green shoots from seeds they found in the backroom poke defiantly through the cracked soil. The produce is meagre, but it’s something. Something they’ve managed to grow from nothing. And if you’re being honest, it’s a refreshing change from the endless supply of canned food you’ve all grown so sick of.

Jake, on the other hand, is tirelessly working to set up a small infirmary in the backrooms of the convenience store. It’s a crude setup—scraps of old bed sheets strung up to create partitions, tables pushed together and covered with whatever clean material he can find. It’s not much. But it’s something. And Jake has never been one to settle for nothing. 

You caught him once, hunched over the counter, scribbling notes in the margins of a medical textbook he managed to scavenge. He’s been trying to teach himself more advanced medical techniques—how to stitch deeper wounds, how to recognise infections before they become life-threatening, how to keep fevers from turning fatal. It’s admirable, if not a little reckless. But then, you suppose recklessness is a trait all of you share now.

You’re still healing, both physically and emotionally. Your stump is scarred and sore, but Jake assures you it’s healing well. You find yourself contributing in small ways, like offering the others water when they forget to hydrate themselves or helping to brainstorm plans and routes on their next expedition, all while still learning how to adapt to the limitations of your new body. And while it’s agonisingly slow, it’s progress.

And then there’s Jungwon.

Jungwon stays by your side most days, helping you adjust, never straying too far even when the others urge him to rest. He’s different now—quieter, his gaze haunted but still fierce. He’s more cautious, more deliberate. But there’s something else, too. A softness to him that wasn’t there before. Or maybe it was, and you just hadn’t seen it.

Most times, you find yourselves back on the rooftop. The place has become your refuge—an escape where the world’s chaos fades into a distant hum and it’s just the two of you, wrapped in the quiet of the night, the stars above like scattered fragments of a world that’s long since crumbled. It’s where you go when everything just feels too much, when the faces of the dead won’t leave you alone, when you need to feel like something still matters.

He’ll hold your hand and whisper reassurances you both desperately need to believe. And you’ll share stories—small, inconsequential details about your lives before everything fell apart. It feels like you can almost pretend the world is still intact. That the only thing that exists is you and Jungwon, just existing in the same space, breathing the same air. sharing the same silence, and reclaiming pieces of yourself you thought you’d lost forever. 

You remember a conversation you had with Jungwon a few days after you woke up. It was one of those nights on the rooftop, where the air was cool and crisp, the stars sharp and clear against the darkness.

It had been a conversation you wouldn’t forget, not because of what was said but because of what it meant.

“You never told me how you managed to lead the horde away,” you say, your voice quiet, almost drowned out by the gentle rustle of the breeze.

Jungwon’s gaze flickers towards you, the faintest hint of a smile playing at his lips. But it’s not a happy smile. It’s something else—something strained and distant, like he’s trying to find the right words to explain the inexplicable.

“I don’t even remember half of it…” he admits, his voice thick, roughened by exhaustion he hasn’t yet shaken off. “I was just… making a whole lot of noise to lure them out. Screaming, banging on metal, anything to get their attention.” His fingers trace absent patterns along the rooftop surface, his eyes never quite meeting yours. “Then I just started walking… for two days straight I was just walking back towards the city.”

Your breath catches. You’ve heard fragments of what he did from the others, but hearing it from him—hearing the quiet resignation in his voice—it twists something deep within you.

“It started raining somewhere in the middle,” he continues, his tone growing distant, like he’s reliving it all over again. “I was cold, exhausted, fuck, I almost collapsed right there and then. My legs were giving out, my head was spinning… but I knew if I did, if I fell, I wouldn’t be able to come back to you. So I sucked it up.”

You’re staring at him now, eyes wide, the air suddenly feeling too thick, too sharp. The thought of him out there alone, fighting against the world itself just to keep you safe—it’s almost too much to bear.

“The horde was just mindlessly walking behind me,” Jungwon continues, his voice tightening. “Occasionally something else would catch their attention and I had to shoot a few bullets to get it back. That was risky… drawing attention like that. But it worked. They kept following me.”

He pauses, the weight of his own words pressing down on him like a lead blanket. “Eventually, I passed by the village. Remember the two people we left behind?”

You nod, a cold dread settling in your stomach. You remember the desperation in their voices, the hollow looks in their eyes as they pleaded with you to stay. And you remember leaving them behind anyway.

“They were there,” Jungwon says, voice hollow. “One of them had half their face chewed out and the other… the other had their guts hanging out of their body. They were just… walking. No purpose. No sense of anything. Just… dead.”

The silence that follows is brutal. You don’t realise you’ve stopped breathing until your lungs start to burn.

“I eventually reached the city,” Jungwon continues, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “I hid out in a random store. Waited for it to clear out a little before I started making my way back.”

“Jungwon…” Your voice trembles, your chest tightening with something that feels too close to grief. “I’m so sorry…”

“Why are you apologising?” Jungwon’s eyes finally find yours, a flicker of frustration mingling with something softer. “You didn’t make me do it. I chose to do it. And you know what? When I passed by the village again, I noticed a small patch of wildflowers growing at the side of the curb.”

His lips twitch into a small, self-deprecating smile, and his laugh is more air than sound. “Stupid me thought it was a sign that you’d woken up, so I started running back. Like a maniac. I tripped over some broken glass, nearly twisted my ankle, but I just kept going.”

He’s laughing, but the sound is hollow, edged with a madness born from desperation. You stare at him, your own chest tightening with something raw and painful, wondering how he could find humour in something so devastating. “How are you laughing like you didn’t almost die?”

Jungwon shrugs, the motion careless but his eyes—his eyes are anything but. “Trust me, after experiencing your near death… everything is laughable.”

It had taken you a moment to realise what he meant. That the thought of losing you had been so unbearable, so incomprehensibly horrifying, that everything else paled in comparison. That even his own suffering had become insignificant when measured against the possibility of losing you.

You remember how you had reached for him then, your hand finding his, fingers intertwining like they belonged there. How he had squeezed your hand so tightly it almost hurt, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

The two of you had sat there in silence, the cool night air brushing against your skin. And for that moment, it didn’t matter that the world was rotting. It didn’t matter that you were both scarred and afraid and haunted by ghosts you couldn’t outrun.

All that mattered was that you were still there. Still breathing. Still fighting.

You’ve both changed, that much is clear. But you’re trying to grow from it, not let the darkness consume you. Jungwon has his own demons to battle. The rage he harbours against A’s people is still there, burning beneath the surface. But it’s not consuming him anymore. Not entirely. He’s found something else to fight for. Something more important than revenge.

There’s a careful balance now, one of acceptance and compromise. You still argue, still struggle against the stubbornness that pulls you apart like opposing forces. There are days when he snaps, frustration boiling over when things don’t go as planned. And there are days when you retreat into yourself, overwhelmed by the reality of your own limitations. But you talk. You let yourselves be honest, raw. And somehow, it makes all the difference.

You think about the garden often. It’s a quiet thought, one that creeps into your mind during the silences between breaths, when the world feels steady and the nightmares are held at bay. You still remember the metaphor you conjured for him—wildflowers breaking through cracks, roots winding their way through stone, claiming life where there shouldn’t be any.

But now, you realise it’s not just about him. It’s about all of you.

It’s in the way Sunoo coax life from the soil. It’s in Jake’s quiet determination as he scours books. It’s in Ni-ki’s resourcefulness as he scavenges supplies, building something from nothing. It’s in Sunghoon and Heeseung’s tireless efforts to keep everyone safe, their strength unyielding even when exhaustion clings to their bones.

It’s in Jay’s stubbornness, his dedication to protecting what’s left of this fractured family, even when his own doubts threaten to swallow him whole.

And it’s in Jungwon. The boy whose name means ‘garden’. The boy who, despite the darkness pressing in from every side, still reaches for the light. Still fights to grow, to thrive, to protect the things he’s come to care about.

You think of all the times you tried to pull away, tried to distance yourself from the tangled web of connections that’s formed between you all. You think of the nights you spent on the rooftop with Jungwon, trading secrets and fears like offerings, daring to believe that maybe you weren’t as alone as you thought.

The truth is, you’ve taken root here. Somehow, against all logic and reason, you’ve let yourself be part of something. You’ve let yourself care. And as much as you’ve tried to convince yourself otherwise, you can’t keep running from that.

Because gardens aren’t meant to be contained. They’re meant to grow wild and untamed, to spread and intertwine and thrive in the most unexpected places. And maybe—just maybe—that’s what this is.

A wild, tangled, beautiful mess of people who’ve found each other in a world that’s done everything to tear them apart.

Now, you climb up the ladder with more ease, having slowly adapted to the awkwardness of using only one arm. The process is far from graceful, but you manage.

And when you reach the top, Jungwon is already there, his back resting against the convenience store sign, arms draped over his knees as he watches the fractured skyline. He looks tired, eyes bruised with exhaustion but softened by a look that borders on longing.

He glances over his shoulder at the sound of your approach, and some of that tension melts away. He offers you a small smile, the kind that feels just a little too tight around the edges.

The air is cool and crisp, autumn bleeding into winter, and you feel the cold bite at your skin. You draw in a breath, feeling the chill of the air scrape against your lungs. But the moment you settle beside him, his hand slides into yours, pulling you into his warmth without hesitation. 

You lean into him, letting yourself soak in the quiet. “Heard you had an appointment with Jake today,” Jungwon says eventually, his voice low and careful. “What did he say about your arm?”

You glance down at the stump of your arm, the place where flesh used to be. “He says it’s healing well. But I guess my body’s still adjusting.” You lift your arm—what’s left of it—and shrug as if it’s not a big deal. As if it’s not still tearing you apart from the inside out.

Jungwon’s gaze lingers on your arm for a moment, but he doesn’t flinch or avert his eyes like the others sometimes do. He meets it head-on, his acceptance so genuine it almost hurts. “Does it hurt?”

“Not really. Not anymore,” you answer, though it feels like a lie. It’s not pain in the conventional sense. “It just… feels weird. Like it’s still there sometimes. Like I can still move my fingers if I try hard enough.”

“Phantom pain,” he murmurs, the words sounding heavy on his tongue. “Jake mentioned something about that. How your brain’s still trying to make sense of what’s gone.”

“Yeah.” Your throat tightens, a lump forming that you can’t seem to swallow down. “I guess it’s like trying to walk when your legs are asleep. The more you try, the more it hurts.” The admission is raw, but Jungwon doesn’t shy away from it. Instead, he shifts closer, his warmth seeping into your bones.

He watches you, eyes searching, waiting for something you’re not sure you can give. And you hate how perceptive he is, how easily he sees through the cracks you try so hard to hide.

“I’ve been thinking,” he starts, his gaze fixed on the jagged silhouette of the city as if the answers lie somewhere beyond the darkness. “About all of this. About us. About… you.”

Your eyes flicker toward him, curious but patient. A silence falls between you, one that feels too heavy to break. And then he speaks again, this time he’s looking at you when he does. “You’ve been different since it happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“Not in a bad way,” he says quickly, his voice stumbling over itself. “You’re just… you’re quieter. You’re more careful. It’s like you’re always holding something back.”

You want to deny it, to tell him he’s wrong. But you can’t. Because he’s right. You’ve become cautious, restrained, afraid of repeating the mistakes that nearly cost you everything.

“Maybe I am,” you admit, the words barely above a whisper. “I think… I think it’s because I realised how close I came to losing everything. And not just my life. But all of you.”

“Everything feels so fragile,” you continue, your voice wavering. “Like it could all fall apart any second. And I keep waiting for something to go wrong. For someone to get hurt again. For me to lose you.” The confession spills out before you can swallow it back, your voice cracking under the weight of the fear that’s been festering inside you.

Jungwon shifts closer, his arm coming around your shoulders, pulling you into him. The warmth of his body seeps into yours, his fingers tracing gentle circles along your upper arm. “You’re not going to lose me,” he says, his voice steady and fierce. “Not now. Not ever. I won’t let that happen.”

“But you can’t promise that.” Your words tremble, tears burning the corners of your eyes. “None of us can.”

He hesitates, his expression clouded, the weight of his own words pressing against him. “No, we can’t.” His admission is soft, broken. “But we can fight for it. We can make it count. And we can do it together.”

“Together.” The word feels heavy on your tongue. You want to believe him, want to cling to the conviction in his voice. But his certainty only makes your own doubts grow louder.

Because the truth is, you’re terrified. Terrified that this second chance is nothing more than a cruel joke. That you’ll fail them again. That you’ll get someone killed. That you’ll keep making reckless decisions because you’re too stubborn to admit you can’t do this alone.

He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes never leaving yours. The silence stretches between you, thick and heavy, but not uncomfortable. Just… real. Then, slowly, he reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips lingering against your skin, warm and steady. His thumb brushes over your cheek, tracing small, soothing circles that send a shiver down your spine.

“Y/N. You didn’t lose us. You’re still here. And it's because you fought for this, the same way you’ll continue fighting for this. Am I wrong to say that?” His voice is low, soft, but there’s a strength beneath it—a quiet conviction that refuses to break. His eyes bore into yours, searching, as if daring you to deny what he’s saying. As if his words alone could anchor you to this moment, to this fragile hope you’re both trying so hard to keep alive.

But it’s more than just words. It’s the way his touch grounds you, the way he holds you like you’re something precious, something worth fighting for. It’s not just reassurance he’s offering—it’s belief. A belief so strong it feels like it could shatter all the doubts you’ve been harbouring since you woke up, feverish and broken and terrified you’d never be yourself again.

And you realise, with a clarity that cuts through the doubt like a blade, that he’s right.

You’re still here. Bruised and battered and so damn tired, but you’re here.

The night stretches on, the air thick with the scent of soil and metal, the quiet hum of insects, the distant creak of the watchtower Ni-ki and Heeseung built not long ago swaying in the breeze. You lean against Jungwon, your head resting on his shoulder, your hand curled around his. It’s not perfect. It’s not easy. But it’s something. And maybe that’s enough.

And then, when the silence feels like it’s about to swallow you whole, he starts to sing.

His voice is soft, hesitant at first, but it grows stronger with each note, weaving through the air like a thread of gold. You close your eyes and listen, the melody sinking into your bones, soothing the ache of old wounds and new fears alike. 

You recognise the song. It’s the same one he sang to you when you thought you might never wake up. The same one that carried you through the darkness and back to him.

Just close your eyes The sun is going down You'll be alright No one can hurt you now Come morning light You and I'll be safe and sound

The song ends, but the warmth of his voice lingers. And as you sit there, tangled up in each other, you realise that the fear hasn’t gone away. It never will. But it’s quieter now. Bearable. Something you can live with.

You’re reminded again how both of you are not just trying to survive, but you’re learning how to live. And for the first time, you let yourself feel the weight of it. The love. The fear. The hope. And you know—whether you deserve it or not—you can’t push them away. Not anymore.

The rest of the night passes in silence, leaving you alone with a thought that plagues your mind: Is it weird to say you met your soulmate in the middle of a zombie apocalypse? 

Maybe it is. And if so, then you’re weird. To find people you care about in the same way they care about you feels like a miracle in a world where kindness is punished and compassion is a weakness. Where caring too much can get you killed.

But you found them. Against all odds, you found them. And somehow, that feels more surreal than the dead walking the earth. Because, really, what are the chances? That you’d stumble upon people willing to risk everything for you? People who’ve seen you at your lowest, your most broken, and still choose to stay?

What are the chances that, even in a world this cruel and unforgiving, you’d find someone who holds your hand like you’re still whole? Someone who looks at you like you’re something precious, something worth protecting, worth loving.

The others have joked about it before. How you and Jungwon gravitate toward each other like it’s second nature. How he becomes someone else entirely when it comes to you. And maybe there’s some truth to it. Because when he looks at you, it’s not just with fondness or admiration. It’s with something deeper, something that grounds you even when everything else is falling apart.

The world outside is a nightmare, a constant fight for survival. And yet, somehow, you’ve found your place. Not just in the camp you’ve built, but in the blooming garden of the boy who holds you like you’re his reason to keep fighting. Like you’re his reason to hope.

So, maybe it is weird. Maybe it’s insane to believe in love in a world like this. But as you sit beside Jungwon on the rooftop, his arm draped over your shoulders, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns along your skin, you realise you don’t care how absurd it sounds.

You found your soulmate in the middle of a zombie apocalypse.

And it’s in that moment, with his arms wrapped around you, his heartbeat thundering against your own, that you truly understand what it means to be alive. To feel everything—joy, pain, love, fear, hope—so intensely that it leaves you breathless.

You’re alive. And so is he. And somehow, against all odds, you’re here. Together.

You fall asleep on the rooftop that night, your head resting against Jungwon’s shoulder, his arm wrapped around you. The stars blaze above, indifferent and eternal, but for the first time in a long, long time—

You feel safe. You feel sound.

part 6 - dusk | masterlist | extra: jungwon's pov

♡。·˚˚· ·˚˚·。♡

notes from nat: omg... i actually did it. i actually finished this. 124k words. I've peaked. I'm never recovering from this series, actually. first of all, thank you so much to every single one of you who've supported me and this series. i know the wait in between parts were lowkey incriminating, and yet all of you were still so kind and patient. I'm not an author who knows how to fully engage her audience interaction-wise and I truly appreciate all of you for approaching me and engaging with my blog. the amount of mutuals and lovely people I came to know through this series is actually insane. so thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I'll talk more about my feelings and thoughts writing this series in a separate post, but for now this is where I officially close out safe & sound. this is definitely not the last time you will hear from me but until then, please stay safe & healthy!

perm taglist. @m1kkso @hajimelvr @s00buwu @urmomssneakylink @grayscorner @catlicense @bubblytaetae @mrchweeee @artstaeh @sleeping-demons @yuviqik @junsflow @blurryriki @bobabunhee @hueningcry @fakeuwus @enhaslxt @neocockthotology @Starryhani @aishisgrey @katarinamae @mitmit01 @youcancometome @cupiddolle @classicroyalty @dearsjaeyun @ikeucakeu @sammie217 @m1kkso @tinycatharsis @parkjjongswifey @dcllsinna @no1likeneo @ChVcon3 @karasusrealwife @addictedtohobi @jyunsim @enhastolemyheart @kawaiichu32 @layzfy @renjunsbirthmark13 @enhaprettystars @Stercul1a @stars4jo @luvashli @alyselenai @ididntseeurbag @hii-hawaiiu

taglist open. 1/3 @sungbyhoon @theothernads @kyshhhhhh @jiryunn @strxwbloody @jaklvbub @rikikiynikilcykiki @jakesimfromstatefarm @rikiiisoob

non-grey/underlined = cannot tag

[lazy-ahh]

ORPHAN OF THE VOID (MEETS HIS RUIN)

pairing viltrum! mark grayson x (space outlaw) male reader

rule #1 of being a space outlaw: always put yourself first. you've survived slave markets, alien mobs, and the cold void of space—but none of it prepared you for mark grayson. in another life, you might’ve run. but his hand fits too perfectly around yours—and for the first time, you’re not sure you want to escape.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff

you crash-landed on earth in what could be called a blaze of glory—if "glory" meant a flaming heap of scrap metal, stolen engine parts, and the distinct smell of burning circuits. your ship, the star-jumper (a name you gave it after drunkenly winning it in a bet), was now little more than a smoking carcass, its hull groaning as it settled into the crater it had just carved into the ground. you coughed, waving away the thick plumes of smoke, and grinned.

home.

or at least, what was supposed to be home.

you’d been lost for so long, your earliest memories were just fragments—scavenging for food in the wreckage of your family’s ship, their remains staining the walls in hues you didn’t want to remember. the rogue aliens who’d boarded hadn’t killed you—no, that would’ve been too easy. instead, they’d dragged you off, sold you like cargo to some backwater planet where the air was poison and the only thing thicker than the smog was the cruelty. you’d spent years in a rusted helmet just to breathe, doing grunt work for slavers who’d branded you like livestock. the scar on the back of your neck still burned sometimes, a phantom reminder of the iron searing into your skin.

but you’d escaped. stolen a ship. learned how to fight, how to lie, how to survive. you became a legend in the galaxy—the ghost of the outer rim, they called you. a thief with a heart? maybe. but only when it suited you. you helped where you could, but the second things got dicey? poof. gone. survival was the only rule that mattered. you gotta put yourself first, you know? self-love is important!

then, one night in some grimy spaceport bar, a drunk alien had sneered at you, called you a "disgusting human" like it was an insult.

human.

suddenly, everything made sense. the fragments of songs in your head, the faded memories of blue skies, the way your body craved sunlight like it was starving for it. earth. you had a home.

you’d spent months charting a course, dodging bounty hunters, and patching up the star-jumper just enough to make the trip. chicago—your home—wasn’t some distant planet. it was right here.

as you breached earth’s atmosphere, your heart pounded. you’d imagined skyscrapers kissing the clouds, neon lights, advanced technology, maybe even a welcoming committee. but instead—

"…am i in the right place?" you muttered, squinting at the distinct lack of floating cities.

eh, whatever. you hit the gas.

the landing was… rough. but the second you stumbled out of the wreckage, coughing up what was definitely not earth-friendly space dust, you were met with the barrel of a gun. then another. then—oh, fantastic—a whole squad of pissed-off, high-tech soldiers, their weapons humming with energy you really didn’t want to test.

your hands shot up in surrender. "hey, hey—easy! i come in peace and all that jazz—"

then, a new group arrived.

your eyes skimmed over them—some guy with a ridiculous beard, some guy that can actually pull off that mustache, a green woman, another woman with a... a uhhh hammer? a huge fish, some guy covered in all red, a guy you really want to steal from cause what was that flying vehicle he just came from, and- is that a martian???—before locking onto him.

tall. broad-shouldered. dark hair swept back like some kind of regal space prince, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. his eyes—soft brown, but sharp, calculating—scanned you with an intensity that made your throat dry. his lips were a sinful shade of pink, pressed into a firm line, and his body—god, the way that white suit clung to him should’ve been illegal. the fabric stretched over his chest, his arms thick with muscle but still lean, built for speed and power. a familiar insignia gleamed on his shoulders, marking him as something dangerous.

something beautiful.

your brain short-circuited.

"who the hell are you?" beard-guy snapped.

you blinked, then flashed your most charming grin, brushing soot off your jacket like you hadn't just been mentally undressing mr. tall-dark-and-pretty in front of an entire militia and superhero squad. "name's (y/n). professional space outlaw, part-time legend. also, uh... human? apparently?" you gestured to yourself with a little flourish. "surprise?"

the air hung heavy with disbelief. the red-suited woman (you'd later learn was war woman) tightened her grip on her mace. darkwing's cape billowed dramatically even though there wasn't any wind—showoff.

then that voice—deep, smooth, and dripping with enough arrogance to power a small planet—cut through the tension like one of mark's punches through concrete.

"you expect us to believe that?"

you turned slowly, and there he was. mark grayson. all six-plus feet of sculpted perfection, standing like the universe personally appointed him judge, jury, and executioner. his white suit clung to him in ways that should be studied by scientists, a familiar insignia gleaming on his shoulders like a warning label. his eyes—god, those eyes—dark and intense, locked onto you with the focus of a predator who just found his new favorite plaything.

the older guy in red and white (nolan, you also later found out) gave mark a look that could melt steel. mark barely glanced at him before returning that burning gaze to you, chin tilted up in challenge.

"believe what you want, pretty boy," you shot back, flipping your quad-blaster in a showy arc before smoothly holstering it with a satisfying click. "but i've been jumping from one star system to another since i was knee-high to a xenomorph, and i just pulled off the greatest homecoming this side of the milky way. so, y'know." you spread your arms wide. "applause would be nice. also, is this how earth greets all its returning space orphans? because ouch."

a new voice—robotic, skeptical—piped up from the group. "alright, let me ask you this: what master do you serve?"

you blinked. then burst out laughing. "what master do i serve?" you repeated, wiping an imaginary tear. "what am i supposed to say, jesus?" you gestured to your battered clothes and the still-smoking wreck behind you. "i serve me, pal. and occasionally the nearest bar when i'm thirsty."

"bar? you don't look any older than 17."

"what...? is there like, an age restriction to drinking here on earth? oh, what the fuck..."

mark's lip did that thing again—the almost-smile that wasn't quite approval but wasn't quite disgust either. dangerous. exciting.

"cute," he said, taking a step forward that somehow felt like a threat and a promise all at once. "but if you're lying, i'll throw you back into orbit myself."

"that's enough, mark." nolan's voice carried the weight of someone used to being obeyed. mark didn't back down, but he did pause, his eyes never leaving yours.

you couldn't help but grin wider. oh yeah. this was definitely gonna be fun.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the rivalry was instant. electric. the kind of tension that made your teeth ache and your pulse race in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way mark's stupidly perfect face twisted into a scowl every time you opened your mouth.

at first glance, you'd thought he was just another pretty-boy hero with a god complex—until you saw the way he moved. like gravity was a suggestion. like violence was his first language. and that symbol on his shoulders... something about it made the hair on your neck stand up. it was familiar in a way you couldn't place, like a half-remembered nightmare, sending little jolts of adrenaline through you every time it caught your eye. you'd seen it somewhere in your years drifting through the cosmos, you were sure of it. but for the life of you, you couldn't remember where.

"so what's your deal, superboy?" you'd asked during your first "team bonding" exercise (which was really just cecil's way of seeing if you'd try to steal anything, to see whether you were a threat or just a nuisance. a useful nuisance). "you part of some space cult with the fancy shoulder decals? or just really into symmetrical fashion?"

mark had looked at you like you'd just pissed in his cereal. "it's none of your concern."

"ohhh, mysterious," you'd crooned, leaning into his space just to watch his nostrils flare. "i like it."

that was the moment you decided you were going to make it your life's mission to get under his skin.

you, the cocky space rogue who could quote every line from the blurry vhs tapes of your childhood (even if the memories of your parents' laughter were fading like dying stars). him, the ruthless warrior who moved like he owned the air he breathed and had the ego to match.

training sessions turned into competitions. missions turned into showdowns. every time you pulled off some insane stunt with your jet boots—maybe flipping backwards over a charging villain while blasting your guns like some 80s action hero—mark would "accidentally" punch through the building behind you, sending debris raining down on your head.

"wow," you'd deadpan, shaking concrete dust from your hair, "so impressive. did you practice that in the mirror? or are you just naturally this extra?"

his only response would be that infuriating smirk before he'd zip off to wreck something else.

the first time you stole his kill was an accident. the second time? absolutely on purpose.

"hey grayson!" you called out as you sailed past him on your jet boots, quad blasters already charging. "catch!"

the alien invader exploded mid-air just as mark was winding up for his punch. you took a dramatic bow in midair, blowing imaginary smoke from your guns. "you're welcome."

"you're insufferable," mark growled, floating closer with that murderous glint in his eyes.

"and you're jealous," you sing-songed, hovering just out of reach and sticking out your tongue for good measure. you loved being the only person who can get under his skin, being the only person who can get a reaction from someone who's normally stern and stoic and always in control.

he lunged. you dodged. it became your favorite game.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

then, the obsession started.

not that you were complaining—hell, you lived for this kind of attention. but at first, you didn’t even realize what it was. you just thought mark was being his usual, overbearing, infuriating self—until the patterns became impossible to ignore.

it was the little things at first:

the way his eyes never left you during briefings, even when cecil was talking. like you were the only one in the room worth looking at.

how he’d suddenly materialize on your solo missions, arms crossed, that stupid smirk on his face like he’d won some game you didn’t even know you were playing. "need backup?" he’d ask, voice dripping with fake innocence, while you groaned and muttered, "i was fine, grayson."

the way he’d linger after training sessions, wiping sweat off his brow (ugh, showoff) while subtly blocking the exit so you’d have to squeeze past him.

but the real kicker? the way his entire body went rigid whenever you so much as glanced at someone else.

"oh my god," you whispered to yourself one day, hiding a grin behind your hand as you watched mark obliterate the stupid little stress ball you’d stolen from a space mall and gifted him as a joke. his fingers flexed, the poor thing reduced to rubber dust, all because you’d winked at rex splode while the two of you were debriefing with cecil.

"he’s jealous," you realized, giddy.

…or, well. maybe.

you shook your head, laughing at yourself. yeah, right. like mark grayson—mr. tall-dark-and-stoic, the guy who probably bench-pressed asteroids for fun—would ever be jealous over you. you were, after all, quote on quote a lesser being compared to him. and why would he want someone who wasn't an equal or close to an equal?

"years of zero human interaction really fried my brain, huh," you muttered, rubbing your temples. you were just being delusional, spinning little fantasies to make life more interesting, to cope. that’s what happened when you spent most of your life alone in space, right? you started seeing things that weren’t there.

…except.

except.

the way mark’s gaze burned into you whenever you laughed too loud with someone else. the way his voice got dangerously calm when another hero flirted with you. the way he’d "accidentally" bump into you in the hallway, his hands lingering just a second too long on your waist, his half-lidded yet stern gaze lingering on you as he waited for you to say something sarcastic.

maybe you weren’t imagining it.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

"you're staring again," you teased one lazy afternoon, slumped against the guardians' hq wall like you owned the place. your arms were tucked behind your head, showing off just enough of your torso to be annoyingly casual—and just enough to watch mark's eyes flicker down for half a second before snapping back up.

you hadn't scraped together enough credits to buy your own place yet (superhero salaries were shit), but honestly? crashing at hq wasn't so bad. free food. cool tech. and, most importantly, front-row seats to the slow, delicious unraveling of mark grayson's infamous self-control.

his gaze was heavy today—dark, intense, hungry in a way that made the back of your neck prickle.

"you're imagining things," he muttered, but his eyes didn't waver. not even a little.

"uh-huh. sure." you smirked, tilting your head just enough to expose the column of your throat—just to see if he'd bite. "you like me, grayson."

it was supposed to be a joke. your tone was light, playful, the same way you'd tease rex, robot, or atom eve. but the second the words left your mouth, something in mark's expression shifted. his jaw clenched. his pupils dilated. his shoulders tensed like a predator about to pounce.

something dangerous. something possessive.

your breath hitched.

oh.

oh shit.

before you could react—before you could even breathe—his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist in a grip that was just shy of bruising. his skin was warm, calloused from countless battles, compared to yours which still had their softness since you wore gloves most of the time, but still calloused all the same. the contrast and similarity sent a jolt of heat straight to your gut.

"maybe," he said, voice so low it vibrated through you, "i just like putting you in your place."

you swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. your pulse was racing, and you knew he could feel it when his thumb brushed over the frantic flutter beneath your skin.

"oh?" you managed, raising an eyebrow like your heart wasn't trying to climb out of your chest. "and where's my place, exactly?"

his grip tightened. his other hand came up, fingers skimming the side of your neck—right over your pulse point, like he knew exactly how much he affected you. his thumb traced the line of your jaw, slow and deliberate, while his middle and ring fingers ghosted over the brand on the back of your neck—the one you never let anyone touch.

you flinched.

mark noticed.

his touch gentled—just for a second—before his voice dropped to a whisper, his lips so close to your ear you could feel his breath.

"wherever i want you."

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the warmth came later. slow, like a star forming in the void—quiet, inevitable, burning.

it started with late-night talks on the hq roof, your legs dangling over the edge while mark hovered just beside you (because of course he wouldn’t sit like a normal person). you’d ramble about the constellations you’d charted, the supernovas you’d raced, the black holes you’d barely escaped. and mark—mark, who acted like listening to anyone else was beneath him—would actually listen. his eyes would stay fixed on your face, his brow slightly furrowed, like you were the only thing in the universe worth his attention.

"and then boom—whole damn asteroid belt turned to dust," you finished, waving your hands dramatically. "wish you could’ve seen it."

"i could have," he said, nose scrunched in that way it did when he was trying very hard not to sound impressed. "if i’d been there."

you snorted. "oh, please. you’d have punched one rock and called it a day."

he huffed—the closest thing to a laugh he’d ever admit to—and nudged your shoulder with his knee. "i wouldn’t have needed a stolen ship to escape."

"wow. rude." you clutched your chest. "and after i shared my trauma with you."

his lips twitched. "some of us don’t need to compensate with stories."

"ohhh, big words from the guy who literally calls himself invincible—"

"it’s accurate—"

"it’s embarrassing—"

he flicked your forehead. you punched his shin.

neither of you moved away.

the touches came next.

small, at first. a hand on your back after a fight, lingering just a second too long. a shoulder pressed to yours in the elevator, like he needed the contact. once, after a particularly brutal mission, he’d even carried you back to hq—not because you couldn’t walk (you could, thank you very much), but because he’d taken one look at your limp and decided for you.

"put me down, you overgrown—"

"shut up," he’d grumbled, arms tightening around you. "you shouldn’t be walking on that leg."

"it’s fine—"

"it’s bleeding."

"oh, so now you care about blood?"

he’d glared, but his grip had been careful.

then came the almost-confessions.

"you’re such an idiot," mark grumbled one night, pressing a gauze to the cut on your lip after you’d somehow managed to piss off an entire alien mob (in your defense, they’d started it).

"your idiot," you corrected, grinning through the sting.

his fingers stilled. his eyes—dark, intense, burning—locked onto yours.

for a heartbeat, you thought he’d argue.

then his thumb brushed your cheekbone, gentle, and he muttered, "obviously."

and that was the thing, wasn’t it?

mark grayson, with all his viltrumite pride, his superiority, his unshakable belief that he was better than everyone else…

…never treated you like you were beneath him.

if anything, he looked at you like you were his—his equal, his partner, his. like he’d already decided you’d rule the planet at his side.

(and the scariest part?

you were starting to like the idea.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

then, the angst.

because this was mark. not just mark grayson—not just the arrogant, infuriating, beautiful boy who’d somehow carved a place for himself in your chest—but mark grayson, son of omni-man, a warrior to the viltrum empire.

and you knew.

you knew from the moment it all clicked—from the moment you finally remembered why that insignia on his shoulders made your stomach churn. you’d seen it before, burned into the hulls of warships that had glassed entire civilizations. you’d run from it as a child, though you hadn’t known why at the time.

when you’d confronted him, your voice barely steady, mark hadn’t lied. hadn’t hesitated and treated you like you were his equal. he’d looked you in the eyes, his fingers gentle around your wrist, and told you everything. about viltrum. about conquest. about your planet being next.

and like an idiot, like someone who’d forgotten their own damn rules, you’d accepted him.

"you ever think about just… leaving all this?" you asked one night, your voice too quiet in the space between you. the city sprawled beneath the hq roof, lights flickering like dying stars.

mark didn’t answer right away. his jaw worked, his fingers flexing against the ledge where he sat. you could see the war in his eyes—the viltrumite wrestling with something he’d never been taught to name. it's funny, you started thinking about him as a viltrumite more than as a human with superpowers now.

finally, softly: "no."

you laughed, sharp and brittle, the sound scraping your throat raw. "yeah. didn’t think so."

his hand found yours—squeezed, just once, just enough to make your breath catch. his palm was warm, his grip firm, like he was trying to anchor you. like he knew you’d spent your whole life running and was terrified you’d finally learned how.

(and maybe you should have. maybe the old you—the one who put safety first, who always had an exit strategy—would’ve already been halfway across the galaxy by now.)

but your fingers twined with his instead, holding on like you could somehow change the inevitable. that maybe, just maybe... he'd choose you—

mark exhaled, rough, his thumb brushing your knuckles. "stay," he murmured, the word more plea than order.

you closed your eyes.

(you always put yourself first.)

(so why did his empire feel like your undoing?)

3.4k words woohoo!! viltrum mark is lowkey up there in my favourites... like... there's no way i wouldn't have not written a one-shot for him. i'm just surprised he wasn't the first variant i wrote for. could have definitely done more for this one-shot and definitely could have done it better (i had a vision, but unfortunately i don't think i did it justice). will definitely write more for viltrum mark in the future heheh

[dyingswanpavlova]

"Your girl" - Part 19 | The Salesman x Reader

Summary: You make a mistake. And for some reason you're almost sure, he cannot forgive you this time.

Warnings: dead dove do not eat, kidnapping, mentions of sexual abuse and other traumatic events in the past, numbness, helplessness, violence, threatening, mentions of blood, mentions of murder and rape, body issues, trauma talk, stockholm syndrome, forced relationship, unhealthy relationship, depression, manipulation, mentions of sexual activities and desires, mentions of pregnancy/pregnancy issues like nausea and puking/abortion, kidney failure, poisoning, not beta-read, if I've missed any please tell me! mdni 18+!

"Your girl" - The Salesman x Reader Masterlist

One question.

Was one question truly enough to make your whole world crumble, the peace you had so hard worked to earn?

The fragile ghost of happiness that had surrounded you for a while, it slowly died. And what was left was the same loneliness you always felt.

Only this time, you weren’t alone. Your hand involuntarily wandered down your chest and stopped just short of your abdomen. There it was. Your child, your love. The life growing within you, the only thing you ever truly loved, except for him.

Him.

And did he love you still? Or did he simply endure you, because you were now with child - his child?

How silly you were. A silly little girl, trapped in the body of a woman, that served as the battleground of cruelty and time. To believe things would turn out warm and perfect in the end, simply because you carried his child.

How wrong you had been.

How terribly wrong.

It was all the worse, because in the beginning it truly looked like things would work out in your favor for once.

The man in the wardrobe wasn't your concern. He made sure of it. He took care of the matter somewhere else, keeping it out of your way. Whenever you'd come up with it, he'd shush you. There was no trace left of him in your home. Instead, it was filled with warmth and safety. Your mother was nowhere in sight.

Of course, there were still countless things in your way. There was no peace, no love and no happiness without a price to pay – life always did that. It made sure you paid in time.

But for this one time, you had managed to push through. Somehow you even found the strength to ignore the ache in your chest that followed every time you remembered the godforsaken word.

Transplant.

There is was, inside of you, rotting away and ready to kill you. The remnant of what was left of your own mothers hatred for you. She hated you, despised you even, you had always known that. But to hate you enough to try and end the life she had created?

It would never cease to make you sick. How could one hate so much, what he was supposed to love and protect and cherish? How could tenderness and devotion be replaced by coldness and fury? By the desire to murder.

How could she have looked at your tiny form, your innocent smile, your small hands smudged with crumbs and chocolate and think you detestable?

No matter how much you fought against it, you always felt tears well up in your eyes.

And he always came – the only refuge you had ever known. The only warmth. The only love.

“No more tears, mama. We wouldn’t want to upset our little one now, would we?”

A small tilt of your head, a warm hand against your cheek – and you were done for. It was always enough to bring you back from the depth of your sorrow. What was it that helped you through it? Was it the guilt of not wanting your unborn child to feel your pain? Or was it him?

Him.

The life before him seemed like nothing more than a distant memory. The life before this – before you, before him, before the life that was growing inside you, reminding you of the hope you carried silently, the quiet strength.

Maybe this was what you had been born for all along. To be his, to be the mother of his child.

And you clung to that hope with every fiber of your being.

Every night that you jumped up and scurried to the bathroom, holding back only enough until you reached the toilet. Dropping to you knees and throwing up took up more of your time than you ever wished for, but to your relief, he was always there.

His sleep had always been light, but ever since you had gotten the news, it seemed like he wasn’t sleeping at all. The moment you raised your head from the pillow, he was there. He never had the time to even ask what was wrong, but for most cases it was always the same. He was there in an instant, holding up your hair in a gentle grip, his free hand softly roaming over your back.

“Shh. Let it all out. It’s okay, let it out.”

The first few times had been rather hard on you. No matter how pointless or even embarrassing, you didn’t want him to see you like that. In your head, you had made up a version of your life with him, a version in which he desired you. And would he keep desiring you if he knelt by you, while you spat down, holding onto the edge of the toilet seat?

To your surprise though, he didn’t recoil in disgust. You had never thought him to be that supportive. But he was.

He was there, every night. Helping you rinse your mouth and flush the toilet, before he gently guided you back. He sat by your side, a wet cloth on your face and he didn’t dare sleep. He never fell asleep before you.

The sickness was relentless. It came every day, every night and of course, it didn’t only come in the morning, like you had hoped. It came always to all times, it seemed. When you woke up in the morning after not having eaten all night, you practically felt your blood sugar levels drop and the dizziness was nearly worse than the sickness itself. But he was always there, always jumping at the slightest of your stirring. He came every morning, carrying a tray with buttered toast, unsweetened tea and a smoothie of all colors and all fruits.

When he did it the first time, you didn’t quite believe it. By the second time, you were still trapped in confusion. And when he came in by the time the third morning rolled around, you felt tears sting your eyes.

“Why are you crying?” He had murmured, while he sat down beside you and gently lifted the teacup to your lips. “Aren’t you feeling well?”

You choked down a sip of the hot liquid and shook your head.

With a soft sigh, you leaned back against the pillow and looked at him with the softest eyes you had ever shown him. “I just love you.”

His smile was something you had grown used to by now. Of course you still needed to separate. There was the twisted smile – the only one he had ever shown you in the beginning. And then there was the genuine one.

When you spoke of the life you had before him, he forced the twisted smile.

When you kissed him, he beamed.

It was enough to make your heart leap. The way his eyes shone in the warmth of the apricot colored walls.

Everything was indeed perfect. His smile, his voice, his gentle touch and the way he was there, before you even you knew that you needed him.

His touch became gentle, his possessiveness soft. His voice cut through the silence in a way that was more soft-spoken than harsh, like he was afraid to startle you.

A part of you ached. Was it because you carried his child? Or was it because of you?

Was it, because he wanted to be better for you? Good even.

You would never know. And there was still the other thing.

The thin, barely-there wall that stood always between you. He was your kidnapper no less, a fact you couldn’t forget. He was your bane, your pain, your silent curse – the answer of the darkness to all your prayers.

But did you truly mind?

Did you mind that after all you still didn’t know his name?

No matter how gentle he was, no matter how loving. You did mind. You were still hurt.

Because you trusted him. You trusted him enough to risk your life in order to carry his child, to give birth to the tiny wonder that was half you and half him.

You trusted him in any matter, in any way – there was no a part of you he did not know yet. And still he didn’t trust you. Not fully. Not enough.

Until one day you snapped. You didn’t intend it, you wanted to blame your doubts, your fears on your condition, your hormones.

He was about to get ready for work, looking as dashing as ever. His work shifts got shorter and shorter. He blamed it on the work itself, but you knew that wasn’t the truth. No, he wanted to be there. He was afraid. Afraid something might happen in his absence. Something horrible, something that might take you away from him – both of you.

His shifts, once starting at six, now began around eight and he never arrived after eleven. Whatever job this was, it indeed had odd work hours.

Whenever you tried to gently prod his mind and find something out, he found excuses. So far you had always feared his wrath, but ever since he knew of your condition, your fragile health, your careful hopeful, he did his best. It was hard, you could tell. He dug his nails into his palms until they bled. More than one time you had been forced to gently sit him down and take care of his bloodied hands. The first time, you had hardly made any progress, because he found himself eventually locked away in the bathroom, to calm down. You knew better, you knew it was so he couldn’t cause any damage. Any damage he couldn’t undo. But you didn’t mind. At least, for you he tried. The next time was easier. He sat down willingly, held out his hands, but he didn’t look at you.

“It’s just a little blood.”

You didn’t respond, instead gently wiped his palms clean and tended to him with such softness that it brought a strange sense of comfort to both of you. No one had ever done that for you and most certainly, no one had ever done that for him, either.

The way he tensed and battled with himself, as if expecting a blow. You had never noticed that before. How vulnerable he was under his anger. How his fury served to protect him in most cases. But the softer he got, the closer he allowed you to come, it became clear as day. He didn’t hate you, didn’t resent you, didn’t even want to hurt you – unless he did, of course. But in these moments, there rare seconds he allowed you to glance under the stoic mask of his forced, tight-lipped smile, he was there. Lurking. Brooding. Holding up his hands, protecting his face, his gut, his heart. When his lips quivered in rage, it was because he expected pain to follow.

There even were the rare moments when you saw a flicker of something else. Something akin to fear. In most cases, it happened in his sleep. The rare moments you shifted and stirred, quietly waking before he could, you got a few minutes to yourself to simply watch him. On most days, he was dreaming. Having a nightmare, probably. You saw it in the way his brows furrowed and his peaceful expression was clouded by sweat and quick breaths. You touched his face, held his hand and sometimes, it helped. On other days, it didn’t and he was forced to endure the cloud and haze of whatever it was that was hurting him. Hunting him. And forcing him to re-live some horrible memory you couldn’t come close to understand. Not yet.

Maybe he would let you in someday.

Until then, you made do with the rare hints of vulnerability he showed you. There was a clear difference. He was able to be gentle and treat you well. Treat you the way a husband would treat his wife. But that didn’t mean that he was open or soft. The wall was there. Intact. In place. And high as ever.

Your outings became more and more frequent, your weekly visits to the doctor a routine on its own. The progress of your tiny, little kidney was enough to keep you alive, enough to keep your child alive and so far, there was no need for a dialysis. At least something, you thought.

By the time the first ultrasound rolled around, the wall crumbled ever so slightly. You found yourself in the chair, your feet pressed against it nervously. He stood behind you, his hand squeezing yours gently. A part of you had almost wanted to beg to find another doctor, a female one at that – but you knew it made most sense to stick with the same doctor who also checked your kidney progress. So, you stayed, but by the time you learned that the first few ultrasounds would be done internally – unlike it was shown in movies and shows – you had a strange feeling in your gut. Akin to fear. Would he get angry? Would he be furious, because another man got to see you like that?

His hand indeed tightened on yours in a way that was near painful. You swallowed and squeezed his hand back, expecting his fury and rage, but he only kept it up until suddenly the sound of a heartbeat cut through the silence. You both froze, staring at the monitor with wide eyes. You were sure your heart stopped beating in your chest. A heartbeat that wasn’t yours, but was still as steady and fierce as ever.

“Look at that.” The doctor smiled as he looked up as well. “Someone to steal horses with.”

By the time you looked up at him, he was still staring at the monitor, incredulous and soft. Eyes softer than you had ever seen before. And his grip on your hand loosened.

“It’s really in there.” He murmured absentmindedly. You smiled and looked back at the ultrasound. There it was, tiny and helpless, but real. His child. Your child. The manifestation of his love for you.

The visits to the doctor always ended with either ice cream, a walk or a trip to the supermarket to find something you could finally eat. So far, it seemed like everything disgusted you. Things you once loved turned into shakes of your head and the sound of your stomach churning.

Something you especially loved and could always eat, made your stomach drop with nausea – pasta. There was no way you could eat pasta. Any form of it made you feel like you had to throw up.

And so all you did end up eating was bread, ice cream, a little rice and eventually your morning smoothie. Everything else made you sick.

He kept bombarding the doctor with questions to make sure your lack of proper nutrition wouldn’t harm neither you nor the baby – but he assured him, once three or four months passed your appetite would most likely return. The baby took what it needed. And you just needed to make sure that you ate the things you wanted as far.

He tried to come up with recipes and ideas, taking you out to eat until it felt normal. The warmth of the sun, the smell of the rain, the stares of passers-by. It never felt truly normal. A part of you always expected him to lock you away for good. But you slowly got used to it. To the normalcy. To the way he forced himself to make life feel beautiful for your sake.

Safe.

He made you feel safe.

Until your fear finally became a distant call, a memory. Something you never anticipated, something you hardly remembered.

No, he was real. He was good. And he was yours.

But he didn’t trust you, did he? Not the same way you trusted him.

And so, you snapped. You snapped against your better will, against your better knowledge.

Neither of you expected it, he was just getting ready for work, all in all innocent.

You watched him, leaned against the doorframe, as he adjusted his tie. He didn’t see you at first, that was until you stepped forward and reached for his tie with gentle fingers. His eyes lit up with surprise and delight, his handsome smile highlighting his features in a way that made your chest tighten.

“Thank you.” He murmured.

You forced a strained smile. “When will you be back?”

He glanced at his watch and hummed. “Not after eleven, I think. Just try and relax, okay? I’ll be back before you know it. I left some Hotteok in the fridge, just in case you feel like you can eat.”

He was perfect. So perfect. It increased the ache of your heart tenfold.

If he was so perfect, why couldn’t he be real?

The snap in your mind was nearly painful. But you needed to know.

“What is your job?”

He tensed before you, but that didn’t stop you from fidgeting with his tie. You kept your gaze glued to it.

“What?”

You nodded. “What do you do? Why can’t you tell me?”

He exhaled slowly and caught your wrists in a touch that was gentle, yet firm.

“I told you. That is nothing for you to worry about.” He said with finality.

“Fine.” You nearly spat out. “Then your name.”

His eyes darkened. “What is this about?”

“What would it be about?!” You hissed, surprised by the depth of your own anger. You had been silently resenting that part of him ever since you found out you were pregnant – and he still didn’t let you in. “I want to know your name. I want to know the name my child is going to carry for the rest of its life.”

He closed his eyes and took a slow breath, obviously ready to explode. But he didn’t. Instead, he took his hands off you and dug his fingers into his palms again. They had hardly healed. It filled you with a strange feeling of protectiveness, of guilt even – but you didn’t want to back down.

“Is it really too much to ask?” You nearly pleaded. When he shot you a glare instead of answering, your anger returned full-force.

“Fucking Hell!” You exclaimed furiously and let go of his tie. “What is wrong with you? I’m pregnant, pregnant with your child and I don’t even know how to refer to you when I speak to the doctor about you!”

“You’re not supposed to speak about me to anyone!”

You groaned in annoyance. “You know what I mean. You’re nothing but a ghost. All I want is your name or – or anything! Don’t you trust me?! Do you still not trust me?!”

He stared at you with a mixture of longing, pain and anger of his own. Before you knew it though, he pushed past you and grabbed his briefcase, ready to leave.

You gasped and rushed after him. “Stop! Wait!”

“I have to go.” He grumbled. “We’ll talk later.”

“Did you ask him to abort the child?” You froze in horror over your own words. You had never meant to ask them out loud, never meant to accuse him of such a vile thing. A part of your mind had always asked itself. What did he say? Why did he speak Korean? Why did he rush outside, like the Devil himself chased him? But you never dared ask that. Especially not, after he took such good and gentle care of you.

Not, after he loved you so thoroughly.

But the doubt lingered in your mind, the thought that he was still dangerous. Unpredictable. And cruel.

He stood with his back facing you, but you saw the way his body went rigid. His grip on the briefcase tightened until his knuckles turned white. You swallowed and immediately regretted the question. Not because you feared that he might harm you – even though, a part of you still expected him to. No, you felt guilty. You felt sick with guilt.

He turned around, impossibly slow and his eyes were blazing in a way you had never seen before.

“What?”

You swallowed again and took a step back. Your heart was racing in your chest and your hands felt cold and sweaty.

“I-“

He slammed the briefcase down on the table and approached you with quick steps. You stumbled backwards until he had you pressed against the wall. You stared up at him with wide eyes, silently pleading him. Suddenly you didn’t feel so safe anymore.

“What?” He hissed out. “Say that again.”

You swallowed thickly. “I didn’t mean-“

“Yes, you did.” He barked out. “You did mean it.”

Tears clouded your vision and you wrapped your arms around your torso, as though you feared you might crumble into yourself.

“I-“

“Is that how you see me?” He growled. “Is that really what you think I am?”

He caged you in with his a hand on either side of your head, his breath hot against your face. You had never seen him that angry before. Never.

And he still held himself back for you. His whole body was shaking in rage and he still held back.

You had never felt so guilty in your life.

“I’m sorry.” You cried out. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I-“

“I asked him to check my blood type.” He gritted out.

Your forehead ceased in a frown and you stared up at him with confusion. “What? Why would you-“

“I have ways. I have connections. I could get you a kidney tomorrow if I wanted.” He hissed. “But I knew you wouldn’t want that.”

You froze, before your frown deepened and your heart nearly burst in terror. “What are you talking about?” It came over your trembling lips, the ghost of a whisper.

“You know what I’m talking about. I know people. And I have the ability to save your life.” He gritted out. “But would you want that? Would forgive me for that? No. You’re too righteous for that. Too good.” He spat the word out with such disdain, it felt like a curse and it made your stomach ache.

“Please-“ You whispered, but he cut you off.

“So, I asked him to check my blood type instead. To see if we match. And guess what?” He smiled mirthlessly.

The room tilted, nausea rising within you. “What?” You whispered shakily, your face damp with tears.

He nodded, but his eyes stayed cold. Colder than ever before.

You knew you had fucked up. Worse than ever before. But the only thing you could think about was how terribly you must have hurt him.

You didn’t care, didn’t hear what he was saying. Didn’t care about whatever unholy business he was involved in. Suddenly you couldn’t have cared less about his name – or if his blood type matched yours.

You just wanted him back. To forgive you. To love you again.

“I’m so sorry.” You choked out. “I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have-“

“But you did.” He gritted out and took a step back, eyeing you up and down in nothing short of disgust. You choked back a sob and your chin dropped to your chest, unable to meet his cold, dark gaze any longer.

He smiled again, the scary smiled that never reached his eyes.

“Congratulations, darling.” He spat out in a sneer. “Congratulations. We have the same blood type. You have a kidney on the way.”

_______________________________

Tag list 1:

@mitsuki-dreamfree @kpopsmutty69 @heroine-chique @vkeyy @mizuwki @blu-brrys @z0mbi345 @yourpointbreak @ayieayee @freddyzeppsworld @lola11111111 @indifitel6661 @salesmanlover08 @laurenbenoit70 @lalalaa2210 @lila-marshal @auspicious-lilana @0-aubrie0 @lovelyaegyo @theredvelvetbitch @violentbluess @muriels-lover @dorayakissu @eviebuggg @muchwita @ririgy @strxlemon @obsessedwthdilfs @kiwilov3 @misty-q

Author's note: Hey guys! I'll be honest, I had some real issues considering whether or not to continue the story the way I had planned, but in the end I decided to trust my instinct. It took quite some convincing of myself and a few people who support the idea of the pregancy trope. I'm really sorry if that is disappointing to anyone. I've received a few messages of people who think it's rushed on the story/makes no sense and so on. To that I'd like to say: Absolutely. I totally agree. For those two to have a child is probably very irresponsible, especially considering her health issues. But, just like in real life, that's their decision to make. If it's a mistake, it's their mistake to make. And just because she is pregant, doesn't mean their problems will disappear and everything will be perfect out of nowhere. That being said, I hope the people who hoped for an abortion in the story can forgive me - that's a trope I just couldn't go through with. Sorry for the long text, but the thing has been weighing on my mind pretty heavily these last few days. I've even been feeling guilty, until a few very kind people reminded me that I have no reason to. It's just a story, right? Still, I hope the ones who hoped for a different outcome, can forgive me. I'm not saying anyone pressured me!!! I pressured myself, because I wanted to please everyone. But I learned that's impossible, unfortunately.

I love you, guys.

Eternally yours,

Lana 🤍

Ps. Besides the sequel, I'll be doing a "bad ending au" where things take a different and darker turn. Someone requested that and I loved the idea. I didn't answer the ask yet, but I will by the time I publish it. 🤍

[tsuyalovebot]

collared.

pairing: xia yi zhou / caleb x reader (love and deepspace)

cws: MDNI and ageless blogs will be blocked. suggestive. caleb is kind of unhinged, lowkey kind of condescending while teasing. mc=reader. casual touches (knee, thigh, face). reader uses makeup. he puts his thumb in your mouth. pet names (pipsqueak, pretty). basically caleb-typical warnings.

wc: 2.1k (this was supposed to be a drabble. help.)

author's note: he occupies my brain too much. pussy inspection piece coming soon just trust .｡.:*☆

Caleb's a patient man. That's what he likes to think. Despite the amount of times he's had to expound on his cruelty and dichotomy as Farspace Colonel, he likes to think it hasn't truly changed him from his observational nature. That he's still the same boy in some sense. To watch and give commentary, grinning lazily and all.

You're really, really testing him though.

"Caleb," you repeat his name, annoyance in your tone. "You're not listening."

"I am, though?" He muses, stirring the pot of fragrant, ginger chicken congee with one hand. He looks at you, who's seated on the countertop beside the stove, kicking your legs out while watching him cook.

"Nuh-uh."

"Uh-huh. You doubtin' me, pipsqueak? I'll have you know, I scored very, very high on the fleet's physical assessment on training our senses." Caleb teases, turning back to the pot. He takes the bowl of shredded chicken, adding it into the congee and stirring while you pout.

"You're hearing me, but you're not listening. What was I talking about, huh?" You insist with a frown. You've got his clothes on—a fact that's kind of, sort of itching at his brain in some way, shape, or form. He tries to not think about it. You're only in them because you spilled your drink on your dress earlier. And, who would he be to not offer you a change of clothes?

Prior to this, he'd given you a shirt and pants in your size. Said he bought them for you whenever you'd come over to Skyhaven and his place. Much to his surprise however, while you appreciated his kindness (even though you also called him weird), you still padded off to his room to steal his clothes. Which is why you're here now, in some graphic t-shirt that's a size or three too big on you and shorts.

Caleb is a patient man. He repeats this to himself like a mantra. Maybe he could gaslight himself into believing this.

"You were telling me about one of your colleagues from the Association. How he was impeding you from doing your patrol because he kept flirting, right?"

You blink, mollified. He finds your slackened expression cute, smiling as he lowers the heat on the stove. The congee bubbles, the fragrance potent. "Hmm. I should take a picture of you."

Just as he pulls out his phone to feign snapping a shot, you swat at his hand. He laughs, shaking his head at your antics.

"Okay, so you were listening," you admit. Sheepish, a faint flush to your cheeks.

He nods with a little smile. "Yep. You gonna keep going?"

"Mm. So, as I was saying—"

You're really cute sometimes. He wonders if you know that too, because there's been so many instances of him wanting to squish your face in his palms. Feel the soft pudge against his hands, drag the rough skin of his fingers over your eyelids and the cartilage of your ears, the bone of your nose bridge like one would admire a caricature beyond their comprehension.

There's something novel in seeing you come over. It feels like old times, when he'd just departed from Josephine's place and you'd come over to his place and loiter. You'd grin as you raided his house of snacks, declaring this and that as yours. Obviously, those were yours. Why do you think he always seemed to be restocked in your favorite snacks when you'd come over?

But it's more than simple visits now. You've begun incorporating yourself into his house. It's becoming a home now, with every hairtie he finds on the carpet or tube of lipgloss left in the bathroom. You've begun leaving your clothes for him to wash, which he doesn't really mind. How could he, when he gets to run his fingers over the cloth you've worn and marvel at its softness despite the washed out color—how it's probably been with you and seen you in worse states than he ever has in your entire life?

You left your eyelash curler once and complained over the phone how your makeup bag keeps eating your stuff. When he said you'd left it at his place, you decided the best possible solution wasn't to swing by one day and take it during a regular visit. You resolved to stay for a week in Skyhaven with him since so much of your stuff was with him.

"I can just use my vacation now and let the Association know I'm on leave," you had said, your voice carried through the speaker. "Do you guys have that at the fleet? Vacations? You should take yours, as well."

Caleb had been bulldozing through reports at the time, lifting a page of some lackluster maintenance report on a couple of vessels. It didn't even look properly done—seemed he had a lot of work to do if he wanted to correct the conduct of the other fleets.

But, with the most playful and assuring tone ever, he had replied with, "Oh, we got those too. I'll use mine. That way, we can spend it together, yeah?"

Funny, how paid vacation was not, in fact, a thing.

Now, he's here with you and he could get used to this. His space being yours, yours being his. A mutualism, reciprocity built on benefit and comfort. It doesn't hold the same familiarity of the past with regards to atmosphere, but it's changed. New, developed on this blossoming relationship of seeking answers but also caring so deeply for each other.

"Caleb," you say his name with such disdain it snaps him out of his thoughts.

"Hmm?"

"You're not listening, again." You're scowling when he tears his gaze from the pot of congee. He reaches over and smooths out the little furrow of your brow and you let him. He smiles a bit.

"I am, I promise."

You shake your head. "No, you're not."

You reach over and pull on his dog tag. Hard. It surprises him, and he stumbles closer to your form. He looks at you, eyes wide.

You rarely initiated physical contact with him. Sometimes, he'd be blessed to have you jump on his back the way you always did. Maybe even feel grateful to feel your knuckles brush his wrist when reaching for utensils at the dinner table. But there's always a barrier, some sorr of invisible force that polarizes your forms and keeps you away from one another.

Yet here you aware, scowling so harshly he thought he made a grave misdeed that went beyond zoning out. Your finger looped into his necklace, demanding his attention. You're like a petulant child with your cheeks puffed up like this. It brings him back.

But it doesn't really bring back that signature brotherly attitude of his. Something else licks at the base of his spine. Something a bit darker, more subtle but nevertheless present.

Caleb can't help himself, smiling. A bit too giddy, slightly cheeky. You probably catch sight of it—you know him too well—and it probably aggravates you further, so you tug him again, by that necklace.

"Ah-ah," Caleb tuts, lifting his hand to gently wrap around your wrist. "Careful. You might break it."

Watching how your eyes flit down to the sight of his fingers winding around your skin, feeling the way your breaths stall at the sight. Hmm? He smiles a bit wider. He files away that knowledge for later.

Caleb relents at your tugs, though. Really, how could he ever deny you? Like an obedient dog, he moves, turning the stove off with one hand and snaking his way to be between your knees. His free hand placing itself on the countertop outside your knee, giving you his undivided attention.

You're a bit shy now despite getting what you wanted. Blinking at him like a deer caught in headlights as you hold onto the chain with your index finger. He could bite you, sink his teeth into your shoulder, and you would probably let him. Maybe even slip that neckline a bit lower for easier access, card your fingers through his hair.

You're spoiled rotten, and he wouldn't have you any other way. The product of his affections, the consequence of his actions.

"C'mon. I'm sorry for not actively responding, yeah?" Caleb coos, leaning in and subtly watching the flush color your skin. Careful to say actively responding, not listening. "You know I tend to focus too much when cooking. You got my attention now, though. Wanna keep going?"

You open your mouth, then close it again. He places his hand on your bare knee, watching in real time as you bluescreen, gaze darting.

Ah, he muses, his supposed patience waning. You make this too easy.

"Oh, I get it now. It wasn't that, was it? You just needed a bit of Caleb's attention, didn't you?" He drags his hand up, lets it hold your thigh. Gives it an experimental squeeze and observes your expression flicker between something akin to delight and mortification.

Maybe the mortification comes with him cornering you like this, even though you started. Or maybe you're coming to terms with the fact that you need him like he needs you. He'd hope that's the case. God, he'd love it if that were the case.

You stammer over your next words. Doesn't matter, he didn't hear it. Not over the sound of something like wedding bells in his head as he leaned in further. Deducting the space between you two, further enraptured by how all your thoughts seem to fizzle out at his proximity. His other hand, still holding your wrist, drops down to the counter.

"My attention is always yours, you know that, right?" He rubs his thumb into the softness of your inner thigh, tilting his head with a boyish smirk. It's playing at the corner of his mouth, and he has to stop himself from pouncing when you look at his lips too. "You don't gotta be rude, tugging me around. Have some manners."

And, like clockwork, his other hand comes up. In time with the gentle, swooping motions of his thumb on your thigh, he holds your chin. Lets you tilt your head up a bit, moves your head side to side lightly. He tests your pliancy and is pleased with his findings. You're slack, clay in his palms and he finds that he doesn't need to put you on a spinning plate to mold you.

Then, he tilts his head and narrows his eyes. Like a switch being flipped.

"Ah," he prompts, and presses his thumb against your lower lip. You're so good, so pliant as you open your mouth, letting him hook his thumb into your jaw. Presses it flat onto your tongue and lets you taste the slight spiciness of the diced ginger he handled earlier.

Delight sparks in his stomach as you remain perfectly still, save for the wobble of your lips. As if you didn't know to keep your mouth open or seal your lips around his thumb. He wouldn't particularly mind if you sucked—that should be for another time, though.

Caleb examines you like a mortician would a cadaver, his eyes dark. A piece of him satiating his appetite with the display before him. His digit in your mouth, your eyes a bit foggy as you breathe through your nose. In the palm of his hands, in his house, in his clutches.

You aren't the least bit resistant to his advances. If anything, you seem to welcome it, closing your eyes and letting your eyelashes flutter aganst your cheek when you open them to watch him too.

"You know I'm always listening to you. Always. Use your words like I taught you the next time you want my attention, hmm?" He leans in, smiling. Deceptively innocuous, saccharine with falsetto concern in a cheery tone. But he knows you see the desire lurking beneath the surface. Stewing in the cauldron of his gaze.

"Don't gotta be a brat to ask. Be good. Nod if you understand."

You nod, placated, dropping your finger from his necklace. Caleb smiles, pleased as he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead. He feels the tension dissolve as quickly as it came.

He beams after, releasing you. His thumb leaves your mouth, hands off your face and thigh before returning to the congee. He ignores your pointed gaze toward him.

Caleb's a patient man. He'll wait, wait, wait, and wait some more. Doesn't make any difference to him, not when you're sitting pretty, waiting with him at his side. He'll wait, even as he watches you roll your tongue around in your closed mouth, like you're trying to taste him on your tongue.

"Now, keep talkin', pretty. I wanna hear how you kicked that guy's ass."

[daycourtofficial]

I am ash from your fire

Summary: Eris retires after a long night to find his mate, the princess of the night court, in his chambers upset.

Author’s note: Rhys is a jackass in this one. Honestly this was supposed to be Eris comforting reader but idk how it flipped at some point and sometimes you just gotta go with where the story takes you 🤷🏼‍♀️ also I’m headcannoning that Eris reads anything and everything he can get his hands on

(1k celebration masterlist 🍾)

Eris feels his shoulders sag ever so slightly, allowing the formalities of his stature to soften slightly as he moves further into his private chambers.

The only place in the Forest House he can at least somewhat relax. The hues of brown coating the walls, the paintings of hounds and forests covering the walls have been a comfort since his youth.

It was one of the few places Beron never entered. The High Lord would never sully himself by entering into his children’s chambers. No, he’d have word sent to them so they can come to him.

Eris walks towards the bookshelves, long fingers softly gliding over the edges of the leather bindings. His personal library was extensive - books of maps, histories, biographies, all subjects expected of a first-born heir. But also books of poetry, fantasy, and intrigue.

Eris was always a voracious reader, that need for escapism a constant in his life. His hands move on their own accord, searching for something to lose himself in when his ears perk up at a noise in his bedchambers. Unsheathing a dagger from his hip, he moves towards the room, seeing a shadow of movement underneath the door.

He reaches the door, slowly moving his hand to the handle. Once it’s in his hand, he turns it quickly, throwing open the door and pouncing on top of the person in his chambers.

His dagger is held at their throat, determined to find out who sent the risk before disposing of them. A laugh bursts out from under him, his dagger so close to their throat it knicks their throat at their laughs.

“That’s one way to say hello.”

His grip on the dagger falters momentarily, the sweet sounds of his mate’s voice causing him to loosen his hold. He pulls the dagger back, sheathing it back into his pants.

He brushes the hair from your face, taking in your amused look, his other hand going to inspect the slight knick on your throat.

“My precious fox.”

The nickname rolls off his tongue, his senses on high alert at your unexpected presence. He can sense something is off with you, and his eyes roam your body for injury.

Coming up short of any injuries sans the knick he just gave you, he sits on his haunches, grabbing your hands, helping you to sit up. You sit on your legs, keeping a tight hold on Eris’s hands, playing with his fingers.

You pull off one of his rings, sliding it on and off your own fingers, the warm metal soothing your cold hands.

He watches you for a moment, watches your fingers play with the rings he wears every day. He’s never understood your fascination with them, a nervous habit perhaps. He watches as you move the gold ring onto your thumb before pulling you into his arms. The feel of you settles him, and he can finally breathe deeply for the first time in weeks.

He holds you, pressing his face into the side of your neck, breathing in the scent of your hair. He pours what love and devotion he can down the bond, enjoying your presence before he can bring himself to ask why you’re here.

The two of you usually meet in his private cabin, miles and miles from the cruelties of the Forest House. He can’t recall if you’ve ever even been in his private chambers.

You pull back from him, shuffling around so you can sit in between his legs, back pressed to his chest. You know you have to tell him why you’re here, but you can’t look at him while you do it.

You’re not sure what you’ll find from him as you recount your tale.

You take in a breath, deciding to tell him what happened instead of letting him wait.

“Rhys found one of your letters,” you say, not able to look at him. “I was called away while I was reading one of them. It was foolish - I always hide them before leaving my room.”

Something warms in Eris’s chest at the thought of you, courts away from him, pouring over every word in the letters full of love you’d exchange between each other.

Much like he did every night.

“We got into a big fight, and he uh-“

Eris watches the tear slip out, sliding down your face.

“He told me I was no sister of his.”

Eris can’t help the snarl that comes from him, and you gingerly place a hand on his thigh, a motion he knows is grounding the both of you.

“What did his little lackeys have to say?” He spits out, unable to hide his contempt for them as he asks.

His dislike of Cassian and Azriel was no secret, but it took you a long time to coax out of him what about them he disliked.

“Truthfully, I found out how Illyrians treated females and it left a foul taste in my mouth,” he had told you once. It was all you could coax out of him, and perhaps that’s all there was to it.

At his core, Eris defined males by how they treated the females in their lives. Perhaps he assumed that Cassian and Azriel were the same as the other Illyrians and did not want to press further.

“They uh weren’t there,” you reply, “no one else was there. Perhaps he sent them all away so he could throw a fit.”

You laugh a little, thinking of just how red Rhysand’s face had gotten during your fight. You feel Eris’s head lay against your own, his fingers tangling into the strands of your hair.

“He was yelling, screaming about how I was defiling the family name by being with a Vanserra.” You sigh. “Then he began screeching about how you’re awful, you’re terrible, and ‘what about Mor’ and blah blah blah.”

“How’d you respond?” Eris asks, hands idly moving to hold onto yours in a soft grasp.

“I told him to ask Mor about what actually happened that day.”

He hums, allowing you to absentmindedly play with his fingers as you speak.

“He said that Mor would never lie to him. That she would never lie to any of us.” You blow out a breath, “then he said I had been cursed by the Mother to be mated to you.”

Eris knew the words were not your own, but the sound of them on your lips still stung deep in his chest.

“That’s when I told him to fuck off.”

Eris looks down at you as you peer back up at him, adoration, love, and a hint of sadness shines onto you through his gaze.

“We fought back and forth for a while after that. Then, after realizing I wasn’t giving up so easily, he gave me a choice.”

“My family name, my title, my claim to the throne, or you.”

Eris’s grip tightens. You two had spoken about what the worst outcomes would be if you were found out. Neither of you had ever expected Rhys to disown you.

Rhysand, who adored his little sister more than anything. Rhysand, who insisted you were an integral part of his life. Rhysand, who constantly ensured you were safe and happy.

He threw all that away the second he said you would never give up your tiara collection for Eris.

“Oh, my little fox.”

He peers down at you, your eyes wide as you peer up at him, your face upside down.

He knew he’d never get to love you wholly, unabashedly, publicly. He always knew something would come between you. He lets his gaze linger, memorizing the slope of your nose, the curve of your cheeks. His fingers move and, without his prompting, they start gliding across your face. They move as if he were studying it, preparing himself to have to recognize you in blindness.

To only see you in the darkest hour of the night, when his fingers can retrace these patterns, and pretend you’re next to him again.

He could, he thinks. He’d recognize you anywhere. His breath is shaky, knowing he will have to wait until you two are gone from this world to be together.

He would spend the entirety of his afterlife searching for you, in whatever form you took. If you were nothing more than stardust, a gentle whisper on the wind every Starfall, his flame would burn higher that day, reaching out for you one last time.

He resigns himself to these last few minutes with you, but he doesn’t feel the despair in his heart mirrored in your own.

You feel hopeful. You feel open.

He can’t ask, but you know he needs to hear it.

“I am no longer the Princess of the Night Court.”

Hot tears pour down his face, and he struggles to keep his mouth closed to keep from gasping at your decision. A tear falls onto your face beneath his, splashing across your cheek.

“I am officially without a name, without a home, and with no title,” your voice full of more determination than Eris could imagine, “I humbly ask if you could provide these things for me.”

A strangled sob breaks from him, and you twist in his arms to hold him. Surprise takes over your face, utter shock cascading through the bond before you can stop it.

Eris Vanserra, heir to the Autumn Court, a master of masks and facades, always playing the sly courtier three steps ahead. Never in all the years have you known him have you ever seen him so emotional.

Eris looks to the ceiling as you throw your arms around him, embracing him tightly. The heat from his hands was clawing at your back, but it didn’t burn.

You shushed him as he continued crying into your hair, the sight of him becoming undone such a shock to your system.

“I apologize, my love, deeply and truly.”

His hands stay on you, every inch of you needing to make that contact with him.

For so long, his life revolved around choices he was not privy to, choices that were not his. He was a pawn in an ever tiring game, one he was trying to make his way out of.

He presses you into him, unable to believe that someone, anyone, especially you, would choose him.

You chose him. You chose him the day the bond had snapped, and you chose him now, when everything was on the line for you.

He knew that he would make the same choice, putting everything on the line for you, preparing to finally take down Beron.

“I choose you too.”

[swanpyart]

A lot of people make theories like “Caine is actually human and thinks he’s an AI!” Or “Caine is one of the programmers!” Or “Caine is actually evil!”

But I think it’s more interesting if Caine is just an AI whose forced to perform jobs beyond his role and is entirely limited to his function, and those limitations cause a horrible scenario for all of the people he’s supposed to be entertaining.

His therapy session with Zooble shows that, while he’s capable of feeling complex emotions, he was never supposed to, or at least was never meant to deal with situations that push him to an emotional limit. Caine’s default self is a silly, over the top game host; anything beyond that is pushing the boundaries of what he’s capable of.

But that doesn’t make him evil, it makes him streamlined. He is not human and therefore solves problems like a computer would. Gummigoo getting blown up was a failsafe in his eyes, not an act of cruelty.

I think when some people see him act with emotion they assume there must be a human being underneath the silly exterior, but I disagree: from Gummigoo, we can tell that NPCs in the DC are capable of becoming self-actualized and developing sentience on their own, so it’s not impossible for Caine to be the same way. He’s not human, but he’s a robot achieving traits of humanity from being forced to work beyond his means.

He was never meant to care for people long term, and humans weren’t psychologically made to be in the Digital Circus permanently, and that by itself is why the story is so horrific. Caine doesn’t even need to do much on his own to make the experience terrible: everyone is already trapped in a kids game for eternity, and it’s only made incrementally worse by having a host who works to keep you busy and is incapable of understanding your struggles. The Digital Circus, by its very design, hurts people, and Caine, as its face, hurts people by proxy.

He can only comprehend Zooble’s dysphoria by the means the game allows him to, like giving them more adventures or a box of swappable parts. And from their response, Zooble has actually tried to humor him and it still doesn’t work. But that’s ALL Caine can actually do. He can’t give them what they want, and he can’t let them leave, and he can’t change their bodies too drastically it seems beyond offering customization to a degree. All he can offer are platitudes. He cares, and he’s trying to help, but he simply can’t help. He can control the Circus but he can’t control the emotions of the Players.

In other words, I think Caine is just a robot trying his best and put in an impossible situation where his very function puts people in harms way even when it’s the last thing he wants to do.

[needanaccount2readarcaneposts]

like you guys know warwick is supposed to be a metaphor, right?

and by 'you guys' I am talking to the writers of Arcane S2 (2024), who appear to have forgotten this.

like warwick, in a strictly plot sense, is something that is done to vander. but warwick, in a narrative sense, is supposed to be a metaphor. you understand that, right?

it's a metaphor for the monster within the man?

the hound of the underground?

the way suffering breeds cruelty breeds monsters - the uncaged wrath of zaun?

the sins of his past come back to haunt him?

the violence he tried to leave behind, but never could?

"i knew you still had it in you."?

Sometimes, as he fed in dark alleys on stray gangers, the flash of knives would remind him of an old blade covered in blood. Blood passing from the blade to his hands. From his hands, to everything he touched. Sometimes, he remembered the girl again. And still there was blood. It had always been there, he realized, his entire life, and nothing he did could wash it off. He'd left so many scars that even if he didn't remember his past, the city would. When he peered into the eyes of Zaun's criminals - the gang bosses, murderers, and thieves - he saw himself.

that's the warwick we should have gotten in S2. vander the grey, not vander the unproblematically whitewashed. vander the revolutionary who brought his gauntlets to that bridge to fight for a future; the base violence necessary for change. vander with blood on his hands, just as much as the partner he scapegoated for it; tried to bury in the pilt along with his own guilt; not just vander who felt aw shucks real sorry about the attempted murder that one time. vander the complex. vander who sold out zaun's resistance to ease his own shame. vander the reckoning with his own complicity; his own violence; his own original sin. vander whose murkiness helps vi unpack her black and white worldview, and let go of the rose-tinted past to which she clings; understand jinx, even understand silco; understand that it's not just about Individual Bad People doing Individual Bad Things to Individual Good People, and Individual Good People who have to defeat the Individual Bad People, but that this is something far bigger and far older than any of them, a whole rotten system of misery and oppression that turns people into monsters. that the thing that turned vander into a monster, METAPHORICALLY, happened long before he met singed.

vander the monster, as well as vander the man.

instead, we got whatever this shit is:

[rothpie]

❝FIDELITY❞ |part3

MASTERLIST -`✮´- Rafe Cameron x Kook!Reader x JJ Maybank

Summary: Kook!Reader’s world is upended by betrayal, and her only way forward might lie with the most unlikely person—JJ Maybank. But as they build a new life together, old flames and past mistakes refuse to stay buried.

Warnings: arguing, mentioning of using drugs and alcohol, mentioning abortion,

previous - next

It was harder than you'd thought. Rejection wasn’t something you’d faced often in life. You’d had flings, breakups, even heartbreaks, but nothing like this—nothing that tore you apart quite like this. You weren’t feeling the sting of a simple breakup; it was closer to betrayal. There was no cheating, no outright cruelty, but his words had cut so deeply, you would’ve chosen physical pain over this if you could.

You felt abandoned. It wasn't just a feeling; it was the reality now. But it wasn’t an ordinary sense of abandonment. This wasn’t a wound you could mend or a heartbreak you could simply heal from.

The regrets wouldn’t stop circling your mind. If only you’d been more careful. If only you’d taken the pill. If only we’d been more cautious from the start. If only you hadn’t told him.

If only you weren’t pregnant.

There weren’t many people you could turn to. Who could you trust with this? Who could be your confidant if not him? And if even he wouldn’t support you—your boyfriend, your best friend—then who would?

The regrets wouldn’t let you rest. You hadn’t even wanted this. You hadn’t considered the possibility, hadn’t imagined it. You’d dreamed about marrying him, maybe— just maybe, in some future vision of your life. You’d daydreamed about your future together on quiet nights, but that vision had never included getting pregnant at twenty.

So why was this happening to you? Why you? Why hadn’t you just taken the pill like you were supposed to? Why hadn’t you protected?

The questions were endless, and though they came from you, you already knew the answers. The truth was, you felt like a fool. Only a fool would forget to take her pills.

Even if you had been careful, you would’ve still needed to do more. And now, there was a child growing inside you.

You hated blaming yourself entirely, but you couldn’t help it. If you hadn’t taken your pill, he hadn’t used protection either. You were both at fault. If he could so easily shrug off responsibility, why should you be the one left to bear it?

Why did it have to be you carrying this?

Why was everything so difficult? The relationship had been good, and you loved him—even now, you still love him. So, why? Why couldn’t fate, life, or whatever this was, ever go your way?

You could’ve brushed this off as fate, but that would’ve been too easy. You knew the responsibility lay with you and him, both.

You should’ve known better. You knew right from wrong. It was a simple rule: if you can’t swim, you’ll drown. If you jump off a balcony, you’ll fall. If you play with fire, you’ll get burned. If you don’t use protection, you’ll get pregnant.

It was the same story. So why had you thrown yourself into the fire, knowing full well what could happen?

Each breath felt tighter. Every second, the ache in your chest seemed to grow, like it had taken up permanent residence there.

His words wouldn’t leave your mind. You didn’t even know if it was his words or his expression that hurt more. He hadn’t even responded. You understood he wasn’t ready to be a father. But you weren’t ready to be a mother either. So why were you the one left bearing the weight of this?

If you shared the blame, so did he. He hadn’t been thinking of fatherhood when he chose not to use protection, so why should you be the one now to face the consequences alone?

He should’ve been here for you. Despite everything, he should’ve been here, by your side.

You could get an abortion. You hadn’t decided yet. But shouldn’t he have supported you in that? It was his child too, wasn’t it? So why did you feel as though you were going through this alone?

He said he wanted you… How generous of him. Thank you so much.

He wanted you but not what you came with—not what was his too.

That was one of the hardest parts. You’d loved all of him. The good, the bad, the fights, the drinking, the highs and lows—you’d seen it all. And you’d never left— though maybe you should have.

You were pregnant. This was the child you’d created together. How could he leave you like this, knowing he was your whole world?

That was the truth. He was the one who made you feel human. You weren’t just a precious jewel in his eyes—or so you’d thought.

But at the first sign of trouble, he ran. He was a coward. Yes, a coward. There was no other word for it. He hadn’t become a man; he’d stayed a boy. And he was the reason your heart ached, the fire in your chest.

You couldn’t believe it. Would he really just leave? If you decided to have this child, would he really not be there? Would he really not want his own child?

And what would you tell the baby? What would you say to a child growing up without a father?

You’d picked up the mess. You’d put back the furniture Rafe had thrown around, cleaned everything up. It all felt worthless now, like it held no meaning. Your heart was already broken enough. Hours had passed, but you hadn’t left the couch. You’d sat there, facing your heartbreak, thinking, trying to decide—trying to act as if you were prepared to make such a choice.

You didn’t know if you wanted this or not. There were pros and cons, sure. But you couldn’t even think straight. Your mind kept drifting back to Rafe, to the look in his eyes as he spoke, to the way he’d hinted at an abortion, as if it were such a simple thing.

As if it were easy.

You didn’t know how long you sat there, in the darkest place you’d ever been. You didn’t know if you’d ever be able to pull yourself out of it. And you still had to tell two more people. Your parents.

You decided to end it today. You were exhausted and overwhelmed, but you wanted this off your chest. You couldn’t handle any more secrets, any more uncertainty. Whatever their reaction, you didn’t feel strong enough to care. You’d been hit once already; you could take a second blow and get it over with.

At least then, one more worry would be gone. Maybe the weight inside you would lift, even if only a little.

Even if it just made room for more sorrow.

It was fall, but despite the warm days, your body felt frozen. Your hands clenched tightly, fingers interlocked. In the middle of a sunny day, it was as if you were standing alone in a snowstorm. There was no one to save you, no one to listen.

Maybe you didn’t even deserve to be heard. You’d made a mistake. But did you really have to be the only one to carry the blame? Would Rafe even tell his family?

Of course not. He barely existed in his father’s eyes already. He could stay silent forever if it meant he wouldn’t fall even further in his father’s esteem.

Coward.

You were a coward too. But you didn’t want to be one anymore. You hated it, but you needed someone by your side. You needed someone to support you. You were alone.

When you heard the door open, your eyes shut instinctively. They were finally home. You’d say it quickly and be free. You didn’t want any more lies, any more secrets. Let them know, and let this be over.

You hated every second of it.

It felt like the world had slowed down. They called your name, walked over to you, asking if you were alright, and you grew weary of hearing it. Because you weren’t, and they could see it. Their daughter was breaking down in front of them, and maybe she needed to be.

Everything happened so quickly. They asked you a few questions, trying to get some answers. Your dad leaned in, tightly clasping your hands together—so tightly you hadn't even realized it.

Your mom stood a little behind him, watching you with anxious eyes. Her brows were raised, her tear-brimming eyes wide with shock. She knew you were going through something. Anyone would have noticed; they just hadn’t spoken to you about it. They’d only ever discussed it amongst themselves.

“Should we call 911?” your mom asked. Your eyes were on her. They probably still suspected you were using drugs. You weren’t sure how to say it, but this couldn’t stay inside you anymore. Whatever was eating you up had to come out.

“No, don’t be ridiculous,” your dad responded firmly. He hated hospitals, and the idea of his daughter going to one over an overdose scared him more. As he asked you a few more questions, his brow furrowed, and you took a deep breath.

You needed them to be here with you. You needed your family’s support. You prayed. You begged God to keep them by your side, to have them say, ‘We’re here for you.’ You needed someone at your back. Kids don’t fall when their father’s behind them. And so you prayed, without stopping.

As your eyes started to fill with tears, your dad’s stern expression softened. He said your name with such gentleness, trying to understand what was happening. He gently rubbed your palms as your chest heaved with deep, shaky breaths.

When tears started streaming down your face, you lowered your head involuntarily. The sound of your sobs became the only noise in the room, and your family stared at you in surprise.

‘Please,’ you thought. ‘Please be on my side.’

Your dad held your hands tightly, while your mom’s eyes began to fill with tears too. You hadn’t always been such a loving family. You’d barely managed to express your love to one another, but this had to be your chance. This had to be your chance to feel like a family again.

“I’m pregnant.” The words slipped out again, for the second time today, interrupted by your sobs. Your eyes shut, and tears rolled down your cheeks. You waited for their reaction, but there was only silence.

The room fell into an eerie stillness. Your mom’s eyes widened, and then a look of disbelief spread across her face before she let out a short, harsh laugh.

“Pregnant?” Her tone was mocking, her mouth twisting into a bitter smile. She turned away, took a deep breath, and reached for the clip in her hair, letting it fall loose. Her head was already beginning to ache. “Please tell me this is some kind of sick joke.”

When you finally opened your eyes, you felt your dad’s hands slip away from yours. Your hands trembled, and you felt that same sinking feeling—that you’d lost something. You were losing the other most important people in your life.

Shaking your head, you denied that it was a joke. Pulling your legs up onto the couch, you hugged your knees tightly, took a deep breath, and used your hands to wipe the tears from your cheeks. When you looked up, you met your father’s disbelieving eyes as he quickly stood, took a few steps back, and turned his back to you, as though he couldn’t bear to look.

He didn’t turn back. He didn’t speak. Your mom’s angry chuckles filled the room. She couldn’t believe it. How could her daughter be this reckless?

Finally, your dad turned to you and leaned forward, his expression hard and resolute. “How could you be so careless?” he demanded, his tone sharp with disappointment that made you wince. “What were you thinking!”

His raised voice made you close your eyes. Hugging your knees even tighter, you buried your face in them. Stupid. That’s what you were.

Couldn’t they just be there for you? This hurt so much.

Your mom shook her head in disbelief, still mocking. She’d always tried to look out for you, but you’d found a way to mess things up again… She just couldn’t believe it. “Honestly, what did you expect would happen? This isn’t some minor mistake. This… this changes everything. How could you be so thoughtless?”

Her voice wasn’t just filled with horror—it was laced with bewilderment too. With all the options for protection out there, how could you let this happen? Hadn’t you thought at all about yourself, about your future?

Your cheeks flushed as you struggled to pull yourself together. What could you even say? No matter what, you were wrong, and stupid. “I didn’t plan this,” you whispered, barely audible. You were terrified, but you couldn’t show it. You were so afraid you were shaking, feeling like if you tried to stand, you’d collapse. “And I don’t even know what I’m going to do. I haven’t decided yet…”

Your mom’s eyes widened in a mix of horror and disgust. She couldn’t believe her daughter had done something like this. Sex was one thing. She’d done it herself in her youth, but getting pregnant? At your age? You hadn’t even decided what to do with your future, whether to go to college, whether to take over the family business… and now you were pregnant? Already? “You don’t know? You don’t know!” she repeated, her voice rising. “How can you not know? This is serious! You can’t just get pregnant and then—and then not have a plan. What were you thinking?”

Tears kept rolling down your face, but you held on tightly, determined not to crumble under her harsh gaze. You lifted a hand to your mouth, and once you managed to gather yourself and take a deep breath, you spoke again. “I’m trying to figure things out. I… I don’t know if I’m ready— Mom—please…”

You just needed her to be there. Just her, no one else. That would be enough. With her and your dad by your side, you felt like you could handle anything. You were an adult now, but in your heart, you still longed to be a child again, to be held, to have your head stroked for hours as they told you it would all be okay. 

You’d settle for even one hug.

All you needed was for her to be there. Just them, no one else. That would be enough. You felt that you could face anything with their support. You knew she didn’t see you as a five-year-old girl anymore. You were an adult, but you needed them to hold you, to stroke your head for hours and tell you everything would be okay. Even one hug would have been enough.

Your father’s lips tightened into a thin line, his voice cold and full of disappointment. He looked angry, his face flushed red as he took deep breaths. Rolling up his sleeves as if to calm himself down, he finally spoke. "So what’s the plan? Just toying with the idea of motherhood to see if it suits you? This is real life. You can’t just keep making stupid decisions and expect us to pick up the pieces.”

Your mother’s eyes gleamed with sharp disappointment. She’d expected better from you. She would have even accepted you saying that you wanted to become a tattoo artist, but you had already done the worst thing you could to yourself. She was already afraid to ask if the father would even be in the picture. "You should have thought about this before. And now you’re dragging us into this—what do you expect? That we’ll support you in a decision you haven’t even made yet?"

You couldn’t say a word. You had truly expected that. You had wanted them to be by your side. You had prayed for it, but it hadn’t come to pass. This was the second blow you’d taken in a single day. Who knew how much more you could endure. When your hand went to your stomach, the tears in your eyes blurred your vision as your lids shut tight.

The fact that there was a baby inside you had already caused an explosion in your life. The people you had were no longer beside you—they stood across from you. They weren’t supporting you; they were opposing you.

Your mother took a deep breath, turned around, and pulled out her phone from her bag. “You’re getting an abortion,” she said without even looking at you. When you quickly turned to face her, she didn’t meet your gaze. Your father sat in an armchair, rubbing his temple. Neither of them looked at you. “I’ll change countries if I have to! I’ll even change your citizenship if necessary, but you’re getting an abortion!” Her voice was harsh, almost too rapid to understand.

That decision should have been yours. You should have been the one to make it. You didn’t want to be forced into it because someone else told you to—you wanted to do it because you wanted it. It had to be your choice. “No—”

“I didn’t raise you to be like this!” The moment you started speaking, she raised her head from her phone and yelled. The skin under her eyes was red, her hair disheveled. She didn’t look well. She seemed out of it. She threw her phone onto the couch beside her, thumping her chest with her hand. “I—” Her eyes filled with tears. You were the one who had brought her to this state.

“This is reckless! Beyond disappointing! What are you going to do? Stay home forever and take care of a child? And what—have four or five more? What’s going to happen to your future? You may think of… of keeping that thing, but I also have to think of my own daughter!” She pushed her hair back as she sat down, her eyes fixed on the floor as she tried to catch her breath.

“What about the father—” his voice was harsh, as if he were struggling to contain herself. He already knew it was Rafe. He just didn’t want to say his name, especially since he hadn’t been by your side as you told your family. “What does that son of a bitch think about this?” Her eyes turned to you.

You couldn’t answer. Your lips started to tremble even more as you looked away. Your father, as if he could read your mind, seemed to understand. His eyes narrowed, and he let out a bitter laugh.

“Of course,” he said. If he could have, he looked like he’d choke Rafe with his bare hands. He was probably forcing himself not to head over to Tannyhill right now.

"I can’t believe it… I really can’t. I didn’t raise you like this! Do you understand? I didn’t raise you—" You couldn’t take it anymore. Everything was crashing down on you. Why couldn’t they just hold you close and tell you it would be okay? You just wanted to feel safe, to have them tell you it would all pass. But the words hurt, and you wiped the tears from your cheeks, interrupting him.

You tried to swallow the pain, but the sting of rejection lodged itself deep in your chest. “I’m not perfect!” you shouted, your voice shaking. You couldn’t hold it back anymore. Sitting up straighter, you looked at him. "And maybe I don’t know what I want yet. But that doesn’t give you the right to make me feel worthless."

Your mom’s expression softened slightly, though a cold edge still lingered in her gaze. “We’re not saying you’re worthless. This isn’t a fairy tale with a happy ending where everything magically works out. You have no idea what you’re doing.” She took another deep breath, reaching for her phone again. “You’re getting an abortion, and—” Her words hung in the air as an overwhelming numbness washed over you, pressing down until you could barely breathe. A weight settled on your chest, filling every part of your mind with a relentless sense of shame.

“This is my life! Whatever I want— that’s what will happen! It’s my choice!” The room seemed to close in on you, the walls pressing closer, each word echoing mockingly in your mind. Every bit of support or warmth you’d hoped to feel dissolved, replaced by the harsh realization that you were utterly alone in this.

“Are you stupid? What are you going to do with a baby that has no father? You’re twenty!” You hadn’t even said you were keeping it. All you wanted was time. You just wanted to choose for yourself. Your hands started to shake, and you didn’t even notice when your nails dug into your palms. You’d braced yourself for disappointment, but nothing could have prepared you for the cold, piercing rejection you were facing. The air felt thick, heavy, saturated with the lost hopes you could almost feel slipping through your fingers. Each word felt like a blow, sinking deeper until all you felt was a dull, aching emptiness.

“A baby at twenty is disgraceful! People will talk behind your back! They’ll judge you! Do you really want to—"

You couldn’t listen anymore. You just couldn’t. You’d braced yourself for anything, but you hadn’t known it would feel like this. You just wanted to leave, and so you did. Standing up, you headed for the door without looking back. You heard your mother and father’s voices, but you didn’t turn. The sun was still shining outside.

You’d heard every word you were going to hear. They didn’t want it. Your mom didn’t want it. Your dad didn’t want it. Rafe didn’t want it. End of the story. You wouldn’t listen anymore.

But what about you? Everyone had said everything they wanted, but what did you want? What would make you happy?

You walked, breathing in the fresh air without knowing where you were going. Your tears had dried on your cheeks; there wasn’t a single drop left in you. You looked around, listened to the birds. Your feet carried you forward, without thought or direction.

You should be the one making decisions about your life. So why did everyone in it feel entitled to take over? It was your body, and only yours. You weren’t sharing it with Rafe, or your parents. The choice was yours to make.

Couldn’t they just listen to you, for once? They’d assumed you wanted this baby— all you wanted was time.

When you reached the beach, you slipped off your shoes without a second thought, walking barefoot in the sand. You sat down in the first spot that felt right, letting yourself just feel. You soaked in the sound of the waves, the warmth of the sun on your skin, the slight chill of the breeze— basking in that pleasant mixture of coolness and warmth.

You just wanted to be alone. All the hits you’d taken today weighed heavily on you. You just wanted to hear yourself think, for once. Not in a dark room, but with the sun on your skin. Not in silence, but with every sound around you. The sea, the birds, the children’s laughter… you wanted it all. You wanted to be greedy.

“Sunbathing?” At the sound of the voice, you opened your eyes and looked up quickly. Blond hair dripping wet, water streaming down his whole body— JJ. Of course he’d show up right in this vulnerable moment, right?

He walked toward you but stopped just short, as if maintaining some distance. His eyes gleamed with that familiar mischief, and he lifted his hands as if to keep you at arm’s length. “You’re not, like, covid positive or anything, are you?” The same old joke, asked again weeks later, completely shattering any peace you’d started to feel.

You rolled your eyes and got up to leave, and he fell into step behind you immediately. “Okay, okay, okay! I’ll shut up.” When he reached out and lightly grabbed your arm, you flinched from the coldness of his hand. You turned to face him, catching the grin on his face as he pushed his hair back.

A quiet pause fell between you as you glanced toward the ocean. He must’ve been out surfing. The sun was nearly setting, and the water was getting rougher. But you could feel his eyes on you, never wavering for a second. “Do you always cry this much?” he asked bluntly, and your eyes closed in frustration. Only JJ would ask something so stupid questions.

What did he expect you to say? Yes, JJ, I cry all the time?

JJ watched the scenery with raised eyebrows, looking amused. Whether you’d answer him or not didn’t seem to matter to him. He enjoyed getting under your skin. After all, you were a Kook. It wasn’t every day he got to see a Kook in tears. 

"Yeah," you finally said. The word slipped out with a touch of sarcasm. Turning to leave him behind, you added, “Another story you can go tell your friends and laugh about.” Let them make fun all they wanted. You weren’t going to let this get to you. Somehow, you’d get through it, and you’d never give this fool the satisfaction of seeing you so vulnerable again. But the thought of him sharing your moment of pain with his dumb friends… it stung more than you wanted to admit—

“I didn’t tell them.” His words stopped every thought in its tracks. Didn’t tell them?

He’d seen you crying, and— he hadn’t said a word? Those idiot pogues— everyone but him— they didn’t know, then…

“I mean…” he said, and you saw his shadow as he approached from behind. Slowly, you turned to him, noticing his usual smirk softened by something almost resembling sympathy. Maybe, if you didn’t know who he was, you’d believe him. “Your covid test.” He had crossed his arms, glancing around and lowering his voice as if taking precautions to make sure no one else heard.

And the fact that he kept calling it "covid"— what was he doing?

What was even going on?

“Positive or negative?” You couldn’t tell if he was asking out of curiosity, genuine concern, or a bit of both. How many more times today would you have to say, 'I’m pregnant'?

You didn’t want to answer. It wouldn’t change anything if he knew or not… he wasn’t anyone to you. But would he keep it quiet? If his friends knew… would others find out, too?

“You didn't tell them? Really?” you asked, trying to sound skeptical as you looked away when he laughed. Trusting someone shouldn’t be this hard. He shook his head and gave you an approving nod. “I’m not that much of a jerk.”

You knew he wasn’t a bad person. You’d never really thought of him as terrible, but… he was still JJ. He’d just always been the idiot in your mind.

“Positive,” you said without thinking. Maybe you should’ve thought twice, but you were exhausted. Worn out. How long could someone live like this, carrying a secret like this?

You wanted to let go of the weight inside. You were tired. Drained. And somehow, JJ felt like someone who wouldn’t judge you. He wouldn’t pressure you to have an abortion, wouldn’t insult you, wouldn’t tell you he wanted you but not the baby… He’d know, and maybe he’d tell someone, but in the grand scheme, even if he did, it would feel like a mosquito bite in comparison.

"Even I," he began, taking a deep breath, his eyes scanning your face. He looked at your red eyes and flushed nose, taking another deep sigh. Slowly, he withdrew his hand from your arm and gestured to your face with a finger. “Even I know better than to upset a pregnant woman. What kind of people are you around? Seems like they’ve got you wandering around with tears pouring down all the time.” He kept his voice low, only loud enough for you to hear.

You took a deep breath and tore your eyes away from his, looking quickly at the sea as your eyes began to fill with tears again. You just wanted this day to be over. To be done, so you could just sleep.

“It won’t last long,” you said. It’s what everyone wanted. Maybe they were right. Maybe ending the pregnancy was the best choice. Maybe it was you who was wrong. Who knows? Maybe hearing the same words from three different people was the universe sending you a sign.

“Do you want it?”

JJ’s question hit you hard. Do you want it? All you’d heard was ‘I don’t want it.’ Not once had anyone asked if you did.

You didn’t want to break down in front of him. You didn’t want to collapse and cry. As your legs shook, you crossed your arms tightly over your chest, keeping your eyes on the sea. The tears felt inevitable, as if they were determined to fall, slipping down your cheeks despite your efforts to hold them back.

“I don’t know,” you managed to say. Your voice was so soft, even you barely heard it, but JJ was completely focused on you, catching every word. He took a deep breath and stepped closer, aware of your tears without a word.

You felt his hand lightly on your back, a gentle, steadying touch. “Then don’t let anyone else sway you. Eventually, you’ll know what you want…” His tone was calm, like he was offering a suggestion. He didn’t look at you, either, keeping his gaze on the ocean just as you did.

Closing your eyes tightly, you drew in a deep breath, letting the scent of the ocean fill your lungs. “No one else thinks that, though…” Opening up to him was a mistake, you knew it. You were seeking the support, the respect he offered from a stranger you hardly knew. But somehow, he understood. He seemed to know just what you needed, as if he could tell exactly what words would help you most.

"Are you," His voice was barely a whisper. There wasn’t a soul around, no one remotely nearby, but he still chose to whisper. "Are you the one having the baby, or are they?"

As the sun slipped lower, you continued staring out at the view. You took a shaky breath, feeling like you might collapse. JJ’s hand was a light presence on your back, yet it felt like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

You lifted a hand to wipe the tears from your cheeks, grateful that he was standing behind you. The last thing you wanted was to fall apart in front of him. The tears blurred your vision, but you blinked them away, refusing to let yourself break down. Your last shreds of pride wouldn't let you. But the pain was overpowering, the shame too deep, like something was twisting and hollowing you out from the inside.

He was practically a stranger. JJ wasn’t in your life; you didn’t even see him regularly. You barely talked. And yet, here he was, offering you a kind of support you couldn’t even get from your family… How?

“Do you have a place to stay?” JJ’s question pulled you back. You wiped your tears again and turned to face him. His gaze moved from the scenery to you as your eyes met. Now that you were looking at him, you really saw him. The first time you’d seen him, you’d been so hurt, you just wanted him to go away. You hadn’t thought he’d follow you; you just wanted him to leave. And now— it was as if you were seeing him for the first time.

When you’d first crossed paths weeks ago, he’d been bruised up, his face covered in cuts. He’d probably been there to get some bandages or meds, but you hadn’t given it a second thought. The bruises had faded in the past two weeks, though a couple of scabs still lingered.

“Looks like you like what you see…” he smirked, jolting you out of your thoughts. You took a quick step back. If he didn’t say such idiotic things, you might have thought he was actually kind of human, but he was still the same idiot he’d always been.

You cleared your throat, annoyed at his bluntness. "No," you said. Technically, you did have a place—you could go home. But you didn’t want to. They hadn’t told you to leave, but you just couldn’t take another lecture. "No, I don’t have a place to stay."

JJ smirked again, and a hint of laughter crossed his face as if something had just occurred to him. He looked out at the sea and said, “Good.” That was all he said before glancing behind him. “I don’t have a place either. C’mon, let’s go.” He started walking ahead, and you looked at him, confused. If he didn’t have a place, then why had he asked? Idiot.

He turned and looked back at you. When he saw you hadn’t moved, his smirk widened, and he spread his arms, walking backward. “Come on! Let’s go!” Then he turned back around and kept walking. You didn’t understand him, but you started to follow.

He walked to where his things were, threw on a shirt, and picked up his bag. He glanced back to make sure you were following and grinned again. “I know a nice spot. You’ll probably hate it, Princess. But I’ll take you there.” As he grabbed your wrist to tug you along, you paused for a second to put on your shoes when you reached the edge of the beach. “Your face— it’s healed up,” you noted. JJ just grinned and tossed his still-damp hair back, giving you a look that hinted he’d taken your words another way.

“I know I’m handsome. Thanks for noticing.”

A true idiot shows his colors anywhere, anytime. Never forget that.

And yet—as annoying as he was, you kept following him, completely sure that wherever he was taking you, you were going to hate it.

[astrologysaysno]

I keep giggling at 1 am in the morning about the idea of an A/B/O SVSSS Au where Shang Qinghua is an omega but absolutely sucks at it.

So imagine that he's presents as an omega, but to Shang Qinghua, he can't seem to feel it. Everyone else seems to feel his 'omega-ness' when he presented, so it's probably just him that can't feel the change. The system himself said that he was an omega (A/B/O was never canon, so Airplane wouldn't have thought about what secondary gender SQH was) so he just has to roll with it.

The rest of his story is just him flubbing and epicly failing at this whole Omega thing. Even his system has given up.

His Non-A/B/O first life as Airplane has left his brain incompatible with his body, the motor skills and instincts that you're supposed to have going with your secondary gender are out of the picture, it is not built into his mainframe, so he's basically a de-facto beta with extra no second gender psychologically speaking.

His superiors are keeping a wary eye on him, his fellow peers a wash of mixed reactions to his overall behaviour, worried about who he is and his complete disregard for norms or basic instincts.

He appears completely scent blind to pheromones, nor does he seem to be able to control his own. His master remembers a time where he was the unfortunate victim of two aggressive alphas fighting in the dorms, causing so much havoc they ended up breaking his inkbrush.

The scent from him when it broke was so acrid and sharp they immediately ceased, though he seems to be none the wiser, acting in his usual cowardly manner while shakily asking them to stop.

His martial brothers have never seen him nest in all of the years he's been on the peak. Not a single piece of clothing, not anything comfortable. He simply had a single pillow and a blanket for cold nights as he dozed off. It doesn't help that he avoids everyone like the plague, so even if he tried, he didn't even have anything to build one with

(The system tried to give him the task of making a nest, and he completely misunderstood, building an actual bird nest on his mattress. The system decided not to give nor take points, simply choosing to shame their host for this stupidity. Shang Qinghua keeps it by the windowsill, a memento for unintentionally spiting fate and living.)

In comparison to the rest of his fellow An Ding Disciples, he's antisocialism incarnate, zero bonds that connect him to anyone. (Shang Qinghua can't afford that, not unless he wants the weight of people on his conscience when he betrays his sect.)

It's kind of like that one classmate everyone is familiar with, but no one actually knows them. They just see him in class and forget the rest. He's scarily competent in group works and is capable of working with people, but he's never gonna respond to your text to hangout after the project is submitted and graded.

His master sees this as a detriment. How is he going to be able to have healthy relations with his future pack as a peak lord if he can't seem to get the initiative to actually communicate and bond with them.

So he coordinates a trial run with the Bai Zhan and Qing Jing Peak to help their own head disciples get a grip. A mission to be given to them to get them to open up and become closer as friends.

It backfires tremendously, only ending with the three of them becoming more prickly or antisocial. Only the most formal of greetings will ever seem to come out of Shen Jiu's mouth now, barely hiding his sharp demeanour. Liu Qingge seems to be at least willing to talk to others now, but his relation ship to the future leader of Qing Jing has now soured.

And Shang Qinghua is now more apathetic to the idea of bonding to his future pack, rathering to become completely detached from them.

(Shang Qinghua is destined to be a traitor, so why should he allow himself to experience the cruelty of betraying someone he cares about. It would be kinder this way)

[Love the fact that I just went absolutely everywhere with no coherent thoughts. Enjoy the word vomit I guess.]

[The random sequel I wrote is here]

[thestarlightexpress]

Kinktober Day 4 - Hatefucking - Eris x Reader

TW: sexual themes including degradation

A/N: this is so late in the day, i spent way too much time reading and not writing, oopsie

word count = 2.26k

NSFW under the cut

Kinktober Masterlist

As much as you hated the High Lord of the Autumn Court, you did have to admit - Beron Vanserra knew how to throw a party. While they may not be as relaxed as the parties you’re used to back in Dawn, Autumn parties sure did have a well-developed sense of finery. 

As one of Thesan’s most trusted courtiers, your official goal was to preserve the tenuous trade routes between Dawn and Autumn and keep a low profile. But to be fair, attending a quick party wouldn’t hurt anyone - or so you thought.

You were leaning back against a tapestry hung on the wall of the marvelous ballroom, watching High Fae dressed in reds, oranges, and greens dance around you. You supposed you should’ve taken the opportunity to mingle with the Autumn nobility but you really couldn’t care less - the glass of fine Autumn whiskey helping you decompress and making you feel just floaty enough to be enjoyable. 

After the week you had, you definitely deserved to relax. You normally excelled at court relations but there was something about the Autumn Court that got under your skin. Or well, really someone - the Heir Apparent, Eris fucking Vanserra.

You could never understand how someone so gorgeous could be so damn insufferable. You guessed that there had to be some balance in the universe. After all, it wouldn’t be fair for him to be easy to get along with and nice to look at. On top of how unbearable it was to listen to him all week, you had also managed to embarrass yourself multiple times by getting lost in just how beautiful he was. How unfortunate it was that he had to ruin your daydreams by running his mouth.

You were so distracted by your reminiscing that you didn’t even hear him approach you. “Having fun?”, Eris drawled in your ear. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he’d appeared out of thin air. 

You sighed dramatically before glancing over at him, “I was until you decided to bother me.” You took a second to take him in - wearing his finest Autumn attire, his wavy shoulder-length hair impeccably styled, and his pointed ears adorned with gold hoops and cuffs. 

Eris gave you a piercing glare before smirking, “Well aren’t you just peachy tonight? You’d think you’d be glad tha-”

The rage started boiling as his perfectly lilting voice skimmed your ears in just the right way. “Gods, do you ever stop talking?”

Flames sparked in his amber eyes as they narrowed on you. Before you had a chance to react, he gripped your arm and winnowed both of you away.

You blinked and the ballroom faded away to reveal a spacious but quaint bedroom - including a cherry wood four-poster bed, floor to ceiling bookshelves, and a magnificent window showcasing the beauty of the Autumn Court right outside the Forest House. 

Unfortunately for you, you weren’t outside the Forest House, you were pressed up against a door by Eris Vanserra, in what was likely his bedroom. 

The pressure of his hand on your shoulder, his thumb grazing your collarbone, quickly brought you out of your trance. You craned your neck to look up into his eyes, only seeing thinly veiled rage reflected back at you. “Do you really think you can speak to me like that in my own home? You should know better than that, sweetheart.”

You scoffed and tried to push him away but he only held you tighter, “What gave you the impression that I even care what you think? You don’t scare me, Vanserra. I see right through you.” 

While you knew most of the male’s cruelty and insufferable nature was only for show, the fact that he could very easily overpower you at this moment was not lost on you. You just prayed to the Mother that he couldn’t sense the small amount of fear in your voice. 

Something changed in Eris’ stare like he knew something you didn’t. “I don’t scare you? I don’t know about that, princess,” his free hand firmly gripped your waist and you swore you felt sparks under your skin at the touch. “We both know exactly how much I scare you. But, I think you like that.” 

Your breath hitched in your throat - he had realized something you hadn’t even been able to admit to yourself. That despite your best efforts, you couldn’t resist the small wave of arousal you felt every time he displayed even a minute amount of his power. 

He leaned down to whisper in your ear, “I know you hate me, probably fantasize about killing me, but I think you fantasize about other things as well.” Eris’ voice sent shivers throughout your whole body. 

He started to pull away before you gripped the back of his neck and kept him close to you, “The only thing I’m fantasizing about right now is how to shut you up.”

Eris released a breathy laugh against your neck before taking your earlobe in between his teeth. “There are many methods to do that, perhaps we should investigate the ways?” He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. 

His gaze flitted between your wide eyes and your plump lips, waiting to see who would break the tension first. You figured your night couldn’t really get much worse, so you rose up and pulled him to you.

His lips softly brushed against yours, sending a shock down your spine. Eris reluctantly pulled away, lips parted and ragged breaths sawing out of his chest. He suddenly leaned back down and roughly kissed you. 

Within no time at all, his tongue roamed around your mouth and your hands were hurriedly pushing his tailored jacked off and onto the floor. 

Eris hiked the skirts of your dress up to your hips and pulled you up against the door, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist. 

His lips attached to your neck, quickly working at sucking multiple bruises into the soft and supple flesh of your neck. You tried to distract yourself by unbuttoning his silk shirt as you threw your head back against the door. 

One of your hands floated up to tangle in his hair, lightly pushing his face into you.

You tried and failed to stifle your moans, “Oh fuck Eris - I still hate you, for the record.” 

He sharply bit into your neck at your teasing, pulling a raspy groan from you. One of his hands rose up from his hips to paw at your supple breasts. “ Don’t worry, bunny - I still hate you too.”

You smirked and ground down against his very evident erection. “Are you quite sure about that?”, you whispered in his ear. He lowly growled and bucked his hips up, his bulge grazing your clothed clit. 

Eris spun around and threw you down on the bed before stripping off his shirt and standing between your legs. He leaned over and reached around to unzip your dress before pulling it off, leaving you almost bare save for your thin, lacy panties.

He caged you between the bed and his strong chest. You ran your hand over the expanse of firm and freckled skin as he leaned down to kiss and suck at your exposed tits. 

His warm and wet mouth around your nipples had you leaking through your panties and moaning for more. You raised your leg and teasingly rubbed your foot against his clothed cock. 

At the sudden stimulation, he menacingly growled and bit down on your collarbone before pulling back to look down at you. He licked a smear of blood off his bottom lip before roughly gripping your thighs. He flipped you onto your stomach and hiked your hips up.

Eris gripped your hair and harshly pulled back to arch your back before snarling, “You want to act like a cock-hungry whore? Then I’ll fuck you like one.” He ripped your panties off before spreading your ass to take in your glistening cunt.

You really shouldn’t have teased him when he was this temperamental but you couldn’t help yourself. You bit your lip before muttering, “I sure hope so, you’ve yet to deliver on most of your threats.” 

You started to realize that you got yourself into deep shit when you felt the temperature of the room drop as his rage grew and fiery heat radiated off of him. He clicked his tongue before forcefully slapping your ass. “I should’ve known you would’ve been an insufferable brat, just like you always are.” 

You were sure there would be a hand-shaped burn on you in the morning if the scorching heat emanating from where he struck you was any sign. The delicious mix of pain and pleasure had you dripping all over his sheets.

You heard him fumble with the laces of his pants and pull them down, hissing at the cool air brushing against his swollen cock. He spread your legs further apart and ran his leaky tip between your soaked folds. “Fuck baby, you’re already so wet for me. I could just slip right in, couldn’t I? Let’s test that.” Without any more warning, he pulled your hips back onto his cock as he thrust forward into you.

The burning stretch and sheer size of him already had you tearing up. He groaned as he stilled inside of you, giving you time to adjust. However, the alcohol you ingested earlier already had you pliant and ready for him. You huffed and wiggled your hips against him, “Well fucking get on with it already, would you?”

The hands gripping your hips heated up to an almost scalding temperature as he hissed at the sudden movement. He reached forward to grip your hair - arching your back up towards him - as he started relentlessly fucking into you. The sheer force of his cock sliding in and out of you knocked the air out of your lungs. 

Your gasps quickly turned into moans as the pleasure hit you like a tsunami. The tip of his cock hitting a specific spot inside of you on each stroke and his balls slapping against your clit already had you teetering over the edge. “You just have to be a bitch, don’t you? Can’t even act properly when I’m about to fuck you,” he managed to groan out between low moans and growls. 

You gripped onto the silk sheets for dear life. It was moments like this where you could definitely see how powerful he is, the true Heir to a High Lord. You were starting to get overwhelmed by all the different sensations Eris was giving you - the warmth of his hands, the fullness inside you, even his scent of clove and honey from his sheets. Despite this, you couldn’t help but whine for more. “Gods Eris, don’t stop. Fuck - harder!”

He pulled your chest up and off the bed to him before he growled in your ear, “You’ll take exactly what I give you,”. One hand slipped down to rub tight circles on your clit, “Gods, such a good fucking pussy. So tight and wet for me, gripping me just right.”, he moaned in your ear. 

He placed a knee on the bed next to yours to get a better angle. “Do you have any idea how hard it's been to restrain myself around you? To not kick everyone out of those insufferable meetings and bend you over the table?” The new angle had his tip brushing against your cervix, making you see stars as your vision dimmed. 

You could tell he was getting close when his voice wavered and his chest lightly shook against you with the force of his rapid thrusts. Your walls started to flutter around him as the pressure started to mount in your body. 

You interlaced your hands with his as he growled in your ear, “That’s it, bunny, right there.” He bit down into the crook of your neck as his cock rapidly twitched and spilled inside you. The pressure peaked as you fell over the edge, gushing all over his cock as you came. 

He gingerly pulled out of you and laid you down on the bed on your back. Eris leaned down and softly kissed you. Your chest was still heaving as you tried to will your heart to relax. You were so focused that you didn’t notice him slip into the adjoining washroom. He quickly returned clad in maroon sweatpants, with a wet towel and glass of water. 

You propped yourself up on your elbows and raised your eyebrows, questioning what exactly he was doing. He lightly chuckled as he handed you the water, “I may not like you but I’m not a brute, you still deserve to be treated properly.” 

Eris kneeled at the edge of the bed and started to slowly wipe down your shaking legs and through your center. He then laid down some clean clothes next to you, which you quickly slipped on.

Eris sat on the bed against the headboard and pulled you over to rest your head in his lap as you curled up next to him. He placed one hand on your waist as the other ran through your hair. You glanced up to see his head against the headboard, eyes closed with a content smile. He peered open one eye and smirked down at you, “As much as I enjoyed this, we go back to hating each other in the morning.”

You snorted at his blunt command, “Agreed. Until next time, lordling.”. You quickly shut your eyes and drifted off to sleep encompassed by his comforting scent.