#calling out with your last breath for them to run because even in death you love them more than anything

[jedisupernova]

reuniting with seong gihun

notes minors dni contains fem aged up reader (same age is gihun), always written with plus size reader in mind as i am myself but truly anyone can read, takes place in the midst of his pursuit of finding the salesman, ANGST (self deprecation, selfishness, mentions of hardships, death, failed relationships, suppressed emotions, mentions of infertility, includes arguments; this does not have a happy ending), dynamic between reader and gihun is childhood friends who reconnect in later adulthood, some made up lore to build said dynamic, mentions of nightmares, violence, smoking, sickness, slow burn maybe? i'm trying something new, and smut (mutual masturbation) after trusting someone for the first time in a long time mends part of his soul, but for how long, and at what cost?

requested? no, this is an original idea! i can't be normal about anything and how underrated he is in his own show is diabolical. anyway this one is long. please request something if you'd like or stop by the ask box or dms to say hello! i love a man with big brown eyes whose real good at looking sad. enjoy!

you always looked forward to every other saturday because it meant you had the day off. you took this time to sleep in before heading to nearby markets for your weekly grocery run. it was right after lunch time that you were perusing coriander so fresh you could still see water droplets on its leaves. just before you were to ask the older woman who ran the stand for the price, a familiar face swept past your peripheral vision.

you looked over your shoulder, seeing a man dressed in an unzipped jacket and talking rather quickly into his phone. he looked around the street corner like he was lost, a passing car letting you hear only fragments of what he was saying: "—station? which one?" you were about to return to your business when he faced in the direction of your gaze entirely. you hadn't seen that face in years . . .

he hung up the call, now typing with fervour. without thinking, you started walking: "gihun? seong gihun?" your voice was soft, approaching him with an air of caution you couldn't explain. he looked up, face tense with something beyond stress. "yes?" "it's me." you said your name. "we—we went to grade school together? my ... my parents owned a shop just down the street from your mother's." why did every syllable feel more embarrassing than the last, and why did your voice get quieter with every word? you were certain that you were looking at the gihun you grew up with—who could forget those distinctly emotive brown eyes, or those ears that stuck out and were made fodder for incessant teasing from your classmates? but gihun's expression didn't move an inch, his eyebrows knitted together in the slightest of confusion. but it was merely momentary, because when you were uttering apologies, his eyes widened with belated realization. "yes," he thought aloud, his tone was still oddly serious. "i taught you how to tie your shoes."

your expression blossomed into utter elation, lips separated in shock. he so casually swept the dust off of a shelf of memories you forgot even existed, making you mentally regress to that afternoon during p.e. who knows how many years ago. "y-yes!" you nodded. "i wore velcro shoes until i was eleven!" another memory came to the forefront: "we used to trade cassettes during lunch! we argued so much over the british ones. who was it again? david bowie and—" "—duran duran." said gihun. "duran duran!" you repeated, beaming. "oh my ... when was the last time i listened to them." you pondered aloud.

warmth crept onto your cheeks, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth: "i remember you and sangwoo styling your hair like theirs." a breath left his lips, chest tightening, his eyes betraying him as they quivered in abrupt grief. "you wore so much hair gel it blinded me in study hall. i wonder where sangwoo is now. i haven't heard much since he graduated from snu. are you still friends today?"

your question was objectively harmless. there was absolutely no way for you to have the faintest clue of the atrocities gihun's been forced to witness; the painful guilt he carries; the nightmares that carve the abysses underneath his eyes; the debilitating anxiety that fills his head with endless noise even in the eerie quiet of his deserted motel. he nods, forcing a tight, small grin. "we did stay friends." he says bravely, his eyes looking more familiar than ever.

the genuine smile you give in return was added to his self-anointed list of reasons why, at the end of his life, he would not die a peaceful death. it was another thing he would laboriously mewl over in the afterlife, looking up at the rest of the world, shackled to the deepest, darkest pits of eternal regret.

"that's good to hear." you say. "how're you doing, hm? you've cleaned up well from when we were in our twenties." you quipped playfully. through the scattered shells of his soul littered throughout his body, his innocent self was still somewhere in there, because he subconsciously looked for an out to ease his internal tension, letting out a chuckle at your remark. those vibrations in his chest felt foreign after these past two years, but that murky remnant of his past self welcomed the change, no matter how minute it was. "i've been better." he responded.

"yeah?" you asked. "if it makes you feel better, i'm glad i ran late today. because i got to see an old friend after a long time." gihun glanced at either of your hands—no ring. "have you met anyone?" he asked. you nodded, understanding what he meant. "i did." you say. "he left me when the doctor told us i couldn't carry." your eyes widened, unsure of why you were suddenly so honest. "i don't know why i just—" "i'm so sorry." gihun cut you off. his hardened expression turned shocked, even appalled. you recouped, wanting to look past this: "it's okay." you shake your head, metaphorically dodging the memories of your marriage counselor telling you to not 'to deny your own personal wounds as it'll seep into the companionship.' "it was a long time ago, gihun. how about you? did you meet someone?" he nodded, sympathy glistening across his retinas. "we separated shortly after our daughter was born."

"seong gihun, a father?" you grinned. "anything's possible." the ringing of his phone diverted both his and yours attention away. "i'm sorry for keeping you. you looked like you were in the middle of something—" "no, no. it's fine," gihun shook his head. "here, give me your number. i'll call you." he didn't know why he did it. he failed to stop himself declining the phone call from the loan shark he hired to head the search for the salesman, let alone handing you his phone to type your number in. was the impulsiveness of his past self also crystallized, emerging at this very moment? his discreet vow to blend into the shadows seemed to have crumbled in these past five minutes, giving in to his complex feelings: your sweet demeanor made him feel like a normal human being, and he wanted more of it. for the first time in a long time, seeing someone from his past didn't end in complete anguish. or perhaps it was the gleam of sadness that washed over your eyes as you spoke of your ex-husband, inflating his subconscious savior complex. even so, after you exchanged polite goodbyes, walking off in different directions, he mentally kicked himself for compromising your safety concurrent with unabashed intention of calling you that very evening. through any stage of his life, through the gambling and the scheming, it seemed selfishness remained his kryptonite.

for you, it was a hell of a lot to take in. at some point, it felt as if a prank was being played on you. it was one thing to offer sincere condolences for his late mother, or be sorry that his daughter lived so far away. but ... children's games that ended in murder? masked guards with triangles, circles, and squares hiding their faces? a handsome, well-groomed man that tenderized his face over a game of ddakji, in the middle of a train station? sure, you would miss a lot of someone's life after not seeing them for nearly three decades. but ... but this? it was properly outlandish. crazy, even. but over that hushed dinner, sat in a corner booth, the scent of sizzling samgyeopsal on the grill increasingly nauseating, it was too detailed to be a lie. he pleaded nonverbally for you to believe him—through the desperate glossiness of his eyes. you affirmed your belief in the same wordless manner, visibly nodding. you almost threw up when he handed you a business card, the three aforementioned shapes on one side, a random assortment of numbers on the back.

gihun brought you to his motel that same night, barren and lifeless besides white noise of the warm-toned, aged ambient lighting on the first floor and the tinkering of various ceiling fans with rusted hinges. you took in the six monitors mounted on the wall in front of his bed, equipped with live block-to-block security camera footage of his immediate surroundings, the metro transit map tabbed meticulously, and the calendar with past dates crossed out in thick red marker, pages of months previous mixed with takeout containers lodged in the corner trash bin. you quietly followed him upstairs, seeing his hidden stash of weaponry as he explained his recruitment of underground crime groups he's known since his gambling days. you didn't utter a word, not even when you lastly saw the mountain of cash stacked on a random bed in a random room. it stared at you as you did it—blankly.

he broke the silence. "this is where i've been these last three years." he said. he turned to look at you. "i ... i understand that it's a lot." his voice grew quieter. he swallowed, feeling shame brewing in his chest. "i just—i just felt like telling you. i don't know why. i understand if you don't want to know me—" "—i want to help." you said. his eyes widened. "what?" "i want to help you, gihun." you looked at him. he was bewildered. he shook his head, dumbfounded. "no, i think you misunderstood—" "—i did?" you cut him off. "you brought me here because i believe your story, didn't you? what did you expect then, exactly? for me to take my conviction away, like you say those masked soldiers did to those people who didn't stand still enough, or broke their dalgona? you tell me all of these crazy stories, your pain is so visceral that it makes me nauseous with guilt, and you want me to walk away? huh? what is it, then? what did you want!?" you hadn't anticipated your voice to rise, but were yelling by the end, your irritation stuffing the room.

he took your verbal berating silently, avoiding eye contact and shoulders lowering. "i don't ..." his voice trailed. "i don't want you to get hurt." "you gave up the right to protect me when you gave the impression sangwoo was still alive." you spoke firmly, voice now leveled. a breath of defeat slipped through his teeth. "you should've never called me." you said. "you should've done what everyone does: offer to get lunch to be polite, but never actually do anything. you shouldn't've called. i shouldn't've answered. i shouldn't've have shown up tonight, and i should've walked away the moment you started talking. you've given me no choice but to stay."

the silence was deafening. he looked up upon hearing the skid of your shoes against the floor, coming face to face with your softened expression. it was strangely disarming, feeling goosebumps travel up his spine."you were rid of me for thirty years. it's only right we make up for lost time." you said. his gaze didn't falter. it was his turn to affirm his belief of your wordless plea. he nodded, "okay."

you stopped by the motel in the early morning before work, listening to him comb through whatever new strategy he was going to run by his men that day ("what do you think? does this sound efficient?") and in exchange for making you miss your train, he drove you to work before parking at his usual spot. his guilt of bringing you into all of this felt stronger some days than others, showing in your not hearing from him for a couple days at a time. until you squashed that like a bug, dialing him in the middle of your lunch break: "... hello?" "why haven't you called me?" "i ... i've been busy." "you don't have time for a one minute phone call? thirty seconds?" "no, no. that's not what i meant—" "—i'm coming to the motel tonight."

and like clockwork, at nine pm, you showed up on the security camera. his phone vibrated: I am outside. when he unlocked the door, you walked past him without uttering a word, b-lining to his room. he did not immediately follow, purposefully hovering at the entrance after locking it back up securely. he walked with a lowered head, peering into the doorway some moments later. he was taken aback by the sight of you unloading your tote bag, nose tickled with the scent of freshly brewed stew, steaming rice, and side dishes. "i've brought tupperware. you're not eating takeout anymore." you don't look at him, hanging your bag on the back of a chair after fishing out utensils, sitting down with a small huff.

you looked at him. "are you not joining me?" gihun walked into the room, but fell short of sitting down at the table. "how long ... how long have you been cooking?" he felt stupid for asking the question, but the gesture left his mind blank. he felt atomically undeserving. "i got off work early." you responded curtly, plating your food. gihun didn't say anything, making you look up at him again. "it's going to get cold, gihun." your softened tone gave you what you wanted, watching him sit down across from you with muted satisfaction. you ate together in silence, nothing but the gentle clattering of plates and a quiet "thank you" when passing dishes rivaling the white noise of the air conditioning.

"from now on," you started, bringing your bowl to your lips, finishing off the last of your serving of stew. "you will update me everyday. i will bring food for us. if you forget about me, i will haunt you in the afterlife." "understood." he muttered, avoiding eye contact, pretending to look for a piece of meat in his stew, ignoring the one showing itself plainly on the left side of his bowl. his bottom lip quivered; he tightened his mouth. his arms started feeling weak; he inhaled sharply through his nose, tapping his foot under the table. but then a ragged breath rattled out of his diaphragm, his shoulders shuddered, and his vision went blurry; he was a goner. he sobbed into his hand. it sounded a lot like a coughing fit, so you initially thought the food hadn't gone down smoothly. but his defeated, muffled mewls into his palm and sunken shoulders said otherwise, sending you to your feet.

gihun instinctually turned towards the feeling of your hand on his shoulder, crying into your stomach. his hands pulled at your jacket, making you stumble, but you caught yourself. "f-forgive me, please. i won't be able to live with myself. i haven't been able live with myself for a long time." you looked down at the top of his head, unsure of what to do. you brushed his hair back with your fingers—not sure if it was crossing a boundary, but it felt wrong to just stand there—he only cried harder, arms wrapping around your waist, holding you so tightly as if you were a lifeline. "you—you make me feel normal." he said, breathing in short gasps. "after all the sins i've committed, you've—you've shown me atonement is possible." he lifts his head, eyes reddened, cheeks wet. the imagery of the moment was almost religious; if you listened closely, a distant artist began hammering at a marble slab. "b-but i'm not deserving of mercy." he shook his head, his hands coming together, visibly pleading. "leave me. i've hurt too many people. i can't hurt you next."

you wiped his tears. "you already hurt me when you didn't call." you said. "you already hurt me when you pretended sangwoo was alive and well." you reminded gihun, his head sinking in shame. your hand traced his jaw, lifting his head to look up at you. "you don't get to hurt me again by acting like you're alone in this." your voice faltered to a whisper. gihun's fingers ghosted over your wrist. "listen to me—" "—no, you listen to me." you cleared your throat. "we met that saturday for a reason. you let me in tonight for a reason. we're sharing a meal for a reason. stop lying to yourself." you said. "i can handle myself. i've been through a lot. i don't know how many sins you've committed, but even the devil gets a second chance. you should know, you've looked down the barrel of his gun."

gihun tsked. "save your prayers, gihun. just let me have the peace of knowing i'm helping a friend." he sucked in a shaky breath, sinking his face into his hands. "what have i done?" he whispered. "no one deserves to be alone as long as we both have." you retort. silence fills the room, making way for the words to settle into his psyche. goosebumps arise along his spine at the return of your fingers brushing his hair back. you take a step forward, his forehead brushing against the same place he wept on seconds before. "the least i could do is stay," you spoke quietly as if someone would overhear, even if you two were alone. "even if it's for a little while." as embarrassing and hypocritical as it felt to him, gihun gradually wrapped his arms around your waist. his touch hovered, however, only for you to pull him in, letting him know it was okay.

he got the message. his eyes closed, a long breath escaping his lips. you would've missed what he said if you weren't listening closely: "please do." he said, voice low, tone weakened. "please stay the night. there's—there's a room close to mine. down the hall." "i will." you assure without hesitation."what're friends for, hm?" you grinned. gihun let go. "i'll go—" he cleared his throat, voice gravely. "i'll go wash my face." he gestured to the bathroom behind you, rising from his seat. you returned to yours, "when you come back, have more food. you look sunken in." "i will." he muttered.

gihun closed the sliding door, inhaling through his nostrils, wiping a rogue tear with his knuckles. before he turned on the water, he looked over his shoulder, peering through the translucent palm tree imprint adorning the bathroom door. he caught a glimpse of you re-plating his food, leaned over the table, carefully pouring more stew; a hefty pile of rice on his plate; the side dishes pushed towards his seat. his bottom lip quivered, quickly looking away and tugging the right knob, the faucet pouring. the water ran and ran, but his eyes were stuck on his reflection in the mirror. he felt nauseated by the sight of his glossy eyes, deepened frown lines, and pathetic expression: worthless, contradictory, complacent.

seeing himself felt revolting. not even a mother could love this face after all i've done. he thought to himself. how would he know? he found his mother lifeless on the floor when he came home, eternally impairing her with the gripping chokehold of disappointment routinely tightened by her deadbeat son throughout the last years of her life. what would she think of her son now, a secluded loner who lives off of blood money, whom watched his best friend die right before his eyes, hired criminals to do his bidding to further involve himself in a fight that feels too big, and on top of all that has looped in an innocent woman into all of this? and for what, comfort? a semblance of peace? gihun splashed his face haphazardly, drying off with a towel hastily. he turned the faucet off, staring at himself again: "own the consequence." he whispered to himself. "it's all your fault."

you stayed at the motel even if it was against your better judgment, such as having work earlier than usual. gihun stirred awake at the rustling outside of his closed and locked door, reaching over and squinting at his phone screen: 5:37 AM. his senses clouded by exhaustion, he didn't realize just how quickly he recognized your footsteps, climbing out of bed without a second thought. his voice startled you, even if it was quiet: "what're you doing up so early?" he asked. "you don't have work for almost three hours." "i go in earlier today," you weren't sure why you were whispering anymore. "and i forgot something at home. i'm sorry for waking you up, gihun. go back to bed." he left the doorway, coming back with his jacket and shoes on, keys in his pocket. "let's go. i'll take you home, then to work." "no!" you protested, shaking your head and waving your hand. "i've caused enough trouble waking you up." "i'm already here," he said, taking your purse and carrying it in his right hand, his left gently ushering you alongside him. "let's go. you'll be late."

you shared cigarettes after dinner, the emptied tupperware long forgotten on the small table some feet away. you blew the smoke out the window, watching it disappear into the night. the click of gihun's lighter caught your attention, gaze lingering whilst he inhaled. you smirked to yourself: "i kicked this habit right before i started trying for a family." you said, bringing the cigarette between your lips. "i guess you're as bad an influence you say to be." you quipped, exhaling. "high school gihun would ask if he looked cool doing it." he muttered, holding his between his lips, putting the lighter back in his pocket. "he would. and i'd tell him he does." you affirmed with a nod, flicking ash into the tray lining the windowsill. "he would also ask for you to not tell his mom, even though he stole those cigarettes from her shop. then, two days later, he'd ask you for one." you chuckled, leaning towards the window and blowing. gihun shook his head, "what an annoying kid." "funny." you corrected him. "you were funny. aware, but also clueless. caring, too."

"i was shameless." he murmured lowly, blowing his smoke. you tsked un-approvingly, "stop being so brooding. now that's annoying." he looked at you as if you detested his entire family lineage, eyes widened in an expression fit for schoolyard bickering. "i'm not being annoying, i'm being real! hey—" he said, pointing his cigarette at you. "you're the one being annoying, just going against whatever i say! you've been doing this so much lately! on wednesday, when i offered to buy dinner because you've been working so late these days, and you said to me 'hey gihun, i have fifteen more years until i'm eligible for elderly welfare. i can cook just fine.' you could've just said either yes or no!" he waved his hand to accentuate his point, continuing: "and last week when you told me five times to stop wearing the same three shirts on rotation, and i told you i have more than that but there's no need because i sit in a car all day, and you said 'you're more dedicated to an outfit than the president is to the oath of office.' where do you even get this stuff?" he questioned, bewildered, pointing his cig to his temple. you nearly drew blood from your lip from attempting to contain your laughter. "and i wasn't stealing from my mom when i was that young! at least be honest about that." hearing him accentuate his vowels in the midst of his frustrated rant—a habit he's seemingly had his entire life—made your face feel warmer than before, a wide smile appearing whilst laughter finally rang out of you; you'd unpack the former later.

"okay, okay." you nodded, your free hand coming to rest on his arm as a way of both giving in and telling him to calm down. "was it my mom you stole from, then?" you joked, unable to hold your laughter at the look on his face. "you can tell me, gihun. i'm sure the statute of limitations is up by now for theft." "you're impossible." he muttered, shaking his head, bringing his cigarette to his lips. "hey. hey," you said, arm traveling up to his bicep, "i'm just kidding. i know you didn't steal." he stayed silent until he couldn't. "jungbae used to take his father's cigarettes. that's what i smoked." "okay, okay. i believe you, no need to be emotional." you said that on purpose, an upside down grin molding your face at his expression, suppressed laughter clouding your lungs. "how am i emotional for just telling the truth! hey, you can't just lay the bait and expect me not to take it!" "are you really this unable to take a joke?" you questioned. "wow, gihun. you take our role as elders more seriously than anyone our age." you remarked with faux indignity, hiding your grin behind your hand, inhaling. "impossible." he muttered to himself, turning away from you to face the window. your hand fell to your side, glancing at his cigarette between his lips before gazing out the window yourself.

silence washed over the room. after a few minutes, you put out your cigarette in the ash tray. you cleared your throat, crossing your arms over your chest. "i know it's hard, but lighten up." you began. "we just had a good meal. our shit will pass smoothly in the morning." gihun turned his head, looking at you with those routinely emotive brown eyes, too capacious for his own good, gaping at you. you thought you knew what he was going to say, but he scoffed, looking back out the window, a hint of a chuckle leaving his diaphragm, a ghost of a smile on his face. "poop jokes? at our age?" he shook his head, inhaling. upon his exhale, he struck gold: "you're so full of shit." both of you turned to each other with widened eyes, an open smile of surprise on your face: "a pun!" you called out, pointing at his chest. "you just said a pun!" "i'm not inept." he said. "of course not." you agreed. "just stubborn." you grinned, hearing him scoff.

"you may not be the seong gihun i remember entirely," you said, watching him extinguish his cigarette. "but you're certainly a seong gihun that'll be hard to forget." your words weigh unexpectedly heavily, suddenly bringing up the inevitable next step when gihun confronts the salesman. it's long been established as you two have talked about it before, albeit more hesitantly these days, even if it didn't start that way. in the beginning, it was treated with zero sugarcoating; basic fact; common sense—he's going back in there and no one can stop him. however, over these last few months, it's not as if the end goal has changed, but its honest, unforgiving nature has become increasingly visceral. it lingers in the air like an unwanted draft, but you're scared shitless to get up to close the window, fearing something bad might happen if you leave your bed. it was overtly irrational, a perfect concoction of contradiction and avoidance; even at your big age. it made you feel sixteen again, narrowly evading your crush in the busy school corridor, but stealing every possible glance during your shared class. wait . . . hold on . . . did you just use the word . . .

"i don't plan on forgetting you." gihun cut your inner monologue off. you were taken aback. his gaze is unrelenting, even if his eyes give away his own surprise at his words. your mouth moved, but no sound followed. your mind was completely and utterly blank. gihun felt it too, considering you always had something to say at any given time. that's how you made your way back into his life; upended his routine; granted him a better sleeping schedule; made a technicolor life seem possible again; filled his aura with something other than regret and disdain. his life felt—even if it was only momentary—not like it was unfolding to the beat of a ticking metronome, but in peaceful silence, like now. there was no room for hurtful memories, intrusively incessant conflicting feelings born out of his festering trauma, or the hefty responsibility to avenge those lost that he attributes to his own faults. there was room for only you. you.

gihun turned away, flustered. he suddenly wished he never put his cigarette out, yearning for the scent of nicotine to distract him from the discomfort he felt now—a feeling he was sure you shared, too. "i'm sorry." he muttered, so quiet it nearly blended in with the noise of the air conditioning kicking in. you stepped forward, locking your arm with his. he turned his head, glancing at you when you laid your temple against his bicep. he feels one of your hands gingerly rub his arm, saying something neither of you had the guts to verbally. his posture was stiff, unsure of what to do, but he didn't think for an iota of a second to step away or nudge you off. he felt something inside him begin to thaw, or maybe it slowly had been this entire time. "tonight is the first time i've heard you laugh since we met again." you spoke. your tone was so hushed it made gihun feel as if you were the last two people on all of earth. you two stood in silence, looking out the same window; listening to the distant cares drive by; the meow of a stray cat; the air conditioning shutting off. too afraid to move his gaze—and frightened by how hot his face felt—gihun slowly pulled his hand out of his pocket, slipping it into yours. it took him a moment to mount the courage to intertwine your fingers, and another to lay his temple against the top of your head.

something shifted after that night. how could it not? your apartment collected dust with how you practically lived at the motel, other than to cook. gihun awoke before you did on days you had work earlier, intentionally setting this alarm no matter the time he fell asleep the night before. you stayed in his car a little longer than usual when he dropped you off, really pushing that five minute grace period you have to clock in on time, even if those extra few minutes were spent in flustered silence or repeatedly glancing at how close your hands were on the center console. every time you felt your phone vibrate in your pocket, you hoped it was him; elated if it was indeed his name in your messages, and an eye roll if it was an email or the news. gihun found himself sitting up in his seat when your text came through midday (Going on lunch in 15 min), uncomfortably tugging at the collar of his shirt. he cleared his throat when you sent your usual follow up (Free now), staring at the call button next to your contact name. what am i going to say? he thought to himself, only to realize how ridiculous he sounded. gihun pressed the button hastily, bringing the phone to his ear with an irritated huff. since when did i become sixteen again?

on the evenings where you're running late for dinner, gihun is in your room at the motel, tidying it. he didn't want to face the fact that he lingered in your space because it was precisely that: yours—or in more truthful words, he just really missed you. it was where your energy remained a constant, even through the poorly-lit space and stuffy air. it felt irrational to miss someone he would see in a matter of hours, but he could not help it. he distracted himself with fixing the folded corner of the thin duvet; smoothening a stubborn wrinkle on a pillow case; replacing a faulty lightbulb; cracking the window open just enough if it was particularly humid that day. if you still hadn't arrived afterward, gihun sat on the edge of your finely made bed, waiting idly. he sped down the hall upon reading I'm outside, hushing your flurry of apologies with a gentle "it's okay. i only just came home, too."

gihun was no stranger to nightmares. he had them often, tossing and turning in bed, waking up in a cold sweat or with a prolonged headache that followed him into the day. over time, he got better at lulling himself back to sleep, harnessing the mantra of it's not real as best he could. but one night . . . it was too tangible, tactile, even. filled with villains of his past, ghosts of mistakes, ominous reminders of the uncertain future. he knew he was in a dream, but his subconscious was at war with his conscious efforts to wake up—throwing him in a very frightening limbo. he awoke with a sharp gasp, his body riddled with sweat and coughing abhorrently, throat heinously dry. this was the most severe dream he's had in a while. gihun tried to ground himself by whatever means his mangled mind could think of: steadying his breath, feeling the fraying blanket with his fingertips, trying to remember that mantra ... but his senses felt electrified, the visceral fear of the nightmare still fresh.

his eyes shot open when he heard a knock at his door. he stilled, unsure whether he'd imagined it. some of his rationale had returned, but not entirely, because when there was another knock, he quickly got out of bed, grabbing the gun on his nightside table. that dream really must have done a number on him, because he didn't look at his monitors and moved based on assumption—halting upon hearing "gihun?" your voice laced with concern yet gentle, ear pressed against the door. you knocked again. "gihun? are you awake?" you asked. "is everything okay in there?" his shoulders sunk in relief. have i lost my mind? he thought to himself. he put the gun back, momentarily deferring his disgust over his rash actions, cracking open the door.

he swallowed, hiding his grimace at his still aching throat with a quick swipe of his forehead. "good evening." he said rather monotone, trying to mask as light-spirited but executing it meekly. "i'm okay. i had a bad dream." "i heard you—" you gestured down the hall. "i heard you from my room, gihun. you sounded like you were in pain. i was worried that, that—" "—i'm fine." he nodded, trying to assure you. before you rebutted, he asked "what time is it?" whilst rubbing his eyes. "two in the morning." you answered hurriedly. "look, gihun. you're drenched in sweat and you're breathing so hard. i know this wasn't some ordinary dream." you say. "was it ... was it about them? the men in masks, the games?" gihun's hesitant pause was your answer. "i'm okay." he said again. "i'm sorry for waking you up. go back to bed." you tsked. "still so stubborn, even when he's sleepy." you eyed him, seeing his glistening face. "okay," you gave in. "i'm down the hall if you need me." a pause. "you're not alone in this." you reminded him, walking away and returning to your room. his gaze lingered in your general direction for a moment before closing his door.

he tried to fall asleep, but found himself stuck, only able to stare at the ceiling. gihun's mind ran a million miles an hour, feeling short of breath if he focused on that for more than ten seconds. he looked at his phone for the fifth time in three minutes: 2:47 AM. sleep felt nowhere in sight. his sweat had mostly subsided, heartbeat leveled, but his mind remained riddled. if he closed his eyes, they would open right back up. your proposition played in his head like a broken record, but like anyone his age, his pride stood in the way. it's not only that he didn't want to seem weak or have an insecure grip on self-sufficiency, but also seeking comfort still felt foreign to him. it was another symptom of circumstance, both of the past three years and the last four months. gihun felt undeserving, foolish for pursuing such a thing when he's so close to throwing himself back into a world running on nothing but adrenaline and fear.

gihun laid on his left side with a stern huff, closing his eyes, trying so desperately to feel that lilting tug of sleep, even if he had to pretend. he did all of this to protect you and himself. to protect the inevitable, to crystallize his oath of taking down those bastards once and for all. but when he looked at his phone, seeing it was now 3:16 AM, he suddenly felt thirty-five again: coming home horrendously late after another taxing day at the factory, muscles weak and his will even more so. his wife wasn't home, having been at her relative's house the past few days after an argument they had. he laid atop the bed the best his sore muscles allowed; he hadn't enough strength to shower or even feed himself. he got up less than four hours later, freshening up as best he could in an eerily silent house, ignoring the grumble of his stomach as he boarded the public bus.

it was one of his loneliest moments. he didn't know why he thought of that specifically, considering the divorce, custody battle, and moving back in with his mother was a different low point entirely. his eyes opened to the darkness. the silence felt similar, the shame even more so . . . gihun got up, taking his pillow and blanket with him. he knocked twice, pressing his ear against the door, only for it to creak open. it must have been left open. he stepped inside, closing and locking it behind him. the layout of your room was the same as his, so he had no problem navigating the dark room. he quickly laid his pillow on the floor next to your bed, closing his eyes after unfolding his blanket. you were awake, overhearing his shuffling into the room. "gihun?" he gasped: "you scared me." he whispered back, hand on his chest. "why are you on the floor?" you asked. silence lingered. "i wasn't—i wasn't sure if it would be okay." "get on the bed, gihun." unbeknownst to him, you were awake for the past hour and some change waiting; having moved purposefully to lay on one side of the bed.

your face felt warm, eyes squeezing shut and nestling into your pillow when you felt the weight of the bed dip behind you. even though your backs faced each other, you thanked the universe that no lights were on in the room. gihun laid as far on his side of the bed as he could; not enough to warrant worry that he would fall off, but enough to thwart his fastening heartbeat he felt come increasingly close to his throat. or so he thought, because he stuttered with his next words: "you—you left your door open. don't ... don't do that. someone might come in." a beat. "you did." was all you said. barely ten minutes later, both of you succumbed to the white nose of the air vent, gihun's quiet snores and your steady breaths filling the room.

a week later, you walked into your apartment, setting bags of fresh groceries down on the kitchen counter. you heard your text tone go off in the midst of searching your cabinets for the usual pots and pans you used to cook—a piercing rattle reverberating through the immediate space when you dropped a small pot onto the stove, reading the text from gihun: 1 do not come. you stared at the text in horror, inner monologue clustered and borderline indecipherable—did he find him? how? when—yesterday it was another dead end—and lunch was smooth, too—how could have things changed so quickly? where is he—do not come? is he at there, at the motel? he sent this seven minutes—did he confront him there? how did he even find him there? how did he even— how did he even get inside? your eyes flickered back to the 1—a code you two established the night you took your wordless oath to help him in his endeavor ("it's quick to type. the 'one' we're looking for, the 'one' chance we have.") gihun sent the other three words to deter your stubbornness under the glimmer of the neon pink motel sign he didn't turn on himself, further punctuating the sentiment of imminent danger.

"how ... how long do i wait for?" you whispered to yourself. you paced back and forth, gnawing at whatever skin was left on your lips, moving to your nails after they felt raw. you didn't process your stomach rumbling more time went by; another hour passing on the clock, nor did you pay mind to how your loafers continuously pinched the back of your ankles, too occupied to remember to take them off. your phone rang close to midnight. gihun hadn't realized how quickly you picked up his call: "gihun!? what happened? is everything okay? are you okay?" "i'm safe." he said. "i am okay." he let out a breath, hearing yours on your side of the line. he began to explain: "we found him an hour after lunch. we tailed and tried to corner him, but he was too quick. one of my men are dead, and he used to other to find me at the motel." "n-no." you said weakly, shaking your head, horrified. "he was in my room." gihun continued. "he challenged me to a game of russian roulette. i won. he's dead."

you hadn't the faintest clue what that game was. but that did not matter. "d-dead? just—just like that?" your voice was quiet, eyes glossy. "after searching for these three years, he's gone just like that?" these people were so fucking odd. no matter how many times you reeled over the details, anecdotes, of whatever you learned, their ominous nature left you with an uneasy stomach; an urge to look over your shoulder at any given moment. it was consuming you these last six months. you couldn't imagine how it's been for him for the past few years. gihun nodded, despite you not being able to see. "yes." he affirmed. "he gave me what i needed. there's a card with a date and address for a halloween party, i think, since i searched it up and saw its a club. that's where the leader of the games will be. we've started planning what we're going to do—" "—that's—that's two weeks from now." you thought aloud. "yes." said gihun, nodding again. here came the part of the conversation he'd been avoiding: "i need you to ... i need you to stay at your apartment. just for tonight." you were deeply offended. "what? are you crazy?" you retorted, furrowing your eyebrows. "absolutely not. you listen to me, i'm coming—" "—no, listen to me." he cut you off. "it's a mess at the motel. i can't—" he huffed, shoulders sinking a little. "i can't do that to you."

you understood what he meant. "okay." you sounded hurt, but agreeable. you leaned on the kitchen counter, elbow rustling against the grocery bags. "okay." you repeated, running your hand over your face, clearing your throat afterward. you realized this wasn't gihun acting as if he was alone in his endeavor, but asking nonverbally for your belief in him. "i'll stay here. i trust you." "thank you." he responded in a whisper, overcome by a hefty wave of relief. "just for tonight. i promise." he specified once again. "i know." you said. a moment of silence washes over before gihun speaks. "i'll take you to work tomorrow." he said gently. "do you go in at nine?" "seven." you correct. you look over your shoulder, seeing it was nearing one in the morning on the oven clock. "i didn't realize how late it was. i haven't even showered yet." "me neither." he responded, glancing at the time on his car's dashboard. "i'll be at your building at half six. is that okay?" you nodded, despite his not being able to see. "yes, that's okay."

silence washed over the call. "thank you for trusting me." he said. "thank you for trusting me too. goodnight, gihun." "goodnight." he quickly hung up the call, tossing his phone onto the empty passenger's seat. a shaky breath left his lips as his eyes watered, fingers harshly rubbing his closed eyelids. "fuck." he muttered under his breath. when his vision cleared, he turned his head, looking out his car window to your apartment building. he stared and stared, eyes flittering up and down the various floors, trying to spot yours with any hint; a lamp turned off, a curtain closed, anything. some part of him wanted to stay in his spot until he was to pick you up, and another irrationally hoped you'd walk out of the building, like a lovesick teenager who's lost all reason. but eventually, gihun's hand reached for the gear, putting the car in drive, gradually pushing down on the peddle.

those two weeks were a stilled, prolonged goodbye. your face and muscles felt heavy as if you were already in mourning, but your brain remained defiant. he's too stubborn to let those people kill him. you told yourself, pouring creamer into your coffee at work. he's not stupid enough to die. the later half of october rolled out. with each passing day, you slowly lost the strength to cross out the dates on the calendar in his room. gihun would be a fool to not see the growing cynicism that deepened your eye bags, the perpetual frown on your face during dinner, or the avoidance of eye contact. you woke up too easily these days, gihun often hearing your shower head long before your alarm went off. he wasn't sure if you even set an alarm anymore, but it was enough to deduce you weren't getting much sleep. what was once a witty back-and-forth when reviewing the day's plans for his recruits, became a subdued, one-sided conversation where you looked at the whiteboard with an unreadable expression, offering a monotone "sounds good" in the end. as halloween drew closer, your midday texts lessened. gihun reached out—Are you going on lunch soon?—only to come to terms with his hurt upon reading your response: Busy day. I'll see you at dinner. your eyes watered, bottom lip quivering when he texted back: Okay. No problem. you clicked your phone off, turning it face down. you pushed away your half-eaten lunch, losing your appetite. a ragged breath left your diaphragm, tears threatening to leave your waterline. no one else was in the break room, so the consequences of suppressing your emotions thankfully beared no audience. but you felt exposed nonetheless, confronted by the fact that you couldn't bear to lose gihun, but you had no choice.

the motel was eerily silent the night before halloween. the plan was concrete, reviewed ad nauseam over the last couple of weeks. dinner had wrapped a few hours prior, the tupperware packed away in your tote bag hanging on the back of a lounge chair in your room. you didn't dare look at gihun. in fact, your eyes stayed down the entire time, speaking minimally other than to ask to pass a side dish, or offer him more rice. your quivering lips were hidden well behind your utensils, or taking a drink of water. gihun was just as quiet. not passive, but quiet. he didn't muster the courage to say anything. he might not be the most gifted in expressing his emotions, but he was aware enough to read the room and know it wasn't the best time to bring up the inevitable. he knew he couldn't leave you alone. he couldn't, not without saying something.

so there he was, some time past eleven pm, knocking on your door frame. "are you awake?" he asked gently, even if your nightside lamps were on, apparent that you weren't asleep. you peeked over your shoulder. "yes." you answered, returning your temple to your pillow. gihun walked into the room, back facing you as he sat on the edge of your bed. he had enough gall to keep you in his peripheral vision, but fell short of looking at you directly. "what did i tell you about leaving your door open, hm?" he asked, trying to sound sharp, but succumbing to tenderness. "anyone can walk in." "you aren't just anyone, gihun." you said oh so delicately, enough to have him turn his head completely, eyebrows turned up sympathetically. you saw his eyes on you in your periphery, but avoided his gaze, keeping yours on your palm running back and forth along a small spot of the thin duvet.

"i—" gihun reached into his pocket. "i made you a key for the motel." he leaned over to his right, setting it down on your nightside table. "if you ever need anything," he glanced in your direction, the strength to look at you fleeting. "take as much as you want. you know where the room is." you didn't say a word. your palm stilled. his gaze fell to the duvet, too, his hand gliding across the wrinkles. "like i said before," his voice was low. "i don't plan on forgetting you—" "—gihun, stop." you interrupted. "i don't have the strength for this."

silence. he tries again: "i'll come back." he spoke warily. "i'm going to come back." "please." your voice fell to a whisper. "i can't take it." your chin hovered above your chest from the length you went to avoid his eyes. you felt fragile as porcelain, every single utterance of this conversation chipping away at you without remorse. gihun doesn't try again, internally frustrated with how easily he felt defeated. silence wins again, but not for long. he continues tracing the duvet's wrinkles, inching towards to your hand with every swipe. his hand comes closer and closer, until he slows. you watched his fingers gradually hold yours. gihun doesn't apply pressure, but he stays there. he keeps them in his grip when he moves to lay on his side, facing you. "at least look at me." he whispered, pleading. "i can't." you sounded so defeated. his eyes glistened, gripping your fingers properly now. "i can't regret my decision now. not when i'm so close." his eyes shined under the warm-toned light of your lamp. "don't make me regret my decision. please."

your head rose, meeting his eyes. he looked his most familiar: a deep somberness etched in the crevices of his face, his eyes perhaps the most poetic of all. they looked so soft, so gentle; as if a look of malice could never come close to tainting them. he could try his damn hardest, feel the most visceral of anger, but he could never look truly dissatisfied, forever unable to mask his true desire for comfort. for love. a small grin tugged at gihun's lips. "there you are. i missed you." he was barely audible, almost as if he mouthed the words. without thinking, he moved his head onto the pillow, not realising how close you two were until it was too late. it was like a strange instinct, the way he leaned in. he couldn't stop himself; not when the quietest of gasps escaped between your teeth, or his heart thumping so harshly his chest felt it was going to burst, or when his lips hovered admittedly awkwardly above yours. the kiss was light, almost nonexistent, until gihun leaned forward a little more. the tip of his nose brushed past yours, bringing his lips against yours wholly. his nose lightly dipped into your cheek when he kissed you again. before you could show any semblance of reciprocity, gihun abruptly pulled away.

"i'm sorry." he said. "i shouldn't have ... i shouldn't have done that. i'm sorry—" "—it's okay." you shook your head, panicking slightly. you slipped your fingers out of his grip, using them to make him look at you. "come here." you say. he follows, molding his lips with yours once again. the kiss was one of fervor; relocating misplaced frustration into that of palpable yearning; two souls who came together by chance after decades past; an atomic understanding of each other's pain, yet accepting you'll never truly know what's its like to live the other's life; a long-awaited embrace of the unknown, succumbing to the desire—no, the need to be loved.

gihun's lips felt soft, contrasting with his stubble rubbing against your chin and upper lip. it made you pull him closer, his head tilting to the side to deepen the kiss, eyebrows turning upward at the sound of your muffled whimper. your hand left his face, taking his hand and laying his palm atop your clothed breast. he took the hint, kneading it with just the right amount of firmness, but not without moaning lowly into your mouth. his pointer and middle fingers pulled the collar of your sweater down, breaking the kiss mind-numbingly slowly before trailing down to your neck, past your double chin, settling on the faint stretch marks adorning your shoulder. your eyes fluttered closed at the sensation, an encouraging hand in his hair as your chest nearly collided with his, back arched in bliss.

you brought yourself back down to earth, hand reaching past his chest, undoing his belt. you scrambled to undo the button and zipper, escaping into his briefs. gihun let out a guttural moan into your warm skin, embarrassingly (to him) hard in your hand, breathing hard through your slow strokes. "h—h-ha ... h—ngh!" he tried to contain himself by peppering kisses onto your skin, but ended up bucking his hips up into your soft palm. you fastened your pace, fingers wrapped securely around his girthy cock, his precum wetting your hand. gihun shuddered, mouth agape and face burrowed into your clothed chest, fingers limp on your shoulder. you bit your bottom lip as you continued your ministrations, thighs rubbing together for any sort of friction. a whimper rattled out of his diaphragm when you began pumping only his tip. "i'm g-gonna pass out!" he whined. he gasped sharply when he felt something stir in his abdomen. "n-no, no—w-wait!" he suddenly moved, laying his head next to yours on the pillow. "w-wait! s-stop! i'm—" his body reacted before he did. gihun's nose brushed against your cheek, his mewls and grunts making your eyebrows knit together in a fit of awe and sexual drive you hadn't felt in years. hot spurts of cum coated his briefs and your inner wrist. you gradually came to a halt, overhearing his labored breathing.

you leaned in, softly reconnecting your lips. even in his clouded haze, gihun kissed back with intent. his hand found the hem of your pants, leaning closer to you, your free hand holding his cheek, deepening the kiss. you turned your head towards the ceiling with a sharp inhale, effectively breaking the kiss, however, when his fingers dipped between your folds. goosebumps arose on your arms underneath your sleeves, a soft hiss brewing between your teeth. "your hand is cold." you whispered. his nose pushed against your cheek, lips pressing chaste kisses onto your supple skin. "i'm sorry." he said. "i can ... i can stop." "no, it's okay. it's okay." you say breathily, closing your thighs around his wrist. gihun's jaw dropped at the sight."it'll warm up. just—just keep going." you tell him. "fuck!" his voice fought so hard to stay quiet, coming out hoarse.

your eyes were closed, eyebrows furrowed. it was only every few swirls of his finger did a small gasp leave your slightly swollen lips, feeling him come closer to your clit than before. gihun was so fucking close to where you needed him to be, but not quite there. his unintentional teasing concocted the subtle yet apparent slosh of your wetness as your puffy lips encased his middle finger. you arched your back a little, hoping it would slip him into place, but to no avail. you reached for his head, fingers slipping into his hair. "gihun," you swallowed, mouth dry. "a little h-higher." "where? here?" his cock was hardening in your hand again, blurring his logic, trailing kisses up to your temple in his misunderstanding. "your hand, gihun. your f-finger." "right, right." he quickly realized. "i'm sorry."

the pad of his middle finger inched higher. the light of heaven was now in your sight. you opened your legs to allow just enough room for his wrist to fulfill your next request: "a l-little deeper, gihun. a little—f-fuck!" your gasp echoed off the walls. your hand left his hair, coming to cover your mouth, eyes barely open to look down at his hand in your pants. your wetness was blatant, the sticky sound making his cock stiffen and your vision blur. "g-gihun!" you whimpered, feeling him rubbing unrelentingly your sweet bundle of nerves. every swipe tightened the muscles of your inner thighs, toes curling in your socks. "k-keep going! keep going!" you pleaded helplessly, voice stuck at a whisper.

gihun pressed his forehead against your temple, eyes cast below with no intent of looking away. "f-fuck." he muttered under his breath, mouth agape at how he worked you. his mind became mush, marveling over your warmth and intoxicating softness. "please." he muttered to himself, squeezing his eyes shut at the thought of how you would feel wrapped around him. his shame made him feel juvenile, embarrassed by how his thoughts were as sexually erratic when he was 21 to his now 51, but not enough to stop him from grinding his cock into your loosened grip. "p-please," he whispered to himself. "god almighty—hngh!"

you began pumping him again, your other hand going back into his hair, turning your head and kissing his lips. it was one of newfound hunger; quick yet deep; quiet but stuttered through moans and hushed whimpers. suddenly, a knot formed in your abdomen, threatening to unravel. you broke the kiss. "i'm close." your tone was so vulnerable, like you would trust him with the world. gihun opened his eyes, taking in how beautiful you looked under the lamplight, the sheerest coat of sweat glimmering off your skin. "are—ngh!—a-are you?" you asked. he felt your breath brush against his cheeks, his forehead atop yours, nodding. "y-yes. we can finish together. c'mon." he kissed your cheek and your temple. "o-okay," you said breathily, head turning towards the ceiling, feeling his lips rest against your skin. "i trust you."

before gihun could register it, you unraveled. your moans were so delicate, so gentle, descending into shudders rattling out of your chest; back arching, eyebrows turned upward in ecstasy. "i—i!" you whimpered, the feeling of his finger continuously circling your clit through your unimaginable orgasm making your sinuses loosen, tears prickling even in your tightly shut eyes. "yes! yes! y-yes!" you chanted like a prayer, pumping him whilst you rode out your high. gihun was an incoherent mess through his second orgasm, his sweaty forehead sticking to your cheek, spilling onto your wrist in finality. he felt depleted of all energy, dizzy for those first few moments whilst you laid beside each other in your respective post-orgasmic hazes, your joint-labored breathing outdoing the room's air conditioning unit.

his hand slowly pulled out of your pants, yours slipping from his briefs when he turned to lay on his back. gihun's eyes closed, lulling his heartbeat with every deep breath he took. even though your body had stilled—eyes closed, tongue running over your dried lips; trying to bring yourself back down—something stirred inside of you. your body had its release, but your heartbeat fastened for a reason you did not want to acknowledge. in fact, there could not have been a worse time than now. you hastily wiped the tear that had fallen during your orgasm, your face contorting into a near sob, almost giving in to the reality that you convinced yourself you've long accepted. but you loathed it so much, so viscerally that your temples vibrated with anger; resentment; vitriol, even. all those missed phone calls, lying texts, quiet dinners, avoidant conversations . . . now here you were, suffering the consequences the night before he's set to leave.

am i really going to cry after an orgasm? really? you thought to yourself. you knew it wasn't the truth, but you were internally fighting tooth and nail to not yield to the suffocating devastation consuming your lungs like smoke at the moment; breath stuttering through your nostrils, chest convulsing whilst you held back the tears. but then, you felt his hand ghost past yours when he fixed his posture in bed. all hell broke loose.

gihun's eyes widened when he heard you cry. his hand did not hesitate to ride up your arm; a firm, yet gentle tug at your shoulder in an attempt for your attention. "hey," he spoke softly. "what happened? is everything okay?" you cried even harder, bringing your hand to your mouth. gihun's knuckles wiped what he could reach, turning on his side to face you. his big brown eyes looked to you with the same devastation your body was currently expelling. "was it something i did?" he whispered tragically. he was afraid he overstepped a boundary tonight, the intensity of it all hitting you suddenly. but that couldn't be farther from the truth. if only you could stop crying to tell him.

you turned to look at him, pawing weakly at his chest to somehow ground yourself enough to speak. the attempt proved to be worthless, the warmth of your tears lulling you into a state of incoherence. gihun's hands came up, holding either side of your face. "what is it?" his voice was low, laced with concern and perpetual shame. "what happened, hm? you can tell me." he encouraged, fingers wiping your fresh tears, palm softly encasing your cheek afterward. "i can't stand to see you like this. please, tell me."

"i-i'm so sorry i've been so distant!" you exclaimed, your tears added an unintended tone of urgency. you looked into his eyes, shaking your head. "i'm so sorry i've b-been so mean!" "no—" gihun dismissed gently, pulling you into his chest. he wrapped his arms around you; one hand smoothening your hair, the other holding onto your hip. "it's okay. you have nothing to apologize for." he meant every word. gihun never once questioned why you acted the way you did. he's anticipated this from the moment he asked for your number that early afternoon several months ago. out of all the unpredictable variables that have unfairly cast themselves into the trajectory of his life, he could always count on his selfishness to rear its ugly face in the end. whether it be debt, addiction, or hurting the ones he loved—he bears the consequence. but some part of this makes it feel worth it, as murky as it is. "it's okay. it's okay." he hushed your cries. gihun kissed your temple tenderly. "there is nothing to be forgiven." he told you when your tears subsided, holding onto you even tighter. "you haven't done anything wrong."

after a while, you slowly sat up. gihun too, albeit cautiously, watching you wipe underneath your eyes with the back of your hand. you let out a long breath, lifting your head to meet his gaze. "i've always been such an ugly crier." you muttered. gihun exhaled through his nose, grinning. "i can never predict what's going to come out of your mouth next. no matter how hard i try." you grew flustered, an upside down grin tugging at your lips. "you missed thirty years of my life." you said. "of course you'd be a little lost."

gihun couldn't help but let out a small chuckle. comfortable silence washed over the room. your palm began to swipe back and forth on the duvet again, but your eyes were on him. avoidance wasn't in the realm of possibility anymore. it hurt, but you felt ready. "you can't die, gihun." you spoke, voice quiet, as if volume would shatter the sanctity of your oath. you looked at him as if you were the only two beings on the entire earth. "i have more food to make." his gaze did not waver. "i won't." he responded, equally gentle. "i have more to eat."

two days later, you unlocked the door, stepping into your apartment. you kicked your shoes off without a moment's hesitation, setting your purse down on the kitchen counter. the rustle of the plastic bag in your hand almost overshadowed the vibration in your pocket. fishing your phone out, you rolled your eyes at the work email notification. something regarding an ongoing project, or an upcoming meeting—you could have cared less. "it's nine fucking pm. are they this incompetent?" you muttered as you walked to the living room, clicking your phone off and setting it down on the coffee table.

the plastic bag, surprisingly, was not filled with fresh vegetables and your other go-to ingredients, but takeout. you untied the knot, opening the styrofoam containers filled with freshly-cooked fried chicken and tteokbokki, respectively. "shit," you said to yourself, getting up from the couch and scurrying to the fridge, bringing back a can of sprite to accompany the meal. you ignored the cabinet housing your tupperware, not even permitting your oven, which stored your pots and pans, in your peripheral vision. for now, and for your sanity, they were dead to you.

you ate your meal in silence. the crunch of the chicken, chewiness of the rice cake, and the fizzing of your soda kept you company. your phone lit up with emails, the news, reminders to pay bills, your paycheck hitting your bank account; you didn't waver. you did what you vowed to do for the next days, weeks, or maybe the next thirty years: waiting. for something. anything.

honey's taglist! ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა: @gongyoosgf @infinetlyforgotten

[purecommemasolitude]

You guys ever think about s/c/a/r/e/c/r/o/w. Augh.

[nereidprinc3ss]

trolley problem

in which fem!reader has been gambling with her life and spencer reid is more than a little concerned

flangst, hurt/comfort warnings/tags: passive suicidal ideation from reader, she keeps risking her life, that really grinds Spencer’s gears, established relationship, existential dread, existential euphoria, lots of stuff about grief and death and self worth, not advocating for this, pretension from the author, blasphemy probably?, reader gets fuzzy from prescribed painkillers, arguing, hospital stuff, mention of sleep paralysis involving spiders, reader gets shot but she’s fineee, I pander to intro to philosophy takers, bau!reader, neurodivergent coded reader, if she’s not exactly like you I’m sorry, bean soup a/n: one day you’re in a writing slump literally the next you are in your notes app for six hours writing whatever the fuck this is but I think I love it even tho it’s weird and I hope u like it too!! btw this was gonna be called cotard's syndrome but then I never once talk abt cotard's but if u care that might be interesting context for the motif of not feeling human/alive, WC 3K

Spencer hasn’t spoken to you since the doctor left the room five minutes ago. 

The air is antiseptic as you take it deep into the hollows of your lungs and trap it there for a moment, trying to optimize oxygen intake without actually having to breathe very often. Hospital smell is as universal as it is suffocating. It reeks of everything but death—flowers, blood, bleach, vomit. A humiliating, desperate scramble to defy the very thing that defines mortality. It’s pathetic. It reminds you of the worst instances of failure and loss and denial in your life. It curdles your blood. Literally rots you from the inside out. 

You’ve had ample time to ponder that smell over the last few months because you keep ending up here, and some time ago you decided the institution of the hospital is inherently absurd. It’s stupid to think you could avoid the one absolute condition on your corporeal form: impermanence. It is the only thing that is promised, and people still waste their lives away running from it. It is the ultimate self-fulfilling prophecy. 

So around the time you acknowledged that hospitals are simply monuments to the self-importance of man, you gave up on trying too hard to preserve yourself. You’ve seen death too much and too often. You’ve tried staving it off with prayer and the miracles of modern medicine, and it never matters in the end because it’s all magical thinking anyway. All the wallowing and the bargaining and pleading never got you anywhere. 

You’ve accepted that from the moment you were born, you were marked for death. 

But you’re not a complete nihilist. You’re not even totally resigned to the abject certainty of death—because you’ve found a loophole.

Everyone has as many chances at escaping death as other people are willing to offer them at the cost of their own lives. Not many people are willing to make that trade—someone else’s life for their own—but you’ve decided you are. Because if not you, then who?

It’s not that you don’t see the value in your own life, as Spencer keeps making it sound. It’s just the opposite. You understand that you’ve got an extremely valuable resource, and you don’t just have to sit on it. There are things you can do. Choices you can make. Ways to defy death. 

Just… not yours. 

Or maybe you’re just in deep denial. 

Either way—this is a philosophy your boyfriend intentionally refuses to understand. He gets mad, or some kind of upset, every time you try to explain it. Usually he ends up leaving the room close to tears. You never feel good about it.

Right now he’s presumably trying to give you the silent treatment and not doing a very good job. 

“Stop holding your breath. Why are you—stop that.”

Spencer’s frowning, skin sallow and milk-blue under fluorescent lighting. Purple seeps from around his eyes like spilled wine on a white table cloth. Your stomach turns. 

“Sorry.”

He doesn’t tell you not to apologize. You don’t expect him to. 

“Why are you doing that? Does something hurt?”

Other than your entire bicep being on fire due to the 9 millimeter Luger it recently came into contact with?

“Not really. I just don’t like the smell of hospitals.”

At that, he gets stony again. Like, Medusa stony. You feel a tightening in your chest that has nothing to do with a lack of air. His arms are crossed. A silk lined blazer drapes over your lap, and you wonder if he’s cold in just that white button up. It’s translucent in this light, like onion skin, or maybe something less organic—the folds and wrinkles look like fabric, but lots of things look like something they aren’t. In the Pietá, Jesus lounges dead on his mother’s lap, his cheek pressed to her arm like either of them have warm flesh, and her skirts drape from her knees and fall to the ground in delicate folds just like Spencer’s jacket and looking at pictures of it you swear you could find comfort there too—but if you wanted to make space for yourself next to Jesus you’d have to do it with a chisel and mallet. You’re starting to think that’s what it’s going to take with Spencer, as well. 

“So stop walking into active gunfire. You’ll spend a lot less time here.”

Every deep sigh (of which there have been several) calcifies you further. Ironically, you never feel less alive than you do in a hospital. 

“I didn’t walk into active g—”

“I’m not debating it with you. It’s not a discussion.”

“So you’re just going to be pissed at me for the rest of forever? I mean, if it’s not a discussion—what are you gonna do? Break up with me?”

You feel yourself dripping poison in the well. Even as you say it. As his head tilts toward you slowly and intently from his spot against the wall, and his warning gaze is cold and unforgiving and weighs 3.35 tons.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Talk?”

“Don’t try and manipulate me by implying that there are no options between permissiveness and dumping you!”

“I’m not manipulating you. And I don’t need your permission to do anything.” 

The first part is an incredulous scoff as well as a blatant lie. You are manipulating him. Chisel and all. At least, you were trying to. It clearly doesn’t work very well. His jaw clenches.  

“Is this worth it to you? Fighting with me like we’re children solely so you don’t have to take accountability?”

“Accountability for what? I made a choice. I don’t regret it. You’re upset because I did my job.”

A beat. 

Silence always makes you feel the gravity of your words. 

“Do you believe that?”

His voice softens so much, so quickly, it splinters down the middle. 

You’ve never been known for your light touch. For someone who sees eviscerated bodies nearly every day, and prides herself on her evolved understanding of mortality, you often forget other people are not, in fact, impenetrable marble—they are flesh and blood and bone, and you’ve splattered yourself in the evidence of that. 

“What?” You murmur. You easily turn timid, when you’re afraid you’ve been too heavy-handed. Spencer’s seen you sob over the birds who hit the windowpane and never reappeared from the shrubbery—their delicate wings, their little beaks—he didn’t mean to, Spencer, and now he’s dead! He’s seen you spend forty minutes catching a spider with a cup and an envelope rather than smush it, even though you have reoccurring episodes of sleep paralysis wherein a giant arachnid is sitting on your chest, hissing and clacking its pincers. He knows you are, at your core, kind and good. 

It’s a little scary for someone to know that about you. It’s a little scary when you see your own vulnerability reflected in their eyes and the way they speak to you, the way you see it in him now. 

“Do you believe that the choices you make regarding your safety don’t concern me at all?”

“They’re… my choices to make,” you whisper, but you’re less sure than you were a minute ago. 

“I’m not talking about that—I’m talking about how it feels like you are trying to kill yourself every time we’re in the field.” His voice shakes. You swallow. “You have been hospitalized for four serious injuries sustained on the job in the past five months. Every time I bring it up, you—you talk about life like it’s optional for you. Like you’re not only willing to give it up but are actively looking to throw yourself in harm’s way every chance you get. You think that doesn’t terrify me?”

There’s a small chip in the paint on the wall next to him roughly the shape of Africa. 

“It’s not like that. I’m… I’m just having an unlucky streak.”

He snaps. 

“Luck isn’t going to get between you and a bullet. Ever.”

“It’s my job, Spencer.”

“No. It is a risk of the job. Not a defining feature or requirement. But you keep running toward gunfire like you have a quota to meet.”

“Spencer, I’m not doing it at you. I’m not trying to get myself hurt.”

“Well it doesn’t really feel like you’re trying to avoid it, either,” he shoots back immediately, and you feel the anguish radiating from him until it lodges in your own chest, like it was always yours. Maybe it was. 

You want to make it better, but you don’t know how, and even if you did, he’s pushing off the wall and crossing the room toward the door. 

“Where are you going?” You call, a little too desperately for your liking. 

“You need to eat something.”

Which translates roughly to he’s pissed and upset and he needs to leave the room. You’ve done this song and dance before. 

However, food and an absence of him are contenders for the absolute last two things you want right now. 

“Spencer, please don’t—”

But the door is already whooshing closed. 

You stare at the grey and white checkered floor. Light bounces off the waxen reflection—some sort of parallel universe you can’t reach, perhaps. The whole room is desaturated. A mechanical humming threatens to drive you insane. It doesn’t feel like a place for living humans. You’re not convinced you are one. 

When he comes back, maybe ten minutes later, nothing’s moved at all. In fact you’re not even sure you’ve been breathing. 

The door closes as quietly as it opens. 

This time, wordlessly, Spencer comes to you. You see his shoes first—his serious adult shoes. You wish he was wearing his Converse. 

Then you see the bottle of apple juice he’s cracking open for you. Blue lid. Same kind you always get. 

“You didn’t bring food.”

“You wouldn’t have eaten it.”

Fair enough. 

You take the bottle with your good arm and sip shallowly—all that adrenaline and the subsequent interpersonal strife has left you nauseous. The drink is too sweet. It clashes with the tang of metal in your mouth. 

Still, you drink enough to satisfy him, and then you’re tossing his jacket aside before balancing the bottle between your thighs so you can screw the lid back on. He doesn’t go back to the couch or his spot on the wall. 

Spencer doesn’t pull away when you lean into him, but it does take him a moment to reciprocate. You’re still grateful all the same when he cradles the back of your head to his stomach like you’re made of porcelain. 

“I don’t think you understand how upset I am,” he says quietly. 

Only Spencer Reid could be furious with you and still hold you like this. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. 

“That’s not good enough. You need to stop risking your life like that.”

He doesn’t get it. Your brows flutter as they try to furrow but even holding that expression saps you. Maybe the pain meds are finally kicking in. 

“I just wanna help people.”

“That doesn’t explain to me or justify your urge to do it at the cost of your own life. We all want to help people, angel. The whole team. That’s why we do what we do. But we don’t run into shootouts. We don’t split off and provoke people with guns when we’re unarmed and unprepared.”

“But it worked. She got away.” You feel a spark of fulfillment at the memory of Gloria Sanchez in JJ’s arms just before the ambulance doors had slammed you into your first cage of the night. 

“We don’t know if he was going to kill her. He might not’ve fired at all if you didn’t go running toward him. That wasn’t strategic, it was reckless and irresponsible and you know that. I know you do. So something else is going on.”

The pressure in your nose that usually precipitates tears comes as a surprise. 

“I just—if that’s how I can save someone, why shouldn’t I, you know? Why do they have less of a right to live than I do just because they’ve been deprived of the choice? If I have a choice, and they don’t, I should choose to… to help them. That’s my job.”

For a long moment, you listen to your own breath, muffled by Spencer’s shirt, and the mechanical humming, and something dripping, and the low, buzzy chatter of nurses far down the hallway.

When Spencer next speaks you get the sense he’s holding a lot back. His voice is taut enough it wavers slightly. Taut enough that if he weren’t speaking so quietly he might be yelling. It’s like pinpricks all over your body—not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure you’re paying attention. 

“You can’t help anyone if you’re dead. Do you understand me?”

And yes, in theory, you do. But that doesn’t negate your original point. It only takes one life or death moment for you to utilize the most valuable resource you have. What happens after is no longer your concern. 

“On the psych evals you helped develop it asks if you think it’s appropriate to sacrifice the one to save the many. The answer is supposed to be no. If you say yes you get flagged. The FBI frowns upon… lever-pullers. And that’s exactly what I’m doing if I let one person die when I could’ve potentially saved them.”

“Protecting your own life is not pulling the lever. What you’re doing isn’t smart or morally righteous. You’re just throwing yourself across the tracks, too. If you were to fail a psych eval right now it would be because you’re passively suicidal. And you know what? The FBI also tends to frown upon self-immolative delusions of grandeur and girls who like to play sacrificial lamb.”

“’M not a… sacrificial lamb…”

“No,” Spencer agrees quietly, stroking your hair. “You’re not.”

And you can’t react to the fragility in his voice, or the content of his words, and the fact that when he says it he means something different—you can’t do anything about it. You can only catalogue it. You can only know that he loves you, and feel a little guilty about it.

Some time passes. You don’t know how long he remains standing so you can doze against him. He does not smell like the hospital. He’s the antidote for whatever grief they distill from widows and orphans before aerosolizing it through the whole place. 

“Baby?” He asks eventually. You know the lilt of it. He’s been thinking. 

“Hm?”

He hesitates. 

“Can we talk about you maybe taking some time off of work?”

“You heard the boss,” you mumble. “I can’t come in for at least a week.”

“I mean beyond that.”

You intend to respond, but by the time you open your mouth you’ve lost the prompt in all the brain fog. 

“You’re so comfy,” you murmur dreamily. “Thank you for being mad at me.”

If he responds, you miss it. 

You’re imagining the bed waiting for you at home, once the doctor is done observing you—warm, neatly made. Blankets woven with soft fibers. A mattress that will sink under your weight. You think of Spencer, who’s shaping himself to you, Spencer, who intentionally inhales when you exhale at night to make room for the rise and fall of your chest against his. You think of the imprint of his buttons on your cheek. You are both flesh and blood and bone. 

Strange, pill-induced half dreams and visions and memories take over. You’re in that alleyway again. That man fires. You don’t blink or scream or feel. 

Just before the bullet makes contact you’re standing in front of the Pietá. It’s massive. Spencer is there, too, holding your hand. 

You can’t actually see him, only, you know he’s there. You feel his warmth, his presence, when he leans over to whisper in your ear. The way you know him goes beyond sight. 

The Pietá—meaning the pity, in English—is 6’7” and six feet wide. It weighs 6,700 pounds. Michelangelo had to quarry the block of marble himself. He was only 25 when he finished. The Basilica keeps it behind bulletproof glass. 

Jesus and Mary behind bullet proof glass. 

God. Who’d try to kill Jesus a third time? He’s already dead. 

Besides—they’re both made of stone. Bullets would probably just ping right off of them. Or maybe they’d shatter just like you did. 

Probably not though. You’re not actually made of marble. You’ve no idea what it feels like to be a statue and get shot at. You sure know how it feels as a human, though—and it feels like shit. You don’t really know why you keep doing it. None of your reasons are good enough for Spencer, and he’s, generally speaking, pretty smart about some things. 

Maybe you’re tired of being human.

Maybe you’re tired of sleeping on your arm funny and waking up to a hand in your bed that doesn’t feel like yours and remembering all the hands you’ve held moments before they couldn’t hold yours back. Or tired of those moments where you are being held and it’s so unbelievably perfect and then someone has to let go, or when someone you love hugs you goodbye and you realize that there will always be a final I love you, or simply getting older and watching potential life paths fall away like rotten fruit to the ground. Maybe life is sometimes so good it hurts and you can’t bear it. So you tempt fate. You walk a tightrope because even if you fall and it can’t ever feel good again—at least it can’t hurt either. At least you won’t lose anymore. 

And yet. 

It does feel good, sometimes. Sort of often, actually. Even when it’s awful. 

Dead Jesus and Mary, with their marble skin and their bulletproof glass and their holiness and their virginity and all the other things they have that you don’t. Nobody can hurt them anymore. Not ever. 

Maybe that’s something you envy.

But you doubt they’ve ever been so terribly, wonderfully alive as you’ve been, or as comfortable as you are like this, leaning into Spencer’s warmth and his softness, in the hospital, or the Vatican, or your dreams. Your bicep was ruined but it’s healing. You are capable of ruin and rebirth in the same lifetime. In the same day, in the same hour. 

You doubt that in 520 years, behind bulletproof glass and unyielding, eternally flawless skin, they’ve ever felt as invincible as you do now. 

You doubt they ever could. 

[beautifulpaprika]

A Beast and a Bracelet (m)

pairing: fem!reader x beast!jk

warnings: 18+, unprotected sex, in the forest!

summary: You tried saving someone ... again. However, this group is large and bloodthirsty, and trying to lose them in a forest isn't working. Yet, when you find a cave, it seems to be your saving grace. Not because of what's in it, but who's in it.

word count: 8.7k

Branch after branch hits me in the face- my hair getting caught in the branches more than once as I run from the group of men after me. 

“Stay out of the business of men, Y/N,” my father always told me. Of course, when I spotted the ready-to-beat-a-man in front of his children, I couldn’t sit back and chug a pint. I had nothing better to do. I didn’t think through the part where there were three of them and one of me. 

The plan was running into the forest where the monster stories came from- stories of missing people and blood trails - in hopes they would be too afraid, but by the footfalls following close behind, I can safely determine they are not as fearful as I am of the forest. 

I have no navigation in the pitch black and wood. My lungs feel ready to give up on me, and the noises I hear on my left sound a lot like something ready to pounce on me. But I keep running. 

“Come on, brave one! You wanna jump in to our business? We can do this right now!” One of the men calls from behind me. I’m astounded they have the air to be able to catch up and yell at the same time. 

I attempt a look behind me, my eyes glancing at a small light catching up. Panic rises in me and boils over, tears welling in my eyes, making finding safety even more difficult. 

There’s a dark mass ahead- a cave surrounded by weeds and vines. Pictures of monsters with sharp teeth and blood dribbling down their chin appear in my mind. 

“Get her!” one man calls out. They’re on my tail and I have to make a decision. 

One foot in front of the other until it’s pitch black in the cave. My footsteps echo off of the cave wall and I almost slip in the mud. The sound of splashing water urges me to turn back. Something is in here, and it’s not a bunny. 

I stick close to the wall, unmoving.

Unfortunately for me, a light shines in the cave. 

“There you are,” the one in front says. They all have a hungry look in their eyes that tells me everything I need to know about their intentions.

My eyes sting from the tears welling. I should’ve listened to my father. I should’ve kept to myself. 

The frontman grabs my arm, but I scream when his touch is gone as soon as it’s there. 

Growling mixing with agonizing screams draws my attention. The light is suddenly gone -it’s pitch black and I hear the nervous panting of the other two men. 

The screaming stops and my breath catches, not wanting the creature to hear me. It’s not a second longer when the screams start up and the crunching of bones and ripping and tearing of skin join it. 

The gurgle from the second man doesn’t stop before the third one follows. The screams and noises last for a few moments longer. When it stops, I close my eyes. I’m preparing for the death that is to come, asking any forces out there to grant a quick death and for my father to never have to find me. 

A huff in front of my face pushes my hair from my face. 

I hate the pathetic whimper I give to the creature. 

Its breathing is heavy and similar to that of a dog. 

“I’m sorry I intruded,” I whine, “I didn’t know where else to go,” I whisper. It feels useless to ask for mercy from a creature that most likely can’t understand me. 

However, it doesn’t seem as impossible as I thought when the huffing retreats from me. The hot air is gone, and I’m out of breath when I hear a splashing again- just like the one I heard when I came in.

I squint my eyes, trying to see rather than hear. 

There’s a new panting sound coupled with coughing and spitting, but it sounds human. Nothing like the creature growling deep while it tore men to pieces. 

Feet slap the wet floor, and I continue to hold my breath, not wanting to make any sudden movements. 

“I know you’re there,” a voice calls. It doesn’t sound menacing or annoyed- more matter-of-fact than anything. Rustling sounds move from my right side to across from me. 

A light appears, causing me to cover my eyes with my arm to adjust to the sudden brightness. 

“A ‘thank you’ would have been nice,” the same voice is right in front of me now. I slowly lower my arm, not wanting to be bombarded by light again. 

My eyes glide up to be met with a man’s curious gaze. The light shows off his raised eyebrows and glistening chest. His dark hair sticks to the sides of his face. He must have been the one who was making all the water sounds. I come back down, looking past his legs to the three bodies behind him. I gasp at their state. Torn limbs, popping eyes, frozen faces of shock. 

“Oh, that,” he grimaces. “That is quite the mess I’ll have to clean,” he mumbles. 

“Who are you?” I look back at him. “Did you do that? How-“

”None of these words sound like appreciation,” he crouches down, his head tilting. “Should I have let them have their way with you?” He asks. I look past him again, a rage boiling inside men from the thought of those torn-up hands being on me instead. I shake my head. 

“I’m grateful,” my voice is low. 

“Good enough for now,” he gets up again, moving back to the space across from me. “You can go,” he announces and I’m caught off guard by it. 

That’s it? 

He sets the light down as I stare in amazement. He’s already heaving one body over his shoulder without a struggle.

I slap myself for gawking at his back muscles and the marred skin as he takes one body and starts to carry it out. 

The half-naked man stops in his tracks and slowly turns to me. 

“You can leave at any time, bunny.” I have to stop myself from flinching at the pet name. 

My mind becomes dizzy at the choices of staying or going. This man is new, a mystery, and I can’t help but be curious. He’s the one who saved me and I’m supposed to walk out as if nothing happened? 

“I’d like to help,” before he can reject my offer, I’m picking up a ripped-off arm and a toe tossed away. Nausea rises in my body up to my throat, but I hold it back before I make even more of a mess. 

I’m ready to follow the man out, but his body is fully turned to me now, the body still on his shoulder. I try avoiding his stare by walking past him, but he blocks me. 

His eyes scan me from top to bottom. I shiver under his wandering eyes. 

“What are you doing?”

”It’s the least I could do for intruding your. . . space,” I refer to the cave. “And it’s obvious you saved me from imminent death . . . And worse,” I gulp, and his eyes follow the movement in my throat. 

I wait for him to say anything or reject my offer, but he doesn’t. He turns, the dead expression of the man on his shoulders flinging towards me. I gag at the wounds down his face. 

“If you’re going to do that the whole way, I suggest you go home instead,” he tells me. 

I shake my head, despite the fact that he can’t see me. 

We trek out into the forest, carrying our bodies (and body parts). The lamp attached to his pants lights the way, but I can’t help looking at the way it drags his pants down his hips a tad. His skin is dry now and I notice the scars down his back more easily. 

“You’ll need to clean up afterward,” he says before throwing the body in an empty spot between some trees. “Going home from this forest will have questions thrown at you enough, but coming back with blood? You won’t survive,” he explains. 

I throw the hand and toe on the spot. 

“You sound like you speak from experience,” it’s as if I have a death wish making such a suggestion, but he laughs it off. Maybe I’m not incorrect. After all, there’s a reason he lives in the cave. 

He doesn’t say another word but turns to return to the cave. 

“How long have you been out here?” I try to break the silence. He gives me a look. “You have a made bed and some supplies in that cave of yours, your hair is-” he gives me another look and I stop talking. The hair must be a sensitive topic.

“It's been a few years. . .” 

The shock in my body slows my walking down. Years? 

“Did you run away from home?” 

“Something like that,” he shrugs. 

I don't ask any more questions for fear of seeming more intrusive than I already am.

“Where is your pond of water?” I ask, trying to fling some of the blood on my fingers. 

He freezes at the question. 

“You have one. I heard it,” I walk further into the darkness, hoping to find the small body of water. 

I notice something glistening and take a step towards it. 

But then my feet lose their balance and my back is against the wall. Air leaves my lungs when the man’s face crowds mine, his hands caging me on both sides. 

“Don’t. Touch. That. Water,” he’s panting and I can only see the left side of his face. The anger and anxiety cinching every feature.

I notice the splotch of blood sitting on his eyebrow and lick my finger to rub it off.

He flinches when my finger touches him, but his eyebrow doesn’t relax. 

“I won’t touch it,” I promise. “I apologize,” I plea that he accepts the apology- my life being at risk and whatnot. 

“You don’t owe me anything. Go home,” he breaks away from me turning to gather the next body. 

“How do I know they won’t come for you? That you’ll be okay?” He freezes on the spot again. “I want to help!” I confess. I don’t want to prove my father right. Not about not being able to defend myself and not about being useless to this world. 

He doesn't say a word but looks back at the body left torn on the ground. It's enough to answer my question. 

“I think I'll be alright,” he says. He makes his way out of the cave and I follow after him. 

“There are more guys then where that came from, I can promise you that! They’ll come looking,” I try. I try to convince him tha t we need each other. My hope is that he says yes and lets me figure out the mystery that he is. 

“I handled three and I’ll handle more,” he grunts as he throws the body into the spot. 

“How do you know people won’t find this?” I gesture to the pile of limbs. 

“It’s still night. The monsters will take care of it. Monsters worse than me,” he says with a  low voice, staring directly at me. The words do as he intended. With a shiver running down my spine, I’m officially afraid. 

“I’ll go home,” I tell him, turning away ready to follow the tracks home. 

“You do that,” he makes his way back to the cave. 

“I‘ll be back tomorrow!” I call. 

“No, you won’t!” He calls back before disappearing into the dark. 

***

I keep my promise to return. This time I bring bread and treats with me, hoping something sweet is enough to tame the beast. I’m not sure what kind of beast he really is, but what does it matter if he doesn’t hurt me?

It’s clear I haven’t learned my lesson last night by getting into “men’s business”. This man is only half man, so it counts. I suppose. 

A leaf crunches behind me, and I swivel to confront whoever’s following me, but Im only met with the sight of a misty forest wind moving through grass and dirt. 

“Y-yeah! You better not fuck with me!” I cringe at my voice wavering on the swear word. 

“You really spooked them away, bunny,” a deep chuckle sounds behind me. 

I swirl to look at the scarred man, a smirk spreading across his face. He approaches me casually, like any man on the street would- except he has no shirt, and his hair is still tousled, and his pants are ripped in different areas. 

“Your anxiety is palpable,” he says, tilting his head at me, while tapping a finger top my chin. 

“I’m not scared of anything,” I lie. 

“I know your idea here is to be brave, but you can’t be brave if you have nothing to fear,” his hand taps the sack hanging in my hand. “What’s this?” he asks. 

I hold the bag to him, the smell of fresh bread and cake wafting around us. 

“For you,” I push it towards him as his eyebrow lifts. “I don’t have any money, but my father and I can bake pretty well,” I shove it towards him again, but he continue s to stare at me. “Yes. It’s a bribe, but I’d like to show you that this team,” I point to him and myself, “can work out pretty well.”

“And why do you want to be a team?” he asks, his arms crossing over his chest, his biceps protruding. I gulp at them, then catch myself looking back at the man. The smirk tells me he noticed me checking him out. 

“I’d like to do more in town, but with the risk of being killed, I can’t do it as much as I’d like. I want your help. For protection,” I propose. I realize the more I talk, the more my body caves in. I quickly adjust to lift my chin and he chuckles at me. 

His eyes narrow, then surprise. I try to process the shock on his face.

“You-” his arms uncross and I wait for his words. 

“What?” I ask. His eyes cut deep into mine and I suddenly feel awkward in my spot. 

He relaxes again, back to his normal composure. “You’ve got a deal,” he announces. Before I can ask him what that was, he’s already turning away and heading in the opposite direction. I try to make out some of the shapes in his back.

I quickly avert my eyes when he looks back at me and start to follow him.

“I brought some other things as well,” I show the bag in my other hand. “Another peace offering, but also . . . basic hygiene,” I shake the bag in excitement. The girls in town never let me braid their hair, but it’s alright. There’s someone who needs my services more anyway. 

He doesn’t say much, only continues to walk and even cleans sticks and rocks from the ground. 

“It’s a bit useless to clean the forest isn’t it?” I ask. 

“It’s meant to be a path, so that you can easily find your way back and forth,” his words catch me off guard. It’s a small gesture, but it’s nice to know he’s keeping me in mind when he does. 

I gawk at him for a few moments longer until the noise of running water breaks me out of the trance. We come up on a small creek dug into the ground. This is no cave. 

“I didn’t see this last night,” I whisper. 

“We didn’t come here last night,” he points out. I give him a questioning look, for him to answer in a shrug, “You said you have a few things for hygiene and a couple of treats - let’s have a picnic, bunny,” I shake my head at the nickname. 

“Why do you call me that?”

“I’m big. You're small. I thought that was obvious,” he raises a branch for me and I pass through. 

“It wasn’t that obvi-”

“Where did you say you came from?” he suddenly asks from behind me. 

“I come from the town just outside of here,” I tell him, turning to face him. He hums in answer. “Have you ever been there? It’s right outside of this forest,” his face scrunches, contemplating. 

“I’m from the cave, that’s it. Now that we’ve gotten introductions out of the way-” he pulls the torn-up pants down his legs and I gasp at the muscles on him. He could crush a man’s head with those thighs. “Let’s get to that wash,” he says, a hint of excitement touching his tone. 

He steps down, slowly, into the water.  

I put a fingertip in the water. I hiss at the cold, but he seems entirely unphased. He seems to enjoy it if anything. 

I admire the way he’s able to bask in the cold water. 

“Alright, what’s next, bunny? Where’s the soap at?” he calls. 

“How do you know about soap?” I had assumed he never joined society. I gather my bag, bringing out soap, sponge, a hairbrush, and a pair of nail clippers. I grab the hairbrush first, waving him over.

“I haven’t always been out here,” he explains, slowly making his way towards me. His back faces me, and despite him being taller than me, I still can’t reach him at a comfortable position. 

“Can you just . . . come a little closer?” I reach again, only able to reach so far without falling into the water. 

He leans backwards, not able to step back without slipping on the tilted creek floor. I reach for his hair, and I’m able to brush it, but the angle is uncomfortable. I try to brush the strands lower, by his neck, but my arms quickly tire. 

“Hold on- Just-” I say, trying to fix my posture. 

His head turns to give me a side-eye, and I watch him roll his eyes. 

“I know something that might help,” he gestures to me to lean over just a bit more. I try my best to have my body hover over the water without falling in. 

The man leans over to grab me underneath my arms - my scream muffled by the water rushing into my mouth. My feet are able to reach the ground and thrust me to the surface. 

My ears fill with the sound of his laughter once they clear out. I turn to him slowly, the cold water causing my eyes to twitch and my body to shiver . . . Or is that the anger? 

“What is wrong with you!” I swear the birds get spooked at my yelling. “I am trying to help.”

“You're trying to butter me up. I already said I would do what you asked, there’s no need to cater to me any more,” his arms reach up to brush his hair back, but his fingers catch easily in the knots. “I brush with my fingers,” he says, proudly. 

Despite my anger, I draw closer to him, his breathing slowing as he looks down at me. 

“While brushing with fingers could work . . .” I start. I grab his arm and pull him to where his back is facing me again. I try not to stare at the obvious scars in different sizes and shapes running down his back. “It’s not going to do all the work. Trust me, the brush will make you feel lighter.” The weight of my clothing drags me down a smidge but I ignore it. I start at the bottom of his long, dark strands. I expect to hear a ‘hiss’ or feel a flinch on some of the knots, but he doesn’t. He actually seems relaxed. His head leans back and a hum occasionally sounds from him. 

I pour more water on his head, following the line down his spine until it meets the water at his waist. I admire hsi figure, dragging a finger down the same path as the water, sometimes detouring to some of the scars. 

I kick myself out of the trance, and when I look back up to focus on the hair again, his head is already slightly turned to look at me. 

“Um, I’m sorry. I got curious,” I admit. 

“About?”

“What your skin would feel like. I don’t think I’ve seen so many scars,” I say. His eyebrows pinch. “I don’t mean that as a bad thing. It’s new. And intriguing. And you should tell me about them,” I add a smile, hoping it’s enough to convince him. 

“You ask for a lot. I’ve saved your life, isn’t that enough from me? If anything I should be asking you for more,” his arms cross. I snort at how pouty it makes him look. 

“Well, I’m brushing your hair aren’t I? You know how many other men’s hair I’ve brushed?” 

He turns in genuine interest. 

“No one. No other man’s hair! And!” I reach for the bag sitting on the edge of the creek, ready to fall in. I dig through the bag, revealing another gift - a bar of lavender soap. “How many people have I given soap to? Zero,” I push it towards him, the bar leaving white residue on my fingers. 

He reluctantly takes it, eyeing it, then me, then it. 

“I’m not sure this is the compliment you-”

“Ungratefulness is not very becoming of you,” I interrupt. 

His eyes peer up at me from under his eyelashes. “I’m still a bit sore, you know, from saving your life,” he says. I nod in understanding. “I’ll need help using this,” he hands me the bar. 

I freeze my hands from playing with the water. I scan his face for any sign of joking, but he continues to hold it to me. 

I take it, and he steps closer immediately, his body towering over mine. My attempt at not appearing nervous doesn’t work. 

“I’ll do it if you can answer one question,” I tell him. He rolls his eyes but agrees. “Why is the water in the cave off-limits but the creek isn’t?” He’s initially annoyed by the question, but I watch him relax.

“It changes me. It’s the reason I was able to become the monster that helped you,” he flinches when I start to lather him in soap. Creek water isn’t the cleanest, but it’s all I have to make the soap softer. “The reason I couldn’t let you go in it is because it’s not something you easily come out of,”he explains. My hand trails over his abdomen and up his sides, he inhales sharply, but recovers quickly. 

“What exactly do you turn into?” 

“Half human, half dog, half beast. There are too many ways to describe it. It doesn’t help that at first you aren’t aware that you’re something else. It takes a couple of tries to not lose your mind. Some have succumbed to the madness, and others take it, go into town, cause chaos, and get themselves killed.” His eyes are distant as he talks. There’s something that tells me he is talking from experience. “It doesn’t help that when I take that form of the beast, it drains my energy. My human energy isn’t meant for a big body with that strength. It’s draining.” 

“Are you the only one now, besides me, who knows about it?” I reach his neck, noticing a big difference in cleanliness. 

He nods in answer. 

“You haven’t lost your mind, though. Why are you different?” he shrugs at my question. 

“I had a good mentor, at first,” his eyes turn down, “I also had a lot of motivation, I guess,” he holds his arms forward for me to wash. 

“What was your motivation?” 

He waits - the crickets nearby and the trees still. 

“You’ve asked much more than one question now. The focus should be on getting this dirt off of me,” he wades over to the edge. “You should get my legs too,” he lifts one onto the wall and I screw my eyes shut, squealing- the sound of his laughter a massage to my brain.

***

The next day it’s raining. I cover myself with the sack that I brought for Jungkook (a name I learned while I was soaping his legs - truly a heartwarming moment.) This time it has a few shirts I stole from my father. 

Jungkook told me I shouldn’t come back again at the risk of someone catching onto the fact that I was going into the forest too often. Judging by the trees surrounding me, I didn’t listen. I’ve checked my surroundings a million times before coming in. 

A noise behind me makes me jump, but I start humming to soothe the nerves. I brought Jungkook a small cupcake with a bunny iced on the top. It’s a bit wet now from the rain, but I’m almost certain he’ll still like it. 

After our day at the creek yesterday, I feel like he knows me better than anyone. The only thing I haven’t figured out is why he decides to stay out here instead of joining the rest of society. Well, when I truly think about it, I guess I can understand why he wouldn’t want to. 

I release a breath when I arrive at the cave, grateful that I didn’t forget where it is. 

“Jungkook?” I call as I walk in. My lantern is able to light up the slick walls. There’s running and shuffling until I approach him. He’s sitting criss-cross on the ground on a sheet, wide-eyed and open mouthed. “Jungkook? What are you doing?” I slowly approach him. 

“Nothing. Sitting here,” he says it too quickly to believe him. 

“What do you have behind you?”

“What’s that in your hand?” he nods to the cupcake I’m holding- the picture of the bunny looks a bit sad now. I don’t miss the way he decided to change the subject, but I can’t be bothered to bring it back up. He’ll have to move eventually. 

“It was a cupcake,” I step closer and sit in front of him, he tenses a bit, “but the rain kind of . . .” I show it to him. He looks at it and I think I see a smile spreading across his face. I have to check twice that it’s not a teasing smile, but what I thought was true. He’s looking at it fondly.

He reaches for it, releasing whatever’s behind him. 

“Thanks, Bunny,” he says. He doesn’t eat it but sets it beside him instead. 

“Are you going to tell me what’s behind you now?” I ask. He’s right back to being tense. His mouth opens and closes, resembling a fish, and before he can say anything else, a voice yells out. We freeze and look out the mouth of the cave. 

“Where the fuck did she go?” a man yells out again. Even with the rain, I can hear him clearly, meaning he’s too close. “Keep going! That bitch definitely had something to do with their disappearance!” he announces. 

They know. They must be friends of those men’s whose bodies we dumped - and they followed me here. 

Shit. How many times do I have to tell myself that I should have listened?

“Jungkook . . .” I whisper, but he’s already standing when I turn. 

“Stay here. I’ll take care of it,” he demands. The gentle Jungkook who accepted my soggy cupcake is gone - replaced with a Jungkook who looks ready to drown someone in the very creek water we swam in. 

“I��ll come with you,” I get ready to stand.

“Y/N . . . I appreciate it, but please don’t. It was always me who was supposed to take care of it. I’d feel a lot better if you stayed here,” with that, he jumps in the water. Meanwhile, I’m still caught up in how he knew my name. Jungkook may have fessed up his own, but I never did the same. 

His beast rushes out of the water and I have no time to take a glance at him. His gray skin is the only thing I spot paired with a panting noise as he runs out. 

Waiting in the cave for a mere three seconds is already torture. The waiting is agony especially when I can’t hear anything and not knowing how many followed me into the forest. 

I occupy myself by looking around the cave, not that there’s much to look at. I spot the thing Jungkook was holding behind his back. It looks like a bracelet but made with flowers and grass. I smile at it. Jungkook hiding his soft side makes the bracelet all the more special. 

A roar yanks my attention away. Yelling and screams rise above the rain from multiple people- more than three. I can’t just sit here. I can’t. 

The rain drops are cool against my skin and I pick up a long stick as I run in the direction of the chaos. 

My confidence in being able to help is not high, but my motivation is. There’s a pained whimper this time from Jungkook. My feet move faster now. It doesn’t matter if they can hear me coming to them as long as I’m able to get there- as long as he isn’t alone. 

A choked sound comes from below me. One of the men Jungkook dealt with reaches out with the one arm he has left. His mouth forms the words “Help me,” but I look away before he can say anything else.

Leaves crunching and sounds of a struggle lead me to a clearing. Bodies are scattered in every part of the clearing, unmoving. There are a few bodies beyond the trees as well. This was much more than the three men Jungkook dealt with in the cave. 

The beast himself sits in the middle. His skin is gray and slimy with hair in very few places. This form is indeed much bigger than the Jungkook I know.

 I quickly approach without saying a word and examine his condition. He’s lying on his side, his breathing shallow. There are a few scratches on his sides and a gash down his face. He’s exhausted and I think back to when he said the beast form is not meant for him to stay in for a long time. His body exhausts easily and if he used a majority of it on fighting these men- 

Damn it. I should’ve asked what happens when that energy is spent. Of all the times I have been nosy in my life and I couldn’t do it in such a crucial moment. 

Jungkook’s beast eye peers up at me and huffs. I ignore the scolding and focus on how I’m going to help him. The pond is too big to be brought to him, so I’m going to have to bring him to it. I don’t let the thought of “How?” linger in my mind too long before I’m picking up his legs and dragging him with as much force as I can bear. 

His groan is quiet behind me. 

“Don’t speak! Don’t do anything!” I yell. I avoid one or two bodies. I haven’t made it far and my arms and back are aching. 

“Use your legs, or you’ll do some damage to your back,” Father’s words echo in my mind. He’s told me so many wise things and yet I can never listen. It’s how I’m in this predicament in the first place. It’s the reason Jungkook is dying. 

My throat closes as tears well up in my eyes. 

“I’m not letting you die.” 

***

Jungkook is practically on the brink of death when I dump him in the pool of water. The lantern lights the red stringing through the water and I cross my fingers that he doesn’t drown. 

“Please, please, please,” I whisper, screwing my eyes shut, a tear falling as a result. “You’re my only friend, Jungkook. . .” I whisper. “Don’t leave.” 

As soon as the words escape me, a head surfaces above the water. I’m on my knees in an instance reaching for him. He’s still very heavy when I pull him in, but nothing compared to when he was the beast. 

“You’re okay!” I wrap my arm around his neck and pull him in. He hugs me back for only a second before I feel his body limp and fall. “Jungkook? Jungkook!” I call for him, but his breathing is weak. I pull him to where his sheet is, laying him gently. His eyes close and he enters sleep. I notice a bit of blood dripping down his face and sides from the battle.

I make sure his breathing is okay then leave him to rush back into town on a mission to take anything that could save him.

***

It’s the second day since Jungkook was attacked and it’s raining again. He’s woken up a few times for water, but nothing else. The bandages on his waist glare at me as I sit on the opposite side of the cave, humming a song, playing with the bracelet he has yet to finish. 

“I can’t believe you don’t remember,” his voice pipes up. I rush to him, a cup of water in hand from the creek. “I’d thought at least by now-” I put a finger to his lips- the rasp of his voice anxiety inducing. 

“You need to save your energy. We can talk when you’re back to being normal,” I tip the cup into his mouth, and he takes it. When I’m done, he sits up despite my protests. 

“I thought you liked the fact I wasn’t normal,” he whispers, his eyes off in the distance. I ignore the words seeing as that’s not my priority. “And I’m not talking about now. I’m talking about back then,” he meets my eyes now, then glides down to the bracelet I’m wearing. I’m ready to question what he means when I look at the bracelet. 

It’s like a key now. A key to a memory I put away a long time ago. 

***

11 years ago

“Keep crying. ‘S not like there’s anyone who’s gonna help you,” the blonde kid, nicknamed Jester, hits the boy again and I flinch behind the wall. “Where’s your parents?” Kicks him again and gestures for his friend to join in - and he does. 

I can’t watch this anymore. 

“Stop fucking with me-” before Jester can kick him again, I jump in, putting my body in front of the one who’s on the ground. 

“What is wrong with you two!” I yell out. 

“Mind your business, Y/N!” he tries to push me but I won’t budge. Finally, my height does something other than be the butt of every joke in town. Father always said I was an early bloomer and that my height could be an advantage. I didn’t see that until now. 

“Fuck you!” I spit at him, surprised at my own cursing. If he was angry before, he’s enraged now. His fist reels back, and I see it coming, but the boy behind me rushes him, tackling Jester. His friend looks to me. Before he can make any moves, I rush up to him and swing my leg up to his middle, hitting my target right between the legs. 

“Run!” I yell. With one down we should be okay. 

The boy gets off of the blonde and runs to me, taking my hand and leading me into the forest. I don't know where he's taking me, but if I saved him that means he won't hurt me, right?

We slow to a cave entrance. He turns to me, but doesn’t say anything. 

“Are you okay?” I ask him, noticing the cut under his eye. He nods, still not saying a word. “Those boys are assholes,” I cover my mouth at the bad word. “Sorry, but it’s true,” he laughs at me. I can’t believe he’s laughing at me after I saved his life. Then, I find myself laughing with him and it’s strange. 

He gestures for me to follow him deeper in the forest. 

We find a spot where he finally kneels on the ground and I follow.

“Do they usually pick on you?” I ask. He nods slowly and moves his sleeve to show scars and fresh cuts on his shoulder. I make the note in my mind that next time I’ll bring something to help heal those. 

His hands work and kneed in the grass and  grabs a few flowers that are scattered in different places. I see a bug on the trunk of the tree, my eyes trailing up the tree trunk that it travels. Where is it going to go?

A tap on my shoulder takes my attention away. I look down at the boy holding a small bracelet in his hands. He holds it to me, and I take it, trying not to break it. The little flowers spread throughout it tickle my hand. 

“For me?” I ask and he nods his head. 

“It’s to say ‘Thank You’,”  my heart is surprised when I finally hear his voice. 

“Hey. You wanna be my friend? I don’t have any,” I say.

His head moves so fast up and down. Finally! I found someone who likes me!

***

“You. . .” I whisper to him, his heavy eyelids covering his eyes staring back at me. 

“Me,” he looks at the bracelet sitting in the palm of his hand. I’m grateful he’s distracted while I process the new revelations. 

I push up from the ground and head for the exit, quickly stepping out into the rain.

“Y/N? Y/N!” he calls from behind me. I ignore him and try to keep my tears at bay. “Stop!” he yells. I hate that I do as he says, as if I’m his dog. He steps in front of me, and I turn away. “What’s wrong? Did I say something?” He tries to make eye contact with me and when I refuse, he uses a finger on my chin, the touch heating my face. 

“You can try to remind me of the good memories, Jungkook, but don’t forget those good times lasted for a week and you left,” I try to tame the way my voice is breaking. “You were my first friend and then you disappeared. I thought I was cursed for months!” a tear rolls down my cheek. He blinks. Once. Twice. “I get it. That was a long time ago and maybe it didn’t matter to you, but it does to me,” he shakes his head.

“Of course it matters, Y/N. You were my only friend and-”

“Then why did you leave me? Why didn’t you say anything? I risked so much going into the woods to find you.” Scenes of 10 year-old me play out in my head - screaming for Jungkook to come back until my throat itched, poisoning and rashes running down my legs. 

“It was going to be my first time in the pool,” his voice is low, “I wasn’t ready, but my mother was dying. Your very precious town was sending search parties to hunt us down. She couldn’t protect herself or me anymore, so I had to do it. I didn’t want to scare you,” his hand lowers back to his side and he takes a deep breath. “I was going through weeks of training myself and when my mom died and I got a hold of it, I went to try and find you, but I wasn’t finding you and it was too risky,” he explains. 

My heart cracks at the mention of his mother. I know what it’s like to lose a parent, but he only had her.  

“You should have told me. . .” 

“I wanted to. Trust me, Y/N. I did. But I wanted to figure out everything first before I jumped into it with you. I was also a kid at the time too. I didn’t have someone to guide me. Everyone hated me without being a beast. Could you imagine my fear of what would happen if they found out I am one? Especially with all the rumors and stories going around?” he argues. It’s a solid explanation. This was a long time ago and we were children. “When I saw you again and recognized that it was you, something I wanted more than anything, is for you not to be afraid of me. Your opinion, after a week, was the most important to me.”

Tears start to well up again. 

“Just like your opinion is most important to me now,” he whispers, stepping closer. I swallow the lump in my throat. His hair sticks to the sides of his head, some strands covering his eyes that are looking down at me. Goosebumps spread up and down my arms as heat bubbles in my stomach. 

“If you’re lying-”

“Don’t even think that,” he takes another step closer. I gasp when his hand wraps around my waist and pulls me to him, our chests touching and my hands resting on his arms. My thoughts are a jumbled mess and all I can ask is how this escalated so quickly. “Don’t go this time. I know I always tell you to leave, but I’m telling you to stay now.” 

My eyes blink and I’d like to blame it on the raindrops falling into my eyes, but I’m afraid to admit it’s because of how flustered I am at the stare he’s giving me. 

“And where do you get off on telling me what to do?”

“Can I be honest?”

“I’d like it if you were.”

“I think you like it when I tell you what to do.” It’s not the words I was expecting, but I don’t dislike it either. It’s also not false. “Do you want me, Y/N?” he whispers on my lips. “Tell me.” 

“Yes,” I say it a bit too quickly. 

Just when I think he’s going to plant his lips on mine, he instead asks, “Why?” The question is not hard to answer, but it is one that is difficult to say. 

“You’re the only person who makes me feel wanted in return,” I tell him. It’s honest and a much better answer than ‘You’re really hot’. “I don’t want to lose you, Jungkook,” I admit. “So, if you’re going to leave again you might as well-” 

His soft lips interrupt me - finally! 

A list of things I could be doing right now scrolls through my mind, yet none of them seem as important or as enticing as this is. If I could describe what this kiss is like, I don’t think that I could. No one has kissed me like this in the past. Nothing in the world can compare to the way that he holds me tightly against him, massaging the skin on my waist, while our mouths move in sync and rainwater mixes in with our saliva. 

His hands place pressure on hips and I respond by moving backward until I hit a tree. Now that I have back support, his lips push into me harder and I whimper into his mouth. He responds with a moan that runs straight to my core. 

We separate, breathing into each other. 

“It’s raining,” I say, my clothing completely stuck to me by now. 

“It’s not gonna stop me, but tell me if it’s going to stop you,” he brushes a hair away from my face and that’s when I can’t wait anymore. I want him too much to stop now, so I shake my head in answer. 

“I don’t want anything else to stop us,” I hook my fingers into his loose pants and bring him closer. The corner of his lips tilt up and his fingers crawl on the side of my neck before pulling me closer to him. 

The only thing I can pray for is that there are no more men who have decided to take on Jungkook and are still lurking in the forest, but that seems to be the last thing on his mind when he grinds into me. I moan into his mouth and he swallows it before leaning down to kiss my neck. I arch into him as he gets lower at the same time tickling the skin under my shirt as he lifts it up and over my head.

The rain is cold on me, but it’s worth it when his eyes stay on my perky nipples. 

“I-” he gulps. Not so mouthy now. 

“You can touch me, if you want,” I hate the way I sound so eager. I thought I would be able to play it cool, similar to the time I first lost my virginity (with a complete douchebag), but Jungkook makes me too nervous to ‘play it cool’. The way his eyes darken when he scans every inch of me, and the way he looks ready to devour me does the opposite of calming me down. 

I can only pray to any force out there that I make him feel the way he makes me feel. 

“I’ll do more than touch,” the palm of his hand skims the side of my breast, and he leans in. “I’ll do anything to show you you’re mine,” he whispers into my ear. The adrenaline is almost too much - I’m aching for him. 

“Then show me what it’s like to be yours,” I whisper back. 

He doesn’t look at me, his eyes stay on my lips for a few moments, then he moves down, taking one tit into his mouth leaving me breathless. His fingers tweak the other one, occasionally switching. 

“Jungkook- ah!” I gasp. He presses and gropes, then instant repeats. His skin is touching mine in every spot while his tongue continues its ministrations on my chest. I grab onto his hair in case I faint and lean my head onto the tree. The worry of getting bugs on me disappears when he nibbles on my skin. 

“I can’t wait much longer,” he sighs when coming back up. His fingers slide into my pants, and push into the space between my legs. I don’t expect it and cry into his mouth. “I don’t want to rush, bunny, but I can tell you’re as desperate as I am.”

I want to argue that I’m not, but it would be a lie. And it’s hard to argue with his fingers pumping in and out of me. He starts to kiss on my neck while his thumb joins in rubbing my clit. I feel a tension building in my stomach, then the knot unties and I release onto his hand. 

I’m still on my high when his fingers slip out and he licks them clean. I watch him and I’m prepared to do anything for this man. He already looks fucked out and I haven’t done anything to him. His hair is a mess but it’s a result of the rain mixed with my fingers moving it every which way. 

“Now I know you’re ready,” he pants. His pants fall to the ground, revealing the hard-on standing up. It isn’t fair that even his cock is perfect too. 

His eyes fall to my pants. 

“Can I. . . ?” he asks. I nod, slow. 

His hands are gentle as he peels my pants down my legs. I’m suddenly self-conscious when they come down, afraid of him spotting any hair or any marks but if he notices them, he doesn’t bring them up. 

“I’ve been thinking about this the past few days. How I’ll make you mine, how I’ll make you scream for me, how I’ll take care of you every day after. . .” He rambles before putting his lips on me again, the kiss frantic and wild, our tongues mixing all while pulling me closer, his hands move to my bare ass. “Jump,” he whispers, and I follow his instruction. 

My back hits the tree and our centers touch, bare skin to bare skin. It’s almost overwhelming. I feel as if I’m going to fall, but he makes it look so easy holding me. My heart grows ten times. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” He draws me out of my head with a curious glance. I shrug, not really knowing how to explain it, but he still doesn’t move, waiting. “Are you regretting this?”

I hit him on the shoulder. “How could you say that when I’m still here and fully naked mind you!” 

“Then what was that look?” 

“I just . . .” I pause. It’s nerve-wracking to be vulnerable in front of him. I’m already naked physically, but to be emotionally naked is different. “I keep thinking about how perfect you are.” There’s a surprise written all over his face. “Don’t think for a second I would regret this, even if we are in the middle of a downpour,” I instruct. 

A small smile appears on his face. 

“You’re perfect for me,” he plants a kiss on my lips before he turns his attention down to adjust himself. He slides into me slowly and a whimper leaves my throat. His hand soothes me, massaging the skin on my butt. 

His head falls onto my shoulder, and we stay like that for a few moments as he inches in. 

When he starts to move, I already feel the tree scratching my bare back, but I don’t mind the pain with pleasure. 

Every part of the front of me slides against him and the rest of my body feels sticky from the humidity. It’s messy, but I can’t imagine this any other way. 

His breathing grows heavy as he thrusts into me. His jaw is clenched as he lifts me up and down. 

“You’re beautiful. I wish you could see what I’m seeing,” he breathes. “Y/N, oh God, Y/N,” he groans. His words set off a spark in me bigger than before. It’s good to know that even when I’m naked, sticky, messy, he can still see me as beautiful. “I should’ve kept those guys alive and let them watch,” his tone is different now. “I should have let them watch what they couldn’t have.” 

“Jungkook, pelase -” 

He balances me on one arm, using the other to hold the side of my head while he kisses me. 

“I’m almost- oh gosh,” I cry, but before I can jump over the edge he slides out of me. “Jungkook? What are you-?”

I hold onto him when he moves and puts me onto the wet dirt. It’s cold and slushy at first, then warms up at the same time Jungkook hovers over me. 

“This is how I always dreamt about you with me,” he says, and slides into me again, my heels locking around his waist and on his back. His body weight rests on me as he moves again and his head falls into my neck. 

It doesn’t take long to get me right back to the edge, and from the way his thrusts are getting messier, he’s going to meet me there. 

“Jungkook!” I cry as I spill onto him and he does the same. 

I notice it’s not raining anymore when all the noise and movement stops.We lay there for a few moments in the quiet after he slides out of me, however, his weight is still resting on me. 

“Is your penis gone when you turn into a beast?” I ask, killing the silence. He laughs into my shoulder then lifts his head. 

“Why? Do you wanna fuck him too?” he suggests. I smack his shoulder. “Thank you, by the way. I know dragging a beast the same weight of a tree was not the easiest. You didn’t have to.”

“Of course I had to,” I argue. “You’ve saved me more than once now. The least I could do was try one time.”

“You helped me twice, actually,” he says. I’m back to when we were kids. 

“And there might be many more times after this,” I put a hand on his cheek. 

“And I’ll save you each,” he plants a kiss on my lips, “and every,” another kiss, “time,” a more passionate one. We stay naked on that floor for hours, looking up into the trees, wondering what life or death situation we’ll have to save each other from tomorrow. 

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty-two —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 5.1k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. SA and implication of child SA (very subtle). summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: clearly I am bad at estimating how long this story will take lol

The tray of food crashes to the floor at her feet. Salome gasps. Her hand shoots back, fumbling for the doorknob, and her lips part, ready to call the guard you know is just outside.

"If you call for the guard," you stop her, "I’ll cut deeper."

She clamps a hand over her mouth. "Please—stop! Hurting yourselves is a sin, a great dishonor to the body God gave you—"

“It is,” you agree calmly. You press the shard deeper into the cephalic vein, ignoring the bite of pain. Blood spills in a fresh, startling curtain down your arm, the wound mimicking the severity of an arterial cut. “And she’ll blame you for it. You’re the one she entrusted to watch over us, and you didn't notice we broke one of the mugs."

"I did not think you would—"

"What happens to you,” you cut her off, pointing the bloody shard at her stomach, “—and your baby when the two new child-bearers die because of your failure? Because I will die, if I cut any deeper. This artery,” you lie, tapping the wound for emphasis, “is important. If I finish slicing through it, I’ll bleed out in less than a minute. Not enough time for you to get help. Not even enough to try saving me yourself.”

Her lashes flutter rapidly through a swell of tears. "You could have a good life here—"

"Answer me. What happens to you if I die?"

She swallows hard. "She’ll punish me," she whispers frightfully. "I have seen what happens to those who fail her. She might take my child and I will... never see them. Please, don’t do this—”

"Why should we care about you and your child when you are okay with them killing an eleven-year-old girl tomorrow?"

A flash of shame crosses her face. "I'm sorry. I-I didn't know Maman would want the girl. The offering has never been so young before. But it is God's will, there is nothing I can do to—"

"What you can do is open the cell. Open it and we will kill Maman, then you won't have to worry about anyone taking your baby. But if you don't open it, then we die in here and you will face her punishment."

Her lips part, but nothing comes out. She looks between you and Nereida, eyes darting wildly, fingers twitching against her stomach. 

"Decide before I bleed out!"

"I... I can't," she says pitifully.

With a glance at Nereida, she takes her cue, digging into her vein.

"Open the cell," Nereida urges far more soothingly than you can, blood dripping to her elbow. "We won't hurt you. We want Maman gone, not you."

Salome whimpers under her breath, but her fingers move before her mind catches up, reaching inside her robe to retrieve the key, gripping it like it might burn her. She shuffles closer but pauses, inhaling deeply before finally reaching the door. Her hands shake so violently that the key rattles against the lock. It slips against the metal, failing to match the hole, and your finger twitches when she nearly drops it.

"Mais si elles ne parviennent pas à la tuer..." The whisper leaves quietly, lost beneath the veil. "Sa punition pour moi sera pire."

Then, her hand curls back around the key.

She swallows hard—and steps back.

No. 

You see red.

A growl curls at your mouth and you snap forward, grabbing onto her dress through the bars before she can retreat too far, and pulling her flush against them, her forehead banging into the metal. Before she can scream, you clamp a bloody hand over her mouth and then press the piece of broken mug to her neck with just enough pressure to make her panic. She gasps into your palm, struggling. You dig it harder, forcing her body to turn still and rigid.

"Twix—"

"I tried doing things the nicer way," you speak in a low snarl, veering off the script you and Nereida conjured. Round, glossy eyes stare into yours. "You should have made up your mind before getting within my reach. Now give her the key. I’d hate for my hand to slip."

Another sharp press into her skin wrings a squeak from her, her breath coming out jagged and uneven against your palm. Trembling, she extends an arm through the bars, offering the key to Nereida.

The moment Nereida takes it, she fumbles to find the lock from the outside, her fingers searching blindly. The key scrapes against the metal—once, twice—before a soft click finally reaches your ears.

The door swings open.

You don’t hesitate. Keeping your grip firm over Salome’s mouth, you shove through the opening and swing around to the other side. Before she can react, you force her back into the cell, driving her onto the bed. The veil tears free from her head as you pin her down, your weight pressing her into the mattress, the sharp fragment still poised at her throat. When her legs begin to flail helplessly, you order Nereida to grab them. She clasps Salome's ankles to keep her from bucking you off.

"You were afraid of the wrong person," you hiss, your nose nearly brushing hers. "Maman may have spared your life because she values her baby makers—but I don’t. Answer everything I ask, or I’ll show you just how merciless I can be."

The dishonest threat rolls off your tongue with enough force to make her nod frantically, fear widening her eyes. But what she doesn’t need to know—what you won’t let her see—is the part of you still holding back. Because even now, even as you pin her down and press the shard to a vital piece of her throat, you’re careful. You don’t dig hard enough to damage. You don’t let your weight bear down on the swell of her stomach.

"I'm glad we understand each other. I am going to lift my hand, and you're not going to scream. You're going to tell me everything we need to know about the guards out there."

Her lips are puffy and raw when you set them free. 

"There is only one outside the d-door," she sputters in a whisper. "B-but there are more... more by the... h-homes and the keep."

"The keep?"

"Where they keep the new m-males," she chokes out, snot dripping from her nose.

"That's in the old slaughterhouse, right?"

She nods.

"How many guards are over there exactly?"

"I do not know." At your glare, she rushes out, "B-but there are less after d-dinner ends. Many go to sleep, and switch shifts at sunrise."

You mull over the information, eyes darting across her face. “And the child—the offering? Where is Maman keeping her?”

A terrible look of fear ripples through her eyes. "Only few are allowed near the offering b-before her ascension. 

"So you're telling me you don't know?" you seethe in her face.

She sobs. "I know they... they will offer her to the démons right before the sun rises. The night is when God’s wrath is strongest, but it’s in the morning—when hope ascends—that we seek atonement."

Despite further pressing, that seems to be the extent of what she knows—or she's still withholding. Either way, you're satisfied enough. You rip strips of the sheet, using one to gag her and two more to bind her wrists and ankles. You and Nereida wrap your wounded wrists tightly to stop the flow. Then, you remove her white gown. You’ll need something to wear that doesn't easily mark you as an escapee, but there’s only the one white dress and veil. You hurriedly slip into them, making sure all of your hair and face is hidden, leaving Nereida still in the thin slip. The shoes Salome wears are thin and made of unsupported leather, but they are all you have to tuck your bare feet into.

Salome said there will be fewer guards after dinner. You and Nereida listen carefully to every sound that bleeds through the window. When you hear a few exchanges of bonne nuit, you figure people are starting to retire for the night. You take this as your cue to grip your makeshift weapon. The guard outside the door is expecting Salome to leave at some point, giving you the perfect opportunity to catch him off-guard while dressed as her.

You quietly open the door to the warm summer night, the long gown ghosting around your ankles. As expected, a well-built man leans against the side of the building, arms crossed languidly. No one else is in sight, which brings you some relief. When his gaze shifts to you, he raises a brow.

"Tout va bien, mademoiselle? Vous êtes restée là-dedans un moment."

The last word barely makes it out of his mouth. Within a heartbeat, you spring at him like the head of a snake, one hand over his mouth and the other stabbing his neck with the shard, then sweeping it through the thick of his trachea. A gush of blood oozes out in one thick stream, before he gargles out a strangled choke and turns to dead weight against the wall. 

With Nereida's help, you quickly push his body inside the building to keep anyone from spotting it. 

"Wear this," you usher, already starting to undress him. Like the man who visited you, he's wearing a grey cloak. Though it's too big for her, and bloodied, it will be enough to keep her discreet in the dark, her long hair safely tucked beneath the hood.

Two things race through your mind: the ticking time toward sunrise and the fact that you still don’t know how many more men you’ll have to take out to reach Ghost, Price, and Kyle. The knife you find on the guard adds a small weapon to your shitty arsenal. You have no idea where they could’ve stored the guns and ammo they took from you, or your bow. How you'll manage to fight through a community of cultists without those is a worry you can’t afford to dwell on right now—one step at a time.

After a few minutes of collecting yourselves, urgency pulls the two of you outside, free from the barred enclosure for the first time in almost four days. In the blanket of night, you quickly scan the area, taking in what you’re up against. The community appears fairly spread out, with only six small farmhouses like the one you just escaped from, along with a few larger structures in the near distance—likely where they house the men. You catch a glimpse of a fenced pasture’s perimeter and the unmistakable stench of cattle fills the air. Despite the faint shuffle of hooves and grey plumes of smoke from a few of the chimneys, everything is eerily still, leaving an unnerving amount of quiet for your heart to shatter through.

From what you can see, there aren’t many places to hide Blue, but there could be more to this place beyond what’s visible, especially since the chapel you first saw is nowhere in sight. But none of that matters right now; you need to find the others first if you’re going to have any real chance of saving her and getting out of here.

The next male you encounter spots you first as you make your way up the gravel road towards the barn, the sound of his boots making your hand tighten on the knife's handle. He greets you unassumingly in French, causing Nereida to startle beside you as his shadow approaches. Then he stops in front of her, his shoulders tensing and his hand hovering near a knife at his waist.

"Que fais-tu avec la femelle? C’est interdit!"

Again, you go for the throat, desperate to silence any screams that could cause alarm. You get a good swipe at the base of it, but he is at least a head taller than you, making it difficult to stab fully. He grabs you by the waist, clearly in shock that a veiled female just sprung on him with a knife, but swipes a fist at your face nonetheless. The force spreads through your temple, thrusting your head to the side. 

"Take the knife from him," you hiss at Nereida through the pain, who until now was effectively frozen. She finally moves, using the distraction you've caused as he clutches his bleeding neck, and snatches the knife still hanging at his waist. Once she has it, you leap at the disarmed man again, this time stabbing his liver. With a muffled grown, he face-plants into the gravel, quickly soaking it with blood. 

"The body," she stutters worriedly. "We need to hide it."

You look around, spotting stacks of chopped wood.

"Over there. Help me drag him."

Once the body is heaved behind the logs, you pat him down in search for anything else, but there's nothing.

"Keep that on you," you tell her, and she gives a quick nod, hiding the knife under her sleeve.

You keep following the road up to the fence, your white dress splattered with crimson, resembling the dotted stars overhead. The 'keep' is somewhere by the barn that man said, but you notice smaller buildings to the right and to the left of it. Which one looks like an old slaughterhouse? It's too difficult to tell even when you squint, so you grab Nereida's arm and quickly lower by a bush.

"Watch that one, and I'll keep an eye on this one. Whichever building has more guards patrolling is probably where they're holding them."

"Okay," she whispers, peering around the bush.

Minutes pass. The building on the right has more shadows skirting around it—three guards total. You take a moment to study their movements. One is stationed near the back, the other two at the front.

"I want you to take the one at the back and wait for me. I'll handle the other two."

"How do I take him?" she whispers uncertainly. "He’ll see me coming."

"You’ll come at it from an angle." You point toward a stack of hay. "Sneak over there, quietly. Once you're behind it, circle around and approach where he can't see."

She hesitates, rubbing the back of her hand across her forehead. "I’ve never—"

"Never killed anyone?" 

The way she grips the knife, her fingers white on the handle, confirms it.

"These people deserve it, Nereida," you say, forcing her to meet your gaze. "John is in there."

She closes her eyes, and for a moment, the weight of it all presses down on her. When she opens them again, her jaw is set, and her grip on the knife tightens.

After reminding her where to strike, you pause for a moment, watching as she sneaks over to the hay. Then, you move toward the other two, slipping behind a tree for cover, but your foot catches on something and you almost trip, catching yourself against the bark. Your breath hitches and you steal a peek at them to make sure they didn't hear you. No—they are too busy murmuring to each other, laughing in a low exchange.

When you glance down, you spot a shovel half-buried into the ground, its handle sticking out. Carefully, you wriggle it free, having to grit your teeth to fully remove it. This will let you stun one while you deal with the other. Inhaling deeply to center yourself, palm tight over the splintered wood handle, you close in on the two guards.

The shorter one with curly hair spots you just before you take a swing, his eyes widening. The shovel slams into his skull, effectively making him stumble to the ground, but slips from your grip from the force. The other guard whirls around, hand slapping for the pistol at his belt. You deliver three consecutive stabs to his stomach, heart, and cheek. The gun never leaves his waist before he falls dead.

You suck in a gulp of air just as the curly-haired one regains his footing. His head is still heavy from the blow, and before he can draw his knife, you shove him in the chest, sending him crashing to the ground. You pin him easily beneath you, his movements sluggish and weak. The two of you wrestle in the grass, jagged breaths mixing with frantic, scraping nails, until, with a snarl, your knife finds purchase in his neck, stealing the life from his eyes in an instant. You stab him again and again, shaking, until the ticking urgency pulls you back into control. With a deep breath, you steady yourself and wiggle the knife lodged in his trachea, your hands slippery with blood.

"You got death," you spit in a whisper, thumbing his lids shut.

You lift up.

Now you have a single gun.

It is an old thing. Outdated and far from the military-grade weapons Ghost has. It takes a moment to figure out the parts—your fingers fumble for the small magazine, which is stocked with three bullets. You pull the slide to chamber a round with a click and keep it ready in your hand as you circle the building toward the back, praying that Nereida managed. When you find her, she is stood over the man's body, a deep cut oozing on her cheek.

"He saw me," she says, swallowing. "But I did it."

You nod. "We need to hide them before we go in."

All three bodies are hidden behind the hay stacks. You cover them with manure to mask the smell, not wanting a horde of Greys to materialize. You'd spotted a door at the back and hope it may be more discreet then blazing in through the front, given that you don't know who all is in there. Finger ready on the trigger, you hold your breath as you lead Nereida into the old building, instantly met with the rich smell of pennies. The space quickly unfolds into an old butcher house, rusted hooks hanging from the stone ceiling, the air cramped and cold. 

"Une femme? Maman ne voudrait pas de toi—"

The voice echoes in your ear as you round the corner, and then a fiery bullet rips into the owner's chest. Nereida flinches. Another guard comes barreling over, shouting, but you slide the chamber and shoot him in the head.

You don't linger by the bodies, itching to check the first steel door you see. You lower the gun only to pull at the handle, but it won't budge.

"Check him for keys," you motion to the dead guard.

Nereida crouches, hands rifling through his pockets until she yanks free a ring of keys. Her fingers shake as she tries them one by one, the lock stubborn—until, at last, it gives. With a sharp tug, the door groans open, revealing a windowless chamber. In the center, a lone captive hangs from chains.

It’s Price. Shackles bite into his wrists, his bare chest mapped with deep bruises against pale skin. Beaten, but unbroken—his gaze sharp as it lifts to meet yours. Nereida chokes on a sob, ripping the hood off her head and sinking to her knees before him, cupping his jaw.

A weighted baritone manages: "Duchess."

"There is nowhere I will not find you," she croaks. Teary kisses find the corner of his mouth. "I'm here, I'm here."

"How did you—"

"We got out. Where are the others?" you ask.

His jaw grits. "I haven't seen them since they knocked us out."

"They must be here somewhere. We need to move quick before someone notices the bodies."

After finding the small key to undo the manacles, you leave them to each other for the moment, continuing down the hall until the next door. An undeniable pull rises in your chest, something that has nothing to do with the adrenaline rushing through you—something you can’t quite name. But when you open the door, your heart falters with unwelcome disappointment at the sight of Kyle. He looks equally battered, but still aware enough to lift his head as you step in.

"Who are you?" 

You lift the veil.

"It's me," you answer, the words almost lost in the rush of emotions. Only when you fully take in the room do you notice Ari, curled in the corner. They’ve put them in here together. While there are no obvious injuries on the boy, the sight of the open Bible on his lap, and the empty dinner plate beside him, sends a cold shiver down your spine. You touch his cheek, feeling warmth, and reassure him he’s safe.

You release both of them. "Price and Nereida are through the door down the left. I need to find Ghost. I’ll be back."

Kyle rubs his wrists and manages to stand despite his black eye and shaky legs. "I’ll come with you."

"No. I’ll get him." The words come out sharper than you mean to, but you turn away before he can question them.

You are pulled further through the tight, cold hallway, movements turning more hurried as you look around. There are a few more half-opened doors, but they only lead to supply closets filled with whips and metal batons and empty chambers where old blood stains the floors. Something sharp tugs at your heart, and for the first time since initiating your escape, your fingertips succumb to a tremor of fear. 

Where is he?

The hall spits out into a room where dried animal carcasses hang from the walls.

One final door sits on the far end.

The rusted lock resists, swears hissing from your lips—until a sharp kick forces it open.

The smell thickens with fresh blood, and a cold pit sinks into your stomach at the sight of him—bound in chains, his body slumped haphazardly. Unlike the others, he doesn’t lift his head. You rush forward, a shaky breath catching in your throat as you take in the blood caked on his shoulder blades, deep welts splitting through the inked skin. His back, too, is covered in wounds. He looks worse—so much worse—that a bite of anger swells moisture in your eyes.

"Simon, you idiot. What did you do?" The words slip out on a sharp inhale as you lower yourself in front of him. "Simon," you whisper again, silent tears hot against your lips. You thread a hand through his hair, tilting his jaw up with careful fingers. His eyes are heavy, but relief finds you when they flutter open. He’s alive. The reddened whites flicker over your face, unfocused—until something strange sharpens the haze. A flicker of fear.

"It's me, Simon. We're getting out of here."

The brief fear shifts into shock when he recognizes your face, and only after you fumble with the key ring does understanding click into place, causing his jaw to flex. "Where... where is she?"

"I don't know, but we need to hurry. They have her." You undo the manacles, and his body rolls heavily into you, face falling onto your collarbone. You struggle to hold him up, gripping his shoulders without touching the wounds. A low groan bleeds through his teeth, and his eyes flutter shut again. No, no, no. "Please, you have to... you have to get up, Simon. I can't—she's going to fucking die!"

His upper chest rapidly expands with a breath, and he musters the strength to lift his weight off you and slap a hand against the wall. As he leverages his weight up, you help by grabbing beneath his other arm, until a final rush of adrenaline gets him on his feet. Urgency snaps tension into his limp shoulders, and he growls out another, more steady, breath.

"Price," he says.

"He's alive. Come on."

It takes some effort to help him walk at first, but eventually, he manages on his own. You guide him to the first room, where the others are pacing, murmuring in low voices.

"Simon, Jesus," Price mutters when he sees him.

Ghost brushes it off, his eyes narrowing. "They're going to kill her."

"At sunrise," you add, your voice tight. You pull out the pistol and show it to them. "I have one bullet left. I don't know how many more men are in this cult, but we've killed six so far."

"We have one shitty old gun." Kyle growls in frustration. "They took all our shit. How are we going to—"

"We find the weapons. They must have stored them somewhere," Price says.

"We can't just go searching through every building here. We don't have the time," you press. "And how are we supposed to get it back without everyone noticing we're gone?"

"I don't give a fuck about the guns. We find her first," Ghost grits, nostrils flaring. 

"We can't help her if we don't think things through. We can't just start a war with these people empty-handed, Simon," Price says.

"We find her first!"

"Simon," you say, reaching for his arm, but he pulls it away, clenching his bloody fist. The energy radiating from him would scare you if you didn't feel the same way.

Just then, there is the faint sound of a door opening and footsteps clanging through the hall. You tense up, two male voices shouting in echoes, one of them vaguely familiar.

"Quelqu'un les a tués ! On doit régler cette merde avant que Maman découvre quoi que ce soit."

"Les putains de prisonniers!"

Before you can react, Ghost snatches the pistol from your grip. The second they rush toward the open door, he launches at them—an elbow to one’s face, the butt of the gun breaking the nose of the other. Price uses Nereida's knife to stab the fallen guard, while Kyle helps Ghost subdue the second one. You only recognize him as the man who made you strip when they forcibly drag him toward the manacles, the sight of his blonde hair making your nails curl into your palms.

"You stupid fucking Brits!"

Ghost strikes the gun into his left eye, making him jerk within the constraints, howling as the socket turns into bloody pulp. 

Kyle grips the man's scalp from behind to hold his head up, while Ghost presses the gun into his cheek, where you notice a wound shaped like a bite mark.

"Tell us where she is," he roars. "Or I'll take the other eye."

Nereida cowers into the corner, holding onto Ari's arm. 

"I don't know!" the man spits blood, and Ghost digs the gun into his cheek, ripping it open further until the bitten flesh hangs as a torn flap, exposed all the way to his eye. The scream that follows feels inhuman. "I swear, I don't—I don't fucking know!"

Fresh blood drips to the floor. Price, much more calm, lowers at the man's side. "How many people live here?"

The man grits his teeth, struggling to answer, "T-thirty males, and six females. Plus the infants."

Twenty-two now, you count in your head.

"And the weapons we had. What about those?" Price questions further.

When only staggered, pained breaths fills the room, Ghost tosses the bloody gun and grabs the knife from Price, stabbing the man's kneecap without hesitation. Another scream ensues, and there is the small itch to cover your ears, but you steel yourself against the wall to keep watching.

"Answer the fucking question." Ghost twists the knife in his knee.

He cries out, more bloody spittle flying from his mouth. "All of the ammo is hidden. Only A-Alexandre knows!"

"Who is Alexandre?"

“Maman's son, he enforces her commands and oversees the males.”

"Where is he?" Price asks, voice hard.

“He… he resides in the work shed, while the rest of us sleep in the quarters within the barn.”

You step forward. "We saw another building outside with just one guard, that must be it."

There is a beat of silence as Price processes the information, giving Ghost a satisfied nod. With pain still contorting his face, the man's eye drifts past Ghost's shoulder toward you. His lips twitch into a faint, bloody smirk that makes your skin crawl. Ghost follows his gaze, snarls, and abruptly slashes the man's throat from ear to ear.

B

It is still dark when Eloise comes to awaken her, though Blue's eyes never once fell shut with sleep. She spent the short-lived night alternating between staring at the crescent moon outside the window, and fiddling with the knitting needles left on the table. There is a new dress in the woman's clutch, beautiful white fabric embroidered with flowers, and a pair of beautiful leather shoes in the other hand.

"See? I told you the dress would be nicer." She smiles and hands it over, as if to offer something to be thrilled for. "You must change quickly. There is a lovely breakfast of framboises and milk waiting for you. Put these on as well." She sets the shoes on the floor.

Blue thinks it strange, to bother feeding her just before her death. Blankly, she asks, "How many people will be there? To watch me die."

Eloise's smile quivers slightly, a slight crack in her composure. "Not too many, I assure you. Only a few of us women, and one or two worthy men. Most are still sleeping." After a pause, she adds even quieter, almost ashamed, "Be thankful you don’t suffer through childbirth instead. It is... a painful thing. Long, too. At least this pain will be honorable and swift."

Blue's fingers tighten around the dress. "Okay. Do you mind if I change alone, please?"

Eloise bows her head. "Of course."

She casts one last gentle glance her way before shuffling out of the room, locking the door behind her and leaving Blue with only the dress and shoes. Once the door is closed, Blue quickly slips the dress on, shuddering as the cold fabric caresses her limbs. It’s more beautiful than anything she can remember ever wearing, and that disgusts her. Swallowing the churn in her stomach, she grabs the needles and sits back on the bed.

The wounds on her feet are shallow, her fingernails only able to pierce the thick skin slightly. Using the needles, she digs into them deeper, trembling from the pain that throbs as fresh blood begins to seep from the soles. She cuts and cuts furiously, teeth gritted, praying it’s enough to soak into the shoes she slips on over the new wounds. She covers the blood stains on the sheet with the blanket, then stands, almost crying out from the agony of walking on her torn feet.

"Please dad," she whispers, closing her eyes briefly, before calling to Eloise that she is ready.

"But if they don't manage to kill her... her punishment for me will be worse." "Is everything alright, miss? You've been in there for a while." "What are you doing with the female? It’s forbidden!" "A woman? Maman wouldn’t want you—" "Someone killed them! We need to fix this shit before Maman finds out anything." "The fucking prisoners!"

[sturnmeovr]

Changed Woman - Chris Sturniolo

Babydaddy!Chris - Positive - Mama - Scavenger Hunts & Cinnamon Rolls Pairings - Babydaddy!Chris x fem!Reader Summary - Your babydaddy, Chris, comforts you after morning sickness continues to kick your ass. Warnings - established relationship, pregnancy, mentions of morning sickness, mentions of vomiting, sassy Nick, lil fluff Word Count - 1950 Authors Note - I knoww it's short but it would've been way too long if I didn't break it up. With that being said, another part will be out soon! I hope everyone enjoys! 🫶🏻 Also I made my own dividers, feel free to use! The own used in this post is also mine🫣 (not proofread yet) Masterlist Current Series - City of Love

Clutching the countertop in a death drip, you suck in a deep breath in an attempt to steady yourself. Recently hitting ten weeks a few days ago, your morning sickness had been kicking your ass ever since you found out you were pregnant. ‘Morning’ sickness was a horrible term because it lasted all day and night for you. Half of the things you ate your baby didn’t agree with, even if you craved it for days on end. Throwing up sporadically throughout the day made your body exhausted and achy from all the heaving. Currently in the family bathroom of a local Chili’s, you were trying your absolute hardest to pull yourself together, mainly because you were out to eat with Chris, Nick, and Matt. 

Chris made you vow to keep it a secret until he was ready to tell them, but you knew time was ticking. With your small bump getting bigger by the day, the secret was getting harder to keep. You wore baggy clothes to keep the growing bump concealed but you could only do so much, you were a pro at hiding the fact you were running to the bathroom every 30 minutes to either pee or puke. The boys were starting to catch on, and both you and Chris knew it. There had been a few times where you stumbled out of bed in the middle of the night, rushing the bathroom the boys shared to empty the contents of your stomach into the toilet, forgetting to shut the door behind you which gave Matt the perfect view when he’d walk out of his bedroom. Matt would rush to Chris’s room every time, waking him up to tell him what was going on, but he’d never ask questions, always assuming you were just sick. Nick was too observant, when he noticed your sense of fashion went out the window, he began to ask questions and make teasing comments - “well don’t you look bummy today,” and “why’re always in one of Chris’s hoodies? You have one on like every day.” On most occasions, Chris would be by your side to defend you by saying a quick-witted comeback like - “My girlfriend can’t wear my hoodies?” or “so what? She’s comfy.” Other times, you were left to defend yourself all by your lonesome, whether Chris wasn’t there or just wasn’t paying attention.

A light knock on the bathroom door snaps you back into reality. “Just a minute,” you manage to call out. “It’s me,” the familiar voice echoes from the other side of the door. As you recognize the voice, you reach a hand out to the door, unlocking it to let him in. Chris gently pushes it open, stepping inside of the family restroom with you and closing the door behind him, “you okay?”

Looking up at your boyfriend, you see a sympathetic look engraved into his face. He had been worried about you, ‘no way pregnancy made a woman throw up this much,’ is what he thought each time he saw you scurrying to the bathroom. Chris did his best to help out where you needed it, holding your hair, rubbing your back, and always having a water bottle in hand. He couldn’t help but feel like it wasn’t enough, like it was all his fault. It was starting to take a toll on him, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he broke down to his brothers, telling them you were carrying his baby. 

When Nick and Matt started asking questions, he started making up excuses and little white lies to cover both of your asses. Lying to the two people he had always been closest to made him feel like the worst person in the world, but he knew the time wasn’t right. Right before he left the dinner table to check on you, Matt asked if you were throwing up again, making it obvious what Chris’s plans were. Whether he meant it in an innocent way or not, it didn’t put Chris’s mind at ease. 

Sucking in another deep breath and nodding to your boyfriend, “m’fine, Chris. Baby didn’t like the mozzarella sticks. I don’t know, I had them last week and I kept them down just fine,” you ramble. Ten weeks in and you felt defeated and drained. Watching as Chris rubs a hand down your arm, pulling you in for a hug, “hey, it’s okay. You’re not doing anything wrong, he’s just being indecisive,” making sure to give you the reassurance he always did. His calm demeanor soothes you almost immediately. You nod a few times and turn to the mirror, looking over yourself. You were pale as a vampire; it looked like all the life and energy was sucked out to you. If this is what pregnancy was like, this baby was for certain going to be your one and only. 

Chris inches behind you, letting both hands fall to your waist. A nervous expression plastered on his face as he tugs his bottom lip between his teeth, “we have to tell them soon.” 

Sucking in another scattered breath, you open your mouth to speak, “I know.” You let out a lengthy sigh, “they’re catching on.” Chris nods slowly, agreeing with you, “asking too many questions,” dipping his head down to plant a kiss on your temple. His hands smooth over your small bump, lifting your shirt up, “and he’s getting big. Can’t keep him a secret much longer.” 

His words put you at ease, making a smile pull at your lips. Chris had been manifesting a baby boy ever since he found out. He only referred to the baby as he or him, never she or her. You wanted a girl as bad as he wanted a boy, so it pinched a nerve every time he mentioned it. Deep down, you didn’t care what the gender of the baby was. As long as they were healthy, you would be over the moon, and you were sure Chris would be too. Regardless of the short amount of time you and Chris had been together, you knew your baby was made with so much love. 

“You’re gonna be real shitty when we find out it's a girl,” you poke at him. You can tell by the way he screws up his face that he doesn’t agree with a single word you said. Bellowing out a laugh, “a girl wouldn’t be bad,” you tell him, running your hands down his arms and pulling your shirt up further to expose more of your growing bump. He lets out a soft sigh, “I know. I just really want a mini me,” he muffles, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. “Well, don’t get your hopes up. We don’t know yet,” you tell him before turning your attention to your reflection in the mirror. Your bump looked bigger than normal. It seemed like every time you raised your shirt to look in the mirror, your belly grew in size - kind of like Pinocchio and his nose.

“We should tell them tomorrow,” you blurt out. Chris digs his head out of the crook of your neck, “tomorrow?” 

“Yea, why not?” you beam, even though you dreaded the thought. His brothers could be a bit judgmental at times, especially Nick, who had no idea what a filter was. A lot of the time, he’d impulsively say the wrong thing, but he’d always feel bad and apologize later on. It’s not that Nick didn’t like you, he just didn’t care to not be himself around you. Matt, on the other hand, didn’t seem to give two fucks. He was happy for Chris and his intuition told him you were a perfect match for his brother. He was the main person Chris vented to which made Chris feel like he was keeping everything bottled up. He wasn’t wrong. Chris lets his hands drop to his side, pinning his bottom lips between his teeth once again as he takes a step back, “I don’t know, baby. I don’t think tomorrow is a good idea.” 

“Nuh-uh,” you grumble, “what happened to a few minutes ago when you were trying to convince me the time was right?” You spin around, wrapping your arms around his neck, and playfully narrowing your eyes at him, “we’re telling them tomorrow. No ifs, ands, or buts. I mean it, Chris!” 

“Yes ma’am,” he holds a hand up to his forehead, jokingly saluting you before pressing a soft kiss to your lips, “let’s get back out there, yeah?” 

You follow Chris back to the secluded booth Matt had picked out for the group. Going out to eat was out of the norm for the four of you, usually you guys would go through a drive thru, but Chris suggested it and didn't let up when everyone was opposed to the idea. He wanted to get you out of the house and if he was being honest, he wanted to butter up his brothers before he broke the news to them. Chris was nervous to tell them. Nervous was an understatement. He was so scared to tell them, he felt like telling his parents would be a piece of cake.

"Please don't tell me y'all were fucking in the bathroom," Nick spits out in a playful tone. You give him a funny face, scooting into the booth while Chris mimics your actions. He didn't find it that funny, though. Nick had been giving you shit over a lot of things, from your sudden change in style to the way you ran to the bathroom. Even though you all knew Nick loved to pick on you like the little sister he never had, your hormones were at an all-time high. Chris knew your waterworks were a ticking time bomb and you were ready to explode at any given opportunity. He had not been super attentive since you revealed your pregnancy to him, he had become really overprotective. Nick constantly picking on you didn't sit right with him, but he knew if he told his brothers that you were in the bathroom throwing up again, they'd ask questions. The last thing he had the patience for was more questions. He already had too many of his own.

The four of you sit together, chatting about numerous topics as the boys finish their food. The mozzarella sticks being the culprit of your sickness just a few moments ago, you didn't dare touch them. You had thought your reluctance to finish your meal had gone unnoticed, but the waitress came back to set the bill down, asking if you need a to-go box in the process. You give her a toothless smile as everyone turns their attention to you, "that'd be great. Thank you," you tell her sheepishly.

"You didn't finish your food?" Matt asks, still chewing his last bite as he sets a few twenties down on the table. The boys get up from the table, and you follow quickly behind. You shrug off Matt's question, "you guys eat too fast," pulling the excuse out of thin air, "and I was in the bathroom." Your comment earns a nudge from Chris, indicating he liked your comeback. He crouches down to your level, "good one," making sure to whisper so his brothers don't hear.

"She didn't order her henny margarita either," Nick points out as you guys walk to the nearby exit. His comment makes Matt come to a realization, "you do always order a henny margarita!"

"What can I say? I'm a changed woman," you shoot out playfully as Chris intertwines his fingers with yours, squeezing lightly to let you know your response was valid.

🏷️ - @lvrsturniolo @ribread03 @unknvhx @m11rx @emely9274 @loveparqdise @frickin-bats @sweetshuga @thepubeburgler @katie-tibo @leila-marie4 (I think i got everyone. For some reason my tags weren't working in my last post?? Idk tumblr always acts weird to me 😫 Let me know if anyone else wants added. Going to make an actual taglist post soon!)

© All Rights Reserved to m00nl1ghts1vt. I do not wish to share my work.

[importantstudentbusinessspy-blog]

Hit List pt. 1

Masterlist

Pairing: Jason Todd x (f)reader

Tags: NSFW, smut, height school sweethearts, first time, nerdy reader, jock Jason, bad boy Jason, before Jason's death, prequel,

Jason got arrested while drag racing. Well, not while drag racing - He’d already won, leaving his opponent eating his audi's dust. The arrest happens after the fact. For assault. The thought made his eyes roll.

Translation: one clean punch to the sore loser who couldn’t handle defeat. But hey, he started it! It wasn't Jason's fault the pretty boy couldn't take a punch after dishing one out so bravely.

You were still catching your breath in the backseat of his Audi when you two heard the sirens. Jason's lips pulled away from yours, his brow furrowing as red and blue lights flickered nearby.

"Shit," he muttered, glancing at the rearview mirror. His jaw tightened as his mind worked out they were probably here for him. Then, with a meaningful look at you, he opened the door. “I think you should get out of the car.”

You blinked at him.

"They’re here for me," he explained, his tone disappointed. “Go back to your friends. I’ll handle this.”

"Come with me," you pleaded, clutching his arm.

He shook his head, pulling his hoodie back on over his head. "If they run my plates, they’ll trace them back to Bruce. It’s better if I stay."

The sirens grew louder. Reluctantly, you stumbled out of the car, gnawing on you lip in worry. You glanced back one last time.

"Go," Jason urged, a brief mischief in his eyes. "I’ll be fine."

You returned to your friends, doing your best to act nonchalant.

"Where were you?" one of them asked, thrusting a red solo cup into your hand.

"I had to take a phone call." You offer a fake chuckel, running your fingers through your hair, trying to unmess it up.

◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇

Bruce and Jason got into a fight when the elder had to post bail that night. The ride back to Wayne manner was a silent and awkward one.

"The only reason I let you skip patrol tonight was because you 'had an assignment due tomorrow." Bruce shut the door behind them as they entered the mansion.

Alfred appeared at the entrance to take their jackets.

"I finished early." Jason murmered, shrugging at his adoptive father.

"You need to start taking your life seriously, Jason." Bruce grabbed him by the shoulder.

"By risking it running around wearing spandex with you?" Jason challenged.

Jason got punished for lying that night. Sentenced to having to do patrol with Dick for the next month. Bruce told him that if he hated his life with him so much, he could try his luck back on the Gotham streets.

◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇

Bruce’s voice is low, but it carries enough anger to make Alfred glance up from his stitching of the gash on his masters shoulder. “He lied to me again, Alfred. Skipped patrol to go drag racing.”

"Did he win?"

Bruce glared at Alfred over his shoulder.

Alfred wasn't deterred. "Well? Did he?"

"Yes."

"Ah, to be young," Alfred replied, his tone even as he threaded the needle. "Filled with rebellion, rage, and on top of that an orphan. Quite the combination.”

Bruce huffed, leaning against the desk. "I wasn’t that bad."

Alfred’s brow lifts, unimpressed. "If you say so, Master Bruce."

"What about Dick? He never gave me this much trouble. He wanted to patrol.” Bruce argued.

Alfred didn't look up from his work. "Master Dick is a hard worker at everything he does. He was eager to please and found purpose in the work."

"Exactly." Bruce hissed against the pain.

"But he also had you.”

"Jason has me too," Bruce counters, his tone defensive.

Alfred pauses, the needle poised in midair. "You’re quite different with Master Jason, sir. Running Wayne Enterprises leaves little room for fatherhood."

Bruce didn't reply, but the words linger on his mind.

◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇

Jason tossed his books into his bag, his shoulders tense.

"You’re really gonna leave?" Dick asked from the doorway, his voice quieter than usual.

"Yep." Jason didn't even glance up.

Dick exhaled, crossing his arms. "Look, I get it. You didn’t ask for this life. But it’s not as bad as you think."

Jason slammed the bag shut and finally looked at his adopted brother. "Look Dick, you're a nice guy, but this life isn't for me. A room over my head and food on my table is a fucking blessing - don't get me wrong. But all of these fucking responsibilities? The training and running around at night in those ridiculous costumes? No offense..."

"None taken."

"The city’s never done anything for me. Why should I put my life on the line for it? For him?”

Dick shrugged, leaning against the door frame: have you tried telling him you don't want it?

Jason scoffed. "Yeah, like he'd let me quit. By the way, you're stuck with me for the next month. Sorry."

"I dont see it that way." Dick said. "So dont be sorry. And hey, I wasn't Robin for a long time. Only reason why I became Robin was cus I asked him to let me patrol too."

That made jason pause. "Really?"

"Try it."

Jason didnt say anything, the idea lingering on his mind.

Dick took a deep breath before leaving. As he went, he called over his shoulder, "let me know if you leave! I'm gonna turn your room into a gym."

Jason rolled his eyes, but there was a small grin on his lips.

◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇

Night patrol with Dick was actually tolerable. Dick’s laid-back attitude made the grind less unbearable.

"Watch this," Dick called out before flipping over a crate with perfect form and landing gymnast-style, arms outstretched.

Jason rolled his eyes beneath his mask but felt a pang of jealousy. "Show-off."

Dick was always good at all the tricks. Whenever Jason tried them, he was always to clumsy, too sloppy, and ended up messing up somehow.

Regardless, he took it as a challenge, running to the edge of the crate and jumping, trying his best to copy Dick's flip. He managed it, however the landing was a different story. He tried to land feet together the way Dick had but ended up losing his balance and having to fall into a crouch with one hand on the ground for balance and one hanging in the air. He laughed to himself because he unintentionally made a superhero landing.

"Not great," Dick spoke with the expertise of a gymnast and the lighthearted one of someone trying not to hurt your feelings. "Dont be too hard on yourself, though. I started training when I was five years old. You're a high school senior-"

Jason rolled his eyes under his mask. "It's this fucking cape. How'd you move in this thing?"

"Poorly." Dick mused, cringing as if he recalled a bad incident. "That's why I ditched it." He gazed down the Nightwing suit with a smile. Jason had to admit it looked cool.

"Nightwing, Robin," Alfreds voice cut their conversation, speaking through their earpiece. "A car chase in pursuit. Two black Buick SUVs pursuit by police on the grand highway, heading towards the exit to metropolis. That's near you."

"Copy that," Dick said, then to Jason. "Let's go."

"How're we gonna stop a car chase?!" Jason asked, bewildered.

"Just follow me!" Dick said, already breaking into a run.

Jason kept up with him, the sound of his boots running against the wet asphalt the only thing they heard. Until the distant police sirens grew louder.

"There!" He pointed towards a series of lights and on the highway.

Dick turned and nodded. "Take cover."

Jason watched as his adopted brother ran from one end of the road to the other, taking something from his utility belt and scattering it where he ran.

The buicks were nearing them, so Jason ran and hid behind a nearby crate and looked around the corner to see what was happening.

As soon as the cars reached their part of the road, explosions went off. Their tires popped, then lit up.

Despite his initial hesitancy, Jason found himself grinning.

"Hey-" Someone spoke beside him.

"Oh, Jesus!" Jason gasped, his fists blindly flying out. Dick stepped aside, dodging it easily.

"When did you get here?" Jason held his hand to his chest, trying to catch his breath.

"Just now," Dick said nonchalantly, before nodding to the scene. "What'd you think?"

Jason turned back to see the cars stopped and the cops pulling up, and arresting the men inside. "Not bad," he said. "What explosives did you use?"

Dick took one out of his utility belt, handing it to his brother to assess. "Oh you mean these little guys?"

Jason studied the tiny gadget in his gloves hand. "Its triggered by impact?"

Dick tilted his head, looking impressed. "Yeah, how'd you kn-"

"Do you make them yourself?" Jason interrupted, still studying the gadget. "Can I keep it? What sets it off?"

Yeah, this kid had ADHD, thought Dick, but he still wanted to answer all of Jason's questions. "Sure. And no I dont make them. Bruce’s buddy is a weapons engineer. He does this kind of stuff."

Cool, Jason thought, still wondering about the make up of the bomb as he shoved it in his pocket.

◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇

Dick sighed. "He was plenty interested in one of these today. Maybe he should meet Lucious."

Bruce turned away from his computer to look at dick. "Yeah," he said with a thought. "Jason likes to break things apart." Recalling the story of how they met. Jason was a runt, taking apart the batmobile, planning to use the parts until Batman caught him.

Exhaled a soft chuckle. "Sure, someday I'll take him to meet Lucious."

That day never came.

◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇

You had your own style outside the school’s strict uniform - a blend of rebellion and practicality that Jason couldn’t help but notice. Oversized baggy jeans slumped low on your hips, and that cut-off green jacket you seemed to live in. It was your favorite piece, worn so often that Jason could recognize it from a mile away. He remembered seeing you in it even before Gotham Academy, back when you were just the girl across the street, before adoption changed both your lives in very different ways.

He never thought he’d run into you here in this pretentious school with its manicured lawns and entitled students, but when you landed a science scholarship, he caught himself feeling oddly proud. Happy, even. You were like him - a kindred spirit in a place that felt like it didn’t want either of you. And he made sure you knew it, showing his appreciation in the most 'mature' way possible: tugging at your hair whenever he passed you in the halls, especially when you were with those same three friends you always stuck with.

Jason was walking down the empty school hall. He had just finished swim practice, water still dripping from his dark brown hair, when he heard your voice behind one of the classroom doors. He paused mid-step, instinctively drawn closer.

"Thank you, sir," you said, your tone carrying an unmistakable enthusiasm.

The door opened, and Jason ducked back, leaning casually against the lockers as you walked out. You were stuffing a folder haphazardly into your bag, your face bright with a small, self-satisfied smile. He couldn’t help but grin as he watched you push your glasses up with that familiar, unconscious gesture.

Then he stepped into view. "Big day-?"

"Oh god!" You startled, nearly dropping your bag as you turned to face him. "Hey," you gave him a wave in greeting, then you made a double take. "What are you doing here so early?"

"Swim practice. Six a.m. sharp." He shrugged, ruffling his damp hair with a towel. "What about you? Private meeting with Fischer? What’s that about?"

You frowned, glancing down at your bag. "That’s none of your business."

He smirked, undeterred. "Must’ve been something good. You looked very satisfied walking out of there."

"It’s called being polite," you shot back, rolling your eyes.

Jason leaned in slightly, his grin turning sly. "Polite? Nah, that wasn’t polite. That was more like… out of breath squeaky." He raised his voice to mimick yours with an exaggerated nicenessm "'Oh, thank you, sir! Anything else I can do for you, sir?" He made a show of batting his eyeloashed, ignoring the unimpressed look you gave him.

Shaking your head, you smiled as you brushing past him.

But he didn’t let you off that easily. He fell into step beside you, his tone casual. "I’m just saying-if you’re gonna have a crush on a teacher, maybe aim higher. Fischer’s gotta be pushing fifty."

You stopped mid-step, turning to glare at him. "He is not! He's thirty-four."

Jason’s smirk only widened, and you knew you gave yourself away. Trying to save face, you continued walking.

"So, what are you doing Sunday night?" He fell in step with you again.

You looked at him. "Nothing. Why?"

"I was thinking," he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder, "we could go for a ride. Clear your head from Fischer for a bit. You know, balance things out."

You groaned. "Let me live." Though, you couldn't help but be curious. "A ride where?"

He only grinned, leaving the question unanswered as he turned down another hall. "Just be ready by six pm. Sharp.

◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇

Jason planted kisses on your neck, his hand sliding up your thigh under your skirt, before your fingers wrapped around his wrist, stopping him. "Did you bring a condom?" You asked.

He blinked at you in confusion. "Got somewhere you need to be?"

You blinked. "No."

"I'm not gonna jump straight to fucking you." He chuckled.

Your brows furrowed. "Right. Of course not." You forced out a laugh, feeling stupid.

Then his eyes narrowed. "Have you ever let someone finger you before?"

"...No?"

"Have you ever had sex?" His brow rose.

"...No." You felt your cheeks heat up, lowering your eyes. "I'm guessing you have."

He chuckled. "Yeah,"

"What's so funny?" You asked defensively.

"Nothing, nothing." He waved his hand. "Just..."

"Just what?"

He grinned a stupid grin. "Just... im happy."

Well, you didn't expect that response. "Really?" You asked. A small smile tugging at your lips. He wanted to be your first?

"Yeah," he lowered his lips, biting yours. "I'm gonna be your first." he grinned, feeling a wave for pride rush trhough him.

You couldn't help the smile on your lips.

He cupped your cheek. "I'm gonna make you come first, though." His fingers reached reach the top of your panties, pulling them down past your feet, leaving you only in your skirt and bralette. You dressed nice for him, hoping he'd notice, but you were guessing that he didn't care much about the clothes when you could feel his eyes focus on your bare skin. He lowered his mouth to your thinly clad nipple, sucking it through your bra. You arched you back.

Leaning back on your elbows, you waited for what he would do next. Suddenly, you felt pressure on your core, his finger sliding against your folds before settling on a sensitive spot and rubbing it. Your breath hitched as you arched toward him. "Oh."

"How are you doing?" He asked, grinning.

"G-good," you nodded eagerly, biting your lip, and his fingers sped up. "Nh...when did you lose your virginity?" You asked. "How do you know to do that?"

"Porn." He shrugged.

You snorted. "And the first question?"

Blue grey eyes looked from side to side. "Last year, Halloween party at Jenna Wharton's house."

"Oh. With Jenna?" You blurted out the question before you could stop yourself. You weren't sure why, but the thought of him being intimate with someone made you upset. Even though you two weren't exactly exclusive...

He grinned as if recalling the experience. "Nah, Jenna's older sister. She was visiting from college."

"Oh," you nodded, swallowing down the wave of envy that rose up to your throat. "Was it good -"

His finger curled inside of you, causing your gasp cut off your own question.

"Shut up." He smiled, lowering to kiss you again.

Every movement he made that night was patient, his fingers trailing along your skin as though memorizing every inch. He came to kneel in front of you, bringing his mouth to your cunt, before licking up your slit.

"Fuck," your head rolled back. "Jason, please! Oh my god."

He groaned, grinning against you. He kept licking around one particular spot that made your breath hitch.

When he entered you for the first time, you both gasped. He paused before pulling out of you slowly, concern flickering in his eyes. “Too much?”

“No,” you managed, your voice trembling. “It’s perfect.”

Jason chuckled softly, the warmth of his body feeling dvine aganist your skin. His lips curved into that familiar, boyish grin, and he brought his lips to yours. “Good. Because I’ve been wanting this for a long time.”

"Me too," you smiled, feeling like you were floating as the intense pulsing took your core.

◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇

Jason lay on the warehouse floor, his Robin suit was torn around different parts, the exposed skin under it seeping blood onto the cold floor. Speaking of cold, Jason was pretty sure he was going to die here...

Taglist

@x-gabrielle-x

[blackbirdsblackberries]

I HATE THE NEW HERO

Pt 4: No luck today

Pt 1 - Pt 2 - Pt 3 - Pt 4 (You're here) - Pt 5 - Pt 6 - Pt 7 - Pt 8 - Pt 9 - Pt 10

Engineering is probably one of your good subjects - mainly due to the grades you get and the equipment you get to create for your second life.

That being said, your luck isn't very high right now because just as you enter the classroom you're called up to the office. Over the loud speaker. In front of everyone.

This is your last straw. You're going to actually break down and cry.

Taking a deep breath you head to the office and stand in front of the receptionist.

"Uh, hi.. I was called up?" You state to the distracted receptionist. "Huh? Okay. Go into the principal's room I guess." She waves you off dismissively and you hold back a retort.

You make your way to the room and knock on the door. It opens with the principal on the other side. "Ah, There you are. I was worried you wouldn't show! Please, have a seat." He opens the door wide enough for you to get in.

You enter and your eyes fall onto a boy with spiky black hair and tanned skin. His back is to you. Next to him is a taller, more bulkier man in a pressed suit.

Your stomach lurches, feeling ill all of a sudden. Your senses go off and you fight the urge to run away. You can't tell who these people are but something isn't right.

Slowly you make your way to a third chair that was placed at the desk. You glance at the two males and have to swallow the bile - it was none other than Damian al Ghul-Wayne and Bruce Wayne. Your eyes immediately snap forward and you clench your fists slightly.

There's no doubt Tim had said something horrid about you to them, maybe he snitched on the fights you two had, whatever it was now you're in deep shit.

You try to get a read on them but it was near impossible, they were both stoic. It didn't help that you refuse to look at the two. The principal sits down at his desk and crosses his arms.

"So, I have been made aware of some things that you have done recently, (Reader). According to numerous anonymous reports you have cyber bullied someone, picked fights, had plans to build dangerous weapons and had hit animals... Listen, you're a good kid but with what I have here I might have to expel you."

Fuck. You can't get expelled your parents would throw you out or something! You can't! You didn't hit animals! The most you hit was a fly! Dangerous weapons? There's nothing like that at all, besides the plans for you superhero weapons. Those aren't dangerous though. You cyber bullied your vigilante persona to make it more realistic! You never pick fights - you don't want to risk hurting someone with your increased strength!

Though, something makes you freeze. If you were called here for that then why are the two Wayne's here?

You think the principal is a telepath because he speaks up.

"You're very lucky Bruce Wayne and his son are kind enough to vouch for you though they said they wanted a favor in return." Oh. Manipulation. You scrunch your eyebrows, they probably reported me alongside Tim. They're doing this so they can hold it above my head and make me complacent or subservient to them.

Maybe it'd be best if Aranea faked their death. Started a new identity or something... You probably wouldn't go through with it but it's a nice thought.

Well, you don't have much of a choice. You can still silently make your hate known towards the vigilante and it's not worth losing a scholarship over. Especially with parents like yours.

"... Fine... Thank you for this offer, Mr Wayne and Mr al Ghul-Wayne" you mutter. God it's shameful, you want to crawl into your skin and die. Was it worth putting your dignity on the line? You're not too sure. What you're sure of though is that you will get to eat tonight. If your family has the money...

Bruce nods his head in affirmation and puts on his Brucie smile, one that even you struggle to see past. "Of course, what kind of person would I be if I would overhear something so tragic and not do anything about it. We can go over the favor later." He states. You hold back a grimace though you're sure everyone can see the effort.

You don't know what to respond with, humiliated enough by this clear manipulation. You just give him a double thumbs up. Damian stares at you weirdly and the principal raises a brow. Bruce however chuckles, though it's forced.

The principal ushers you out of his office and tells you to wait out the front with the receptionist for Bruce and Damian while they chat some more with the principal himself.

After waiting for a bit the door opens and the two males walk down the hallway to where you are. Damian scowls and glares at you while Bruce looks to you blankly, detached.

You stand and awkwardly rub your hands on your uniform. Something they clearly don't miss as their eyes snap to the motion.

"uh, thank you for this opportunity... What's the favor?" You managed to work up the courage to speak without stuttering like a madman. Something you believed you should get a pat on the back for because the two guys were terrifying.

"The favor is simple really," Bruce starts his Brucie personality back in play "Stop speaking badly of Aranea and don't pick fights with my ward, Tim. Easy right?" You nod. You expected this. Honestly you should be a detective or something you think to yourself.

Nah, that's Batman's job.

You pick up your bag and head to the door, Bruce however had moved while you had seemingly zoned out while in thought and was standing in front of the door while talking to the receptionist and in your haste to leave you bumped into his side.

He automatically puts his arm on your shoulder to steady you and your mind connects the dots.

Bruce has the same build as Batman. Batman seemingly adores Aranea, or at least you think so, he's hard to read - like Bruce (for both being hard to read and adoring Aranea to a weird point). Same amount of kids. Plus Batman had to be rich if he could have a plane and a new looking suit after gruesome nights.

God, how did you not see this before...

Amidst your freaky reality check you fail to notice Bruce trying to get your attention until he snaps in your face - like how your dad does. You hate that.

Your head shoots up and you take a couple steps back while muttering an apology while Bruce stands there with a raised brow, confused while Damian looks at you with disdain as if you soiled a good outfit.

Feeling humiliated and terrified you quickly move around the two men and out of the door. You're in deep shit now... Even something as simple as secretly knowing the identities of the vigilantes that watch over Gotham is a death wish.

This is going to be the worst day of school, so, you decide to leave. You go to the sick bay and get a slip to leave school and you do.

You run home as fast as possible and get to your room. Your mother is out cold in her room with some man she met from the bar so you shouldn't have to worry about her.

You take a couple deep breaths and contemplate on what to do now that you left school, you could catch up on assignments, you could take a nap, or you could go on patrol...

It's daytime and you're pretty sure Signal will be patrolling today, you like Signal, he's a chill guy. Now though, now you don't really want to be near any of the vigilantes.

You decide to check your phone to see what area Signal is patrolling, it comes up in the GC, Westside Gotham at the Midtown area.

Okay. You can do East Park Side then. It's not your favorite area but at least you won't be confronted with one of the vigilantes so soon. Plus, the park is nice.

You suit up and head out. East Park side wasn't far away from you due to the lack of money your family has you are stuck in downtown.

You spend a majority of your time on patrol, helping people and just hanging around. Soon, much to your surprise, you get a call from Batman.

"Aranea. What are you doing patrolling without your comm on and without informing us?" He sounds as serious as ever, usually you'd roll your eyes but right now you're struck with fear. His voice holds maliciousness and anger deep under it. The very same way that Bruce Wayne had spoken to you. You don't want to admit it but knowing the identities of these heroes makes it more suffocating to be around them.

It also meant you had to be much more careful around them.

"Uh... I was bored at home so I went out on patrol?" You respond, trying to keep the energy in your voice, even if it felt like you were going to explode.

"That doesn't answer my question." He responds, you're sure he's picked up on the fakeness of your cheerfulness. "Right! Ha! Forgot about that. I didn't wanna disturb you all! Plussssss, Signal is patrolling so it's all good!" You laugh it off.

Batman isn't laughing. When does he ever?

"That's no reason to not inform us or at the very least turn on your comm. What if something happened to you? What if you died? You aren't invincible. You'll die in that stupid suit if you don't work with us!" You wince slightly. Fuck him. Does he really think you need him and the others to survive? Not to mention him calling your suit stupid, sure it's not perfect but stupid is just overkill. He only even thinks it's stupid because it isn't made with his money!

You honestly couldn't find the effort to continue talking to him, so with your faux cheerfulness you decide to end the call. "I get it. I'll know better next time! Bye bye!"

Sometimes you wish you were old enough to drink.

[entitled-fangirl]

Dead batteries.

Jason Todd x deaf!reader

Summary: The reader's batteries to her hearing aids die. Dinner at the Wayne Manor was supposed to go smoothly.

Summary: anything that they sign is going to be in bold italics

Warnings: cursing, insensitivity to being deaf, the whole story not being proofread, Jason being Jason

Masterlist

........................................................

"Baby," Jason's voice called through the apartment. He shrugged off his coat, small concern running through him when there was no answer. He knew she was home. 

He began to walk through the apartment on edge. His gun was tucked against his back in his waistband. Just in case. Just in case. 

He threw the bedroom door open, startling both of them. "Fuck. Sorry," he apologizes with a hand up in surrender. As he took her in, he frowned. "Where are your hearing aids?" He signed.

"Dead," she signed back. "Ordering more." She gestured to the computer next to her. 

He nodded, taking out each weapon from his jeans (which was a lot), placing them on the nightstand, and joining her on the bed. He pulled her into his side, looking over her shoulder. "Until Thursday?" He whispered to himself. "That's a lifetime."

She felt his breath and craned her neck to look at him questioningly. He shook his head. When she didn't let up, he messily signed, "Long time to be without batteries."

She nodded.

"What about your backups?"

She set her computer down, sitting up to properly sign. "Haven't used in years. Better to go without."

"Some backups," he grumbled.

"Will your family be mad?"

"What?"

She sighed. "Dinner tonight."

He mouthed an 'oh.' "No. And if so, I would-"

She placed her hands over his, interrupting his threat.

…

Y/n!" Damien greeted, practically shoving Jason to the side. "I have to tell you about the guy I caught last night. It was so cool! Listen, so I jumped out of the Batmobile-"

"-Damien," Jason sighs. 

"-And it was like 'whoosh,' and I was like all cool and stuff-"

"Damien, she c-"

"And I chased him down this alley-"

Jason watched Y/n's eyes hold the panic inside her as she tried to follow what the kid was saying, but with his energetic motions, she was catching minimal words out of the jumble. Jason pushed Damien's head to the side. "Listen to me when I talk. Damn."

"I'm not even talking to you," Damien argued, going right back to his story.

"She can't hear anything. Her aids are out."

Damien froze. "Oh." 

Damien was the only one in the Batfamily that had yet to pick up sign language. With Cass, they had all begun to learn. And with the addition of Y/n, it quickly became intermixed with their everyday speech. Being a later addition to the family, Damien was slowly picking it up. Very slowly.

Y/n gave him a sorry expression. "Sorry. The batteries are coming Thursday."

He held a hand up. "Woah, woah, woah. I can't hear you when you do that."

Jason huffed. "Go away, demon brat." 

"I'll go when I'm ready," he sassed. "So I'll go now because I have nothing else to say. Not cause you told me to."

…

Dinner was a mix of speech and sign language, the family (for once) having a nice dinner.

Jason and Dick had found amusement in signing across Damien, acting like they were saying something top secret that he couldn't know. In reality, it was just random words like, "time, death,, cookie, day." To which Jason responded with, "leave doctor, dad." And then the two would bust up into hearty laughs, watching Damien turn red.

But the rest of the table ignored it.

"There's a new thing we're working on down in the cave. Wanna see after dinner?" Tim asked with his head down.

Steph heaved a heavy sigh, physically pushing his head up so Y/n could see his face. "Now actually ask."

"Sorry," he smiled with his cheeks full.

Alfred tapped on Y/n's shoulder, waiting until she turned around to speak.

Jason watched her face morph to complete confusion. She had always had problems understanding Alfred's accent. "Deaf," he muttered at Alfred.

"Oh," Alfred flushed. "Forgive me." He began to sign his question.

"She didn't even answer my question," Tim complained.

"She turned away before you finished," Steph reprimanded him.

"I got this," Damien gloated. He hit his fist on the table until he caught Y/n's attention. He spoke in a loud tone. "TIM ASKED IF-"

Jason's hand appeared out of nowhere, swallowing the kid's entire face and muffling him. He began shoving down until Damien had no choice but to go under the table. "I'll fucking kill you if you scream at her again."

"Jason," Bruce reprimanded.

"No, you favor the little shit." He ran a hand over his face. "Do I have to write it across her forehead for you guys to remember? Can't fucking do this-"

…

Dinner went smoothly after a 'Hello, I am' name tag was stuck to her shirt, the blank line reading "deaf" in Jason's messy handwriting. Bruce always had those for galas. 

But the car ride back home was rather silent. Hard to sign in the dark.

Once back inside their apartment, Jason had practically ripped the tag off her shirt. Just the sight of it annoyed him.

"Sorry we left early," she signed with a guilty expression.

He shrugged, pulling her jacket off and hanging it up. There wasn't much to say. They both knew that it had nothing to do with her. 'Love you,' he mouthed as an answer. He pointed at the book she'd left on the counter. "Leaving for patrol soon. Read while I'm gone?"

She nodded. "Almost done with it."

He nodded back. 

The two stood in the living room, just admiring one another. His arms opened and she all but melted into them.

He forced her head up so he could talk. 'Be good for me while I'm gone?' He mouthed.

She gave him a grin, mouthing back 'yeah.'

'Good.' He pulled her chin forward, connecting their lips with a softness that Jason was never thought to have.

...............................................

[itsgrimeytime]

feelin' flirty || Rick Grimes (TWD) x gn!reader

rick grimes taglist: @golden-hoax @mgparker @zomb-1-egutzz

AVAILABLE ON AO3

Summary: Being a long-lost friend of Maggie's, you wind up at the prison, a line of dead walkers behind you. You are promptly confronted with one Rick Grimes, and it's suddenly your life's goal to flirt with him as much as you can. Rick doesn't usually respond, but what if one day he does?

TWs: innuendos, talk of sex, shameless (and I mean shameless) flirting, mention of both Beth and Hershel's deaths, gunshot wound, blood, guns, knives, and all things TWD.

[[A/N: Tumblr has deleted this THREE times. I am furious, hello??? Also, someone should've been hardcore flirting with Rick, I'll say it. That's what this is based on. Do I have social anxiety? Yes, but am I still writing this? I am. Don't ask questions. ALSO, I do not know the TWD timeline at all, so I am making it up, thank you. Enjoy :))) ]]

With one last stab, you finished off the last... zombie? You didn't really call them anything, since you were alone. Maybe you should think about that a little more.

Wordlessly, you turned and stabbed another square in the head. Undead? No. Zombie? No, too cliché-

Another one.

It went on like that for a few more minutes, before you took a breath -with no answer to your question. Frowning at your knife being covered in... guts, for lack of a better word, you crouched down and wiped it on the grass.

What was that, 15? You didn't really count, but you should have. You were trying to get a new personal best actually-

"Hey!"

You froze, pocketing your knife, before spinning on your heel. The voice was fairly distant, so you weren't worried. Instead, close enough for it to matter, was a big building with high walls and barbed wire at the top of them. A prison. Huh.

"Up here!" The voice called again, and you startled.

Shading your eyes from the sun, you looked up into the watchtower, and sure enough, there was a silhouette. A guy, you think, with dark hair. That was about all you could say.

"Yeah?" You called back, curiously.

"That was cool as shit!"

You laughed out, probably for the first time in months, "Thank you, mysterious stranger!"

"Glenn!" He clarified.

Huh, you pursed your lips, before responding, "Y/N!"

"Nice to meet you!"

You laughed again, before feeling a pain in your stomach. When was the last time you'd eaten? You paused, trying to think. Three days ago (there was a box of Twinkies that hadn't expired yet in a stranded supermarket). Not great.

"Hey, Glenn?" You yelled, a little hopeful.

"Yeah?"

You pursed your lips, before deciding -taking a chance, really, "You got any food in there?"

Now, you were walking through the gate, which was a little dramatic. But, you kinda liked it. It felt like you were kind of a big deal, well, until there was a swarm of eyes on you. All different kinds.

You froze, licking across your teeth.

And then, a man ran up to your side -gasping a little. Was that Glenn? How did he-

He offered his hand to shake, and you accepted it -looking at the crowd, a little defensively.

"Are they going to kill me? Or...?"

"Shit," he turned to them, "-They just want some food, guys, c'mon!"

None of them even flinched.

"I don't bite," you joked, before frowning, "-shit. That was in bad taste-"

And then, a voice called out into the tense air.

"Y/N?"

You peeked over heads, looking, because-

Your eyes locked onto hers, and you nearly jumped in place -big smile blooming along your lips, "Holy shit, Mags?!"

You'd been friends, back in high school. You'd left junior year and tried to keep in touch. It just didn't work out. (You can't even remember now if it was her or you who stopped, at this point.)

Before she could so much as reply, you ran to her -arms wide open. She eagerly reciprocated, spinning a little with the force -you'd gotten pretty good at running at this point.

"What the fuck?" You breathed into her shoulder, and she laughed big and loud, "-What are the chances?"

With a thought, you pulled back -still holding her shoulders, "Are your Dad and Beth here?"

"Yeah," she cheered, and something in you felt relieved. Thank god, they were okay.

"And, you?" She offered, a little hesitantly -notable lack at your side.

You pressed your lips together, swallowing, and shook your head, "Been alone since the beginning."

Maggie frowned, hand coming up to rest on your arm and squeezing once.

"Only lived with my boyfriend," you explained, eager to lighten the mood, "-and he actually cheated on me, so. Wasn't the worst lost."

She laughed a little, before asking -carefully, "And your family?"

Something in your chest stung, you wordlessly shook your head. (Visions of unhinged jaws and blood filling it.)

She frowned, whispering her apologies before hugging you again. You leaned into it that time.

And then, you jumped back, excited, "You have to bring me to your family, Mags, it's been so long-"

"Ya 'ave to talk to Rick first," a voice grumbled out behind you.

You spun on your heel, facing a man. Tall, brunette, dark eyes, arms crossed in front of him (strong, you noted), but you could tell in his stance. He was a layer of stone walls, and you did not want to mine.

And then, your eyes smoothed across his back. Is that a fucking crossbow? Sick.

"Whose Rick?" You asked instead, Maggie still holding your arm.

"Whose askin'?"

That, was a good voice. Was your first thought as you turned back around, and your eyes landed on a figure.

Your voice got stuck in your throat.

He was tall, stood like he owned the place (and based on the recommendation, maybe he did), all broad shoulders and strong gaze. Speaking of gaze, he had probably the bluest eyes you'd ever seen. And his hair was brown and curly, a few hung forward on his face. His jaw was unspeakable, and his button-up shirt had a few extra buttons undone to account for the heat. Holy shit.

Maggie elbowed you, and you blinked.

"Uh, me," you answered, clearing your throat -motioning to Glenn, "-he said you had some food and I'm... hungry."

Maggie promptly stomped on your toe. You pressed your lips together trying not to laugh, carefully looking over his face to see if he'd picked up on it at all. Nothing. A shame, really.

Oh well, maybe next time.

"Look, Rick," she interrupted your thoughts, "-I know 'em, really well. Y/N is a good person."

Rick's eyes dipped to you, looking you over. Oh, the words were right there on the tip of your tongue. It would be so easy-

You're trying to survive, Y/N, your mind pressed, focus.

You bit at your lip, but before you could speak for yourself, Glenn did.

"I saw 'em take on a swarm outside," he added, eyes darting to Maggie (Huh.), "-without breaking a sweat."

There are other things I can do without breaking a sweat, your brain immediately remarked, this really was too easy.

Rick seemed to think about it a second, before turning to you, "Ya got a gun?"

I'd like to be loaded with-

"No," you cleared your throat, pulling out your knife (it was one of those multicolored ones, it's why you liked it clean), "-just this."

He hummed, tilting his head with a mouth shrug, "'At's impressive."

I bet your-

You pinched your arm, swallowing, "So, what? Am I in or not?"

Rick's eyes flicked up and down you again (so easy), before he decided, "Ya can stay."

That brings you to now, sitting with Maggie outside with a can of baked beans and a spoon in your hands.

You currently had quite the view of Rick working on the farm, sweat dripping down his brow, strained arms. You'd never thought about farming in that way, but now you were.

"Is his full name Richard?" You asked, curiously.

Maggie turned to you, watching the trail of your eyes to see what you were looking at. She rolled her eyes, "I don't know."

You put a spoonful into your mouth, humming around it, "There's a reason they call them 'Dick', you know."

"Oh my god," she shoved into you -making you laugh a little. You stared down into your can.

"I'm just saying," you stressed, "-he's hot enough for it."

Maggie paused a second, before deciding to say, "His wife died."

"Shit," your smile fell.

"Died in childbirth," she continued, something distant in her eyes -you wondered what exactly it was.

"How long ago?" You asked gently, looking at him in a new light -sympathizing.

"Few months," she answered, a little shortly. You pursed your lips, debating whether to say anything. Or if you even should.

Maggie clarified, herself, "I delivered the baby. Judith, her name is Judith."

"Fuck, Mags," you fully turned to her, putting the can by your feet, "-I'm so sorry."

She took a deep breath in and out, and you wrapped an arm around her shoulders pushing her into your side, "Thanks."

"No problem," you hummed, picking your can back up and letting your eyes drift to Rick again, adding, "-I'm great with babies, you know."

"You're ridiculous," she laughed, taking the bite you offered her.

"What?" You asked, "-Staring isn't bad. He's practically a piece of art, I'm just..."

He turned to the two of you then, blue eyes flickering along your faces -you did not move your gaze at all.

Instead, you gently waved, finishing, "-admiring him."

Rick furrowed his eyebrows for a second, waving back, and then, shaking his head smiling. Count that as a win.

You gnawed at your lip a second, "Do you think he picked up on my 'hungry' thing? I was looking at him and I-"

Maggie laughed, "He definitely did. Everyone did, Y/N, you're shameless."

"It's the apocalypse," you urged, "-who gives a fuck about shame anymore? Rick is hot, and as long as he lets me, I will flirt with him. The more you resist, the more I commit. You remember James in first period?"

She hummed, "I do."

"I chased him for half a year," you continued, swirling the spoon around the can, "-and it worked, didn't it? Guys hardly get properly flattered," your eyes dipped back to him, tone going low, "-I don't mind taking on that duty for the population."

Maggie laughed again, as you just kept your eyes on him. He had dirt on his hands now, wiping at his brow, and just a few curls hung forward on his forehead. God, how did you find him in the apocalypse?

"How valiant," she deadpanned, "-You're a real hero."

"Look, just because you have a type, Glenn, and you bagged him-"

"How did you-"

"Please," you teased, "-he practically ate you earlier with his eyes. Back to my point, I, at least, get to look."

She turned to you, "Ya don't want to date him?"

"Who said that, Mags?" You smirked, turning to her with a smile with eyes that spoke for themselves.

"You know he has kids, right?" She questioned, looking at you.

"So?" you waved the spoon around in your hand, "-Single dads? Hot. Kids? Cute. Where's the loss?"

Maggie looked at you a moment, before shaking her head, "You are clinically insane."

"Maybe," you offered, still watching him, "-but the world's fucked up too. So, at least, I'm not alone."

She laughed really hard at that one, and you felt eyes all over switch to you. Blue ones too. People didn't really seem to laugh around here, so you decided that was your mission too, get people to laugh more. Maybe they could go hand-in-hand.

Time to get to work.

Daryl was sitting across from you, you'd been bugging him for the past few weeks and he'd finally relented. It wasn't easy, but you were nothing if not persistent (hence the Rick situation). Or maybe stubborn. Both? Whatever.

"Daryl, listen," you pointed out, "-you have to take time to load up the bow."

"'At don't mean nothin'," he countered.

"It does," you stressed, explaining, "-in the amount of time it takes you to put in a new arrow, I would have killed at least two."

Daryl rolled his eyes, "It doesn't take 'at long."

"Who said it takes me long to kill two walkers?"

Rick walked by then, and Daryl stopped him.

"Rick, please, take 'em away from me," he spoke out, gruff, but something in you could tell that he wasn't being serious. The guy wasn't half the mystery you expected him to be.

Rick laughed a little at the plea, eyes on you, "What are ya doin' to him?"

"It's not that bad," you laughed, explaining, "-I was just talking about if we were pit against each other to kill the most walkers in a minute. And who would win."

"An' ya want me to help decide?"

"Daryl does," you clarified, "-I am fully confident in my abilities."

Rick laughed a little (another win), "Well, I kno' Daryl's skills, so tell me yours, so it's even."

You bit at your lip, debating. God, it would be so easy. All you had to do was-

"Well," you smiled, playfully, "-I'm told I'm very good with my hands."

He blinked, and it was silent a moment before you heard a snort beside you. You immediately flung to look at him, you had just made Daryl laugh-

"No way," you stressed out, throwing yourself to your feet -pointing at him, "-you just laughed at me."

Daryl pressed his lips together into a thin line, sniffing once, "No, I didn't."

You spun to Rick, and he was already looking at you, you didn't think about it too much.

"Rick," you begged, "-c'mon. I know you and him are like... buddies, but I-"

"Buddies?" He quirked a brow, smiling. Something stirred in your stomach.

"Look, I don't fucking know," you rolled your eyes, "-just agree with me."

He bit down a smile at you, before turning to Daryl, "Ya did laugh at 'em."

"Ha," you cheered, "-I made Daryl Dixon laugh. And, I would win against you."

"He didn't say 'at," Daryl instantly defended.

"Didn't have to, Dixon," you mocked, playfully, "-it's about time management."

"Time management?" Rick questioned curiously.

"Okay, think of this, Rick," you explained, leveling him with your full focus (god he was handsome), "-when you fight with a bow, or a gun for that matter, you have to reload."

He grinned a little at you.

"Follow me, follow me," you hummed, pulling out your knife, "-when you have a physical sort of attack method, like a knife, you don't have that same time issue."

"Ya kinda do though," he interjected.

You paused, looking at him -thoughtfully, "How so?"

"Body's gotta build up energy again," he reasoned (with too much thought for this dumb conversation, smart too? god has favorites), "-Stamina is key to attackin'."

You rolled your lip in between your teeth, he had to be doing this on purpose at this point. Seriously.

"Trust me, sheriff," you spoke -a teeny bit teasing but otherwise very genuine, "-there is no problem with my stamina."

Rick bit back a laugh, turning his head to the side and smiling. You thought you saw a little red on the tips of his ears. Cute. You were unraveling the layers of one Rick Grimes, that was progress.

Daryl didn't even try to hide it that time, letting a gruff chuckle leave his lips, "'M glad I'm not your focus for 'at."

You patted his shoulder, standing up, "It'll be devastating one day, Robin Hood. Don't come crying to me when it is."

"Did ya just call me Robin Hood?"

Rick laughed at that one, head tilting up to the sky. You smiled wide.

"Look at that," you hummed, proud, "-a two for one. Which-"

They both looked at you, but you stuck to your guns. And you smirked a little.

"-honestly, I would not mind," you added -thoughtfully, "-Think about it, and get back to me."

You walked backward a few steps, watching as Rick smiled at you before turning back to fix his gaze on Daryl. Smiling at the ground, you spun on your heel, and went off to find someone else to pester.

You felt a pair of eyes follow you though, and you maybe grinned a little brighter.

Now, you were wandering off on your own. On your own run, you liked to do that sometimes. Maggie nearly had a heart attack because of it, but what damage you did get was usually minor. Except for once, but that wasn't your fault. Well it was, you smashed a window with your fist to see if you could do it. And you could, which was impressive.

Now, you were strolling through an old novelty store -little knick-knacks. Finding some figurines, you grabbed a superhero one and stashed it away. Your eyes caught on a DVD player, the kind for both music and movies, and you picked it up -turning it over in your hands. Battery powered.

On a mission to find both DVDs and some batteries, you roamed through some aisles -particularly a mug one.

Peeking through at some of them, you paused. Taking your pack off and slipping the DVD player into it (along with the few good DVDs you found, no batteries though) on top of some canned food you'd found, you zipped it up. And with a breath, grabbed a mug.

Smiling big, you made your way out of the store.

When you got back to the prison, Maggie was waiting for you -tapping her feet, anxiously. She was a little like a mother, you weren't sure how you felt about it. But you loved her so, you dealt with it.

"Hey Mags," you cheered, mug handle twisted between your fingers.

She instantly relaxed, eyes scanning you over before dropping to the mug. She frowned.

"Please, tell me-"

"I got some food," you sighed, "-I'm not entirely useless."

She pursed her lips, "And the mug?"

You grinned, holding it up for her to see -tapping your fingers along both sides. Her eyes skimmed over it before she frowned (biting back a smile, you could tell).

"Seriously?" She asked.

"What?" You responded, groaning, "-I can't get gifts?"

She shoved into your side, and before you could take too many steps, you were met with your target -leaning against the fence, few steps from Maggie. Was he waiting for you too?

"Rick," you dropping your hands, particularly to avoid him from reading the text, "-what are you doing here?"

"Ya do 'at a lot?" He asked, a little pointedly. You thought you recognized something a little like worry in it, "-Go off on your own?"

Huh.

"Yeah," you laughed a little, "-you haven't noticed? I've been getting like... half the food we have."

Rick hummed (a little in appreciation) before his eyes dropped to your hands, "And what's 'at?"

"A gift," you extended it to him, unflinchingly.

He pulled himself from his spot on the wall, walking forward and accepting it. His fingers (great fingers, really. Was that weird to say?) wrapping around it, you noticed for a second that your fingers brushed -your breath halted a little in place.

"A mug?" He asked looking at you for a second, eyebrows furrowed.

You took your hand, and spun it around in his hands -brushing his skin against yours, "The other side."

He smiled a little, laughing.

Right there on a rather plain mug, were the words '#1 HOT DAD'.

He bit back a smile, eyes peeking up at you again, "Ya really ain't gonna let 'is go, are ya?"

"Nope," you popped the 'p', before clarifying, "-unless you want me to."

Rick licked a line against his teeth, grinning a little with something in his eye, "Who said 'at?"

"Noted," you smiled back, something fluttering in your chest, "-now, where's Carl? I got him something good."

"Ya got him somethin' too?"

He was looking at you a little curiously, like he was seeing new layers of you. You kind of wanted to squirm a little at his gaze. You were not used to people figuring you out.

You sighed, quickly turning your pack to the front and unzipping it. With a breath, you dug around and pulled out the figurine -Rick's eyes caught on it immediately. A small smile creeping along his mouth.

"He told me once he liked comics," you clarified, clearing your throat, "-figured he would like this. You... You think he will?"

"He'll love it," he answered, something new in his eyes, "-C'mon, I'll take ya to him."

On the way there, he seemed to pause a moment, something on his mind. You patiently waited for him to say it.

"'Saw somethin' else in 'ere," he mindlessly remarked, as the mug swung between his fingers "-What is it?"

"Oh," you pulled your pack foward again, excited, extending the figurine to him for safekeeping (he took it with a smile), "-a DVD player."

You held it in your hands, showing to him.

"Found some DVDs, good ones," you continued, before putting it back in your bag, and accepting the figurine back (your fingers brushed again), "-no batteries though."

Rick hummed, pursing his lips like he was thinking about something. He didn't say a word though.

You didn't have much time to think about it, because a few days after that, the prison fell. You'd escaped with Rick and Carl, but you weren't exactly yourself. Not after everything.

There was Judith, and Maggie, and... and Beth and Hershel. Every day felt like there was bile turning in your stomach; every time you closed your eyes, you saw someone... someone dead.

You were lying against the grass, looking up at the stars -it was still so pretty. Despite it all, the sky was still the same. Bright and twinkly. It was when everyone was on the road, wandering for a place to go. You just couldn't sleep, so you took it upon yourself to just look at the sky. You thought the clouds might be pretty, but the night was a little breathtaking.

"Ya awake?"

You didn't say a word.

"C'mon, Y/N, I know ya are."

"Yeah, I am," you sighed, saying shortly, "-Can't sleep."

There was an echo of footsteps, and then you felt body heat beside you. There was a beat.

"Ya ain't gonna say anythin'?" Rick hummed, turning his head to face you.

You matched his eyes (he's probably more handsome now, honestly), "About what?"

"Me, ya know," he motioned, to your side, "-layin' with ya."

You laughed at him a little, before teasing, "Awe, you miss it, don't you, sheriff?"

"Not a sheriff anymore," he hummed, something a little heavy in his voice.

"Eh," you shrugged, looking back to the stars, "-you still are in my mind."

Rick smiled at you, wordlessly.

Before you added, plainly, "Mostly because I love a man in uniform."

He laughed then, big and bright, and you felt something warm in your chest that you knew but hadn't felt in a while.

You wanted to be genuine, really genuine.

"You are a good man, Rick," you turned to look at him, and he looked straight back, "-We've all done shit we never should've, and maybe it's fucked us up a little bit, moved our path in the wrong direction once or twice, but-"

You looked back up to the sky, still feeling his eyes on you. It was kind of like a dream, like the apocalypse wasn't real for a second, just you and Rick. And maybe you wanted that a lot more than you knew.

"-you've got a big heart, Rick," you finished, soundly, "-And even if sometimes you lose sight of what you're doing, or maybe who you are, that... that doesn't change."

Rick didn't say anything for a moment, words echoing out into the night air. You couldn't find it in yourself to regret them, though. You never really regret what you said these days, there was no reason too.

You really only regret what you didn't say. Maybe to people who aren't around anymore. Your heart sunk a little in your chest, but it felt a little lighter -just a smidgen. (Maybe because of who you were with.)

"I got somethin' for ya," Rick suddenly spoke, sitting up (you followed suit).

You furrowed your eyebrows, "You got me something? When?"

Mindlessly, he replied, "On the last run."

You pursed your lips but waited patiently. He moved over to his pack, unzipping one of his pockets and pulling something out -you couldn't quite see. Trying to peek you moved over a little, but nothing.

With a breath, he stood back up and waltzed over to you (somehow he made walking hot, they needed to research that), extending it forward right into your face.

You blinked, gently taking it into your hands and looking at it closely. It was dark so you couldn't really-

Batteries. He handed you a pack of AA batteries.

"No way," you laughed out, "-you remembered that?"

"I remember a lot of what ya say," he offered casually, and you felt something shoot down your spine. And with a breath, he sat right beside you, so close your knees bumped a little.

Pulling your bag over to you, you dug around in it. You'd kept the DVD player and DVDs, not really with the hope of finding batteries. But, to feel a little human, remember life before.

You'd taken to putting stickers on it when you saw any, so the top of it was covered in an assortment. You ran your fingers over it a second, taking it in, before flipping it over. Popping open the little tab, you let out a breath of relief when it was AAs.

Rick laughed.

"I was going to be so pissed if it wasn't," you spoke, "-you have no idea."

He just looked at you then, in a way you'd seen before but never really thought about. You turned back to your bag, shuffling around to find your stash.

"You want music or a movie?"

"Movie's fine," he hummed, and you still felt his eyes trained solely on you. You tried to shake it off.

"Let's see," you pulled out a few of the movies you had, showing them to Rick, "-I've got... a kid's animated movie, or... a... cheesy romcom!"

Rick stared at you, instead of the movies, before flickering to them.

Rambling, you continued, "I also picked up some horror stuff, but I... I really think that was a bad move on my part."

He laughed again, just looking at you in a way you didn't really know how to label. Or react to. You were kind of a little overwhelmed at the fact that he'd even gotten you the batteries, and then the way he was looking at you-

"Think romcom sounds good," he interrupted your thoughts, scanning over you.

"Alright," you acknowledged, putting the other ones up, and scooting back next to him -not enough to touch. It was a little awkward and you weren't sure how you were going to-

"I don't bite ya know," he quipped, laughing a little.

You turned to him, grinning, "Well maybe I do."

Rick laughed again for a moment, just looking at you. And then he extended out an arm, welcoming you into his side.

You paused a moment, before carefully guiding yourself to slot into him; the back of your head against his shoulder, and his arm wrapped around the back of your shoulders. You brought your knees up, to carefully balance the DVD player (shaped like a little laptop really). A tiny little screen for the two of you to see on. Logistically, that's why you were so close but a part of you thought a little otherwise.

"I don't," you hummed.

"What?"

"I don't bite."

He laughed a little, "Good."

"Unless you want me to-"

And the laughter that filled the night was just between you and him. And maybe in the morning, you were fast asleep on his shoulder and maybe he looked at you a little like you were the greatest thing he'd ever seen and maybe he shushed all the others just to have the moment last even a second longer.

You'd never really know.

Now, you were in Alexandria. You'd gotten Maggie back, you'd gotten Judith back. You were on a new high, and that meant two things. More pestering, and two, flirting with Rick.

You were walking through Alexandria with Maggie, just keeping her on her feet really. She wasn't super pregnant yet, and it was good to be healthy.

"I cannot believe you're pregnant," you mindlessly remarked, holding Judith close to your side.

"I have been," she retorted, "-for a while. Think ya have had time to digest it."

"But, it's like physical proof that you fucked," you commented, "-unprotected, by the way. I know you missed that sex-ed day, but seriously-"

"Carl's proof that Rick fucked," Maggie defended, eyes smoothing over him with a few of his friends.

"Well," you pursed your lips, "-I know that Rick fucked. Just on principle, he's-"

She motioned for you to zip it, "Don't start. I know you are doin' good, which is great. But it also means ya become a lil' unbearable."

"Me? Unbearable?" You turned to Judith, cooing a little, "-Can you believe the nerve of her, Jude?"

Judith smiled at you with her big brown eyes and toothless little mouth. You pinched her cheek, instinctively, "So cute."

"I still can't believe that you're in love with Ri-"

"I told you that in confidence," you interrupted, pointed.

Maggie stuck out her tongue at you and Judith laughed a little at it. Funny faces, right. You could physically see the pregnancy hormones on her face as she cooed at Judith.

You would've said something, but you had just done it yourself.

"Where's your keeper anyway?" You hummed like you'd been stuck with her (you actively searched her out).

"'E's not my keeper," she responded, sternly (mom voice, already?), "-and he's out on run, gettin' supplies."

"If he's not your keeper, how'd you know who I was talking about?"

"You are so-"

Before she could finish such a kind sentence, the two of you were interrupted. A presence waltzing up to your side.

You turned to look who, and-

Your heart lept into your throat. It was Rick, now clean-shaven, and although, you had loved the beard (don't even get you started), his jaw was on full display. Blue, blue eyes. And dipping to his clothes, he was in a damn uniform.

"Look at you, Rick," you complimented, smiling.

"'Heard ya liked a man in uniform," he smiled (a new type of way), and winked. And before you could say a word, he walked forward -past you.

You stuttered to a stop, Maggie right beside you. Blinking you turned to her, and she looked right back at you. And then you both turned to look at Rick, still walking the same way he was.

Turning back forward, you opened your mouth, "Sorry, did that just happen?"

Maggie hummed, pulling you with her, "It did."

"How did I never think of that?"

"Think of what?" She offered, as you smoothed back into a step with her.

You answered, eyebrows furrowing, "That he might flirt back."

She shrugged, "If it helps, I never thought he would."

"I am not against shoving a pregnant woman," you hissed back, with no bite. You never really had any. And you both broke into laughter, as you roamed through Alexandria.

Now, Daryl was leaning against a house as you stood beside him -pestering as always.

"No, listen," you turned to him, attentively, "-it's called fuck, marry, kill-"

"I ain't playing it with ya."

"C'mon, Daryl, it's fun, look-" you flagged down Glenn (who was carrying a box, of what, who knows?), "-Glenn, fuck, marry, kill. Michonne, Carol, and Daryl."

"Easy," he laughed, "-fuck Michonne, marry Carol, and sorry, dude, but kill Daryl."

"See?" You motioned to Glenn, as he walked forward.

"Don't ya 'ave a wife?" Daryl remarked, as Glenn moved along.

"Oh please," you shook your hand dismissively, "-it's all just fun. Just hypothetical scenarios."

"Okay, now," you started over, "-fuck, marry, kill. Deanna-"

"Kill," he answered -unflinchingly.

"See!" you cheered, "-you're getting the hang of it-"

"What are the two of ya doin'?"

You turned to see the one and only Rick Grimes, a little more worn today, which you kind of preferred, still had those bandaids on (how did he make that look hot?), and more casually dressed. In the white t-shirt, we trust.

"I'm teaching Daryl how to play fuck, marry, kill," you answered, eyes solid on him, "-obviously."

Before he could respond, Daryl chimed up, something mischievous in his eyes. You squinted at him, trying to figure it out. And then he opened his mouth.

"I got one," he spoke, a smile teasing on his lips (looking at Rick, directly), "-Y/N, Glenn, and Rosita."

You stared at the eye contact for a moment (everything was so suspicious), before asking, "What am I supposed to do with myself?"

Daryl shrugged, you bit your lip a second.

"I guess I could kill myself, big waste, but-" you paused, "-ooh, wait, I could, like, clone situation fuck myself-"

"Now, 'at would be a sight to see," a low southern drawl interrupted your words, and your voice faltered to a stop.

You turned to him, squinting at him for a second -trying to understand. All he did was wink at you again, and you hated that it made your knees a little wobbly. Especially when he was holding onto the column of the porch, and slightly leaning toward you-

"Before I was so rudely interrupted," you cleared your throat, "-I would marry Glenn, fuck Rosita, and, tragically, kill myself."

Daryl nodded his head, before motioning to Rick, "What 'bout ya?"

"Am I playin'?" He questioned, finger pointing to himself and eyes dashing to you.

"Might as well," you shrugged, "-you're already over here."

He pursed his lips a second like he was thinking, eyes particularly avoiding you, "An' I can't choose one person for two of 'em?"

You swallowed, oh, he was playing dirty.

"Nope," Daryl answered.

And then, he turned into something much softer, something more familiar, "Then, marry Y/N, fuck Rosita, and kill Glenn."

Marry?

Your heart lept into your throat, and your fingers started fidgeting with your shirt -instinctively. How the hell was he winning? I started this game-

"Thought so," Daryl responded.

And out of the corner of your eye, you saw Carol. Her eyes matched yours a second, and you tried to convey how desperate you were to get away from this very scene. Her eyebrows furrowed for a second, but then she spoke.

"Hey, Y/N! Can you come help me with the food?"

"Of course, Carol," you called back, smiling at the two of them, "-sorry, duty calls."

Rick just grinned at you then, like he knew exactly what you were doing. And you were 100% sure he did. Stupid handsome men with stupidly beautiful blue eyes. Ignoring the fact that you physically brushed against him to get off the porch, you frantically caught up to Carol.

You were in the pantry now, gathering ingredients, Carol directing you -naming them as she found them.

"So," she looked at you, "-are you gonna tell me what that was about?"

You pursed your lips, before answering, "Rick's flirting back with me."

Carol raised her eyebrows at you, "Huh."

"And I was teaching Daryl how to play fuck, marry, kill, and he-" you rapted your fingernails along one of the cans, "-and he said he'd marry me. But all... genuine and shit."

"And that's bad?"

"No, no," you shook your head, putting the can into a basket, "-It's not bad. Just... I don't know if he means it."

"You just said that he said it genuinely," Carol pointed out, grabbing another can.

"Well yeah, but-" you scrambled a moment, "-all that time ago, I was flirting genuinely. I mean even though it was playful, it was still genuine."

"And," she connected the dots, "-you're not sure if he's genuine?"

"Yeah," you skimmed along the shelves, gathering the last can she needed.

"Well," she took it from your hand, blue eyes on you softly, "-if it's worth anything, I think he's genuine. And maybe this is his way of showing how he feels about you."

You hummed, wordlessly.

"He's let you flirt with him this long," she continued, bringing a hand up to your shoulder, "-that has to mean something, doesn’t it?"

She had a point.

"Now," she adjusted the basket, "-are you actually going to help me with the food? Or was it just an excuse to run away from Rick?"

You laughed, "I'll help, I'll help. I'm not a total dick. Speaking of-"

She turned to you.

"Do you know if Rick's full name is Richard?"

It was a few weeks later, and they were filled with frustratingly blue winks. And that was one thing, but now you were being stupid. You were stupid.

You'd thought Oh, it'll be just like old times, I'll go out on a run. It'll be so nice-

And now you were walking with a gunshot would, quickly bandaged by a rip of your t-shirt and whatever you had around you. Which in whatever the hell store it was, was not a lot. All you'd managed to find was alcohol so you at least soaked the shirt.

You'd blearily walked all the way home, eyes foggy, and praying that a walker wouldn't come near you. And now you saw it, Alexandria.

"Gabriel," you called, breathlessly, "-Gabriel, please let me in."

You heard him say something but you were delirious. Maybe something with your name? Head fuzzy and eyes bleary, you were coming down from the high of getting somewhere safe. As you waltzed into Alexandria (pain in the abdomen so hot it almost felt numbing), there was a swarm of people around you immediately. Felt like you were back in the prison, when Maggie would be waiting and you think she was now.

"Hey, hey," she chanted, grabbing your face (and you could see her now), "-look at me, Y/N, tell me what the hell happened."

"Some guy, the bitch," you muttered out, a little slurred you think, "-just shot me, because he wanted the last of the damn Campbell soup, who shoots someone for Campbell soup?"

Her eyes dropped to your body, you mindlessly noted that it was sticky. Your eyes dropped too, and saw all the red -so much red.

"I think I lost a lot of blood, Mags."

"Somebody go get Rick, and the doctor, now," she shouted (loud, loud), before turning back to you, "-How the hell did you get here?"

"I walked," you answered simply.

"You walked?" She responded, hands on your shoulders, "-How did you-"

You were safe now, and everything in your body just gave out.

"Adrenaline is a hell of a drug," you hummed, laughing a little, before falling to the ground.

Your head stung from the ground, as Maggie tried to get down by your side -all pregnant belly.

"'S okay, Mags, don't-" you mumbled "-don't hurt yourself."

She frowned, and you thought she might have tears in her eyes, "I have to stay with you, Y/N, whose going to keep you awake-"

"Glenn," you called, and you saw him saunter up to your side, a little slurred, "-take care of 'er, help her sit. Don't worry, Mags, don't worry-"

You heard a slap of footsteps then, quick and brisk, and before you could wonder who, blue eyes and rough hands were guiding your face. He was starting to grow his stubble back, you mindlessly noted.

"Rick," you smiled a little fuzzily, reaching up and patting his face, "-See Mags, Rick'll take care of me."

"Hey, hey," he brought your focus to him, "-keep lookin' at me, okay?"

"Well," you slurred a little, "-'at's not very hard, sheriff."

He turned to the crowd then, voice low and gruff, "What the hell happened?"

You heard Maggie respond then, through sobs, "'Ey said that some guy shot 'em, over a... over some food."

"Didn't even ask if he could have 'em, first. Who does that-"

"Daryl," he motioned -tone low, and he immediately nodded. You watched him leave your eyesight.

Rick instead, brought your face back to him, as you recognized the doctor to be by your side, scrambling with some white stuff.

"Hey, hey, baby," he spoke, low in a whisper, "-I'm 'ere, focus on me. Look at me."

You smiled again, delirious, "You called me baby, that feels nice. Everythin' else burns-"

"I kno', I kno'," he soothed, you felt pressure on your abdomen (hissing in pain, as your eyes got more blurry), "-ya did a good job gettin' back 'ere. To where you're safe. Ya did a good job."

"Just kept walking," you slurred, "-couldn't stop. Wasn't gonna die to some asshole."

Rick laughed then a little, and you felt something a little different than pain. Your hands naturally came to his face, mindlessly rubbing your thumbs against his cheekbones. He's always been so handsome, only gets better with time.

You noticed he leaned into it a little, careful not to hurt you. Yeah, you realized, he was genuine.

God, what if you had missed out on this, with Rick? All because of some stupid can of soup-

"Rick," you started, and he looked at you a little like you held the world, you were the world maybe, "-I think I'm gonna die."

"You're not, no-" he held his hand over yours (it was so warm. Why had you never held his hand?), "-You're not gonna die, baby. You're gonna be fine."

"I'm bleeding," you breathed out, scanning over him, "-Been bleeding the whole time. You're not supposed to bleed that much, Rick."

"Ya ain't gonna die," he repeated, hands gathering your face, "-Look at me, ya ain't dyin'."

Concern clear on his face, you felt the urge to soothe, soothe, soothe-

You looked at him, eyes scanning over his face. He was handsome, yeah, but he was caring, smart, and so, so kind. You wanted to tell him that, see what he'd say. What he'd do.

"'Said that you were a good man, 'at you have a big heart," you hummed, eyes languidly blinking, "-still mean it. Don't you forget it."

He looked at you for a second, eyes flicking all over your face, before looking to the doctor. She must've said something (your ears felt stuffy) because then Rick was picking you up. He was everywhere, smell, sight. All you could feel was Rick, body heat thrumming and blooming into your side.

"Always knew you were strong," you mindlessly remarked.

You felt Rick laugh in his chest, and your eyelids were so heavy then. You slowly began blinking, your brain slowing down. Maybe you could close your eyes just for a little bit.

"Got so much to say to ya."

And then, it all faded to black.

This blanket is scratchy as hell, you mindlessly remarked. It was almost like a thin sheet, barely coating you, and you think if you moved your arms, it would make that noise that shitty bedsheets did. Why were hospital beds so bad? Shouldn't they be comfortable?

And then your nose was hit with the heavy sterilized air. You scrunched your nose up on instinct, it made your throat burn-

"Y/N? Darlin'?"

You slowly blinked your eyes open, heavy and languid; they always had those florescent lights too. How was that helpful?

"'S too fucking bright in here."

You heard him laugh a little, maybe in relief mostly, and you blearily blinked to get a look at him.

"'D turn it down for ya if I could."

You laughed a little and squinted your eyes open, laying gently on him. He looked a little worse for wear, his hair messy and shirt a little crooked. You wanted to fix his curls back in place, and your hand moved before you could stop it.

Gently, you threaded his hair back. He was a breath away from where you laid, so it wasn't too far of a reach.

Rick looked at you so softly, that the words cut off your from your lips. And with a breath, he pulled your hand down from his hair, sliding it against his cheek. Before you could say a word about it, he turned his head and gently kissed your palm.

You bit at your lip, eyes flickering over him, "How long have you been here?"

"Since the doc' allowed me to be," he answered, fidgeting with your hand -not really wanting to let go, you guessed.

"And Mags?" You asked, concern flickering through your eyes, "-Are she and the baby okay?"

"Yeah," he looked at you, a little in disbelief, "-they're alright. She was stressed, yeah, but Glenn kept 'er calm."

"And," your eyes darted to your abdomen, where your wound now hid, "-the wound?"

"Good," he replied, eyes swimming over you like he couldn't quite believe you were okay, "-Doc' says ya just need to rest, not irritate the stitches. Which I kno' will be hard for ya."

You sighed, leaning your head back onto the bed, looking up at the ceiling, "I am going to be so bored."

Rick chuckled a little, before falling suspiciously quiet. You turned to him, just to see him looking down and fidgeting with your hand -a little like he was working on saying something. You simply waited.

"'Ve been looking for those batteries since ya said ya wanted 'em," he spoke, a little quietly.

You froze, "Since the prison?"

"Yeah," he offered, "-apparently 'ey're a hot commodity."

"Why?" You questioned, looking at him curiously, "-Why all that work for some batteries?"

"Because," he hummed simply, eyes matching yours now, "-ya wanted 'em."

You pushed your lips into a thin line, the glimmer of hope sparking in your chest. Not saying a word, you just stared at him for a second; not unlike in the early days, you were just admiring him for a lot more than his (still unbelievably handsome) face.

"Y/N, I-" he started, eyes dipping back down to your hands. He seemed to pause a moment, debating.

And then he looked up at you, eyes set in his path -unflinchingly. In a sort of understanding, like everything made sense to him now. The silence was heavy until he leaned forward and brushed his hand along your cheek -carefully. It made you feel precious, and your eyes maybe got a little cloudy because of it.

"I'm in love with ya," he let out a breath, tone heavy and genuine, "-an... and the way ya blatantly hit on me but in the damn most genuine type of way."

You laughed a little and leaned gently into his palm. He looked at you in a way you couldn't label then, or maybe you could (love), and rubbed his thumb along your cheekbone.

"I didn't know how to react to it, at first," he hummed, something settled in his eyes, "-the attention ya gave me. 'S somethin' I've never dealt with before."

"Really?" You let slip past your lips, and his grin grew wide as he let his head fall and shook it, smiling at the ground.

"Even now," he laughed a little, turning his gaze up again, "-ya always said thin's like it was so easy to do. Like ya were tellin' me 'at the sun was hot."

"You did give me some pretty good set ups," you clarified, smiling at him.

"'Never meant to," he added, grinning a little in wonder, "-I couldn't think straight when ya said 'em, so I'm surprised I even did."

You hummed, eyes twinkling at him and he looked at you just a little more like he was in love. It made a spark shoot down to your toes, warmth flooding your chest.

"If it's worth anything," you spoke, a little embarrassed, "-my brain stops working when you do the fond thing."

"The fond thing?"

"It's just," you sighed, trying to articulate, "-It's a way that you look at me, or... or smile at me. When you do the soft stuff."

"What exactly is-" he hummed, gently, holding your attention like your words really mattered, "-'the soft stuff'?"

"Uh," you blew a raspberry with your lips, "-like giving me the batteries, and... and that whole conversation actually."

"Oh," he laughed a little, blue eyes twinkling, "-like I was in love with ya."

"What? No, you weren't... not that early-"

And then you looked at him.

"Shit," you marveled, "-really?"

"Like I said," he smiled at you, a little like you were cute, "-I looked for those batteries for months. For ya. An'-"

His face got a little more serious.

"-I really missed ya. 'At was probably when I first realized it."

You rolled your lip inbetween your teeth, "Yeah?"

"Ya used to make everybody laugh, and were always smilin'-" he explained, "-it wasn't even just the flirtin', it was just... I knew ya were hurtin', an' I couldn't help. Or I... I didn't know what to do to help."

You just stared.

"An' I missed ya so desperately, I just-" he let out a breath, "-It all clicked into place, and I went on 'at run, hopin' to god there were batteries-"

You laughed a little weepily, leaning into his hand.

"-because I just wanted to make ya feel better. Bring ya back to me."

"How the hell did you even find them?" You questioned, wiping at your eyes, "-It couldn't have been that lucky."

"'Wasn't," he replied simply, "-I was only supposed to do a few stores, I did the whole strip."

"God, really?" You smiled, "-For batteries?"

"No," he hummed, simply, "-for ya."

You fell quiet.

"I would do anythin' for ya," he added, voice a little breathless, "-anythin'."

"Anything?"

Rick laughed a little, grin bright, "Ya need to rest, baby."

"That's not a no," you chimed, grinning.

He looked at you a certain type of way then, "'S definitely not a no."

You felt your heart pound in your chest for a moment. That was something to look forward to. Something stirred in your stomach.

"What?" He asked, teasing, "-Ya all bark and no bite, hmm?"

"If I wasn't bedridden," you spoke flatly, "-I would kick your ass."

"Ya would," he agreed.

And you laughed, eyes smoothing over his face. Before noticing something you hadn't quite said yet.

Words fell out of your lips, "Even though you probably already know, because I've chasing you all this time-"

He smiled at you.

"-I love you too," you finished, "-if it wasn't obvious."

"'Was kinda obvious," he leveled -teasing, but something was sparkling so bright in his eyes that you didn't really mind.

"Yeah, yeah," you moved your hand dismissively, "-don't start, sheriff."

You paused for a moment, eyes dancing along the room, "Do I get to go home today?"

"No," he spoke, with a certainty that shook through your bones (this man had literally everything), "-'Need to be taken care of, so ya are stayin' wit' me until you're healed."

You blinked at him, he was doing the fond thing again. Your mind relaxed to a low hum.

"Maybe after too," he added, tone softer but not any less certain, "-if ya want."

You stared at him, wordless.

Rick blinked, looking at you, before grinning, "'At the fond thing?"

"Yeah," you cleared your throat, embarrassed, "-I don't... It's been a long time since I've been cared for. At all. And you're a very handsome man offering to-"

"Not offerin'," he clarified, eyes set on yours, "-just doin'. 'Specially now, 'cause I kno' ya love me too."

All headstrong, decisive, and certain. How was this happening to you?

"'Thought you said it was obvious?"

"It was," he hummed, grinning at you, "-I could just barely wrap my head around ya flirtin' with me. Couldn't really see it."

You thought for a second, before speaking, "Was it Daryl?"

He grinned at you, tilting his head a little, "Maybe."

"Always knew he was a big softie," you hummed, "-read him like a book when we first met. Stone layers to an ooey-gooey center."

Rick scrunched up his nose, "Ooey-gooey center?"

"Sometimes," you sighed, "-Sometimes I say stupid shit around really attractive people. It's a habit."

"'Guess 'at means you're still gonna be flirting with me?"

"As long as you want me to, sheriff," you clarified.

"So maybe forever then," he grinned and you felt your heart leap into your chest (fuck his fond things). You were totally never getting over that.

"Yeah," you hummed in agreement, "-Maybe forever then."

Mission accomplished.

[cjlouwho]

I expanded on this little thing I wrote the other day. It's literally just 1,000 words of Tommy and Rocker arguing with each other. Enjoy!

“We got a code four on the suspect!” Hondo called into his radio. “Sergeant Rocker sustained a gunshot wound to the leg; it's bleeding pretty good.”

“LAFD is two minutes out with the chopper,” Hicks replied from the ground. “The fire on the second floor has been contained. You guys should be able to make it down the stairwell without issue, but I want Rocker up in that bird.”

“Yes, Sir.” He walked closer to Rocker, who had the rest of 20-Squad hovering around him, Deacon helping him keep pressure on his wound. “LAFD's gonna take you to the hospital,” he explained. “The rest of us will go down the stairs once you've been taken up.”

Rocker grimaced as pain radiated through his leg. “Who's flying it?” he asked.

Hondo glanced from Rocker, to Deacon, back to Rocker. “Who's flying what? The helicopter?”

“No, the USS Enterprise!” He exclaimed, rolling his eyes. “Yes, the helicopter!”

“I don't know, Man.”

“Why does that matter right now?” Deacon questioned, lifting his hand ever so slightly to see if the bleeding slowed any.

“Just ask, please,” he groaned.

Hondo sighed, then got back on the radio. “Hey, is there a way you can find out who is flying the chopper?”

There was a pause, then Hicks replied, “Is there any particular reason?”

“Apparently. Just not sure what.”

Another pause, then, “Hang on.”

It only took a few seconds for Hicks' voice to come over the radio again, Rocker listening carefully. “Firefighter pilot Aaron Ferris.”

Rocker closed his eyes, sighing in relief. “Okay. Okay, that's good.”

“Why are you so worried about it, Rocker?” Hondo asked.

“Busy trying not to bleed to death right now, Hondo,” he bit back. “This is the last time I offer my services to 20-Squad by the way.”

“You're not bleeding that bad anymore,” Tan noted.

Rocker glared up at him. “You're still up here because?”

The sound of the chopper broke them all out of their soon-to-be argument. It hovered above the building and, a few moments later, someone began to descend from the helicopter.

Rocker eyed the person closely, especially once he reached the roof and unhooked himself and the spine board from the clips.

“Oh hell no,” he breathed out, grumpily shooing away Deacon's hand so he could press down on the wound himself.

Deacon was about to ask Rocker what the hell was wrong with him when the firefighter walking toward them took off his helmet. “What the-”

“Always knew I'd be saving your ass eventually, Donny,” The doppelgänger said as he knelt beside Rocker.

“You got something to share with the class?” Hondo asked Rocker pointedly.

“This is my twin, Tommy,” Rocker hurriedly explained. “You know what? Just leave me here,” he whined. “Let me die.”

Tommy batted Rocker's hand away from the wound, tearing his pants to get a better look. “Unfortunately, it's not that bad,” he said, noting the way it was barely bleeding now. “Dad would also kill me if I let you die. He likes you, remember?”

“Oh don't even start with that! I haven't spoken to him in like a month.”

“Ha!” Tommy laughed. “Try three years, jackass. Now shut up and let me work.” He began to wrap the leg, just enough to keep the pressure on it while they transported him.

As he wrapped, a pain shot up Rocker's leg, causing him to moan. He reached out and smacked Tommy's shoulder. “Can't you be more gentle?! I literally just got shot!”

“You're such a baby.”

“You, quite frankly, have no idea what this feels like.”

Tommy stopped then, cocking his head to the side as he stared at his brother. “I don't? Really? I don't know what it's like to be shot?”

Rocker rolled his eyes dramatically. “You were overseas then,” he said. “And that was an explosion. It's different.”

“It's worse!”

“Says you.”

“Says everyone!”

Rocker motioned up at Deacon. “Deac, shooting or explosion, which is worse?”

Deacon looked back and forth between the two of them, a thousand questions running through his mind. Mostly for Tommy. “Explosion, Rocker. It's always explosion.”

Tommy grinned. “Haha.”

Rocker glared at Deacon. “You're a traitor, and this is the worst day ever.”

“What about-”

“Do not!” Rocker warned Tommy. “Never, ever mention that.”

“Mhm. Okay, come on. Get on the spine board so we can get out of here.”

“I- What do you mean, “get on the spine board”? You're supposed to put me on the spine board!”

Tommy sat back on his calves. “Are you really too weak to scoot your butt over six inches onto the board?”

“Would you really be asking this of anyone else in my current state, Thomas?”

“Anyone else in your current state would have already walked down the stairs and exited the building like a normal human, Donovan. Now, scoot!”

As soon as Rocker moved onto the spine board, moaning and groaning the whole way, he laid down and Tommy began to restrain him.

“We'll be going to Cedars-Sinai,” Tommy informed the rest of the group. “Maybe next time I see you guys Donny will actually introduce me to his co-workers.”

“Shooting victim!” Rocker reminded him. “Plus, it's not like you ever introduced me to your coworkers. Or your boyfriend! Or should I say ex-boy- Ow!”

Tommy pulled the final restraint, right over his groin, tugging extra hard, then clipped him to the rope so they could head up to the chopper. “If you don't shut up," he warned, "I'll release the clip halfway up and watch you spin around like a propeller until you hit the ground.”

Then, with a thumbs up, Tommy and Rocker began their ascent.

The rest of the team stood in silence for a moment, trying to take everything in.

“What the hell just happened here?” Hondo asked.

“Not a clue,” Deacon answered. “Permission to head to the hospital and see how this plays out?”

Hondo nodded. “Only if you give us the play by play.”

[deadhands69]

Laundry Detergent

MDNI

loser!Shigaraki x reader

One last fic for the year! Happy New Years!! Contains: gn reader/maybe afab if you squint, cussing, pacifying loser/sub!shigaraki by sitting on his lap/teasing him, light choking, male orgasm. [quick read; wc: 1k]

Shigaraki has been in a mood lately, which means the whole league is miserable. After the last failed mission, he’s been taking it out on everyone and everything for a week now. Between his snide comments and sulking, you’ve all had enough of it.

It was all your fault, really. Or so he decided. If you hadn’t worn that scent he liked, it would have been fine. You know, the one he would kill for. The one that makes him want to drop down on his knees for you and beg you to touch him. 

‘My laundry detergent?’ you once asked. 

Yeah, that. Or whatever. In any case, it drives him crazy and it’s definitely your fault the mission wasn't going as planned.

The idea was easy, or it should have been if he didn’t have a massive erection stealing the blood from his brain the entire time. All he had to do was decay four city blocks. He only made it through two before running off and ducking away somewhere private to deal with something. Leaving the rest of you to handle his task and your own.

He wouldn’t admit that part in front of everyone else (or to you) but the passive aggression continued to linger through the week.

After the last meeting abruptly ends with him rage quitting, you’re left in a room of your coworkers (if you could call them that.) They all stare at you.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do,” you assert, “he’s the one who blew the mission now he’s pissed at all of us.”

“I don’t know, fix it,” Dabi snaps before walking out.

Everyone shuffles back to their own spaces, in varying levels of anger. On top of this, no one has been sleeping well lately because Tomura keeps you up all night barking at his video game and slamming the controller on his desk every time he dies. Which is often. 

It really has been getting to you all.

Later that evening, you’re walking past his room. The muffled sound of him grumbling at his most recent death radiates through the wall. And, like clockwork you hear the controller crack as he quits for the next five minutes to pace around his room in anger.

This has gone on for too long, you need to fix this.

“Shigaraki?” you try knocking.

No answer. Of course.

“Tomura,” you shove the door open, slamming it behind you. 

“What the fuck, [y/n] get out of my room.”

“Not until you calm down, you’re making everyone miserable.”

It’s true and he knows it. He doesn’t have anything to say in defense so he settles for dropping back onto his chair, crossing his arms, and glaring at you. 

Even when he’s like this, you get the feeling he would do anything you say.

“Do you want to tell me why you’re still in such a shit mood?” you ask, bridging the gap between the two of you to where your knees nearly touch his as you stand above him.

“No,” he grumbles, eyes shifted down. He adjusts his sweatpants in a way he thinks is inconspicuous, but of course you notice it. 

In response, you slide your hoodie off. Lightly grabbing the hem with both hands while you slowly tease it over your head and throw it on his bed. The fresh laundered scent drifting towards his face. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, looking increasingly flustered.

Leaning forward, you whisper in his ear, “keep your hands on the armrests.” 

“Huh?” He stares up at you, eyes filled with confusion and nerves.

The same eyes widen immediately when you sit on his lap. Twisting your torso to press his face into your chest. 

You feel the drool of his lips as he gasps into the skin above your low-cut tank top. His chin nestled lower while he takes huge breaths. Inhaling the scent of you. His erection pressing into your ass as he tries desperately to hold his hips still. He’s not even trying to hide it anymore.

He could probably cum right now, but you have ulterior motives. You pull back and watch as his pretty lips quiver at the loss.

“Are you going to be a good boy and calm down?” you ask, index finger and thumb pinching his chin to force his face up towards you.

“Uhnhuuh,” he moans.

“You sure?”

“Yes,” he chokes out, “yeah. Anything.”

“Good,” you reply. “I’m not fucking you,” you say, then more quietly whisper, “at least not today.”

“Wait, you w- aahhhh”, he moans as you slide your hips back into the painfully hard bulge he tucked into his waistband. 

Your hand slides down his chin to the soft skin on his neck. Grabbing tighter than polite, but you know he loves it by the way he squirms under you. His hips jutting up into your ass involuntarily. 

Licking your lips, you twist your face to his. Mouth only millimeters from his and there’s nothing he can do but whimper.

Shifting your weight, you rub against him again. This time he gasps and grips his chair so tight you worry he might decay it. While he catches his breath under you, you watch the wet stain creep through his thin t-shirt. 

That was fast.

Smoothly, you climb off his lap and head for the door with one last glance over your shoulder to admire the mess you made. Shigaraki is so fucked out his eyes struggle to stay open. Hands still dangling over the edge of the armrest. You did good, you think as you head back to your room to lay in bed. The whole place is quiet. Everyone in the league really owes you for that one.

Ten minutes later, your eyes shoot open.

Fuck, you forgot your favorite hoodie.

m.list

[thatnonameuser]

The Red King holds a Bleeding Head

A Wonderland of Yanderes - Masterlist Chapter 1. Heartslaybul Part 9.

“Ngh….”

Every cell in your body throbs. That’s the first thing your brain manages to register when you come to.

Your eyes burn as you struggle to open them, you can feel the stickiness of blot on your face and skin. It’s like tar, if it burned skin. 

You groan and whimper, as you force your body into a sitting position, muscles screaming in exhaustion for rest. You feel like someone’s let you drown in tar and yanked you back out at the brink of death. You can feel blot sticking to your skin, dripping off of you like blood; stuck in your throat and burning and churning like bile in your stomach. 

You forced down a shaky breath, before hacking up a mouthful of blot that you didn’t know was in your lungs. Are you dying? You’re not sure.

The last thing you remember is Riddle’s voice. Asking something to his mother? You’re not really sure.

“A-Ace…… Deuce? ……G-Grim?” You rasp, your tongue feels too big in your mouth. Your lips feel like someone super glued them together. You finally gather the strength to open your eyes, and with some pre-emptive struggles, you’re immediately blinded. Wherever you are it’s too bright here, it’s too white. Too- shit. After a few moments, the blinding light subsides for a moment. And you can make out shapes, slowly unblurring and becoming more detailed. But that’s the problem. You made out shapes, not colors.

“Am….Am I dreaming again?” The world is black and white, just like your dreams. A world bleached into a complete greyscale. But the one difference you can see is there’s no red color anywhere in the rose garden. Well, except the puddle of red-black color of the puddle of blot you’re sitting in. 

Footsteps lead out from the puddle, staining the garden of gray perfectionism. Speaking of the garden, it’s not like Heartslabyul’s or the Queen of Hearts’ in your dreams. It’s different, because while it is beautiful, it’s completely clean. Like a hospital clean. No scattered petals from the roses on the grass, or stray leaves on the ground or even a speck of dirt on the stone pathway. Not a blade of grass is too long, or a stone out of place. You could even swear that the grass was so cleanly cut that the gardener probably was on their hands and knees with a pair of scissors and a ruler. Everything here is so clean….it’s discomforting. 

But, you’re more concerned with the foot prints. If the blot is any indicator, Riddle is involved somewhat.

But why, what does a terrifyingly clean garden and house you’ve never seen have to do with any of what just happened. And why are you involved? All you remember is an otherworldly force pulling you to Riddle, getting struck with a wave of blot and then, you for some reason woke up here. Why are you involved?

With some struggle, you stumble to your feet. Your legs shake like a baby deer’s with every step through the garden. Your footsteps stain the grass along with the ones someone else, probably Riddle, left behind. But you’ll worry about that later. “Riddle?” You call out, but you receive no reply. There's no sound here. No birds tweeting, no bees buzzing, no people talking.

The back door is open, an inky handprint stains the otherwise polished wood. 

“Riddle?” You call out, but nothing calls back in reply. In fact, Just devastating silence, and the few sounds you’re making. You feel a chill run up and down your spine. “I know you’re here.”

You push open the door, and it doesn’t even creak. More footprints stain the polished flooring. 

You don’t want to go in but you  have no choice but to follow the trail through the house. If this is anything like your dream then, there’s something that you’re meant to see. Besides, you don’t have a history of liking being stuck in places you can’t get out of.

“Riddle?” You try again. But no response. You take a hesitant step into the house,searching for any residents. Besides the footsteps stained into the floor , there’s no sign of life in the house. No matter where you look, there’s no movement, no sound of footsteps, nothing.

Just the stains of blot on the wall, all the decorations on the wall. Or it would be better to call it the achievements on the wall. From wall to wall in minimalist frames, are diplomas, medals, certificates, newspaper clippings. No photographs of fond memories, no whimsical or artsy decorations, adorable yet poorly made children’s art or even a visible picture of whoever lived here.

If the walls are not covered with achievements, it’s covered with shelves filled to the brim with books. Not storybooks, or fictional stories filled with entertaining adventures, or non-fictional anecdotes that tell interesting experiences. Journals. Textbooks. Encyclopedias. Any book that would bore a child to tears, or make adults beg for mercy should they read them. Some shelves are full of trophies rather than books. All in varying sizes, but only for first place. They’re not even whimsical activities or hobbyist or amateur events for just fun either, trophies for academics and academics alone. 

You can’t help but feel a little inferior walking through the halls, and apparently whoever was in here with you didn’t like them either, having left stains and blotches of the ink on the awards and obscuring the recipient’s name from view, or their faces in the few photographs on the walls.

If this is Riddle’s house, you can understand why he’s a little nuts. This house is so minimally decorated, it looks like one of those sad houses all over the internet back home. Bland and boring, even in the black and white. This house doesn’t look like a home, it looks like a doctor’s office.

You wander the halls, following the footsteps to wherever they lead, looking for life, and finding more depressing decorations. The living room is spotless, except for the blotty footsteps,  and horrifyingly untouched, the kitchen is as boring and empty with the most minimal of spices and cookbooks for the most bland of meals. The study you passed in the hallway looks like a mix between a library and a college classroom.

Not one thing in this house is remotely fun. No instruments to make lively music, no entertaining books to read, and no fun games to play. Just endless boredom and lifelessness.

You follow the footsteps through the house, more and more disturbed by how depressing this house is. If your instinct was right, then you can’t help but feel a little bad for…. “Whoa….”

As you enter the dining room, your earlier deduction proves right. Just not exactly as you thought it would. 

Sitting at the dining table, obediently following the manners his mother probably ingrained into his head, is a child version of the Red Tyrant, a young Riddle Rosehearts. 

And unlike the dim, dull world his youthful features are bright with color. He looks exactly like himself in the real world, albeit a decade younger. Crimson red hair, steel gray eyes, rosy cheeks, he’s a beacon of color in this greyscale world.

And frankly, he’s adorable, smiling softly as he sits as still as a statue, waiting for someone. 

And the footprints you’d been following lead right up to him. So if Riddle of the present was here, then this was him. In the body of his child self. 

“Riddle?” You ask, but he doesn’t acknowledge you. Can he not see you?

You feel someone faze through you. A woman, whose face is completely blacked out by shadow. But you can still make out the little heart-shaped bangs, just like Riddle’s. Is this his mother? 

She sets down- “Wait, what is that?”

The ‘that’ in question is a brick decorated with leaves. An eight birthday candle sits on top of it. If that’s a cake, the baker should be sued.

A woman says, “Happy Eighth Birthday Riddle.” Her voice is snobbish, and sounds completely uninterested given that this is, as she says, Riddle’s Birthday. You can’t see her face, but you think it’s safe to say she isn’t smiling. “This year’s birthday cake is a low-sugar recipe made with nuts and lecithin-rich soy flour to improve cerebral function.”

“Your son’s birthday cake…. That is your son’s birthday cake?” You’re about 90% percent sure, the diet mongering supermodels of your world would just not get a birthday cake than eat whatever that is. And Ms (Mrs?) Rosehearts thought it was a suitable birthday cake for a kid, that looks mostly fine?

Also, you’re not convinced that this isn’t a birthday party. The dining room is as blandly decorated as the rest of the house, the only thing on the table are books as thick as actual bricks and names so long and boring that your eight-year old self would rather play with the wrapping paper than read them if you got them. Plus, besides Riddle and his mother, no one’s here. No friends singing happy birthday obnoxiously, no grandparents spoiling him with gifts, no one other than the woman who thought the inside of the compost bin was a cake.

This can’t be a celebration a loving well-off mother would give her only child.

You remember Trey had said Riddle’s mother was a perfectionist forcing her legacy onto Riddle. And Riddle seemed to think his mother’s word was a law he couldn’t break….so, you don’t have very high expectations for the woman. 

While you ponder whatever’s happening before you, Riddle smiles, blowing out the candle and accepting a slice of the disgusting looking cake, before shyly raising a hand to ask a  question. “Thank you. But, Mom…”

He waits for her acknowledgement to continue speaking, and you can’t even see the raging tyrant you did fifteen minutes ago. He even shys away under her gaze, shrinking in his seat as he finally asks his burning question. “Just once…I’d like to try one of those tarts covered with bright-red strawberries.” He gives her an adorable, hopeful smile once he finishes, as if hoping for a positive response with great anticipation. 

But he doesn’t get one. Not even on the celebration for the day of his birth.

“Absolutely not! Those tarts are monstrously unhealthy. I might as well feed you poison!” The younger Riddle flinches, before shrinking back in his seat immediately. The demure behavior feels so opposite to his explosive rage from before. “Even just a single slice would exceed your recommended daily intake of sugar.”

You feel the same anger that you felt dealing with Riddle earlier. All she needed to say was no. Not lecture the kid till he shrank all the way into his chair. As SHE said, it’s his birthday, and he was polite about it. At least be nice about it in response, lady.

Regardless of whatever you’re thinking, she blatantly ignores Riddle’s clear disappointment and sadness in favor of dishing out an equally bland-looking meal. “Now, dinner tonight will be a tuna saute rich in DHA and omega-3 fatty acids.” This woman has to be an almond mom, because there’s no way any eight year old would know what those words even mean, let alone willingly eat that at age 8, let alone that over the slice of…brick.

“Now that you’re eight, your caloric intake should be 600 kilocalories per meal so don’t eat more than 100 grams of it.” It’s his birthday and Riddle’s eight, does this woman suck the joy out of life as a hobby or a living. What good mother forbids her child from eating something he clearly likes or wants because of a calorie recommendation. He’s eight and healthy, not a kid with diet issues?!

“What is wrong with you?” You say aloud, but she can’t hear you. You’re not saying that she should feed him nothing but junk food, but if she’s always strict about this stuff, give him a little wiggle room on his birthday. 

No one hears you, and Riddle only bows his head, glum as he picks at the bland looking fish. “Yes, mom.”

You feel a burst of pity in your chest. Even if Riddle was a tyrant, no child deserves a birthday so boring and restricting as the one he did. But you guess all tyrants were children once, maybe- Wait. No.

No. 

No. You are not feeling bad for Riddle. You are not going to feel bad for Riddle. Sure, he had a miserable birthday and probably upbringing because of a horrible mother didn't bother picking up a parenting book, but everyone has shitty people in their life. That’s no excuse to hurt others because of it. And he outed you, no forgiveness, not yet-

“I’d always wanted to try one of those tarts with the bright red strawberries….” The older Riddle’s comes in from the ether and makes you jump out of your skin. Was he trying to get you to pity him? Well, tough fucking- 

The world warping interrupts you mid-thought. “Wh-What the hell?!”

Now you’re in a street in front of that beautiful, but actually severely depressing house. A young Riddle walks hand in hand with his mother, his eyes locked on the delicious looking strawberry tarts in a bakery’s window. You spot the name ‘Clover’ painted on the glass. Is that Trey’s family’s bakery? 

“The local cake shop had them in the window. They shined at me like forbidden jewels.”

The tarts like Riddle are colorful and match his description. The sugary treats sparkle in the sunshine. And you can see the look of disappointment  and longing on Riddle’s face as his mother tugs him away from the treasure that caught his eye, held just out of reach.

“Alright, Riddle.” If he’s just gonna show you this, and not provide any explanation, you’re providing your unsolicited commentary. “That sucks, but plenty of kids don’t get sugar or have depressing birthdays and don’t abuse or threaten to murder their classmates. This isn’t an excuse.”

No reply again.

The world warps again, and this time you’re in the study you walked past earlier. You were right in thinking it looked depressing, as the young Riddle is seated at a small desk, writing notes as his mother shuts a very thick textbook. “That’s enough classical magic study for today.” You roll your eyes at the sound of her voice, which is in your ears thanks to her snobbish tone. “Your homework is to read the first fifty pages of the philosophy of language book referenced in today’s magical philosophy texts.”

“....Fifty?”You’re taken aback at the assignment. “He’s eight!” You say, dumbstruck and outraged, at the mother that made Riddle into a monster.

Fifty pages? Of something as confusing and boring as Philosophy? That was a second year elective at NRC. A high school, for seven’s sake. He’s eight… he’s not even supposed to be learning about this yet.

But the bitch didn't hear you. 

“You may now have one hour of independent study before your potionology lesson.” What the-

“Miss ma’am, He’s eight! He’s not supposed to be learning this till high school! How can you expect him to understand this?!” Still, no reaction to your reasonable words. “And why aren’t you letting him have a break?! He’s still just a kid!”

He’s not getting a break? But he might have been studying for hours. Kids need to play and have fun too. But considering a child lived here, and you hadn’t seen a single toy or child’s storybook. You didn’t think he was allowed that either.

“Thank you, Mother.” The young Riddle responds, in a polite monotone. He’s said this before, possibly every day of his life since he learned to talk.

“Don’t thank her! You’re not supposed to be studying all day long!”Despite your dislike for the present Riddle Rosehearts, you want to pull the child version out of the room and away from all the stacks of work his mother was giving him. He’s a child, not a trophy. He should be playing, not studying. Wait.

You slap yourself across the face, “No!” You do it again, “No! We are not feeling bad for him! Even if…. he really is suffering…”

“I need some time to prepare the lesson materials. I will see you in one hour, okay?” Riddle’s mother’s voice is as uncaring as it was when she wished him happy birthday. 

“How can you be so heartless to your only child!?” You  ask, but you know whatever answer you get won’t be a good one. This bitch is so self-centered that she wouldn’t be able to convince anyone with whatever reason she stitches together in her crazy mind..

She adjusts a stray hair on Riddle’s head, something imperfect on her perfect trophy, before leaving him alone. No gentle ruffling of his hair, no parental hug, no trace of affection. She reminds you of one of your super strict, no-nonsense teachers that was impossible to impress. Always expecting more despite how much effort was poured in. 

You watch the young Riddle pull heavy books off the study’s shelves in the study, obediently following his mother’s orders, as the older continues his narration. “I was studying every possible subject, scheduled down to the minute. When I didn’t understand something, the lesson was extended until I did.”

“But you’re a child. Sure, you need to learn but you’re still a kid…. You should be playing, not learning high school level topics.” You say to the ether, but once again you get no reply.  

“That was my ‘normal’.” It’s just saddening, really. To watch a child live a life enforced by a parent that raised him to be a trophy. To watch the young Riddle flip through pages of topics that don’t make sense, even to you, and you’re a decade older than him at this moment.

You sigh. No point in pretending now. “Okay, Riddle. I admit it, this sucks…. But why are you showing me this?” If Riddle is reminiscing on his traumatic childhood, why are you here to bear witness to what made him into a monster. Still, no reply.

A knock resounds from the study’s window. Both you and Riddle turn your heads to the window. Someone’s there. 

“...Is someone knocking on the window? Maybe a bird?” Riddle steps away from his desk, curious. You follow him, just as curious. This place looks as empty and lifeless as a haunted house. Who would willingly scale the spiked, wrought iron to peak into the windows of the Madam Boring and her unfortunate prisoner/child. The ornate glass swings open, and both you and Riddle gasp for two very different reasons.

A boy managed to slip past the high gates of Riddle’s home. A boy that looks similar to- “Trey?”

 No one hears you. But who cares. Like the rest of the world, he’s colored black and white. But the glasses are a dead giveaway. The younger Trey Clover, looks genuinely surprised that Riddle actually answered. “Whoa, he heard us!” Wait, who’s us-

“AHHHH!”

“WAUGH?!”

Both you and Riddle jump in surprise as a familiar, but much younger face pops out of nowhere. Without a body. A younger Chenya, your brain rapidly supplies, fuelled by adrenaline. So he always gave people heart attacks when he first met them. “Hey, hey. Come play with us!”

Good to know that he was always like that. 

Anyway, Chenya practically made poor Riddle jump out of his skin in surprise. “Who..Who are you?”

Chenya reveals the rest of his body, giggling and smiling in his Cheshire way. “My name’s Chenya, and this is Trey. Let’s play Croquet!”

“C-Croquet?” Chenya proceeded to give Riddle, and you, another heart attack, as he dug into his clothes, pulled out a curled up hedgehog and tossed the poor creature directly into Riddle’s hands. 

But the result of it was frankly adorable, as you watched Riddle’s eyes light up at the small creature resting peacefully in his palms. “He wants to play with you too.”

The sight of the lonely child’s face light up in wonder makes your heart warm up. You feel the urge to pick him up and set him outside, to save him from the prison of his mother’s making and let him have fun for the first time in forever. 

But as you think that, Riddle’s budding excitement falters. “But I…” You watch him look back at the books on his desk, the reminder of his mother’s assigned task looming in the back of his mind. And her rules. “It’s my independent study time, and I have to focus.” 

“Go. Go play. It’s okay to break rules once in a while.” You say, even if he can’t hear you. It’s not like the egg donor that is his mother would know. The door’s shut after all. “You can go and come back in time.” You may not be the number one fan of the present Riddle Rosehearts, but you can set aside your anger and hatred to the one that hasn’t done anything wrong yet. And honestly, you had enough of tyrants taking the fun out of everything. Even if this one would grow up to be one, you want him to have fun, for what might be the first time in his life.

Even if you can’t be heard to convince him, the child Chenya turns out to be quite the sweet talker. “That means you get to choose what you study, right? My gramps says that playing is basically a kinda study.”

The sudden epiphany causes Riddle’s eyes to widen, “Play..is learning?” 

“Want to come down and join us for a little bit?” Trey offers with a bright and friendly smile on his face. You watch the genuine excitement cross Riddle’s face as he chooses between an hour of fun, and the boring work he’d probably spend every single day of his life doing if he rejected their offer. 

“You can do it. Go.” Your words are wishful thinking. You have no say in how this is presented, but you want to actually see Riddle break his horrible mother’s rules. 

After way too much contemplation, Riddle gives into the temptation much to your relief, and crawls out the window. “J-Just… Just for a bit then.” 

Noticing his apparent struggles, Trey holds out his hand in offering. “Mind if I ask your name?”

Riddle hesitates for a second, and you briefly feel your heart accelerate out of fear for his refusal, but thankfully, he finally gives in, “R-Riddle. Riddle Rosehearts.”

The world warps again, changing scenes. And what comes next is beautiful. 

After what has to be years of living under his mother’s strict rule, Riddle finally is free to let loose. 

The garden that felt so empty beforehand breathed new life as the trio played. Smiles, laughs, cheers and excitedly uttered words broke the intense silence, as the grass was rolled in, the planters were shifted, and the bushes were crumpled. 

It was everything short of perfect. And that was perfect in a way Riddle’s mother could never achieve.

You felt rejuvenated watching the three play. The breath you held was suffocating, caused by standing around in something made to be so perfect, and you finally let it go watching Riddle have fun, breaking the restrictive rules his mother forced him to obey. 

The shrills of high-pitched laughter as the young Riddle was letting out suddenly mute as the elder voice continues his speech.

“I had the best time playing with Trey and Chenya. We did so many things that I have never done before. They both taught me things I didn’t know.” Riddle sounds so fond as he reminisces on these memories. It feels so sweet hearing the uptight and strict Riddle Rosehearts let go of his hold on the rules to enjoy having fun but….

“Where did it all go wrong?” You murmur as you watch the young Riddle struggle to tame a flamingo for a game of croquet. There’s no sign of malicious intent that you felt around the one a decade older. “You were so close to learning that the rules your mother made were insane, what changed to make you go back to who you are now?”

Here, Riddle had friends. He had fun, unshackled by his mother’s chains. Free to have fun whilst being the golden child that his mother craved. 

But why did he completely one-eighty? Go from a rule breaker who broke a pointless rule to an enforcer of the most ridiculous rules.

This may be extremely beautiful and heart-warming, but it also serves an awful reminder that this young Riddle grew up to be the one that was just as strict and restrictive as his mother. 

The world changes again, Back to the study, where a young Riddle pretends to work, subtly watching the window with all his focus. Trey and Chenya appear, and Riddle practically leaps out his chair to join them.

“After that I would slip out of my room everyday.” The child Riddle climbs out the window, his work abandoned in favor of playing with his friends. “During my one hour of independent study time without notifying my mother.”

“Good job.” you praise. You’re just happy to see him having fun.

The world changes again. To out in the garden.

“Whatttt? You’ve nyever had a strawberry tart before?” Chenya exclaims in surprise, kicking his heels on the bench next to Riddle.

Riddle twiddles his thumbs, shyly in his lap. “No…My mother says they’re bad for you.” Perfectly parroting another one of his mother’s bogus rules that she relentlessly drilled into his head.

Now incredibly awkward, Trey readjusts his glasses nervously. “I mean, you probably shouldn’t eat too much of it, but…calling it poison is just kinda…yikes.”

“Yeah, the only poisonous one here is her.”

But seriously, Trey actually speaking his mind feels alien to you. Trey keeping his honest thoughts and opinions to himself when Riddle’s present was the norm for his older self. Had whatever forced Riddle to change had caused Trey to change too? You’re starting to get a bad feeling. 

Trey’s eyes light up with an idea, “You know, my family runs a cake shop. Let’s go get a tart right now!” He holds out his hand in offering, and the promise of the forbidden fruit his mother denied him makes Riddle’s eyes widen in excitement.

“Really?” Riddle says excitedly, before he hesitates, “But…I shouldn’t.”

“Just one slice. It’ll be fine.” Trey insists, taking Riddles’ hand in his own, before Chenya steps in and pulls Trey and Riddle out of the garden, in the direction of the Clover bakery. 

“One slice for YOU maybe. I want a whole one!”

Whatever objections Riddle is yet to utter dies on his tongue as he enters the warm bakery. Another shift of scene. Inside the cake shop is full of warmth, the treats covering nearly every inch of shelves and the air filled with the sweetness of freshly baked pastries and warm sugar, chocolate and fragrant fruit. Like a literal kid in a candy store, Riddle’s eyes sparkle in awe. Everywhere he, and by proxy you, looks is full of sweets and pastries ready to be devoured. Whatever hesitation he has is rapidly dying. 

“So is this what caused it? You didn’t really want to eat the tart because of your mom, but you got peer pressured into it and that made you break the rules?” You ask the ether. You still don’t understand. If Riddle was careful, like he’d said he was, why would this be important?

The Clover bakery, more specifically the part of it that’s Trey’s home, is the exact opposite of Riddle’s. Cluttered with decorations of family portraits, children’s drawing’s height markers on the doors as they grew older. Excluding the scent of sweet pastries, you can smell the love in this home. You can hear other voices, the voices of Trey’s siblings and his father joking scolding them for their pastry based gluttony. Riddle looks around in genuine curiosity, not used to the mess, warmth and life this house has in contrast to his own. 

Still, the bad feeling churns in your gut, as time progresses. And as Trey returns with the fresh slices of a strawberry tart, it doesn’t dissolve despite the warmth of the new scene.

“A bright-red strawberry tart on a pure white plate.” Riddle stares at the slice with all the awe, excitement and wonder only a child could. Like a child holding their very first snowglobe, he inspects it with curiosity and barely contained excitement. “To me, it sparkled brighter than any jewel ever could.”

“Eat it. You want to eat it. So eat it.” Your demands actually are answered, as tiny hands raise the fork, shaking slightly in excitement. Riddle takes his first bite. And as soon as the strawberry hits his taste buds….

Color fills the world, chasing the bland gray away. 

“The first bite was so sweet and delicious, like nothing I’d ever tasted before. With every bite, I became more and more entranced…”

Not one speck of this world remains in a dark, lifeless gray, filled with color and the life that comes with it. 

All it took was a tart, but it was more than that. It was the taste of friendship, of fun. But most importantly, it was the taste of freedom. Freedom that he’d been denied over and over, that he was finally allowed to taste. 

Along with the color comes the laughter chasing the dull world away, with its restrictions and its chains. You can’t even fight the smile forcing its way onto your face. 

How could you not? This was just so- 

“-And completely lost track of time.”

“Shit.” An icy chill runs up your spine as the world returns to that study, completely cold and dull in comparison to the warm and vibrant bakery. 

The smile on your face vanishes with the color and warmth. “Oh no…”

“I put on some of the organic tea I ordered-” Riddle’s mother returns to the empty study. And the tea set she’s holding shatters on the carpet. Your joy follows it on the floor. 

You hate every second of what comes next. 

Riddle, in the middle of the fun time he was having, spies the clock on the wall. And notices the hour he was supposed to spend studying had ended twenty minutes ago. 

His mother, searching for him in fury (not worry, you noted) finds him just as he's hurrying to leave the bakery. Trey and Chenya are right behind him, and she immediately spots the crumbs that, in his haste to leave, he’d forgotten to wipe off. 

The realization that follows, and the shaming of Trey’s kind parents. As she screams at them in fury for feeding her, now bawling, son; Riddle grips her skirts while begging her to stop. Trey watches, stunned in either guilt or horror, not his parents but Riddle as he pleads with his hysterical mother. Chenya, probably using his magic, is hiding somewhere. 

And then Riddle is dragged back to the depressing prison that he calls home….. to be punished. And the warmth and color is gone, replaced with a cold chill.

You feel your blood boil as the bitch screams and berates her son. “Unbelievable!” Completely irate and unreasonable, Riddle’s mother screams at him with all the fury she’d given Trey’s parents. “Not only did you abandon your study time, but I find you eating a mountain of sugar as well!!” Riddle takes her screeches and yells completely silent, trying to interject with apologies to spare himself from her wrath even further.

Riddle doesn’t even try to defend himself, too afraid of her wrath. 

If he can’t…you will. Even if no one can hear you.

“SHUT THE HELL UP, YOU SELF-CENTERED BITCH!” You yell back, even if she can’t hear you. This isn’t parenting, this is abuse. You stand between the two to offer a small modicum of protection to the still crying Riddle, but you know that you’re not actually doing anything. Because you weren’t there when this happened all those years ago. Still, you can’t pacify your own anger. “JUST SHUT UP, YOU HEARTLESS WITCH!”

Riddle’s mother chooses this completely horrible moment, to turn to the window. And she spots Trey and Chenya beyond the fence that makes this house a prison. “Those two are what must have led you astray….”

“SHUT UP, YOU OLD BITCH!” Anger forces tears into your eyes. Even if….no, you’re angry but you don’t hate him. Not completely. “All they did was teach him something you never could!” You grind out through your teeth, infuriated.

“There will be no more playing with those terrible influences ever again!” Horror and panic flood Riddle’s face. 

And you can feel the blood roar in your ears. “You evil!-”

Riddle fazes through you to apologize and plead with his mother to not take his friends away, to not take his happiness away. “I’m sorry, Mother!! It won’t happen again, so please!” 

But the old windbag can’t see reason. “BE QUIET!” Riddle nearly bursts into tears again as she throws him off. “You broke the rules, and now you’re paying for it.”

“AND YOU NEVER WOULD HAVE LET HIM ANYWAY!” Every yell in his defense that you make goes unheard. But does it really matter? No, this tyrannical bitch is a horrible mother, and she ruined someone that could have been wonderful. “YOU’RE AN EVIL, HORRIBLE MOTHER WHO RAISED YOUR FLESH AND BLOOD TO BE A TROPHY! HE NEVER DESERVED THIS, YOU FUCKING!-”

“Honestly, it must have been too soon to allow you so much freedom.” She moves to shut the window. To separate him from sweet freedom forever. 

“I simply must keep a much closer eye on you…” Darkness fills the room as the glass and shutters close. And soon all your senses can pick up is the Riddle of the past’s sorrowful pleas and sniffles slowly dissolving into silence. “I’m sorry, Mother! I’m sorry!...”

You’re going to have an explosive aneurysm with how hot your blood is boiling. Not because of Riddle, but because of his evil hag of a mother. No fucking wonder Riddle grew up to be a complete psychopath. Does this world base its laws on fucking nothing?!

And the one of the present, fills the void it made. 

“Because I broke the rules….” A small window of light fills the dark. Riddle stands before it, looking in sorrow at his friends just beyond his home’s gates, but still painfully out of reach. “My days of fun were cut short.”

Chenya looks like he wants to come in again, but Trey stops him, his eyes downcast. They both go, leaving Riddle behind to the prison of his mother’s making. “That’s why I vowed to never again break my mother’s rules.”

“B-But it wasn’t your fault. You were a suffering kid being offered freedom. She was the one in the wrong.”

The hag appears behind him, holding the life of drudgery in the form of a textbook, and this time Riddle doesn’t have the freedom of a choice. He does his studies, at the hag’s behest. The color in him leeches out, turning into a cold gray that matches his monster mother’s. 

“After all,  my mother is the most accomplished in our town, therefore making her the most correct.”

She never was Riddle, she destroyed your life to make hers seem more accomplished.” You can only hope that your words reach his ears. He didn’t do anything wrong, he was brainwashed by his mother’s abusive parenting. And that led to disaster. “Deep down, I know you know that-”A hypothermic chill goes up and down your spine. “Huh?”

The entire room drops in temperature till its deathly cold. You whip your head around in panic for the source, desperate to see whatever the source was. 

And halfway through that Riddle’s mother turns from a person, into a human-shaped pile of blot. 

“AHH!” You back up until your back hits the wall. And the blot that you hadn’t noticed was on it. Blot is seeping out of the cracks and spaces of the darkening study. 

This room is being flooded with blot. 

And you and Riddle are still trapped here. 

“Still…..How come, mama? How come my chest still hurts so much?”

“Riddle, I know that this is hard for you but you need to snap out of this!” The blot’s high enough to reach your calves now. You wade through the blot towards the child body of Riddle Rosehearts. If Riddle is the reason you’re here, he’s the way out too. You need to snap him out of this. 

“I want to eat lots of tarts, even if it’s just for my birthday…”

“You can still do that, you just have to wake up!” The blot’s up to your knees now, and because it’s as thick and sticky as tar, you can barely wade through it. That’s not the only thing though. The boring and enormous textbooks Riddle’s mother burdened his childhood with, stack precariously high. Up to where the ceiling no longer is. 

“And play outside all day long, and make lots and lots of friends.”

“It’s not too late, just wake up!”The blot’s at your thighs now. The towers of boring literature sway, threatening to fall at any moment and crush you both. 

“Tell me, mama…” The body of the young Riddle, is suddenly engulfed in blot, and reveals the current form of the present Riddle, still in overblot. You can see the tears fall from his eyes onto the desk. His voice, not disguising the pain. 

“What rule should I follow to end all of this pain?”

“Riddle, WAKE UP! You don’t have to live in pain forever!” You yell desperately. The blot’s at your waist now. Out of options, you throw yourself forward.

And your hands finally meet cold skin.

“Huh?.....I don’t?” Riddle turns and his eyes focus on you. The towers of books threatening to fall suddenly steady. The blot flooding the room stops pouring, stops rising. All is calmer now. 

“You can hear me?” Riddle nods and you sigh in relief. He can finally see you, finally hear you. You embrace him as tightly as possible. “Thank goodness…I was worried we both would die here.”

His arms wrap around you, returning your embrace. “W…Why are you here?”

“I don’t know but I’m glad I’m here…” You withdraw and wipe the inky black tears spilling down his cheeks, away from his face. You take a deep breath before sighing again. “I’m sorry I had to see all that. It must have been hard for you to live like that your entire life.”

Riddle doesn’t respond, his eyes avoid meeting yours. Is it shame, guilt or something else? “How much did you see?”

“Enough. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry that your mother was who she was, you didn’t deserve to suffer the way you did for so long. But you don’t have to live that life forever.”

“How?… The rules-”

You interrupt him, “The rules your mother gave you are ridiculous. Yes, kids need structure and rules to grow but they need to have fun too. And friends. And your mother stole that from you because she wanted you to be a trophy she could show off.”

“But mother was never-”

“She was wrong, Riddle. And a lot of the rules she gave you were wrong too. I know it’s hard to have your whole world crash down around you but there’s a part of you that never liked your mother’s rules….Right?”

Black tears pool in Riddle’s eyes. “I just wanted to eat a strawberry tart… Just once.”

You wipe them away, letting your hand rest on his inky/blot stained cheek. “And you can. You can make your own rules for your life. If you want to eat tarts till you’re sick, you can. If you want to play till you can’t move, you can. You don’t have to follow her rules or the Queen of Hearts’ rules, just your own. As long as you’re happy and not hurting yourself, or forcing them onto someone else, do whatever makes you happy.”

He cups your hand to his face before you can remove it. “Would…Would you do it with me? I wanted you to be my friend, I want to eat tarts till I’m sick with you….” 

Ok, bit of a red flag, that's a bit concerning given the world you’re in. But you really can’t do anything if he traps you here. “Of course. But we need to get out of here to do that.”

A flash of light sparks up next to you both, causing you both to turn your heads to it. A door appears out of nowhere. 

Small, tiny and barely there, but the light coming out of it shines brightly, it's not the light at the end of the tunnel. You hope at least. 

“I think that’s the way out. Are you ready?” You hold out your hand in offering. “You have a lot of apologies to make, one to me included, but I’ll be there to help you.”

Riddle takes your hand, it’s warm and the blot falls away exposing his normal skin. “Not really, but let’s go.”

Riddle sets his other hand on the door knob. And the dark world fills with light.

“Riddle!” Trey’s voice is the last thing you hear before things go dark. Or, uh, white.

Consciousness hits you like a brick to the face.

You jerk upwards so fast you give yourself vertigo. The remnants of blot in your stomach churn threaten to come up with bile. But you manage to choke it down, despite how much it burns. 

Ace, Deuce and Grim probably feel the same, because-

“...Hi guys-” You barely get those words out before they tackle you and your back hits the torn up ground of the rose garden. You choke out a weak cough as soon as they hug you so tightly that you can feel the air you just breathed in get squeezed out of your lungs. 

But despite the pain, you laugh, now fuelled by adrenaline. “You guys, I’m okay. Let me up.” You say in between laughs. 

Ace is angrier because of what you just said.“Okay, my ass ______! You stopped breathing!” Oh, shit. Okay, maybe you should stop by the nurse after this. 

Deuce is more concerned, “We thought you were dead, Prefect!”

Grim like Ace is infuriated at your near death experience. “I seriously thought you were going to die, Henchman!”

“But I’m okay now. Just calm down.” After a few more seconds in their smothering embrace, they finally let you go and help you up. You scratch your fingers through Grim’s fur, soothing the tiny rage in your direbeast before giving your two friends a serious apology. “Sorry about that you guys.” 

“You better be sorry. We were worried sick!” Ace smacks the top of your head, before finally calming down.“Just don’t freak us out like that again.”

Deuce, in turn, breathes a slow sigh of relief, “Just give us some warning before you try to do that again… I was worried I was going to lose you.” Your adrenaline fueled laughs are replaced with churning worry. 

There would be no bad yandere thoughts after the shit storm today. “Sorry,” you say as sincerely as possible.

Cater seems to share your trio of friends' relief, “Well, it’s about time….We were just about losin’ our heads here -figure of speech, sorry - ‘cause we thought you might never wake up.”

You’re scooped up into a hug the next second, and for once you’ll let it slide. “Nice to see you again too, Cater.” 

Trey is the only one yet to greet you now that you’re awake. More concerned with waking up the still unconscious Riddle. 

Well, now you’re fucking concerned. 

As soon as Cater lets you go, which he doesn't, you wiggled out of it; you run to Riddle’s side. “Is Riddle okay?” You ask, now very worried. Why did you wake up but not him? Did something go wrong? Is he going to die after all?!

Trey gives you an anxious expression that seems to worsen the longer “He hasn’t woken up yet.” Trey looks more worried the longer that Riddle stays unconscious. “Why hasn’t he-”

Thankfully because the universe has impeccable timing, The sound of a sharp inhale rings out, followed by a  “Gah!” And Riddle’s eyes flutter open, and he’s awake. Thank goodness. 

“He’s back!”

“What….What in the world happened..?” Riddle’s weak voice fills the air, and you sigh in relief.

“Ah, Mr. Rosehearts appears to have regained consciousness. Excellent.” Oh, Crowley’s here. Wait.

“Crowley, Riddle and I have been lying dead on the ground for god knows how long and you didn’t call for the school nurse?” The crow doesn’t say anything in response to your question. You’re growing sick of his antics, and he’s the person you’re relying on to send you home. How this school hadn’t been burnt to the ground is a growing mystery. 

Trey, in light of Crowley’s uselessness, gives Riddle the check over he desperately needs, whilst calming whatever “Don’t worry, Riddle. Just try to rest.”

“Yo, that’s just the sort of coddling that led to him going nuts in the first place!”

“Ace, the man nearly died. Chill out.”

“Yeah, well now the garden is tore up from the floor up, not to mention that we could’ve died! _____ almost died!” Well, at least he’s concerned.

Deuce gives you a sorrowful look whilst agreeing with Ace, “He’s right, it was looking bad for a while there.” Well, they’re going to be stuck to you like glue for the imminent future. 

“For cryin’ out loud. When you humans let that stress build up, the results ain’t pretty.” For a constantly hangry dire beast, Grim does say something occasionally that is very insightful. You gotta give him credit for that one. 

“Yes, it isn’t Grim. Yes, it isn’t.”

“The truth is, I…. I really wanted to eat the chestnut tart…”

“Huh?” “And I don’t care if the roses are white or the flamingos are pink. And I prefer honey to sugar cubes in my tea, and I like milk tea better than lemon tea anyhow. And after a meal, I want to be the one sitting around talking with everyone…”

“Riddle…” “And I really wanted to play  with you and Chenya more, Trey.” And then the tears start flowing. 

“Riddle Rosehearts, in tears…. Hashtag #WOW.”

“Cater…now’s not the time…” You murmur.

“You think a few crocodile tears is all it’ll take for me to forgive you?”

“I’ll repeat. Ace, the man nearly died.”

“I’m sorry, Riddle. I knew you were suffering, and all I did was pretend not to notice.” Riddle keeps sobbing, finally letting all the pain that he contained within him for years flow out. You hug him, allowing him some comfort as he cries. Ace actually opens his mouth to object, but you motion for him to shut his mouth and keep his thoughts to himself for now. “So I’m gonna say what I should have said earlier. Your way of doing this was wrong, and you owe everyone an apology.”

Riddle can barely get out his apologies in between his loud sobs. “I’m sorry…..I’m really sorry.”

“I know I’ve been saying I wanted an apology from Riddle, but now that I got one, y’know what?”

“One stupid ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t even come close to making up for what he did!”

“Ace, I agree with you, but what part of ‘Riddle nearly died” is not clicking?!”

“DUDE! Way to be a capital-J Jerk!”

“And proud of it! Have you forgotten how he made a total fool outta me?!” “Have forgotten how he just threw away that chestnut tart we worked so hard on?! That ain’t something you can make go away with a few tears and a flimsy ‘I’m sorry’!”

“ACE!” Listen, you’re not team Riddle, but you’re team not kicking a man while he’s down post mental breakdown. Like chill out for ten seconds, and not throw a fit about an apology that you think was actually genuine. 

“Wow, I ain’t never met anyone who was better at holdin’ grudges than I am.” Yeah, that’s genuinely surprising that Grim is less trouble than someone else.

“Then…then what do you want me to do?!”

“You know…. I don’t got a birthday party coming up anytime soon.”

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

“So I demand a do-over for the unbirthday party! Except this time, we ain’t going to do squat. This time, YOU’RE the one who brings the tart!” Well that’s a fitting apology. Completely fair and appropriate. You’re surprised that- “And no getting Trey to make it for you! Do that, and then things are square between us.” There it is.

Well, after the whole day he sectioned out of your busy schedule, you’re not letting that one fly. “All offense Ace, you had a lot of people helping you make your tarts.” 

“Quiet from the peanut gallery! What do you say, Riddle? We clear?”

“Yes… We’re clear.” Well, at least you have a potentially fun party in your incoming future. Maybe if the darling reveal doesn’t make the incoming future hell. 

You kind of forgot Crowley was there, until he spoke again.“Ah, yes. Compromise is a beautiful thing. I believe that concludes this matter.” 

“You didn’t do anything, Crowley.” You say for the umpteenth time.

Well know that the problem is solved, the garden’s a wreck. And you need a bath. “Welp, looks like we got some cleaning up to do. All that work making the garden Magicam-worthy and now it’s a total tire fire. Laaame.” Cater’s right, this is just a mess. 

“Yeah, speaking of which.” You mutter as you detach yourself from Riddle, cringing from the stickiness of the remaining blot all over your skin. “I should probably go clean up.”

“I’ll help out.” 

Cater is the one to actually the one to point out the obvious dangerous condition Riddle’s in now that the storm has passed.“No, why don’t you get Riddle to the nurse’s office. That was a full-blown case of overblot. We need to make absolutely sure he’s okay.”

Crowley in his perpetual uselessness proceeds to piggybank on Cater’s actually useful idea. This is really starting to bother you. “Mr.Diamond is correct. I will go along with you.” You bite your tongue before you say ‘To do what?’

“Understood. Thank you, sir.” Trey helps Riddle stand and limp to wherever the nurse’s station is. Crowley does nothing because he wants to be useless when a student nearly died. Just because. 

Anyway, that leaves you, Ace, Deuce, Cater and Grim in the rose garden/ battlefield. Well, time to leave this mess behind to deal with tomorrow. And hopefully for the tired and non-magical you, not ever.

“Man, am I starved after usin’ so much magic!” As you prepare to leave and take the longest bath of your life and get Grim some much needed snacks, Grim spots and an odd stone lodged in one of the destroyed rose bushes. “Hmmm. Hey, check it out!”

“What is it?” You ask.

Grim digs it out of the destroyed brambles. “It’s another black magestone, just like the one we found in the Dwarf’s Mine!”

“You’re right. Wonder where it came from?”

“Just don’t put it in your mouth this time-”

Ace’s warning goes completely unheard, “No way. After how great the last one tasted, I can’t get that thing in my mouth fast enough!” Before you can stop him, he stuffs it in his mouth.

“And there he goes.” 

“Oh, Grimmy… Have some self-respect, honey. That was literally trash.”

As if describing a five star meal, Grim goes off unprompted. “Ahhhh! Rich and sweet, but with a complex hint of bitterness in the aftertaste. Equally delicious, but with quite a different mouthfeel from the last one I ate.”

“You have such a way with words, Grim…. So I guess this is just a thing now, or?” You hope that he won’t get sick, if he does then you’re just fucked. But with your bad luck it wouldn’t be a surprise.

“As a monster, maybe his stomach works differently than ours?”Ace reasons, but you frankly don’t care.

“Even still, eating trash can’t be good for anyone.”

“As long as it keeps my food bill down, he could eat the grass for all I care.” Since Crowley won’t pay it, you might as well improvise given Grim’s gluttony.

As if on cue, Grim takes a hearty munch of the torn up grass. “Ooh! I just tried the grass, and the flavor was surprisingly pleasant! Crisp, even!”

“See? He’s fine, and if anything happens, I’ll just stop by the vet or something.” You hope this society has free vets. Just in case. 

“Hey, that’s our lawn! Don’t eat that!”

“Uh, A-F-K while I go throw up….” As you all leave contemplating the workings of Grim’s digestive track, you can hear Cater say under his breath. “But….seriously, guys. Thanks.”

You had just barely caught that, “What did you say, Cater?” you ask.

Cater laughs, brushing off your question whilst poking you directly on the nose in his usual demeanor. “Nooope. Nothing at all.”

The raging storm is over. And with it, all the B.S. that came with dealing with Riddle and his overblot, you’re sad that it happened, and happy that it’s over. Like any rational human being. 

Since you got out of this relatively unscathed, excluding some nausea from , you went straight to Ramshackle to take a very, very long hot soak to at least try to get the blot stuck to your skin and hair off. Turns out that uniform was garbage bound, because after three and half hours of scrubbing your skin and hair, six bath water changes and two full bottles of cheap shampoo being emptied, you were about 80% sure you got it all out. 

So with your hair dripping with the remains of your bath water, you decided after all the bullshit you did today, you would just have a cozy night with Grim, trying to figure out how to gaslight Ace and Deuce into thinking you weren’t a darling.  

What a great way to spend the rest of your day. But considering Ramshackle was empty, except for you, Grim and the ghosts (who thought it was funny to hide your slippers in the crawl space), you were completely satisfied. 

“Henchmannnnn! My tuna!” 

“Be patient, you glutton.” You laugh at Grim’s whining. He’d been like this after hour one of cleaning the blot off. While you told him where he could find his tuna, the Great Grim was bested by his inherent lack of thumbs to open the can. Thus, enter the whining and hissy fit. 

“Henchman!”

“I’m opening it, chill.” The sound of the can opening fills the creaky silence of Ramshackle settling. The creaking is unsettling, but peaceful. And that’s how this evening was going to go. You ‘sharing’ a meal with Grim, alone. Making conversation in the silence as you try to figure out how to gaslight Ace and Deuce into oblivion about the darling thing. Finally a calm night because Ace and Deuce were staying in Heartslabyul tonight-

“Motherfucker, who is it now!?” You yell throwing the half opened can of tuna hard onto the counter (which ricochets onto the floor), completely pissed. The knocks on your door just remind you of how fucking unlucky you are. Is one night alone impossible? One single night?!

“Henchman, whyyy?!” Grim mourns the tuna scattered as you storm out of the kitchen. 

Is one night impossible!? What did Ace and Deuce do in the three hours you left them alone!?

You yank the front door open with a booming slam, before yelling “WHAT!?” at whoever thought bothering you after a rough day was the move they would make today. 

“...Did I come at a bad time?” Trey’s on your porch, an awkward expression on his face. Trey so far had to be the only one that was remotely normal. Ooo! and he was holding a cake box. 

And you just yelled in his face. “Oh oops, uh, it’s you. Sorry.” You’re now as awkward as he is, your face turning warm with embarrassment. 

Trey gives you a gentle smile, “I would have called first, but you don’t exactly have a phone.”

“Yeah…. “ You awkwardly scratch the back of your neck. “After everything I went through in the last three days, I thought I could get a few hours to myself and Grim.”

“I’m sorry I disturbed you. I just thought you might want these.” Trey holds out the box to you, which smells like the bakery from Riddle’s overblot memory thing? Either way, you can feel the nausea in your stomach finally soothe. 

“Thank you.” Opening it, you find it full of sweet looking treats, topped with light frosting, sugary glazes and glittering toppings. “But, you didn’t have to save these for Grim and I.”

“It was nothing. I owe you an apology too, so I figured that this was the best start.” Well, considering your dinner today was going to be a bunch of instant noodles, you'll accept the apology. 

“Uh, well do you want to come in? Might as well not do it on my porch.”Trey accepts, and now you have the normal one in your lounge, sitting on your couch. Great thinking, you. 

“Grim! Trey’s here, he brought us food.” you call out. 

As soon as the word ‘food’ is uttered, Grim shot out of your kitchen like lightning. “Where!?”Oh and of course, you called out to Grim the second you passed the kitchen. And then you and Grim played mouthball with a cookie in the dessert box. Turns out Grim was great at catch, but maybe it’s because you threw him food. Aw well, good to know in case of a competition for you to play or something. 

“How have you been? You really had us worried for a moment there.”

“Better, the worst thing I got out of that was scrubbing all the blot off of me.”And the darling thing, but you weren’t going to bring that up. “I’m pretty sure that I scrubbed a bald spot into my scalp. How’s Riddle?”

“I checked on him on my way here. He’s fine, like nothing ever happened, but he’s on bedrest and isn’t allowed to use magic for the next few days.”

“Well, that’s both comforting and convenient.” Nice to know that the overblot mess didn’t cause brain damage or anything. 

Trey “If you don’t mind me staying so,  I thought you’d be more mad at me.”

“That ship sailed yesterday and crashed when you finally told Riddle off earlier, and let’s just say that I can understand why you kept your mouth shut for so long. And while I would punch you in the face, you brought me free food so you’re forgiven.” You stuff a mouthful of a tart slice into your mouth, humming as a delicacy hits your tastebuds.

Trey gives you a warm laugh, before saying. “Good to know. But there is something I wanted to talk to you about.” 

“What is it?” You say, taking another mouthful of cake. 

“About what Riddle said, about you being a darling.” Shit. Fuck. 

“Um…..Do you believe him?” You hope he doesn’t. Four out of five of the people you know is already too much. 

The answer Trey gives you doesn’t bring you peace.“I already knew. When Riddle figured it out, he told me because he wanted me to keep an eye on the students around you. I was suspicious, but I was never sure until then.” 

“....Great.” you sigh. “This just keeps getting better and better.

Trey puts a hand on your shoulder, in an attempt to soothe you. “Look, I can understand this whole darling thing is very troubling for you.”

You shrug his hand off. “How would you know? You’re not exactly the person being negatively affected by it.”

“Not exactly. Two of my siblings are darlings, one of my brothers and my little sister. I’ve seen them afraid of what their futures hold. I worry about them not being at home when I get back. I've watched them be as jumpy as you are.”

“But you see all of that and you still think it's okay to do that to the person you love.”

“It's not that, it's just the whole darling thing is seen as the lesser of two evils. I would never do anything to hurt people like you.” But you still aren't moved. 

Is it worth trusting him to keep his word? Because even if you learned some things about this world, you're still a stranger. A stranger who is stumbling blind in a world you don't understand. For all you knew this could be a technique to gaslight you into thinking he's a safe bet, only to use that against you.

“You…” This is going to sound dumb, but you don’t have a lot of options right now. “You promise?”

Trey smiles at you in a way that pacifies your looming worry, “I promise.”

“Well,” you shift in your seat, “ if you won’t hurt me what about your dorm? Can you get them to forget what Riddle said?”

“Luckily,about half of them were too busy freaking out and running away to pay attention to Riddle’s speech. The other half either doesn’t believe it, or doesn’t care. Heartslabyul’s understanding of darlings is that they’re wild and unruly without us, so some of them see Riddle’s words as an insult. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

“Well, that’s a relief. But what about Ace, Deuce and Cater?”

“Well, Cater found out on his own. Trust me, when I say that Cater is in the know about nearly everything on campus, I mean it. But don’t worry, he doesn’t have any plans on releasing it to anyone outside of the dorm.” Phew. 

“And Ace and Deuce? They were already suspicious of me…”

Trey’s gentle smile drops for a moment, an apologetic expression forming on his face. “Whether they believe it or not is up to them. I’m sorry.”

“Well, what about you? Since you know, were you ever going to…. Do anything to me?”

At that moment, Grim yawns while gorging himself on the other desserts in the box. You finish the few bites of the treat in your hands. The sweetness of the pastries fade away to the nervousness as you await in his response. And fatigue for some reason. Maybe a full belly is making you sleepy. 

“Don’t worry, I don’t have any plans on hurting you. I owe you one after all.” You sigh in relief. “And if things get tough, you don’t have to do anything on your own. If you need anything you can come and get me for anything. I’m always here to help.” He offers you a hug, which you gratefully accept. After the whirlwind you experienced some human contact in way that’s not fucked up feels like a welcome relief. 

“Thanks Trey.” You mumble into his embrace, accidentally cut yourself off with a yawn as soon as you finish your sentence. Well, that was fast. You know that you’ve had a long day, but it was still very early so how in the world did you get tired so fast. Sure you were a little tired, but not to the point where you were starting to feel sleepy. “You should probably go…. I think I should get some sleep….”

“I should leave then, but excuse my bluntness…You should take better care of yourself.” The hell does that mean?

You’re too tired to contemplate it tonight. Maybe tomorrow.“I’ll try. Good night Trey.”

You see him out and just before you shut the door, you can hear him say, “Get some sleep, ______.” You nod in response, shutting the door. As soon as you click the lock into place, you-

“Wha-” Another wave of exhaustion hits you like a bus, to the point that you can’t stop straining your jaw with yawns. Maybe today was more exhausting than you thought.

“Still….. How did…..I-” You can’t stop yourself from yawning in between words. Your heads spinning and your visions already blurring. Your legs become so weak that you can barely keep yourself upright. 

You stumble back to the lounge, Grim, his face still covered in crumbs and frosting from the box of treats Trey had brought, is snoring into the box of treats. You gingerly set him onto one of the couch cushions before plopping down on the closest possible sofa. Even if it’s safer and cleaner for you to sleep in your bed tonight, you can’t bring yourself to climb up the stairs to bed, or even carry Grim all the way there.

‘But…..’ a voice in the back of your mind says, ‘you only felt tired after you ate the treats Trey fed you. And Grim was wide awake the whole afternoon. So why?’

Your last thought before losing yourself into the dream world is….. Why am I so tired?

As you lie in a world of dreams, none of your questions are answered. 

Not the one about your exhaustion. 

Not the one about why you were involved with and forced to fix Riddle’s internal conflict.

And most importantly, not the one about your questions of wonderland. 

Why? Because you didn’t dream of Wonderland that night. Nor of Red Kings and lost girls from Earth. You slept peacefully. Too peacefully…….

Your one hope didn’t welcome you that night. And when you eventually awoke the next morning, when you checked it out nothing had changed. Like when you were awake, the doorway it once offered was shut. 

And all the information it offered was held out of reach. 

And that way was how it remained for three more days.

Just dreams that you couldn’t recall, showing flashes of the odd and nonsensical things that you once did. 

No dreams of containing answers, no dreams of containing new questions…

Nothing about the world through the mirror for the next three days either, all the way up to the day of the make-up unbirthday party.

To say that your mind was preoccupied nearing the make-up unbirthday would be an understatement.

But you were mentally just not there the whole way to the unbirthday party, because your mind was just preoccupied with why your nightly journeys had suddenly concluded. As far as you knew, the story had never ended there. Alice eventually got home, following a path she used to escape the Queen’s madness and wake herself up to her normal life and her normal world. If that was your way out, then you needed to figure out how to reach it. 

Still, though after a stressful three days of hanging out with Ace and Deuce (three days which neither of them brought up what the darling thing, so maybe you were in the clear) while they were lumped into cleaning up the Heartslabyul garden, it was time for the unbirthday party. Yay!

“All hail our leader, the Red Sovereign himself…Housewarden Riddle!” You stifle a laugh at the goofy announcement. Guess some things won’t change, huh?

“We salute you, Dorm Leader Riddle!” On the positive side, the residents don’t sound as forced this time. Riddle must have apologized to everyone in the past few days, because they sound much happier.  

“Hm. The garden roses are red, the tablecloths are white…This seems like a proper unbirthday indeed.” Riddle inspects the garden like during the first unbirthday party, but he looks significantly more relaxed. Calmer even. Ace and Deuce had told you he wasn’t enforcing the Queen of Hearts’ rules as much since he’d been discharged from the nurse’s station. Which to you is a good sign. Because it means that, a weight of the rules was lifted off his shoulders. You hope. “Is there a dormouse in the teapo-” You sure fucking hope n- “Er, well, I suppose it’s fine either way.” Phew, you can actually drink the tea this time. Also, progress! He’s started to see which rules are bullshit and which ones aren’t.

“Not everything has to change completely, you know.” Trey looks much more at peace too. With the disaster in both his and Riddle’s childhood behind them, they both look much happier. “Like maybe spread the jam on your scones, instead of on the dormouse this time?” So the dormouse wasn’t ejected from the party premises, well then you’ll stick with water.

“Let’s try to set the bar at ‘it’s great if it’s this way,’ not ‘it absolutely has to be this way.’” According to the Ace and Deuce of two hours ago, Trey’s been working on trying to get Riddle to relax his old ways and unlearn his mother’s super strictness.

“Yes, that makes sense.” Riddle had been doing well in that department. And while he’s slipped up once or twice but no one lost their heads so, once again, progress. 

Ace sighs in annoyance. He and Deuce had been roped into repairing the garden along with a lot of other Heartslabyul residents. Which he, as usual, complained about, “I can’t believe we got roped into cleaning up and prepping the garden again.”

“Well, at least the dorm leader recovered from his overblot without any complications.”

“And the garden is Magi-cam worthy once again! Hashtag #no filter on this gorgeousness!” Cater in his magicam addiction snaps enough pictures to fill his phone’s gallery, but this time you don’t exactly flinch away from them. It’s a party damnit, you’re going to relax. 

“Blah blah blah! Let’s just eat already!”

“Then eat we shall! I’ll get the-”

“Wait a minute!” Riddle’s voice sends the garden into terrified silence. Oh no. What’s wrong? What was messed up? Who broke a rule? Are we going to go through this mess all over again?!

“Huh?”

“There’s a white rose!” How the hell did someone miss one?! You were in this garden yesterday, and every rose was painted when you all left! 

You’re not the only one panicking. 

“We missed one?!”

“Ace, Deuce, I told you to make sure to paint every rose?!”

“Wait, this is our fault?!” 

Even Trey’s panicking, “R-Riddle, listen…”

You jump into damage control mode. “Riddle, it was an accident!” and if Riddle freaks out again, then you’re knocking one of his teeth out. “They didn’t mean to-”

Riddle chuckles, still calm. “Well… I suppose I can overlook one or two missed roses.” Everyone in the garden nearly collapses as you let out a sigh of relief. Yay, progress…..

“Geez! Don’t give me a heart attack, Riddle!” You jokingly protest. But you’re very happy he’s not serious. Besides, practical jokes are closer to what you felt was normal. 

“After all, if we work together then we should be able to get them painted in no time.”

“What? They still gotta be painted?!”

“Even so…. I’m impressed. You’ve changed, Riddle.”

“I’m starvin’ here! Let’s just get these stupid roses painted or whatever!”

“All right, is everyone ready?” After a very energizing and hunger-inducing rose painting session, you all return to the tea garden to eat and drink. And Ace, as cocky as ever, finally gets to have his cake and eat it too, or rather get his tart and-nevermind. “So what happened to that tart, Dorm Leader?”

“I made it for you, as I promised I would.” Riddle’s actually taken aback for a split second at Ace’s bluntness, but he does direct everyone’s attention to the tart set on one of the dessert tables. “Here: one strawberry tart, crafted by yours truly.” A strawberry tart that sparkles in the sunshine. It’s a little misshapen, but he tried.

“Nice! The shape’s a little off, but I can tell you put a lot of work into that glaze.”

“He’s right. It looks great, Riddle. Good job!” Riddle seems to bolster from your praise, smiling softly before Ace kills the moment. 

“Oh, puh-leeze. How about we actually TRY it before you start fawning over him, _____?”

“Hold it! Don’t you start cutting that before I get my Magicam snap!-” Cater snaps a picture without anyone’s consent but who cares, the tarts ready to be cut and served “Okay, got it!”

“Tch, I see Cater hasn’t changed a bit either. All right, let’s dig in!” The tart is cut, and served for everyone. To be honest, you can’t wait to try the fruits of Riddle’s labor. He didn’t really have to make one. But he kept his word to Ace, so you’re glad to see his positive change. 

And you get to eat the tart that led to this entire storm happening. You stuff the tart into your mouth and take a huge bite.

And then you choke. 

It’s salty, like a mouthful of table salt salty. 

“This is kinda….Salty!” You can't even join the scream of the anguished at what has to be a mountain of salt mixed into the tart makes your mouth as dry as a desert.

“What?!” Riddle’s completely taken aback by the fact all his hard work is actually the culinary equivalent of serving salt onto a plate. 

“Err? This isn’t KINDA salty - it’s a full on salt lick! What did you put in this?!” You have no choice but to agree with Ace. This is not ‘accidentally added too much salt’ salty, this is ‘completely replacing all the other ingredients with just salt’ salty. How could someone who once followed rules so strictly mess up a tart recipe so badly?

After a few failed attempts, you swallow it down and wince, before dry-heaving. “Did you mistake salt for sugar?” You rasp

“No, I followed the rules exactly, and measured everything precisely! Unless…Oh!”

“What?” You rasp.

“Could it be…. from the oyster sauce?” WHAT. Trey, why?!

Deuce spits out the mouthful of salt tart into a nearby napkin. “Wait… did you actually use that Walrus-brand oyster sauce Trey jokes about?”

“But Trey said that oyster sauce is an unlisted secret ingredient in all tarts! He said all the finest bakers use it.” Damn it Trey…..

“And you actually believed him?! How could you not tell that he was joking?!”

“You fell for it too, Ace. But even then, it was only supposed to be a splash. How much did you put in?”

“It’s an unlisted ingredient! How could I measure it if he wouldn’t tell me how much to put in?!” Geez, no wonder this tart was like drinking seawater.

“Pffft..” Trey practically loses his shit laughing at the successful prank, “I can’t believe someone actually fell for the ol’ oyster sauce prank!”

Instead of flipping out, Riddle takes the realization on the chin and laughs fondly, “Yes; Quite humorous indeed. I truly am a fool.”

Even if you're sure your mouth will never be the same from taking such a big mouthful, all you can do in this situation is laugh. And everyone does.

“Ha ha! It really is so disgusting that it’s actually kind of funny!”

“Yeah, what else can we do but laugh!”

“You know, in its own weird way, I think it’s actually kinda good!”

“Well, uh, it’s an interesting flavor profile…” 

In the end, you're just glad to have a taste of normalcy. After the headache the last few days have been, a break to laugh is welcomed.

The garbage tart doesn’t dampen the mood in the slightest. While it led to some discovery of Cater’s own tastes, it was actually more informative and humorous than miserable. Which in contrast to the original unbirthday party you got kicked out of, this is so much better.

What changed the mood is the new voice in the garden. “Mm mm mmm! Your baked goods are always so delightful, Trey.” Chenya appears out of nowhere, stuffing his face with the not-super salty tarts. 

Both Trey and Riddle look surprised to see their childhood friend here. “Chenya?! What are you doing here?!”

Still, speaking in his carefree nonchalance, Chenya hums, “Hm? I came to celebrate my unbirthday with all of you. A very merry unbirthday to you, Riddle.”

You're not sure what caused it, but the warm atmosphere drops at least 10 degrees. “The unbirthday party is a Heartslabyul House tradition. It does not pertain to you.” Isn’t Riddle also friends with Chenya, why the hostility?

Chenya points at you and Grim, “And those two? What about them?”

“Favoritism.” You quip, because it is.

The current conversation doesn't kill Grim’s curiosity, because he asks the same question he never got answered. “Hey! You’re that weird semi-invisible cat guy from before! So you never told us- what dorm are you from?”

“Chenya isn’t even a Night Raven student.”

“I knew it!” You exclaim, and then everyone stares at you surprised by your sudden, excited outburst. They laugh slightly at your exclamation, as you flush slightly. “S-Sorry, carry on Trey.”

“He’s a student at our long-time rival school, The Royal Sword Academy.” Oh, there’s another magical school nearby? Must be if Chenya can come here and go back so quickly.

“Whaaat? You go to a different school?”

“The frickin’ Royal Sword Academy, no less?!”

“Uh, guys, why exactly is Royal Sword Academy so important?” You ask, still left out of whatever loop they’re running on.

“Did that guy just say the ‘Royal Sword Academy’?!”

“He’s one of those pompous jerk-faces?!” Hey, isn’t that guy the jerk that tried to pound your face in because of an egg? Hypocrite much?

“What?! Who’s from Royal Sword? We gotta run ‘em outta here!” You can practically feel the bloodlust emanating out of them, as the other residents try to surround him. What the hell are they-

“Well now that I’ve tasted some tart, perhaps I should see myself out.” Chenya literally vanishes, as the single minded Heartslabyul residents try to run him out after he’s already disappeared.

“Whoa, everyone turned bloodthirsty real quick.” Yeah, bloodthirst is right. They went from enjoying the party to ready to commit murder. What the hell did they have against RSA?

“Sure. Let’s not consider the possibly lethal ramifications of this.” You murmur, going thankfully unheard. 

Your unspoken question is answered by Riddle. “The vast majority of Night Raven College students perceive the Royal Sword Academy as the enemy.” 

“No surprise, given that they’ve kicked our butts every year for a hundred years straight…”

Oh, it’s just a school rivalry. Thank the seven. If it was something like the school having a history of stealing the darlings of the NRC students, then that was awful. “Cool. Something normal like school competition, finally.”

“Hey, stop harshin’ the vibe! This is supposed to be a day of celebration. Can’t we all just enjoy our unbirthdays?”

“Myah! Merry unbirthday or whatever! I’m gonna eat till my stomach explodes!” Grim cheers before diving into one the dessert trays. 

And you do. But after a while gorging yourself on not over-salted sweets, you actually make your way to Riddle. Perhaps it's time you have your first real conversation with the no longer Crimson Tyrant. “Riddle?” Riddle almost drops his tea cup at the sound of your voice. You hadn't gotten the chance to speak with him after he'd gone to the nurse. But you weren’t expecting his surprise.

“Y-Yes, _____?”

“I’m glad you’re doing better.” You are and you aren't. Maybe it's the lingering feeling of dread that hasn't displaced itself from your mind. “Trey says you're trying to do better…”

“Yes, I have. I've been making individual apologies to everyone, and I believe that I owe you one too.” 

“Well, yeah.” You shrug, you weren’t not expecting this, but you’re not surprised. “Might as well say it now.”

Riddle takes a deep breath with all the original poise he had back before his overblot. “I should not have said what I did about you and for that I am truly sorry.”

Well, if he’s truly sorry, then maybe….“And you mean it?”

“O-Of course, I should not have-”

“Then, you need to let me do something.” The itch in your palm is back. You're not as mad as you could have been then, but you still want to seek retribution.

Riddle gives you a look of confusion, “W..What is it?”

“This. Stay still.” He gives you a confused look, as you draw your fist back. His eyes widen slightly in recognition but he doesn’t make any moves to avoid it, holding still. You hit him hard enough to make him stumble a few feet back. A now inflamed bruise is painted onto his skin. “Alright, you’re partially forgiven.”

Riddle rubs the reddening bruise on his cheek, looking more surprised at your response rather than the punch. “Partially?”

“You kind of outed me to Ace and Deuce and your entire dorm, and while the former haven’t said anything that doesn’t mean they don’t believe it because they were already suspicious of me. So, partially.”

“I see.” Riddle looks disappointed, did he want you to forgive him that badly? “Then how would I earn your total forgiveness?”

You sigh, even with the day being genuinely enjoyable, your first few weeks here had been hectic. So very hectic. You just wanted to be left alone. “I just don’t want to be bothered anymore. I don’t want to be dragged into a mess because they have some stupid problem involving me.” You finish, before hastily tacking on a “No offense.”

“None taken. I deserved that. If you desire to not be bothered, I will ensure that you aren’t.” You breathe a sigh of relief.

“Thanks…. I appreciate it.”

“It is no problem. And know that you are always welcome at Heartslabyul.”

“I'll…” Considering all the Heartslabyul drama you were involved in for no goddamn reason other than the fact you were existing, you needed a bit of alone time before you dropped by for sleepovers. “...Keep that in mind. But we’ve all had a hard couple of days, so let’s just enjoy the party today.”

And so you party with worry looming in the back of your mind. Sure, you’re glad that this stressful whirlwind is over, but something doesn’t feel right. 

Maybe it’s your unfinished dreams? Or the reason for your sudden exhaustion? Something feels wrong, but you can’t figure out what it is.

You just hope this is the end of this.

Do stories end at the ‘the end’? Because the ending isn’t really the ending. It’s just where the narration concludes. The people in the tale continue living, facing victories and tragedies. 

And this story isn’t a tale that ends with a victory for the protagonist. No, it ends with a tragedy, the bloody kind.

Shall we watch the blood on the ax dry?

[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 So Long, Quantico.

Prison Reid x Fem!reader

Read part two here!

Summary: Your best friend asks you for a favor and you must defend the innocence of the man you were in love with, the same man for whom you left the FBI and moved to another country years ago.

Words: 1,6k.

Warnings & Tags: mentions of murder, trauma, death, jail. angst without happy ending. miscommunication. right person, wrong time. reid's time in jail. spoilers for season 13 and all the ones before that. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: First of all I want to thank you for all the support in my first post because the truth is that I didn't expect (if you haven't read it yet, I already have my masterlist). I still can't believe I reached 1000 notes, it makes me very happy.

And secondly, I apologize in advance for this, but I love drama and being a little cliche sometimes. I promise to write a nice, comfortable, less dramatic Spencer story in the future (I hope so) but ttpd is my everything lately.

The constant pounding of your right leg against the table was beginning to make you desperate and to dwarf the room. You didn't know what to do to stop and think for a few seconds, you had even lost count of all the times you had tried to fix your already perfect and ironed clothes that you had spent hours choosing and modeling in front of your hotel mirror.

It felt like hours had passed since you arrived at the prison, though it was probably only a few minutes. Part of you wanted to run out of there and avoid a dangerous reunion at all costs. The other part was anchored to the chair and would not move until you found a way to get Spencer out of there and fulfill the favor Emily had asked of you.

You couldn't let your best friend down, especially when her job could be in jeopardy if Reid was still in prison. You wanted to make sure she was okay, and repay her for all the favors she had done for you during the years you had lived together in London. Without her, you probably would not have survived or become the successful and respected lawyer you were now. She helped you heal when you needed it, now it was your turn to help.

Before you could think, grab your things and maybe even leave the room to catch your breath, a guard abruptly opened the door. Your eyes immediately fell on the handcuffed man the guard had practically thrown into the chair in front of you.

You blinked several times, trying to process that you were actually standing in front of him. He looked so different from the way you remembered him from the occasional picture Prentiss showed you. The years hadn't gone by for nothing, you knew that, but Spencer looked like someone else. It was more than the messy hair, the beard, or the numerous bruises on his face that made you wince. It was that his eyes no longer sparkled, and he himself looked dull.

The guard came out after warning them that they only had fifteen minutes, and the cameras pointed directly at you two.

“Hey.” That was all you could say, biting your inner cheek at how stupid it sounded.

At first he didn't react and hardly seemed to breathe. His expression was like seeing a ghost, and you couldn't blame him after so many years of not hearing from you. You knew you looked different from the last time you saw each other because you had tried too hard to look like someone else. You wore your hair shorter and a different color, even the way you dressed was other. You looked more serious and grown up.

“What are you doing here?” He asked dryly after scanning you with his eyes for a few seconds.

You froze when you heard him speak and his voice, once music to your ears, was like a kick in the stomach.

“I came to help. I thought Emily told you...”

“She told me that she wanted to call you but I told her not to.” Spencer cut you off before you could continue speaking. “That you weren't going to help me.”

You frowned as your brain processed those words.

“Why not? You...you are my friend.” You said, trying to hide the tremor in your voice.

He clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes, trying to look away from you because it hurt. You could feel the tension multiply, making it almost impossible to breathe in the small room.

“Friends don't stop talking for six years and pretend the other doesn't exist.”

Oh, that had hurt.

It was true that you had disappeared from his life six years ago, and you had not made the slightest effort to return, even leaving the country with the excuse of looking for a better future. But you had your hidden reasons, you wanted to forget Spencer Reid and your intensely ridiculous and unrequited love.

From the first time you heard him talk about statistics and smile at you like a child, realizing that you listened to him like no one else, you fell madly in love with him for years. Always hoping that one day he would stop thinking of you as his friend and realize how much he deserved to be loved and that you would be happy to do so, that you could give him the whole world without hesitation if he asked you to.

At first you thought he wasn't that interested in love, that he was too smart and focused to lose his mind like you did for him. However, then you saw him several times interested and pining for other girls: the movie actress, JJ, the girl at the bar and Maeve...she was very different and painful for you.

You couldn't stand his strong love for her, at least not being so close to him and having to play the role of the best friend who always listened to him repeat how wonderful she was. Knowing that he could fall in love with someone he didn't even know personally instead of you, whom he saw every day and had known for years, changed you and made you run away to save your heart.

You got a new job far from the United States, thanks to Agent Hotchner and his glowing letter of recommendation. And so you went back to being an ordinary lawyer, no longer chasing serial killers or a boy genius who never loved you as you would have liked.

“Spence, I...” You tried to speak softly, almost having the urge to take his hand to make the situation better, but you didn't. “I'm sorry.”

He was obviously tense, he wouldn't even look you in the eye and you could swear his eyes were a little crystallized. He barely glanced at you for a second before speaking again.

“You don't have to say it if it's not true.”

“It's true.”

You stopped yourself for a second, sighing and centering yourself again.

“But I'm here for the case, to help you with that...and I'm sorry for everything that happened to you.” You said more calmly and with an almost sweet tone.

You both knew it was more than just the prison issue and the current situation. It was a sorry for Maeve's death, Alex, Morgan and Hotch's resignation, his mother's problems, Cat's damn appearance, and most of all for not being there to support him in all.

“You should have called and said so.” He finally responded after letting out a snort and tensing his jaw more.

“Yeah...I should have.” You admitted, shifting uncomfortably in your seat.

You thought silence would take over the room again, but instead he spoke again.

“You can go now.”

“I'm not going anywhere unless you're free.” You pointed out with determination.

“You don't have a problem with go before.” He said in the same indifferent tone that was beginning to irritate you.

You should have frozen, kept quiet and focused on the case to get him out of there. But you couldn't do that and act professional when your insides were burning with the memory of the past.

“Don't give me that, you know why I did.” You blurt out, frowning and instinctively pushing the chair away from the table that separates you from him.

“You never said anything to me.” He replied, running a hand through his hair in frustration before speaking again. “You just disappeared like everyone else I've ever loved because you got bored with me.”

“You know I left for the opposite reason, because I...” You tried to say, but your voice cracked and your hands shook in an awkward attempt to touch his. “I loved you the way that you were and...”

The sudden sound of the door opening made you gasp and immediately shut up. The presence of a grim-faced guard made you realize it was all over, and you pulled your hand away from Spencer's again.

“Time's up.” The guard reported and you signaled him to have at least more minutes.

Fortunately, the guard nodded and gave you only five more minutes. You looked at your client again, trying to get into the professional role and discuss his case, but he seemed to be in another world after your half sentences.

There was no room in Reid's mind for your words, after feeling guilty for so long for not doing enough to be a good friend to you, for scaring you away with his problems, for not being one you wanted to keep over time and return his calls. But now, did you really say what you thought? Did you really love and care for him?

Everything was tearing his word apart in that moment.

“You won't have to see me if you don't want to, but I'll get you out of here soon, Spencer. I swear.” You promised and you could see in his face the surprise at your honest tone.

Maybe he expected a different attitude from you, maybe he thought you were still so obsessed with him that you would insist on seeing him and kill yourself to make him laugh again. But you had matured, or so you thought. You were no longer the young woman who hugged him every time he felt far away and was content to be the one who was left over. Now, you were the brave woman who left the ship before it sank completely.

As you watched the guard check the handcuffs and lift Spencer out of the seat to take him away, something inside you reacted. You called out his name before you could react and quickly had his desperate eyes on you.

“You don't have to worry about the past...I'm over you.” You said confidently before nodding goodbye and walking out with one less burden.

He remained anchored to the ground, trying to process your words with his racing mind as he watched you leave him again.

You...you had been in love with him?

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Death Wish 10

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of crime, violence/abuse and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Bucky Barnes

Part of the mob drabbles au

Summary: you’re desperate for a way out of your life and you ask a powerful man for help (plus!reader)

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Photo Inspo

“Come on, doll,” Barnes takes your hand and leads you across the room. You follow as you will for the rest of your life; obediently. 

His grip is like a vice as he guides you through the hall and down the stairs. Silence meets you at the bottom as your sisters no doubt hear the descent. Yet he doesn’t let you go nor make a move to leave. Instead, he brings you into the front room. 

He squeezes your hand, pressing the large ring into your finger, and releases you. He steps forward as Kitty turns away from the window and Adrienne stands from the sofa. He commands any room he enters and you don’t think you’ll ever be used to that. 

“Sisters,” he declares brightly, “that is what I will call you from now on.” 

He goes first to Kitty and places a kiss on her cheek, then does the same to Adrienne. Each watch him in confusion. You stare blankly. 

“And you can call me brother and ask for anything and everything you need,” he says. 

“Sir,” Kitty moves towards your younger sister. 

“I ask discretion for the time being as I tie up a few loose ends,” Barnes explains. “And we get you all settled where you need to be.” 

Your sisters blink at you then each other. You can’t say it out loud. That makes it real. 

Barnes turns on his heel, “speaking of loose ends, I should go.” 

He comes towards you and takes your hand again. He raises it, certain to show off the glaring diamond, and kisses it. The gesture makes your blood run cold. It is a statement. It isn’t the same as when you kiss his ring, it isn’t deference, no it is a show of ownership. 

“Have a good night,” you say at last. 

He pulls back and lowers your hand. He grins, “it’s already spectacular, doll.” 

He lets you go and steps past you. You stand, stuck in place, as he leaves. The door opens and closes, the hinges jarring you into motion. You go to lock it behind him and Kitty calls your name. 

“What’s going on?” She appears in the doorway. 

You take a breath before you face her. You shrug. Adrienne scrambles around her and snatches your hand. 

“Oh my god, it’s huge.” 

“Stop,” you try to tug your hand back. 

“You’re marrying him?” Kitty’s voice deflates by the last syllable. “Why?” 

You look between them. You can tell one sliver of the truth. “To keep us safe.” 

“Us? We’ll be fine. Barnes says we get an inheritance, we get houses, money--” 

“And then what? It’s not enough to last forever,” you argue. “Even if we can find work, we’ll never make enough to keep that. How long did you work at the yogurt shop before daddy threatened to burn it down? And I have about a week’s experience down at the diner.” 

“We can start now--” 

“We can start now and never reach the finish line,” you insist. “Kitty, you know who daddy was. You sat there and watched what they did to that man today. This isn’t a life you walk away from, even if he’s dead.” 

Adrienne sniffles. She’s on the edge of tears again. 

“So, you do it over? Marry another one? Go through it again?” Kitty challenges. 

“He can make sure that neither of you have to--” 

“We don’t need you to be our martyr,” Kitty argues. 

“I’m not--” you seal your lips and sigh. You wish you could tell her. You wish you could say I shot that fuck and he deserved it because you know she would have loved to do the same thing. Yet, saying it out loud means admitting that you’re all trapped for that moment of vengeance. “Kitty, how much choice do you think he gave me?” 

She stares at you. She knows exactly how it works. There is no asking with these men. 

“We could all go. Disappear.” 

“And they wouldn’t find us? How far could we get, really?” 

“Not far,” Adrienne pipes in. “Kitty, would you rather daddy still be here?” 

Your older sister is silent as her jaw squares. 

“I could marry instead. Maybe not Barnes but someone else. It shouldn’t be you. I’m the oldest--” 

“It is me,” you say, “and it could be any one of us but this is how it is. It’s... not the worst.” 

“It’s not?” Kitty says. “That man stood and ordered another beaten to death. He didn’t flinch.” 

“I know,” you say. 

“No, you don’t know,” Kitty insists, “you can’t be sure that he isn’t like daddy.” 

She’s right. Barnes might have helped vanquish the monster but it can’t erase his own misdeeds. Yet, you asked for all of this. You went there in the middle of the night and sold your soul. You could excuse yourself with naivete, but you deserve more to be branded by it. 

“If it keeps you two from men like daddy--” 

“Stop,” Kitty grabs you by the shoulders. “None of us deserve it.” 

“You stop,” you wrap your fingers calmly around her forearms and peel her hold off of you. “Should I go hand that man his ring back or do you want do it for me?” 

She untangles her wrists from your grasp and recoils. She shakes her head and rolls her eyes up against the threat of tears. She stamps her foot in frustration. 

“You tell me,” she points her finger at you. You’re almost stunned by the fire in her voice and face. Kitty is the sweet one, she’s gentle, but she has your mother’s quiet strength. “You tell me if he ever puts a bruise on you. You fucking tell me.” 

“Kitty,” you murmur. 

Adrienne covers her mouth and watches, swept up in the fraught emotion of it all. 

“No, because I spent a lifetime watching you two cry over that beast we called a father,” she snarls. “I will not waste the rest of my life doing the same. I thought—I thought we were free. I wanted us to be free.” She curls her lip and exhales heavily. “So, you will not lie to me again. And I will know. I will see right through him so you don’t even try to cover it up. One bruise...” she wags her finger then throw up both her hands with a frustrated growl. “I sound like him.” She turns and drags her feet to the stairs. She sits on one and hangs her head. “I sound like daddy. I’m just so... tired.” 

You look at Adrienne and reach for her. She gives you her hand. You bring her over to Kitty and touch your elder sister’s shoulder. She looks up through sparkling eyes. 

“You will know. We will all know. We are sisters and this doesn’t change that,” you say. “We stick together, no matter what.” 

“Oh, we will,” Kitty insists, “I will be at your damn house every day and I will look at that man and I will see all the cracks. Trust me you. He will not take you from us.” 

“Kitty, Ade,” you look from one to the other, “no one can take us from each other. If daddy did one thing, it was making sure of that.” 

[luxerians]

The Last Mask (15)

Hwang In-ho/Oh Young-il/Player 001 x Reader

Chapter 15 - Behind You

Story Masterlist

NEXT : Chapter 16

PREV : Chapter 14

Well, you’re fucked.

You thought you would be safe by disguising as a square guard in this place. But no. The Captain, after declaring that your stunt here was a hide-and-seek game, announced in his deep, commanding voice:

“All guards are to leave immediately, except for the managers. Managers, you will remain in the control room until you are summoned. Each manager will meet me in a private room. This will continue until I have identified each of you personally.”

The words rang out like a death sentence. Your heart sank. Every square guard in the control room, including you, was now locked into a situation you couldn’t easily escape. The Captain’s declaration left no room for argument or hesitation. He knew you were hiding among them, and now, he was closing in, determined to find you.

As the triangle and circle guards filtered out of the control room in near-perfect unison, you remained rooted to your spot, your anxiety bubbling to a near-breaking point. The managers around you stood silently. You tried to mirror their demeanor, even as your pulse pounded in your ears. The Captain’s gaze swept over all of you before he strode out.

The masked officer stayed behind, stepping forward to address the remaining managers. “Everyone, line up. Form four lines in the center.”

All of you lined up. The process began – without any instructions, to your horror – starting from the first line from the left. Everyone moved efficiently like robots. It's like everyone here had been groomed to be like this.

Soon enough, you learned how this worked. Each square guard would meet the Captain personally, one by one. Once the guard finished, they would return to the control room to guide the next in line to the Captain’s room. This cycle continued, with the latest guard becoming the guide for the next.

The summoning progressed one by one in the line first, each guard vanishing into the hallway with their guide. You stood near the back of the third line, giving you time to wait and prepare, though the wait itself was nerve-wracking.

Minutes ticked by, each one slower than the last. Finally, it was your line – the third queue’s turn – to be called. One by one, the guards in your line were summoned. Each time, the manager at the front of the line would straighten their posture, nod briskly, and step forward to follow the guide. Then, they would vanish into the hallway, leaving the line one person shorter.

Your heart thudded louder with every departure. The sound of footsteps echoed faintly each time the door opened and closed, the control room’s stillness amplifying everything. You kept your head down but your mind was elsewhere. Your thoughts raced, trying to rehearse how you would act, what you would say, how you would surrender to the Captain when your turn came.

Because let’s face it. Once you are summoned to see the Captain personally, you would have no choice but to unmask and reveal yourself to him once he commands you to. You can’t run.

The manager in front of you stepped forward, their number called. They followed the guide out into the hallway. Your stomach began to twist uncomfortably. You’re next.

After a few minutes, the square guard from before returned and stood beside you.

“This way,” they said, their tone monotone and detached.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, you straightened up and quietly followed them out of the control room under the watchful eye of the Captain’s second-in-command.

Your steps echoed against the walls of the labyrinthine hallways. The path twisted and turned, each corner feeling more ominous than the last. The guide didn’t speak, and you didn’t dare break the silence.

Soon enough, the square guard who led you stopped in front of a door and pushed it open. They held it ajar, gesturing for you to step inside. Your heart pounded in your chest as you forced yourself to move forward. As you entered, you realized the room was a storage area. Dust clung to the shelves, and the faint smell of mildew lingered in the air. It looked like the room hadn’t been used in a while.

But what caught your attention wasn’t just the state of the room. It was the figure standing inside. A triangle guard. The Captain was nowhere to be seen.

You stiffened in confusion and alarm, your muscles tensing as you prepared for the worst. Before you could act, the triangle guard, in his distorted voice, called your name. “It’s okay. It’s us.”

The triangle guard reached up and removed their mask, revealing a face partially obscured by a headsock with a wide hole that exposed their eyes. But you didn’t need to see their whole face to recognize them. The moment your gaze locked with theirs, you knew.

“Gyeong-seok?” you whispered, barely able to believe it.

He gave you a small, tired smile and tugged the headsock down to his neck, fully revealing his face. Sweat clung to his skin, making his hair stick to his forehead and cheeks. His neck glistened, evidence of the heat trapped in the pink guard’s jumpsuit.

Behind you, the square guard who had led you to the room closed the door and began removing their own mask. As the mask came off, you saw a woman beneath it, also wearing a headsock. She pulled the fabric down to her neck, revealing her full face.

For a moment, you were stunned. She was beautiful, with V-shaped jawline and pretty features that caught you off guard. She looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties, her face flushed and her neck damp with sweat. Strands of her hair clung to her skin, making her look as exhausted as she was captivating. There was a small line of dried cut on her left cheek. It seemed fresh. Nevertheless, you found yourself staring longer than you intended, but Gyeong-seok’s voice broke through your thoughts.

“She’s the one who saved us,” he said, nodding toward the woman. “She took down two square guards before your turn to get you out of there.”

Your eyes widened in shock as you turned to her. “Two guards?”

The unnamed woman’s voice was soft yet strong, no longer distorted by the mask. “I took down the first one to see where you were in those lines. Then I intercepted the guard before you after they finished their meeting with the Captain.”

Her words hung in the air, and you took a moment to process what she had done. The risk she had taken was staggering, and the fact that she had succeeded left you both grateful and in awe.

“Wait here,” she told you. “I’ll guide the guard after you in line so nothing seems amiss.”

You nodded, looking at her appreciatively. She pulled the square mask back over her face, adjusting it carefully before tugging her jumpsuit and hood into place. With her appearance restored, she slipped out the door.

The room fell silent after she left, the faint hum of machinery somewhere in the facility the only sound. You exchanged a look with Gyeong-seok, who leaned back against the dusty shelf, his expression a mixture of relief and worry.

“She’s gutsy,” Gyeong-seok muttered. “I’m not sure how she managed all that.”

“Neither do I,” you admitted as you leaned against the wall. “I wonder how long she has worked here.”

Minutes ticked by, each one stretching longer than the last. You couldn’t shake the unease lingering in the back of your mind, but knowing that the woman was taking steps to protect your cover gave you a small sense of security. Finally, after what felt like forever, the door creaked open again.

She stepped inside, closing the door softly behind her. Her movements were quick but deliberate as she removed her mask, revealing her flushed face once more. With a slight nod, she walked over to you and handed the square mask.

“It’s done,” she said, her voice low but steady. “Guards who had passed their meeting with the Captain are dismissed.”

“Thank you,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

The lady resumed, “We’ll need to lay low for now. The guards are on high alert and the Captain is watching everything because of your disappearance.”

She glanced at you pointedly. Though her face showed no emotion, you could sense their confusion about the Captain's peculiar behavior toward you. To be fair, you were just as baffled.

You voiced your confusion, though your thoughts were focused on a different matter. “Is it just me, or does he already know that I’m disguised as one of the guards?”

She didn’t hesitate. “He does. There’s no need for him to command every manager to see him personally one by one.”

“Manager?” Gyeong-seok repeated questioningly.

The lady nodded, clarifying further. “The square guards are called managers. The triangle guards are soldiers. The circles are workers. From the lowest to the highest rank, it’s workers, soldiers, and managers. The man in black and pink is referred to as the officer. And the one we call the Captain is officially known as the Front Man.”

You fell silent, letting the explanation sink in. The hierarchy and structure of this place were clearer now, but it was still too much for you. The unknown lady added, “The Captain must have figured out that you disguised yourself as a manager because the one who was supposed to guard you was found with his mask removed.”

The memory surfaced immediately. This same lady had been the one to remove the original manager’s mask and hand it to you, enabling your disguise.

Gyeong-seok broke the silence. “So what do we do now?”

“We lay low,” the lady said firmly. “Try to adapt as much as you can.”

She turned to Gyeong-seok and said, “I gave you a soldier’s mask for number 014. Our rooms are close to each other, and our tasks are almost identical. Just follow my lead, and you’ll blend in.”

Gyeong-seok nodded. She then turned to you. “You will keep disguising yourself as a manager. Here.”

She handed the square mask she had just removed from her face. “Wear this. Number 007. That’s your number.”

You took it and blinked your eyes at them innocently. “What happened to that guard?”

She stared at you quietly, giving you no response, until she finally answered, “They wouldn’t bother anyone. I hid their body somewhere no one knew.”

You and Gyeong-seok exchanged glances before the latter asked her, “Is that okay? How long have you worked as a pink guard?”

“More than five years,” she answered monotonously.

You and Gyeong-seok exchanged a look of wonderment. No wonder she knows so much about this place and so much more.

She then spoke to you, “In your role, you have authority over the soldiers and workers. The other managers won’t pay much attention to you because managers are expected to know their responsibilities. But be cautious. If you act suspiciously, they will confront you.”

“Why couldn’t she become a soldier too?” Gyeong-seok asked, his tone curious but innocent.

She cast her gaze down. “I considered it, but we need someone in a higher position to protect us if another manager starts questioning us. A manager’s authority will give us more leeway to maneuver without raising alarms.”

Both you and Gyeong-seok nodded understandingly before the latter shifted, adjusting his stance, as he inquired, “How long do we have to do this?”

The lady was quiet for a moment before replying, “Until the game finishes. Once this game ends, we will be sent back outside and you can pretend that nothing happened.”

“We can leave earlier if the players vote for X in the majority, right?” you asked, the thought suddenly striking you.

“Yes, that’s one way to end the game.”

“But because of the lights out and the revolt, the Os will have the majority in the next vote,” Gyeong-seok pointed out.

The lady replied, “Yes. It’s inevitable at this point.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of the situation pressing on all of you. Finally, the lady broke the silence. “We should wrap this up. It’s too risky to stay together for too long. Disperse and stick to the plan.”

But before they could turn away, you spoke up. “Wait. What’s your name? Or your number? And is there a way to tell you apart? It’s hard to identify you among the other pink guards.”

The lady hesitated. She was quiet for a moment as if weighing whether to answer. Finally, she said, “Call me 011.”

You nodded, committing her number to memory. The secrecy surrounding her name didn’t bother you. It made sense. She had been working here as a triangle guard for years, shooting eliminated players and probably so much more. Privacy was likely something she clung to.

Although she was someone who should answer for her ‘duties,’ someone who should be handed over to the police, you still felt a surprising sense of protectiveness toward her.

After all, she had saved you and Gyeong-seok. She had risked herself to help complete strangers. Seeing how the Captain worked, if he found out about 011, he would shoot her for disloyalty. She literally risked her life for you and Gyeong-seok.

“Okay. But we need a way to recognize each other quickly. Something that stands out,” you urged.

Gyeong-seok chimed in. “Yeah, there must be a way to differentiate each other from other guards.”

011 considered this for a moment before nodding. “You’re right. We’ll need something subtle but distinct so the others won’t notice.”

“What about a tear in the fabric?” you suggested. “Small, like at the sleeves or something.”

“Or the shoes,” Gyeong-seok added. “We could scratch or mark the shoes. It’s not obvious, but we’ll know to look for it.”

011 nodded thoughtfully. “Both ideas could work. A small tear on the sleeves and back of the jumpsuit and a mark on the shoes. It’ll be subtle but clear enough for us to recognize.”

The three of you worked together to create the subtle wear-and-tear marks on each other’s top. 011 carefully added a small tear to the sleeves and back of your top and did the same thing to Gyeong-seok. The latter returned the favor to 011, creating a similar mark at her sleeves and back of their jacket. For the shoes, each of you crouched down and made small, deliberate scratches or marks on your own footwear.

As the three of you finished, 011 looked up. “We have to go. Soon enough, workers will begin to restore the CCTVs in the dormitory.”

You and Gyeong-seok nodded.

***

You were walking through the labyrinth of colorful stairs, trying to familiarize yourself with the facility’s map and layout. Disguising yourself as a manager meant you needed to know the space like the back of your hand. Understanding the routes, the shortcuts, and the layout of each level felt crucial to maintaining your cover.

True to 011’s word, the workers and soldiers didn’t bother you at all. They didn’t approach or speak to you, their respect for your supposed role evident in their behavior. When the path became too narrow, they even stepped aside to let you pass first. The managers were different; they simply glanced at you before continuing with their tasks. As long as you didn’t act suspiciously, it seemed none of the guards cared to pay you much attention.

You began to relax slightly, finding some reassurance in the lack of scrutiny. That was until your radio crackled to life. The sudden noise made your steps falter for a moment as an announcement rang out.

“Attention. Managers whose numbers are mentioned next, head to the control room immediately.”

The voice began listing off a series of numbers. You walked forward slowly as you listened closely. Then it came.

“Manager 007.”

You froze mid-step. Anxiety shot up like a rocket, making your pulse thunder in your ears. You were being summoned to the control room. After listing a few more numbers, the radio fell silent again, leaving you standing there.

What could they want? Why were you being called? Questions swirled in your mind as you tried to suppress the rising panic. Forcing your feet to move, you adjusted your posture and straightened your mask. There was no time to think. You had to go.

It took you more than seven minutes to reach the control room. You were proud of yourself for remembering the way, even though you got lost for a moment along the winding corridors. But as soon as you stepped inside, the anxiety that had temporarily eased flared up again.

You joined eight other managers in the center of the control room. The nine of you stood together on the floor where pictures of surviving players lit up.

You couldn’t look at the screen beneath you clearly because standing before you was the masked officer. You didn’t want to do anything that might raise alarm or suspicion. Meanwhile, the Front Man was nowhere to be seen.

The masked officer spoke. “Due to the revolt, half of managers that were supposed to operate these monitors were killed. To maintain operational efficiency, some of you will need to alternate tasks. This will involve manning monitors in the control room, supervising the next game, and guarding the Captain. The nine of you will be the first emergency batch to take on these alternating roles.”

He paused, letting his words sink in before continuing. “Those who volunteer to operate monitors now will later switch with others when the next game begins, and guard the Captain during the evening. If you wish to volunteer for the first shift, speak up now.”

There was a beat of silence before one of the managers stepped forward. “019. I volunteer to operate the monitors.”

Another manager followed. “009. I will operate the monitors.”

You stayed quiet. You weren’t sure if volunteering would draw more attention to you, so you let the decision rest with the officer. But as you stood there, mulling over the situation, it struck you.

If you volunteer to operate the monitors now, you could keep an eye on your friends during the next game while you are supervising.

Summoning your resolve, you stepped forward and mirrored the others’ phrasing. “007. I volunteer to operate the monitors first.”

The masked officer nodded. “Understood. You three may begin immediately. The other three managers will replace you in monitor operation when the next game begins. The remaining three will begin manning the monitors this evening.”

The conversation ended there, the masked officer dismissing everyone to their new tasks. Moments later, you found yourself seated at a monitor in the second row from the center. The control room was eerily quiet, the only sounds being the soft clicks and taps from other managers working at their stations. You turned your attention to the monitor in front of you, studying the screen and trying to make sense of your assigned task.

Your monitor displayed four live CCTV feeds, each showing hallways leading to the men’s and women’s restrooms for the players. For now, the feeds were empty, the halls devoid of activity.

At the bottom of the screen, you noticed a small arrow pointing to the right. Clicking it, you realized it brought up another page with four more live feeds. This set displayed the labyrinth of colorful staircases, the vibrant pink walls and intersecting paths looking almost surreal through the grainy CCTV footage.

The soft hum of the control room was disrupted by the sound of the elevator sliding open in the back. Instinctively, you glanced over your shoulder. The elevator was glowing with golden light, a sharp contrast to the muted tones of the control room. It was clear this elevator wasn’t for general use. It carried an air of exclusivity, a touch of grandeur that felt out of place in the stark facility. Then, he stepped out.

The Front Man emerged, his presence immediately commanding the room. He strode forward, his black mask catching the dim light of the massive screens on the walls. His imposing figure radiated power and authority. His second-in-command stepped aside, letting the boss walk past him.

The Front Man came to a stop in the center of the room, his gaze fixed on several dark monitors that should have been displaying the dormitory’s live feeds. Managers, including yourself, kept their heads low. You pretended to focus on the screen of your monitor, but you could feel the tension thick in the air.

“The workers are almost finished replacing the CCTVs in the dormitory,” said the masked officer, stepping forward slightly. “23 players have died due to the lights out and the revolt. The remaining players are now a total of 72.”

The Front Man remained still for a moment, processing the information. Then he spoke, his voice deep and commanding. “We will wait until all CCTVs are operational. Ensure it is completed immediately.”

The masked officer lowered his head in acknowledgment. Then, he raised his radio and began issuing orders. The static crackle of the radio was faint, but you could make out fragments of his commands. He was coordinating workers, urging them to move quickly.

Meanwhile, the Front Man continued to stand at the center of the room. His gaze never left the dark monitors. You felt the weight of his authority pressing down on the room like an invisible force. Though he hadn’t said much, his presence was enough to make everyone hyper-aware of their every move.

The Front Man suddenly turned and began walking toward the first row of monitors closest to the center of the room. Multiple managers were stationed there, each one glued to their tasks, pretending not to notice the imposing figure approaching them. He stopped behind one manager, standing silently as he gazed at the screen in front of them. His posture was unreadable as he was supervising or judging their work.

After a few long moments, he moved and stood behind the next manager, repeating the same process. Standing silently, observing, scrutinizing. The air grew heavier with each step he took. You could almost feel the tension radiating off the other managers as they focused on their screens, hoping to avoid his attention.

Your chest tightened as you watched his slow, deliberate movements. The realization struck you like a hammer.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Is he going to check everyone’s screen now, including mine?

You turned back to your monitor, forcing yourself to focus on the screen in front of you. The live feeds of empty hallways and colorful staircases stared back at you, but your eyes darted across the interface, desperate to find anything else to do. You clicked through the pages again and again, but no matter what you tried, the only thing available was the live feed.

Or maybe you simply didn’t know how to navigate the monitor. Your hands hovered over the keyboard, trembling slightly. Anxiety crept up your spine as you tried to keep your composure. What if he asks me something? What if he realizes I don’t belong here?

Behind you, you could hear the soft shuffling of footsteps as the Captain moved to the next monitor. Each step brought him closer, and with each step, your dread grew. You glanced at the managers near you, trying to gauge their reactions. They were calm, composed, their hands steady as they worked. Or maybe they were just better at hiding their fear than you were.

You clicked through the feeds again, your fingers moving mechanically. The colorful staircases flashed on the screen once more. You tried to focus on the feeds, pretending to study them, but your mind was racing. What am I looking at exactly? Is this all I have to do? What if he notices I’m just pretending?

The footsteps stopped. He was behind someone else now, just three spots away. You didn’t dare look, but you could feel the weight of his presence from across the room. The sound of your own breathing was deafening in your ears. Your fingers tapped lightly against the mouse, an involuntary rhythm born of nerves.

Another step. Now he was just two stations away.

You forced yourself to stare at the screen, willing your hands to stay steady. The live feed showed nothing unusual. It’s just static hallways and staircases. You tried to focus on the smallest details: the faint flicker of the fluorescent lights in one corner of the screen, the subtle shadows cast by the stair railings. Anything to keep your mind occupied.

Then, the footsteps started and then stopped again. You didn’t need to look to know he was behind the manager next to you. The air felt thicker, every second stretching endlessly as you waited. Your heart pounded in your chest, so loud you were sure he could hear it. You braced yourself for what was coming.

And then, finally, the footsteps resumed. He was right behind you now.

You froze, every muscle in your body tensing. The screen in front of you blurred as your focus shattered. You could feel his gaze boring into the back of your head, even though he hadn’t spoken a word. You forced yourself to move the mouse, scrolling through the feeds again as if you were searching for something specific.

Don’t look suspicious. Just act normal.

The silence was unbearable. You wanted to turn around, to see if he was watching your screen, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move. All you could do was wait and hope that he didn’t say anything.

To your terror, he was lingering behind you longer than he had with the others. You could feel his presence like a predator assessing its prey. Your pulse quickened as the silence stretched out. His proximity was suffocating. You couldn’t help but notice the subtle scent of leather and something sharp, almost metallic, clinging to him.

And then, something black and shiny appeared in your peripheral vision. His left gloved hand slid into view, inching closer to the monitor in front of you. Your breath hitched as his fingers hovered over the buttons, deliberate and slow, as if seeing your reaction. You froze, your entire body going rigid as you felt the warmth of his presence so close on your back.

With a quiet but decisive click, he pressed a specific button on the control panel. The screen flickered for a moment before changing. It now displayed a detailed interface – a task list for managing the movement of workers and supplies within the facility. Each section was labeled: “Dormitory Maintenance,” “Staircase Surveillance,” “Game Preparation,” and more. You stared at the screen, trying to make sense of the information, but the gravity of his presence made it impossible to focus.

The Front Man withdrew his hand, retreating backward, but you could still feel him there. His silence was deafening, his gaze like a physical weight pressing into your back. Your skin prickled with awareness, and your stomach twisted into knots. There was something unsettlingly intimate about his attention as if he could see straight through you.

Your fingers twitched as you forced yourself to move, to engage with the task on the monitor. But your hand trembled uncontrollably as you hovered over the buttons. You cursed yourself inwardly, willing your body to calm down, but the fear gripping you was relentless, leaving you exposed in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

The Front Man remained behind you, silent and still. You could feel the intensity of his gaze, the unspoken weight of whatever thoughts lingered behind that mask.

As you clicked through the tasks, your mind raced. Was he testing you? Waiting for you to slip up? Or was there something else in his silence, something about the way he lingered? Your skin burned under the weight of his gaze.

That’s when a massive screen on the wall lit up, showing a live feed from the corner of the players’ dormitory. The entire control room’s attention snapped to the glowing screen. The sound of the live recording echoed across the space. Moments later, more massive screens illuminated, each displaying different angles of the dormitory.

Your eyes widened as you absorbed the images in front of you, scanning each feed for any sign of your friends. You couldn’t help but feel a pang of relief as the footage revealed their familiar faces, though their expressions told a story of despair.

In the dormitory, multiple pink soldiers stood rigidly by the walls and in front of the main double doors. They were heavily armed. It was clear they weren’t taking any chances this time. These guards were prepared to crush any sign of rebellion without hesitation.

Among the players, your friends sat huddled on the floor between the bunkbeds. Jun-hee and Yong-sik’s mother clutched each other’s hands tightly, their faces flushed and tear-streaked, as if they had just finished crying their hearts out. Yong-sik sat beside his mother, his body tense, his eyes darting nervously toward the pink guards stationed across the room. Hyun-ju sat directly in front of them, completing their small circle. Her shoulders slumped, and her gaze was distant, the look of someone grappling with despair.

A few feet away, Gi-hun and Jung-bae sat side by side on the staircases. Gi-hun looked utterly defeated, his gaze locked onto the floor, a deep glower etched across his features. His body seemed heavy, weighed down by regret and hopelessness. Beside him, Jung-bae sat pale and wide-eyed, as if still processing the events of the revolt. His disbelief was almost palpable.

Behind them, leaning against the wall on one of the beds, was Dae-ho. He appeared physically fine now, but his demeanor was distant, detached. He stared blankly into space, his expression unreadable. Yet, you noticed the way his gaze occasionally flicked toward Gi-hun and the others. It was subtle, almost hesitant, as if he wanted to join them but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Guilt hung over him like a shadow, isolating him even further.

You frowned as you stared at the live feeds, noticing the growing distance among your group of friends. The weight of everything they had endured was starting to show. Cracks in their dynamic were now evident.

The sound of retreating footsteps caught your attention. You glanced to the side and saw the Front Man walking away from behind you. He moved until he reached the center of the room. Standing tall, he gazed at the monitors displaying the dormitory feeds.

The masked officer stepped closer, his voice cutting through the silence. “Captain, everything is ready for the next vote.”

The Front Man remained still, staring at the screens for a moment longer. Then, with a calm but firm tone, he announced, “Proceed.”

The masked officer bowed his head slightly before stepping back. Raising his radio, he began issuing orders. The sound of static crackled briefly before the commands went through. Moments later, the familiar blaring noise echoed through the dormitory – a sound that indicated something was about to happen.

On the live feeds, you watched as the dormitory’s double doors slid open. A single manager stepped forward, flanked by 16 pink soldiers standing in perfect formation. The room went quiet as the manager began to speak, “Due to the brawl in the men's bathroom, the lights out and your failed attempt of a revolt, 27 players have been eliminated.”

The manager paused as the sound of bills dropping into the piggy bank suspended near the ceiling echoed throughout the dormitory, drawing every player's attention to the accumulating prize.

“The remaining players are now a total of 73. Based on these eliminations, an additional 2.7 billion won has been added to the prize pool. The current total now stands at 38.3 billion won. If the remaining 73 players choose to vote to leave, each player will receive an equal share of the accumulated prize money of 524 million won per player.”

Most of the players – the O players – erupted into murmurs of amazement at the staggering numbers announced, their expressions lighting up with greed and excitement. They didn’t seem to care that this money represented the lives of the players who had died. It was as if the reality of those losses had been completely overshadowed by the sheer allure of wealth. In contrast, the X players exchanged uneasy glances.

The manager’s voice cut through the noise. “The next vote will begin immediately.”

Once everything was in place, the players shuffled to the back of the center, gathering as they waited for their turn. The atmosphere was heavy with anticipation. The voting counter stood ominously at the front.

“Player 006,” the manager called out.

A female player stepped forward. She approached the voting counter, and as you watched her walk, your mind wandered to someone who should have been called before her – Young-il, player 001.

His number had been skipped. The confirmation was undeniable: Young-il’s death was finalized. It was an unchangeable fact now etched into this twisted game. Your gaze fell to the floor, your heart heavy with grief. The memory of him flashed vividly in your mind. His quiet strength, his protective nature, the way he’d look at you with a mix of determination and warmth. He was gone, and you hadn’t even had the chance to mourn him properly.

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you blinked them away. This wasn’t the time or place. Still, the weight of his absence was suffocating, wrapping around your chest like a vice. You felt your eyes brim with tears and quickly looked up, hoping to dry them and reduce the risk of them spilling.

You thought of his voice, the way he’d call your name in that calm yet firm tone. You thought of the plan you’d made to meet outside of this nightmare. Seonyudo Park. One month after. At sunset. And now, that plan was gone. He was gone. The thought threatened to crush you, but you forced yourself to stay composed. You couldn’t afford to fall apart. Not here, not now.

The line continued to dwindle, the vote inching closer to its conclusion. And yet, all you could think about was the empty space where Young-il should have been. His absence was a gaping wound, one that no amount of time or wealth could ever heal.

In fifteen minutes, the voting concluded, and the result was no surprise: the majority voted for O. You had braced yourself for this outcome, knowing it was inevitable. After all, so many X players had been eliminated during the lights out and Gi-hun’s failed uprising plan. Hopelessness settled over you like a heavy weight. The realization that the X players were now outnumbered and powerless was unbearable.

You glanced at the group of X players. Some of them had started crying silently, their tears rolling down their cheeks without a sound. Their expressions carried the despair of knowing they were being forced to continue playing this deadly game, robbed of any semblance of choice.

It was a stark contrast to the O players, who erupted in jubilant cheers, their voices echoing across the dormitory like a cruel mockery of those in despair. Some clapped and shouted, grinning widely as they celebrated their supposed triumph over the X players. It was as if they had forgotten – or chose to ignore – that every win came at the cost of someone else's life.

“Based on the majority vote,” the manager announced, their voice cold and detached, “we will proceed with the next game right away. Please form four lines immediately.”

Suddenly, the masked officer standing behind the Front Man spoke up, “Manager 019, 009, and 007, you may proceed to your next task.”

The announcement made your stomach tighten. You had been so focused on the voting process that you almost forgot you were supposed to supervise the next game. You rose from your seat, noticing the other two managers standing as well. They turned and headed for the door, and you followed close behind. You didn’t know what to expect, but the chance to leave the control room – especially the Captain’s suffocating presence – was a small relief.

The next thing you knew, you entered a massive room. Your breath caught as you took in the sight before you. Two gargantuan dolls dominated the space, one instantly recognizable as the girl from Red Light, Green Light. The other was a boy wearing a cap, his face carved with the same eerie precision. The two dolls faced one another, separated by a large gap. In the middle of that gap was a massive conveyor belt, its path forming a wide, perfect circle between the two dolls. Numbers, like those on a clock, surrounded the conveyor belt. The number twelve was positioned directly in front of the boy doll, while the number six faced the girl doll.

On the east side of the conveyor belt, you noticed a railroad crossing sign. Its green and red lights were currently off, but its presence added another layer of confusion to you. To the west was a large playhouse, brightly colored. It faced the conveyor belt and the dolls. A staircase at the back of the playhouse led up into it, while a children’s slide curved down from the front.

Your mind raced, trying to piece together what the next game could be. The surreal setup was unsettling, but you couldn’t afford to let your curiosity show. Asking questions could draw unnecessary attention and make you seem suspicious.

“One of us will manage the game operation,” manager 019 said, breaking the silence. Their voice was steady as they glanced between you and manager 009. “If none of you volunteer, I’ll operate it. Any objections?”

You turned to manager 009, who nodded and replied, “Okay. I’ll watch from the side.”

Then manager 019’s attention shifted to you. “How about you?”

You fell silent, weighing your options carefully. You wanted to keep an eye on your friends, maybe even find a way to help them, but the truth was, you had no idea how to operate this game. If you made mistakes, you’d draw suspicion, and that was a risk you couldn’t afford. After a moment of deliberation, you decided it was best to observe first, learn how the game worked, and then figure out your next move.

“I’m fine with that,” you replied, shaking your head to manager 019’s question.

Manager 019 gave a nod and walked toward the playhouse. As manager 009 moved to another area, you kept your gaze fixed on manager 019, watching them ascend the stairs into the brightly colored structure. Through the small windows of the playhouse, you could see them take a position at the window facing the dolls and look down at something.

It was at that moment the conveyor belt began to hum softly, coming to life. Lights flickered on above the dolls and the conveyor belt, illuminating the massive room in a surreal glow. As the machinery moved, your eyes were drawn upward to the ceiling. It was then you noticed the intricate paintings covering the wallpaper and ceiling.

Above the boy doll was a crescent moon painted on the ceiling, casting a calm, nighttime aura over the walls on his side. On the other hand, above the girl doll was a vibrant sunset, warm and evocative of the end of the day. Suddenly, the numbers on the conveyor belt made sense. Twelve o’clock corresponded to Cheol-su and the moon – midnight. Six o’clock was aligned with Young-hee and the sunset – evening. But even with these details falling into place, you still couldn’t figure out what kind of game this was.

“007, please check the lights beneath the conveyor belt in front of Cheol-su,” manager 009’s voice broke through your thoughts. “I will check the other lights near Young-hee.”

You nodded and glanced around. Assuming that Cheol-su was the boy doll, you walked over to his side of the conveyor belt. Sure enough, there was a light projector beneath the conveyor belt at the 12 o’clock mark. As you inspected it, manager 019 did something from their position in the playhouse. Suddenly, more sections of the conveyor belt lit up at the 3, 6, and 9 o’clock positions. You stared at the glowing sections, wondering what the game would entail and what purpose the lights served.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulled your attention back to the present. A group of triangle guards entered the massive room. Behind them came the rest of the players, their expressions a mix of confusion and fear.

“What the hell is this?” one voice called out, tinged with panic.

“Why are there two of them now?” another player asked, pointing at the towering Cheol-su and Young-hee.

Then, the first announcement answered to their questions:

“Welcome to your fourth game. The game you will be playing is Open, Dongdaemun.”

Your eyes widened at the name of the game, a childhood classic one you'd played in kindergarten before. The reaction among the players was immediate. Some began to exchange uneasy glances as realization dawned on them. Jun-hee and the mother shared a worried look. Gi-hun stood quietly, his wide eyes darting around solemnly.

The announcer continued, “All players, please step onto the conveyor belt. Place your hands on the shoulders of the player in front of you to mimic a train. When the game starts, the railroad crossing sign will turn green, and the conveyor belt will move clockwise. The song Open, Dongdaemun will begin to play and mention a number in a clock. When the crossing sign turns red, the conveyor belt will stop, and the numbered area mentioned last in the song will be the area of elimination.”

You felt a chill run down your spine as you listened.

“Four players standing on the selected time will be eliminated.”

The gravity of the announcement hit everyone at once. Whispers of fear filled the air as the players tried to grasp the mechanics of the game. The circle guards soon entered the room to assist in the preparations.

You caught sight of Jun-hee glancing nervously at Yong-sik’s mother, who tried to offer a comforting squeeze of her hand. Gi-hun stared at the conveyor belt, his jaw clenched tightly in suppressed tension. Hyun-ju kept her gaze fixed on the floor, her shoulders hunched as if she was still drowning in despair. Dae-ho lingered a few steps behind the group, hesitating like he couldn’t bring himself to close the gap. Then, you noticed Jung-bae approach him, gently patting his back. Dae-ho flinched slightly at the contact, his expression flickering with unease before he glanced at Jung-bae with a hesitant nod.

Jung-bae gently guided Dae-ho into the group, placing him right beside Gi-hun. Dae-ho avoided meeting Gi-hun’s gaze, his eyes fixed on the floor instead. In that moment, you sensed a lingering tension between them, something unspoken but heavy. Was it because of Dae-ho’s failure to deliver the ammunition during the revolt?

“All players, please step onto the conveyor belt,” the announcer said.

Players began stepping hesitantly onto the unmoving conveyor belt. A few lingered at the edges, their reluctance clear in the way they glanced nervously at the dolls and the machinery. The circle guards moved and guided them into position. One by one, the players were arranged in a single-file line on the conveyor belt, all facing clockwise as instructed.

Once they were in place, the workers bent down and began locking the players’ legs into clamps attached to the conveyor belt. The metal clamps snapped shut around their ankles with an audible click. The players shifted uneasily, realizing the clamps rendered them immobile. Escape was no longer an option.

When the workers finished, they gestured for the players to place their hands on the shoulders of the person in front of them, mimicking the formation of a train. The players obeyed. The workers gave everything a final check before retreating to the walls.

The voice of the announcer echoed through the massive room. “Let the fourth game begin.”

A low hum signaled the conveyor belt coming to life. It began moving clockwise at a slow, deliberate pace. The sudden motion startled the players, and a few gasped audibly. Some tightened their grip on the shoulders in front of them for balance, while others stiffened, their bodies tensing as they tried to adjust.

Above them, the lights flickered on, casting intricate patterns onto the players and the conveyor belt. Then, the music began.

“Open the East, East, East Grand Gate. Open the South, South, South Grand Gate. When it’s twelve sharp, the Gates are closed.”

But then, the music repeated, and it picked up speed. The conveyor belt responded in kind, moving faster with each repetition of the song. The sudden acceleration made some players gasp in alarm, and a few stumbled slightly before regaining their footing.

“Open the East, East, East Grand Gate. Open the South, South, South Grand Gate. When it’s three sharp, the Gates are closed.”

A sharp ping rang out, silencing the music. The railroad crossing sign turned red, and the conveyor belt came to an abrupt halt. The players nearly fell forward from the sudden stop, but they quickly steadied themselves, clutching the shoulders in front of them for support. A heavy silence fell over the room as everyone processed what had just happened.

Then, the three o’clock area on the conveyor belt lit up with a vivid glow. The light illuminated four players standing in that section, their expressions quickly shifting to panic. The other players turned their heads, their faces pale as they stared at the unlucky individuals caught in the spotlight. The room seemed to hold its breath as the realization set in: those four were marked for elimination.

One of the players in the lit area began shaking their head in disbelief. “No, no, please…”

Four triangle guards appeared beside the conveyor belt. They raised their MP5s, aiming directly at the four players who had begun pleading desperately for mercy. The players’ cries echoed in the vast room, but the guards didn’t hesitate. A series of deafening gunshots filled the air as they opened fire, their bullets tearing through the marked individuals. The remaining players flinched in terror, some even letting out muffled sobs. You felt yourself flinch as well, but you quickly masked your reaction, forcing yourself to remain composed. Drawing attention to yourself was the last thing you needed.

The lifeless bodies of the four players collapsed onto the conveyor belt, their blood pooling beneath them and spreading across the surface. The sight made several players avert their eyes, their expressions twisted with horror and dread. As the tension in the room reached a suffocating peak, the voice of the announcer rang out once again:

“All players, please wait while the workers clean up.”

From the far side of the room, a group of circle guards began to approach. They moved efficiently, splitting into two teams – one to handle the cleanup and the other to tend to the surviving players. The latter team of workers crouched beside the players, unlocking their clamps temporarily. Then, the players were instructed to step aside as the bodies were removed. Once the area was cleared, the guards guided the players back into position, ensuring they filled the gaps left by the deceased. The clamps were locked back onto their ankles.

You took in the scene with a heavy heart. The game was merciless, and the players – your friends among them – were being subjected to unthinkable terror. You couldn’t dwell on it for too long, though. With purpose in your steps, you turned away and began ascending the staircase toward the playhouse.

The interior of the playhouse was cramped but functional, designed to mimic the living room and kitchen of a house while also being made for the sole purpose of operating the mechanics of the game. Manager 019 stood by the controls, their posture relaxed but their focus sharp. As you stepped inside, they glanced over and addressed you.

“What is it? You want to operate this?”

You hesitated briefly before responding. “Yes, but this second round is yours.”

Manager 019 gave a curt nod. “Okay. You can have your turn after the fourth round. Then Manager 009 can take over after your eighth round. That way it’s fair for all three of us getting four rounds each.”

You stayed silent, processing their words. Beneath the square mask concealing your face, your brow furrowed in concern. Twelve rounds. This game would have twelve rounds in total. The realization hit you like a blow to the chest. Your friends would have to endure this ordeal twelve times.

The next round began with the manager pressing on a large green button on the control panel. The railroad crossing sign turned green, and the conveyor belt began its slow, deliberate movement. Above, the lights flickered on, casting those strange, spiraling patterns over the players. The familiar melody of the song started again:

“Open the East, East, East Grand Gate. Open the South, South, South Grand Gate. When it’s twelve sharp, the Gates are closed.”

Twelve. You mentally noted the number.

The song repeated, this time picking up speed. The conveyor belt followed suit, its pace quickening enough to make a few players grip the shoulders in front of them harder.

“Open the East, East, East Grand Gate. Open the South, South, South Grand Gate. When it’s three sharp, the Gates are closed.”

Three. The number registered in your mind, but you barely had time to dwell on it before the song repeated again. The pace was almost frantic now, the conveyor belt spinning faster and faster. A few players stumbled slightly, their nervous gasps audible even over the music.

“Open the East, East, East Grand Gate. Open the South, South, South Grand Gate. When it’s six sharp, the Gates are closed.”

Six. You held your breath. The song looped back once more, but this time, the tempo eased. The conveyor belt slowed to match, giving the players a brief reprieve.

“Open the East, East, East Grand Gate. Open the South, South, South Grand Gate. When it’s nine sharp, the Gates are closed.”

Nine. You noted the number, but the brief relief of the slower pace was quickly overshadowed by manager 019’s movements.

Their gloved hand hovered over a bright red button before pressing it firmly, causing a sharp ping to echo through the room. The railroad crossing sign turned red, and the conveyor belt came to an abrupt halt. The music cut off abruptly, leaving behind a deafening silence that hung heavy in the air.

Manager 019 reached out and pressed the button labeled with the number ‘9.’ It was one of a series of numbered buttons aligned in a row, including ‘12,’ ‘3,’ and ‘6.’ As their gloved finger made contact, the nine o’clock section of the conveyor belt lit up abruptly, casting an intense, unforgiving glow onto the four players standing in that area.

Their faces drained of color as they realized what it meant. The rest of the players turned to look, their expressions ranging from shock to pure terror.

One of the four players began to tremble. “No, no, please.”

The triangle guards stepped forward without hesitation. Each guard took a position beside one of the marked players. The players began pleading, their voices desperate and raw, but the guards raised their MP5s, their fingers steady on the triggers. Without a word, the guards fired.

The gunshots were deafening, each one echoing in your chest. The marked players fell limp, their bodies collapsing onto the conveyor belt. Blood spread across the surface as the remaining players recoiled in horror. Some clamped their hands over their mouths to stifle their cries, while others turned their heads away, unable to look.

“All players, please wait while the workers clean up,” the announcer’s voice rang out.

The circle guards entered once again as they removed the lifeless bodies from the conveyor belt. Other workers crouched to unlock the clamps of the surviving players, guiding them to close the gap left by the fallen. The conveyor belt was reset, and the clamps were resecured.

You glanced at manager 019 as they stood by the controls. Then, your gaze shifted upward to the ceiling of the playhouse. There, mounted inconspicuously, was a CCTV camera overlooking the entire space. Your stomach tightened. You have to take care of that first.

While the workers were still cleaning up the scene, you stepped outside of the playhouse and descended the staircase. Your movements were purposeful as you strode toward the line of triangle guards standing by the wall. Your eyes scanned their jumpsuits and shoes, searching for the subtle marks you, 011, and Gyeong-seok had made to identify one another in the sea of pink uniforms.

The soldiers remained silent, respecting your role without a question. One by one, you scrutinized their outfits, keeping your movements casual to avoid drawing suspicion. Finally, you spotted them – 011 and 014 – standing beside each other, their MP5s slung across their chests. Their attention were already locked on you.

“011 and 014,” you called out, your voice distorted by the square mask.

“Anything I could help with, manager?” 011 asked.

“Follow me,” you instructed without missing a beat.

The two of them obeyed immediately, falling into step behind you as you led them back toward the playhouse. Your eyes darted around the room, ensuring no one was too close to overhear. Once you were certain the path was clear, you lowered your voice and spoke quickly but firmly.

“I want to manipulate the game in the next rounds. But there’s a CCTV in that playhouse.”

011 responded immediately, “Leave it to me. I just need you to distract the guard first.”

You nodded, relief mixing with the tension building in your chest. The plan was risky, but it was your only option if you wanted to take control and help your friends. Just as you were about to say more, the speakers crackled to life, and an announcement echoed through the room.

“Let the third round begin.”

The mechanical hum of the conveyor belt filled the space as the railroad crossing sign turned green. The familiar melody of Open, Dongdaemun began to play once more.

“Open the East, East, East Grand Gate. Open the South, South, South Grand Gate. When it’s twelve sharp, the Gates are closed.”

You ascended the stairs, 011 and 014 trailing close behind. But before you could reach the top, a sharp ping echoed through the room, cutting through the eerie melody of the game. The railroad crossing sign turned red. It came sooner than you expected, making you freeze mid-step. Your head snapped toward the conveyor belt.

The twelve section of the conveyor belt lit up, its harsh glow illuminating the players standing in that spot. Four… no, five players were there. Your breath hitched as your eyes widened in fear. Among them were three random players whose faces you barely recognized… and the kind mother and Jun-hee.

“No,” you whispered under your breath, dread pooling in your stomach.

The announcer’s female voice rang out over the speakers, “Attention. Only four players are to be eliminated each round. The five players standing on the twelve section must now decide among themselves. One player will be spared, and the remaining four will be eliminated. You have one minute to come to a decision. Failure to reach a unanimous decision will result in the elimination of all five players.”

Flickering lights were cast from the ceiling, quickening the heartbeat of every player in the room. An LED timer flickered to life on the floor in the middle of the conveyor belt circle, its large numbers beginning the one-minute countdown. The pressure in the air was almost palpable as the reality of the moment settled in.

The mother’s eyes darted between the random players and Jun-hee, who was already trembling violently behind her. The room seemed to shrink, the oppressive silence only broken by the overlapping voices of the random players as they fiercely argued for their lives.

“I have a child back home!” one of the players shouted, their voice cracking with desperation. “I need to go back to them! How can you ask me to give up my life?”

“We all have something to live for!” another spat back, their fists clenched. “You don’t get to use that as an excuse to save yourself.”

The third player, visibly shaking, clutched her chest as she spoke, her words spilling out in a frantic rush. “Please, just let me live. I’ll… I’ll do anything! I can’t die here. Please!”

Amid the heated debate, Jun-hee’s sobs grew louder. Tears streamed down her face, her breathing uneven as she clung desperately and tremblingly to the mother’s hand. You realized then just how deeply Jun-hee had grown attached to the mother, seeing her as a maternal figure. This bond, forged in fear and mutual care, made the thought of being separated unbearable for Jun-hee. Her cries weren’t just of fear for her life but of losing the woman who had comforted and protected her when everything else seemed lost.

The mother turned to her, her expression softening despite the chaos around them. She placed both hands on Jun-hee’s shoulders, steadying her.

“Jun-hee,” she said gently, her voice warm and calming despite the tremor beneath it. She looked like she was about to start crying too but she tried to be strong for the pregnant girl. “Listen to me. You have to stay strong. You… you have to survive. For your baby.”

Jun-hee shook her head frantically, her face red and wet with tears. “No! No, I don't want... you to die! Please, no!”

Her sobs became louder, her hands gripping the mother’s tightly, refusing to let go.

The mother’s lips trembled, but she forced a small, reassuring smile. “You’re carrying a life, Jun-hee. That’s more important than anything else. I… I’ve lived my life. But I'm sad...”

She paused, causing Jun-hee to stare at her with wide eyes. The mother smiled warmly at her and said, “I'm sad that I couldn't be there to help you deliver your baby... I'm sorry, okay?”

“No, you can’t say that!” Jun-hee cried, clinging to her as though letting go would make her disappear. “You can’t die here! I… Please no!”

Across the room, Yong-sik – who was standing behind Jun-hee – stood paralyzed, tears streaming down his face as he watched his mother and Jun-hee. His hands covered his mouth, his sobs muffled but no less heart-wrenching. He stumbled forward slightly, as though his body wanted to reach his mother but due to the clamps around his ankles, he couldn't.

“Mom!” Yong-sik’s voice cracked as he finally spoke. “Mom!”

The mother turned to him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Yong-sik, you need to be strong. Take care of Jun-hee. Take care of yourself. No more gambling. That’s all I want.”

Hyun-ju, standing behind Yong-sik, began to cry, her lips trembling uncontrollably as sadness overtook her. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and her voice cracked as she called the mother using the halmeoni title. The mother turned to her with a warm, tearful smile, her eyes glistening with emotion. “Hyun-ju, I pray that you survive. You are strong and beautiful, inside and out, and I am so proud to have known you.”

Hyun-ju’s knees wobbled slightly as she lowered her gaze, her shoulders trembling under the weight of the mother’s words. Tears poured down her cheeks more freely.

Gi-hun, standing in the distance, was already frowning in extreme sadness. His eyes were moist with unshed tears, threatening to spill. He was speechless, the weight of everything he’d lost crushing him. He had gotten attached to this group. They were more than just players to him; they had become his friends and family in this nightmare. Watching this scene unfold only deepened his anguish, and he stood frozen, unsure of how to even begin processing the pain of yet another looming loss. 

“No, no, no,” Jung-bae muttered under his breath, his hands trembling uncontrollably. His voice cracked with raw emotion, and his eyes glistened with unshed tears as he stared at the scene unfolding in front of him.

"Not them... not like this," he whispered, his usual optimism and humor buried under the weight of the moment. For once, his voice held no levity, only a deep, aching sorrow that reflected his helplessness.

Dae-ho stood farther back, tears already streaming down his face. He quickly brought his hands to his face, wiping them furiously, as if he didn’t want anyone to see him like this. Still, his emotions betrayed him. His trembling shoulders and red-rimmed eyes revealed just how deeply affected he was by the scene unfolding before him.

The three random players continued their heated argument, their voices rising and overlapping. One of them turned to Jun-hee and the mother, their tone sharp. “We don’t have time for this! Do you think your life is more important than ours?”

Jun-hee flinched at the words, her sobs intensifying. The mother stepped in front of her protectively, her expression firm, though her lips trembled.

“Don’t talk to her like that,” she said, her voice steady despite the tears in her eyes. “She’s pregnant. She’s the one who should survive.”

The random players exchanged tense glances. One of them, trembling with frustration, finally spat out, “Why is she even here in the first place? We’re all fighting for our lives, and being pregnant doesn’t mean she deserves to live more than the rest of us!”

Another player nodded quickly, latching onto the argument. “Exactly! We’ve all got reasons to live. A baby doesn’t make her special!”

The tension reached its breaking point when player 333, standing behind Dae-ho, shouted, “Are you that selfish? That inhumane? You’d let a pregnant girl die just to save your own skin? She’s carrying a life, for God’s sake! What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

The words echoed across the room, silencing the arguing players for a brief moment. But the desperation remained as the timer continued to count down. Every second felt like a hammer driving nails into the fragile hope that hung in the air.

Meanwhile, your heart pounded like a drum as you slipped into the playhouse. Manager 019 stood at the controls, their gloved hands poised over the buttons as they monitored the game from the small window. The scene outside was a horrifying spectacle, but your focus was razor-sharp. You had to act fast.

“019,” you said firmly, stepping closer to the control panel. The urgency in your voice was masked by the distorted tone of your square mask, but it caught their attention. They glanced at you.

“What is it?” they asked, their voice impatient.

You gestured toward the controls. “I need some clarification. There’s a discrepancy in the task parameters.”

As manager 019 turned their full attention to you, you made sure to block their view of the room behind them. Soldier 011, moving with quiet precision, slipped toward the CCTV camera mounted in the corner of the playhouse. She was careful to not get captured in the live feed. With one swift motion, 011 smashed the camera’s lens with the butt of their MP5, the sound of breaking glass ringing out sharply.

Manager 019 stiffened at the noise, spinning around. Their eyes darted toward 011.

“What the hell are you doing?” they barked, reaching for the radio clipped to their belt.

Without thinking, you lunged at them, grabbing their arm to stop them from making the call.

“Get the radio!” you shouted to 011 as you struggled against manager 019’s surprisingly strong resistance.

The two of you grappled, your movements frantic and desperate. 011 joined the fight, trying to pull the radio away, but manager 019 managed to shake you both off with a burst of strength. They stumbled back, reaching for the device again.

But before they could, soldier 014 – Gyeong-seok in disguise – appeared and struck them hard across the head with the butt of the weapon. The force of the blow sent them crumpling to the floor, unconscious.

The room fell into a tense silence. Your heart pounded in your chest, the adrenaline coursing through you making your hands tremble.

“Five.”

Your eyes widened. It was the countdown. Five seconds left for the five players to come to a decision.

“Four.”

Panic seized your thoughts, but you forced yourself into action. You straightened up and rushed to the control panel. Without hesitation, your hand slammed onto the green button you had seen Manager 019 press earlier to start the round.

Suddenly, the railroad crossing sign turned green, and the conveyor belt roared to life, rotating clockwise. The sudden movement caused nearly all the players to stumble in surprise, their startled gasps echoing through the room. Then the familiar, haunting melody began to play again:

“Open the East, East, East Grand Gate. Open the South, South, South Grand Gate. When it’s twelve sharp, the Gates are closed.”

The room was consumed by confusion. Players’ eyes were wide and frantic as they tried to comprehend what had just happened. Jun-hee and the mother stood frozen for a moment, their faces pale and drenched in fear. Then, as the realization dawned on them that they were no longer in immediate danger, they stared at one another in disbelief.

To them, it must have felt like divine intervention. A miracle had spared them from the brutal fate just seconds ago. You could see it in their tear-filled eyes, the way they clung to each other's hands as though afraid this reprieve might vanish at any moment.

But for you, the weight of the moment pressed down like a vice. Sweat dripped from your brow as your hands hovered over the panel. The reality of the situation hit you like a freight train. You are now operating the game. The lives of everyone on that conveyor belt – your friends, strangers, everyone – are in your hands.

“Open the East, East, East Grand Gate. Open the South, South, South Grand Gate. When it’s three sharp, the Gates are closed.”

You pressed your lips into a thin line, anxiety clawing its way up your chest. The weight of what you were doing – what you were responsible for – hung over you like a storm cloud. But you had made it here for a reason, hadn’t you? To help your friends. To protect Jun-hee and the mother. You had saved them, hadn’t you? You couldn’t stop now. The game had to go on or else the Front Man will get suspicious. And you had to make sure your friends stayed safe, no matter the cost.

The song repeated, faster now, its tempo quickening as the conveyor belt sped up to match:

“Open the East, East, East Grand Gate. Open the South, South, South Grand Gate. When it’s six sharp, the Gates are closed.”

Your eyes darted across the conveyor belt, scanning for your friends. Relief washed over you when you confirmed they weren’t near the six section. Your hand moved almost mechanically as you pressed the red button. A sharp ping cut through the air, the signal that froze everything in place. The railroad crossing sign turned red, and the conveyor belt ground to an abrupt halt. The haunting music stopped.

You felt your breath hitch as you mimicked what manager 019 had done before. This time, your finger pressed firmly on the button labeled ‘6.” A floodlight illuminated the six section on the conveyor belt, casting an unforgiving glow on the players caught there.

Four players stood in that section, their faces pale and their bodies trembling as the reality of their situation set in. All of them were O players. The ones who had dominated the vote. The ones who had celebrated the prize money without a second thought for the lives lost. Now, they were the ones begging for mercy.

“Please! Don’t do this!”

Another dropped to their knees despite the clamps around their ankles. “I’ll do anything! Please, let me live! I have a family! I can’t die here!”

Four triangle guards marched forward. They raised their MP5s, the barrels gleaming under the harsh lights. The players’ desperate pleas hung in the air, but the guards fired without hesitation. The sharp crack of gunfire shattered the room, cutting through the cries and leaving only silence in its wake.

You stared at the scene in a trance, your hands trembling as they hovered over the controls. The enormity of what you had done crashed over you like a tidal wave. You had made this choice. You had pressed the buttons that sealed their fate. Your body froze as the sickening thud of their bodies hitting the conveyor belt reverberated through the room.

That’s when the radio in your jumpsuit’s pocket crackled to life. A deep, distorted voice came through:

“Manager 007, what happened?”

The words sent a cold shiver racing down your spine. Your skin prickled with goosebumps as the realization struck you. It was the Front Man. His voice was as chilling and authoritative as ever, and it held an unspoken expectation for a swift and precise response.

For a moment, your mind went blank, panic threatening to overwhelm you. Before you could speak, soldier 011 stepped closer, her voice distorted behind that mask. “Tell him it’s a maintenance delay. Say the conveyor belt calibration triggered a temporary shutdown and it accidentally restarted.”

You swallowed hard and took a deep breath, your fingers gripping the radio tightly. Pressing the button, you spoke, forcing your voice to remain steady despite the racing of your heart.

“Maintenance delay, captain,” you said, the distortion of the mask hiding the tremor in your tone. “The conveyor belt triggered a temporary shutdown and it accidentally restarted. Everything is now under control.”

The silence that followed was agonizing. You could almost feel the Front Man’s scrutiny through the radio. You could even feel his suffocating presence behind you. Seconds stretched into what felt like an eternity before his voice came through again.

“Proceed.”

The radio went silent, and you released the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Your hands trembled slightly as you shoved the radio back into your pocket.

“You okay?” Gyeong-seok, still in his disguise, asked, his voice filled with concern.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you took a few shaky steps backward, hoping to ground yourself, to make sense of the whirlwind of emotions and chaos swirling around you.

“Be care—” Gyeong-seok began, but his words were cut short as your foot caught against something hard. You stumbled but 011 and Gyeong-seok were quick to react. Their hands gripped your shoulders firmly, steadying you before you could fall.

You turned your head and saw what had caused your stumble – the unconscious body of manager 019 sprawled on the floor. The sight made your stomach twist, a stark reminder of how far things had spiraled out of control.

“Crouch down. Let’s switch masks,” 011 said suddenly.

You glanced at her, your eyes widening in confusion.

“I’ll take over the control panel,” she explained. “I’ll make sure your friends stay safe.”

“Yeah,” Gyeong-seok chimed in. “I’ll guide her, point out which players are our friends. Or she could just focus on targeting the O players.”

You hesitated for a moment, your mind racing. After a brief pause, you nodded. Together, you and 011 crouched down, keeping out of sight beneath the tiny windows of the playhouse.

With trembling hands, you removed your square mask, the cool air hitting your flushed, sweaty face like a relief and a punishment all at once. Your hair clung damply to your skin, the hours spent in the stifling mask and jumpsuit leaving you uncomfortably sticky. Across from you, 011 did the same, her face equally damp.

The exchange was quick. She handed you her triangle mask, and you passed her the square one. Both of you adjusted the masks over your heads, the switch complete in a matter of seconds. The moment her mask was secure, 011 stood and moved to the control panel, taking over with quiet efficiency.

For the rest of the game, she worked in near silence, her hands steady on the controls. Occasionally, Gyeong-seok pointed something out to her but you tuned it out. You stayed where you were, seated on the floor, hidden from view. The coldness of the floor seeped into your body, but it was nothing compared to the icy guilt gnawing at your insides.

Your mind kept replaying the moment you pressed the buttons, the way the floodlight illuminated the O players, the way their desperate pleas filled the air before they were silenced forever. They had celebrated their majority vote, their victory over the X players, but that didn’t erase the humanity in their fear. You had sealed their fate. Their bloods were on your hands.

“Hey,” 011’s voice broke through the thick silence, her tone unexpectedly gentle. You glanced up at her from where you sat on the floor, your body still tense from everything that had just transpired. She kept her gaze fixed on the players through the tiny window of the playhouse, her hands steady on the controls.

“What’s your task after this?” she asked, her voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of something heavier. Concern, maybe.

You hesitated, your eyes drifting to the floor as you tried to recall the next step in your role.

“I… I will guard the Captain this evening,” you answered, your voice quieter than you intended.

Her silence that followed was tense. The weight of her unspoken thoughts seemed to hang in the air, pressing down on you. Gyeong-seok, standing beside her but a step behind, glanced between the two of you, his curiosity barely hidden.

Finally, 011 spoke again, her voice lower and more solemn than before. “Be careful. Whatever he asks you to do, just do it. Don’t question it. Just follow through.”

Her words made your chest tighten. The weight of what she was implying wasn’t lost on you.

“But,” she added after a pause, “if you can’t handle it… if it’s too much…”

She hesitated for the briefest of moments before continuing, “Just reveal your face.”

Your eyes widened in shock, and you turned your head sharply to look at her. Gyeong-seok’s head swiveled toward her too, his posture stiff with tension.

011, still wearing the square mask, didn’t turn to look at you. She kept her focus on the scene outside. “Once he knows who you are, he will spare you.”

Her statement hung in the air. You couldn’t comprehend it at first. Why would the Captain – the Front Man – spare you? What did she know that you didn’t? Questions swirled in your mind, but you couldn’t find the words to ask them. All you could do was stare at her in disbelief.

NEXT : Chapter 16

PREV : Chapter 14

Story Masterlist

This is the Dongdaemun song (don't mention about this story in the YouTube comments) I used to envision the fourth game. This is not what will happen in the Season 3 because I made this all up using all the clues we got from the post-credit ending. Still, I'm curious to know what's your theory on the fourth game is.

Please feel free to leave comments and feedback about my story, the characters, the "you", and practically anything! I love reading your comments, especially long ones! It motivates me a lot! So what do you feel about the Front Man asking all managers to see him personally? Do you think he wouldn't notice about your stunt? I think I should write about his POV because there are so many things happening behind your back. Since this is a 'you' POV, you couldn't really tell what's going on. Next, we finally get to see 011's face. Those who guessed it right in the previous chapter, you're correct. Now, what do you think about the Masked Officer suddenly calling you and eight others to be the first 'emergency batch' to alternate tasks? Then the part when the Front Man was right behind you and supervising you closely? Do you feel that nervousness yourself? Next, how do you think I wrote the voting process? And then, the fourth game. What are your thoughts on this fourth game I wrote? Do you think it makes sense with all the clues from the post-credit ending of Season 2? Do you think it's brutal? And then that part of Jun-hee and the mother. I really want to know your reaction on this! Anyway, thank you very much for giving my story a chance. I love reading and re-reading all of your comments!

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