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defectivevillain · 6 months ago

Text

the games we play

pairing: Gi-hun/Young-il/Reader

the reader's race & gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used.

summary: “And surely you’ve seen the way Young-il looks at you,” you press on, motivated by Gi-hun’s silence. “Like he wants to pick you apart, break you into pieces, and then put you back together again.” Gi-hun is quiet for several moments. “I… haven’t noticed that,” he eventually admits. He pauses for a moment, evidently thinking. “I’ve seen Young-il look at you like that.” Something unpleasant jumps in your chest. “Then we’re both in trouble,” you huff, rubbing a hand over your eyes.

Gi-hun and you attempt to navigate the 33rd Squid Game, under the watchful eye of the enigmatic Oh Young-il.

word count: 10.3k | ao3 version | fic playlist

warnings: spoilers to Squid Game season 2; canon-typical blood, violence, and death.

author's notes: This is Gi-hun/Reader/In-ho (Young-il) centric. Leaning heavily on Gi-hun/Reader, with subtle In-ho moments. The reader is written to have incurred debt from their undergraduate studies in America.

This fic does not have a happy ending. Also, it’s canon non-compliant/divergent.

I made a playlist for this fic too. Feel free to listen, if that’s your vibe :3

Thank you to @connorhasabigtip for beta reading this & watching the first four eps with me! love you bitch. and jun-ho is in love with you. so I guess that makes us related fr now.

You first meet Seong Gi-hun in a sandy arena, under the watchful eyes of a killer doll figurine as you play Red Light, Green Light. At the time, you only know him as Player 456—the strangely vocal man who insists that the game comes with the risk of imminent death. You’re not quite sure why you decide to believe him. Maybe it’s because you have no other choice; or maybe it’s just because there’s less risk. Either way, you choose to follow his advice. You end up near the front of the group of players scattered across the field, which means you are forced to remain frozen as you hear gunshot after gunshot. There are people screaming and attempting to escape, but you know it’s no use. They are all shot down, until the doll finally seems to have enough and turns its back on the field once more.

You take the proffered opportunity to continue running down the field, until it begins to turn around again and you’re forced to freeze. 456 and you are the frontrunners, with 456 focused on helping everyone. He’s calm and collected under pressure—keeping his mouth hidden behind his elbow as he shouts out orders.

Thanks to his help, the majority of the remaining players survive. And while most of them appear to scorn him for his relentless optimism, you can’t help but feel grateful that he warned everyone. You steal glances at him from across the dorm before gathering the courage to walk up to him and introduce yourself, dipping your head in a mock bow. He returns the gesture, introducing himself as Seong Gi-hun. You talk for a while, before finally relenting and asking him if he’s played these games before. The troubled expression that passes over his face is the only answer you need, but he confirms it verbally anyways. He won the game a few years ago. As for why he came back… he hopes to stop the games once and for all.

“You’ll need some help then,” you remark, sounding far more confident than you feel at the present moment. “I can join you,” you offer.

He looks askance. “It’ll be dangerous,” Gi-hun warns you.

“Everything about these games is dangerous,” you point out. It’s true. If you’re going to die, you’d rather die fighting for something—instead of solely being a victim to these fucked up games.

“True,” he acquiesces, before sliding over and giving you enough room to sit next to him. You take the proffered space and rest your forearms on your knees, clasping your hands and staring at the players across the dorm.

“You may want to keep it a secret,” you say after a few moments, tapping your fingers restlessly. “That you’ve played these games before, I mean,” you clarify after seeing his confusion.

“Why?” Gi-Hun frowns. You’re not surprised by his reaction—while you don’t know Gi-hun very well, it’s clear he has a good heart. He sees the best in people. And while that’s normally an admirable quality, it doesn’t quite help him here.

“If you warn everyone about the second game now, and then it turns out you’re wrong…” you continue. You’ve been thinking about his show of resistance during the first game, and you suspect whoever is running the game will do whatever it takes to ensure he doesn’t do the same thing again. “You’ll be a pariah. No one will trust you. And that’s exactly what they want. They’re betting on the fact that you’ll tell everyone about the second game. They’ve probably changed it so you’ll lose credibility.” You finally seem to get through to Gi-hun with that remark, as he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“That’s… a fair point,” he eventually agrees. It seems he hadn’t thought of it. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

Feeling eyes on your back, you turn around to find a player staring at Gi-hun and you. Your skin burns under his intense gaze, and he shows no embarrassment at the prospect of being caught staring. Instead, he only blinks. You stare at him for a moment, before eventually convincing yourself to turn away. Your skin crawls for the rest of the day, even as you get into bed and try to get some sleep.

The second game takes place early the next morning, after the majority of players vote to continue the game. You’re once again led through those winding pastel halls and stairs, only to find yourself in an arena reminiscent of a playground. You look over at Gi-hun, who looks a bit troubled by what he sees. Evidently, it’s a bit different from what he saw in the second round of his previous game.

Once the surviving players are gathered in the space, an announcement confirms that the next game will be a six-legged race. Gi-hun shoots you a relieved look and you remember what he told you after your conversation the previous day. The second round last time was dalgona. It appears the game masters changed the game, just as you predicted. Gi-hun is still looking at you with gratitude and it makes you feel a bit uneasy, knowing the feeling is wasted on you. The announcer’s voice breaks through the static in your mind, directing players to gather in groups of five.

“I’m with you,” you say after a moment, looking at Gi-hun. It’s meant to be a question, but it comes out more confident and assertive. Internally, you’re a bit more unsure. Sure, you spoke with Gi-hun a lot yesterday, but that doesn’t mean he sees you as an ally yet.

Thankfully, Gi-hun doesn’t object. “Of course.” He nods. You feel a slight smile slip onto your face, relieved that you won’t have to look around for a group. With the addition of Player 388, your group now has three members. You only need two more for the game.

“May I join your group?” You blink to find Player 001 standing in front of you. He was the one staring at you two last night. The man looks between Gi-hun and you. You don’t trust yourself to speak, instead letting Gi-hun and 388 decide.

“Sure,” Gi-hun agrees. You’re secretly a bit suspicious, but you let it go.

With the addition of a young girl, your group is complete with five members. Since the game is a six-legged pentathlon, there will be five games interspersed along the track. Your group decides on the following pairings: Player 222 and Ddakji; Gi-Hun and Jegi; 001 and spinning top; 388 and Gonggi; & you and flying stones.

As you’re watching the first group stumble through the obstacles, you feel a sudden presence behind you. “A miss in Flying Stone will eat up a lot of time,” 001 says. And wow, this guy needs to learn about personal space. You swear his breath is hitting your neck as he hovers over your shoulder. You instinctively flinch and turn around, comprehending his remark.

“Shut up,” you then respond, your nerves high enough without this guy’s comments. “Stop with your mind games. We’re on the same team, in case you didn’t realize.” You snap before you can stop yourself. You immediately turn back around to watch the team playing; and in your eagerness to look away, you miss the slight quirk of the man’s lips.

The first two groups die. The gunshots still ring in your ears, even after the guards remove their corpses and the game continues. There are growing puddles on the ground, marring the childish appearance of the arena.

Desperate for a way to distract yourself, you turn to 001 again. “Who are you, anyway?” you soon ask, unable to hide your curiosity. He just blinks at you, that infuriatingly blank expression on his face. He almost seems like an android, with how little emotion he shows. “I didn’t see you here for the first round.” You frown. And sure, the first round had hundreds of people. But you think you’d remember a guy like him. He’s… Well. You hate to admit it, but he’s very conventionally attractive. And his stare is eerie. If you had seen him, you would’ve remembered.

Gi-hun overhears and freezes, looking at you before following your gaze to stare at 001. He seems curious. “And you knew my name, when I never told it to you,” Gi-hun continues.

Your eyes widen. You’re about to press the guy for more information when the buzzer rings, summoning your group to the starting line. That was suspiciously good timing. But it doesn’t matter—you can worry about 001’s origins later. Right now, you have a game to win.

Fortunately, your group makes it out alive. The group you share the arena with isn’t so lucky, and the sound of gunshots echoes in your ears long after you head back to the dorms. All of you are dejected as you see how many people died last round. You feel particularly worried for 222, who had revealed herself to be pregnant. Just how in the hell is she getting through this? She must be in immense pain.

When you’re given your rations for the day, you give her your bread. 001 gives her his milk, and before long, each member of the group has sacrificed something to ensure her wellbeing. You can’t help but feel sickened at the thought of her presence here—she’s so young, and she’s carrying a baby while fighting for her life to survive. You don’t necessarily pity her, since she’s proven she’s very capable and athletic. Still… You resent the circumstances that brought players like her here.

You think back to the game you just played. Everyone did very well and succeeded on the first try, except for 001—who took several tries to successfully wind and throw the spinning top. It’s ironic, considering he was trying to warn you all earlier and put more pressure on you. All of that talk… just for him to buckle under the pressure. It almost makes you want to laugh. If the rest of you hadn’t done so well, he could’ve gotten you killed.

A sharp bolt of anger rushes through you. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten our conversation,” you say to the guy, the words slipping from your lips before you can stop them. 001 blinks at you innocently. The gesture just irritates you even more. “Who are you? How much debt do you have? What’s your job?”

“I think you can stop interrogating him,” 388 interjects, clearly sensing the tension settling across the group. You grit your teeth.

“No; he’s suspicious,” you argue persistently, your spine tingling uneasily as you’re met with 001’s blank stare. “He beat the shit out of those two guys and pretended like it was nothing.” Indeed, when two contestants had been messing with a third guy, 001 had promptly walked up to them and overpowered them with ease. “He knew Gi-hun’s name when he never told him, and he was playing mind games all through the last round.” You finish scrutinizing him. The guy stares right back, seemingly unaffected by your skepticism.

“Hey, enough of that,” 388 remarks placatingly. You bite your tongue and allow him to keep speaking, if only because you’re so frustrated you can hardly think. Your fists are clenched at your sides. 001 is still staring, and he’s likely getting enjoyment from your irritation. “We should be celebrating our victory! And if you’ll excuse me…” He gets to his feet and stares at the group. “I don’t know your names yet. Mine’s Kang Dae-ho. It means ‘big tiger’.”

All of you proceed to introduce yourselves, before it gets to 001. Supposedly, his name is Oh Young-Il. “It’ll be easy to remember, because it corresponds to my number,” he remarks. This guy is only getting more and more suspicious with each thing he says. There’s no way in hell that’s his real name. And he seems to recognize you don’t believe him, because he’s staring at you again.

The group is a bit more withdrawn today, after the events of the previous game. As your adrenaline dies down, you realize you’re quite tired. The others seem to feel the same; yet the day passes with infinite lethargy. It feels like a whole lifetime until the lights-out announcement. Upon hearing the announcement, Gi-hun guides the group through building a kind of fort and assigning members for guard duty. Supposedly, people can get violent at night—and kill one another just for the promise of more prize money. You’re not exactly surprised by that, so you go along with his orders. Gi-hun offers to take the first shift—leaving the rest of you to sleep peacefully (or, at least, as peacefully as a person can sleep in a place like this).

When you wake for the next shift a few hours later, you find Gi-hun still awake—staring off into the distance with a frown on his face. You sidle up next to him and the two of you sit in silence for a while. It’s not necessarily an uncomfortable silence. The two of you are both deep in thought, as you evidently reflect on the horrors you’ve witnessed.

“...I don’t trust Young-il,” you admit quietly. There’s a persistent but quiet hum in the air, the only companion to the silence.

“Why not?” Gi-hun asks. He doesn’t look suspicious, but he doesn’t exactly look convinced either. He always believes the best in people, though. And his desire to stop the games has kept him too busy to notice the way 001 is acting.

“He’s… slippery,” you settle for saying after a few moments. “He messes with people just to see their reactions. Plus, did you see him in the first game? Because I swear I didn’t see him, and then suddenly, when it was time to vote, he just… appeared.”

“I mean, isn’t that strange?” you continue, unable to stop talking now that you’ve finally spoken your mind. “Especially when his vote was the one that ushered in the second game. It’s just… I don’t know, it’s really fishy.”

Gi-hun hasn’t spoken a word, instead looking ahead in sincere contemplation. “And surely you’ve seen the way he looks at you,” you press on, motivated by Gi-hun’s silence. “Like he wants to pick you apart, break you into pieces, and then put you back together again.”

Gi-hun is quiet for several moments. “I… haven’t noticed that,” he eventually admits, fully turning to look at you. He pauses for a moment, evidently thinking. His eyes are searching your face for something—but it’s a different kind of scrutiny than Young-il’s covert malice. “But I’ve seen him look at you like that,” Gi-hun says quietly.

Something unpleasant jumps in your chest. “Then we’re both in trouble,” you huff, rubbing a hand over your eyes.

(And little do you both know, Young-il has been lying awake the entire time, digesting every word of your conversation.)

“You should rest, Gi-hun,” you suggest. “I’ll take over from here.” It takes some argument, but you manage to persuade Gi-hun to sleep. You spend the rest of your guard shift staring ahead and fighting off sleep. Your eyes are dry and you’re beginning to get a headache, but you’re happy to keep watch if it ensures the safety of your group members.

You must zone out for quite a while, because there’s soon a hand on your shoulder. You flinch and blink dazedly, only to find Young-il staring at you imploringly. “It’s my turn to keep watch. You should rest,” he suggests. His hand hasn’t moved from your shoulder. Gi-hun’s words echo in your ears: I’ve seen him look at you like that. Young-il’s dark eyes are glittering. You’re immediately assaulted with one unshakeable conviction: he wants to rip you apart and eat you alive.

You’re not sure how long you remain there, pliant under the man’s grasp, before you shake yourself out of it. All you know is the faux concern knitting his brows together, and the lingering hand on your shoulder that only slips away after you’re out of reach.

…You don’t sleep very well.

The third game, Mingle, is quickly proving to be the worst one so far. It should be simple: the players stand on a spinning carousel, and when it stops moving, a number is announced. Players must then assemble a group of that number and gather in one of the nearby rooms before the time expires. Elementary.

Except… it’s utter mayhem when the numbers are announced. The lights go out, the countdown is ever present in a loud chirping tone, and it’s loud. 255 people is far too many for the enclosed space you find yourself in. And while your impromptu group develops a hesitant strategy, there’s no telling what number will come next. Hell, at this point, they could announce “1” and eliminate three-quarters of the players. You hope it doesn’t come to that.

As the rounds continue, you grow more and more restless. There’s a horrible pit in your stomach as you return to the spinning stage each time, stepping over corpses and puddles of blood. You almost feel as if you’re stuck in some strange sort of limbo, cursed to continue this stupid game over and over again. To make matters worse, there are slits in each of the doors that conceal the rooms—giving you a front row seat to the brutality of the guards.

Finally, after what feels like far too long, you’re at the last round. You swallow hard, fighting off the dizziness and vertigo that the spinning stage is inciting in you. Jun-hee, Dae-ho, Young-il, and Gi-hun have all survived thus far, thankfully. You all had to split up a few times when the numbers were smaller, but you survived nonetheless.

“What do you think the last number will be?” Gi-hun asks the group.

You contemplate the question. Before you can respond, Young-il speaks. “Two,” he answers with frightening certainty. You pay him a wary glance, only to find that there is no trace of hesitation in his expression. Everything he does only makes you more unnerved. He must be doing it on purpose, at this point.

You look at Gi-hun wordlessly. But just as you’re about to ask him to be your partner, the lights are going out and the number is appearing on the screen above. Indeed, as Young-il predicted, the last round requires a pair to enter a room.

You barely get a moment to think before Young-il latches his hand onto your wrist, yanking you after him and leaving you no choice but to follow. You spare a glance behind you at Gi-hun, relieved to see he’s running to a room with Dae-ho. Your attention is quickly recaptured by the people you’re running near, and you have to push past them to get into the nearest room. With Young-il’s help, you manage to get inside and slam the door behind you.

You’re about to breathe a sigh of relief when you lock eyes with another guy. It’s a third player, who was inexplicably standing in the room. Everything falls to an eerie silence as you come to terms with the situation. The timer is quickly counting down. He needs to leave for Young-il and you to fit the requirements. If you have too many people, you’ll fail and die. But the clock is already counting down, and the door locked behind you, and there’s just no time, not enough time—

You feel yourself slide down the wall and onto the ground, shakily covering your head in your hands as if that will do anything to stop the oncoming onslaught of bullets from the guards. You can only hear the sound of your own ragged breathing reverberating through your ears, as you try and fail to keep it together.

The sound of shuffling breaks you from your thoughts; you look up to find Young-il with his arms wrapped around the guy’s neck as he chokes the life out of him. The guy’s face is turning red from the strength of his grip, as he scrambles to get some air. His eyes meet yours and you just… stare.

Three… Two… One.

The other player slumps on the ground.

A few seconds pass. There’s nothing but silence. It seems the guy died just before the countdown ended—bringing the number of players back down to two and ensuring your victory in the game.

Your eyes are locked on the other player’s corpse. Then, as if against their own volition, your eyes find Young-il’s, and every one of your prior suspicions is confirmed.

…You’re frozen.

He gets to his feet, pushing the corpse away as if it’s nothing more than an obstacle. The casual nature of the gesture makes you feel sick. Then Young-il politely offers you a hand, as if you had merely stumbled on the ground. As if he hadn’t just killed someone right in front of you.

You’re frozen. You think there’s blood spattered across your face from one of the previous rounds. You can’t speak, can hardly breathe.

Unperturbed, Young-il crouches down before you. He takes your forearms and deftly tugs you up to your feet.

You’re

still

frozen.

He’s guiding you out of the room now, his grip on your shoulder tight and loose all at once. The door slides open with a menacing sound. The other players are leaving their rooms. You want to search the crowd, but the contestants’ faces are all blurring together. There’s a helpless sound trapped in your throat.

“Oh, thank God, you guys—” a familiar voice says. Gi-hun is running towards you. You want to be touched by the sheer relief in his voice, but you’re too busy trying not to pass out, or punch something, or just sob. You wrap your arms around yourself and try not to think about the blood flooding the floor, the ringing in your ears, the maleficence of the man at your side. Gi-hun claps a hand on your shoulder, his expression morphing into a concern you don’t deserve. “What happened?”

You can hardly breathe. Gi-hun’s looking at you expectantly and it takes all your effort not to just break down right there. You look at the ground, see the bloodstains, look back up. The doors on the far side of the space are opening, marking the end of the round. There’s a swarm of teal as players make their way back to the dorms.

You think you’d stand there forever, if not for Gi-hun’s guidance. He pulls you after him gently. You follow. You feel Young-il’s gaze burning into the back of your head. Your tongue is locked to the roof of your mouth. You think you’re shaking, but it’s hard to think straight over the roaring sound in your ears.

Oh Young-il. 001.

The inexplicable combat skills. The ease with which he killed the other player. That eerie look on his face, as if he’s viewing the game through the eyes of an observer. The gleam in his eyes as he stares at Gi-hun, you, and tests your resolve. This game, these players… they’re all an experiment to him. And he is the mad scientist engineering the entire thing.

You’re fucked.

You don’t remember much of what happens after that. The survivors make their way through the winding pastel corridor once more. You nearly trip on the steps several times, just barely catching yourself each time. Your ears are ringing. Even Jun-hee seems worried for you, and she’s carrying a baby.

To make things worse, you keep hearing people calling your name. At first, you think you’re just imagining it. But you hear it again and again; and when you turn around, you hear the crazy shaman lady beckoning you closer. She’s slipping through the line and walking towards you now, crooning about fate and destiny and your imminent death. You don’t know what to say, can’t seem to summon that fire that has kept you safe, skeptical, this entire time. Before you can respond, Gi-hun’s leading you away from her with an arm around your shoulders. You can just vaguely hear Young-il speaking with Dae-ho and Jun-hee behind you, likely providing a sugar-coated lie for your state right now. You want to vomit.

You blink and you’re on one of the bunks. Gi-hun’s saying something, looking at you worriedly, but his voice sounds garbled and warped like he’s underwater. You blink, blink, blink. Your hands are trembling still. You can’t rid yourself of the memory: of that player, in his dying moments, looking to you for help. You could’ve done something, should’ve done something.

But what could you have done? If you had stopped Young-il, all three of you would’ve died anyway for having an incorrect number of people. Right? Young-il only did what was necessary to ensure your survival. Should you be grateful to him?

No. You don’t want to feel thankful for a person who snuffed out the life of another before your very eyes. You don’t want to feel any positive emotion in this place. It’s all a lie. Everything is just… a feeble exercise to fight off despair. But it always comes back. Always.

You hide your head in your knees, trying to gather the shattered pieces of your composure. You want to hate yourself for this—for the way you just shut down—but, at the same time, it only seems rational. Young-il is one of the game masters. You’re not sure just what his role is, but it must be something important—for him to be able to slip into the players’ ranks with ease. And you just saw him kill a contestant before your very eyes. What’s stopping him from doing the same thing to you, or Gi-hun, or Jun-hee, or Dae-ho? He could’ve easily strangled you in that tiny room. What prevented him from doing so? What guided his arm to wrap around the other player’s neck, instead of your own?

Moreover, if Young-il really is a part of executing these games… Who’s to say he doesn’t have advanced knowledge of the rounds to come? That only increases the despair you feel. What’s the point of fighting, if the game is rigged? If Young-il has adjusted the odds to his favor? Your head aches as you attempt to rationalize it all. Nothing about it makes sense.

…But you can’t let 001 win. You can’t let him break your resolve. That’s what Young-il’s here to do: he wants to stop Gi-hun’s insurgence—and, by extension, yours.

You run through your thoughts for a while, attempting to string together the tangled mess of information you’ve learned and witnessed. “Gi-hun.” You eventually say. Your voice is raspy, somehow. You haven’t spoken in a few hours now. Everyone in the group looks over at you. Your voice sounds like a stranger’s. “I need to speak with you. Alone.” You get to your feet and make your way to the ground, before shoving your hands in your pockets as you wait for him. Gi-hun stands up.

Gi-hun is at your side as you walk, looking at you. “Let’s go to the bathroom.” You suggest as you walk away. He nods at your suggestion and the two of you head into the giant restroom. It’s not the ideal place for a conversation, but here, none of the other players will eavesdrop. There are cameras, but you doubt they have audio.

You stand in the center of the empty bathroom for a long moment. Gi-hun seems to take the initiative, leading you into one of the stalls. The space seems far too small, with the two of you practically pressed together as you evade the cameras. The edges of your dirtied white shoes nearly touch.

If Gi-hun is uncomfortable with the proximity, he doesn’t show it. After all, you both have far bigger problems. “What happened?” He asks you carefully. There are muted pink stains on his shirt—blood from the past games. You’re sure your clothing looks much the same.

“I—” you choke out. This is much harder than you expected. Your sentences are choppy and fragmented as you continue speaking. “You remember our conversation last night?” It almost hurts to speak.

“Yes,” he confirms, likely recalling your suspicions about Young-il. At this point, you almost wish you were wrong—that 001 was merely another player, just like the rest of you. But you know that contradicts the facts.

“Young-il’s working for them,” you manage to say.

Gi-hun is silent as he processes what you’ve just said.

“He killed a man in front of me,” you say, your voice shaking. “When we were in the—the room. There were three of us. And I thought I was going to die—” You’re fighting for air again, your words interrupted with involuntary shudders.

You look down at your feet to hide the tears you’re fighting off. But Gi-hun only leans forward and pulls you into an embrace. You can’t help but clutch at him like a lifeline.

“He put the guy in a chokehold and killed him,” you manage to say, once you’ve calmed down a little. “Gi-hun, the look on his face—” you choke off, shaking your head. His hold on you just tightens, as if reassuring you of his presence. You feel so weak for allowing yourself this moment, so vulnerable and desperate as you fall apart in the arms of the man who has lost so much more than you can possibly fathom.

“Any attempt we make at stopping the games, he’ll be there listening,” you state, trying to take a breath and gather your thoughts once more. You could easily spend the rest of the night falling apart, but you know it won’t get you anywhere.

Gi-hun swallows, bringing a hand across his chin as he evidently attempts to puzzle out what your next move should be. “That’s a problem.” He eventually says. You nod.

“I think Young-il joined to mess with you,” you confess. “And if that’s the case, he must be more than a mere guard. The guards don’t have that kind of power. He’d have to be pretty high up in the hierarchy.”

“No wonder you were despondent earlier,” Gi-hun sighs. He laughs, a gesture completely devoid of any positive emotion. He rubs a hand over his face. “I had a plan: take the guards’ guns from them, get to the control room and demand answers.”

You just shake your head. You both know an exercise like that would be futile, and result in countless unintentional casualties.

“It’s probably him,” Gi-hun continues. “He’s been right in front of us the whole time.” Us. Not me, but us. You feel momentarily touched by the remark, before you see the distressed look on his face. You can’t imagine what Gi-hun’s thinking right now, as he attempts to find a way to end this game system. System, because these games are far more than isolated events. A group—hell, an organization—with this kind of resources wouldn’t just give up after one game. It’s a constant cycle of despair and greed.

Is there even a way to break the cycle? Gi-hun is only a single player. Dismantling an entire system—and, moreover, the predatory tactics it uses to ensnare people—is an impossible task. And you both know it. These games rely on the corruption in the outside world… and that can’t be wished away by an uprising here. People will always be greedy. People will always fight for their lives. And people will always resent being controlled. You shake your head.

There’s a harsh banging on the door of the restroom; the two of you flinch, hearing a guard summoning you back to the dorms. You exchange worried looks before complying with his orders, stepping out of the bathroom and heading back to the group.

“What took you guys so long?” another player asks when you get back. He’s been sitting on the outskirts of your impromptu group since you got back from the game. “Don’t tell me you hooked up in there; that’s where we all go to piss.”

You stare at him in disbelief. Gi-hun must be wearing a similar expression, because he’s also silent.

“What?” he asks, looking to the others for support. “Come on, it’s not that crazy of an assumption to make.”

Jun-hee looks like she’s fighting off the urge to smile in amusement; Dae-ho is laughing; and Young-il is silent as always. You could convince yourself there’s an extra tension to the set of his shoulders, but you won’t.

Dae-ho continues attempting to keep the group’s morale up, but you can’t seem to move past your conversation with Gi-hun—and neither can he. When the countdown to lights out begins, the two of you are volunteering for guard duty.

You want nothing more than to go to sleep, but your mind won’t let you. You’re stuck sitting in silence, fighting off stinging eyelids and persistent fatigue.

Eventually, you lose the battle to exhaustion; and you wake some time later to feel a slightly stiff neck and hear an amused exhale of breath. Your awareness comes back slowly, as you exit your dreams and return to the nightmare of your waking life. The dorms slowly sharpen before your eyes and you blink blearily, wondering why your side feels so warm. It doesn’t take you long to connect the dots on that particular puzzle—as you look over to find yourself nearly nestled into Gi-hun’s side, your head resting on his shoulder.

“Sorry,” you say quickly, straightening up and sliding away a little. It takes a concerted effort to ignore the heat racing across your skin.

Gi-hun doesn’t look particularly bothered, instead blinking. “You needed the rest,” he says, considerate as always.

“And you didn’t?” you ask with a raised brow.

Gi-hun’s about to respond when you both hear rustling. Dae-ho’s sudden presence behind you makes your heart jump.

“You should rest,” Dae-ho suggests, crouching behind you both. “Both of you. It’s my turn anyways.”

Neither of you can come up with a good argument, so you go back to your respective beds and fall asleep.

The next night isn’t a very restful night either. The fourth game takes the lives of far too many players. Dae-ho, Jun-hee, and countless other contestants die. The majority of the beds in the dorms are empty now. Many players appear dejected and overwhelmed with the situation. Yet, the majority still consistently votes to continue the game. You are well and truly trapped here.

You reconvene with Gi-hun after the game and quickly decide that you should attempt getting some more information from Young-il. Gi-hun is quick to volunteer you for the task, citing his somewhat mediocre lying abilities. This is how you find yourself seated next to Young-il in the near darkness that night, fighting off your nerves as you try to convince yourself to speak.

“What do you want?” you ask when you can finally suppress your nerves. Your fingers twitch and you clasp them in your lap. Young-il is silent for a moment, before raising a brow. Maybe he didn’t hear you. “What do you want? What are you doing this for?”

He’s still quiet. You choke on a sharp, broken laugh. Even direct confrontation isn’t enough to get him to admit his role in the games.

“How did you fall into debt?” Young-il asks you instead.

You decide to humor the question, if only so that he’ll be more talkative later on. Maybe he’ll be more motivated to tell the truth if you’re self-disclosing too. “I studied in America,” you reply. “Took a lot of loans, but it wasn’t enough. Obviously.” You huff, looking around. To think you spent all that money to get a degree… only to end up here.

“Hm.” He doesn’t seem to have much to say regarding that. Young-il doesn’t look particularly surprised at your response either.

“How did you actually get here?” you ask after a few seconds. “Are you even in debt?” Young-il does give off a bit of a businessman vibe—someone who’s more responsible with his money. It’s kind of hard to imagine him being in the same kind of crippling debt that keeps many of the players participating in the game.

“I was,” he answers eventually, his arms resting on his knees.

“You were,” you repeat, a bit surprised that he entertained the question. You recall what he told the group regarding his wife and her liver cancer, back when you first met. “Because of your wife’s treatment, I assume. Did she…?” you trail off quietly.

“Dead,” he answers, before you can stammer and stumble through an appropriate way to ask.

“I see,” you remark. “But you’re still here. You won a game in the past, and then joined the game masters?” No response. You continue anyways. “Why? Did you have nothing else left?” You’re sure he can feel you staring at him expectantly, but he doesn’t crack under the pressure.

“You’re persistent,” he notes after several moments.

“And you’re very tight-lipped,” you respond immediately. Your heart is racing in your chest. This is a bit dangerous. There’s no telling what could make Young-il snap and grow angry. But, you suppose, anger would at least be a reaction. For the entirety of the games so far, he’s been infuriatingly emotionless. “That’s surprising, that you were a participant in the games once. Going through that is enough for anyone to leave and never return.”

“But you returned,” you speculate. “And to the wrong side, no less.” You’re just saying anything at this point—attempting to provoke some sort of reaction, regardless of what it is. So far, nothing really seems to be working. Maybe you need to go a bit below the belt. “I can’t imagine your wife thinks highly of you. Watching from whatever afterlife she’s in.” And that’s easily the rudest thing you’ve ever said to him, but, oh well. You could die tomorrow in the games, or here at his hand. Does it really make a difference?

Young-il’s eyes immediately flash and you know you’ve trapped him. “Are you attempting to make me feel guilty?” Young-il asks, his voice devoid of emotion. But you know the brief flicker of anger in his eyes wasn’t a trick of the light. And while his anger is likely volatile, at least you're getting something. He’ll be more likely to talk if he’s feeling emotional.

“Is it working?” You blink, still looking at him. He’s silent. “...Guess not,” you mutter resignedly. You swear you hear an amused exhale of breath from him, as if he’s holding back a laugh.

“How do you get all this money, then?” you ask, genuinely curious. “This kind of operation can’t be easy to maintain.” After all, there are more than just the players that they have to worry about: there are the guards, the game masters, and whoever is watching these games. Because you know someone is watching. You can’t quite prove it, but you know regardless.

“You are very perceptive.” Young-il says in lieu of an answer, a note of something complex in his voice.

“Don’t patronize me,” you scoff, annoyed by the empty flattery.

“I’m not patronizing you,” he continues, turning to look at you for one of the first times since you started speaking. “You have been a thorn in my side this entire time.”

“Oh,” you remark, surprised. You certainly weren’t expecting him to admit that you’ve been annoying him. “Thanks, I guess.”

“You really are quite strange,” he huffs.

“And you aren’t?” you ask, taking the bait he’s dangling in front of you. “You could’ve been safe up there, or wherever the control room is. But instead you’ve joined the players once more. For… no reason. Or for entertainment, I suspect.”

Silence.

“Do you know what games are next, then?” There’s no answer from him. You’re getting more irritated. “You realize I’m not going to stop asking questions,” you pester, if only to get him to say something.

“That does seem to be part of your charm.” He says. It’s weirdly difficult for you to tell if his tone is sincere or sardonic. Perhaps a bit of both? No, surely not. He must be joking.

You blink. “Okay… has there ever been more than one winner of the game?” you ask. You’re not sure why that question comes to mind. And you think you already know the answer.

“No,” Young-il replies, confirming your suspicions.

“How are you going to survive then?” you question, looking at him curiously. “Gi-hun’s going to win.” Will he sneak away before the last game? Or perhaps he’ll be given an advantage for it?

“How are you going to survive?” he reasons, breaking you out of your thoughts.

You shrug. “Not sure I will,” you admit. You’re not necessarily okay with that, but you pretend that you are. “But surely you can just sneak off or something. Fake your death in a game and disappear.” You raise a brow at him.

“You have accepted your fate already,” he analyzes, ignoring your attempts at getting more information. He’s good.

“The odds are against me,” you confess. “And I’d rather Gi-hun win.” Gi-hun has a lot more to live for. He would be the optimal person to carry out the end of the games, not you.

“Why?” There’s genuine emotion on Young-il’s face, for what must be the first time. But it’s not surprise or suspicion—it’s confusion. Pure, complete confusion. He doesn’t understand what you just said or why you said it.

“Because I care about him?” you respond, the statement coming out as a question despite it being the truth. Something passes over Young-il’s face, but it’s so quick you can’t even begin to decipher what emotion it is. “He’s the only good person in this place,” you say, your gaze wandering over the beds across the room. The remaining players are mostly asleep, awaiting the fifth game tomorrow.

“Rest,” Young-il says, effectively terminating your conversation. “It’s my turn to keep watch.”

You don’t want to go to sleep. But Gi-hun and you agreed that you both need rest if you want to perform well in the games. And Young-il has had many opportunities to kill you already. He hasn’t done it yet. For some reason, he wants you both alive. And that is truly a frightening thought.

As you head to your bed, you lock eyes with Gi-hun. The two of you have a lot to talk about, it seems.

“Well, I tried my best,” you sigh, looking over at Gi-hun in the dim lighting of the restroom that morning. The two of you had decided to try to get more information out of Young-il—hence, your conversation with him the other night. You’re not sure if it was very helpful, but at least you can say you tried.

“You did very well,” Gi-hun reassures you easily. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” you respond easily. The two of you are standing close together in the same stall, just like last time. “I want to end the games too… Did you get any ideas from that conversation?”

“A few,” Gi-hun says with a frown. He seems distracted now, and almost apprehensive. You squint at him. “Is it true?”

“Is what true?” you ask, a bit confused.

“You said you care about me,” he recalls.

Oh. Shit. You had forgotten he was listening to the conversation, at that point. “Of course I do,” you respond after a few seconds, recognizing Gi-hun isn’t the type of person to throw your feelings back in your face. You do care about him, yes. “You didn’t know?” you ask.

Gi-hun stares at you for a long, long moment. He’s scrutinizing you, searching your face for something. Whatever it is, he must find it, because he eventually settles. Then he’s continuing on as if he hadn’t said anything in the first place. “There’s nothing we can do about the game tomorrow… But I’m thinking the final game will be our chance.”

“Okay.” You say after a moment, filing that previous reaction to the back of your mind. “What was the final game, when you played?”

“Squid Game.” He responds. The expression on Gi-hun’s face is a heartbreaking mix of resignation, grief, and frustration. His fists clench at his sides as he recounts the rules. By the end, he’s practically shaking—and you realize he’s digging his nails into the palms of his hands. Concerned, you reach out and pry his fists apart, before slipping your fingers through his and clasping his hand. He looks surprised by the gesture, before he settles and nods.

The two of you try to sleep that night as best as you can, given the circumstances. You’re worried about the final game—and the way Gi-hun ended your conversation, as if there was something he wasn’t telling you. You know he’d never hide something from you that you needed to know. You’re just… worried. Worried he’ll do something stupidly noble or self-sacrificing when it gets down to it. Of course, there’s no point in agonizing over the final game just yet. You have to make it through the fifth game, after all.

You’re awoken along with the 30 remaining players early the next morning to begin the next game. And it is a brutal one. It is nothing like the challenge Gi-hun recalled from his own experience, where contestants jumped on glass panels, at a height that promised death for anyone who fell. It appears to involve a lot more dexterity than the last few. And, even more troubling, players have the opportunity to impede each other’s progress.

Players are placed into groups of three and given a few minutes to complete their tasks. Gi-hun is in the first group, by some stroke of bad luck. Thankfully, he survives—but the same can’t be said for his other two group members, who are quickly shot in the head and dragged off into the darkness. You’ve been selected for the final group, which means you’re forced to watch as group after group dies in their failure to complete the challenge. This game seems designed to only let a few people survive.

By the time it’s your turn, Gi-hun and Young-il are the only two players who managed to finish the game successfully. That’s not exactly a good omen for your survival, but you made sure to watch each player’s attempt and learn from their mistakes. You think you have a good idea of how to accomplish this task. You can only hope the pressure doesn’t get to you.

The countdown begins and you get to work. Your hands are shaking as you scramble to finish what feels like a far too complex task for the few minutes you’re given. It’s down to the wire as your shaking hands rearrange pieces and build upon them, to the point where the timer is at ten seconds.

Against all odds, you complete the game. The two players at your side are pleading and begging the guards to show mercy, but they are swiftly eliminated—all while you’re standing near them, close enough to hear the gunshots ring in your ears painfully.

You can just barely recognize the guard’s arms rising to make a circle over their head, indicating that you passed the game. Sweat is beading down your neck; your hands are shaking so badly that you look as if you have extra fingers; and your chest almost hurts, as if your ribs are attempting to squeeze your internal organs and crush them. There are colors passing before your eyes at lightning speed. Shadows morph and blur at the edges of your vision. You feel unsteady on your feet. The guard standing in front of you is ordering you to exit the arena. You take a slow breath. It’s okay. You’re okay. You’ll be fine.

You take a step. It’s more of a laborious effort than it should be. Why does it feel like you’re trapped in quicksand? Another step. You lurch forwards, catching yourself and straightening up. The exit looks so far away. You’ve been walking for minutes now, but you haven’t even made it halfway across the arena.

There are puddles of blood everywhere. The white sneakers they gave you are practically pink now. Your skin feels like it’s on fire, but your teeth are chattering as if you’re freezing. Everything seems to catch up to you. Days of improper nutrition and lackluster sleep; constant vigilance and ceaseless stress; grief and regret; physical strain and exertion.

It’s strange. One moment, you’re walking along just fine (albeit a bit slowly); the next, your entire world is tilting as you crumple and fall to the ground like a broken marionette. There’s a pink blur of a guard before you, and you can only hope they’ll give you a swift end to this endless series of games.

You wake up to a stiffness in your joints and a dryness in your eyes. You blink several times, your vision slowly sharpening to reveal the dorms. You’re situated on your bed, and if not for the memory of the last game, you’d think you were just waking up from a nap. You bring a hand to your temple and groan, slowly pushing yourself up.

Then you notice a presence at your side. Gi-hun sits on the bed across from you, looking at you worriedly. “Gi-hun?” you ask, blinking past dry eyes.

Gi-hun settles, redirecting his attention and seemingly realizing you’re awake. He immediately lingers at your bedside, staring down at you with a torn expression. “I thought you were dead,” he says immediately, so quietly that you nearly miss the remark.

“Young-il and I were waiting for you,” Gi-hun continues, his gaze exploring your face as if drinking in the sight. “But you didn’t appear… until the guards came back. And one of them was holding you in their arms.”

“I thought—” Gi-hun chokes off. “They wouldn’t tell me anything—” he says, clearly frustrated by the lack of information. He shakes his head. You reach out to grasp his hand, only to realize he’s already holding yours. His grip is delicate, as if afraid he’ll hurt you. You squeeze his hand lightly, hoping the gesture is reassuring. “And there was so much blood.” His voice cracks.

You look down to find your clothes absolutely splattered in blood (hell, nearly drenched). “It’s not mine,” you say aloud, thinking back to the game. Your opponents had gotten eliminated, and the two of you were standing quite close at the end. The guard hadn’t even waited for you to get out of the way before blowing their brains out. Their blood went all over you. “I passed out. I think—Everything must’ve caught up to me.” You press a hand to your temple and wince at the headache you find.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Gi-hun admits. He strengthens his grip on your hand and his other hand falls to your bended knee.

“I’m glad you are too,” you return the sentiment. Gi-hun stares for a long moment, before shaking his head and pulling you into a hug. He grasps you tightly.

“And Young-il?” you ask later, some time after the two of you have broken apart. You’re not necessarily worried for him—more worried about him. There’s no telling what he has planned.

(Recognizing your exhausted state, Gi-hun decides not to tell you about Young-il. He doesn’t tell you about the look on the man’s face, or about the mechanical way with which the man entered the empty arena moments later. He doesn’t detail the ringing gunshots that echoed throughout the nearby space, or the brief glimpse he caught of Young-il as he walked away… There was blood splattered across the man’s face and a vindictive gleam in his eyes. Meanwhile, Gi-hun returned to the dorms with the rest of the guards, nearly begging them to tell him something, anything—)

“He left, I imagine,” Gi-hun says instead. It almost seems as if he wants to say more, but he’s holding himself back.

“It’s just us?” you ask, grasping his hand tightly. You need some sort of anchor to reality. You feel as if you’re starting to slip.

Sensing your distress, Gi-hun moves to sit next to you on the bed—all without letting go of your hand. “It’s just us,” he confirms.

There is so much you wish you could say. But in your exhaustion, only one thing comes to mind. “Can finally get a good night’s sleep,” you say tiredly. You have no intention to hurt Gi-hun; and you doubt he will harm you. You won’t have to stay up all night guarding the group. (Because the group is gone. Because Jun-hee and Dae-ho are dead. Because Young-il left.)

Gi-hun stares in disbelief, before laughing. The sound breaks you out of your spiraling thoughts. You don’t think you’ve ever heard him genuinely laugh before. “I guess so,” he relents.

The two of you sit there for a while, before the lights-out announcement breaks through the uneasy silence in the dorms. It’s far too quiet—you’re used to hearing pieces of conversations, shuffling as people move about the room. You feel sick to your stomach. And so, so horribly alone.

You decide to abandon your dignity and ask Gi-hun if you can sleep next to him. Fortunately, before you can overthink the question, Gi-hun is nodding with relief. The two of you then push your mattresses together on the floor and get settled in.

Before long, you’re staring up at the ceiling. Gi-hun’s hand finds yours. You twist to your side and look at him. He looks at you. The distance between you almost seems to shrink, as the two of you gravitate towards one another. There is so much you wish you could say. Dread, guilt, grief, frustration, and exhaustion all battle for prominence in your chest. You lean into him; he leans into you. It feels far too natural.

This moment is a brief reprieve from the reality of the situation, and the fate that awaits you tomorrow. This glimpse at quiet domesticity is the most you will ever get.

All things considered, it’s… nice.

The final game is Squid Game, just as Gi-hun predicted. The two of you walk to the arena together, entirely silent. You feel nauseous. You don’t want to die. But you definitely don’t want Gi-hun to die. He must be thinking along the same lines, as his lips are drawn in a tight frown. You trudge up the pastel steps a bit more slowly than usual, as if that will somehow delay your death. (It won’t.)

There’s a knife on the floor in the middle of the squid drawn in the sand. You almost want to laugh. If they think you’ll kill Gi-hun, they’re sorely mistaken. The two of you have chosen to wait until arriving at the final game to announce your decision to end. This way, you may have a chance at meeting the game masters.

The walls around you are painted a cheerful blue. It couldn’t look more unsettling. You take a slow breath, steeling your nerves as you fight to speak. There’s an eerie silence in the air. “We choose to end the game,” you announce, slowly turning around at the cameras that must be scattered around the area.

“We’re in agreement,” Gi-hun maintains, his eyes flitting about warily. “Clause 3 allows the majority to end the game.”

Your heart is roaring in your ears as you are met with nothing but silence. Will they really permit you to do this? Are you really allowed this ending? You’re breathing hard, despite the fact that you’re locked in place.

“Congratulations, Player 228 and Player 456. You have won the 36th Squid Game.”

“What?” you choke.

“What?” Gi-hun echoes. The two of you exchange bewildered looks. You chose to end the game, so why are you being granted victory?

You hear sardonic slow applause coming from the other side of the space and you whip around, only to find a man in a geometric black mask. “Well done,” he says, his voice distorted.

Dread prickles along your skin. Even with the mask and voice distortion, you know who is standing before you both. “Young-il,” you say guardedly. “If that’s even your name,” you add on. You strongly suspect it isn’t.

The man removes his mask, revealing himself to be 001: Oh Young-il. Your suspicions are confirmed. You don’t quite react, save for subconsciously clenching your jaw.

“You don’t seem surprised,” Young-il remarks, looking between the both of you. “I suppose that is to be expected. You were quick to catch on,” he says, staring at you intently. You feel restless and fidgety under the weight of his gaze.

Gi-hun looks… furious, betrayed, and resigned all at once. It’s clear that, despite the fact that he believed you, he still gave Young-il the benefit of the doubt. He is too good for this place, you are reminded once more.

“Hwang in-ho,” 001 says, apropos of nothing.

“What?” you hear yourself say.

“My name,” he explains. “You will need to know it, as we are working together from this point forward.”

“What?” you repeat, horror crawling up your throat. Working together? “No, we’re supposed to leave—” You look at Gi-hun helplessly. He looks just as nauseated and disturbed as you are, which is a small ressurance. The winners of the Squid Game are allowed to return home. Right?

“You will receive the prize money, split amongst you both,” Young-il—no, In-ho—continues. As if either of you care about that at the moment. The prize money is the least of your concerns. “However, your continued survival comes with a condition: you must work alongside me to oversee the games.”

Gi-hun and you are both quiet for a long time. “Why?” Gi-hun finally asks, the first to regain his composure after that remark. He shoots you a helpless look, before staring back at In-ho firmly. “Because we’re both alive?”

“Precisely,” he agrees. In-ho cuts an imposing figure in his all-black clothing and you’re once again reminded of the feeling you got when he first arrived—the sense that he didn’t belong. “You said it yourself a few days ago: there has only ever been one winner. I have negotiated for your continued survival, on the promise that you will remain here.”

“For how long?” you ask. You don’t particularly care to hide your fear and dread.

“As long as you have,” he responds easily, clasping his hands behind his back. As long as you have—so, for the rest of your life.

You pay another glance at Gi-hun, knowing there’s no way he’ll accept this. Sure enough, he looks troubled… then contemplative. You’re hit with an instant feeling of foreboding. Gi-hun seems to be planning something. “If one of us dies,” he says, his voice hollow. “Will the other one be free to go?”

“...I suppose,” In-ho says, his brows furrowing minutely. He doesn’t seem to understand the point of the question.

“Gi-hun,” you say, suddenly sensing what he’s about to do. The knife is still in the middle of the arena, untouched and neglected. But not for long, you suspect. “Don’t,” you plead.

Gi-hun is already lunging for the knife. “No—!” you scream, immediately trying to grab the weapon. Gi-hun’s faster—wielding it and attempting to stab himself. You just barely grab his arm in time, the change in momentum sending you both sprawling to the ground. You try to wrestle the knife out of his hands, but it’s an increasingly difficult effort. Your hands are shaking, your arms burning as you use every muscle in your body to keep him from sacrificing himself.

“Go,” he says, tugging the knife towards him again. You’re pulled along with it, straining to fight his strength. “Live a happy life, away from here.” A happy life. You both know that’s not possible.

“Not without you,” you choke, your hands trembling on Gi-hun’s. Gi-hun is determined, but you have a height advantage as you lean over him—and you use it to pry the knife from his grip. You don’t hesitate to bring the blade to your own throat.

“No, no, no—!” Gi-hun immediately grabs at your forearm, attempting to pull the blade away from your neck. There are tears streaming down his face, and your own vision is blurred. Your grip is growing sweaty as your adrenaline keeps you fighting to bring the blade back, if only to spare Gi-hun. The blade is getting closer and closer, already kissing your skin and drawing blood—

“Enough!”

In-ho's voice cuts through the air. And you suddenly feel an intense pain in your ear. The knife in your hand clatters to the ground, but you barely notice as your knees crumple under you. You’re practically writhing on the ground, your every nerve thrumming and buzzing. Your vision is pulsing around you; you slam your hands over your ears and whimper. You’ve never felt such intense, relentless pain before. Blood drips down the skin of your palms—your ears are bleeding. Tears run down your cheeks as you try and fail to recognize anything but the blinding pain.

Finally, it stops. You choke on a breath and hear Gi-hun gasp, evidently reeling just as you are. The sand beneath you almost seems to dig into your palms. There’s a liquid feeling itching at your ears and you wonder just how much blood is trickling down your jaw and neck.

“Enough,” In-ho repeats. You’ve never seen so much emotion on his face: he is furious. He takes the knife from the ground and wields it in a tight grip. “You both will live to oversee the games,” he orders. In-ho’s eyes are still flitting between the both of you warily, as if making sure you won’t try anything again. “That decision is final.”

With that parting remark, In-ho leaves Gi-hun and you to fall apart in the arena.

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scudslut · 1 year ago

Text

ahhh yes yes, I haven’t written him too subby on here yet so I was super excited to write this❤️ I hope you like it @darylsgirl23 <3

Heartsease

Daryl x f!reader

Setting: Bridge Camp/Post Savior War

Wordcount: 2.6k

Warnings: 18+, softdom reader, unestablished relationship (but both know there’s a little somethin somethin iykwim), aka your his and everyone knows it, oral (m - receiving), unprotected piv, premature finish

Daryl was never one to keep still.

It made him anxious to be in one place for too long, always going on runs and patrols ensuring his people were as safe and provided for as they could be. He felt at ease outside the walls, out of people's prying gazes, and left alone to do his part for the community in peace. These days though, he was a flurry of activity. Hardly ever in the same spot long enough to see the sun rise and set again.

You knew he felt guilty - that he was angry and didn't know how to release it. You'd watch him work on the bridge for hours, frustration seeping out of his bones and into the atmosphere around him. It hung off him like a phantom.

The vast majority of the community was intimidated by it. They would walk on eggshells in his presence as if they could predict an oncoming outburst. But you knew better, you knew him.

He was angry at the world, yes. But he was distraught with himself... his own mind. It ran a mile a minute and gave absolutely zero reprieve. Anyone could see that if they dug just a bit deeper, looked at him a little closer.

Sure he was strong and burly; a true beast of a man, but he was also quiet and thoughtful. He cared so deeply about others that it frightened him to his core. All he wanted was to protect his family and do right by them.

And you saw all of that.

You had for years now and it only made your desire for him stronger. You wanted to thank him. Drop down to your knees and worship every freckle and scar that made him, him. He deserved it, deserved an escape.

Initially, you thought maybe he wasn't into that and preferred to keep his relationships asexual, to which you were perfectly happy to abide by. Any time spent with him was cherished time in your eyes. But during a sleep-deprived chat with Carol one night on patrol, long ago, you had found out he did have a few sexual encounters before the apocalypse. Just none that had truly meant much to him, or that he was entirely sober for.

That small bit of insight helped you understand the man so much more and you carefully dropped your hints from that point on. However, with your luck, every time you thought something might happen between you two, the moment would slip right through your aching fingers, dusted away by whatever imminent danger lurked behind each corner.

To be quite honest, you were getting fed up with the world's continuous cruel jokes, and from the looks of things, Daryl could use a healthy distraction right about now.

Ears perking at the familiar rumble you'd grown to love, you watched as he pulled up on his trusty, beaten-up Nighthawk, finally returning from a longer visit at Hilltop. You could see the sheen layer of sweat built up above his furrowed brows, his teeth nibbling away at his lower lip - an anxious habit you had picked up on mere days after meeting him.

His mind was bothering him. That much was clear.

He shuffled quickly to his tent, gaze transfixed on the muddy shoes he wore, avoiding any onlookers who wanted to ask their silly questions, throwing the flaps open, and disappearing in a fluster.

You knew better than to bother him now, give him some time to gather his thoughts and decompress. You whittled away at your spears, biding the time as you devised a plan on how you would approach him. After all, the last thing you wanted was to scare him off or embarrass him in any way. He was reserved when it came to these situations, unsure of himself. The few times you had brushed lips or touched him a bit heatedly, he was jumpy and almost insecure, as if he needed instructions on how he should behave. It was extremely endearing to you; like a stray pup who just needed a little reassurance and affection to calm his fierce walls of doubt.

It was almost dusk when you finished with your spears, gathering them up and placing them near some of the other weapons the community used when needed. You scanned the grounds, noticing everyone collected by the fire, dishing up for a late dinner. You quickly made your way over, grabbing two portions and slipping away before you were noticed and stopped for conversation. You knew Daryl wouldn't get one for himself, spew some excuse that 'he wasn't hungry' or was 'too tired' when really, he just didn't want to take away from another. Even if that meant he didn't eat or drink anything for days at a time. It made your heart blister for more reasons than one.

You balance both plates on your left arm, reaching to pull the flaps open slowly, not wanting to startle him with your arrival, "Dar? You asleep?" you whisper into the dim den.

You hear a grunt, some shuffling, and in a moment a soft glow fills the area as he lights a nearby lamp, perching up on his small cot, "I was."

Flicking off your boots, you zip the entrance closed behind you, "I brought you some dinner, figured you'd be hungry after your trip," You smile and he mutters a quiet thanks, opting to accept your kind offer rather than argue with you, he knew you wouldn't take no for answer anyway. He scoots to the side, creating a spot for you to sit while you two eat in comfortable silence. He liked that you didn't feel the need to fill the air, that you could simply enjoy each other's company without all the small talk. You were one of the few people he'd met in his life, who just inherently understood him, down to the most basic level. He hated leaving you all the time like he had been, just another thing to nag at his over-exhausted mind.

Hearing him sigh quietly, you cast your eyes over, watching as he scrapes up the remaining crumbs off his plate, placing it outside the tent along with yours for you both to deal with in the morning.

"I imagine your pretty tired, huh?" You ask, following his movements as he plops down again beside you.

"Nah, not really. Got a few hours 'fore ya came bustin' in here," he grumbles with a small smirk and you lean into him nudging his shoulder playfully. "Why ya wanna chat or somethin'?"

You consider him for a minute, trying to find the proper words to initiate what was truly on your mind. You knew you had no reason to be nervous. That even though you'd never labeled anything between you guys, you both felt it. Knew it was there. You just needed the right moment. Now was as good a time as any, you figured.

"No, I just- I wanna try something."

He nods his head for you to continue, so you scoot closer, placing your hand delicately on his shoulder and bringing your face centimeters from his. You stop just before you close the gap, gauging his reaction. His breath hitches slightly and you feel his pulse rapid under your fingertips, but he doesn't pull away. Taking that as the only confirmation you'll get, you press your lips to his softly, brushing your thumb against his stubbly, pink cheek. He takes a good minute to respond, carefully moving his lips back against yours and placing his hands on your hips. You feel him squeeze, eliciting a quiet moan of encouragement from you and he all but sinks into your touch, falling into a comfortable rhythm with your lips. You stay like that for a while, breathing in his piney scent and relishing in his gentle kneads at your waist. It wasn’t much to the untrained eye, but you knew that was his way of pouring his affection into you without so many words. His way of telling you he was yours.

You drag your kisses down his neck, nibbling and sucking at the salty flesh between his collarbones. His breaths grow uneven and you can feel him begin to tense again, unused to such personal attention, "Is this okay?" You ask, not wanting to push him past his boundaries. He only nods in response, his throat feeling like the Sahara.

He has to admit, he's thought about this many times, relieved himself to thoughts of you too many times to count over the years. He's just never known how to approach you about it, scared you'd reject him or he'd do something wrong.

He watches as you slip to your knees before him, your eyes glued to his. "You'll let me know if you want me to stop, yeah?" As he tries to nod in response again, you stop him, "I need you to say it to me," You press.

"Y-yea, I'll say somethin'," he whispers timidly and you grin, beginning to unbuckle his belt and slip his raged jeans down. You kiss down his strong thighs, feeling them tremble slightly beneath you. His hard-on is poking through his boxers and you drag your lips across it, placing soft pecks down the length of him, listening to his breathy pants. You didn't realize how turned on you'd be, having him all flushed and needy for you, but god were you enjoying it. Slipping your fingers into the waistband, you tug them down and his cock springs free, precum leaking from the pretty, pink tip.

"You dun have'ta," he mutters, anxiety sweeping over him fast, even though he really, really does want to. You catch his gaze, noticing how dark his stormy eyes have gotten.

"Let me take care of you, sweetheart," you reply, pressing soft kisses from the base to tip, feeling him pulse under your touch. You enclose your mouth around him, taking almost his entire length at once and you hear a guttural groan from above you, his knuckles white from the clutch they had on the bedsheets.

You wondered if he had ever had a woman go down on him before. Judging by the gasps and twitches he was emitting, if he had, it hadn't been for a very long time.

He bucks into you, searching in a daze for more friction, and you pin his hips down, earning a deep whine from him. You knew if he wanted to, he could easily overpower you, use your mouth to his heart's content, but he wouldn't. He wanted you to take charge. Needed it.

Raking your eyes over his heaving figure, you slide your tongue along his shaft, moving in slow, sensual circles as you bob up and down. Daryl's head is tossed back, eyes screwed shut and you can tell he won't last much longer. The sensitivity of not being touched in so long, sprinting towards him at full speed. You pull back, slowing your movements. He lifts his head off the wall, pale blue eyes blown to darkness as he watches you take him so sweetly, "Please," He whispers.

When you shake your head, humming a soft, "Not yet," as best you can around him, his eyes roll back into his skull, entirely overwhelmed by the overstimulation, but loving it nonetheless. "I-I can't," He gasps, his accent muddled even stronger in his lustful state. You have to squeeze your legs tighter, clenching around nothing hearing your man so utterly wrecked beneath you. You want to draw it out for hours. Have him begging you to let him cum down your awaiting throat. However, you decide you both have waited damn long enough to prolong your union even more.

Releasing him with a soft kiss to his leaking tip, you stand in front of him, shimmying out of your clothes as quickly as you can. "Lay down for me, baby,' You direct, moving the straddle him as he eagerly follows your orders, turning lengthwise on the makeshift bed. His eyes never leave yours as you sit down on him, groaning when he feels how wet you are pressed against his cock. "Have you thought about this before, pretty boy?" His cheeks flush crimson at your sultry compliments, nodding curtly whilst avoiding your stare.

"Dar." You press.

You were being so gentle yet stern with him it was making it brain fuzzy, all stressors from the day long washed away to be replaced by only you.

"Have, yeah," He huffs in embarrassment, trying with great difficulty not to portray how truly turned on your words were making him. But you saw right through him... or rather felt him. You lean forward, kissing and nipping up his neck to the shell of his pink ears, "Do you want me to stop?"

A full-body shiver jolts through him when he feels your warm breath against his ear, involuntarily rolling his hips into yours and you chuckle at his obvious sensitivity. He knows he needs to use his words. You won't be letting him off that easy. "Please don't," Is all he manages and it seems to do the trick. You grip his length, tracing it along your soaked folds, and slowly sink down. Your careful as you take in his reaction, scanning his expression for any signs of discomfort. He bites his lip, his eyes squeezed shut and lets out a muffled groan.

"Fuck," He mumbles, and you're surprised to hear him say anything you didn't need to pry out of him. A positive sign, you determined and start to bounce your hips slowly, creating a synchronized dance between your bodies. Your body is buzzing as you ride him, finally feeling the dull ache you’ve had for the man below you begin to dissipate as he whimpers oh so softly for only you to hear. His hands grip your waist hard enough to leave bruises to find in the morning, but you hardly give it a second thought. All you can think about is Daryl. His closeness, his warmth and strength, and-

He tenses beneath you, broken gasps leaving his chewed lips and suddenly he’s lifting you off of him, soaking your thighs and abdomen completely. You gawk as you watch him come down, sworn you haven’t ever seen something so fucking sexy in your life. His head tossed back, jumbled curses leaving his mouth, and dark auburn hair dripping with sweat. You don’t care that he finished before you, this was about him. But you see his eyes snap to yours when he fully comes back down to reality, cheeks blazing for a different reason than before.

Leaning towards him, you capture his lips with your own, tenderly pouring your affection into him, needing him to know you weren’t upset, “It’s okay, relax,” you whisper against him with a soft smile, leaning your forehead onto his. His eyes are filled with guilt, “I mean it, Dar,” And he’s back to his nods of response.

He didn’t need any more words of sympathy. He knew you were happy as a kid on Christmas, he just needed to accept it for himself. So with one last peck to his cherry lips, you slide off him, grab a rag to clean yourself up with, and scoot right in beside him, craving his warmth. He turns to you quickly, grabbing your waist and pulling you impossibly closer to him, burying his head into the crook of your neck. You feel a few soft pecks from him along your jaw and you sigh contentedly, wrapping your limbs around his, reeling in your post-coital glow.

You were safe, snuggled with your love, and that was all you needed.

#daryl dixon #the walking dead #daryl dixon drabbles #daryl imagines #norman reedus #norman reedus smut #twd drabbles #daryl dixon smut #daryl x reader #fem!reader #sub!daryl #subdom #dom fem reader #smut

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sleepberries · 2 months ago

Note

Hello!!! How r you doing?

Hear me out on a fic idea =Jason's relationship reveal I'm DYING for something based on that line from last week: "So when Jason had casually dropped during family dinner three nights ago that he was "seeing someone,""

Could you PLEASE write what happened durin dinner? I need to see the family realizing our boy Jason is actually serious about someone!! I'm just imagining Jason getting more annoyed as they keep prying

Hope you have a wonderful day💖💖

hello !! i'm doing well tyy ( ꈍ◡ꈍ) sorry this took so long to get up, i did already have a basic draft but i wanted to make sure it was just right bc i was also super excited to envision this scenario. thank you <3 this takes place soon after the fic "you belong with me" and just before "tim's research project"

The Wayne Manor dining room maintained its usual imposing air, all polished mahogany and gleaming silver, despite the distinctly un-imposing conversation currently taking place around the table.

"—and then he just stands there, covered in purple goo, and says 'Well, at least it's my color.'" Dick concluded, his hands gesturing wildly to illustrate the story.

Damian scoffed, pushing around the vegetables on his plate with studied disinterest. "Grayson, your choice in companions continues to disappoint."

"Come on, Dami. Gar's funny," Dick protested, though his smile never wavered.

"If by 'funny' you mean 'chronically incapable of maintaining dignity in combat situations,' then yes, I suppose he is," Damian retorted.

Tim glanced up from his tablet—positioned just far enough away from his plate to avoid Alfred's disapproval—and smirked. "That's rich coming from someone who spent last Thursday trapped in a billboard advertisement for cheese."

A dangerous glint appeared in Damian's eyes. "Drake, if you value the continued function of that device—"

"Boys." Bruce's voice, though quiet, cut through the brewing argument with practiced efficiency. "Not at dinner."

The room fell silent for approximately three seconds before Stephanie, undeterred as always by Bruce's attempts at decorum, leaned forward with a grin.

"Okay, but can we circle back to the part where Damian got stuck in a giant cheese billboard? Because I need details."

"The adhesive properties of the substance were unexpected," Damian muttered defensively. "It was a tactical miscalculation."

"It was hilarious," Tim corrected, finally setting his tablet aside. "We should have left you there."

"We considered it," Cass confirmed with a small smile, speaking for the first time since they'd sat down. Her eyes danced with amusement as she met Damian's glare.

Jason, who had been unusually quiet throughout dinner, snorted into his wine glass. "Please tell me someone got pictures."

"Oracle has the security cam footage," Dick offered with a grin. "High definition."

"Timothy, I will end you," Damian hissed, but there was less venom in it than usual.

Alfred appeared at Jason's elbow, offering more roast potatoes with a perfectly impassive expression that nonetheless conveyed his opinion on threatening murder at the dinner table.

"Thanks, Alfie," Jason murmured, accepting the serving with a nod.

Bruce, perhaps sensing the imminent descent into another round of bickering, cleared his throat. "How are things in Park Row, Jason?"

It was a transparent attempt to redirect conversation, but Jason allowed it, setting down his fork. "Quiet. Crime stats are down since we shut down the Maroni operation last month."

"And the new community center?" Bruce pressed.

"Opening next week. The foundation's grant came through."

Bruce nodded, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his features. "Good."

"The kids are excited," Jason added, his voice softening slightly. "They've already signed up forty for the after-school program."

Tim noted the change in tone with interest. Jason rarely let his guard down about anything, but the kids in his neighborhood were a notable exception. For all his hard edges, Jason's protective streak ran bone-deep, especially when it came to children growing up like he had.

"You should bring your new painting class to the manor sometime," Dick suggested. "The grounds would make a good subject."

Jason's eyebrow rose. "What, and expose innocent kids to this circus? I'm trying to keep them out of therapy, Dickhead."

"Speaking of therapy," Stephanie interjected, "how's the anger management going?"

"Fantastic," Jason deadpanned. "I only fantasized about shooting three people at this table today."

"Progress," Bruce muttered into his water glass, startling a laugh out of Dick.

"He made a joke," Stephanie stage-whispered to Tim. "Alert the media."

Alfred reappeared to clear plates, the subtle choreography of dinner at Wayne Manor proceeding with its usual precision. Tim watched as Jason helped stack dishes—a habit from his early days back from the dead, when being useful had seemed like the only way to justify his presence in spaces that once felt like home.

"Desert will be served momentarily," Alfred announced. "Master Timothy, perhaps you might remove your technological appendage from the table entirely."

Tim hastily tucked his tablet away, ignoring Damian's smirk.

"How about you, Tim?" Dick asked, leaning back in his chair. "I heard you've been burning the midnight oil on some new project."

"Just updating security protocols," Tim said vaguely. "Nothing exciting."

"Lies," Stephanie countered. "You've been doing that thing where you forget meals exist. Again."

"Some of us have actual responsibilities, Brown," Damian said, somehow making the statement sound both condescending and defensive of Tim, a paradox only Damian could achieve.

Tim shot him a surprised look. "Was that... support?"

"It was an observation," Damian clarified coldly. "Don't read into it."

"Too late," Dick grinned. "I saw it. You care."

"I require Drake's moderate competence for mission success," Damian insisted. "Nothing more."

"Aww, the demon brat has feelings," Jason drawled, but the teasing lacked its usual edge.

Cass tilted her head, studying Jason with that unnerving perception that always made Tim feel like she was reading code directly from his brain. "You're different," she stated simply.

All eyes turned to Jason, who stiffened minutely. "What?"

"Different," Cass repeated, gesturing vaguely toward him. "You seem lighter."

An uncomfortable silence fell over the table as Jason's expression shuttered. Tim watched with fascination as his brother's body language shifted—the subtle straightening of his spine, the careful arrangement of his features into practiced nonchalance.

"Good pasta will do that to you," Jason deflected, but the joke fell flat.

Bruce was watching him now too, with that analytical gaze that meant he was cataloging details, filing away observations for later consideration. Even Damian had abandoned his customary scowl in favor of curious attention.

"She's right," Dick said slowly. "You've been... I don't know, less prickly lately?"

"Compared to what, a cactus?" Jason snorted, but there was a tension in his shoulders now, the kind that usually preceded either a fight or a hasty exit.

Tim recognized the signs. Jason was about to bolt, uncomfortable with being the center of scrutiny. Without fully thinking it through, Tim spoke up, providing a potential escape route.

"Maybe he's finally getting enough sleep. Novel concept, I know."

But instead of taking the offered deflection, Jason made a decision. Tim saw it happen—a brief calculation, a measured breath, and then that particular set to his jaw that meant Jason Todd was about to do something even he wasn't entirely sure about.

"Actually," Jason said, and the carefully casual tone sent an immediate ping to Tim's internal alert system, "I've been seeing someone."

The statement dropped like a stone into still water, ripples of surprise expanding outward around the table. Tim froze with his water glass halfway to his mouth, analyzing Jason's delivery—too rehearsed to be impulsive, too offhand to be meaningless.

Dick recovered first, his face breaking into a delighted grin. "Really? That's great, Little Wing!"

"Who is it?" Stephanie demanded, leaning forward with undisguised interest. "Anyone we know?"

"Just someone I met a while back," Jason said with a shrug that was so studiedly indifferent it practically screamed significance. "It's not a big deal."

But it was. Tim could see it in the tension around Jason's eyes, the barely perceptible shift in his posture—defensive but determined, like he was expecting an attack but had decided to stand his ground anyway.

"Do they know about your night job?" Bruce asked, his expression unreadable.

A flash of annoyance crossed Jason's face. "Yes, he does."

The emphasized pronoun wasn't lost on anyone, but nobody reacted beyond Bruce's slight nod. Jason's sexuality had never been a secret or a surprise; it was just another fact about him, like his preference for chocolate over vanilla or guns over batarangs.

"Are they in our... industry?" Tim asked carefully, his mind already running calculations, cross-referencing recent cases where Jason might have encountered another vigilante.

"Something like that," Jason replied, something softening imperceptibly in his expression. "He understands the life."

The evasiveness was typical Jason, but there was something else in his voice—a trace of warmth that Jason rarely allowed himself to display, especially in this house. It made Tim's investigative instincts prickle with interest.

"How long?" Cass asked simply.

Jason hesitated, just for a fraction of a second. "Few months."

"Months?" Dick echoed, looking genuinely surprised. "And you're just telling us now?"

"Not like I need your approval, Dickface," Jason retorted, but there was less bite in it than usual.

"Of course not," Dick said quickly. "I'm just... happy for you."

And he was, Tim realized. Dick's expression had that particular earnest quality that couldn't be faked—genuine pleasure at the idea that Jason had found someone. Bruce, too, seemed satisfied rather than concerned, relaxing slightly in his chair.

"Is he good to you?" Cass asked, direct as always.

The question hung in the air for a moment. Under normal circumstances, Jason would have scoffed at such a query, deflected with sarcasm or outright hostility. But instead, a small, almost involuntary smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "He is."

The simple honesty in those two words was more revealing than anything else Jason could have said. Tim filed the information away, noting the unusual vulnerability with growing curiosity.

"Does he have a name, or is that classified?" Stephanie asked, grinning.

"None of your business, Blondie," Jason replied, but it lacked heat.

"How did you meet?" Dick pressed, clearly sensing that Jason was actually willing to talk, a rare enough occurrence to be worth pursuing.

Jason took a sip of his wine, considering. "Ran into each other on a case. Arms dealers, moving product between cities."

"And what? Love at first fight?" Stephanie teased.

"More like mutual irritation," Jason corrected, but there was amusement in his eyes now. "He wouldn't shut up. Just kept making these terrible jokes while taking down guys twice his size."

"Sounds like someone else I know," Bruce murmured, glancing meaningfully at Dick, who clutched his chest in mock offense.

"My jokes are excellent," Dick protested.

Damian sniffed disdainfully. "That you believe this only confirms your poor judgment, Grayson."

"Says the kid who thinks 'tt' is a witty comeback," Tim countered, earning a glare from Damian.

Jason watched the exchange with something that might have been fondness if he'd allow himself to admit it. "Anyway," he continued, drawing attention back to himself, "we kept running into each other. Eventually decided to team up instead of getting in each other's way."

"And then?" Stephanie prompted when Jason fell silent.

Jason shrugged again, but this time the casualness felt less forced. "And then we got takeout. Then coffee. Then..." he trailed off, gesturing vaguely.

"Then horizontal refreshment," Stephanie supplied helpfully.

"Stephanie!" Bruce admonished while Dick choked on his water.

"What? We're all adults here." She paused, glancing at Damian. "Mostly."

"I am not a child, Brown," Damian growled.

"Regardless," Bruce interrupted firmly, "some decorum would be appreciated."

Jason just smirked, apparently enjoying Bruce's discomfort. "What's wrong, old man? Can't handle the idea of your kids having lives?"

"I am perfectly aware that my children have lives," Bruce replied with dignity. "I simply prefer not to discuss certain aspects of those lives over dessert."

As if summoned by the word, Alfred reappeared with a tray bearing a chocolate torte that momentarily distracted everyone from the conversation. Tim watched as Jason visibly relaxed, clearly relieved to have the spotlight shift away from his revelation.

But Tim's mind was already working, processing the new information with methodical precision. Jason had been seeing someone for months—someone in their line of work, someone he'd met during a case involving arms dealers moving between cities. Someone who made jokes during fights, who was strong enough to take down much larger opponents, and who clearly understood the vigilante lifestyle well enough that Jason felt comfortable bringing him up at all.

Most importantly, someone who made Jason's voice soften when he spoke about him, who put that tiny, reluctant smile on his face. Someone who mattered.

As Alfred placed a slice of torte in front of him, Tim made a mental note to start researching as soon as dinner concluded. Not because he didn't trust Jason's judgment (though history suggested some healthy skepticism was warranted), but because if someone had managed to earn not just Jason's attention but his affection—his genuine, unguarded affection—Tim needed to know who they were.

"So," Dick said, breaking into Tim's thoughts, "when do we get to meet him?"

The question was asked casually, but Tim didn't miss the way Jason's shoulders tensed again, how his expression returned to carefully neutral territory.

"You don't," Jason said flatly.

"Oh, come on," Dick cajoled. "Just a quick introduction. I promise to be on my best behavior."

"Your best behavior is exactly what I'm worried about," Jason retorted. "Last thing I need is you trying to show off or, God forbid, sharing childhood stories."

"I would never," Dick gasped in mock outrage, then immediately contradicted himself by turning to Stephanie. "Did I ever tell you about the time Jason got stuck in the chandelier trying to recreate my quadruple somersault?"

"Grayson, I will end you," Jason growled, the threat undermined by the slight flush creeping up his neck.

"See? This is why he's never coming here," Jason added, gesturing around the table with his fork. "You're all disasters."

"Pot, kettle," Tim murmured, earning a glare from Jason.

"Besides," Jason continued, "he's got his own city. His own... family situation. It's complicated."

Another piece of information to file away, Tim noted. Not just any vigilante, but one with territorial responsibilities and family connections—possibly another legacy hero.

"Well, whenever you're ready," Dick said, more gently this time, "we'd love to meet him."

Jason looked momentarily surprised by the sincerity, then covered it with a scoff. "Yeah, we'll see."

But he didn't outright refuse, Tim noticed. Another significant detail.

The conversation gradually shifted to other topics—an upcoming charity gala Bruce was dreading, a new training regimen Dick wanted to implement, Damian's latest artistic project (which he refused to describe in any detail, arousing immediate suspicion). Throughout it all, Tim observed Jason, noting how he seemed both more relaxed and more guarded than usual, the contradiction fitting for someone who had just voluntarily shared something personal but was already calculating how to protect it.

Later, as they moved to the library for coffee, Tim caught Jason alone for a moment near the bookshelves.

"So," Tim said quietly, "serious enough to mention at family dinner?"

Jason's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Don't start, Replacement."

"I'm not starting anything," Tim assured him, hands raised in a placating gesture. "Just... it's good. Seeing you happy."

Jason studied him for a moment, searching for mockery or ulterior motives. Finding none, he gave a short nod. "Thanks," he said gruffly.

"For what it's worth," Tim added carefully, "whoever he is, he must be pretty special."

A shadow of that same small, involuntary smile crossed Jason's face. "Yeah," he admitted, voice pitched low enough that only Tim could hear. "He is."

The simple admission, freely given without deflection or sarcasm, told Tim everything he needed to know. As Jason moved away to rejoin the others, Tim made a mental note to start his research tonight. Not just basic background checks, but thorough analysis. Because whoever this mysterious vigilante was, he clearly meant something to Jason.

And that meant Tim needed to know everything about him.

Just to be safe.

#my fanfic #peter parker x jason todd #jason todd x peter parker #spideyhood #asks

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latenightreadingpdf · 8 months ago

Text

Hidden in Plain Sight - Dave Lizewski

₊‧⁺˖⋆ Masterlist ⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ Part 2 ⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ Part 3 ⋆˖⁺‧₊

Summary: When Y/S/N saves Kick-Ass from a dangerous situation, he becomes obsessed with trying to uncover her true identity. Little does he know, Y/S/N is a girl from his school who secretly has a crush on him as well. As they patrol together, their worlds collide in ways neither expected, leading to a surprising revelation about who's really behind the mask.

Y/S/N - Your superhero name

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

The night sky over New York had a strange way of making a person feel invincible. Dave Lizewski, aka Kick-Ass, was just starting out his amateur superhero career and was already way in over his head. Sure, he'd gotten a few decent hits in on some petty thugs before, but most of the time, he spent more energy trying not to die than actually fighting crime.

Tonight was one of those nights.

He sprinted down an alley, panting, adrenaline surging through his veins. Behind him, two guys—huge, brawny types who clearly had nothing better to do than terrorize the innocent—chased him with knives. His green suit felt like a second skin, clinging to him with every move, though it wasn’t exactly made for high-intensity situations like this. His lungs burned, and a stitch formed in his side. Not good.

“I swear,” he gasped to himself, “I’m gonna die.”

The alley came to an abrupt dead end. He cursed, turning just in time to see the guys closing in, grinning like they'd won the lottery. He raised his fists, trying to look braver than he felt.

"This... is not going to end well," Dave muttered.

Before either of them could lunge, something fast and powerful blurred from the shadows, hitting one of the thugs with such force that he flew backward, crashing into a stack of crates. The second guy barely had time to react before the figure was on him too, taking him down with an expert kick to the stomach.

Dave blinked in disbelief. The figure straightened, revealing a young woman in a sleek, black suit. It wasn’t flashy, but it looked way more professional than his own green and yellow DIY get-up. She had an aura of confidence and strength that radiated even in the dim light.

And, yeah, Dave noticed, she had a killer figure.

"You... you just saved my life!" Dave stammered.

The girl rolled her eyes behind her mask. “Yeah, and I’m guessing it won’t be the last time, Kick-Ass.”

Kick-Ass. She knew his name.

“Wait, who are you?” he asked, his voice still shaky from the adrenaline.

“Call me Y/S/N,” she said casually, as if saving people from imminent death was just another Friday night. “You really should be more prepared for situations like this.”

“I... I thought I was.”

Y/S/N snorted, crossing her arms. "Really? No backup, no weapons? Just... that?" She gestured to his suit. "You're gonna get yourself killed."

Dave flushed, partly from embarrassment and partly from the rush of adrenaline still coursing through him. “I’ll... I’ll do better,” he promised lamely, watching as she walked away, her silhouette disappearing into the night.

And just like that, she was gone.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

At Atomic Comics the next day, Dave was still riding the adrenaline high from his encounter with the mysterious heroine. His friends, Todd and Marty, sat across from him, distracted by the latest issue of X-Men, while Dave rambled on about her.

“I swear, you guys, she was like something out of The Avengers. She totally saved my ass last night. And she was hot. I mean, like, really hot. Her suit—it was super tight. I could barely focus.”

Todd raised an eyebrow, putting his comic down. “Dude, you’re such a nerd. A hot superhero saves you, and that’s what you focus on?”

Dave shrugged, grinning sheepishly. “I mean, yeah? You didn’t see her. She’s got this whole thing going on—great moves, great...uh...form. Her ass is—”

"Wow. Really going full perv, aren't we?" Marty quipped, rolling his eyes.

Unbeknownst to Dave, someone had been listening. On the other side of a nearby shelf, Y/N, the kind and somewhat popular girl from school, had been browsing comics too. She knew who Dave was—after all, they had a few classes together—but they had never really talked.

Y/N smiled to herself as she overheard Dave’s rant about his superhero crush. Little did he know that she was Y/S/N, the very girl who had saved his life last night. Hearing him talk about her alter-ego like that—saying she was cool, hot, and all that—was...well, flattering in a weird way. And the fact that he was so obviously into her made things a lot more interesting.

Still smiling, Y/N grabbed a random comic, paid for it, and headed out, a plan forming in her head.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Later that week, Dave suited up as Kick-Ass once again, hoping to catch a glimpse of Y/S/N during his patrol. After their first encounter, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. She had this presence that he couldn’t shake off, and it didn’t help that his crush was amplified by the fact that she’d saved him. She was the real deal—a hero, like he wanted to be.

“Kick-Ass.”

Dave turned at the sound of her voice, heart skipping a beat. She was there, perched casually on a rooftop ledge, looking down at him with that same cool confidence.

“Y/S/N!” He tried to sound smooth, but his voice cracked just a little.

“You’re not going to need saving again, are you?” she teased, dropping down to the street in front of him.

“I’ve got it covered this time,” he said, puffing out his chest just a little. “Totally prepared.”

Y/S/N gave him a once-over, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Sure you are.”

The two of them walked together, patrolling the empty streets, though it was a quiet night—too quiet, really.

“So, Kick-Ass,” Y/S/N started, her voice casual. “There’s this guy I go to school with. He’s in a few of my classes.”

Dave’s heart gave a little lurch. Was she... opening up to him? Maybe this was his chance to learn more about her.

“Yeah? What about him?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

“He’s super nerdy, kind of awkward. But he’s... well, he’s hot. Like, really hot.”

Dave blinked. “Wait, what?”

“I bet he’s got... you know, a lot going on,” she continued, her voice dropping slightly. “In more ways than one.”

Dave felt his face flush. “Oh.”

“I can’t focus in class because I’m too busy thinking about him,” she added. “It’s a problem, I don’t know what to do.”

“Wow, okay. Um... who’s the guy?” he asked, not really wanting to know but needing to at the same time.

“Dave Lizewski,” Y/S/N said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Dave stopped dead in his tracks. His brain short-circuited for a second. “Wait... what? Did you just... did you just say Dave Lizewski?”

She turned to face him, her expression unreadable behind her mask. “Yeah, why? You know him?”

“I—uh—” Dave’s thoughts tumbled over each other in a chaotic mess. She knows me. She actually knows me. And she thinks I’m hot?!

Y/S/N didn’t give him any time to process. “Anyway, I gotta run. Crime won’t stop itself.” She gave him a little wave before disappearing into the night once more, leaving Dave standing there, still in shock.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

That night, Dave immediately FaceTimed Todd and Marty, pacing his room in a frenzy.

“Guys! You are not going to believe what just happened!” he blurted out as soon as they answered.

“What is it now, man?” Marty asked, exasperated.

“I think Y/S/N goes to our school.”

Both of them stared at him blankly through the screen.

“No, seriously! She was talking about a guy she likes in her classes. And then she said my name! My actual name!”

Todd snorted. “Okay, but how do you know she’s not just messing with you?”

“I... don’t know. But it seemed real,” Dave insisted. “I think she really goes to school with me. And now I have to figure out who she is.”

He grabbed his old yearbook off the shelf and flipped it open. “There’s gotta be some kind of clue.”

Todd and Marty exchanged skeptical glances but eventually joined in, helping him comb through the yearbook. They scanned faces, trying to match anyone they knew with the mystery of Y/S/N.

“Alright, so we need a plan,” Dave said, leaning over the pages. “Monday, we’re going to do some recon. Check out anyone who might be her. We’ll figure this out.”

Todd and Marty, albeit reluctantly, nodded in agreement.

“Sure, dude. Recon mission on Monday.”

Dave closed the yearbook with a snap, his mind racing. Somewhere in the sea of students, Y/S/N was hiding in plain sight. And now, he was more determined than ever to find out who she was—both in and out of her suit.

Little did he know, Monday would bring him more answers than he could’ve ever expected.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

A/N ~ there’s not enough Kick-Ass fanfics on here and I’m sick of it :( lmk if you want a part 2

#dave lizewski #kick ass #kick ass x reader #dave lizewski x reader #dave lizewski x you #dave lizewski fanfic #dave lizewski imagine #dave lizewski x y/n #kick-ass x y/n #kick-ass x you #kick-ass fanfic #kick-ass #kickass #kickass x reader #fanfic #fluff #dave #atj #aaron taylor johnson

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demon-country · 7 months ago

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"Stolas is a worse dad than Blitz, because when Stolas was about to die he chose Loona over him."

The situations were completely different, you can't actually compare them in that way.

1) In Western Energy, Blitz was going to go save Stolas, but was able to send Moxxie and Millie instead, freeing him up to stay with Loona.

In Mastermind, Blitz was in imminent danger. As in, by the time Stolas saw what was happening there was only about a minute until Blitz was going to be decapitated. There was no one to send in his place and no one else could've gotten there in time even if there was.

2) Loona had a hospital appointment she couldn't go to on her own due to her extreme phobia of needles, and it would have been years before she could get it again if she missed it (unless Stolas pulled some strings).

Octavia was not in danger and had no pressing need for Stolas to be by her side. He was also implied to have set things up so that, should he die before she's legally an adult, she'd still be well off and protected to the best of his abilities. She'd be heartbroken, yes, but her assets and future would be secure. (It's no substitute for a loving parent, of course, but it'd allow her some freedom to do as she pleased, like not being forced to marry someone against her will.)

3) Fighting Striker wouldn't be, and wasn't, a sure death sentence. He's good at what he does, but he's just one guy who can be fought.

Stolas didn't have the time or knowledge to come up with a good defense, and even if he did the court wouldn't have cared, because they were bored, hungry, and don't care enough about imps, due process, or doling out real justice to be bothered listening to a nerdy bird attempt to be a lawyer for some uppity imp trying to rise above his station. Putting all of the blame on himself and making a big, flashy production about how he's some cunning manipulator who thinks he's above the law and Blitz is just a worthless pawn to force them to pay attention to him was his only real option if he wanted Blitz to make it out alive.

And even if Stolas did let Blitz die, then he undoubtedly would have spiraled into an even deeper depression, riddled with guilt, grief, and self-loathing. Because that's what happens when you have precarious mental health and watch the love of your life be executed, knowing you could maybe have done something to stop it, but didn't even try. Which, you know, also would have hurt Octavia, because it's not easy seeing your parent in that state. Neither choice would have spared Octavia the pain of losing her father, at least temporarily, and people would still be calling him a bad dad for letting his mental illness affect his relationship with her.

Also, did people not see the way Blitz was begging Stolas not to take the fall for him? He absolutely would have re-taken his place on the chopping block if it meant Stolas didn't have to die. Then Loona would be down her only parent, with Blitz actively choosing Stolas first, because Stolas was seemingly about to die and M&M had already promised to take care of her. You know, exactly like Stolas in this episode.

Blitz would have been in the same sinking mental health boat if Stolas died, as well, except he did try to save him (or more accurately, get him to save himself) it was just entirely fruitless. The man nearly ran his company into the ground because they broke up, he'd fall completely apart if another person he loves died "because of" him (in his eyes), this time without even knowing that Blitz loves him.

When push came to shove, when someone they love was about to die right in front of them and they felt secure with the knowledge that their child would be okay without them (eventually), they both attempted to sacrifice themselves instead. And they both would have been inconsolable wrecks if the other had actually died. There were no good options, they were just trying to make it so that everyone they loved made it out alive, even though putting themselves in the line of fire was the only realistic way of doing that.

#helluva boss #stolas goetia #blitzo #octavia goetia #loona #text post #meta #my post #long post

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have-you-seen-my-sanity · 11 months ago

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Hi, could you do a dark/yandere Marc and Steven in which they force the reader into a DDLG relationship or forces her to call them “daddy”? If this makes you uncomfortable, then that’s okay.

Heya Anony <3

This would actually be my first time writing something involving a daddy kink, hope this doesn't disappoint though. :,)

I literally had to google what the shortcut DDLG meant lmao.

Marc and Steven having daddy kink

Pairing:

Dark!Steven Grant x fem!reader

Dark!Marc Spector x fem!reader

Warnings: oral m! receiving, p in v, fingering, usage of daddy kink, possessive behavior, Steven being a *bit* too needy and dominant.

Steven

Steven came home later than usual, his boss Donna made him stay longer.

When he walked through the door, you were already getting ready for bed. Even though Steven told you to wait for him, you got tired and just wanted to sleep.

"Heyia love! Daddy's back." Steven's voice rang through his flat. You were already in bed when you heard him, sitting up and rubbing your eyes as he opened the door to your room, "Already wanting to drift off, are we, love?" Steven hummed.

Stretching your arms, you nodded "You're about two hours too late, I was getting tired."

"My pretty little darling got all tired, hm? But now I'm back like I promised." Steven smiled, walking over to you "Have you been a behaved little girl while I was away?"

"Yea I was." You nodded.

"And you'll still be that way for daddy, yeah?" He sat on the bed, his hand moving the covers away, revealing you in underwear.

"Yes, d-daddy.." You replied hesistantly, seeing Steven's hand slipped down on himself, into his pants to grab himself.

"You look so sexy like this, all submissive. So pretty. And all mine.." Steven's cock was already painfully hard, he had been thinking about you the whole time at work, coming back to his good little girl.

He moved closer to you, his other hand hooking its fingers on the waistband of your panties, "I want you to beg f' me. Beg me to fuck you." his voice lowered dangerously as he began to pull down your panties and spreading your lips, rubbing your clit slowly with his thumb to get you wet.

With a soft, almost whiney moan you obeyed "Please fuck me daddy, I need your cock. Please.."

Steven chuckled, leaning over you getting closer to your ear "S'that all you got, love?" He asked dryly, as he already worked on getting himself out.

"Need you so bad, my pussy wants to get owned by you, Steven-.."

Slap!

Steven softly spanked your ass cheek, making you gasp as he continued to work you up with his fingers, "Who?" Steven asked, slipping a finger inside of you, immediately getting soaked.

"Daddy- I mean daddy!" You quickly corrected yourself, feeling his finger slowly pumping inside of you.

"That's my good girl." Steven praised "Said you need my cock, yeah? Gonna give it to you."

He positioned his already free cock at your entrance, teasing you before he entered you, not stopping until his whole length was buried inside, "Mh-mm, here you go, got you wrapped nicely around me." Steven groaned, starting to move into you at a normal pace, hitting those spots inside you. You moaned, instinctively arching into him. Steven increased his pace, the pent up desires from the day started to fade away as he lost himself in pounding into you. "Thought about this all day, coming back to my little girl, getting to feel you again." Steven moaned, his hand coming down to rub you clit while he's thrusting into you, making you moan louder

"Love, you have to stay quiet for me, you will wake up the whole building." Steven chuckled, the way he was pounding into you and rubbing made you see stars, you tightened around him feeling your orgasm approaching.

"I'm close!" You whined, eagerly arching your hips chasing your imminent release.

"There you go love, go ahead and make a mess of yourself for daddy." Steven praised, getting close himself. Your orgasm came fast, gripping his cock like a vice. Steven's eyes rolled back in his head at the familiar grip you had, his cum shooting into you. Both of you were panting, Steven laid ontop of you with his face buried in your neck as you two calmed down. When Steven pulled up and looked at you, seeing you all fucked out and tired, he pressed a soft kiss on your lips

"You were such a lovely girl for daddy. Sleep now, you deserved it." You didn't even noticed anything after, you drifted off to sleep like a blown out candle.

Marc

Marc was so glad to be back, Khonshu was royally pissing him off, that old clunky bird was getting on his nerves with all the demands. Good thing Marc had his Scotch and precious little girl to make him forget about his day. When he returned, he went straight for a shower to wash away the evidence and blood from the day. You didn't hear him enter, you were in the kitchen when he came back, only hearing the noises of the shower made it clear that he was back. After they stopped you made your way to the living room, seeing Marc standing by his Scotch counter with his back turned to you, his hair still a damp from the shower, wearing nothing but his boxers.

"Hey Marc, how was your day?" You asked softly, not wanting to startle him. When Marc turned, he saw you wearing one of his shirts which was a bit too big for you, the hem hanging a bit past your waist.

"That old bone beak Khonshu was grumpy." Marc replied, swinging his glass, watching the liquid as it moved.

Sensing how boiled up Marc must be, you decided to make your way to the bedroom, while Marc flopped down on the couch getting comfortable, but he stopped you from walking further.

"Babygirl, where do you think you're going?" Marc called out amused, taking a sip from his glass.

You gulped, turning around, seeing Marc beckoning you over to him with a finger, "Come to daddy."

Marc set his glass down on the coffee table, turning his attention back to you "Get down." He ordered, the bulge in his boxers was already growing. You knew Marc had a shit day, you didn't want to piss him off anymore than Khonshu did. You obeyed, lowering yourself on your knees infront of him.

"Be a good girl and help your daddy relax, would ya'?" He asked, not beating around and freeing his throbbing cock "Go ahead, make me proud."

You leaned in, supporting yourself with your hands on his trained thighs his hand coming up behind your head, tangling his fingers through your hair, forcing your head down on his dick. Wasting no time, you took his girth into his mouth, lips wrapped around him, while swirling your tongue.

Marc's eyes fluttered shut, his head falling back on the headrest behind him "Fuck honey, just like that.." A sigh of delight came out of him. As your mouth served him, you grazed your teeth on his shaft, which caught Marc off guard and he almost came at that, his hand pushed you down forcing you to take him deeper as the tip of his cock hit the back of your throat.

"Don't do that babygirl, don't make me cum too fast, I don't want to end it now." Marc gasped, suddenly pulling you off his cock "Get up here." He said, grabbing your wrist to practically pull you up.

You moved to straddle his lap, pulling your panties aside and positioned yourself over his cock while Marc grabbed your hips and easily pulled you down swiftly. The way you gasped as he stretched you was like music to his ears. "There you go baby, taking daddy's cock so well like you should." Marc started using you like a ragdoll, your weight was no match for his strength as he fucked you however he pleased. "Who does this pussy belong to?" He asked, his hips thrusting upwards to meet yours.

You couldn't think straight, his cock was hitting your sweetspots with every thrust, "My pussy belongs to you, daddy!" You moaned, Marc's grip on your hips tightened at your words, he felt himself getting close his movements increased. "That's right, all mine, hm? Only getting filled by my cock." Marc hummed, his breathing becoming heavy, "Cum all over my cock, honey. Do it." Marc ordered, feeling how your pussy tightened around him at the command. "Just like that, let that pussy coat my cock." Just at that, your pussy clamped down, gushing your juices all over Marc's cock, who just like you came too filling you up with his cum.

The two of you didn't move, you rested your head against his shoulder. Marc's cock has already softened inside of you "Such a good girl for me, that's how you make daddy proud, princess." Marc leaned in to kiss your temple gently.

#moon knight #marc spector #steven grant #dark!steven grant #dark!marc spector #oscar isaac #dark marc spector #dark steven grant

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capri-ramblings · 1 month ago

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Hello! Can I please request headcanons of the dorm leaders' reactions to finding out that their s/o had a curse placed on her ever since she was young? She absorbs the bad luck of the people around her and because of this, she experiences a lot of misfortune. And more often than not, her misfortunes are dangerous and take the form of accidents that could possibly kill her.

This blog has been abandoned and the user no longer active, but it was an ask I still kept around. This drabble is inspired by it, and is loosely based on my Raptured series.

To clarify, in this drabble the Housewardens(only 3 atm aha) are the MC's/readers brothers. Not by blood. Raptured is a Fae AU I wrote years ago where the Housewardens are all Fae and come from the same Fae Queen which makes them bounded by fae law as siblings. So the same concept is put here. And no, I'm not romanticizing step-sibling dynamics, if you read it you'll see that it's literally just about them being worried over their youngest Fae sibling who has a death sentence of a curse. Welp. Thats it lmao.

i. The Hurdle

"And where exactly do you think you're going?" Riddle's voice echoed off the high walls of the castle as if they were specifically built to magnify the volume of it.

You were already at the entrance,one hand wrapped tightly around the pure silver knob. Riddle stood at the foot of the grand staircase, a good distance from you, but the weight of his scrutinizing stare made him feel closer.

You don't turn to face him, and there isn't any fear despite your shaking hands.

"Out. For a stroll." Your words come out clipped and sharp, and then there's a brief silence between you two before Riddle let's out a sigh.

"I don't think it's quite an appropriate time for a stroll. After all,It's almost time for tea.Join me and then perhaps afterwards a stroll would be nice."

Were you a pet? Some kind of decorum for him to tug you along?

Your thoughts must have leaked through because despite remaining stiff at the door, a laugh came from Riddle as if he could see right through you.

"I'm sure you're scowling at me, aren't you? Your silence speaks volumes."

Gritting your teeth and nerves, you make the decision to turn around and when you do, Riddle is smiling rather earnestly at you. The faint grey in his eyes glistening like stardust, his hair a bright red. When you had been younger, you used to call him big cherry just to see him go red and laugh at him.

When you had been younger, you didn't feel the need to turn your brothers into villains.

"I just want to clear my head." You tell him but Riddle's smile fades then, and you hate how your knees buckle and your stomach heaves.

"I've been told a certain herbal tea helps with clearing the mind. You don't need that walk."

And he's right. It isn't a need. It is a want. A longing. These walls make you see green.

You open your mouth to speak and the door behind you gives out a small yet deafening 'click'. You turn around to slam your fists against the door, an irate scream echoing off the walls.

From where he stood, his expression is one of pained frustration as he watches you curse his name.

ii. The Shield

Leona, like most of his brothers, remembers a much younger version of you.

The training room hadn't been used since the second human-fae war ended, but it was once a place Leona had turned into your personal playroom whenever it was his turn to look after you. You always had a fascination with acts of heroics and dreamt of becoming a figure of peace and justice for the people as you brandished your sword and held up your shield to fight and protect.

Leona remembered how he first saw you take a stance with your very first sword—A gift from one of the human nobles who were still loyal to the Fae Queen—and realized that the whimsical dream you rambled on about was well within your reach. You were gifted with precision and might for the sword.

If only stepping outside the castle wouldn't cause your imminent death that is.

He held it against himself for letting you dream so recklessly. A hero? How could you even fight for people when being near them would kill you? He should have stopped you. He should have taken that sword and broken it in two.

It's not easy for him to come back to this room and Leona often wondered how you did it, but when he saw the state it was in, he realized what a fool he'd been.

He should have disintegrated the whole damned thing.

The sword in your hand glinted almost desperately against the light of the chandelier in the room. Unlike the rest of the weapons which were either broken at the blade or left to be stuck inside the chaise's cushion or the daybed's and window's wooden frames, it seemed to be the only thing you didn't let your anger ruin.

Leona let out a low, deliberate whistle right after he watched you strike the wooden dummy across the chest, your movement fluid yet brutal as pieces of it splintered from the impact.

"Make that a real human and you practically just chopped his head off."

From breathing raggedly, your body went stiff at the sound of his voice, but the grip on the sword's hilt tightened.

Leona noticed this, and a knowing smirk curled on his lips.

"Oh? Which one of us were you thinking of when that blow landed?"

You don't answer. He doesn't expect you to. Not with that burning look in your eyes which said more than you could ever say.

iii. The Wound

"I told you to quit picking those damned flowers." Jamil's reprimanding is often sharp but as he stared down at his bloodied and cut up hands, Kalim couldn't help but feel himself smile a little. Not because he liked having his friend scold him of course, but because the thought of being able to cheer you up with your favorite flowers easily won him over.

He winced when Jamil pulled out the last few thorns from his skin and began dabbing the cuts with healing ointment. Being the Fae Prince who was a bit more human than Fae, Kalim recalled the many memories he had with you where you'd worry about him getting hurt and promising to protect him, and most vividly of how happy you used to be.

It seemed like years ago but since the Fae folk didn't age as humans did, you remained a pristine image of youth and Kalim could never really be able to see you any older. To him you were always his little sister. Small, young and bright eyed—Never not happy to see him.

Yes. That is how he remembers you. That is how Kalim makes sure that part of you still exists, even if he is the only one who sees it that way. He doesn't mind bleeding for you and he doesn't need reciprocation.

As long as you stayed inside—Alive and well—Kalim didn't mind being hurt or hated at all.

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst wonderland #twisted wonderland scenarios #twst au #twst wonderland au #riddle rosehearts #twst riddle rosehearts #leona kingscholar #twst leona kingscholar #kalim al asim #twst kalim al asim #twst angst

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thrandilf · 1 year ago

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Hi everyone! I'm strangefake on AO3 and this is a little post of all of my sfw lmk stuff (so far!). Here's the list, only one was written after S5 came out (All the Small Things) and none of the others have spoilers, though some really fit the post S5 mood. I hope you enjoy if anything catches your eye! <3

General/Not Ship Focused:

What Kind of Memory Am I? MK POV. Sunburst Duo. MK and Wukong talk post S4. “In that scroll, in all of those memories, those lifetimes of mistakes- was I one of them?” MK was afraid of the answer. “One of your mistakes?”

Guilt "Complex?" I Find It Quite Simple Red Son POV. Inspired by Callum's "I need you to kill me" moment in TDP, MK panics about Monkey Form. The two people he calls up- Macaque and Red Son- are far from the sort one would associate with comfort and emotional intelligence, but they try their best. Hurt and comfort with heavy mental health/angst, but on par with S5.

Hair Bones Red Son POV. Traffic Light Trio has a sleepover at MK's house post S4 with a focus on comforting MK with a dash of goofiness. Background Dragonfruit.

Harmonize the Wild Energies Within Red Son POV. Past Red Son and Princess Iron Fan training in the earlier days of him mastering his powers hundreds of years ago.

(NEW!) Given, Not Earned Macaque POV. SoySauce Duo. To Macaque's surprise, MK requests a sleepover with him Post Season 5, saying he wants to learn a new power. Literal fluff and then typical MK angst. Minor Wukong appearances.

Shadowpeach:

All the Small Things Macaque POV. Takes place during S5 E1 if the episode had lasted longer, mostly fluff and island monkeys.

Kintsugi Wukong POV. Bittersweet Shadowpeach with a hopeful ending, written post S4 but emotionally works post S5 too. There was little use asking what specific memory was bothering Macaque. One, it was obvious, and two, it didn’t matter. Every thread that tied them together always looped back to encompass it all.

Break the Cycle Wukong POV. Post S4, Wukong and Macaque have a romantically charged fight while Wukong stays at Macaque's place. Rated T.

(NEW!) Intimidation Check: Natural 1 Wukong POV. Macaque gets the idea to try roleplaying in bed, but his theatrics combined with Wukong's personality means they don't get anywhere. Comedy fic.

(NEW!) Sun Poisoning Macaque POV. Technically a SixNine (Macaque/Xiangliu) fic with Shadowpeach angst too.

Freenoodles:

Infinite Noodle Glitch Tang POV. Just as it sounds, Tang hatches a plan to get as many noodles as possible. Established relationship.

Dragonfruit:

Complimentary Colors Red Son POV. Apollo dealt me a glancing hit with the dodgeball: Red Son calls Mei over after a mysterious fireproof dog breaks into his house to help handle it. Featuring dog sitting shenanigans and first kisses, this fic was the first LMK fic I ever wrote and has art by @imminent-danger-came

Down Bad Red Son POV. MK runs into Red Son at the mall and catches him buying a green dragon plushie- for himself? Red Son gets the courage up to confess his feelings to Mei- but there's a twist.

#lmk fanfic #lmk fic #shadowpeach #lego monkie kid #dragonfruit shipping #lmk mk #lmk red son #lmk wukong #lmk macaque #lmk shadowpeach #lmk dragonfruit #freenoodles #lmk freenoodles #lmk mei #fic list

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earenwen-leafwhisper · 1 year ago

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Not Wanted part 3

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x chubby fem reader

Summary: What a surprise it was to run into Daemon in this tavern.

Trigger warning: English is not my mother tongue, I am sorry if mistakes are going through my correction, I will correct them.

Author’s note: Y/s/n = Your servant name

Y/f/n = your father name

---

There he was, siting. You were face to face. Your heart throbbed, your blood pouring into your whole body. Your breath seemed to be trapped in your lungs and throat. Daemon was looking at you with a sweet smirk on his lips. He could see your reaction, but he couldn’t see your internal reaction.

Inside you, your mind ran in all directions, you never could have imagined seeing it, here, in this tavern, even less during the day. What was he doing there? You were trying to stay calm, keep your breath down.

He was the first to answer

"Keep my mouth?"

The tone of his voice was not harsh or angry, but rather amused. His voice seemed hypnotized to you, the environment around you no longer existed. Until this bubble burst at your realization. But what happens to me?

"Yes, it is not very courteous to speak like that."

"It is not a proper place for a lady, especially without a knight on her side." He smirk, but the tone of her voice was most serious.

He hit the nail

"I am not alone."

He looked at your maid, his smirk grown bigger, a small laugh, out of his mouth, he shook his head gently spanking his long silver hair.

"A servant will not serve you against bandits. Unless you are an expert in handling fabrics and needles."

Even if you were to contradict him, he was right, she would be as helpless as you in the event of a bandit attack. You sighed softly, but did not lower your eyes.

All of a sudden, you were worried if your dad found out you were sneaking out, although for your dad you were a jerk, disobeying him was going to lead to the beating you didn’t want to imagine. You shivered despite the heat of the tavern.

"Will you bring it back?"

Daemon watched your body language, your pupils widen, the fact that you curl slightly. You looked like an animal who was hunter and in front of an imminent and not visible danger. Time seemed to have become slow, so slow that it seemed to have stopped.

"No, I see no interest, or benefit."

Daemon was serious, his voice more posed and less playful, he smiled more mockingly. You let go of the breath you were holding, the tension of your whole body dissipated, you felt relieved although a slight fear, although reduced, remained in the depths of your mind.

Your servant could see the tension that had settled, slowly fades, to help, she made the decision to change conversation and focus on you and ordering your meal.

"Oh that’s right... "

You think for a few seconds asking for a dish that contained what you enjoyed eating and that could please your servant, throwing a glance at her, to confirm if she was willing to eat it. She nodded. You commanded for two people, be it for food and drink.

When the employer went away with your order, a silence settled at the table, this silence was only a silence of voices, because music came from the opposite side of the tavern. When you looked in the direction where the music was coming from, you could see Daemon, who was wearing the hood of his cape on his head, preventing the people behind him from seeing his silver hair, you were taken aback, he was alone in this tavern, at least seemed to be alone. For a prince, you thought that he would at least be accompanied by a knight not necessarily in bodyguard but at least in reinforcement if the prince was attacked. Perhaps his reinforcements were in the tavern also incognito. Although it seemed more likely that the prince came alone, hence the placement of his hood on his head.

You didn’t want to keep your eyes on him to avoid being seen as an insistent person or one of the young women who is desperately looking for a man. So yes you found him more than charming, but no you did not want to pass for crazy.

In the distance, from the oak counter, an employee differs from the one who took your order, walked zigzagging between the tables, arriving at yours. He brought a jug and a goblet in a gesture, he laid it all before Daemon. When the prince poured the contents of the jug you could see wine coming out, raising an eyebrow you could contain your reflection.

Daemon looked at you and smiled in the corner, almost amused by your reflection. He let out a small mocking laugh. If the prince seemed to take your words well, your servant had become tense, giving you alert looks, trying to make you understand that you had to apologize for your words. You cast an inquiring glance at her, you did not see the evil in your words, a small battle of glance began, you were both winning and losing, for not apologizing, she did it in your place.

"Wine that looks like dog urine, but not enough to drink?"

"I am sorry, my prince, for my mistress’s behavior and word." She bowed her head in respect.

"You can just as well shout." You looked harshly at your servant, your whispered words directed at her." Don’t forget that we can’t get caught."

It is true that you had been dry and direct, but you refused to be punished on your return and even more so that your return would be faster if one of the knights of your house were in this tavern and recognized you. You were never harsh towards your servant, she was the closest person to a friend than anyone else in your home. You’ll talk to him later.

"Oh yes... the rumors." It was Daemon.

"What rumors?" His words questioned you.

"The ones that say you’d be mistreated by your alcoholic father."

Daemon had hit home. You avoided wincing at his words. Your father was finally more famous than you could have imagined, if even a Targaryen had heard the rumors.

The prince drank a sip of his wine before continuing to speak.

"An alcoholic asshole, I’m surprised to see you here, not under his yoke."

"If I don’t start living now, I’ll never do it. Not once marry the man he chooses." You sigh.

This interested Daemon, a lady tired of being the kind second child, envious of freedom. Oh how much could he understand you, much more than anyone else, but unlike you, the fact that he was a man prevented him from getting in trouble, you could live as a woman.

Your servant was watching what was happening, nervous, hoping that once the dishes were brought, you would eat before leaving for the camp before the end of the game of the day. It was without counting on Daemon’s growing interest in you and your desire to escape.

If at the arrival of the dishes, the discussion ended as desired Y/s/n the continuation was quite different.

Daemon came out of the tavern first, long before you finished eating, he had not said a word, you were disappointed, but did not dare to say anything. At the end of your meal, you took out a small purse where some gold and silver coins were stored and you paid.

Coming out of the tavern in your turn, the sun had slightly dazzled you, you took a few seconds before your eyes adapt to the brightness.

The street was crowded with people, Y/s/n wrapped his arm around the hold so as not to lose you. You walked towards the main street, taking the time to look at the clothes of the people, the dresses were not in the style of your region, they were much simpler, the pomp of the nobles, gave them quite a charm. What the sun’s rays seemed to bring out.

During a blockade in the street, where several people seemed to fight for something and had ended up blocking the street because of the crowd of spectators observing the situation. In the distance you could hear the cries of the people, then suddenly the cries were less until a crowd movement. Your heart and your breath began to accelerate. The cries had given way to a fight that was becoming widespread. The tinsel of armor was heard in less than two minutes. As you were about to be hit by a city guard, someone grabbed you by your free arm, made you step back, and stumbled on your steps.

A hand came over your mouth, you looked around as much as you could. The back of your head was against a person’s chest/shoulder, you could feel the movement of the person’s breath, even feel the person’s breath against your cheek. Your gaze crossed Y/s/n, his gaze reflected his fear and growing panic. You could feel the blood pulsating in your temples, to the frenetic rhythm of your heart, a cold sweat running along your back.

By trying to calm down, you could focus on the smell of the person holding you. It was a mixture of leather, grass from a bath, and burning coal, as well as a small smell of wine when the man began to speak your ear.

"A young woman inclined to freedom, but not to her own safety."

You recognized that voice, though you only heard it a few times. That voice... heard less than an hour before. A voice you wanted him to continue to speak to you. Some silver streak only confirmed your intuition. He released your mouth when he felt you relax.

"Prince Daemon? ..."

You turned in his direction, surprised, your pride shouted at you to answer him in a scathing way, but your spirit told you to be posed, while your heart howled incoherent things.

"Fair lady, this city can be dangerous, not as dangerous as King’s Lading but feel no doubt much more than your city."

But he was not wrong, this crowd movement, was nothing compared to an attack of bandits. Whatever you were in the middle of the day, in a street full of people, where the guards reacted quickly, rare were the attacks of bandits in such conditions.

"Thank you... for stopping us from being pushed by the guards." You had to admit, you’d rather be shot at the prince than pushed by guards.

Daemon smiles in the corner, seeing you thank him, your look avoiding him. He had interviewed your eyes in the tavern, and now that you were avoiding him, he had made it his mission to make you look at him.

"Have you visited the whole city?"

"No..." You didn’t have time to answer him.

"No, we must return to the encampment as soon as possible, before Lord Y/f/n returns, and discovers that we are not present."

Your servant had cut you off, you were irritating, you knew your father, with the day of the game, he would come home late at night and completely drunk, which means that he would not notice, your absence, even Sir Percival, was not at your bedside, Your father had ordered him to stay with him, thinking that you would stay in your tent. Sir Percival would not see your disappearance until your father was asleep in his tent.

Daemon looked at your servant, she bored her to the highest point. Her black eyes, made her shut up and looked towards the ground. If she was familiar with your kindness, she would not suffer the wrath of a prince, a Targaryen prince in addition.

Your side of the was measuring the pros and cons, to know if you stayed to go around the city with the prince, if he agreed, or you would come back now and reduce your chances of future boredom, due to your little escapade.

For:

"You discovered the city and were not locked up in your tent."

-Chances of spending the afternoon with Daemon.

-If you were with him, the opportunity to ask him questions.

"If the prince liked you, it would reduce the chances of your father correcting you."

Against:

"Your father’s reaction if he finds you missing."

-Be in your tent until the games are over.

-To be forced to marry a horrible stranger... Oh yes it is true, it was already the case, feel your exit quietly.

-Let your father learn of your sneaking out with Daemon, who already has his reputation and a nickname that was given to him in the victory of 'Rogue Prince'

Whether for or against, they were at the same numbers, in any case those you had in mind at that time.

Might as well live fully, no? But in safety. If Daemon asked you to visit the city by his side, you agreed. But if you were alone with Y/s/n, you would go back with her to the camp, putting an end to this escapade.

"So? Have you visited the city?"

"Not all of it, just the big streets."

"Are there places you would like to visit? Like the alleys where jugglers play or street theatre?"

"It sounds interesting, only... I wouldn’t mind a guide." You were hoping he understood your undertone and agreed to go with you.

"I happen to know the perfect guide." He smirk.

"Oh, who is he?"

"Me."

Your heart which had calmed down again to beat ka chamade, at the moment you thought you had misunderstood, that your imagination had played a trick on you, but by looking at him, in an interrogation way, his mocking smile. He offered you to be your guide, your blood poured into your body, a heat invaded it. You smiled softly and looked Y/s/n which was on the edge of panic. If you could calm her down, she would accompany you, she would even become a witness if anything should happen and turn against you.

With a glance from you, encouraging, she agreed to follow you, you will talk about it later, once enter your tent and without witnesses.

---

The sky was overcrowded with heavy clouds, the wind had risen slightly, a smell of rain was beginning to spread in the air.

In the city, only the people living there and not merchant had taken refuge in their cottages, the (entertainers) continued to entertain the passers-by, the different musics play by the small troupes of artists animated each street and alleys. In one of the alleys, a play was played. This one traced with "certainty" the loves and counted with confidence the number of conquest of the Lord Baratheon.

"Certainty?... There must be only half the bastards begotten."

Daemon had spoken in your ear, the sound of his voice and his breath against your cheek and neck, gave you shivers in the back, not of horror but earlier of anticipation.

"Are Lord Baratheon’s out-of-wedlock adventures so well known?" You were watching Daemon surprise and disillusionment.

"For the common people and some nobles apparently." Daemon shrugged.

Applause came out of your discussion. The audience applauds the final scene where Lord Baratheon, at least his actor, had collapsed on the alcoholic floor under the gaze of his mistresses.

“If it was one of the best shows in the city, I can’t imagine the others.” Daemon chuckled and shook his head.

"Maybe the other theatres offer shows more to your liking?"

“I highly doubt it.”

"Why not try? At least you won’t have any regrets."

Daemon shook his head again, if he were not intrigued by you, he would have refused. But at the thought of spending more time with you. He was ready to undergo the endless staging that included the theatres of the city, fortunately for him, almost all were filled by the people and were inaccessible.

Daemon had left his hood on his head so as not to be recognized. You were often at the back of the crowd, avoiding contact with other spectators. Y/s/n was nervous and on high alert, all your opposite. You forgot your troubles, live the present moment.

---

It is only when the sun sets that you return to the camp. Once inside, Daemon removed his hood releasing his silver hair, the sun gave golden hues to his hair. You watched him from the corner of your eye, an almost mystical charm emanated from him.

Servants and knights, staying in the camp looked in your direction, many were people who did not pay attention, too busy with their own concerns. Others wondered why the prince came back with you. (Mainly the people of small noble houses of the lords wanted to marry their sons)

At the time you didn’t care, until you left the prince, your little bubble, deflated without bursting. For when they entered your tent, some of your servants present, looked at you surprised and panicked, they had searched throughout the camp without finding you and had feared that you had fled or worse had been kidnapped. If you had come home later, by nightfall they should have warned your father of your disappearance. You were sorry to have frightened them and told them, but deep down, you did not regret anything, this simple moment with Prince Targaryen you allowed to change your mind, to see a side of life that you did not know, you finally felt free. Free of this tent, free of your castle, free of your father and your family’s judgments. You had finally lived part of your life.

---

On his return your father had not even seen your change in your behavior, your look in the wave, how you only half listened to what he told you while being drunk. You even smiled a little, something strange coming from you, because you usually remained closed on you when he was there. You were on your little cloud, remembering the reflections of light in Daemon’s hair, or the smell that emanated from him when you were sitting next to him. To his giggling when he mocked a stage and actors at shows. To his breath against your skin when he pulled you out of the crowd. Even if it was only one exit, the prince had managed to capture your mind much more than you could have imagined.

---

The next morning, you had prepared, not for another getaway but for the new games of the day, the Béhourd tournament was about to begin and your father wanted you to be there to show you to a lord. You were bubbling with resentment that you were riding like a fairground beast. Your father left at first, letting you grind your teeth.

As you left your tent, your gaze met that of a certain prince. He walked in the direction of the games, when he turned his head in my direction of the heavy sound of the movement of the fabrics which composed the entrance of your tent.

When Daemon saw you, he smiled in the corner, not with mockery but because it was pleasant for him to see you. In no time you walked side by side, your servant followed you, Ser Percival followed you by his side, his gaze was suspicious, you spoke so easily with the prince, that it was not normal for two people who had just met.

Along the way towards the duel field, your conversation with Daemon continued, you smiled much more than usual, even he smiled at you gently and not with his mocking smile. All along the way, you stayed too close, more than courtesy allowed. When you split up, Daemon took your hand and put a chaste fuck in it. You felt a heat rising in you, the same heat you had felt the day before, not of embarrassment (of Shame), but a pleasant warmth, of anticipation of the present moment.

“Good game, my lady.”

“Good game, Prince Daemon.”

Ser Percival was about to faint, he knew very well the rumors about the prince who was more than once named Rogue Prince, in discussions between knights of different noble houses.

He wondered about the events of the day before, he was not at your side and was afraid of what might have happened. He hoped the prince would not do this just to pass the time or to have a new nobleman to add to his conquests for the abandoned once tired of her.

---

The duels took place in the middle of the city, Lord Baratheon wanted everyone to be able to observe the duels, several of his own knights were going to fight and he wanted the greatest number to watch their victories.

People had settled on the floors of the houses to look, people could attend the fight although they were not in contact with the nobles, the most guard arena was placed in the center of the city, large bleachers had been erected as well as barriers, to limit access to the place.

As for the archery tournament, you were at your closest, your father sitting several rows behind you, but he had sat at the side of a lord, at the pace, not very neat. Y/s/s was always to be rated, but a young man, younger than the prince, with a dubious smell sat on your other side. He was more passionate about his wine cup and fighting than the people around him. If you were about to vomit, another person was bubbling.

Daemon was seated in the gallery in front of yours, his hard and ardent gaze towards you, he could see how hard you were trying to get away from the lousy one who was shouting in the direction of the fights overthrow of his wine all around him. The fights bore Daemon, but what he saw in the stands opposite him was bubbling, your father a few rows above you, looked like a drunken and unscrupulous merchant. The screaming spectators, the clash of armor and weapons, did nothing to him, he heard nothing, just his blood bubbling in his temples.

'My prince? ...' He was a servant, carrying a pitcher of wine.

“What?” It wasn’t time to bother him.

'Do you want more wine?' The servant, who had startled at the sound of Daemon’s voice, trembled.

“No.”

Daemon was not in the mood to drink wine, nor to talk to anyone. As soon as this tournament of Béhourd was finished, it would go in your direction. He was preparing a way out, to get you out of the mess your father decided to put you through.

---

When the sun reached its zenith, the game was over, you felt the wine you had not drunk, your dress was stained and this stranger followed you out of the bleachers. He made you uncomfortable, you looked around, behind you, your father was talking to the same lord at the beginning of the day. Until from the corner of your eye you saw silver hair moving in your direction. This silver hair moved very quickly, creating a crowd movement. In less than two minutes, Daemon was standing in front of you. He stood straight, a menacing look towards the gougea who was next to you.

“My lady seem to be disturbed by some ‘dirty’ boy?”

Daemon’s gaze towards the young man was murderous, he needed more than flames out of his mouth to make him look like a dragon. Ser Percival stood between you.

“You’d better get away from Ser.” The tone of his voice became increasingly threatening.

Y/s/n little reassured squeezed your arm.

“It’s nothing, Percival.”

The knight turned to look uncertain.

'The prince must have seen what it is to pass in the stands and the state of my dress.' You smiled softly to try to calm the situation.

“What’s going on?” Your father had just arrived and was looking at you with boredom.

“Go back to your tent to change, have you seen how you present yourself in the presence of a prince?”

“If that bastard hadn’t splashed his wine!”

“This bastard is her fiancé!” The lord, father of the gougea, was caught in his pride.

This sentence, dropped a stone on you, you quickly looked at your father, who although drunk had a hard look, you then looked at himself as a “fiancé” that even several poor had more pace, a wind of dread had just crossed you, it is the panicked look, You looked at the prince, lost.

Daemon saw him with your change of expression and the positioning of your back, which reminded him of that of a condemned man. He finds himself bubbling even more rage. Oh he was going to make the lord regret the idea of making you marry his son, your father was going to regret how he treated you.

Because for Daemon, you were his and his alone.

#Daemon Targaryen x reader #Daemon x reader #Daemon x chubby reader #Daemon Targaryen x chubby reader

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