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namgyunation · 24 days ago

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not gonna teach him how to dance (with you)

— PART ONE.

— pairing: nam-gyu x f!reader (the focus); dae-ho x f!reader (barely.) — summary: you spent the past couple months of your life successfully dodging all of nam-gyu's attempts to contact you after you two'd broken up (and for good reason). now, six months later, your luck runs out, and you come face-to-face with the same guy you promised yourself you'd never see again. luckily, your new teammate, dae-ho, is there to act as a buffer. nam-gyu's not the biggest fan of that. — w/c: 17.5k — tags: jealousy. mentions of character death. drug usage. while this first part is generally sfw, the overall fic is 18+. mdni! nam-gyu is an asshole. reader replaces jun-hee in gi-hun's team for the pentathlon. while dae-ho x reader is in the tags, pls keep in mind this is mainly nam-gyu x reader!!! // tags for part 2: brief smut. pinv. unprotected sex. oral. drug usage (reader included). usage of 'bitch' and other unkind terms by nam-gyu.

— a/n: request for dearest ☁️ anon. thank you so much for this insanely fun request. i've been having a lot of fun while writing it. also, this is split into two parts bc i desperately need to release this from my drafts before i lose my mind!!! this first part is mostly exposition, aka, THERE'S NO SMUT IN HERE YET! anywaysss, i hope this is enjoyable while i crank out part 2 :]

he's got two left feet, and he bites my moves. i'm not gonna teach him how to dance with you.

you liked to think that you had a somewhat decent childhood. a decent upbringing with decent parents and a decent foundation for your future. a decent chance at life.

you also liked to think that you had a decent taste in men, but maybe that was pushing it a bit far, given your recent circumstances.

you liked to think all of these things.

but if that were all true, how exactly did you end up here?

you brought your knees to your chest, the stiff cot beneath you doing nothing to soothe the unease rising slowly and unbidden in your chest. you pulled the blue-green sweater tighter around yourself as if it'd help you stay together, continuing to stare out blankly at the sea of people before you in the cold room.

a day earlier, you stood at the subway station, anxiety and exhaustion weighing heavily on your bones. your shift had been tiresome. boring. slow. and yet, despite the slowness of your life, there was always an invisible weight, a neverending pressure pushing down on you, looming over your head like an axe ready to fall.

nowadays, you had gotten into the habit of ignoring your bank account, terrified of what you'd find if you dared to look. nonetheless, the ghost of your debts haunted your every move. every waking thought, every shift, every purchase, every shower you took only to promptly find out that your hot water had been shut off.

you ignored a lot of things.

the dull ache in your chest when you lied to your aging parents about how you were doing, not wanting to burden them with your mistakes. the way your landlord looked at you each time you paid your rent later and later, your head hung low in silent desperation. the voicemails and texts flooding your inbox, the last remaining ones before you'd finally blocked him. the fucking reason you were in this whole mess to begin with.

most of all, you ignored the way that, despite it all, a piece of you—a big, big piece of you—still wanted the fucker. still missed him. still—months later—hesitated weakly over the ‘call’ button beneath his contact image: a photo of him grinning next to a tree. it was blurry because you were laughing when you took it, but you liked it. you couldn't bring yourself to change it.

you hated that you still thought about him. you shouldn't be thinking of him at all. but honestly, it'd been impossible not to. not when your savings were nonexistent, drained into nothing because of him. because of the stupid fucking crypto. because he'd done his best to try and convince you that it was a good idea. because you'd trusted him enough to listen when you told him not to, only to wake up one day to him pacing in the living room, all color drained from his face as he pulled on his coat and rushed to work without so much as a glance over his shoulder, despite not being scheduled that day.

you remembered the exact moment you realized what'd happened. remembered what you were wearing, what you'd eaten that day, the three minutes you'd waited in line, the bankteller's bored, uninterested expression when she told you it wasn't a mistake that you couldn't withdraw any money. you remembered sitting on the bench outside feeling cold and numb, like you'd swallowed winter, the frantic messages pouring into your phone after he ignored your first five calls.

i'll fix it, i swear. i'll get it all back. you just have to give me a bit

it'll go back up, trust me. the guy said it would

the guy. he'd bet the entirety of your savings on the words of some fucking guy.

and just like that, you watched your whole life be flushed unceremoniously down the drain. you stayed rooted to the bench for ten minutes, your butt aching from the stiff, rotten wood.

to this day, just shy of six months later, you could still feel every last minute in your bones.

now, standing at the platform, your thumb twitched over your phone screen again. you let your eyes flutter shut, forcing yourself to inhale through your nose and exhale through your mouth.

"rough night?

the voice was smooth, deep, carrying an edge of practiced familiarity. you blinked, lifting your gaze.

a tall man with dark hair and dark eyes stood next to you in a crisp suit, a polite but confident smile on his face as he regarded you kindly. his posture was relaxed, yet deliberate, a sleek briefcase resting against his leg.

you nodded, polite but alarmed by the sudden intrusion on your brooding. it'd been a long time since you cared enough to tangle in small talk with a stranger.

you hadn't even noticed him approach.

"yeah, you could say that," you replied half-heartedly.

he didn't say anything for a moment, just gave you a small nod as he hummed knowingly.

then, after a pause— "tell me, have you ever played ddakji?"

there was something off about the interaction, about the way he looked at you, talked to you with that calm familiarity, like he already knew you.

but you decided to humor it.

your day-to-day life was monotonous, a string of disappointments and uncertainties as you desperately tried to claw your way back up out of the hole you found yourself in, and with every passing moment, it seemed like you just kept on sinking.

so you shrugged internally, willing yourself to open your mind to the new uncertainty standing right in front of you.

you nodded.

by the time you got back home, your palms were slick with sweat. a wad of cash weighed down both of your pockets. your heart was racing as you stumbled over the threshold and quickly clicked the door shut.

you threw yourself onto the couch, your legs suddenly feeling too weak to stand. you felt like a ghost in your own home, not sure if you were really alive, as you pulled a card from your wallet.

a circle. a triangle. a square.

and a number.

but more importantly—

a chance.

clearly, you’d made your choice.

you wrung your hands tightly in front of you, digging your nails into your skin just hard enough to hurt before quickly soothing them with firm swipes of your thumbs.

after the explanation the guards provided you all earlier and the quick flashes of footage of the others getting slapped—same as you,— something inside of you unclenched. but only slightly.

despite its size, the room was suffocating. everyone was dressed the same as you, and you couldn't help but feel uneasy amongst all the unfamiliar faces. they were clearly all as confused as you. and, from what you'd learned earlier, they were just as broke as you, too. you sucked in a breath, only feeling slightly bad about the dull comfort it brought you, knowing that you weren't the only one perched desperately at the edge of your life.

this was your chance. you had to make it count. had to.

ddakji was easy enough. how much worse could this be?

the line inched forward, and you followed, peeking around the person in front of you for a moment. they—the pink guards, were gathering forms from each player. you just wanted to sign the damn thing, play the games, get your money, and get the hell out. traces of euphoria still lingered from the night before, the cash you'd won heavy and crisp in your hands. it made you impatient.

your turn came and went. you signed the paper quickly, barely even skimming the words in front of you before you were pushing the pen forward with numb fingers and breaking off from the crowd to find and claim a good bunk. as long as the promise of money still remained, you didn't find it necessary to get too into the fine details.

there was no going back now.

you're busy walking up the stairs to claim a top bunk when you heard it. it's a distant sound, but the recognition is immediate.

for a moment, everything stopped. a block of ice froze over you, making you feel unbearably heavy. your throat went dry as you turned your head slowly, cautiously towards the source of the intrusion.

a part of you desperately didn't want to believe it, hoped that you were imagining things. a part of you that didn't want to see him.

another part of you—tiny and pulsing and unbidden—did.

your eyes zeroed in on a black head of hair. long, sleek, with layers that jutted out just past the ears. you knew it from the way he stood, the way he moved. suddenly, your pulse quickened, your heart dropping down to your toes as your suspicions were confirmed.

because of course.

of course he had to there.

why the fuck wouldn't he be?

if it weren't for the sickening pit slowly taking form in your stomach, you might've laughed.

"the amazing myung-gi from mg coin? is that you?" a low, familiar rumble. teasing. mocking. your heart jumped.

nam-gyu cut effortlessly through the sea of voices like a knife, his words ringing in your ears even with the vast space between the two of you. your head spun.

you climbed the stairs quickly, suddenly filled with urgency as you took them two at a time. you threw yourself onto the highest cot and backed yourself up against the wall, not stopping until it pressed hard into your back. you tilted your head forward, letting your hair fall over your eyes in a makeshift shield. the only thing you could think to do to obscure yourself from him. you watched him from your vantage point, hoping, praying that he hadn't seen you.

you felt sick.

you pulled your knees up to your face and watched him with bated breath. your nails dug deep into your skin yet again as you tried, desperately, to ground yourself. fuck. you had to get it together. you couldn't let this jeopardize you. the money. this was bigger than him.

it looked like he'd made a friend already. a loud guy covered in tattoos with purple hair that seemed to match his personality: obnoxious, loud, and demanding attention. his voice projected loudly, echoing off the walls of the room. in front of them was a smaller guy. you couldn't fully tell what was going on, but it wasn't hard to tell that it was far from a pleasant interaction.

suddenly, the purple-haired one grabbed him by the collar, reeling back a fist with the clear threat of violence. nam-gyu quickly defused it, smiling as he peeled his 'friend' from the smaller guy. you couldn't hear what he was saying. he rubbed his shoulders as if placating him from his previous outburst.

you snorted in spite of the unease still settling in your bones.

leave it to nam-gyu to still find a way to insert himself into these kinds of situations, to seek out the worst possible people and attach himself to them like a magnet. even in a strange place like this.

you watched his back as he walked away and disappeared into his own corner of the room. thankfully, away from you. finally, you breathed, letting some of the tension in your shoulders fall away. there was no time for distractions. you had to get it together.

soon enough, it was time for the first game.

you weren’t sure what to expect, but you still carried yourself with as much confidence as you could. the crowd moved forward in a massive wave, funneling into the hallway leading into the game arena. pink guards led the crowd, a few of them standing at attention on the sidelines to make sure everyone kept moving. they looked so serious even in their hot pink uniforms. if this was some sort of game show, they were definitely taking themselves too seriously.

you took extra care to keep your head down, shielding the sides of your face with your hair as you matched the speed of those around you, not wanting to stick out. paranoia slipped between the cracks of your mind, but you pushed it down.

soon, you found yourself staring out at the large clearing stretching before you. you weren't sure what you were expecting, but it definitely wasn't this. you scanned the crowd. you didn't see him, but it didn't comfort you. he could be anywhere.

now, in the wide, empty space, you felt exposed. you quickly found a spot behind someone taller and bigger than you, taking shelter there while you waited patiently for instructions.

"all players, please wait a moment on the field." a voice boomed over the speakers.

that's when you saw it. a massive, animatronic doll standing at the far end. mechanical eyes staring straight ahead.

a man beside you chuckled. amused and incredulous. "what the hell is that?"

you didn't have an answer for him.

it wasn’t until the game had started and you were midway through the field with your heart hammering against your ribs and your palms slick with sweat that you realized the true gravity of the situation you're in.

every moment seemed to pass by in fragments, like it wasn’t really happening. like you weren’t really there.

the man in front of the crowd did little to comfort you. if anything, his words made your head spin more.

"you'll also die if you don't make it there in time!"

his voice reached your ears just fine amidst the eerie silence, but it was hard to focus over the feeling of your heart pounding craters into your chest.

"GREEN LIGHT."

you forced yourself to move despite the way your legs wobbled and threatened to give out. your pulse slammed in your ears as you ran. the finish line seemed a lifetime away. was this really how you were going to die?

the lines of players continued to inch forward at a torturous pace. you swallowed your nerves, clenched your hands into fists to hide the way they shook.

"RED LIGHT."

you lurched to a stop. your breath shuddered.

a man in the line to the right of you was still mid-step. his eyes widened in horror just before the shot rang out. he dropped. you tried not to look, but you saw. saw the way he fell like a ragdoll. saw the way the blood pooled beneath him, slowly.

your eyes flicked away from the crime scene, searching the rest of your periphery for anything else to wash away what you just saw. that's when you finally saw him. his head is low, ducked behind the taller woman in front of him. you couldn't see his face, but you saw the way his whole body locked. he's perfectly still, barely even breathing.

"GREEN LIGHT."

you pushed forward. step by step.

time slowed down, and you got tunnel vision. the only thing that mattered right now was reaching the finish line.

nam-gyu reached it before you, but you were barely even paying attention at that point, too distracted by the panic you were just barely able to swallow down.

when it came down to being noticed by nam-gyu or eating a bullet, the decision seemed much easier for you.

lucky for you, he couldn't be damned to care, either. as soon as he crossed the finish line, he threw himself to the ground, gripping the dirt with shaky hands like it was a lover. he didn't turn around, didn't give a fuck who was still on the field. he'd made it, and fuck. that was the only thing he gave a shit about right now.

when you finally crossed the threshold, your knees buckled, and you fell unceremoniously to the ground, clenching a fist in the material of your shirt as you counted the beats of your heart.

you were alive.

the last player stumbled across the finish line just as the timer ran out. you vaguely remembered picking yourself up, forcing your body to move despite the heaviness in your bones. you didn't look back.

not at the bodies. not at the blood.

the hallway swallowed you whole, leading you and the other players back to the main dormitory. soon, the doors had been slammed shut behind you, sealing away all the lifeless bodies left on the field.

the air in the main room was suffocating. the tall rows of beds seemed to cage you all in, standing tall like silent judges. you felt cramped, somehow even moreso than earlier, despite the fact that half of the people you'd walked in with hadn't walked back out.

the thought made you shudder.

some players collapsed the second they entered. others cried. you're surprised you hadn't joined them yet. you hugged your knees to your chest as the cold floor reached through your clothes and chilled you. climbing the stairs seemed too daunting of a task, right now. goosebumps rose to your skin as you waited. for what, you weren't sure.

when the guards emerged again, you realized that you'd completely forgotten about nam-gyu.

a loud, intimidating buzzer sounded, startling you from your position. your breath caught in your throat as you scrambled to your feet and hurriedly retreated deeper into the bunks against the far wall, as did all the others.

"congratulations for making it through the first game." the guard's voice was cold, mechanic.

his words were met with silence. nobody moved.

"here are the results of the first game," the guard continued.

your eyes flicked up to the screen, mouth going dry as you watched the number drop rapidly. it could've been you.

you chanced a glance around the room, then, and it didn't take long to find him. if you looked for the splotch of purple amongst the sea of black, he'd be right there next to it. nam-gyu's eyes were wide, lips slightly parted as he gripped tightly to the step he was sitting on.

it could've been you, but it also could've been him. you felt cold.

something inside of you—something small and quiet and aching—almost made you want to get up and talk to him, to ask him if he was okay, to hear your name on his lips for the first time in months.

you wondered if it would comfort you. you wondered if it would comfort him.

your thoughts were bordering on something dangerous, something akin to desperation, egged on by the intense fear building in your chest. the smell of blood and gore hung heavily in the air as your eyes traced the sharp edges of his face, your legs twitching with the barely hidden desire to move.

lucky for you, your thoughts were forcibly cut off by the sound of other players throwing themselves down in front of the guards. you swallowed, your pulse quickening as you watched them beg for their lives. did it even matter? would the guards even listen?

a few seconds passed of that: the guards standing stiff and tall on their elevated platform, looking down at everyone as they pleaded and begged. you felt sick.

then, the man that had led the crowd through the first game stepped forward.

"clause three of the consent form! the games may be terminated upon a majority vote."

your breath caught again. yeah. maybe it would've been a good idea to read the form, after all.

there would be a vote, and maybe you could leave. your mind raced at a million miles a minute as you planned out your next move. maybe you'd finally fess up to your parents and ask for their support. maybe you'd suck it up and just take out a loan. maybe. there were options, for sure, right? there had to be. it couldn't be any worse than this.

it was then that the guard pulled out a small remote, pointing it at the ceiling before clicking a button.

the harsh, white overhead lighting shifted and melted into something warmer, almost pleasant, like the dim glow of a campfire. you tilted your head skyward, taking in the source of the light with wide eyes.

everyone watched as the golden piggy bank filled with a steady stream of cash. it almost seemed like it wouldn't ever stop, each moment punctuated with a rhythmic ding as the money climbed higher and higher.

you could feel it in real time as you watched each wad of cash drop in, the way each hypothetical plan from the past few seconds crumpled itself up into a ball before promptly being discarded into a forgotten corner of your mind.

you swallowed hard, head spinning as you took it all in, your desperation at odds with your innate desire to survive. not too long ago, you stood on a desolate field littered with dead bodies, filled with nothing but thoughts of home.

now? you felt like you were being drawn in, held down, beckoned by some unseen magnetic force. it was like your body was practically begging you to stay.

fuck. you really needed that cash.

you glanced around quickly, but it was harder to pick out nam-gyu from the crowd now that everyone was standing.

however, you didn't really need to see his reaction to know that his pathetic, sorry ass definitely needed the cash, too.

soon, the room was set up for the vote. a blue 'o' and a red 'x' marked the floor, splitting it perfectly down the middle.

you stared intently at the voting booth at the far end of the room, skin buzzing with a feeling you couldn't name. you should leave. really, you should. it was the logical thing to do after what you'd seen, but the seed of doubt had already been planted, and with every passing moment, it grew bigger and harder to ignore, warmed by the glow of the piggy bank hanging overhead.

your number wasn't too close to the beginning, nor was it right at the end, so you had plenty of time to think, to try and talk yourself out of what your body was screaming at you to do.

eventually, the guard called your number, and every muscle in your body locked up. you exhaled sharply, rubbing your thumbs over your knuckles to soothe yourself. you kept your head down as you walked up and let your hair fall over your face, desperately trying not to meet anyone's eyes. nam-gyu hadn't voted yet, thankfully, so it would be a little easier to avoid him seeing you.

it was quiet as everyone watched your back, eyes flicking between you and the screen as they waited for what you'd do.

you came to a stop at the voting booth, taking in both buttons as you worried your bottom lip. you paused for a few seconds, trying and failing to force your body to change its mind, to come to its senses last minute, but it didn't.

it was almost laughable how quickly you found your answer. you knew it before your number had been called, before you even walked up.

the bodies. the blood. the gunshots. it all flashed through your head, made your hands shake. but when you put all the delusions to the side and it really came down to it—what exactly was even waiting for you on the outside?

you slammed the button quickly, taking the blue patch from the guards and applying it frantically before you turned, awkwardly tipping your head forward to let the hair fall over your eyes again as you ducked your head, not daring to look up. you slipped seamlessly into the 'O' crowd as they cheered for you, their eyes glued to the screen as the blue vote went up by one.

you held your breath and waited in silent agony as the minutes crawled by. had he seen you? was he looking at you now? you didn't dare look, but your neck itched with the temptation.

when the vote finally ended, revealing that the games were going to continue, you didn't cheer, but something sick washed over you—relief? hope? determination?

you were a walking contradiction: terrified for what the following days would bring, of what you saw today, but still desperate enough to want to grip onto this opportunity and take whatever you posibbly could from it. what else was left for you if you didn't?

thankfully, the guards supplied all of the players with food as soon as the vote ended. it was much appreciated, considering the guilt now steadily gnawing away at your conscience.

you shoved yourself into a dark corner of the dormitory, clutching the cold tin like a lifeline as you finished it all. it wasn't the best. the rice was dry, and considering it was the only thing you had to eat today, it barely even felt like a meal, but it was what you were given, and you sure as hell weren't about to waste it.

you sat with your back against the cold metal bars of the bunk beds, knees drawn up as you finished the water bottle in just a few gulps. you wiped your mouth with the back of your sleeve as your eyes flickered across the room, cautious, searching, scanning the sea of strangers yet again as you tried to wrap your head around the situation you were in.

you'd purposefully wedged yourself into a quiet corner of the room far away from the others, from him.

a thought struck you, then. how many of these people were already working together? you took in the murmurs and hushed discussions flowing around you, suddenly feeling a bit dumb in the small corner you'd tucked yourself in.

your hands curled around the now-empty water bottle, crushing it slightly as your breathing quickened. you'd barely spoken to anyone, all your energy having gone towards avoiding nam-gyu, and in a place like this, you were certain that that was a mistake.

a commotion across the room pulled your attention. you leaned forward, trying to get a better view around the beds.

you spotted nam-gyu first. he was busy pulling the guy from earlier—mg coin—off of his purple-haired friend. you watched as nam-gyu held him back, locking him in by his arms just long enough for his friend to get some punches in. the sound of a fist connecting with his jaw echoed through the room—once, twice, and then he crumpled to the ground with a pained grunt. it made you wince.

"i lost all that money because of you, fucker." his frien'ds voice carried over to your corner, loud and angry and filled with malice.

behind him, nam-gyu rolled up his sleeves. "hey, let me get in there." he directed his attention to the man on the floor as he ran up, face twisted in a sneer. "you son of a bitch—"

your eyes widened as the scene unfolded before you, mouth curling up in a mixture of disgust, confusion, and amusement as you watched as your ex-boyfriend completely fumbled his kick, promptly losing his balance and falling to the ground right after.

you held back a laugh, the hand still holding your water bottle going up to cover your mouth as you watched his friend shove him back out of the way. what a loser.

you turned away, settling back into your corner as you held the metal tray in front of you, running your thumbs over the cold surface in an attempt to soothe yourself as you waited patiently for all of this to be over.

the night came and went. you didn't sleep well.

an announcement echoed through the vast, sterile room, rousing you from your inadequate sleep and reminding you of exactly where you were. it took a moment for you to fully process the stuffy tracksuit scratching your skin and the stiff, foreign bed pressing up beneath you. your stomach twisted as you threw your thin blanket to the side and forced yourself down the stairs. the cheerful music sounding over the speakers did nothing to comfort you. if anything, it made you feel worse.

"the next game will start momentarily. please follow the instructions from our staff."

soon, you and the other players were being led through the hallways yet again. obedient lambs being led to the slaughter. you climbed up and down the staircases without a word, forcing yourself to inhale and exhale as you took in the brightly colored interior around you, a stark contrast to the danger that was no doubt waiting for you at your destination.

a small part of you wanted the stairs to go on forever, but soon enough, the big gray doors separating you from your potential death were sliding open. the pink guards filed into the room, you and the rest of the players in tow. the mechanical voice sounded over the speakers yet again.

"players, welcome to the second game. we will begin shortly. this game will be played in teams."

in teams.

"please take the next ten minutes to divide into groups of five. i will now repeat the instructions."

a chill spread through your body.

fuck. you could barely stand group projects when you were still in school, preferring to just get everything done on your own. it was exhausting, having to depend on others and put your trust in them to do their part and pull their weight. now, standing dumbly in a foreign room surrounded by a sea of strangers, it dawned on you that you had no choice.

before, an inadequate team meant your grade was on the line, an easy fix with a quick email to your professor.

here? an inadequate team meant certain death, and unfortunately for you, technology just hadn't advanced far enough to find an easy fix for a bullet to the head.

"please divide into teams starting now."

get it together.

you weaved in and out of the crowd, searching for someone merciful enough to take you in. people were already moving, scrambling into groups like ants, their voices overlapping hurriedly in rushed whispers and negotiations.

"already full."

"try somewhere else."

"sorry, we're set."

your heart pounded faster and faster with each rejection. what would happen if you didn't have a group? it wouldn't be fair. the guards wouldn't allow that. right?

you made eye contact with a group of four men, and you opened your mouth to speak as you steered yourself in their direction, a spark of hope bubbling in your chest.

"sorry. we already have our group," one of them spoke before you could even say anything.

you paused mid-step. their body language became clear to you. the way they turned their backs to you ever so slightly, huddling closer to each other in a tight circle that clearly existed to shut you out, just enough to subtly express their clear disinterest while maintaining plausable deniability. their eyes flicked over your body, looking you up and down.

your hand went up, gesturing vaguely at their huddle. admittedly, you were growing a bit desperate.

"you have four? i thought..."

you trailed off as another man sauntered up to their group, approaching them from the side and immediately drawing their full attention.

"are you still looking for a fifth player? i'd like to join you."

two of the men grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him quickly, wordlessly into their circle, clapping him on the shoulder like they were long-lost friends.

they didn't spare you a second glance.

you shut your mouth quickly, any and all words dying on your tongue as you watched another door shut in front of you.

when you looked around again, you found that almost everyone had arranged themselves neatly. circles of five dotted the room and continued to grow.

the groups were forming fast.

too fast.

you pictured yourself again, trying to claw yourself out of a hole that just kept on sinking deeper.

the air in the room somehow felt thinner. still, you pushed forward, gripping onto hope. there had to be an open spot somewhere.

and then—

a subtle shift in the air. enough to tug at your chest with a slight feeling of unease. the prickle of something unseen.

your body reacted before your mind did. something was off. you slowed, your movements stiffening.

and then, in your peripheral vision—

you felt it. the weight of his stare boring holes into your profile.

you froze, suddenly realizing how exposed you were. a lone ant wandering frantically around the established huddles. your heart dropped to your toes. slowly, you turned your head, just a fraction.

nam-gyu stood just a few feet away, caught mid-step, his body rigid like he'd just walked straight into a nightmare.

as you expected, his eyes are locked onto you, wide with something unreadable.

and for the first time in six months, you saw him. really saw him. not from a distance, not from a memory, not from old photos or in between the spaces in your dreams.

you saw him.

and he sure as hell saw you.

your breath caught, feeling like a deer in headlights.

you noted the increased sharpness of his jaw, the thinning of his face. a stray thought hit you, and you wondered if he'd been eating well since you were gone. his eyes looked tired. his hair was longer. it had been a long time.

at first, his face didn't change. he stood still, eerily still, almost like a statue, staring at you like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. he narrowed his eyes for a moment, leaning in ever so slightly as if confirming your identity.

recognition flashed across his features, and he faltered. his friend that he'd been following rushed ahead, completely unaware of nam-gyu lagging behind him.

then, his expression shifted.

you watched as his jaw tightened, lips pressing into a thin line. his hands curled into fists at his sides.

the way he looked at you—his eyes flashing with disbelief, anger, and underneath it all, something absolutely wrecked—it made your stomach twist.

you knew that look. you knew him. it didn't take a genius to guess what was going on in his head right now. just you.

nam-gyu's mind twisted as flickers of you rose to the surface, crawling out from their hiding places beneath his overwhelming fear. a cruel replay of the slow and steady crash of what the two of you had built together. and he'd been the one to push the first domino.

he remembered it all. how he'd begged like his life depended on it, sad and desperate and pleading as he felt the rug being pulled in real-time from beneath his feet. sent texts and left voicemails that went unanswered. chased after you for months when you suddenly decided you were done—for real, this time—and scrubbed yourself cleanly from his life. he'd tracked down mutual friends for a single hint or loose end, only to find that you'd scrubbed that, too.

something possessed you the day you found out, and you made quick work of it: new number, new socials, new place, new friends. you cleaned every surface, filed away each memory, dusted every cobweb sitting in the corners of what used to be your relationship, and somehow still found the time to leave your shoes neatly at the door.

you'd become a ghost in his life, only existing in loose items between couch cushions and scattered beneath the sink, in passing questions from people that he didn't care about in conversations that he didn't want to have.

and now—now you were here. standing right in front of him.

like you'd been raised from the fucking dead.

after months of searching. months of nothing.

you backed away a fraction of a step.

he saw it.

his nostrils flared, fingers twitched. his posture went rigid like a coil about to snap, like a creature about to pounce, but he didn't move towards you. he didn't say anything. just watched.

because he wouldn't give you the satistfaction. wouldn't let you know that this did something to him. that he even gave a shit. that the very sight of you still made his heart race and hands shake.

you snapped out of it, turning fast. your chest tightened with the urge to get away.

behind you, nam-gyu watched your back in retreat, only letting his eyes rest on you for a few more seconds before he forced himself to turn, following after his friend again as he desperately tried to ignore the blood rushing in his ears.

your face was pale as you looked from side to side, legs shaking with the effort of not crumbling to the floor. then, you saw him. alone and searching amongst the crowd. a tall man with his hair done up in a ponytail. his eyes locked on to another player, someone just a few feet away.

you watched in horror as another door threatened to close before you. you didn't think, didn't hesitate, your feet barely touching the ground as you sprinted towards him.

he startled when you grabbed onto his sleeve. perhaps a bit too rough. your nails dig into the fabric of his tracksuit, clutching him like you're afraid he might run away. you're aware of how crazy you must look, looking up at him with your eyes blown wide and all color drained from your face.

his brow furrowed, mouth opened, but you spoke first.

"please."

the word came out choked, desperate. your knuckles turned white around his sleeve, your grip tight enough for him to know that this wasn't just a casual request.

"let me join your team." it didn't even dawn on you that he might not even have a team, what with the way he was wandering around alone. you didn't really care. "please," you said again.

the man looked at you, his face still laced with surprise from the suddenness of your interaction. not even a second passed before he was nodding enthusiastically, looking almost relieved.

"sure!" he said simply. a smile. "come on."

his hand came out to tap on your shoulder twice. his touch was light, respectful, barely perceptible as he led you forward, towards his team. as if sensing your unease, he let his fingers linger on your shoulder, hovering just slightly above so he was barely even touching you. still, it tethered you to him with the promise of a group.

you didn't exhale until your legs finally came to a stop before them.

"sir, sir, i found someone!" he said, fingers fanning out as he gestured to you at his side. "or, she found me." he smiled kindly at you.

you nodded shakily. "thank you," you managed to get out, now that your pulse was slowly returning to normal.

the three older men acknowledged you politely.

some of the tension released from your shoulders. you had a team.

from across the room, nam-gyu watched next to his newly formed team, his lower lip caught between his teeth as his mind filled with static. he turned away quickly, scared that you'd turn around and catch him looking.

he played anxiously with his rings, sliding them on and off of his fingers as he struggled to catch his breath. the world muffled around him for a moment before he was dragged back by a random outburst of english.

"what's up, my brother! welcome to the thanos world." he—thanos, pulled the shortest member of the newly-formed team into a hug. "you're cute. come on."

nam-gyu felt like his head might split open.

relief felt funny in a place like this. as soon as your body started to unclench, albeit just a little bit, the world made sure to remind you that this whole ordeal was far from over, and soon enough, your body started clamming right back up.

sure, you were relieved that you'd found a team, but was it even the right one?

you didn't even know what the game was going to be, didn't even know if you were going to alive within the next hour.

the thought made you shudder, so you did your best to push it down, your attention fading in and out as they conversated around you. your hands twitched nervously at your sides as you fought against the urge to scan the room, to see where he was.

despite the temptation, you weren't sure if you were mentally equipped to handle what would happen if you were to make eye contact with nam-gyu for a second time. you hadn't turned around once since you'd joined dae-ho's side. you couldn't—not when the prickle of paranoia was icing up and down your spine, telling you that he was looking at you now, a warning. not when you knew exactly what kind of expression he was wearing—something between a sneer and a scowl, like he was daring you to look back.

you kept your gaze forward and your face unreadable. the last thing you needed was any outside people getting involved in whatever was brewing between the two of you. if you had any say in it, you hoped to get through all the games without speaking to nam-gyu at all.

somewhere across the room, nam-gyu's jaw tightened as he stuffed his hands into his pockets, his posture deceptively casual. he watched your back intently, like he was still coming to terms with the fact that it was really you. a cold, aching feeling had settled in his chest at the first sight of you, and it coiled tighter and tighter with each passing moment that you didn't try to look for him. you didn't even turn your head. it was like you didn't give a shit that he was there or the fact that you hadn't seen him in six. fucking. months. nam-gyu's whole body felt hot, but he couldn't say anything. not here. not now.

his team stood in a huddle beside him, chatting amongst themselves, though it was mostly thanos that was speaking. he said something loud and off-key, likely a joke. only one person laughed. nam-gyu could hear his voice, but he couldn't make out any of the words. he wasn't listening.

after a few more moments of that, of waiting in silent agony for you to show a single sign of caring, he forced himself to turn around, to tear his eyes away from you, pretending as if the past six months hadn't been absolute hell—as if he hadn't seen you in his dreams every single night, only to wake up dazed and confused in a sweat-soaked shirt, reality setting in as he realized that his bed was too cold and too small for the two of you. it always took a few seconds for him to remember that he was alone, and each time, it hurt just as bad as the night before.

and now? now you were here, real and right in front of him, sharing the same damn air, and you wouldn't even fucking look at him.

he was silent as he regarded his new team, a sour taste forming in his mouth for more reasons than one. every second that you were out of his view was agonizing, but he would never admit that. he could walk over to you right now, if he wanted, but he couldn't. not after you'd looked at him like that—like you didn't even know him.

he refused to give you the satisfaction of turning him away yet again.

he had more important things to focus on, anyways. at least, that's what he kept telling himself.

soon enough, the timer ran out and teams were finalized. all the players were lined up on the floor within their respected circle. you stared at the track out of the corner of your eyes, noting the rainbow pattern indifferently as you rubbed slow, soothing circles into your knees.

you noticed that the rest of your team seemed somewhat acquainted as they chatted amongst themselves, likely from the first game. it made you feel a bit out of place, considering you were the last minute addition hurriedly and desperately wedged into their group.

however, their slight familiarity with each other was welcome. if anything, it meant that the team would function well. at least, you hoped it would. you breathed a silent prayer, thankful that, despite the fact that you'd basically taken a shot in the dark when you asked to join, your team seemed promising. seemed normal. it was the least you could ask for in a strange place like this. either way, there was no backing out now.

the first round of players went up, and you watched intently as they lined up and were promptly cuffed together by the guards.

after a brief discussion with your team, it was decided that you were going to play ddakji. your mind drifted back to the other day. how innocent and unassuming the game seemed that night on the platform. you pushed yourself to your knees to get a better view.

ddakji, flying stone, gonggi, spinning top, and finally, jegi.

you sucked in a breath as you took it all in, thankful for the fact that your team hadn't been called to go up first, though the apprehension still found a way to creep in. your fingers twitched in your lap, shaking with steadily rising anxiety as you watched the clock. you fisted your hands into the material of your sweatpants in an attempt to still them, a shudder tearing through your body as the man in front of you messed up flying stone yet again.

next to you, dae-ho noticed.

"hey," he said, his voice firm but still gentle. you tore your eyes away from the track for a moment to return his gaze. at that, he leaned over and placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder. his touch was as light and soft as it was earlier, barely perceptible as he patted you. he pressed his lips into a thin, firm line before he nodded at you, just once. "we're gonna do just fine. don't worry too much." after a moment, he added, "plus you're with two ex-marines!" he furrowed his brows as he said it, pumping a singular fist in the air between the two of you with a solid look of determination on his face.

next to him, jung-bae leaned over, his face just as serious as he wrapped an arm around dae-ho, shaking him vigorously. "that's right! there's nothing a marine can't do."

they both looked at each other now, nodding their heads as if affirming each other's statements.

dae-ho turned back to you with a steady, unwavering gaze that you could only hope to return. his voice was confident and even as he spoke again, "you're in good hands with us, miss."

you breathed in again, giving him a small nod in lieu of a response, and for the first time that day, you almost felt like smiling.

somewhere in front of you, nam-gyu's neck was stiff with tension, struggling against the temptation to scan the faces behind him. he couldn't risk you seeing, couldn't risk you getting the outlandish idea that he gave a shit, not after you'd been so adamant about not looking at him—and yet, despite how badly he tried to focus on the track and preparing himself for spinning top, questions continued to fire mercilessly through his mind.

which track were you in? where were you sitting? which game were you going to play? would you go up first, or would he? and most importantly—who was in your team besides that guy you'd ran up to? his eye twitched, remembering. yeah. the guy with the stupid fucking ponytail.

he replayed the moment in his head over and over again, recounting that terrified, wide-eyed look that'd spread over your face at the sight of him, like seeing him again was somehow scarier than what the two of you had seen the other day.

in the time you'd been apart, he'd done a lot of thinking. about how long it'd take for you to crack and finally reach out to him. what you'd do when—not if—you saw him again. if you'd care. if you'd be happy. maybe even relieved.

it seemed like he got his answer, but he wasn't the least bit happy about it. he seethed in silent rage, nibbling anxiously at his lower lip as he desperately tried to maintain the casual slouch he was forcing himself into.

he didn't care.

really, he didn't.

next to him, thanos bobbed around to the soundtrack in his own head. nam-gyu watched him carefully out of the corners of his eyes, analyzing his face for a moment before dropping his gaze down to the cross that was no doubt dangling from his neck, hidden behind the zipper of his sweatshirt.

he'd seen it earlier—thanos hunched over on his bed as he delicately plucked a pill from his cross, tucking it away quickly the second nam-gyu'd asked about it. the image of the pills flitted across his mind, all colorful and round and tantalizing, and most importantly, swaying innocently back and forth less than a foot away.

nam-gyu swiped his tongue along the front of his teeth, temporarily broken out of his stupor by the possibility, the promise, that if he just played his cards right, he would be able to get high. would be able to drift away and get his mind off of everything. off of you. it definitely wouldn't be the first time he'd done so.

his eyes drifted back up to the big, digital clock hanging on the wall, and he watched with bated breath as it slowly wound down, each second feeling like a punch to the gut.

finally, it reached zero. neither team had made it to the end, though one of them had come tantalizingly close, all five of them standing just inches away from their life. the guards wasted no time as they stepped forward. nam-gyu knew what came next. everyone did, and yet, it didn't make it even the slightest bit easier to watch.

in an instant, the shots rang out, followed by the sickening thud of ten lifeless bodies hitting the ground.

for a second, his mind was blank, overtaken by the ice cold surge of fear taking over his system.

he clenched his hands into fists, his nails digging painfully into the meat of his palm as every cell in his body shook with unbridled fear.

it wasn't a question anymore. if the games didn't kill him, nam-gyu was certain that the anxiety fucking would. his stomach was doing somersaults, tying itself painfully into knots. he tore his eyes away from the track, from the bodies, and leaned towards thanos, a heat creeping up his neck as he grabbed him, desperate for something tangible to hold onto.

thanos barely acknowledged him, save for a curt glance and a sharp "what?"

nam-gyu swallowed his pride, forcing down the air catching in his throat as he spoke. he needed those fucking drugs, and he was going to get them.

it didn't take much convincing, thankfully. just a few words and a tug of his sleeve. the second thanos gave him that look, something akin to genuine concern—nam-gyu knew he had him.

and of course, less than a minute later, nam-gyu was eagerly crunching a bitter, chalky pill between his teeth. it was fast-acting, for sure, but the relief washed over the instant it hit his tongue. it hadn't even kicked in yet, but it didn't matter. just knowing that he had it was enough.

he'd get through this game. he'd get his damn money. then he'd get the fuck out.

once he did, he'd pay off his debt and start new, and you wouldn't even matter anymore. at least, that's what he told himself as he finally swallowed, feeling every last bit of the pill as it scratched its way down his throat.

he repeated it over and over in his mind like a mantra, as if saying it enough times would make it true. and yet, even as the drug started to settle in, even as the warmth pleasantly unfurled in his limbs, he knew, deep down, that it was bullshit.

a few more teams went up. most passed, thankfully. you tried not to think too hard about the ones that didn't.

every time you heard the ding, the signifier that a player had passed their game and could advance, you cheered, as did everyone else. the room was alive with a static kind of energy, lively and laced with an underlying apprehension. every time the players celebrated, the crowd whooped, jumping up and down and grabbing at each other wildly. next to you, dae-ho hollered, pumping his fists in the air as he cheered the next team on. he turned to look at you a few times, staring down at you with furrowed brows and that same strong sense of determination, like he was trying to convince you, and maybe even himself, that your team would be able to do just as well.

up until now, the teams had been made up of strangers, just nameless faces and fellow unfortunate souls—most of which, you'd likely never get to know.

when the next pair of teams were called up, your eyes followed the movement, watching as the next players took their place on the track. your stomach clenched when you saw him.

you noted the number on the back of nam-gyu's tracksuit, committing it to memory. 124. a morbid thought bubbled up to the forefront of your mind. no matter how you felt about him or what'd transpired between the two of you, you desperately hoped that this wouldn't be the last time you saw his number.

the air shifted just slightly, your tongue suddenly feeling too big for your mouth as you pressed yourself up on your knees, trying to get a better view, emboldened by the fact that you were hidden in the thrum of the crowd.

you watched as the guards approached, leaning down to get his team situated. the sound of their cuffs clicking into place sent a shudder through your body. based on their order, you knew that he was going to be playing spinning top.

he didn't look at you, not that he'd know where to look in the first place.

you narrowed your eyes, leaning forward as your eyes raked over him. his body appeared relaxed, almost too relaxed, but you knew better. if you knew nam-gyu at all, you were certain that there was no way he was capable of remaining completely calm in a situation like this. you continued to watch him, your eyes staring intently at his profile and at the stupid, dopey grin spreading across his face, his expression at complete odds with the situation at hand.

you balked a bit. how the hell was he smiling right now? he looked over at thanos, and you watched as they exchanged that same glossy, almost far-away look with each other before linking arms, jostling each other with the movement. nam-gyu rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, jumping up and down just slightly as a dazed laugh escaped his lips. he wobbled, and it almost looked like he was going to fall back, but he tightened his grip on thanos, pulling himself forward and correcting his balance.

thanos snapped him out of it, shaking him vigorously where their arms were linked as if trying to hype him up. "come on, bro! let's do this!" his voice was as loud as always, boisterous and confident, like there wasn't a doubt in his mind that they'd make it through the game. he had that same dopey smile on his face, one that matched nam-gyu's perfectly. you weren't sure if the sight comforted you or not.

the shorter teammate to his left struggled to stay upright in response to both of their erratic movements as they continued to jostle each other, giggling like kids. a small gasp left his lips as he tried not to fall, shifting his legs and leaning forward more to accomodate the weight of nam-gyu's arm slung across his shoulder. further down to his left, the one girl on his team rolled her eyes, shaking her head at the two of them with something you guessed was regret. the man at the far end looked more confused than anything.

you blinked. if you didn't know any better, you'd think nam-gyu was high. you'd seen him in that state more than enough times to know when he was. but... in here? how could he be?

suddenly, the gun shot sounded to signal the start of the game, interrupting your thoughts and pulling your attention back to the present. your breath caught as the five minute timer started to count down. without wasting another second, his team began to advance.

nam-gyu's first two teammates passed without a hitch.

his third teammate, mousy and skittish and uncertain, messed up gonggi once or twice, only to promptly face nam-gyu's onslaught of curses as he shook him back and forth with a vehement sneer, a display that made you wince. soon enough, he finally caught the five pieces, his palm turning up quickly to prove to the guards that he'd done it. the crowd—you included—breathed a collective sigh of relief that was followed by roaring cheers.

nam-gyu was next. the first time he went, he messed up. the top hit the ground with a snap. his throw was too rough, not the right angle, and it bounced up, coming back down with a plop as it sat motionless on the floor. you winced. every atom in your body was cheering for him, begging him to make it through.

as if getting revenge for her previous teammate, the girl reached out as soon as the top clattered pathetically to the floor, grabbing nam-gyu roughly by the collar and shaking him angrily. he didn't say anything as she cursed at him, just took it, his eyes wide as his chest rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths.

on his second attempt, despite the stupid way thanos was dancing next to him—an erratic purple blob invading his periphery—thank fucking god, he got it right.

the top shot out like a bullet, landed, and began to spin, smooth and quick.

a deep breath shuddered out of you as you watched him celebrate, his expression incredulous as relief washed over him. his legs shook wildly, almost buckling under his weight, and it looked like he was barely resisting the urge to jump up and down before he pulled himself back together. you felt something unclench in you at the sight.

thankfully, thanos passed his game on the first try, easily making up for the time his past two teammates had lost.

and just like that, nam-gyu's team was off the chopping block.

you watched nam-gyu's back as they walked away, emboldened by the fact that you were shielded by the crowd. if he turned around, he wouldn't be able to find you. it didn't end up mattering, though, because he disappeared into the exit without so much as a glance over his shoulder.

you sunk back down onto your knees and did your best to pretend that it didn't mean something to you.

in the dormitory, nam-gyu sat with his team, his legs pressed together, arms slung lazily across his lap, a mask of indifference plastered across his face.

he grinded his teeth behind his lips, his nails digging into the skin of his thighs over his sweatpants as he pretended like he wasn't waiting.

waiting for you.

he hadn't spoken too much since his team had passed and they'd arrived in the main room. he was too focused on not thinking about you, on not letting anyone see how much he wanted to know if you were still alive. the drugs had worn off a bit ago, bringing him back to the reality that he, unfortunately, gave a shit.

the very real possibility of the last time he ever saw you being him watching your back from a distance as you huddled closer to another man, looking up at him like he was your fucking savior, haunted him more and more with every team that passed through the door. and of course, it was every damn team but yours.

his tongue came out to swipe anxiously at his bottom lip before he caught it between his teeth, nibbling at it absent-mindedly as he fought the urge to get up and fucking scream.

and then—

the door opened its mouth yet again. he held his breath, waiting to see what it would spit out.

as if something up above had heard his silent, hesitant plea, you finally walked in a second later.

at the sight of you, his heart jumped, his whole body jolting with the instinct to move, to stand up, to go to you, to—

no.

he forced himself to relax, to exhale. his whole body locked up again as he slowly leaned back, like he hadn't just been seconds away from losing his mind.

as if to puncutate his thought process, the rest of your teammates followed, trailing behind you as they emerged from the door. nam-gyu felt his blood run cold, his whole body tightening as he watched him—that motherfucker—jog shamelessly to catch up with you. like he was your friend. like he had any business getting close to you. like he fucking knew you.

nam-gyu's eyes traced his every moment, eyes flicking between you and him. each time that his tiny ponytail bobbed, nam-gyu's rage only grew. he watched as he fell into an easy, casual step next to you, immediately grabbing your attention with a light tap to your shoulder. when you didn't shy away, didn't shrug it off, just let it rest there, nam-gyu's throat seized up. you looked up at him with relief, soft and gentle as you came down from the anxious nightmare that you'd all just walked out of. it made him sick, the way that you looked at him—this stranger, this intruder—with something almost akin to familiarity, as if he wasn't just some random guy that you'd only teamed up with because he just so happened to be the convenient choice. as if nam-gyu wasn't sitting right fucking there just across the room, basically begging you, daring you to acknowledge him.

he swallowed hard, flexing his fingers against his lap as he forced himself to exhale, to lean back like he wasn't barely resisting the urge to walk right up and rip you away from that loser.

he made sure to overcompensate. because he was fine. really, he was fine. and it had nothing to do with you, of course.

"fuck, way too many are still alive," nam-gyu huffed, forcing the sentence out as he let his head loll back lazily. he leaned further into the steps. his heart was still racing, fingers still twitching against his leg as he tried to appear casual.

but he was still watching.

out of the corner of his eye, he saw the way your shoulders were still tense, just slightly, but enough for him to catch. he saw the way you kept your gaze forward, rigid and stiff, like you didn't want to run the risk of accidentally looking at him.

and god—it pissed him off.

after he watched your back retreat into the bunks along with your team, he turned to his own teammate, min-su, the small one who'd played gonggi, pasuing for a moment before he opened his mouth to speak again.

he was fine.

and you were fine, too. like he gave a shit.

"hey. yo."

min-su's eyes snapped up to look at him as he hesitantly uncurled himself from his protective stance. he looked at him expectantly, movements uncertain and skittish.

"how many do you think are left?"

min-su blinked. "sorry?"

"i'm asking you, how many roaches do you think we have left in here?" he leaned forward, a sickly smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he pushed the words out, slow and gentle, as if he was speaking to a child.

he needed to regain his composure, needed to relax. the color was slowly returning to his face. he watched min-su bumble around, eyes searching the room as if calculating the number in his head.

across the room, your voice suddenly rose up above the rest. nam-gyu snapped to attention, mouth going slack. he pretended not to notice, pretended that he hadn't been listening for it this whole time.

he watched min-su's mouth move in response to his question, but he could barely hear him, now too busy trying to catch your words.

after a brief exchange, you'd come to know all of their names. gi-hun, jung-bae, young-il, and—the one that took you in—dae-ho. according to him, it meant "big tiger." cute.

"and you?" dae-ho asked, an expectant smile on his face that contrasted the tension permeating the room.

you said your name, and he repeated it back to you, nodding slowly as if he was committing it to memory.

"well, it's very nice to meet you. let's continue do our best," he said, a determined fist clenching in front of him as he turned to make eye contact with the whole team.

you hoped that even a fraction of his optimism would rub off on you.

during the brief conversation, you'd also learned that dae-ho was the only son for two generations and that it'd been his father's idea for him to join the marines. it felt nice, getting to know them. it made you feel a little less scared, like you had people you could rely on.

they all congratulated each other for their successful performance in the game, including you. your face flushed with the praise, a feeling of security falling over you like a blanket. you hoped it would last.

the pleasant exchange was interrupted by the sound of a loud, mechanical beep as the large door at the front of the room slid open. a group of guards stepped through, standing stiff and tall as they regarded everyone from their elevated position on the platform.

"congratulations to all of you for making it through the second game," the square guard spoke, their voice void of any emotion. "here are the results of the second game."

the guard raised an arm to the ceiling and clicked a button. the room darkened, the only light coming from the now-lit piggybank hanging from the ceiling. it cast a warm glow over the cold, sterile room, highlighting the shadows in everyone's face, the bags under their eyes. you watched with bated breath as money continued to drop in, your eyes widening as the digital jingle played in time with the numbers flashing on the main screen, the value climbing higher and higher.

"in the second game, 110 players were eliminated." the guard continued, explaining the new sum that would be split between the remaining players.

your chest tightened, something guilty and cold taking root in your heart as you processed the numbers laid out plainly for you to see. you made fists in the fabric of your sweats. it wasn't enough. not nearly enough. your mouth went dry as you listened to other players voice their anger and disbelief around you.

the square guard acknowledged their frustration, though they didn't dwell on it, pushing forward as they continue to speak, "you will now take a vote to decide whether to continue the games or not."

a hushed murmur buzzed through the crowd as everyone discussed with their respective teams and the loose alliances they'd formed over the past two days.

had it really only been two days? you felt like you'd been here for ages.

the guards wheeled out the voting booth once again. you picked at your nails, swallowed around the lump in your throat, and in an instant, just like before, you had your answer.

after a collective moment of silent deliberation, dae-ho spoke behind you, "i'm telling you. we'll get out this time." you turned to look at him, at the way he huffed in frustration, gripping the blue patch on his chest before letting it fall from his hands, staring at it like it'd personally offended him. "damn it. a marine should think strategically and know when to retreat." his voice was confident, so matter-of-fact, like nothing could change his mind.

in front of him, you felt the cold trickle of guilt run down your spine. because you knew exactly what you were going to do. you had to.

you whispered something to yourself, adding up the numbers in your head over and over again as if it'd somehow change the reality that no matter what, it just wouldn't be enough. you'd almost died twice, and it still wouldn't mean a thing if you stopped now. next to you, jung-bae did the same.

"we have to end the games here." gi-hun nodded at all of you, like he needed you all to understand. "i will help you guys out when we get out. please. trust me and support this vote." his voice was firm. a promise.

"guys, all huddle up again," dae-ho said, nodding next to you with a bright, expectant smile spread across his face. the sight made you nauseous. he stuck his arm out in the center of your circle, his eyes flicking between you and jung-bae expectantly, a determined glimmer in his eyes.

he hesitated, as did you. you saw. the two of you exchanged a look that the others didn't seem to catch, but nonetheless, you both put your hands in the circle at the same time, your mouth going dry as you failed to return dae-ho's enthusiasm.

he perked up as the final hand entered the middle of the huddle. "in 1, 2, 3..." he pushed your hands up in the air with a flourish. "victory at all costs!"

you swallowed as you let your hand fall limply to your side, staring intently at the floor. the gesture was cute, reassuring, but you knew damn well that it'd done absolutely nothing to change your mind.

unfortunately for you, you were the second one out of your team who was called up to place your vote. you followed young-il, who had voted to leave.

your whole team watched your back expectantly, as did nam-gyu. he was standing at the back of the room, waiting patiently for his turn, his whole body taut and rife with tension.

after only a moment's hestiation, you decided to just rip the bandaid off. you slammed the 'o' button quickly, as if doing it fast enough would prevent your team from seeing your betrayal.

you sucked in a breath as your face lit up with a flash of blue. you shrunk away from the voting booth in shame, retreating sheepishly towards the 'o' side. you couldn't bring yourself to look at the others.

watching you from just a few feet away, nam-gyu let out a shuddery breath, almost amused. it turned out that you hadn't been completely brainwashed by your team, after all.

his turn came and went. he hit the 'o' button without another thought, staring you down the whole time as he walked over and took his position with the others that'd voted to continue. you held his gaze for a few seconds before turning away, suddenly annoyed at the fact that whether you liked it or not, the two of you had agreed on something.

soon enough, the vote had ended.

"based on the majority vote, we'll proceed to the third game tomorrow," the guard announced.

the dormitory was quiet, the atmosphere heavier than before, weighed down by the betrayal displayed through the patch on your chest. the food in your hands didn't really help despite the hunger gnawing at your stomach. you toed at the ground with your shoe, feeling ashamed. but you couldn't go home. not with that money. it wouldn't have made a dent.

your own arguments died on your tongue as you looked up from the floor, chancing a glance over your shoulder where the others were eating. dae-ho caught your eyes. he'd already been looking at you, at jung-bae. you quickly snapped your head back into place. heat rose to your cheeks as you clenched your fists in your lap.

next to you, jung-bae cleared his throat. "you voted to stay, right?"

you nodded stiffly, flicking at a loose thread on your sweatshirt. "yeah."

he exhaled, rubbing the back of his head. "same."

no one else spoke.

you turned to steal another glance at dae-ho, but in that moment, he was already stomping over to the both of you, catching you in the act again.

he called out your names, a hint of frustration in his voice as he regarded the two of you. "hey. just come sit with us already."

"no, really, i'm fine right here," jung-bae mumbled. you could tell he wasn't.

"me too," you added weakly.

"oh, come on."

you watched as dae-ho practically hauled jung-bae to his feet, forcing him up before pushing him forward, not like he was putting up much of a fight.

then, dae-ho looked at you, his expression unreadable. you thought you saw a hint of disappointment there, and it made your chest sting.

then, there was a gentle hand at your side, tugging lightly at your sleeve and signalling you to get up.

"dae-ho," you sighed, feeling guilty for saying his name after what you did. "i'd really rather just sit right here."

jung-bae nodded quickly in agreement, but dae-ho continued to push him forward.

"then you two should've sat further away," he huffed.

dae-ho led jung-bae away, depositing him by the others roughly.

"it bugs me to see you sitting there so pathetically!" he said again, pausing for just a moment before he turned back to retrieve you.

his footsteps were softer as he approached for the second time, and your mouth was already forming an apology when he squatted down next to you.

he put up a hand, waving you off. "don't. it's okay," he sighed, as if he was already anticipating what you were going to say. he placed a gentle hand on your shoulder. his touch was light as he patted you. "to be honest with you—the both of you—i, um. i get why you did it."

you let out a shaky breath, the guilt still weighing heavy in your chest.

when you didn't respond, he cleared his throat, lips tight as he stared at the ground in front of you. "the money wasn't enough for you, right?"

you nodded dumbly. "yeah."

you saw him nod back gently in your periphery. "the money isn't enough for me either, so when i went up to vote," he paused, his expression tight and laced with guilt as he put up a finger, "i did think about playing one more game."

you turned to him, finally letting yourself meet his eyes. slowly, you nodded back to him, thankful for his understanding, for his sensitivity, as he regarded you.

he stared back at you softly, and it made you feel warm, his comfort coming with a gentle ease. you gave him a smile, and he returned it, the moment passing between the two of you fondly. on your shoulder, he finally let the weight of his hand rest fully onto you. he gave you a reassuring squeeze that made your heart jump a little.

"i'm not sure what your situation is," he put his his hands up in the air at that, "and, of course, you don't have to tell me. i won't pry. but no matter what happens in the next game—or, uh, if there's any games after that—just... know that we'll be here for you to lean on. we'll all lean on each other as a team, and then we'll get through this, okay?"

you exhaled sharply through your nose, taking in the sincerity of his words before you responded, "thank you. really. thank you." something in you wanted to reach out and hug him. "thank you for understanding."

dae-ho opened his mouth to respond, to reassure you that there was nothing to thank him for, but then—

"hey!" jung-bae called from behind the two of you, his arms crossed grumpily when you both turned to look at him. "where's my comfort? i voted to continue, too, you know!"

behind him, gi-hun and young-il were huddled together, tight-lipped and faces blank as they watched the three of you. you felt yourself clam up again, the guilt creeping back in under the weight of their stare, under the knowledge that they'd taken you in so kindly, and you betrayed them.

dae-ho cleared his throat again, patting you once more as he rose to his feet. "come on," he said softly, the moment lost as he gestured for you to stand.

he held out a hand, and you took it, rising slowly to your feet as you steeled yourself to face the others. you hesitated, but then dae-ho's hand was pressing gently at the middle of your back, pushing you forward so you couldn't change your mind.

he leaned down so he was next to your ear, voice dropping to a whisper. "hey. the two of them might look mad right now, but i know they'll understand." he pressed his lips together as you finally stepped forward. "i'm here, too, okay?" he added quickly. "don't forget what i said. we're a team."

"thanks, dae-ho," you whispered back.

he smiled. "anytime."

you let dae-ho lead you to them, his hand finally dropping from your back as you came to a stop in front of the rest of your team. you regarded them with a duck of your head and quick apology.

soon, all of you were sitting next to each other again, the five of you silent as the group reestablished itself. you picked at your bread, not quite ready to eat. instead, you watched the back of dae-ho's head as he chewed, a small fondness blooming in your chest at your newfound friend.

nam-gyu watched the entire interaction from across the room, jaw clenched so tight that he might crack a tooth. his eyes were wide and unblinking, almost burning with the intensity that he was staring the two of you down with.

his fingers tapped against his knee, sharp, restless movements, a stark contrast to the relaxed slouch he was forcing himself into.

what the fuck was that?

his eyes burned as they stayed locked onto you and dae-ho. he watched you as you finally opened up your bread, chewing slowly. in front of you, dae-ho seemed to remember something before turning around and catching your attention.

he spoke. you laughed. a real laugh, not a forced one. and he saw it, the way that you leaned in just slightly, like you actually gave a shit about what he said, the way dae-ho had looked at you—was still looking at you—like you were someone he wanted to protect.

his hand on your shoulder. on your back. his face pressed right next to yours as he whispered something, low and inaudible.

it was unbearable.

it was fucking humiliating.

and yet, he couldn't tear his eyes away.

even now, you still hadn't made an attempt to search the room, to try and find him in the crowd.

she was mine.

the thought bubbled to the surface before he could stop it, before he could squish it down and pretend that this didn't matter, that you didn't matter.

he hated how pathetic the thought sounded, wincing at it even though it only existed in the privacy of his own head.

still, it wasn't wrong. you had been his. he'd been yours. maybe he still was. and now? now you were sitting next to some random guy, talking, laughing, staring down at him like nam-gyu never even existed.

and the worst part? he couldn't do shit about it.

not in front of all these people.

not when he was supposed to be acting like he didn't care.

from here, he was able to get the full view of your team. and of course, just his luck, the guy that'd shut down thanos, that'd kicked him to the ground in front of everyone—in front of you—was sitting at the very back of the group, like some kind of guard dog.

his fingers curled into fists.

"oi, nam-su," a voice interrupted.

he barely registered it at first, but then thanos clapped a hand on his shoulder, snapping him out of his thoughts.

nam-gyu forced himself to glance up, schooling his face into something neutral, so lost and disoriented from the sickening display before him that he didn't even notice that thanos had fucked up his name. again. "huh?"

thanos was looking at him like he'd been talking for a while. "you even listening? i said mg coin's full of shit."

nam-gyu followed his gaze. mg coin—myung-gi—whatever, was sitting with his own team, laughing about something.

thanos sneered. "look at him. laughing like he has the right to. like he didn't fuck me over." he nodded at nam-gyu, eyes lingering on myung-gi before finally turning to him. "let's jump him," he muttered. "but not when that fucker's looking." he looked up again, gesturing with his chin across the room. nam-gyu turned, eyes landing on your corner yet again, at the old man that'd stopped them the first time they tried to get back at myung-gi.

nam-gyu just nodded absently, his mind still somewhere else.

it took a moment to realize something, his eyes drifting back down to dae-ho—this was the perfect opportunity.

if he could get thanos on his side, maybe he could get rid of dae-ho, break him down and convince him to stay the fuck away from you. he wasn't sure exactly how he'd do it, but it was a start. two people were always going to be better than one.

he straightened, his gaze darkening as he leaned forward, scooting closer to thanos.

"hey," he said, tone casual. "you know that guy in front of him? the one with the ponytail who's choking down his bread like a pig?" nam-gyu gestured with his neck, maintaining eye contact with thanos.

thanos raised a brow, eyes flicking down to nam-gyu and then back up again. "what about him?"

nam-gyu exhaled sharply, shaking his head and forcing some frustration in his voice. "he's annoying as hell. i was listening to him earlier when he was talking to his team. looks like he's all buddy-buddy with those old guys." he nibbled his lip, trying to figure out how he could spin this, how he could get thanos to hate him, too. "including the one that was giving you shit earlier." thanos narrowed his eyes at that, showing that he was listening but not exactly following. "the dude thinks he's hot shit just because he was in the fucking marines, or whatever."

thanos hummed in acknowledgement, unimpressed. "yeah? so?"

nam-gyu floundered, wires crossing in his brain. he was losing him. he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so the others couldn't hear, a last ditch effort. "i don't trust him. he's always trying to act all high and mighty, all noble and shit, like he's better than us. like he's not just as fucked as we are."

thanos didn't look convinced. he shrugged, leaning back against the bed rail. in that moment, nam-gyu knew he lost him.

"he's just some guy. who cares?" thanos turned his head in dismissal, his gaze straying to myung-gi yet again. nam-gyu watched his face shift into something hateful and mean.

the sentiment was right, but it was aimed at the wrong target.

nam-gyu grit his teeth, fingers twitching against his knee.

he wanted thanos to fucking care.

wanted thanos to hate dae-ho as much as he suddenly, violently, and irrationally did.

but thanos wasn't biting.

his focus was elsewhere—on myung-gi, on his own anger, his own grudges. sure, nam-gyu was pissed at myung-gi, too, hated him, even, but at least myung-gi wasn't out here whispering in your ear, staring at you all sweet and kind, acting like he had the right to touch you. the thought made his blood boil all over again.

one last attempt rose from his lips like a signal flare. it sounded stupid in his head, but he had to try.

"he said your hair was stupid," nam-gyu blurted out. his voice was at a normal volume this time, and the rest of his team looked over, confused.

at that, thanos's head snapped back, his eyebrows going up again. "he did?"

nam-gyu nodded wildly. "yeah, yeah, he did. he was laughing with that old dude, and everything." after a pause, he quickly added, "when you weren't listening, i heard it. they were all making fun of you, that guy especially. i would've said something, but—"

thanos silenced him with a hand, and for a moment, it just hung in the air. nam-gyu held his breath. then, both of his hands came up to frame both sides of his hair, fingers going up to shape the purple strands back up into place, like little horns.

"no one," he started, a little frown coming to tug at his lips, "makes fun of thanos the great's hair."

holy shit.

nam-gyu bit back a smile, trying not to seem as excited as he was. "yeah, i agree." he gestured with his head again, his hair whipping around his face with the wild, sudden movement. "wanna jump him, too?"

thanos brushed him off, still fixing his hair. maybe he'd pushed just a bit too far just a bit too soon.

"relax, nam-su." he was still watching myung-gi out of the corner of his eye, neck flexing tight with tension once again at the mere sight of him. "i've got some other shit to worry about, right now."

"nam-gyu," he muttered.

it looked like he had no choice but to drop it. for now.

but his mind was already racing, already plotting.

he didn't know how yet, didn't know when—but he was gonna get you away from dae-ho. one way or another.

the men's bathroom was full, accompanied by the expected din of streams hitting porcelain, stall doors slamming shut, and toilets flushing. a little pocket of normalcy amidst the chaos.

myung-gi stared down, concentrated on his task. then, he felt it.

a presence.

three, actually.

he barely had time to register the movement before thanos and nam-gyu stepped in on either side of him, boxing him in at the urinal. behind him, gyeong-su stood with his arms at his sides, silent and uncertain, but still present.

myung-gi pressed his lips together tightly, the air suddenly turning suffocating.

it didn't take much guessing to know where this interaction was going to go. there was an exchange of words, of uncomfortable stares, of barely disguised aggression—mostly on thanos's part—and then, finally, in a sudden burst of anger, thanos was slamming myung-gi against the tile, his other arm reeled back and ready to go.

"you son of a bitch. got a death wish?"

nam-gyu watched it happen from a distance, a little bit of his earlier frustration slipping away at the sight of myung-gi getting tormented.

then, as if on cue, the entrance to the bathroom opened, and—of fucking course. he was there.

a tiny little ponytail bobbed into view, perched perfectly at the top of his head.

nam-gyu's eye twitched.

"i didn't even eat anything, so why..." jung-bae trailed off, young-il and dae-ho following behind him.

thanos stopped, eyes instantly locking with young-il's. the latter regarded him sternly. a silent challenge. thanos was an absolute moron, sure, but he knew when to call it quits.

he stood there for a few moments, gripping myung-gi with a tightness that said this wasn't over, eyes glaring daggers into his face one last time before shoving him back. his body jerked, but he held thanos's gaze, chest heaving as he watched him turn away.

"i'm watching you," thanos muttered in english, lips tight with anger.

nam-gyu lingered for a moment as he watched the exchange, unwilling to move just yet.

his eyes flitted right to dae-ho, to the way he was staring at him and thanos, like they were beneath him. like they were scum. like he was gonna fucking do something about it.

thanos took a few casual step forward, retreating. then, he paused, eyes landing on dae-ho. his mind buffered for a moment, as if recalling something.

there was a flash of recognition as his peanut brain grasped at a memory, at what nam-gyu had said less than thirty minutes ago. at that, he leaned backwards just slightly, giving himself enough space to size dae-ho up with a lazy flick of his eyes. their heights were matched, perfectly at eye level with each other.

in front of him, dae-ho straightened, standing up just a little taller, as if anticipating a fight. jung-bae and young-il watched, eyes narrowed and muscles taut, unsure of what to expect in the coming moments.

then—

"tch," thanos clicked his tongue, cutting through the tension. he regarded dae-ho with a flippant look as he tilted his head, unimpressed. "so. you're the one whose got some shit to say about my hair, huh?"

dae-ho balked, confusion leaking into his expression. the others looked just as confused, save for nam-gyu. whatever they all thought thanos was going to say, it definitely wasn't that.

the silence stretched for a few beats too long, and it struck dae-ho that it was his turn to speak, but he wasn't sure what the hell he was supposed to say to that.

his voice came out awkward, the tension that'd been simmering in his muscles just moments before fizzling out with nowhere to go. "um... no?"

"you think you can switch up the story now that i'm standing right in front of you?" thanos shook his head, his jaw tight and indignant as he pointed over to nam-gyu and gyeong-su. at that, nam-gyu tensed, exchanging a look with dae-ho for the first time ever. caught in a lie. he hadn't expected thanos to supply dae-ho with a source. "my bro told me everything, so don't even try it." he scoffed. "do you know who i am, man?" he pressed closer into dae-ho's space, but dae-ho didn't tense, just glanced between them incredulously, like they'd suddenly grown an extra head.

to nam-gyu's left, gyeong-su decided to speak for the first time in this whole bathroom exchange, answering the question for dae-ho. "he's thanos, the rapper!" his voice went up a few octaves at the opportunity, almost excited as he moved his hands and started to rap for the second time that day. "i'm gonna kill half of humanity with my raps—"

nam-gyu quickly silenced him—again—with a quick tap to the shoulder.

thanos paid them no mind, just shook his head as he narrowed his eyes at dae-ho, judging him. his hand came up to quickly flick at a flyaway strand of hair by dae-ho's brow, making him flinch just slightly, though it was out of surprise rather than fear.

"sloppy," thanos said in english. "worry about yourself before you say anything about me." then, after a a moment, he pointed at him, a ringed finger waggling just inches away from his face. "i'm watching you, too."

then, without another word, he pushed his way through the door.

nam-gyu watched him go. it was his cue to leave, too. he walked over, forcing his back up straighter, trying to appear bigger and taller than he really was. he locked eyes with dae-ho, a sneer plastered across his face, a clear display of his hatred. there was no hiding it now, anyways, what with the way thanos had outed him as a liar that made shit up for his own gain.

dae-ho narrowed his eyes in confusion, opened his mouth as if to speak, to question where the hell this was all coming from.

nam-gyu hated it, the way he was looking at him, the way he'd been looking at you, and most of all, fuck, he hated that stupid. fucking. ponytail.

he bet that dae-ho thought it was cute, too, thought he was so fucking different.

big fucking deal.

he wasn't special. nam-gyu's hair was long enough to put into a ponytail, too. not like you'd ever fucking asked him to. but he would. all you had to do was ask.

but you were too busy drooling over dae-ho to do so.

and somehow, despite it all, despite all the things that'd been piling up throughout the day, simmering just beneath the surface and boiling his blood, that was the thought that really sent him over the edge. it was irrational, stupid, pathetic, really, just how jealous he was over absolutely nothing.

just before dae-ho could speak, nam-gyu made sure to shove into him—hard.

the impact was enough to send dae-ho stumbling, his back hitting the wall with an audible thump.

for a moment, the bathroom went completely still.

dae-ho blinked, his expression shocked, like he wasnt' sure if that really just happened.

nam-gyu didn't stop to look back.

he just walked out, feeling a sick, burning satisfaction settling deep in his chest. gyeong-su trailed quickly after him, eager to catch up to thanos, a confused, shocked expression on his face that mirrored dae-ho's perfectly.

dae-ho stayed against the wall for a second, like he was still processing it. the weight of nam-gyu's deliberate shove lingered on his chest, not physically painful but unmistakably intentional.

and earlier—thanos had accused dae-ho of insulting him, said he'd heard it from his 'bro.' based on nam-gyu and gyeong-su's body language, it was pretty easy for him to deduce who thanos had been referring to.

but... why?

next to him, jung-bae frowned. "what the hell was that about?"

dae-ho shook his head, straightening up as he brushed himself off. his fingers flexed at his sides, like he was working through the instinct to retaliate. "i don't know," he muttered. "guess he just doesn't like me."

myung-gi, still standing in front of them, watched the door where nam-gyu and thanos disappeared, though he didn't say anything.

"are those guys still bullying you?" jung-bae asked.

"hey," dae-ho started, pushing forward so he was right in front of myung-gi. "if those guys keep doing that, you can ask us for our help." clearly, they'd even decided to start bullying him, too.

"i'm fine," he replied, eyebrows going up before he turned away.

and just like that, it ended, the former excitement simmering down slowly. the crowd slowly dispersed, and soon the normal bathroom activites continued, acclimating around the sudden interruption.

dae-ho stood at a urinal, mind still reeling from confusion, from frustration. what the hell had he done to those guys? he knew he should let it go—ignore it, not let them get under his skin. but the way nam-gyu had clearly lied to thanos to stir something up, the way he'd looked at him before shoving him with nothing but sheer bitterness in his eyes—it was too much for him to pass off as random.

it was personal.

and dae-ho had no idea why.

meanwhile, nam-gyu walked ahead of gyeong-su, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, fingers curling and uncurling around nothing as he made his way back to the rest of their team.

he glanced over to your corner for just a second.

you saw him. he saw you.

his lips twitched just a fraction before he sat down, forcing himself to look at the ground.

when dae-ho emerged from the bathroom, his mind was still reeling with unresolved tension. he walked up to you and gi-hun, young-il and jung-bae in tow.

he was still thinking about it.

you looked up at him with a polite smile. "hey."

"hey," he returned, sounding far away.

you blinked, confused by his sudden shift in demeanor. "you okay?"

he sighed, running a hand through his hair as he brushed back a strand—the same strand that thanos had flicked just moments earlier.

"actually," he started, turning to look at nam-gyu. he leaned towards you, taking his seat before dropping his voice to a whisper. "that guy, right there."

dae-ho pointed gingerly, careful not to be too obvious. your eyes traced the path of his finger, breath catching as you realized who he was referring to.

your stomach clenched. what did he do?

he waited for your acknowledgement. when it didn't come, he continued, "uh, the guy with the long hair, mean face, 124 on his shirt—"

"yeah," you mumbled, waving him along. "i see him."

dae-ho nodded, though you didn't see, too focused on nam-gyu. he was slouched over by his team, arms crossed casually as he leaned back against the steps.

"i think he's got something against me." he gestured with his chin, his voice wary. "his friend, too. the rapper guy."

"uh-huh."

dae-ho shook his head, throwing his hands up in frustration. "i've never even talked to them. i don't know what the hell i did to make them hate me." he turned to you. "124... do you know his name?"

"nam-gyu." his name instantly fell from your lips before you could stop it, before you could feign ignorance. you quickly recovered. "or. that's... what i've heard," you mumbled. "i'm pretty sure that's his name, though."

dae-ho nodded. if he noticed your sudden unease, he didn't say anything. "nam-gyu," he repeated, eyes narrowing as he stared at him.

you cleared your throat, trying to sound casual, like you were just curious. nothing more. you brought a hand up to your face, covering your mouth before you spoke. "so, uh. what'd he do?"

"he shoved me. for no reason! i didn't even say anything." dae-ho shook his head, remembering. he continued, "and apparently he told his friend that i made fun of his hair." you raised an eyebrow at that. "i would never make fun of his hair. i mean, my older sister colored hers purple two years ago." dae-ho clicked his tongue, brows furrowing as he pouted. "i thought it looked cool."

you were thankful for the hand covering your mouth, because as soon as he finished, you were struggling to bite back a laugh.

despite how well he seemed to hide it, how well he seemed to pretend that he didn't care, nam-gyu was watching you. watching him. sitting there, stewing in silent anger, even if he wouldn't let it show.

even after all this time.

what a petty asshole.

and the fact that a small part of you liked it—knowing that he still cared enough about you to do childish shit like this? oh, it made you sick.

the room eventually settled into an uneasy quiet as the guards ordered the players to prepare for sleep.

soon enough, the overhead lights dimmed, leaving a faint, eerie glow behind.

time passed. minutes stretched into an hour.

you stared up at the bottom of the bed, exhaustion weighing heavy on your bones, but sleep still didn't come easy. gi-hun had insisted all of you sleep this way, beneath a bed and behind a fortress of mattresses. someone always had to be keeping watch.

you were busy thinking about how silly it seemed when it suddenly struck you—you really, really needed to pee.

lucky you.

you shifted uncomfortably, trying to will the feeling away.

when you failed to do so, you let out a sigh of defeat before pushing yourself up by your elbows. you peered over from under your bed. it was dae-ho’s turn to watch. you still didn’t understand why it was necessary, but you decided not to question it.

you quietly got up, gently tapping dae-ho on the shoulder so as not to startle him.

he looked up at you, a bit surprised. the sharpness of his cheekbones highlighted by the dim glow of the piggy bank.

“going to the bathroom,” you whispered, mouthing the words more than anything.

“oh, uh, let me accompany you—“ dae-ho made a move to stand up, but you stopped him.

“no, it’s okay.” you smiled. “thank you, though.” you didn’t want to bother him.

he paused, searching your face with uncertainty, like he was debating whether or not it was really 'okay'. “are you sure? it could be dangerous walking around alone right now. i don't think it's safe for you to go alone.”

“please, don't worry. i’m sure." you were certain you could, at the very least, handle a trip to the bathroom, though you definitely appreciated the gesture.

after a pause, he nodded, albeit still hesitant. "okay. be careful."

you laughed lightly. "sure. i'll try not to drown in the toilet."

that earned you a soft, sheepish smile, but after a moment, dae-ho furrowed his brows, showing you that he still meant it. "come on, i'm serious. gi-hun seemed serious about all of this." he gestured around at the mattresses boxing your team in.

you waved him off. "i'll be careful."

he finally let you go. slowly, you made your way to the door, not wanting to disturb the other players.

you knocked gently on the door. when no response came, you knocked again, more forceful this time, though you winced with each sound.

finally, you came face-to-face with a guard.

“i need to go to the bathroom.”

the black mask stared wordlessly back at you. as the silence stretched on for too long, you felt a prickle of anxiety.

there was no way they weren’t going to let you go to the bathroom, right?

your question was promptly answered with a smooth click as the guard slid the peephole shut. you stood there, mouth agape and eyes wide with indignance. a beat or two passed, just enough time for your anger to build. all discretions gone, you exhaled sharply and banged on the door, no longer wincing with every loud sound that echoed through the dormitory.

you could’ve died twice.

you weren't about to let them bully you into fucking pissing yourself.

“hey, what the hell?” your voice rose, tinged with anger and disbelief. “are you just gonna leave me out here?” once again, the only answer to your disdain was an oppressive silence. “fuck.” you hissed under your breath, your body shaking with barely contained anger. “fine. if you won’t let me go to the bathroom, i guess I’ll just do it out here—“

when the door suddenly slid open, you flinched, stunned for a moment as the blinding light flooded your vision. it seemed that your comment had gotten to the guard, after all. you recovered quickly and smiled at the expressionless black mask staring back at you, feeling more than a little triumphant. you moved quickly, feet crossing the threshold with your nose in the air.

you climbed the stairs quickly, desperate to get in and out.

the entrance to the women's bathroom came into view, and you let out an audible sigh as you pushed through.

you were barely through the door when you felt it—a sudden rush of contact at your back as you were practically shoved inside. you stumbled, gasping as a cold hand gripped at the back of your tracksuit.

your heart raced, sweat prickling the back of your neck as panic bloomed in your chest. you had been careful not to piss anyone off. you hadn’t talked to anyone outside of your team, really. there was no one who had a reason to be shoving you like this, to be following you. no one except—

you whipped around quickly, jerking out of the person’s hold and stumbling a bit as you struggled to keep your balance in light of the sudden unease overtaking your system.

you opened your mouth to speak, to yell, but everything you might’ve thought to say immediately died on your tongue.

nam-gyu’s eyes were intense, filled with a swirl of emotions as he fixed you with a hardened stare. his breathing was measured and even, hands hanging casually at his sides.

“hey.”

his voice was rough, gravelly. deep. a sound that cut right through you and settled into your bones. and for the first time in forever, his words were directed at you. not overheard from a distance or relayed through a third party. it was just you and him in this shitty bathroom in the middle of god knows where.

your mind went blank, your tongue suddenly feeling too big for your mouth as you stared at him, lips slightly parted as you struggled to form thoughts.

“what?” his mouth twitched. almost a smirk, almost a sneer, but he kept his face neutral, not wanting to betray his emotions just yet. “not gonna say hi?” you saw his fingers curl and uncurl around nothing at his sides. he'd never been good at staying still for too long.

he was right, though.

you weren’t gonna fucking say ‘hi.’

ao3 link, if you’d prefer to read it over there

a/n: part two coming (hopefully) soon. as always my inbox is open for any thoughts, comments, rqs, etc.!!!! also, i was going nuts watching episode 4 and 5 over and over again so i could get the canon interactions and dialogue right LMAO. also. in-ho is referred to as young-il in this fic and will continue to be, bc he's just not really relevant to the plot and ik y'all know who he really is ok....

#nam-gyu x reader #namgyu x reader #nam gyu x reader #player 124 x reader #squid game x reader #my fic #lilyposting

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pursued-by-the-squid · 3 months ago

Text

vii. stage fright

pairing: gi-hun x gn!reader x in-ho

word count: 12.5k

ao3 | masterlist

“You should eat.”

Rolling over onto your side reveals Gi-hun, standing over your bed with a frown. “I’m not hungry,” you mumble before returning to your original position.

“You need to keep up your strength.” The mattress dips down by your feet and the bed creaks softly as it adjusts to Gi-hun’s weight. He seems to start a sentence a few times, his inhalations quiet yet sudden, but whatever it is he wants to say seems impossible to speak aloud. In the end, he relinquishes himself to an awkward pat on your foot.

How many times have the two of you been here? Each of you lost to your own grievances, trying so hard to push through the fog and failing every time. How many times has he texted you a reminder to get to bed early, to be careful when you go out the next morning, to eat something filling before class? How many times have you tried to do the same in return?

“I’ve lost my appetite,” you tell him, even as you’re moving to sit up and swing your legs over the edge of the bed. “The thought of eating anything makes me feel sick.”

Gi-hun nods once in comprehension, his eyes suddenly softer as he watches you. “I understand,” he murmurs. You try not to think about how much it makes your heart flutter knowing that he cares.

It’s that very understanding, you think, that leads you both to the meal line. Neither of you wants to eat, but neither of you wants the other to go hungry. Eating will keep his mind sharp, it’ll make him faster and stronger, and it will do the same for you of course, it’s just that you can’t stop thinking about all those people… All that blood…

Try not to think about it, you tell yourself, but it’s so much easier to say than it is to do. Everywhere you look is a reminder of just how dire your circumstances are. The ominous piggy bank hanging overhead, the player count, the blood still on Gi-hun’s face, each of them a ghost intent on haunting you. How can you possibly–?

“[___]?”

One moment you’re lost to the horror of it all, and the next you find yourself blinking up at the face of the last person you would have ever expected. “Young-il-nim?”

Your first thought is that you’re imagining things, so traumatized by the first game that you’ve fully lost it, but then – oh, then he’s smiling and he laughs, and it’s him, it’s really him.

“Oh my God,” you cry, throwing your arms around him in a desperate embrace. “What are, what are you doing here? How did you-? Why did you-? Shit, are you okay? You’re not hurt, are you?”

Young-il chuckles to himself as your trembling hands go scrambling over his shoulders and chest to check for injuries. “I’m alright,” he assures you, as if he hasn’t a care in the world. But then his expressions shifts and he ducks his head to try and catch your eyes. “But what are you doing here? You don’t belong in a place like this.”

A brief image of the masked man invading your home comes to mind before you banish it. You shake your head. “It’s a long story,” you sigh, “and difficult to explain. I…” Words are lost to you. You have so many thoughts buzzing inside your brain that it’s difficult to think clearly, to conjure up the shapes and sounds you need to explain yourself.

“It alright,” he says after a moment. You catch him glancing to the side, meeting Gi-hun’s eyes over your shoulder, before looking back to you. “Eat first. I’ll find you after and we can talk then.”

He nods his head respectfully to both of you before walking off, food in hand and the numbers ‘001’ sewn to the back of his jacket. Something twists painfully in your gut, probably the knife he’s just lodged between your ribs.

“Who was that?” Is it your imagination or does Gi-hun’s voice sound deeper than before?

“A friend.” But now the words are sour on your tongue. Because Young-il was the one to break the tie. Young-il was the one to trap you here for another game. Young-il was the one who stood up against everything Gi-hun has been fighting against, and your face is awash with shame because of it.

“Young-il-nim.”

From his spot on the steps, he’s forced to tip his head back to meet your eyes and for a moment, you almost forget the reason you’ve sought him out. His hair is different, you suddenly realize. It swoops over his temples, soft and boyish, and it changes his face just so. All those harsh edges you’ve grown accustomed to are rounded out, less garish despite the fluorescent lighting and the terrible circumstances. And still, the blue patch on his chest marks him as a traitor. It may as well be soaked in your own blood and Gi-hun’s for what it’s worth.

He smiles and gestures to the empty space on his left with his elbow. “Come and sit.”

How can he be like this? How can he sit there and look at you with such blatant fondness, how can he still have an appetite after the things you’ve both just witnessed?

Your voice comes out much harder than usual once you finally find it. “What are you doing?”

Confusion flickers in his eyes. “Eating?”

“No. Here. What are you doing here? Why did you vote to stay?”

Young-il glances down at the X on your jacket, nodding, and the light-hearted tint to his smile finally fades. “I’m sorry.”

Your legs kick into gear before your mouth does, bringing you to the step just below his. You can’t quite bring yourself to sit beside him, to allow yourself that familiarity or closeness when his betrayal still sits heavy in your stomach, but this is not a public conversation either. You’re not here to embarrass him.

“You’re angry.”

“Can you blame me? People died, I almost–”

“I know,” he sighs as he hangs his head. “I know.”

“So why?”

Young-il’s expression turns distant, serious. “It’s complicated.”

Yeah, there seems to be a lot of that around here. But there’s something more, something he’s not telling you. He’s usually decent enough at keeping his more intense feelings close to his chest, but for once you find that you can see the intricacies of his heart quite easily. Regret and uncertainty are the most obvious to you, yet there are others lingering in the creases of his eyes and his mouth, things you don’t know how to put into words but that strike you as profound all the same.

“Your business, is it… Did something happen?”

A shadow passes over him, then, that flicker of something cold and distant that you’ve seen only once or twice before. He nods thoughtfully. “You could say that.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

His mouth curls into a frown. You might almost consider it a gesture of concern. “And make you worry needlessly? There’s nothing you could’ve done even if I had.” He looks over your shoulder again, surveying the room, his throat bobbing near your eye level. “I could ask the same of you, but I’d wager I already know the answer.”

You huff, irritated and frustrated and a million other things, turning so he’s behind you as you open your dinner. “It’s not what you think. I didn’t come here for the money.”

The toe of his shoe nudges into your back, drawing your attention. “You let that recruiter talk you into it?” Young-il tsks. “What have I told you about talking to strangers?”

He’s only teasing, of course. You know that. But even as a joke, the words hit too close to home. You’ve never told him about your encounter with the ddakji recruiter. You’ve never told him about how you met Gi-hun. You’ve never told him that since coming to Korea, every problem you’ve faced has arisen in part because you were stupid enough to engage with a stranger. Before now, you never had any intention of telling him any of it.

You eye the dinner tin in your hands. It smells good enough, but you still feel a bit queasy. You’re not sure if you’ll be able to keep it down or not.

“It wasn’t the recruiter that got me here.” It’s easier to tell him when you can’t see his face, for some reason, when you’re pretending that it doesn’t rip you apart just to admit the truth. Poking your utensil at the rubbery looking egg in your tin, you let out a sigh. “Someone took me.”

The muscles in his calf go tight against your back. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I was kidnapped. One of them.” You nod in the direction of the dinner line. “The men with the masks.”

His voice is softer when he replies. “You didn’t call the number like the rest of us?”

“No. I promised Gi-hun that I wouldn’t, but I guess… I guess it didn’t matter, in the end.”

Glancing down at your food is a challenge, actually eating it is even harder. It tastes like sawdust in your mouth and the instant it hits the back of your throat, you gag, very nearly spitting everything out on the floor. You don’t, thankfully, but it takes a long swig of water to ensure that the food stays down.

“Why would the soldiers want to kidnap you?” he asks once several long minutes have passed. You can hear the low clinking of his dinner tin behind you as he presses the lid shut.

Your first instinct is to claim ignorance, and it wouldn’t even be a lie if you did. You have no connection to these games, no desire to play, and no reason to stay. Gi-hun provides you with everything you need. But that’s just the problem, isn’t it? Gi-hun is the sole connection you have – you shredded the ddakji woman’s business card ages ago, the night you swore to never play the game again, and you shredded the last one too.

Your attention narrows in on a single grain of rice, as if it holds all the answers you seek. “I can’t help thinking it’s because of who I know,” you admit, reluctantly.

You glance up and over your shoulder in time to see Young-il fixing his eyes on something across the room – Gi-hun. “Player 456?”

You nod quietly in agreement.

“Isn’t he the one who’s played before?”

Another nod.

“So, he’s a friend of yours, then.”

The distant recollection of a night long since passed floats across your mind’s eye. That night seems so long ago now. Sure, it’s been a couple years, but it feels like even longer now that you’re here, as if the businesswoman and the ddakji are memories of another life.

“He warned me about this place, told me he didn’t want me dragged into all of this. That’s why I called you, you know – that one time, a few months back? I thought someone from this place had killed him and you were the only person I could think of to go to when I thought he was gone. And then last night, before the soldier, he came to say goodbye and I thought…”

You’d thought a lot of things. But you hadn’t thought of something like this ever happening.

“I guess it doesn’t matter what I thought. I’m stuck here now.”

It isn’t something that you mean to imply, but there’s an unspoken ‘no thanks to you’ that haunts the space between you. It’s not entirely his fault. Young-il has his own problems that he has to work through, that much is clear, and he has no way of knowing all the chaos going on in your personal life. If you have blame to place, it can’t rest solely on his shoulders, but that doesn’t make the reality of his vote any less painful or disappointing.

The stairs behind you groan as Young-il stands, the long shadow cast by the overhead lights falling lengthwise across your body. “You know,” he begins, steadily easing himself to the ground level on step at a time, “if your friend has played before, maybe we stand a better chance at winning the next round.”

Huh. That hadn’t even occurred to you. You were so busy being scared out of your mind that you hadn’t stopped to think there might actually be some hope. It’s slight, of course, and mostly obscured in your mind by the splatters of blood and lifeless bodies you saw on the field today, but the hope is there nonetheless. If you can survive the next round, then…

“Do you think there’ll be another vote?”

“Yes,” he nods, “after each game.”

Your shoulders suddenly feel a little lighter. “Then we could make it long enough to get out of here, vote a second time and go home.”

Young-il purses his lips in consideration. “Maybe.”

Before he can elaborate any further, a shout echoes across the room. It starts somewhere over his shoulder, near the middle or front of the room where a group of three younger men have gathered. You and Young-il both turn toward the sound just in time to see one of the men fall to the ground while the other two loom over him, slamming their feet into his body over and over again, and every time he tries to stand, they smack him down. They’re hitting him hard. The man on the ground isn’t fully screaming, but he’s clearly in pain.

You’re on your feet before you even realize it. There’s nothing you feel you can do, not without risking one of the attackers turning their vengeance onto you, but it flips your stomach to see someone being beat so mercilessly. You cast a quick glance around the room – none of the other players nor any of the soldiers stationed near the doors look inclined to intervene.

“God, they’re gonna kill him,” you mutter, more in disbelief than anything else. Isn’t someone going to stop them?

Someone, apparently, means Young-il. When he first moves, you think he’s trying to get a closer look. Because of course he’s intrigued by the violence, you think with a slight roll of your eyes. God forbid he, or anyone else here, do something actually useful, but he surprises you. Instead of observing, he acts.

“Boys, what are you doing in the middle of dinner?” His voice cuts through the cursing and the flurry of fists and feet against skin. One of the men left standing, the one with the purple hair, glowers at him as he approaches. “No fights during mealtime. There are elders present. Mind your manners. And two against one? Aren't you embarrassed?”

You’ve… never heard him speak like that before. With you, he’s often quite easygoing, soft when he needs to be and rarely ever stern unless he’s concerned about something. But with these men, he does speak sternly. His body moves with the ease of a man who has no doubts about his own strength or perception.

The man with the purple hair – Thanos, you think you’d heard – curls his mouth into a sneer. “You're lecturing me when you ended up in this shithole too?” As he advances on Young-il, you’re immediately taken aback by the amount of disrespect – he’s gesturing rudely, swaggering into Young-il’s personal space, quirking his eyebrows as if to suggest that there’s nothing about Young-il that he takes seriously. “Dude, stop running your mouth and take care of your own damn kids.”

You’re so stunned, you almost forget to breathe.

Young-il is equally surprised. Even from far behind him, you can see the way his body stills. “What did you say to me?” You can’t see his face, but honestly, you don’t need to. You can hear it all in his voice, can read it in the line of his shoulders.

“I said save the lecture for your own damn kid–”

The speed with which his arm shoots out is startling. You don’t even see it, really. One moment, Thanos is yapping his face off, and the next, Young-il has his fingers digging into the tendons of his throat. He twists his arm just so and the other man bends unnaturally at the waist to accommodate him. Then the other player – 124 – surges forward with a swear and you feel your heart leap into your throat, terrified your friend has just gotten himself into a fight that he cannot possibly win, but then Young-il kicks him in the shin and 124 goes sprawling on his back.

When you’d asked yourself if someone would do something to stop those two, this isn’t what you’d had in mind. Young-il isn’t ancient or decrepit by any means and he clearly thinks he can handle himself, but these men are younger than he is. What if he gets–?

His fist smacks right into Thanos’ chest, doubling him over as Young-il takes the opportunity to loom over him instead. This will be it, you think, a surprisingly swift punch to the sternum and it’ll all be over. He’s already proven himself, already made a fool of both these players.

Thanos raises a hand quietly, begging for him to stop. Only he doesn’t. Your feet are already carrying you to the floor, your dinner abandoned as you watch Young-il grab his hand, twist, and use the momentum to slam the other man into the ground. For a moment, they’re both frozen like that, Young-il lowered onto one knee with his fist raised while the other chokes and squirms helplessly beneath him.

You’re no longer worried about the poor player that had started this whole fight, you’re worried about the man who had attacked him. He’s choking and Young-il won’t let go. You can see his entire body shaking, his face flushing as his mouth twitches, his fist rising higher. He’s gonna kill him instead.

“Young-il!”

There’s no way he can’t hear you, but you’re terrified that he’ll ignore you anyway. He wouldn’t kill this guy, would he? He doesn’t seem the type. But the grip he has on Thanos’ throat is too strong, too intentional, and you’re just about to rush in and pry him off the man when he finally lets up. The other player takes a deep gasp, hands clawing at his neck as he recovers the breath Young-il had squeezed out of him, and then the entire room is bursting with applause. For the life of you, you cannot fathom why.

How long have you known him now, a couple years? Never, not once, in all that time has he ever said or done a single thing to make you look at him as anything other than what he is – your friend, a lover of coffee and fine art, a dedicated businessman with a tragic past and a penchant for terrible jokes. He was and always has been Oh Young-il, nothing less and nothing more. But as he clambers to his feet, his head bowed bashfully as he accepts the praise offered to him, you find yourself wondering if there isn’t just a bit more to him than he’s let on.

And though you’d never admit it, you’re also a bit… flushed. Seeing him react so effortlessly, witnessing the strength you never knew he had – it’s stirred up a bit of warmth in the pit of your stomach. You don’t really want to consider what that says about you.

He returns to you some moments later with his eyes averted. There’s something lingering on his tongue, perhaps an explanation, but he seems hesitant to give it and you’re equally hesitant to ask for it. Still, you’d be a fool to overlook how deeply Thanos’ words had affected him.

“Are you alright?”

Young-il nods as he passes, taking your attention with him. “I’m not hurt,” he assures you. He’s moved to pick up your dinner tray, as well as his own, stacking them on top of each other in his hands.

You reach for your water bottle before trailing after him, following his path to the front of the room where the trash cans are. “That’s not what I mean.” He’d told you to lecture your own kids, you think, and you snapped. He became someone else entirely, someone you don’t recognize, and that worries you. It also eerily reminds you of someone.

If he intends to respond, he shows no sign of it. He makes light work of your trays, emptying them of any leftover food before handing them and the utensils over to the nearest guard, a Circle Mask manning what remains of the dinner station.

“Young-il-nim.” You try to catch his eye when he turns to you once more, but he’s remarkably evasive, which only serves to further unsettle you. “Are you going to ignore me, or…?”

And that, at last, is enough to grab his attention. His shoulders drop with the weight of his sigh. “What do you mean, [___]?” If you didn’t know any better, you’d actually think he was upset with you.

“I mean, you…” There’s a flash of fists in the back of your mind, of Thanos choking. “I’ve just never seen you do that before.”

He lifts an eyebrow, then, as his expressions shifts from irritation to derision. “Does it bother you?” he asks.

Is that what he thinks? That you’re bothered? “No. But I didn’t think you were going to stop and that worried me.” It’s more honest than you had intended to be and you feel stripped bare because of it, like Young-il can see right through you because of your vulnerability.

You wish you knew what he was thinking. While you’re at it, you wish understood your own thoughts just as much as you wish you could fathom his. This – beating a younger man to a pulp simply because you’d expressed concern over an unfair fight – feels like something you should’ve known about, though you can’t help feeling like that’s a pretty ridiculous expectation to have. When would it have been relevant to reveal his secret self-defense moves? And why? Is it even fair of you to feel wary of him when it was your instigation that had prompted him to act in the first place?

Something dark flickers in the very depths of his eyes, something you don’t understand, but it’s gone before you can linger on it. His attention settles just past your shoulder, in the direction you’d seen Gi-hun and Jung-bae go to pick at their meals, and then he looks to you once more. Whatever darkness you thought you’d seen is long gone.

“Why don’t you introduce me to your friend?”

Gi-hun and Jung-bae have settled in the far corner. You’d noticed earlier that some of the other players had gathered around them at one point, likely asking any number of questions now that they knew a previous winner had returned. They’ve even made a new friend, from what you can tell – a very expressive younger man with long hair, number 388 – though Gi-hun seems less enthused about the younger man’s presence than his friend does.

You have no reason to hesitate when it comes to introductions. Gi-hun is your friend as much as Young-il is, yet you still feel the pull of uncertainty in your gut at the idea. They’ve been separate for as long as you’ve known them. Young-il is more of a school friend than anything; the coffee dates (not that they’re dates because they’re not), your initial meeting, all of it had happened on campus. Gi-hun is your strangely wealthy friend who keeps to himself and lets you fire weapons in the depths of his abandoned motel. One of them is clearly more normal than the other. And only one of them has kissed you thus far, so there’s also that.

You try not to think about it. Every step you take brings you closer to Gi-hun, who has not pulled his eyes from you for more than a second, not since Young-il suggested the introduction. Every step brings both halves of your life closer and closer together, and you feel a bit nauseous because of it.

It’ll be fine. You don’t even have anything to worry about. It’s not like Young-il’s betrayed everything that Gi-hun stands for with a single vote. It’s not like Gi-hun still hasn’t addressed the fact that he kissed you last night and he’s about to meet the only other person in the world that you could possibly consider kissing after him. Not that you would.

Ah, shit. Here goes nothing.

If it’s shame that begs you not to lift your eyes in Gi-hun’s presence, then that’s something you’ll be keeping to yourself. “Young-il-nim, this is Jung-bae-nim and–”

“You said you've played these games before, sir.”

Your mouth is still hanging open, Gi-hun’s name still caught between your lips as Young-il quite literally talks over you. He’s never talked over you before, not ever. And neither does he stop. He waits only for Gi-hun’s acknowledgement – a hesitant inclination of his head – before finally continuing, and he doesn’t even spare you a second glance when he does.

“I pressed the O button because of you. Honestly, I was scared. I wanted to quit and leave. But you made me think maybe I could play just one more game.”

And you’re not offended in the least by his startling new rudeness. Not at all. Certainly not enough to snap your jaw shut with an audible click.

Jung-bae’s eyes suddenly alight with excitement. “Some of the other players said that!” He turns eagerly to his new friend with a grin, then nudges his elbow into Gi-hun’s ribs. “You see?”

Gi-hun is not amused and for once, you feel comforted by that. You don’t shrink when his gaze lingers on you, you return it confidently, if only because you’re less irritated with him than you are with Young-il. He braces his forearms atop his knees, his arms stretching out as he looks back and forth between you.

“If you had pressed the X,” he finally says, “everyone here would've made it out alive.”

Young-il hums lightly in response. “That's right. I was the last to press the O button,” and it’s remarkable, really, how unashamed he is to admit it. “But there were 182 more people who wanted to stay.”

“And there were also 182 people who wanted to leave. [___] included.”

Three sets of eyes settle upon you. Oh. You don’t like that. You don’t want to be brought into this discussion and you certainly don’t want Young-il to be looking at you like that, like he’s only just noticed you exist. You don’t like that everything you thought you knew has suddenly been flipped on its head, without rhyme or reason, and you don’t like that you’re left trying to fit the pieces back together entirely blind.

Gi-hun raises a brow. “You are friends, aren’t you?”

“We are.” He smiles and for the briefest moment, you feel like you’re watching a stranger rather than your coffee companion of two years. “But you’re a previous winner, Gi-hun-ssi. Why would you allow a friend to come here if it’s so dangerous?”

You don’t think much of him using Gi-hun’s name – why should you? But for Gi-hun, it seems to startle him. His eyes sharpen as they flicker across Young-il’s face, studying, searching, and then, “How did you know my name?”

You blink, pausing to look between the pair as you suddenly realize that you’re not sure you’ve ever explicitly used Gi-hun’s name before, not with him.

Young-il, to his credit, takes the inquiry in his stride. His smile falters for a moment as he tries to explain himself. “Oh, I… I heard [___] using it earlier, in line for dinner, and I thought I might try it.”

Did you? You can’t remember, though you aren’t sure that it really matters. You’ve loudly proclaimed Gi-hun’s name a handful of times since your reunion earlier today, so even if you hadn’t said it in line, it’s likely that Young-il noticed and made the connection himself. He’s always been perceptive like that.

Young-il leans in, his voice lowered and his face softened with an unspoken apology. “Does it bother you?” Just like he’d asked you only minutes prior.

A chill starts at the base of your spine. The air is thick with tension, both men gravitating toward one another as if there’s some grand competition going on that you’re entirely unaware of. You don’t like that either.

But before the tension can rise any higher, Jung-bae jumps in and attempts to diffuse the situation. His hands go fluttering about in the empty space between them, using some clever turn of phrase to smoothe out all the surface level ripples that have already transformed into waves rocking against your boat. A truce is formed, superficial at best, but it clears the air enough for you to breathe and for that, you’re grateful.

He keeps thinking about tomorrow. He keeps thinking about the sugary sweetness of dalgona on his tongue and the possibility of a pistol lodged against the base of his skull.

Gi-hun closes his eyes and takes a breath. It doesn’t change anything. The light from the pig lingers behind his eyelids as much as the thought of watching you bleed out and die does. The cool chill of a late night still clings to his bones, even among so many bodies. Or perhaps it’s Gi-hun who is cold. Perhaps he’s already dead and this is merely a delusion brought on by a half-sane mind in its final throes.

That would certainly be easier than the truth, wouldn’t it?

The stairs that lead to his bed creak beneath the weight of a foot, then another, and Gi-hun opens his eyes to see you standing close enough to touch. From this angle, the light doesn’t catch your face; you’re simply haloed, some bright and shining thing that he’s dragged with him into the pit of damnation.

“Hello.”

He hates that you sound so timid. You sound like the fragile student he once met in a snowy alley, not the passionate and bright-eyed person he knows you to be. But then, he supposes that it’s hard for you to find that spark he’s grown so accustomed to when you’re trying desperately to claw yourself out of a grave that is constantly demanding to swallow you whole. Unfortunately, he knows the feeling.

“Hello,” he replies. It feels forbidden to smile when he’s blockaded by memories and ghosts, but for you, Gi-hun finds that he can do all kinds of things. Even attempt a smile.

“Can I sit with you?”

Eyes darting first to the timer behind your head and then to the small stretch of open mattress by his feet, he nods haltingly, drawing his legs in so they’re folded atop on another. “Of course.”

There are no butterflies fluttering in his stomach when you sit on his bed. There’s no distant tremor in his hands or the drifting of his mind to far off places, imagining the sort of things he’d allowed himself only two nights ago. This isn’t the Pink Motel. He doesn’t know why he expects to feel the same stirrings in his gut that he usually does when he shares his space with you.

Then he remembers kissing you and he ducks his head in shame.

You take the far end of the mattress as expected, but it rather feels like you’ve placed yourself on the far end of a canyon. “I don’t want to talk,” you tell him, voice soft and uncertain. “I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. I just… don’t want to be alone right now.” Your feet dangle listlessly over the edge of the bedframe. “I can’t sleep.”

Gi-hun recalls feeling the same way on his first night. So much of this is painfully familiar. He almost wonders if Sang-woo’s spirit is watching him now, studying him from somewhere among the beds or lurking in the Squid Game field. He keeps expecting to see him every time he turns a corner. What would he think of the man that he’s become? The mattress squeaks when you adjust your posture and Gi-hun suddenly finds it hard to breathe. What would Sang-woo think of you?

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself, so why does he care?

“I’m sorry.” Your apology draws him blinking from the recesses of his mind. “For everything. I know this isn’t what you wanted.”

Of course it isn’t, but why on Earth are you apologizing? “It isn’t your fault,” he starts.

“Maybe. But I still feel bad.”

Following the path of your attention leads him to a bed several paces away, closer to the main floor than his own bed. Your friend Young-il is settling in for the night, one of his legs drawn atop the mattress with the other hanging off as he contemplates something far beyond Gi-hun’s reach. And for the first time in months, probably since the night he followed your friend out of the university parking lot and all the way to his hotel, Gi-hun feels angry.

It’s a different kind of anger than the one he’d directed at you just today. That was an anger born of fear and helplessness and the realization that he’d put you in danger, born of his own guilt and his own affection for you. This? This is not that.

He’s not entirely sure what it is, but he knows that he feels it whenever you look at Young-il or Young-il looks at you. You have nothing to feel guilty for. You haven’t done anything wrong. It isn’t your fault that Young-il voted O and it isn’t your fault that you’re here, and he hates that you feel otherwise.

“You aren’t the one who should be apologizing.”

There’s more he could say, more that weighs on him, but he isn’t sure how to express it. He isn’t even sure if he should. What if he loses you tomorrow? And what if he doesn’t? What if the game isn’t dalgona? What if he’s the one who dies and you’re left alone with only Jung-bae and Young-il to protect you? A bitter piece of his heart flares up at the thought and he pretends not to think about what might happen if Young-il were to die instead because that’s not the kind of man he wants to be.

Instead, Gi-hun shifts around on the mattress until he’s mirroring your posture, his legs dangling over the side as he moves the pillow and blankets around. “Stay here tonight,” he says in response to your voiceless question.

Your eyes flash wide for a second. “With you?” And if he thinks that you sound either horrified or intrigued by the prospect, Gi-hun tells himself that it doesn’t matter either way.

“I’m not sleeping.” He’s going to be watching over you for as long as he can manage. It’ll be a good distraction and it will keep you safe, and he needs both right now more than he needs anything else. “It isn’t good for you to sleep alone here. And someone should keep watch.”

What little light is reflected in your eyes shimmers like water in a glass. “Watch for what?”

For the murderous bastards who like to take out their competition while they sleep, what else? But he doesn’t say that. He doesn’t want to scare you and he knows already that detailing the horrific possibilities of the Games right before you go to bed is a recipe for disaster.

“Sleep,” he insists. The bedding is nicely arranged now, as nice as he can make it for you, even though he wishes he could do more. What if you get cold in the middle of the night? What if you overheat in your jacket? Or you get thirsty? He can’t fix any of those problems. He can only give you his protection and pray that it’s enough.

Your protest is already half spoken by the time he’s drawing himself out of bed and prompting you into the space he’s just vacated. It takes some maneuvering and no small amount of whispered requests, far gentler than Gi-hun actually feels under the weight of his memories pressing in against his skull, but finally he manages to convince you to lay down. He tucks himself into the farthest corner of the bed, hoping that your legs have enough room, that you won’t mind him being so close for so long, and he watches the minutes on the display steadily count down.

There are less than ten minutes until lights out when Young-il decides to approach him. “Gi-hun-ssi,” he nods respectfully, his hands already pressing against his thighs as he takes the steps one at a time. His eyes wander over your sleeping figure and Gi-hun has to fight himself not to snap and make a fool out of himself simply because another man happened to look at you.

“Asleep,” he says, if only to fill the empty space with something other than his animosity.

Young-il nods in understanding. “I’ll be quiet, then.” A beat. “Could we talk?”

No. “Sure.”

The narrow space between rows of beds is taken up entirely by Young-il’s body. Perched upon the highest step, it places him at about eye level. Gi-hun’s not entirely sure he likes that. “I think I was out of line before,” Young-il finally sighs. “I'd like to apologize. I'm sorry.”

What he wants to do is tell your friend that he doesn’t care for, nor does he accept, his apology. What he wants to say is that he doesn’t like the way Young-il looks at you, all appraising eyes and quiet confidence, and he doesn’t like how Young-il has stolen almost all of your attention since the moment he appeared. He wants to say it all, but he doesn’t because his mother raised him better than that and Gi-hun has never been one to be purposefully rude except on very rare occasions.

This isn’t the time or place. So, he’s gracious. He bows respectfully to Young-il and allows the apology to settle in the space between them, even if the peace it offers is fraught. “No, I laid all the blame on you.” Even if I was right to do so. “I was out of line.”

And that, he hopes, will be the full extent of it – whatever it is. He’s not interested in having a full conversation with anyone right now, but even if he was, Young-il would be at the bottom of the list. He’s strange in a very off-putting way; quiet, observant, he makes you laugh sometimes, from what he can remember, and he’s able to fight off two younger men and make it look easy. That’s not normal. And then there’s the way that you had followed him during dinner like an alley cat chasing after scraps. You don’t do things like that.

“May I ask you something?”

It takes a minute, but Gi-hun eventually relents, inclining his head just slightly.

“Why did you come back to this place? You said you won and made it out.”

He swallows heavily. “I did.”

“Then why return? You got all the money, didn’t you? Did you spend it all?”

He spent some of it. He wanted so badly to let that money rot in the bank and to never touch a single won, but then Il-nam had happened. Then you had happened. Then so many things kept happening and he thinks that somewhere along the way, he lost sight of what he had set out to do. To remember, to protect.

“That money doesn't belong to me,” he mutters, and it’s like he’s back on the Squid Game field, watching the rain mix with the mud mix with the coppery tang of metal and blood. “It's blood money for the people who died here. The same goes for the money up there.”

“You don't have to think of it that way,” and where he expected to find judgement, he instead finds some gentle, understanding thing tucked behind the corners of Young-il’s words. “It's not like you killed those people and saving that money won't bring them back to life.”

Maybe it’s just the ghosts lingering in his head and his heart. Maybe he’s just a sentimental old fool, but there’s something about the way Young-il says it that reminds him of Sang-woo. He closes his eyes and wishes, probably for the millionth time, that he had been the one to die here three years ago, not Sang-woo. Not Ssangmun-dong’s golden child.

Young-il exhales through his nose, drawing Gi-hun’s attention and prompting him to open his eyes again. Where there had once been a glint of determination, now Gi-hun sees something far more vulnerable. It’s suspiciously disarming. “Not all of us have the luxury of mixing our morals with our money, Gi-hun-ssi. Some of us,” he says, and his voice begins to waver, “are forced to play the hand we’re dealt, blood money or not.”

Curiosity gets the better of him. “And what sort of hand were you dealt?” It isn’t asked unkindly. Gi-hun recognizes regret when he sees it and there’s no need for him to be cruel, but he does want to know.

Silence expands between them, permeating every atom of space until it’s so overwhelming Gi-hun thinks he might collapse beneath its weight.

Finally, Young-il speaks. “My wife.” And Gi-hun suddenly feels like he’s going to vomit. All this time, he’s been seething over a married man who happened to have befriended you. What kind of asshole is he?

“My wife was very sick. Acute cirrhosis, the doctors said, and she needed a liver transplant.” The slight waver in his voice becomes stronger, fluctuating as Young-il finds the strength to continue his explanation. The explanation Gi-hun demanded of him. Now he suddenly wishes he’d never opened his mouth to begin with. “When she was going through the tests, we found out she was pregnant. The doctor suggested a termination, but she wouldn’t listen. Said she'd give birth even if it killed her.”

Gi-hun realizes with a start what Young-il’s clenched jaw and sudden stillness means. He knows because he’s been there before, forced to pour his grief out to whichever person demands a little too forcefully to know what haunts him in the late hours of the night. God, he’s such a prick.

“I couldn’t save them,” he says, and his voice finally gives way. Unshed tears catch in the glow of the money pig and Gi-hun feels like he’s just had his throat torn out. “I need that money to pay off the debts. The hospital bills, the funerals – it costs something, Gi-hun-ssi. Perhaps it is blood money, but it’s still money.”

He can’t imagine. In some ways, he doesn’t have to. Ga-yeong is still alive and he stopped loving his wife a long time ago, but they’re no longer a part of his life. They may as well be dead to him – he knows he’s dead in their eyes anyway. Just another corpse slipping through the cracks of a broken world.

I’m so sorry. He doesn’t have to like Young-il to say it and mean it, but even still, the words stick in his throat. Just moments ago, he had imagined this man dead on his back, unable to touch you or taint you. He’d let his personal feelings get in the way of what really mattered. Young-il could pull a knife on him this very moment and it still wouldn’t justify anything that Gi-hun’s thinking or feeling about him, and he needs to remember that. He needs to remember what he’s here for.

He glances over at you, watching your face as you snore lightly. It’s a poor imitation of a similar situation that feels so far away now, it can only be a dream. The motel. His bed. You, safe and secure. His. That had never been the plan. But then again, he’d never had a plan when it came to you. For all the good it did you both.

He shouldn’t have kissed you. He wanted to, but he shouldn’t have done it in the first place. It should have stayed a secret desire known only to the depths of his shattered soul and the bullet he still deserves to bite. All it’s done is complicate matters. It’s made him twitchy and on-edge, made him grind his teeth down to the bone and search for enemies where there are none. It’s made him turn on a man who could very easily have been a friend if he weren’t so busy being blinded by his own desires.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he’s relieved that the words finally come.

Young-il merely shakes his head. He’s probably heard the same turn of phrase too many times to count by now. “It’s forgiven.”

The timer overhead flashes a one minute reminder and just like that, the spell is broken. Reality comes crashing down upon shoulders. There’s an awkward exchange of glances and half-hearted smiles, murmured farewells, and then Gi-hun is left with his legs dangling off the side of his own bed and the sound of your steady breaths.

The lights click out.

Slowly, so as not to wake you, he leans his weight back against the bedframe and positions himself so he’s facing the wide-open stretch of floor in the center of the room. The X and O carved there are the only lights that still remain, casting his surroundings in faint shades of blue and red, so faint that he can hardly make anything out.

He sighs. It’s going to be a very long night.

In-ho watches the soldiers as they work. It’s strange to be here once more, to be a part of the Games after so long. When he had made the decision to enter, it had mostly been on a whim, an impulsive choice driven from the frantic desire to control, to break, to bend you, Gi-hun, and the Games to his will. He hadn’t stopped to consider all the additional benefits he might reap from this harvest.

Already, a ridge has formed between you and Gi-hun. Something changed in him last night, In-ho had seen the shift, though he still doesn’t know what to make of it. Gi-hun had allowed you to sleep in his bed – and how common a recurrence is that, exactly? – but has hardly spoken a word to you since. Every time you try to meet his eyes, he smiles faintly, nods, and withdraws into himself, and the pain of that dismissal is written all over your face.

That hadn’t been entirely intentional. It is beneficial, no matter how confounding, and he plans to utilize it as best he can because Thanos rattled him last night. That bratty remark about his children had sent him over the edge and it had only been the sound of your voice that was clear enough to cut through the maelstrom of his fury, to bring him back to himself. That had rattled him too and, much like the gallery, In-ho had handled it poorly. He was too short with you, too fixated on a philosophical spar at Gi-hun’s expense, and had unintentionally pushed you away as a result.

He needs to fix that. Curious how the opportunity presents itself almost immediately.

The arena is presented, the instructions are given, and the timer is set. Gi-hun is entirely unprepared.

“Aren't we playing the dalgona game?” demands another player – number 100, who In-ho is sure he saw lurking about and asking questions of Gi-hun over dinner yesterday. But what truly catches his attention is the mention of dalgona.

It takes everything he has within himself not to laugh. Had Gi-hun really expected all the games to be the same as before? While In-ho hadn’t anticipated that Gi-hun would be so keen to rejoin the Games, he and every other Front Man in the world prides himself on his ingenuity. It’s a part of the job description. VIPs aren’t interested in the same old tricks each year. It would be foolish – no, truly stupid – to assume that the Front Man would not alter the Games to discredit or disadvantage Gi-hun in his mission for vengeance.

“No,” Gi-hun finally says as he hangs his head, “it doesn't look like it.”

“What's the game then?”

Yes, Gi-hun, tell us what game should come next. Show us all how carefully thought through your plans are.

Dark eyes trembling with uncertainty flicker aimlessly across the stretch of dirt beneath their feet. “I'm not sure.”

So when Player 100 turns on Gi-hun and demands, “What? You said you’d done this before! Was that all bullshit?”, In-ho is not surprised. Players turning on one another is an inevitability that Gi-hun should have accounted for.

Still, his obvious discomfort and shame is another victory mark on the scoreboard In-ho hides at the back of his mind.

“I'm sorry,” he says, pleading for compassion from a man who has clearly never said a kind word to anyone in his life.

“Sorry won't cut it!”

Gi-hun is trembling now, his entire body flinching with every cruel word flung his way. He folds in on himself like a child folds under the weight of a parent’s belt, and In-ho watches. Will he not stand up for himself? Is he content enough in his self-loathing to take abuse from a man who would kill him in an instant if the opportunity arose?

“You talked like you knew everything! All these people believed your bullshit! What are you going to do, huh? Will you take responsibility?”

He thinks to insert himself into the fight, to diffuse the tension and endear himself further to Gi-hun and his cause, and perhaps even regain your trust in the process by defending the man you so clearly love. But for once in his life (or rather, for the second time), In-ho is too late.

“Excuse me, sir.” There is no feigned politeness in your voice, no deference to your elders in your words or tone. If anything, the tacked on ‘sir’ sounds more like a slap in the face than a term of respect. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”

Player 100 blinks back his shock, tripping all over the practiced insults he is so eager to distribute. His face goes red and his mouth falls open, gaping like a fish, until he finally manages to compose himself a few moments later. “This has nothing to do with you.” He closes in on you then, and In-ho sees it before you do, all the rage that’s beginning to boil over, the quivering fists and bared teeth, and he feels the shock of it in his stomach.

“Then it has nothing to do with you either,” you retort, and you go so far as to take a step closer to the man. Are you insane? “You don’t get to talk to him like that.”

It isn’t instinct that drives him to press his chest into your back. It isn’t instinct that pushes him to glare a pseudo-bullet hole into 100’s head. It is simply the movement of a chess piece across the board. “That's enough,” he utters, and the word is final.

And he expects to be rewarded for it. It was a calculated move, intentional and deliberate down to the weight of his body against yours and the timbre of his voice. That’s why he feels so unmoored when, rather than turning to thank him, you immediately rush to Gi-hun’s side. That’s why he’s left blinking at the empty space you’ve left behind and wondering what crucial part of his plan he’d missed. There is no other reason for the taste of bile in his throat or the slamming of his heart against his ribcage. None.

He takes no pleasure in your rejection, either. That’s what he chooses to believe. When Gi-hun accepts your comfort for a few treasured moments only to then pull away when he’s had his fill, to not allow you to dote on him, your reaction is so immediate and so blatant that the entire group can see it. Jung-bae and Dae-ho at least have the courtesy to look away and offer you a second of privacy; In-ho does not.

You chose this and he wants you to know that he knows. He does not look away when your eyes land on him. He does not soften his gaze. Rather, he tilts his head as if to say, I stood up for you. What has Gi-hun done?

The next ten minutes are unbearably awkward. The five of you already constitute a team, so no need to search for any further additions. Dae-ho officially introduces himself, only to immediately stick his foot in his mouth by inquiring exactly how everyone knows each other. Your eyes land on In-ho, then slide over to Gi-hun, and none of them answers. If he were watching this from the observation deck, it might almost be humorous, but he’s not and it isn’t. In truth, it’s painful.

Jung-bae is in the middle of a remarkably boring re-enactment of the time he and Gi-hun had gone out for soju as teens when another player approaches. In-ho has never been so relieved by a distraction in all his life.

“Excuse me,” she says sweetly, “can I join you?”

Jung-bae already seems displeased by having his story interrupted, but he softens his frustration for the girl’s sake. “Sorry, we’ve already got five people.”

“Please.” She takes a step closer, pushing herself slightly into the loose arc the five of them have formed, and takes a turn looking at each person. There’s something about her that gives In-ho pause, something he can’t put his finger on. “Help me. I’m pregnant.”

The girl rests her hand on her stomach, just over the little swell of life below her ribcage, and for a moment In-ho is very far away. He sees the hospital bed, the IVs and faded scars of needle pricks along Min-jung’s arm, he sees her sallow face, and he feels the same blinding needing to protect, defend, defy. To save. It passes quickly enough, but leaves him off-centered and irritable. Vulnerable.

He casts his eyes to Gi-hun first, curious to see just how the mighty hero of the Games plans to handle the situation. He flounders, of course, and In-ho isn’t surprised. Jung-bae is the one to break the news, apologetic and kind, but with the weight of the world on his shoulders because they all know they’ve created a decent team. They all know what it means to turn her away. That’s why it surprises him when yours is the voice that rises in response.

“I can… I can find another team.”

He and Gi-hun both share the same exclamation. “What?”

Your face practically folds in on itself with the force of your emotions. You don’t hide your compassion very well, but neither do you hide your fear – you’re uneasy about leaving the security your team offers you, however false it may be, but you’re equally uneasy about putting a pregnant woman at risk. And while he would never admit it aloud, In-ho finds himself sympathetic to your predicament.

Gi-hun’s mouth is pressed into a thin line, his frustration written into every crease and dimple in his skin. “It’s safest for you to be with us,” he asserts, reluctantly.

“But Gi-hun-a, she’s pregnant!” As if Jung-bae hadn’t already elected to turn the girl away.

He looks to Gi-hun once more, studying, noting every twitching tendon and flicker of regret that cuts across his face. What will you choose, Seong Gi-hun? Which horse is most likely to win the race?

“It’s alright,” says the girl with her soft doe eyes and pregnant belly. In-ho does not see his wife in her. He doesn’t. “I’m sure I can find another group.”

“No!” you exclaim, scrambling forward to take her hand in both of yours. Then your voice drops, it softens and shakes with the certainty of your sacrifice. “No, you should stay with them. They’ll keep you safe.”

You guide her to stand in the perfectly sized space between himself and Gi-hun, your brows now furrowed as you seem to be searching inside yourself for something. Then your chin tilts up and your gaze lands on Gi-hun. Several seconds tick by as you survey his face, so raw and exposed in a way In-ho isn’t sure he’s ever seen on you before.

The cold slice of bitterness cuts across his lungs at the sight. What can Gi-hun do to save you beyond sacrificing someone from his own carefully constructed team? You should be looking at him like that. He is the only one here with the power to save your life, the only one who might possibly be swayed by your fear and desperation.

“Gi-hun-a.”

And something deep within In-ho’s stomach twists in delight. He knows better than to raise his expectations after the countless hundreds he has seen fight and die in this very room, but logic cannot always outweigh intrigue, not for him.

Jung-bae leans forward, casting his old friend a smile. Sweat is already beading along his hairline. “Let them both stay, Gi-hun-a. I’ll go find another team.”

That something in his stomach lifts higher until it’s crackling like a firework behind his ribcage. Another gamble. The stakes are higher, but so is the reward. The question is whether or not Gi-hun still feels inclined to betting on horses the way he once did. In-ho already knows the answer, but it’s Gi-hun’s self-realization he wants to see, the inward understanding and acceptance that In-ho found for himself years ago. Which of your pawns will you sacrifice first, and which of them will come back when the clock runs out? Who deserves to live, Gi-hun? And who deserves to die?

It is Jung-bae who makes the decision in the end, and the loss of Gi-hun’s conflict is admittedly disappointing, but the Game hasn’t started yet. There is still victory to be found and In-ho will find it. The Front Man always does.

Ddakji. Biseokchigi. Gonggi. Spinning top. Jegi.

You’ve never played a single one. There are games that are similar enough in your home country, but the rules or the materials are slightly different. Different enough that you don’t have nearly as much confidence in your ability to successfully play any of these games as you wish you did.

Ddakji is a blatant no. Even though you’d managed well enough against that businesswoman all that time ago, it still feels wrong to play. You promised Gi-hun you never would again and that suits you just fine. The pregnant girl, Jun-hee, takes it, much to your relief.

Gonggi goes to the boisterous gentleman, Dae-ho. He says he grew up playing it with his sisters and seems confident in his skills, which is more experience than the rest of you have put together.

“That leaves biseokchigi, spinning top, and jegi.” Gi-hun looks to you. “Which do you think you’d be better at?”

You try very hard not to look as deeply panicked as you feel. “Which one’s the easiest?” It’s not a question that inspires very much confidence, you know that, but in truth you’re not sure you’d be very good at any of them.

Young-il and Gi-hun share a rather pointed look, which doesn’t help your confidence in the slightest. Defeat already feels imminent. You should’ve picked another team, at least that way your friends would be more likely to survive. Jun-hee and her baby, too.

“Don’t say that,” Young-il chides when you find yourself admitting as much. He rests a gentle hand upon your shoulder. “We’re a team, [___]. We’ll work together.”

“That’s right,” Gi-hun nods. “Why don’t you watch the first round and see how they’re played? You can decide which one is best for you.”

And it would have been such a brilliant idea if the first team to go hadn’t been brutally slaughtered. And the second team too. How are you meant to have any faith in yourself when the Korean-born players ahead of you keep getting themselves shot because they can’t throw a damn rock? You haven’t even had a chance to see jegi played yet because no one has made it that far.

“Don’t panic.” But no amount of kind and quiet compassion from Gi-hun, or even Young-il, is enough to calm your nerves. “[___]. [___], look at me. Look.”

You hesitantly lift your eyes to meet his. For a moment, all you can see are the bodies dropping to the floor behind him, the blood, you can hear the screaming and the gunfire. But then he reaches for your hands and holds them tightly.

“Think back to when you were a child. What kinds of games did you play? What were you good at?”

You try very hard to do as he asks. At the very least, it’s a distraction from the death that looms all around you. Searching your memories doesn’t offer as much hope as you would’ve liked – nights spent playing board games or reading, or the few activities you were decent at when you would go to recess. There’s not much that transfers over. Until, quite suddenly, you remember something.

“I used to skip rocks,” you tell him, a smile finally winning over the despair that’s been clinging to you like a second skin. “At the lake. I was good at it, too. That’s close enough to biseokchigi, isn’t it?” Just by watching the other players, the actions look comparable enough. It takes a certain amount of precision to make a rock skip smoothly over the water, as it takes a certain amount of precision to hit a target.

Gi-hun nods amicably. “Good. That’s good.” He squeezes your hands one last time before finally releasing them and you miss his touch immediately. He keeps you grounded whenever he’s near. “Young-il-ssi. Which one are you better at – jegi or spinning top?”

“I’ll take whichever you pick for me, Gi-hun-ssi.” There’s a softness to his voice, something that you wouldn’t have expected to hear in the midst of all this bloodshed. But Young-il continues to surprise you, as he has since you met him.

Gi-hun seems as surprised by Young-il’s deferment as you are, though he doesn’t speak on it. You can see him trying to work it out in his head before finally giving up. “Then… I’ll take jegi.”

The decisions are made just in time for the next round of teams to start playing. You can’t make out the team on the opposite end of the room, but you recognize one of the players on your side – Hyun-ju. She’s teamed up with several others you haven’t spoken to yet, but the mother player and her son are with her. That’s good. They all seem to have a good head on their shoulders and while you aren’t happy that Hyun-ju voted O, you don’t want her to die either. You end up rooting for her louder than any of the others on her team.

It's a close call. The woman playing spinning top makes several mistakes when it’s her turn and it very nearly costs the entire team their lives. There are several stretches of awful, agonizing seconds where you forget to breathe. So many people have already died today. You don’t want Hyun-ju to die, you don’t want her team to die. You want to believe there’s even the slightest glimmer of hope for the rest of you.

They make it to jegi. Everyone turns around. There are only seconds left on the clock. You can’t look. You can’t bear to watch their bodies get riddled with bullets. Everyone around you is shouting and jumping, and then the clock runs out and there’s no gunfire, no bullets, no blood sprayed across the rainbow track.

You open your eyes to see one of the soldiers unlocking the restraints on Hyun-ju’s ankle. And then you feel Dae-ho jerking you by the shoulder and spinning you around so he can hug you. They’re alive. Jun-hee looks up at you with the truest smile you’ve seen on her yet. You don’t realize until your eyes start to sting that you’re crying.

They’re alive. There’s hope!

Things don’t seem so bleak after that. More players die, yes, but more players survive too. You have to keep your chin up so you don’t fall back into your despair. Despair won’t keep you alive. You and Dae-ho huddle together at one point so he can practice his gonggi skills. Jun-hee sits quietly beside you both with a hand on her stomach, content to watch you both. You try to strike up a casual conversation with them, something to draw your minds away from the dwindling player numbers, but your heart isn’t really in it. Neither is theirs. You’re all too preoccupied to care that much.

When he takes a moment to think on it, In-ho is genuinely surprised to realize that he’s enjoying himself. When another team wins, the celebration is contagious. More than once has he found himself grasping at Gi-hun’s shoulder, his mouth cracked open to laugh and shout, his heart pounding with the joy of community and the relief of hope.

Hope.

He sees it on your face as clear as day. As often as he has found himself cheering and clinging to Gi-hun, he has felt you do the same to him. Both of them, in fact. Your smile has seared itself into his brain, your hands have clutched at his jacket and Gi-hun’s shoulder, and In-ho has found himself truly lost to the rush of it all.

The Games hadn’t been like this when he had been the victor. There was no camaraderie in the arenas he’d spilled blood in. Hope was a fleeting thing for him even then. He’s amazed at just how much can change in the span of a few years, aided by the illusion of friendship.

Jung-bae’s voice calls across the courtyard, then, drawing the entire team’s attention. “Hey!” He lifts his arm high in the air as one of the soldiers latches his ankle in place. “We'll see you again at the finish line!”

In-ho very highly doubts that.

“Yes!” cries Dae-ho, a bit too loudly for his tastes. It makes his ear ring. “We'll see each other again!”

“Gi-hun-a!”

In-ho can feel Gi-hun’s body go tense against his, his shoulders suddenly rigid as he smiles bittersweetly at his friend. In-ho already knows what he’s thinking; likely, it’s the very thought he’d had when faced with the possibility of being separated from you – that he can’t control the outcome of the game if you’re out of his reach.

For the sake of the game, though, he pretends to care. “I believe in our team,” he says as Dae-ho loops one arm in his and Gi-hun does the same with the other. He smiles. “Both our teams. Plus, we have the previous winner with us.”

Suddenly, you lean forward and gesture frantically to get his and Gi-hun’s attention. “Let’s not rush ourselves, okay? If we try walking too fast, we’ll trip and fall and that’ll waste time. Yeah?”

In-ho finds himself nodding. He finds that his smile is a touch more genuine. “Good plan,” he nods, and Gi-hun is quick to agree.

One of the soldiers raises their pistol in the air. In-ho’s heart gets caught somewhere between his stomach and his shoes.

Bang!

Ddakji comes first. The girl gets it on her first try and he’s elated. He swallows up the rush of adrenaline that her success brings and goes blindly chasing for more, his vision tunneling around the stone you’re meant to throw.

“Take your time.” He doesn’t mean to say it, doesn’t plan or rehearse it, it just comes out of him as naturally as anything else might.

Dae-ho nods eagerly beside you. He’s wringing his hands as he tilts out of your way, pressing his shoulder against In-ho’s. (Strangely, he finds he doesn’t mind it.) “Yes! Deep breaths, [___]! You’ve got this!”

But you’re already waving your free hand in his direction. “Ah, quiet, quiet! Let me think!”

The arena falls quiet save for the thundering of In-ho’s pulse and the steady, measured pace of your exhalations. You lower yourself into a partial crouch, feet wide, elbow out, and your lips parted. One second ticks by. Then another. Your shoulders rise and fall with another deep breath and then–

The intercom blazes to life. “Fail.”

Shit.

“It’s okay, it’s okay! We still have time!” Gi-hun exclaims. He’s pointing wildly at the clock and In-ho is grateful for it because it reminds him of where he is, who he is. Not even a full minute has passed yet. Everything’s going to be fine.

It takes about fifteen seconds to retrieve the stone and march back to the starting point. One minute gone, four minutes to go. He might be a bit nervous, but he isn’t truly worried. A lot can happen in four minutes. And besides, he gets a rare chance to study you now. Watching you calculate your next move, cataloging the distance between yourself and the target stone, hefting the weight of the other rock in your hand as you think – it’s exhilarating.

You’re about to throw again when his eyes drop and he practically lurches forward, almost pulling everyone off balance so he can swing his arm out in front of you. “[___], your feet!”

You were standing directly on the line. It would have disqualified your throw and wasted even more time. Self-preservation. Survival instinct. That’s all it is. So why does he get such a buzz from wondering what might have happened if he hadn’t said anything at all? How your face might have contorted when you suddenly realized you’d doomed your entire team?

He loses the opportunity to know for sure when both stones go tumbling top over bottom and the soldier for this station raises their arms overhead. “Pass.” Even so, he cheers just as emphatically as everyone else.

They march steadily on. The entire team drops into a crouch. You and the pregnant girl lean into one another and In-ho does the same on Dae-ho’s other side. His knee knocks against Gi-hun’s and rather than pull away, he embraces it. Camaraderie. Fellowship. Hope. It’s as thrilling to embrace them once more as it is to level a semiautomatic at a traitor’s head and squeeze the trigger.

Dae-ho rubs his hands together. His fingers are deft, his body light, and in seconds – seconds – he’s flawlessly performed each round of gonggi and elevated them to the next part of the challenge. In-ho cheers for that too, and it’s the truest thrill he’s felt in years.

Spirits are high as they round the track. He can hear you and Gi-hun chanting in time, can hear Dae-ho’s excitable mutterings. He can even feel himself smiling again. Apart from your initial slip-up, things are going perfectly and there’s still almost three minutes left on the clock. It’s just such a shame that the VIPs crave a bit of excitement, isn’t it?

The twine is slick with blood and sweat when he picks it up. The top itself is slightly dented along the edge and its lower point dulled after too many landings, but it’s still useable. He had ensured as much himself just last night, but the others don’t know that. As far as any of them know, Young-il could be horrific at spinning top. Young-il could be the one to get them all killed.

He transfers the top into his non-dominant hand and with a flick of his wrist, the top goes sprawling onto its side.

Gi-hun squeezes his arm amicably. “It’s alright. We still have time, Young-il-ssi. Everyone! One, two, one, two, one–”

He restrings the top, stopping only to spare the timer a glance. Nearing the two minute mark, which means he has enough time for one more delay, maybe two if he’s fast enough. He pushes Gi-hun out of the way – rather nicely, actually, all things considered – and positions himself accordingly. He doesn’t even mean to toss it backwards like that.

“Shit, I’m sorry–”

“Ah, it’s okay,” Gi-hun mutters, even though it’s not, even though his voice is wracked with tremors.

He smiles when he hears your voice, how you’re trying to offer him a bit of encouragement but it falls flat because you don’t think he can do it. Because you’re afraid. Because you believe more in Gi-hun than you do in him.

That’s alright, he thinks. Assuming he doesn’t get you killed in the next two minutes – and he knows he won’t because he’s planned for that too – he’ll be able to teach you a decent lesson in patience and faith.

A minute thirty. He has time enough.

In-ho blinks dejectedly at the top in his hands. His heart is caught in his throat. Even when he screams, even when he slaps himself so hard that it makes his ears ring, it sits there like a lump of food that refuses to go down. And he chases that feeling too, allows the dread to settle in his stomach and run cold through his veins.

“You goddamn idiot! You fucking idiot! What’s wrong with you, huh?”

Voices are clamoring over one another. Hands are scrambling and bodies are leaning away. The timer ticks down another few seconds and In-ho fights the urge to smile because there you are. Eyes wider than ever before, your mouth and brows puckered with concern as you reach across Dae-ho’s body and try to soothe him. Gi-hun beats you to it, of course, but he gets what he wants in the end.

“Pass.”

He’s never found jegi nearly as interesting before as he does now. He doesn’t know where to look. He wants to capture it all, every fleeting micro expression and frantic breath, every tense muscle and colorful swing of the jegi. The last non-adrenalined, partially composed piece of his brain that still functions notes the idea of rewatching the game footage once he returns to his apartment. And then he’s not really thinking of anything logical or composed at all because he’s shooting his foot out to save the day, to save his own life (he doesn’t need to), your life (he doesn’t need to), to save Gi-hun, Dae-ho, and the pregnant girl’s lives (he doesn’t need to, but he does it anyway).

“Pass.”

The finish line comes into sight, a pink band that breaks across his chest. How strange to think that such an insignificant thing can make the difference between life and death. How strange to find himself crying out in the embrace of a friend and finally, finally, feeling alive.

And then he sees that flash of pink in the distance. Guns raised, legs stanced. He meets Park Jung-bae’s eyes for a fleeting moment before the gunfire starts, and then the only thing he can hear is Gi-hun’s throat ripped raw from the force of his own grief.

#seong gi hun x reader #gi hun x reader #hwang in ho x reader #in ho x reader #squid game #my fics

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lostsyren · 3 months ago

Note

PLEASE dad Rafe, where Sofia is like a Pilates mom trophy wife and she and Rafe have kids and UGHHHHHHHHHH traditional rich family like Rafe would have. Maybe a little bit of angst with some kids telling the kids things like "your mom was a Pogue" that they heard from their moms or whatever.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ family

{summary: rafe and sofia are now married with two kids, both trying to navigate the tricky waters of parenthood}

{a/n: i’m sorry this took so long but i hope you enjoy it!}

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡

Rafe never thought he’d be able to have this. Someone like him blessed with something so pure?

The house was filled with noise. Gone were the silent, eerie hallways of Tannyhill, haunted by the memory of a broken family and cursed reputation. Rafe had forged his own home– made a new family.

And he had Sofia to thank for that. Her laughter bounced off the walls, a sound he’d happily get drunk off of. But it wasn’t just her voice in the medley. Bright, chirping babbles, the patter of little footsteps…

“Daddy!” A little voice called out.

Rafe was in his bedroom, buttoning up his shirt, ready to head out to the office, when the door swung open, revealing his little daughter waddling inside.

“Hey baby aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for school?” He cooed, going to pick her up.

Sofia entered a moment later, still wrapped in her dressing gown, “sorry, she’s being a real nightmare today, aren’t you, chiquita?” Sofia said, with a faux, playful anger.

“Don’t you have your Pilates thing this morning?” Rafe asked, after pressing a quick kiss against Sofia’s cheek.

“I do, let’s see if I make it,” she huffed, taking their daughter into her arms. “¿Estás vestido?” She called out to their oldest. (She was trying to teach him Spanish).

“Yes mom!” He yelled back from his room across the landing, in that exasperated tone befitting of a pre-teen.

After Rafe and Sofia got married, she quickly became pregnant. It wasn’t planned, the whole ordeal both exciting and terrifying. The couple were graced a beautiful baby boy, the spitting image of Rafe, who they named Leo.

Seven years later, and they were once again blessed, this time with a daughter, Eliza, who was now a boisterous five year old, starting kindergarten.

Rafe and Sofia remained in the Outer Banks, despite Rafe’s desires to leave. Sofia wanted to stay close to her family, and have the children’s grandparents nearby. Leo and Eliza also loved to spend time with their cousins, Valerie and JJ (John B and Sarah’s kids,) who lived where the old Chateau used to be– a new development spearheaded by Rafe, being built there as a gift to his sister.

So they stayed on the little island of Kildare, Rafe forsaking his tumultuous past for the sake of his family.

His family.

He still couldn’t quite believe it even after more than a decade.

“You get ready for your class, I’ll drop the kids off, yeah?” He suggested, noticing Sofia’s increasingly worried expression.

“But then you’ll be late,” her mouth pulled into a stark frowned as she held Eliza on her hip.

“You can’t be late when you’re the boss,” Rafe smirked, to which Sofia rolled her eyes playfully.

“Listen to your father now ok baby?” Sofia warned, giving Eliza to Rafe.

“We’ll be fine, won’t we?” Rafe grinned down at Eliza, ruffling his daughter hair. She’d inherited her mother’s chestnut curls, hazel eyes, and wide, sunny smile that lit up any room she waddled into.

Rafe left Sofia in the bedroom so she could change, heading to his son’s room.

“You ready kiddo?” He called rapping his knuckles on the door.

Leo exited a moment later, “where’s mom?” He asked.

“She’s got Pilates on this morning, so I’m taking you and Eliza to school.”

Leo was just about to turn thirteen, evident in his moody, brooding demeanour. Sofia often told Rafe not to worry, that it was normal. But Rafe couldn’t help but see himself in his son. He remembered how he was like at that age– alone, misunderstood. He’d hate for Leo to feel the same.

“Go grab you and your sister’s backpacks bud and I’ll meet you by the truck.”

The three of them all headed downstairs, Leo grabbing the school bags, Eliza slipping on her shoes and Rafe grabbing the car keys.

Just as they were about to all head out, the front door wide open, Sofia came down the stairs, looking like a vision in her skin tight workout gear.

Fuck. Even after fourteen years, Rafe was smitten.

“Leaving without saying goodbye?” She teased, approaching them with a glorious smile. Sofia knelt down, pressing Eliza’s face with kisses.

“Come here Leo, you too,” she teased, bundling him up in a hug.

She stood up, ruffling Leo’s hair with a playful touch. “Trabaja duro en la escuela, ¿vale?”

Leo rolled his eyes, “yes mom I will.”

“En español por favor,” Sofia chastised.

Leo rolled his eyes yet again, “Sí, lo haré.”

“Gracias, cariño. Now go, don’t want you to be late.”

Rafe gazed at this with a soft smile, his heart suffuse with an overflowing warmth.

“What– no kiss for me huh?” He probed, his eyes roving Sofia’s figure shamelessly.

“Ew dad, can you not?” Leo groused, grabbing his sisters hand and tugging her on to the porch.

Sofia and Rafe ignored his juvenile rumblings, Rafe’s hands sliding around her hips as he pulled her into a quick, firm kiss.

“Love you,” he said, softly.

“Te amo,” she replied with a sly grin, “now go before Leo throws up.”

“How does he think he ended up here huh?” Rafe joked, tightening his grip on her hips

“Oh shush, they’re gonna be late.”

So Rafe compiled, bucking Eliza into the car seat in the back, whilst Leo jumped up front.

“Wave bye to your mom,” he instructed, pulling out the driveway, as Sofia waited by the front door.

The early air was balmy and sweet, and, like he did every morning, Rafe thanked the higher powers above for the blessing which he had the fortune of calling his family.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡

“Rafe, you have to come to the school now, Leo just got into a fight.” Sofia’s voice called from the other end of the phone line, her usually calm and breezy tone now panic-stricken.

Rafe left the office, heading down to the school district, his fingers tapping restlessly against the steering wheel.

He recalled getting into fights at Leo’s age, in some messed up plea for Ward’s attention. The sudden recollection of his own father sent chills through his terse body– he hadn’t thought about him in years. Sofia had put the spiralling introspection to rest, back when he had found about the pregnancy. Questions of his own imminent fatherhood had plagued him– the prospect of becoming like Ward Cameron, a man who he loved and hated all at the same time, the possibility of hurting his kids in the same way his father had hurt him. After nearly a decade, these poisonous insecurities returned with a corrosive force. They decimated the confines of his mind that he’d so carefully constructed to keep the thoughts at bay.

So lost in multiplying thoughts, Rafe was surprised at how fast he reached the school. The school was the kook academy, a playfully moniker from his youth. Sofia was hesitant to send them to a private school, but Rafe persisted, wanting his kids to have the best of the best.

Jumping out the truck, Rafe made a beeline for the reception, relieved to see Sofia’s car already parked there.

The receptionist led him round back to where the principal’s office was. Ms Wilson was already talking to Sofia and Leo when he entered, the conversation stilling to a halt at his arrival.

Sofia glanced around at Rafe, still dressed in her leggings and zip up jacket. Her brows were cinched, mouth caught in a small frown. She seemed more anxious than angry– unlike Rafe, who brewed with a silent rage.

“Mr Cameron, I’m glad you could join us,” the principal announced, inviting him to take a seat in the vacant chair.

He simply grunted in response.

“As I’ve informed Mrs Flores, Leo was involved with an altercation with another student at recess.”

“Altercation? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Rafe, cálmate,” Sofia scolded.

“There’s no need for the expletives Mr Cameron. Leo punched another child and held him down– his teacher had to pull him off.”

“This true Leo?” Rafe looked down at his son, whose face was covered by long strands of dark blonde hair. He was silent, playing with the skin on his nails.

Rafe tensed his jaw. “I asked you a question kid.”

“Yes it’s true.” He mumbled in response.

“As per school policy, Leo is to face one week suspension. He’s usually exceptionally behaved, so I will reduce the time to only three days seeing as this was a one off thing.”

“Thank you Mrs Wilson, Leo is very sorry for what happened,”Sofia said in earnest.

Rafe glanced at Leo, who looked the opposite of apologetic. He instead saw the same firey, blue resolve in his son’s eyes that perturbed him. It was like looking in some twisted mirror, the reflection stark and undeniable.

“What did the other kid do to provoke him huh?” Rafe pushed, tapping his foot against the carpeted floors of the pristine office.

“The other child in question said the attack was unprovoked, and Leo is not disputing that.”

Rafe simply hummed in dissatisfaction. “Is that all then?”

“If you have no further questions, then you’re free to take Leo home,” Mrs Wilson looked between Leo and his father, warily.

“Thank you again,” Sofia simpered, picking up Leo’s bag for him.

“Come on,” Rafe muttered.

When the three of them left the school, Leo stuck by Sofia.

“I’ll drive him home, you can go back to work Rafe,” Sofia said, her hand reaching over to rest on Leo’s shoulder.

“No, we’re gonna have a serious talk about this, you understand Leo?”

He just looked at his father with those unblinking, blue eyes.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡

Rafe reached home after Sofia and Leo, seeing the car already parked in the driveway. When he entered the house, he heard muffled voices come from the living room. But when he entered, the conversation between Sofia and Leo came to a standstill.

“You wanna explain why you were in fight huh?” Rafe began, shucking off his suit jacket. He didn’t mean for his voice to sound so loud, but he couldn’t help it.

Leo once again was silent. It was Sofia who spoke instead, “Rafe, control your temper–“

“Why don’t you tell that to our son?”

Sofia’s eyes were watery, as if she was about to cry, “stop it, Leo had his reasons.”

Rafe paused for a moment– what reason?

Sofia went and took a seat next to her son. “The other kid, he was saying things, making fun of Leo– that’s why he retaliated.”

Rafe’s face softened, extending his gaze towards his son, who sat motionless on the couch.

“What things?” Rafe asked, question directed to his wife.

But Sofia just shook her head, her dark hair falling into her eyes.

“What things were they saying kiddo?” Rafe approached his son, squatting down so they were eye level. Up close he could see the red rimming his eyes, as if he’d hastily wiped away the tears before Rafe had come in. The notion made Rafe’s heart sink.

Leo sniffed, darting his gaze away from his father. “Jared Richardson was going around saying I shouldn’t speak Spanish because that’s what housekeepers speak.”

“He said what? That little piece of shit.”

Leo’s gaze became darker, his pupils contracting, leaving only pure, distilled ice. “He also called mom a dirty pogue who came from the Cut. That’s when I punched him.”

Rafe’s rage multiplied, his molars pressing tightly against each other, the sound of grinding bone filling his ears.

Sofia had folded in on herself beside them, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest. Rafe reached one hand to rest on her knee, rubbing soothing circles across it, whilst the other hand raised to rest on Leo’s shoulder.

“Why didn’t you say anything to the principal?”

“I didn’t want to embarrass mom.”

Sofia pushed away Rafe’s hand, rushing upstairs, leaving only Rafe and Leo in the living room.

“I didn’t want to upset mom either,” Leo whispered, the unwavering frigidity dissipating into a watery sadness.

Rafe was struck silent, not knowing what to say or do. “It’s good you defended your mom. That’s what family do– have each other’s backs, ok?”

Leo nodded, his lips contorting into a frown.

“And I know I was mad before. But I’m proud of you son, you hear me? You did a good and honest thing. Violence is never the answer, but sometimes it’s the only way– you gotta decide when is the right time to use it, ok?”

Leo nodded, taking his father’s words to heart. Rafe wondered if he was doing the right thing. Teaching his son force was sometimes a necessity? What kind of bullshit parenting was that? None of the hundreds of books and articles he’d read prior to Leo’s birth, said that. But he quashed away his qualms– he had faith that Leo knew what was right and honourable. After all, his mother was Sofia, and she was the most noble and righteous person he’d ever known.

“I’m sorry for shouting at you.”

“It’s ok dad, you didn’t know.”

Rafe felt his heart surge with a warm glow and and firey shame.

“You can go order some takeout. Grab something for your mom and me too, yeah?”

Leo nodded, before heading off towards the laptop. He seemed in better spirits.

Rafe sighed, standing up and walking upstairs to Sofia. Their bedroom was empty, the door to the en suite shut. He swallowed thickly, knowing how terrible she must’ve felt right now.

He knocked on the door, “Sof, it’s me.”

The door clicked open, Rafe slipping into the bathroom. Sofia was mess in of tears and sobs.

“Where’s Leo?” She asked, hands still gripping her sides.

“I told him to go order some food.”

Sofia sniffed, quelling her cries. “How is he? What did you say to him.”

“He’s ok. I apologised for shouting.”

Sofia nodded, a fresh wave of tears welling in her waterline.

Rafe furrowed his brows, his lips frowning in sympathy, “come here baby,” he murmured.

Sofia let out a shuddering breath, letting Rafe’s embrace muffle her whimpers. His hands slowly unfurled her tense grip from kneading her skin, leading her arms to wrap around his waist instead.

“I feel so terrible, like it’s my fault Leo was in trouble.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s Jared Richardson’s and his shitty parents fault, ok?”

Sofia moved away from the plane of his chest, looking up at him with wispy, tear-beaded eyelashes. “Maybe I shouldn’t have made them learn Spanish.”

Rafe shook his head vehemently, “stop it. You did nothing wrong. Don’t blame yourself for some asshole kid ok?”

“You’re right, it’s just hard to know my son is getting made fun of because me,” she said softly, her lips trembling.

Rafe pressed a kiss on the crown of her head, inhaling the sweet scent of strawberries, “you’re the best mother anyone could ever ask for Sofia. Leo and Eliza see it, I see it. Be kind to yourself– that’s what you always tell me huh?”

Sofia laughed, her eyes shining bright like two pennies, “you listen to what I say?”

“Occasionally,” he quipped, brushing away the strands of hair that were stuck to her brine soaked cheeks.

Sofia sniffed, shaking away her tears. “Ok, I’ll go speak to Ms Wilson tomorrow.”

“Sounds like a plan, I’ll come with you.”

“I don’t think she likes you very much,” Sofia teased with an impish giggle.

“I won’t say anything this time!” The two faded in and out of laughter.

“Thank you Rafe,” Sofia said, puncturing their comfortable silence. She ran her lithe hands up and down his back.

“For what?”

“For making me feel like I’m a good mom.”

“You are a good mom.”

“And you’re a good dad.”

Rafe shook his head. It was almost instinct. The ingrained, virulent denial.

“You’re not like him. You’re more than he ever was. As a man and as a father, ok?” Sofia declared, voice soaked in resolve.

She didn’t have to say his name for Rafe to know who she was talking about– Sofia knew of Ward Cameron and his contentious relationship with his son. A bond that hung heavy over Rafe’s mind.

“Ok Sof,” he whispered, voice barely a rasp. He conceded, giving in to her saccharine words and convincing tone. Maybe he was better. All he could do was try, with every fibre of his being and morsel of his spirit. He’d do better. Be better. For Sofia, Leo and Eliza.

Sofia squeezed his hand tightly, grounding him in reality. “Now come on, let’s go before Leo orders the entire menu.”

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#outer banks #rafe and sofia #sofia outer banks #rafe x sofia #rafe cameron #sofia obx #fiona palomo #drew starkey #rafe cameron fanfiction #sofia outer banks fanfiction #rafe and sofia fanfiction #rafe cameron angst #rafe cameron fluff #༊*·˚syren

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cameronspecial · 1 year ago

Text

A New Kind Of Normal (Part 1)

Pairing: Dad!Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Drug Use, Swearing, Arguing, and Name Calling

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 2.4K

Summary: Five years later, Rafe makes an unplanned stop at a diner that reveals a secret that Y/N has been keeping from him.

Masterlist

Y/N wipes the counter with a clean rag, looking up at the clock across the wall. Three more hours until Stella is dropped off from daycare. “If you think rubbing that spot over and over again will make a genie appear and you can wish for her to be here faster, then I’m sorry to say that you are going to be disappointed,” Harvey jokes, following her gaze to the clock. She stops cleaning, “Sorry, I just miss her so much. I think I’m PMSing.” “Sure, we can blame it on your period,” he laughs. Y/N pushes him over in annoyance, escaping to her back office to hopefully make the time go faster.

She smiles at the picture of the grandma on the desk, settling on her chair to order more inventory. Her life plans weren’t exactly to take over the diner, yet it’s not like she was planning on having a baby at twenty either. Y/N was left the diner in her grandma’s will and she took it so that it could stay in the family. There are no regrets in either of those decisions. Sure, she didn’t get her big break in LA or New York, but she would never dream of trading her daughter for anything in the world. Stella Y/L/N is the light of her life, even if she is the spinning image of her dad. Stella is all Y/N’s and that’s all that matters. She may have Rafe’s eyes, but she has Y/N’s sense of humour. Her lips are the same as his, but she loves the same movies as her mom. Her hair colour may match his, but she also has the same bad habit of biting her nails as her mom.

Y/N focuses on the words on her screen when Harvey comes running into her office. “A total hunk just came into the restaurant and I have been ordered by Patty to come get you. She thinks he can be your soulmate. Says to let you take his table,” he informs, pointing behind him with his thumb. Y/N shakes her head, “I’m the owner. I really should be the one telling you to take tables, but I won’t disappoint Patty. I’ll be out in a second.” Harvey nods and heads back out to check on his customers. She finishes up the order she was working on, fixing her shirt before heading out the door.

The sound of a door opening draws Rafe’s attention and his heart stops at the scent of vanilla he hasn’t smelt in five years. Even if it was only one night, he has been haunted by the wearer of that scent for years. His eyes land on her and he can’t believe he gets to see her again. Her smile is still as brilliant. Y/N heads behind the counter to get an apron and his insides collapse in on himself as he watches her smile dim at his sight. He doesn’t know why she would be upset at him. She was the one who left in the morning without a word. Suddenly, the face on his watch needs to be constantly adjusted.

As Y/N exits her office, she has to stop herself from screaming at the man sitting in the booth. She could never forget him; a living reminder of him literally came out of her vagina almost four years ago. Fear creeps into her brain. The only possible reason he could be here after all these years is because of that living reminder. With the resources he has, he would most certainly win custody over Stella and Y/N couldn’t allow that to happen. But maybe he doesn’t know about her. If he did, then wouldn’t it make more sense to bring a lawyer with him? She decides to find out why he is really here first before she goes on the defence as she walks over to take his order.

“What are you doing here?” she grits through bared teeth. He gives her a confused look, “I had a meeting with clients. I thought I would stop to get something to eat before heading back to the Outer Banks.”

Her expression lightens up at his words. “So you aren’t here to see me?” His head moves from side to side, “No. I mean that night was amazing, but I wasn’t expecting to see you here. I’m just hungry.” He notices that her eyes keep glancing towards the clock and the nail of her thumb is being gripped by her teeth. He wonders why she looks so worried all of a sudden.

“Okay, good. I mean cool. What can I get you? A burger? Salad? Pie?”

“Woah, woah, woah. Slow down, Buttercup. Why are you in such a rush? Aren’t you going to get my drink order first?”

“Right. Of course. What can I get you to drink?”

“A coffee, please.”

Rafe had never seen a woman run away from him so fast before and he has got to say that he is offended. He doesn’t know what he did to garner such a reaction from her, but he vows to make it up to her. His hand goes up to his mouth, so he can check his breath. Smells fine. The mug of coffee is quickly placed in front of him and she practically forces him to give her his food order right at this second.

Y/N hands the order to Patty in the kitchen, “Pat, I need you to focus on this order, please. Get it out first and as fast as you can.” The older woman’s eyebrow shoots up. “That’s a little unusual, but I can do that for you, honey. Can you watch the other food then for me, please?” she asks. Y/N does as asks and makes sure the chicken tenders in the fryer don’t burn. Patty gets Rafe’s food done in a jiffy and Y/N takes it out to him. She stays behind the counter, looking between the clock and Rafe eating every so often. She swears she has never seen someone eat so slowly. He has to be doing this on purpose. He can feel her gaze on him and he has pieced together that something must be coming that she doesn’t want him to see. His curiosity gets the best of him, so he decides to make this lunch last.

The jingle of a bell above the door catches his attention. He turns to see a little girl run into the diner and round the counter to the woman standing behind it. “Mommy,” she screams, jumping into Y/N’s arms. With a clear view of the girl now that she is being carried by her mom, Rafe can now see her in more detail.

The long locks that frame her face are the same muddy blonde colour as his. Her eyes match his ocean-blue ones. And she definitely inherited the shape of his lips. He tries to do the math in his head. He isn’t great at guessing kids’ age. She looks about three, maybe four. So four years plus the ten months of pregnancy, that child is almost certainly his. He feels like his world is falling in on itself. How could he not know that he had a little girl? Did she know she had a daddy? He promised himself if he ever had a kid that they would never feel the same way about him as he does about his dad. But he did one step worse by not even being in his daughter’s life. Anger starts to fill him and he knows he needs to find a way to manage it before he lets it out on the wrong person.

“Stells, what are you doing back so early?” Y/N questions her grinning daughter, moving the hair out of the girl’s face. She nods along to the explanation about daycare ending early today, so Mrs. Winters dropped her off early. Her eyes are focused on Rafe and she watches as he pieces the puzzle together. She observes as he slaps money onto the table, quickly making his exit. “Shit,” the mother whispers. “Can you go to my office, please? Mommy will bring you a snack, baby.” Y/N makes sure Stella is making her way to the office before running after Rafe. Her feet slap against the concrete and she spots him entering his truck. She goes to chase after him, but he drives off in a blink of an eye.

——

He had a daughter. He had a little girl that he could cherish and watch grow that she kept a secret from him. He doesn’t even know their daughter’s name. His anger fills him to the brim and he needs an outlet to get rid of it. The white powder in the small baggies calls to him, so he rushes to his coffee table. He draws the cocaine into lines and brings his nose down to snort the powder. The drugs start to affect him; his judgement starts to be clouded.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket to dial a number, “Barry, I need you to find an address for me.”

——

“So how was daycare, Stella?” Y/N questions her daughter, cutting up a cucumber for a snack. Stella runs up to the counter, “It was good, Mommy. I got a rainbow sticker for being a good girl.” The girl pulls at the front of her shirt to show off the sticker on it. “That’s great, Baby. You must have worked hard today to be a good girl. I’m proud of the effort you put in. Now, why don’t you go get ready for your snack? Mommy is almost done getting everything ready,” she suggests, moving on to get the cheese cut. Stella yells an okay and runs to the bathroom.

The hard knock on the door reverberates around the open floor plan of the small house. This stops Y/N in her tracks and she goes to answer the door. When she sees who it is, she tries to shut the door in his face, but his foot stops her. “How come you didn’t tell me I had a daughter?” he growls, pushing his way into her house. His force causes her to stumble backwards and luckily, she is able to catch herself before she falls on her bum like on the night they first met. She shuts the door, turning toward him, “I was going to tell you. But by the time I found out I was pregnant, I had already learnt the type of person you truly were.”

“The type of person I truly was? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Can you keep your voice down, please? She is just down the hall.”

“What do you mean?” he snarls, approaching her so they are chest to chest. The dark look in his eyes and the towering figure over her should’ve scared her. She can see the abnormal size of his pupils, so she knows he is high. However, she can’t stop thinking about the man that she met. Not about the stories of his anger issues or how he beats people to a pulp. Not about how he not only does cocaine but sells it at parties too. All she can see is the man who lost his button and ranted about how his father is an asshole. Passing the anger of her hiding Stella, she can see the sadness he feels about missing out on her life so far. Yet, the fact that he shows up at her house, high and yelling while Stella is there causes her to feel her own fury as her maternal side starts to show.

She stands straight, taking a few steps forward that makes him walk backwards, “What do I mean? I mean that I found out that you not only do drugs, but you sell them. I found out that you beat people up who aren’t in the same financial circle as you. I found out that you have anger issues that you don’t seem to want to change. Rafe, you weren’t the type of father I wanted for my daughter.” Seeing such a sweet person say all those vile but true things about him sends a pang through his heart.

“You never gave me a chance to change! I would’ve done anything for her if I knew she existed.”

“Really? Because from where I’m standing right now, you are proving me right. Look what you did when you found out about her. You didn’t try to talk to me like an adult. You went out and got high then barged into my house demanding answers.”

“You know what? All of you bitches are the same. You think that you are so much better than everyone because you don’t do drugs or get angry. Well let me tell you something, you are just a poor slut who got pregnant on purpose to have a permanent cash cow. You aren’t better than me. You are just better at hiding it than me.”

The volume she was about to talk at was not one she had ever used before, but she wasn’t about to let him talk about her or her daughter like that. “GET OUT! I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN UNLESS YOU HAVE A LAWYER WITH YOU!” She storms toward the door and throws the door open. Rafe didn’t think someone with such a nice personality could be so loud. It helps bring him back to reality and he realizes what he just did. His shoulders relax with his anger. He looks at her sadly as he follows her pointed finger out of the door.

Y/N shuts it once he is out the door. She runs her fingers through her hair, giving a tug to the end of her roots. The frustrated sigh she lets out is the only sound in the room until a small voice catches her attention. “Mommy, are you okay?” Y/N turns to her teary-eyed daughter and concern floods through her. She rushes to her, bringing her up to rest against her hip. Her forehead rests against the younger girl’s temple, “I’m okay, Stells. Mommy isn’t hurt, just angry. Are you okay, Baby? I know hearing Mommy yell might have been scary. I’m sorry you had to hear that.” Stella’s arms circle her mother’s shoulders and she gives her mother a kiss on the cheek as comfort. “I’m okay, Mommy. The scary man is gone now. Who was he?”

Y/N wishes she could pretend like there was no man, but Stella had obviously seen Rafe. There is no denying it. Y/N just has no idea who she wants Rafe to be to her daughter.

Taglist: @loves0phelia @thelomlisrafecameron @wickedlovely121 @thepatriarchykeychain @drewsmusee @starkowswife @maybankslover @forstarkey @loving-and-dreaming @drewstarkeyswifehoe @kisstaya @magicalyoura @mp-littlebit @loverfu55ii

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bring-forth-his-sac · 4 months ago

Text

The Christmas Party - Chapter 2

Summary: After seeing your text, Negan tries to use your mistake for his own benefit, but what will happen when you find out?

Tags: Modern AU, Teacher AU, Swearing, Pet Names, Slow Burn, Negan being a manipulative little fucker

Word Count: 4.4k

Link to Chapter 1

Negan remembers the first time he saw you. Morning meeting. September. While everyone else looked hungover or as if they considered driving off a cliff before getting there, you were chipper than a goddamn chipmunk.

He debated trying to swoon the newbie right then and there but Negan knew it would be a lost cause since you were obliviously surrounded by his very own Legion of Doom. Rosita, Aaron, Alden. Hell, even the grunting janitor was hanging around you.

And so he waited.

The shit part was what he thought would be a brief wait until the faculty meeting was over, stretched into days, then weeks and eventually months. Not that he was banking on getting you anyways, the staff was a vast ocean and many fish were practically begging to be on his rod.

He learned your name in the passing conversations of other teachers, was told you taught English and put you on the to do list, knowing he’d get around to it at some point.

What Negan didn’t expect was for you to seek him out. Sure, you weren’t the first to and most certainly wouldn’t be the last but this was the first time someone sought him out to unknowingly shit talk him.

Well, you most definitely knew you were shit talking. All you didn’t know was that you were doing it to his face.

It was funny when you realised, trying to put up a professional front despite how pink your face was getting. It was nice though. Refreshing. Not another woman coming over to flirt. You were hard headed yet bashful. Another nosey fuckin’ gossip but you had an ounce of humility which was new for Alexandria High.

It gave him a new objective; try to beat his personal record of getting under someone’s skin.

Whether that be in a hot and bothered kinda way or general annoyance, he didn’t mind. That’s what made him walk into your classroom later that day, so boldly telling you that you were on detention duty.

He knew that would piss you off and as he yelled at some spotty teens the next morning, he kept a special eye out for his new favourite English teacher, just waiting for you to storm up to him and go on some rant about making you cover his shift.

Negan had a viable excuse as to why he couldn’t do it, he was busy doing other things. Well, Amber, to be more specific.

Sitting in his small office with his feet propped up on the desk, Negan busies himself with the latest monotonous game he’s downloaded onto his phone. Without so much as a knock, the other Coach Smith, Mark, walks in.

“Packed and ready! I was thinking of pulling a sickie for Thursday and Friday and laze around the house before the family and I jet off next week…” Mark begins and Negan simply hums in response, drowning out his colleague’s vacation plans.

After about five rounds of Negan’s game, he gets a nudge to the foot. “But you’ll be real busy, eh?” Mark laughs, oblivious to how little Negan was paying attention “Y’know, I think it would be a big success if you both convince Gregory to dress up as Santa… although knowing him, he’d probably want some of the ladies to sit on his knee”.

Mark shivers at the image before zipping up his bulky coat, as if that would stop his imagination. “Why the fuck would Gregory be dressed as Santa?” Negan laughs “And what would that have to do with me?”.

Finally, he puts down his phone.

Mark shrugs “Just throwing out some ideas for the Christmas party, oh– and make sure to take some pictures of it! I want to see everything from my sun lounger on the sandy beaches of Jamaica”.

“I’ll ask again,” Negan tries not to get annoyed “what the fuck does all that have to do with me?”.

And then Mark says it. The words that would haunt Negan.

“Haven’t you checked the group chat?”.

Negan didn’t take much notice of the group chat, one that he never even asked to be added to in the first place. He’s never been bothered enough to text a message in and just skims through it every once in a while when he’s diabolically bored.

The next ten minutes, Negan spends alone, muttering to himself as he scrolls through the messages.

Stupid fuckin’ Gregory trying to rock shit that shouldn’t be rocked. Same goes for Eugene and his shitty fuckin’ weekend getaway idea. Negan would prefer that over Gregory’s though, considering a city visit means a much broader pond for him to fish in. Although the Kingdom has never failed in the past, the restaurant’s dim lighting and loud music make most gal’s up for it.

But then he got to Mark’s message. Or, ‘blessing’ would be more fitting, considering he gave the go ahead for the sports hall to be used for the staff party.

Like fuck they were going to get wasted in his fucking sports hall. Do they really think he’s that stupid? Negan’s fucking office is beside the hall and with a bunch of depressed, drunk teachers right next door, his place would actually become a ‘fucking office’ but full of the wrong people.

And for Mark of all people to offer up the hall, while he’ll be away tanning himself in Jamaica? Talk about friendly fuckin’ fire.

It would be nice to have been considered in this shit. Fuck Mark. And fuck that disingenuous thumbs up emoji too. Oh, and fuck the very idea of this Christmas party being on his turf.

Just as Negan is about to turn off his phone, he sees it. Out of all the people to volunteer for a last minute collab, you so eagerly offer to help? Negan smirks, running his tongue along his bottom lip.

“You are something else” He mutters to himself, fiddling with his phone as he figures out how to properly save you as a contact.

As far as Negan is concerned, there’s only two options. Either a gun was held to your head and that’s why you offered to help him, or… maybe, just maybe… the day before was your own funny little way of flirting. Negan prefers that option.

Typing out a contact name for you, he adds in some detail. It’s tough remembering each person, especially when he’s already ghosting so many and thus, the more detail added to jog his memory, the better.

Next to your name he adds a set of brackets: (good ass, weird at flirting).

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

You stay off your phone until late afternoon, unable to bear the thoughts of looking at that godforsaken group chat.

You hoped the group chat would help your socialising skills, especially after the move to a new town. You can’t even remember the last time you went out with friends, mainly because you’d need friends to do that.

Moving away from your family to this small town was supposed to be the new beginning you see in tv shows, full of quirky characters, constant but unimportant drama and an array of hunky love interests. Instead you have Carol, a Christmas party to plan and a gym teacher that hates your guts.

A part of you hoped that if you just ignored your apparent request to help with the Christmas party, then it would all fade away. But the swarm of teachers at lunch gave you quite the reality check.

“Will there be a dinner provided? Or just finger food?”.

“I heard Gregory’s dressing up as Santa, do we have to sully Father Christmas’ name with something like that?”.

“Are you sure having it next Friday is a good idea? I mean, it’s the kids last day of term so they’ll be running riot! How will we be able to enjoy ourselves after dealing with that all day?”.

“Will there be tequila?”.

When the bell rings for classes to begin again, you hurry off as fast as you can, promising to have answers to everyone’s question… eventually.

You rush in and glance at the empty chairs, relieved that your students haven’t arrived yet. But when your eyes shift to your desk, you freeze.

“Jesus fu-“ you manage to stop yourself before the curse comes out.

Your body goes rigid as the shock overrides you, unsure whether this will be a showdown or simply another bickering match. Subconsciously gripping your small lunch bag, you hesitantly walk nearer to him.

Negan sits there with a wide grin, satisfied that he caught you off guard.

Quickly recuperating, you try to up your confidence as you move closer to your desk, giving him a stern look. “If you’re here to ask me to cover more of your detention shifts, then you’re out of luck” you keep your voice as neutral as possible, not wanting to add to his smugness.

“You didn’t have a problem doing it last time” Negan teases with one of those easy going smiles, standing from his seat so you can sit.

You don’t justify that with a response, shooting him another badly hidden glare as you sit and set your things onto your desk.

Keeping his stride, Negan swoops up your lunch bag and begins searching it’s content.

“Hey!” You exclaim, debating whether you should stand and take it off him. The image of him holding it just out of reach pops into your head and to avoid a humiliating re-enactment of that, you stay seated.

“Hmph, sandwich,” he shrugs, eyes lingering on your lunch “oooh and a half eaten blueberry muffin! Now that looks tasty as shit”.

You bite back a huff. “Tasty as shit?” You question, wondering if you should take offence.

“You know what I mean,” he mumbles flippantly, setting your lunch bag down but keeping the muffin.

As much as you want to badger him with questions as to why he’s here, you know that’ll inevitably lead to him hanging around longer. So, you stay quiet. You don't try to make conversation, simply organising your notes for your next class and ignoring his presence. If he’s come into your classroom then he can state his business, not wait for you to try and pull it out of him.

Besides, maybe he’s like a poltergeist and if you ignore him long enough then might disappear.

With his mouth full of your blueberry muffin, Negan taps one of the folders on your desk. “Are these all your big ideas for the Christmas Party?” he asks.

Pressing your lips together, you muster up your professional front. “Actually, Negan, about that…” you start “it’s a big misunderstanding, I never technically agreed to help with the Christmas party, I was just replying to Sherry’s question in the group chat. So, you’ll have to find someone else to help you plan it”.

You give a big grin, unable to hide the slight joy it gives you to leave him in the lurch.

Negan meets your smile with one of his own, leaning down so he’s eye level. His tone is just as patronizing as you expect “Naawww, honey, that bullshit excuse won’t fly”.

You don’t back down. Like a child, you mimic his tone “It’s not bullshit, it’s the truth and obviously a simple miscommunication, something you’d know if you actually read the texts”.

Negan studies you for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly. He may not know you but he knows exactly what you are.

Negan chuckles under his breath, knowing full well that if he’d been in high school with you, he’d have to find a way to coax you away from your perfect little study sessions.

You’d be the type that would give him a disapproving look if he didn’t do his homework. The one that would hesitate to ditch classes because you want to be a goody two shoes and not rock the boat. Hell, you’d probably try to talk him into going back to class after he swoons you behind the bleachers.

If there’s one thing Negan knows he can count on, it’s your honesty. Despite what he says, he’s aware you’re not the type to bullshit. He found that out first hand yesterday.

Your comment about him floats back into his memory and he has to wiggle his jaw to loosen it.

”I mean, from what I've heard, her side of the bed wasn't even cold and he was already crawling into the beds of other women” your words echo in his head.

You definitely caught him off guard with that one but it’s not like he can be mad when it’s true. Your damn honesty is annoying, Negan is sure about that.

So when you’re adamant it’s a mistake, Negan does actually believe you… but that doesn’t mean he can’t use this to his advantage.

“Miscommunication, huh?” Negan taunts, trying to goad you “well, in case none of your gossip buddies filled you in yet, Ol’ Greg will be like a goddamn sore on your ass if you try to sell him that excuse. Just a little FYI for ya”.

You scoff. It’s all right there in black and white, anyone who reads all the texts can see you didn’t mean to volunteer for this shit. The only reason no one is admitting that is because you’ve become the scapegoat, thrown forward to work with this jackass.

Still, the stubbornness in you outweighs your willingness to do this just so everyone else is off the hook. Any semblance of a petty smile leaves your face and is replaced by a pout.

Negan holds your gaze, his deep brown eyes twinkling with a playful glint as he takes another bite of muffin. His eyes sparkle with seductive mischief, as if to communicate what his lips (and full mouth) can’t.

“Well, FYI for you,” your words cut through the air, direct and sharp “No, I’m not bullshitting anyone. No, I am not helping you. And no, I am not giving you my number so stop with the eyes!”.

Negan chews thoughtfully.

There’s a genuine smile tracing his lips by the time he swallows. “Jesus, sweetheart, I didn’t even mention getting your number and you’re already aching to give it to me,” he lets out a low chuckle, running his tongue along his bottom lip as you scowl.

“What? No, that’s not - ugh, that’s not what I meant” you ramble as he swallows more of your muffin.

“Don’t worry, I got some good news on that front,” he pauses for dramatic effect “I already got your number and, I don’t even think you’re bullshitting with that super weak excuse!”.

A wave of confusion washes over you, your mind scrambling to make sense of what he just said. Your heart skips a beat as you blink rapidly, trying to process it all but the confusion only deepens.

“W-what— how?! No, you can’t—“ you stutter “you have my number?”.

“That’s not the important part right now, honey” Negan shrugs casually, standing up straight “what’s important is how I’m trying to warn ya, y’gotta be strategic if you’re gonna tell Gregory you’re not interested in doing this party shit”.

A steady stream of students begin to filter in, giving you both curious looks before sitting. Negan pays no attention to them.

Now that they’re others around, you lower your voice “What? We’re not moving on from you having my phone number!”.

“Anyways, I see you got shitheads to teach,” Negan doesn’t lower his voice as he looks around at the students “so I’ll leave you to it, but why don’t you swing by my office when the day is done? I think I’ll be able to help you get out of this party shitshow. Sound good? Great”.

With a wink, Negan doesn’t wait for an answer and disappears out the door, taking the rest of your muffin with him.

Your jaw clenches, already knowing what your student’s faces will look like once they register that you’ll be seeing Negan later, outside of work hours.

The room falls silent as whispers start to swirl. Some of the kids exchange knowing glances, others raise their eyebrows and a few stifle giggles. The students are eating it up, practically salivating over the scandalous idea of you being Negan’s latest pursuit.

You rub your temple, wishing you could just get the day over with. The unfortunate part is that you’re starting to grow used to Negan’s antics, but the curious looks and murmurs? That’s something you absolutely do not want to become a common occurrence.

Clearing your throat, you force yourself to focus and start your lesson. Thankfully, everyone kicks into learning mode pretty easily and the murmuring fades to nothing.

The rest of your classes go by in a blur, mindlessly spouting off Shakespeare as the kids try to decipher what the hell any of it is supposed to mean while you wonder if you should go to Negan’s office after school.

As much as you hate to admit it, Negan has a point. Deep down, you know he’s right about Gregory. The man’s a stickler and he never forgets—or forgives—anything. No matter how much you try to explain that you didn’t mean to volunteer for the Christmas party, Gregory will hold a grudge. And that’s the last thing you need, especially this early in your job.

You can practically hear him in your head now, his clipped tone passive-aggressively accusing you of not being a team player, of not taking your responsibilities seriously. The thought sends a knot of dread into your stomach.

You want to stay stubborn and insist this was all just a mistake, but is it worth the trouble it could bring? Planning a Christmas party with Negan couldn’t be that bad… right?

You’ve already worked so hard to fit in and make a good impression. Pissing off someone like Gregory is like kicking a wasp’s nest on purpose. He won’t confront you directly; he’ll just sting you with a thousand tiny jabs. Negan’s been around much longer than you, at this point he’s practically a veteran at this place. And hopefully, he’s got some kind of way with Gregory.

Of course, taking up Negan’s offer to help is the last thing you want to do. You don’t trust him as far as you could throw his lanky ass.

Yet somehow you still find yourself outside of his office after school, debating whether you should enter his lair or run while you still can. Staring at the office door, you gulp as you read the bold “COACH SMITH” sign on the opaque matte glass. There’s a fraction of you that’s hopeful you got it wrong again and this is Mark Smith's office.

You hesitate, raising your hand to knock before faltering again and dropping your arm back down to your side.

“Just cause the glass is frosted, don’t mean I can’t see you” his voice makes you stiffen momentarily before your shoulders sag and you just open the door.

A broad, mischievous grin greets you. Negan sits as though he’s the student, not the teacher. His chair teeters on its back legs, while his long legs are casually propped up on the desk.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” he says it like he’s in on a secret joke “you wanna lock the door behind you?”.

Your face contorts in a mix of disbelief and shock. “Uh, no!” you exclaim, your expression saying it all.

Negan shrugs, laughing “A voyeur, huh? I can get behind that”.

You can feel the annoyance creeping up inside of you, like a slow burning sizzling under your skin. “Y’know I am this close to reporting you for sexual harassment,” you retort “and you owe me a muffin!”.

Raising his hands in faux surrender, Negan tries to turn on his charm “Damn it, sweetheart, here I am trying to help you out and you’re threatening to report me? Take it easy, sit, I know this whole Gregory shitstorm must have you stressed out”.

Hesitantly taking up his offer, you sit across from him. “So?” you ask “what wisdom do you have to bestow on me?”.

You watch Negan pucker his lips slightly to keep himself quiet, already thinking of another innuendo he could bestow upon you.

Swaying back on his chair, Negan says “Well, I was thinking of that saying, the one that goes like 'the best party is the one that never happens'".

You scrunch up your face, not following his line of thinking. “That’s not a saying” you point out.

Letting his legs fall off the desk, he leans across the desk, getting down to business. “It should be, though,” Negan admits before clearing his throat “look, here’s the bottom line, you shouldn’t be wasting your time trying to stop yourself from helping out with the party. Y’gotta stop the party entirely”.

Now you’re even more lost.

You know Gregory will be annoyed when he hears you don’t want to volunteer, so you can only imagine how frustrated he’ll be if you actively campaign to cancel the teacher’s supposed one night of fun.

“I’ll back you up… partially,” Negan mutters the last part under his breath but you still hear it. Your expression shifts to a deadpan stare. A part of you wonders if this is his final pay back for your badmouthing.

"I swear, you’re actually trying to get me fired" you say, clearly annoyed.

Negan’s smirk says it all and yet he still tries to convince you "Me? I’m just lookin’ out for you, sweetheart. Trust me. I’ve seen it all. You plan a Christmas party, next thing you know, teachers are too drunk to think, they all end up sobbing or fucking, someone gets hurt and boom—the whole thing’s on your head. Cancelling it now? That’s just smart planning".

Scoffing, you roll your eyes and stand “You’re unbelievable”.

He grins “I try”.

You turn to leave but the frustration builds. You spin back around, exasperated. “And why can’t you just tell Gregory this yourself? You have to help with the party too!”.

And then it clicks. You scoff in disbelief. Negan doesn’t want the hassle of being the one to oppose the Christmas party. He’d rather sit back, let you take the heat, and still get his way.

Crossing your arms, you watch him closely as you comment “Bet ya can’t wait for everyone to be in the sports hall, huh?”.

Much to your amusement, Negan has a terrible poker face. His mouth immediately turns downwards, eyebrows drawn together as his jaw stiffens “Oh yeah, can’t wait for everybody to be in my hall”.

A sly smile quickly appears on your face, eyelids at half mast as you purposefully wait for Negan to look your way again. When he does, he grumbles “What?”.

“Gotcha,” you says with the raise of your eyebrows, smile getting even wider “you hate doing this, don’t you?”.

Negan scoffs “You’re the one with your panties in a twist over doing this party, not me”.

You roll your eyes, smile still on your face and leaving Negan’s attempts to goad you simply slide off of you. You give a small laugh “Damn, Mr Big Shot, why won’t you tell Gregory you don’t wanna do this?”.

He narrows his eyes at you but you don’t let that deter you. “You scared of little ol’ Gregory?” you taunt playfully, knowing that should be enough to irk him.

Sticking his index finger in your direction, Negan retorts “Watch it, don’t think I don’t know you’re trying to wind me up”.

You laugh, shaking your head. With his shoulders square, Negan lets out a tight huff “I’m trying to do you a favour here, doll. You don’t want this extra shit on your plate, believe fuckin’ me”.

“I don’t want this extra shit or you don’t?”.

Standing to full height, Negan’s office chair rolls backwards and bounces against one of the filing cabinet. “You know what, I tried to warn you,” he tries to sound sincere “you want to dive straight into the deep end and go along with this party, that’s your fuckin’ problem. I’ll leave my office door open for when you come crying to me about all this”.

“Oh you don’t need to leave your door open, you’re helping plan this party too,” you have a cheery tone as you remind him, a sense of satisfaction filling you “unless you want me to plan the party with Coach Joey instead. One of you coaches will have to be involved if we’re using the sports hall”.

Negan flexes his jaw for a moment. “First off, don’t even call Fat Joey a goddamn coach, he’s a glorified intern. And he doesn’t get a say on what happens on my turf” he corrects you “and secondly… damn sweetheart, you’re petty enough to plan this party just to piss me off?”.

Grabbing the door, you swing it open with a little too much gusto. But who could blame you when your patience has completely worn out with this jackass? Trying to keep your mock cheeriness going, you give him your best jolly glare “I guess I am, yeah”.

Negan chuckles, meeting your glare with one of his own. “Fine then,” he concedes “you want to plan a fuckin’ Christmas party? Then let’s plan a party”.

There's a slight sinking feeling in your gut but you refuse to back out now, not wanting to give Negan the satisfaction. Turning on your heels, you walk out, your head reeling by what has just happened. Negan stays standing as you go, a slight smirk on his face.

You’re petty, stubborn, honest to a fault and as far as Negan’s concerned, you got balls bigger than most of the men at this damn school.

next chapter here!

———

gif made from scenepack provided by harleys.scenes on insta <3

#negan fanfiction #negan smith fanfiction #negan x reader #twd negan #negan x you #negan #negan smith #jeffrey dean morgan x reader #negan twd #jdm x reader #the walking dead negan #twd fanfiction #twd x reader #twd fic #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead fic #the walking dead x reader #negan x y/n

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fairlyabookie · 5 months ago

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Little things they like about you

Content: lighthearted | wholesome

The fae wasn’t particularly picky with whatever life threw him, as long as he gave himself time and the mental fortitude to handle such. Love, on the other hand, spoke of a different matter. He finds himself craving your presence, just the sound of your voice enough to quell his troubles for the day.

He sneaks glances of you when he feels your presence, his ears pricking for a tease of your voice, for any sign of laughter or change in tone. Whether he had spoken to you, the fae always found your presence welcoming - your presence enough to do wonders to his heart. Your presence felt like a panacea, a welcome invitation into one’s space. He feels a familiar memory whenever he was with you, fragments of centuries flashing him by as familiar faces wash ashore in the banks of his mind.

Lilia finds beauty in your hands, so soft and gentle, compared to his callous ones. He’d find himself playing with your fingers, tracing the imperfections, the lines all over your palms. At times, he’d coo at how delicate your hands are, so precious, an image seemingly reminiscent of hands he had held oh-so-long ago.

The quiet tranquility between you and Lilia was more than enough for him, the content smile on your lips, sunlight casting upon your features like a halo - Lilia thought he had found another embodiment of heaven at first sight. He wishes to have this moment a little longer, if he could be selfish, so he can see to your happiness.

Just as how he was able to raise Sebek, Silver, and Malleus, he wishes to ensure your happiness is everlasting. He recalls a faint memory of long ago: a promise he had made with someone he had loved, the bittersweet sensation of a broken promise, cruel tears bordering the corner of his eyes. Alas, he wishes Fate were kind to him for a selfish wish. For now, he could cling onto your presence, a cruel gossamer existence for a fae like him.

Cater was not used to the concept of sustaining friendships. He was fine with keeping each other posted by viewing each others’ stories on social media, taking pictures together for the memories, and sometimes teasing his peers. He didn’t really mind keeping superficial airs for his peers - his cheery demeanor a usual sight for everyone around him - except for you on the other hand.

You often reciprocate his antics with a teasing smile on your lips, always ready to quip back when you had the chance. Such reciprocation would catch him by surprise, earning a genuine smile on his lips. He wasn’t expecting anyone to return his little teasings, but a strange sensation akin to warmth would encompass his chest, this very interaction engraved in his mind.

He would anticipate every interaction with you, anticipating every banter he can think of as a means of interacting with you. Of course, he’d ask for your social media, if you had one, so he can see your posts. Cater would find himself delving into your social media, your likes, and would look for the time to talk to you.

At first, he’d be quite shy about it, leaving small comments on your recent posts or boosting your post on his story, sometimes DM’ing you about certain things. Of course, he’d love to take the time to get to know you from peering into your story or meeting up with you physically. Yet, in the back of his mind, the thought of you leaving his side haunts him, a bitter pill he might have to swallow if he ever loses you as a friend.

Soon, he discovers something beyond the screen; your smile, your laughter, your vivaciousness, something he found quite endearing apart from what he normally sees from your social media. He wishes to preserve such happiness, a rarity that he had the honor to experience. For now, Cater had to keep his cool, the sign of a budding friendship a welcoming omen for his social life.

Kalim very much indulging into you, even if it meant spending his family fortune just for a quick smile. He relishes in the way your eyes light up in delight for every trinket he brings you, his heart soaring as soon as he catches a glimpse of your smile. There was something charming about the way you smiled, the way your lips curl to the corners of your lips.

If he can perfectly describe your smile in written form, he’d make a poem worth pages long. Such sentiments were pure, sincere, and clear as morning dew, his heart quite heavy with thoughts of you when he peers your smile. If he had a camera, he’d capture the very moment you let your lips curl, an expression he wishes for eternity on your beautiful features.

Some say a smile indicated of a window of happiness, an embodiment of one’s satisfaction in the present moment. Kalim very much embraced that notion, wishing nothing but joyfulness in everyone’s lives. Such a naive mindset, many would say to Kalim, as life isn’t as simple as making one happy with a wave of a wand.

Although Kalim was quick to give counters about his naivety, he simply wished for the well-being of others if not bright futures that could merit smiles. In his own words, a smile was something worth protecting, even if something small would bring a temporary smile.

He keeps your smile close to his heart, immortalizing it in Polaroids, pictures on his phone, and little text messages exchanged between the both of you. Your smile, the sun, radiant in its beauty, fuels his motivation for the day - another reason why he keeps smiling. Your smile was his sun, as he was also the sun itself, ever bright and forever shining.

#twst x reader #wrapped with love #lilia x reader #twisted wonderland lilia #twst lilia #cater x reader #twst cater #twisted wonderland cater #cater diamond #kalim x reader #twst kalim #kalim al asim #twisted wonderland kalim

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myuni-moon · 2 years ago

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#Ink Splotches

—Synopsis: Dan Heng has never liked being reminded of his past, but no matter how hard he tries, some things just stay.

—Pairing(s)/Character(s): Dan Heng x GN!Reader

—Genre: Yandere (Sensitive content ahead)

—Warning(s): Dark content, yandere, possessive, stalking, Dan Heng is a creep that likes to watch people sleep, reader's gender isn't specified but they're described with the word "pretty," reader is shorter than Dan Heng, a/b/o-ish themes (Dan Heng goes feral), mentions of hypothetical choking

—Word Count: 2.4k

—Note: Some of these I'm making up, so please discern the information here as just headcannons for Dan Heng. Most of this was written prior to any updates about Dan Heng's past, so please excuse the discrepancies. Also this is darker than some of my previous works, so proceed with caution.

Dan Heng never liked discussing his past, never did enjoy doing anything that reminded him of it either– save for a few things, of course. He liked reading. Him deciding to use the library as his quarters alone was a testament to that. If that wasn’t enough, you could always catch him reading in his spare time with the few pocketbooks he stored under his coat. It was something he used to do on slow days when he hopped from one station to another, and it stayed with him even after joining the Express. He liked the food in the Xianzhou Luofu, too. Despite the initial hesitance, he came to enjoy the multitude of flavors that coated his tongue. The cuisine may have been similar, but it was so much better than the staleness of his day-to-day in the past.

Most of all, he liked calligraphy– though it was an activity most inhabitants of the Express didn’t exactly know he partook in. Dan Heng couldn’t quite remember how he learned it or when he even did (out of his own mind wanting to block out any memory of that time), but the hobby gave him peace of mind. There was something about the careful concentration of the brush on parchment and the orderly manner in which each stroke was placed that lulled his mind into a quiet away from the chaos of time. Perhaps that’s why he never felt all too bothered by the constant whirs of the machinery that surrounded his quarters. The constant white noise distracted his mind just enough for him to dwell on anything but the skeletons in his closet.

The low table before him was ready and set, and the door remained locked to any outsiders that could interrupt. The scroll was blank, but the brush in his hand had already collected ink. The dark liquid dripped onto a container as Dan Heng stared into the white void in contemplation. He sighed. Doing calligraphy that day was meant to calm him, something to ease him out of whatever stressed him.

The data bank whirred on and on, yet no matter how many minutes passed, his hands could conjure nothing– neither a single stroke nor flinch. If anyone were to watch him, he’d look like a statue. It was quiet. It was peaceful even if nothing even happened. However, disarray plagued his mind and soul.

It was simply a stray thought at first, something just a little more impulsive than how he usually thought of his companions. You looked tranquil, he supposed as he kept watch that night. Belobog was cold, and he could see your breath puff out of your mouth with every rise and fall of your chest. The campfire’s heat tickled and licked at your skin as it illuminated your features with a warmth that painted you in an innocence far divorced from your typical image. Even when the hardships of battle befell your little party, you always slept soundly, peacefully. Dan Heng remembered a time when he wished for that too– to sleep as if the horrors didn’t haunt him at night. The way the shadows danced across your face, the wrinkle of your nose whenever a stray snowflake found its way a little too close, or the twitch in your fingers as you searched for warmth– he craved it if he was being honest. Maybe too much, even because every time he stayed up, he always stared at you sometime into the night.

You looked pretty, he admitted a few nights later. Once again, he had taken the role of lookout. Again, he watched you with fascination and envy. He twirled a tassel of your jacket around his fingers, careful not to tug hard enough to awaken you. It was like a switch was flipped in his head because as he looked at you now, he could feel something in his spine tingle. An urge long buried and forgotten with the rest of himself that was slowly trying to dig itself out from the facade of indifference he put together. He tried composing himself first, isolating his mind and shoving whatever it was that tried getting out back into the deepest, darkest parts of his brain.

It was okay after that. Dan Heng was back to normal, and everything went back to how it was before. Once you completed your mission, you all went back to The Astral Express. Himeko and Pompom welcomed you back aboard, and Mr. Yang dismissed you all to your rooms to rest before setting out on trailblazing once more. As per usual, Dan Heng only holed himself up back in his room with the piles of data he compiled during your time in Belobog to be sorted. The blue screen before him had already started to burn his eyes as he propped his elbow on the desk. His head rested on his palm. He had already read through half the files when someone knocked on the door. Instinctively, he checked the time. It was way past the time for someone else to be awake at that hour. It couldn’t be Himeko, Mr. Yang, or Pompom; he knew they went to bed earlier than the rest of the crew aboard. March was unlikely to be awake either because he had already heard her snoring a few hours ago. That only left–

“Dan Heng, are you still awake?” You.

The man gulped as he jumped to his feet, and his heart thrummed beneath his ribcage. His footsteps felt heavy, slowly making his way to the entrance. In hindsight, Dan Heng shouldn’t have even paid attention to your call. Maybe it was the fatigue and tiredness that relaxed his self-restraint, enough for his hands to get a grip on the handle; however, he was more than used to snapping himself back to reality. In a sliver of a second, he was able to catch himself. All his muscles seized up, and his breathing went ragged.

Just what was he doing? His control over himself had slowly been slipping, and for what? There was no warning, no transition. There was no logic either in why his usual disposition had crumbled. There was nothing unusual from that first night, and it didn’t feel any more weird the days after. In fact, everything was just how it normally was for him. Sure, he loosened a few restraints and came to terms to the thoughts floating around his head - but that was rational, surely. So, why did static start to settle under his skin the longer he kept you outside? Why did his nails dig into his palms every time you laughed? Why did he feel like breaking the door down when he could just simply open it?

Nervously, Dan Heng eyed Cloud-Piercer, stowed away in a corner of the room. The orb in its clutch glowing ever so faintly in the dim brightness, its calm twinkle a stark difference to the instability swirling within his veins. With his current condition, it was dangerous. Extremely so. He wanted to tell you to go away, to have the others take him far from the rest. His unshakable calm was slowly diminishing, and his fears of losing control only made it worse. But something in him just didn’t want to.

“Dan Heng?” God, could you just stop saying his name? He could feel himself slipping.

“Dan Heng, are you there?” The handle started to rattle, his shaky hands flexing as he fought for control.

“Dan Heng, open the door, please?”

The mechanisms of the door whirred as it slid open. You stood so close, too close to what he would deem safe. Yet, the moment he saw you, everything went quiet. It wasn’t just the dead silence of space. The thoughts in his head had calmed down. The pins and needles that pricked his fingertips had vanished. It was as if nothing ever happened. Dan Heng blinked, bringing his palm up to his chest. His heartbeat was normal– stable even– as he gazed down at you. The strangeness of the whole ordeal shook him. Never in his life had he experienced the way his mind and body tumbled the moment before. He’d have to alert Himeko or Mr. Yang of the changes the next morning.

“Is there something you need?” His demeanor returned to normal, too.

You looked down at the ground sheepishly, shifting your balance from one foot to another. Your lips were pressed together in a thin line, leaving your cheeks to puff up. Your gaze even shifted from side to side until you looked up at him. Innocent, he noted. Your eyes reminded him of a doe’s. “Well, I couldn’t sleep. I just thought you might be awake, too.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you at this time of night, but can I stay with you?”

He wanted to say no, to bring back the iciness on his tongue and the dismissiveness of his tone. Yet, before he could even think to say it, his mouth had already moved. “Alright.”

You smiled so sweetly, immediately slipping beside him and into his room. His arm brushed your skin as your fingers grazed his knuckles. The hairs on Dan Heng’s body all stood up. A static washed upon his ears, drowning out all other noise as if it had been stuffed full of cotton. It was a minuscule interaction, but it was electrifying. But just as his senses dampened, they would heighten. Soon, he found himself hyper-aware of the beat of your heart, the way he could count each beat with only his ears. His eyes had zeroed in on your movements, everything slowing down cinematically– which he would have found humorous if it weren’t for the fact that something animalistic started to crawl its way out of Dan Heng’s carefully maintained self-constraints.

A part of him howled, growled, and gnawed for him to shed his shell. A beast, running only on its instincts, began to awaken after being forced into hibernation. His humanity couldn’t battle against it, and it could only give way to the feral force lest Dan Heng risked losing himself completely.

Can’t you smell them? It crooned at him. He could– fuck, he definitely could. You smelled so sweet to the point his mouth started to water with every whiff he took. Your scent was so appealing, and he wasn’t even referring to body wash or cologne; it was just you. You never smelled like that before. Maybe it was because of his true nature coming to light that he was able to, but he couldn’t help but want to be enveloped by it.

Don’t they look so perfect, so pretty? You did. You always did even when he couldn’t bring himself to admit it. He could just imagine the cute smile you showed him seconds ago, and he couldn’t help but want to release a guttural purr at the fact that it was directed toward him and him alone. Then it hit him.

You want them all to yourself. That’s right. Dan Heng wanted you all to himself.

After all, what was stopping him? If he really wanted to, he could just knock you out on your next adventure, abduct you right then and there, then take you to wherever he saw fit– as long as it meant keeping you with him without having any such disturbances. You’d think a more rational– dare say, human– part of him would’ve realized the morality of his thoughts, perhaps even chase them away and put himself into self-confinement until he came back to his senses. But no.

No, if anything, it only served to smooth out the rough edges of his devious plan. Starting with places to go when he finally had you in his grasp. The routes from place to place, just to avoid other trailblazers and authorities that may have picked up on his bounty. Suppose he’d use drugs or physical force to get you to be cooperative enough to go with him (as if you’d have a choice). Then when he was sure you two were finally alone, he’d put his claim on you with a bite to your pretty neck– but that didn’t sound as appealing as giving you his mark right now. All he needed to do was wrap his hands around your neck and-

A crack snapped him out of his stupor and away from the image of you in his mind. Dan Heng retracted himself back into the present. His draconic gaze settled on his workplace before clicking his tongue. He had applied too much pressure to the brush; one remnant still sits in his hand while the other half had found itself in a farther place. The paper was in no better condition. In some areas, the ink had bled through, creating large splotches of dark, foreboding circles on the page. What were supposed to be detailed strokes had become near-erratic in the time span he was stuck in his imagination. The man frowned and sighed.

However, his eyes brightened when they flit to the very center of the page. Amidst all the chaos and rage that had been thrown into the work, your name remained neat in the expanse of Dan Heng’s mental deterioration. Fitting, he supposed.

Without another word, he cleaned up. He didn’t need March barging in and finding the evidence of his deep affection for you. He disposed of the calligraphy brush (begrudgingly. It meant he’d have to go back to the Luofu to attain another).

Straightening himself out, he left his room towards the parlor. Pom-pom, as always, came to greet him. The small bunny skipped over to him, tilting its head as it inspected him. The conductor of the Astral Express pointed to his robe.

“You’re not usually this untidy, Dan Heng.”

Dan Heng looked at the area the bunny referenced. On his green robe, typically free of any stain, was a noticeably-sized black dot. It must’ve been from his haphazard movement earlier. If he didn’t exercise any self-control, he might’ve let out a laugh under his breath.

“It is nothing,” he waved a hand dismissively. Truthfully, it felt almost entertaining to see the naivety of the conductor to the obscenity happening within its very own train. He thought it was poetic– comical, almost– how it looked as if it had been a subtle sign of the corruption happening to Dan Heng. Or maybe, he’d always been this way, waiting for that sick part of him to finally run rampant. Dan Heng side-stepped and proceeded on his way as if everything had been fine. His lips curled into a smirk the moment Pom-pom could no longer see his face.

“Just an ink splotch.”

#hsr.dan heng #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #star rail x reader #dan heng x reader #yandere x reader #yandere dan heng x reader #yandere honkai star rail x reader #yandere hsr x reader #yandere star rail x reader

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barelylivingscholar · 1 year ago

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Arlecchino with a daughter prt. 3

And before I knew it, a month had passed. Under the banner of “Regrator,” I had been learning a lot under his guidance. I started to look like him as well. Everything about my appearance had been designed to match his… It wasn’t something that I had decided right away, but it was more of a branding for me. To better match his image as his “disciple,” rather than to feel like I still am a part of the House… I discard the clothing that I wore before and burned it. It was a clothing that was too similar to the outfit of “Knave.” The color… And the designs… It’s too much of a coincidence… She continues to haunt me in my dreams, that I wake up in the middle of the night… Sweating profusely at the prospect of returning at the House and to meet her once again inevitably.

Pantalone had decided that I should not return to Fontaine as a safety measure for me since the “Knave” had been informed of my return that day… He told me about her sending letters to him about my wellbeing and demanded that he return me back to her house… In which, I had been assured again and again that I won’t be returning back to the House at all… Pantalone plans to keep me as his disciple. Although I am still shaken up by her now and then, I grew to resent her more as days would pass…

I began to see Pantalone as the closest familial figure that I have as it was only natural, I felt that way due to how well he has taken care of me. I used to think that I am more or less just a servant to him. He had trained well to see him as his “business partner.” More or less, we do indeed have a transactional relationship. But I know there is more to it. H̴̴e̴ ̴j̴̴u̴̴s̴̴t̴ ̴w̴̴o̴̴u̴̴l̴̴d̴̴n̴’̴t̴ a̴̴d̴̴m̴̴i̴̴t̴ ̴t̴̴h̴a̴̴t̴ ̴I̴ ̴i̴̴n̴̴f̴̴l̴̴u̴̴e̴̴n̴̴c̴̴e̴̴d̴ ̴h̴̴i̴̴m̴ ̴j̴̴u̴̴s̴̴t̴ a̴̴s̴ ̴h̴̴e̴ ̴i̴̴n̴̴f̴̴l̴̴u̴̴e̴̴n̴̴c̴̴e̴̴d̴ ̴m̴̴e̴ a̴̴s̴ ̴w̴̴e̴̴l̴̴l̴…̴ He had introduced me to Pulcinella, who in return, mentored me during my visits in the other branches of the Northland Bank with Pantalone. He mentors me exceptionally well that I grew to respect him in the same manner as Pantalone. When I am unable to accompany Pantalone, I am with Pulcinella. He takes care of me well. Too well that there is something more to it.

Pulcinella would come to tell me stories about the “Knave,” that made me despise her even more. He warns me about her madness. Pulcinella had successfully managed to deter me from ever seeing the “Knave” in a positive light. The remnants of her teachings still remain. It is not easy to break free from it. Somehow, I still felt guilty for leaving the House. But I will never admit to it at all. I was led to believe that she cared for me, and had loved me the best out of the many children from the House, so how was I supposed to hate her, right? If only that was how I felt. ̶I̶ ̶b̶̶a̶̶r̶̶e̶̶l̶̶y̶ ̶f̶̶e̶̶l̶̶t̶ ̶i̶̶t̶ ̶a̶̶t̶ ̶a̶̶l̶̶l̶. She was a liar. ₴₮Ø₱ ₮ⱤɎł₦₲ ₮Ø ₲Ɇ₮ ₥Ɇ ฿₳₵₭. ł ₩łⱠⱠ ₦Ø₮ ⱤɆ₮ɄⱤ₦ ₮Ø ɎØɄ. ł Ⱨ₳₮Ɇ ɎØɄ.

Pantalone informs me that we will be arriving soon at the House of the Hearth. I mentally prepared myself as we make a trip to the House… I kept my hood up and my head down during the duration of the trip. Pantalone informs me of the project in collaboration with Pulcinella, one that involve the members of the Hearth… He plans to give them a great deal of funding, to make them the “key members” of the project… Project Stuzha; A project that supposedly sets the Fatui’s future. I have yet to meet “Tartaglia” or Childe as he is frequently mentioned in this conversation. I couldn’t care less how the project would turn out. I only care about the amount of Mora that is put on this project. Pantalone really is a generous man. Too generous.

I clicked my tongue as we arrived at the destination. There were many children that were staring at my figure, probably shocked that I am alive and well. Dressed in expensive clothing, glasses that are studded with eye-catching jewelries, and with a cloak elegantly placed on my shoulders… I almost looked like the man himself. Pantalone held a closed-eye smile as he greeted the children. Then, the door opened. It was her. The woman that I grew to resent. The knave. I adjust my glasses to hide my growing anxiousness as the memories came back. I stifled a shaky sigh. ̶I̶ ̶f̶̶o̶̶r̶̶c̶̶e̶̶d̶ ̶m̶̶y̶̶s̶̶e̶̶l̶̶f̶ ̶t̶̶o̶ ̶c̶̶a̶̶l̶̶m̶ ̶d̶̶o̶̶w̶̶n̶ ̶u̶̶s̶̶i̶̶n̶̶g̶ ̶t̶̶h̶̶e̶ ̶4̶-̶7̶-̶8̶ ̶t̶̶e̶̶c̶̶h̶̶n̶̶i̶̶q̶̶u̶̶e̶. Pantalone greets the “Knave” politely. While the “Knave” eyes me down, her crossed eyes narrowing at the sight of my appearance. ̶S̶̶u̶̶r̶̶p̶̶r̶̶i̶̶s̶̶e̶̶d̶ ̶t̶̶o̶ ̶s̶̶e̶̶e̶ ̶m̶̶e̶? Her eyes stayed on me, while speaking with Pantalone.

“I see you have brought yourself a new child. A child from the Hearth.” I froze at her words. She continued to stare at me deeply. “What was the reason for not returning the child from my orphanage, Regrator?” She hissed at him. Pantalone paid no mind at the hostile tone aimed at him. “You are mistaken. I did not take an orphan from the Hearth. I offered Anastasia to be my disciple after saving them from an ambush by a cryo abyss mage.” Pantalone countered. I glanced away at the two adults talking, to see Freminet staring at me. I gave him a brief nod, and I was then met with a familiar pair of twins looking in my direction as well… Lyney and I briefly stared each other down for a short while, before my attention went back to the voice of the “Knave.” “Nonsense. She would’ve returned to the house had you not manipulated her to come with… You must’ve threatened my daughter for her to work with you.” The “Knave” accused.

I rose a brow at the comment. Blinking slowly as I take in the words she had said to Pantalone. I decided to speak up before Pantalone could reply, “My mentor had come to visit the orphanage for a proposal. The “Regrator” has other business to attend after the meeting, I suggest to keep the exchange brief, “Knave.”” I didn’t miss the way her eyes widen slightly at the sound of my voice. The children were shocked to hear me interrupt the harbingers heated exchange. I simply brushed off my coat, in an attempt to feign nonchalance at my action. ̶I̶̶f̶ ̶o̶̶n̶̶l̶̶y̶ ̶t̶̶h̶̶e̶̶y̶ ̶c̶̶o̶̶u̶̶l̶̶d̶ ̶s̶̶e̶̶e̶ ̶m̶̶y̶ ̶h̶̶a̶̶n̶̶d̶̶ ̶s̶̶h̶̶a̶̶k̶̶e̶ ̶a̶̶s̶ ̶I̶ ̶a̶̶t̶̶t̶̶e̶̶m̶̶p̶̶t̶ ̶t̶̶o̶ ̶s̶̶t̶̶o̶̶p̶ ̶t̶̶h̶̶e̶ ̶t̶̶r̶̶e̶̶m̶̶o̶̶r̶̶s̶.

The “Knave” went silent for a short while. Before answering in a calm and collected manner. “Very well. We can discuss the matters in my office.” She then went ahead of us. I went to discreetly grip the hilt of my dagger tightly. ̶I̶ ̶a̶̶m̶ ̶r̶̶e̶̶l̶̶i̶̶e̶̶v̶̶i̶̶n̶̶g̶ ̶t̶̶h̶̶e̶ ̶m̶̶e̶̶m̶̶o̶̶r̶̶y̶ ̶o̶̶n̶̶c̶̶e̶ ̶m̶̶o̶̶r̶̶e̶… ̶M̶̶y̶ ̶b̶̶o̶̶d̶̶y̶ ̶h̶̶a̶̶d̶ ̶r̶̶e̶̶f̶̶u̶̶s̶̶e̶̶d̶ ̶t̶̶o̶ ̶m̶̶o̶̶v̶̶e̶. Pantalone snapped me out of it as I hear his voice. “You have the option to stay behind. I’ll make it quick.” I shook my head, clearly uneasy at the thought of being surrounded by children from the Hearth. “No need. I’ll come with. I have so much to learn about socializing with people like her…” My voice had a trace of venom at the last word, luckily no one dared to point it out. Children were still staring at us, as we walked inside the house, on the way to the “Knave’s” office…

The walk to her office felt so short, that it just made me realize of how much dread I felt from before I decided to escape from the orphanage. ̙̥̻̰̻̀͡T̩̙̰̬͙͖̝̙̲̰͚̗͓͝ͅh̢̛̟̲̘̯̙͈̫̹̜͢͠ͅȩ̣̰͓̻͎͡ ̧͈͇̘͎̫͙̰̗̩s͇a͏́͏̧͖͍̞̥̰̣̼̘̱̰̥͟͜m̵̧̛̯͖̺̥̘̯̙͈̫̹̜͢ͅȩ̣̰͓̻͎͡ ̹̖̘ḑ̡̱̥̜̺̘͍͚̻̤́ŗ̸̛̲͙͉͓͚̘̯̙͈̫̹̜͢ͅȩ̣̰͓̻͎͡a͏́͏͖͍̞̥̹̖̘ḑ̱̥̜́ ̨̣͕͉̫̜ͅI̴̞̦̦̗̥ a͏́͏̧͖͍̞̥̰̣̼̘̱̰̥͟͜m̵̧̯͖̺̥ ̝̺̠̖̭́͟͝f̷̛̩̲͈̘̯̙͈̫̹̜͢ͅȩ̛̣̰͓̻͎̘̯̙͈̫̹̜͢͡ͅȩ̣̰͓̻͎̜͔̘̰͇́͡͠l͏̘̜̭̤̱͇͞҉͏̫̼̜͉̭i̙͙̙̥̰̯͎̘̖̹̦̙͝͞n̴̫̘͈͈͈̳̩̳̞͔̭̤̩͍͢g̨̪̣̤͎̟͟͠ ̖̹̦̙͝͞n̴̛̛̫̘͈͈͈̳̩͢ͅớ͈̙̦̗͖̜w͚͈̟̬̩… Pantalone had opened the door. I stepped inside after Pantalone. I forced myself to calm down using the same breathing method I use to alleviate my anxiety. The meeting went well. Too well… The whole time I was being watched by the “Knave”, her eyes were observing me during Pantalone’s breakdown of the project. I didn’t like that. I felt uncomfortable.

Despite her eyes were on me, I was able to keep a straight face, and was able to maintain my composure from the start till the end… The “Knave” would eventually request my presence after the successful meeting, to which Pantalone had left the decision in my hands, whether I accept or decline her request. To both their surprise, I agreed. Pantalone looks at the “Knave” warily before handing me a tracker before he left.

“You now go by the name Anastasia. Why is that? Was it a name that he picked for you?” That was the first question being asked by her. “No. Pulcinella picked it for me.” Her eyes had narrowed at the mention of the “Rooster.” “Who else did you meet other than the “Rooster?”” She interrogated. I was left confused. Why is she asking me these questions instead of asking why I left? “None. It is only my mentor and him that I met.” Her suspicions didn’t stop from there. “Do you happen to know the “Doctor?” Had you met him before?” I went stiff at the mention of the “Doctor.” “No. I do not want to meet him.” The “Knave” seemed to be pleased by my answer. “The “Doctor” and “Regrator” work closely. I can shield you better than Regrator. You just have to come back to the House… I will not let harm come upon you.” The “Knave” attempts to sweeten the deal. I didn’t fall for it easily.

“I humbly decline the offer. My mentor takes care of me well enough to keep me safe from any possible harm to befall upon myself.” I didn’t like how my voice went a bit shaky… “So, you are saying that Regrator is protecting you better than I did for you. Is that what you imply?” My eyes widened at her tone. I didn’t like when her voice gets like this. “…I am not implying anything. I am saying that, I am in good hands, “Knave.”” I flinched as I hear the sound of wood being scratched. This was not good… “You have changed your identity. From clothing to a new name… Are you sure that he did not force you to change drastically?” My brows were now furrowed. “Pantalone never forced anything on me. It was I who made the decision to change my own identity. I did it for branding.”

Her tone went sharp. “Since when were you ever interested in business? I never strike you the type to be interested in such matters…” My eye twitched. This is getting ridiculous. “What are you trying to say? That I am not suited to be my mentor’s disciple?” I tried to sound calm but my agitation was taking over… “I am saying that you perform best under my guidance.” Her response surprised me.

At this point, I was unable to refrain from making unnecessary commentary anymore. “What makes you think that my performance was better when I was on your side? Did you never notice how miserable I was during my stay here in this house?” I am distressed. I fell into her trap, again. “I knew you were alive. I refused to believe that you were dead. I know my daughter very well that she is able to defend herself well.” The “Knave” was smiling. ̶I̶̶t̶ ̶w̶̶a̶̶s̶ ̶u̶̶n̶̶s̶̶e̶̶t̶̶t̶̶l̶̶i̶̶n̶̶g̶.

I took a step back as she rose from her chair. “No… Stay back…! She is dead! I am not her!” My voice trembled; I was shaking due to how intense my fear was… “No. My daughter has come back to me. She is alive and well. She is right here in front of me.” The “Knave” went closer… I felt trapped. Unable to move as she stepped closer and closer to me… “Welcome back, dear daughter…” Was what she said before attempting to embrace me. But before I knew it, I was then pulled away by Pantalone. He came just in time to save me from the “Knave’s” attempts to take me back to the house… An: I was supposed to post earlier but ended up posting wayyy late... I'll be having a break writing this to think about the plot more and the alternate routes that I planned to write. Till then! I also appreciate the likes, the reblogs, and follows. Because I cannot believe people actually read this... If there's a new post it's either that it's a new part or a silly short story that I will write about. Idk which fandom I'll be writing for, though!

#platonic genshin impact #genshin impact #genshin angst #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #platonic genshin x reader #fatui harbringers x reader #pantalone x reader #arlecchino x reader

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skulkiee · 2 months ago

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Hellooo!!

So that one bit of writing i mentioned with this picture

I went and got the piece of writing and edited it because it really needed that with how much ive improved since i wrote it and uh well here! Enjoy :D

Time slows down as he watches the sword plunge towards his friend's chest.

Time goes so slow it is almost frozen, he can see every little motion the blade makes, moving so slow it looks still in its fatal position.

Time doesn't speed up until their king has drawn his bloodstained sword back from his brother's heart and his second-in-command has fallen to the floor of the ship, a second dark stain being left behind on the deck of the ship.

Perimedes looks up, at his captain, his king. Odysseus has turned his back and walked away, not even giving his dying friend a second glance.

The crew were grieving. They had been grieving the six men they had lost, the six men their captain had sacrificed, and Eurylochus had spoken up, had been the only one with the courage and status on the ship. Eurylochus had questioned him. Eurylochus hadn't been fighting to kill. He had been fighting to scare. And he had died.

They're moving his body now, giving him the best funeral they can, (when they couldn't for so many of their friends) out in the middle of the ocean. The sun has set. It had been late morning when Eurylochus died, hadn't it?

Perimedes is numb. He thinks maybe at some point people had stopped asking if he was okay. At some point he had stopped pretending to be okay.

He stands there until dawn comes, holding his own sort of vigil. The ghosts that have haunted him for weeks, months, a year, they must be holding their own vigil as well, because they don't sing or scream or wail their fear and pain tonight.

Eurylochus will be the third ghost now, Perimedes thinks numbly. Was he cursed? Why did everyone he care about die?

He would have cried, if he had any tears left to shed. If he had a shoulder to cry on. Not this time.

Everyone is hungry, and scared. The people around Perimedes whisper and mutter and fall silent when the captain is near, bend their backs and keep their heads down, all of them scared to be next.

They had all heard the king in the Underworld, hadn't they? Talking about doing anything to get home, talking about being a monster, if he could go home. Perimedes doesn't think anyone remembers when their king's only mission was to get them all home alive.

There are two bloodstains on the ship's deck now. At nighttime he can see a pair of ghosts standing there, one has a tear in it's cloak and blood down it's front, and the other has blood all down its face, it's form doesn't show it's injuries, but Perimedes will never forget the broken body that had lain there more than a year ago. That image is carved into his mind.

He's still numb. The days pass him by now, now that he doesn't have anyone tethering his mind to this world.

Perimedes will tell you a secret now, they never wanted to come to war. Neither him nor his little brother, nor his best friend (now lover) wished to come, they just didn't have a choice. They had liked their life out on some poor, never-heard-of farm on the outskirts of Ithaca, Polites with his flowers and plants and the few sheep they owned, Elpenor with his laughter and jokes, and Perimedes with his horses.

When he thinks of that time, he can hear their laughter, their songs, their voices. The days when they would go down to the river at the back of their farm and spend all day chasing each other up and down the bank and swimming and splashing each other, the days when it snowed or when it was scorching hot, the time when Perimedes got home and found out that they had found a goat somewhere and had decided to adopt it. When his little brother had been upset for several weeks because one of the sheep had died, when he had kissed his best friend for the first time, and he had kissed him back. The day Perimedes had been introduced to their soon-to-be king, Polites chattering excitedly about the new friend he had made, not realising who it was he had befriended. When the prince at the time had then proceeded to bring the Goddess Athena back to the farm.

The jokes, the laughter, the songs that they used to sing all the time, the songs that now dry up on his lips and bring tears to his eyes.

Perimedes is not aware of the space the crew leaves around him when he walks down the ship, he is not aware of the tears on his face, or the whispers that he is just as dead as the owners of the scraps of green and blue fabric tied around his wrists, the owner of the ring attached to a piece of rope around his neck that matches the ring on his own hand, owner of the bloodstained cloak that hangs around his shoulders that are much smaller and narrower than the shoulders it was made to sit upon.

He doesn't avoid the bloodstains on the ship's deck like the plague like everyone else does. He doesn't wish to.

Because them, and the too-small, too-hidden grave on the Witch's island, they are all that the world has left of his family.

That, and that when he steps on the blood, the whispers grow louder, stronger. Perimedes feels at home when he's stood there, as morbid as that may sound.

And he's not very aware of anything anymore, but he is still aware enough to know that he is being avoided even more than the king. A wraith, they call him, a wraith that has died and not yet been taken by Hades.

Perimedes is cursed, he has decided. But he is not stupid enough to believe that their deaths were caused by him, he did not lead the crew to the cyclops' cave and let Polites get near, or let Elpenor go up to her roof, or stab his sword through Eurylochus' chest.

No, Perimedes did not kill them. But he knows exactly who did. And he spends his nights sharpening a dagger rather than sleeping.

It's not like he would have been able to sleep anyways, so why try? The screaming and howling and laughing and singing has gone from two terrafied, tormented voices to three, and Perimedes can't take much more.

The thing is, when his little brother, Polites, died, he had his partner with him. Elpenor helped him through it, and Perimedes had helped him. They had had to be strong for each other. (Despite the terrafied crying that haunted his nights constantly.) And when Elpenor died, he had the second-in-command, Eurylochus, at his shoulder, and they had to get the few remaining men home alive.

Perimedes couldn't care less whether they lived or died. Why should they get to go home when his home and his family have been destroyed?

He continues sharpening his knife in time with his little brother's singing, his hurting voice soft and scared, desperate for comfort.

The crew knows exactly what Perimedes is going to do. They have been helping him, not because they want to, or because he asked them, but because they don't know who the king is going to kill next, who he's going to sacrifice. They're scared, and Perimedes is angry. So they haven't told the king what he's doing, and if he comes, they stand in front of him, distract him away from Perimedes' too-dark eyes that match his brother's and his tears and his knuckles turning white around the hilt of the dagger, barely holding back from lunging at the king of Ithaca.

Zeus gets there before Perimedes does. He watches their king's eyes as he looks at the crew, and his little brother sings, this time joined by two slightly quieter voices.

Perimedes knows Odysseus hears the ghosts too.

He smiles at the king. He has won this one.

The king of Ithaca opens his mouth to condemn them all, and Perimedes lunges at him with the knife he has spent days and weeks sharpening just for the king. The three voices at his back scream at the same time the king does, Perimedes' dagger plunging into his back, and with ten years of war, he knows what a fatal wound looks like.

There's tears on his face, and a smile when Zeus strikes the crew down, because Perimedes knows the king won't survive the damage he has caused.

There's still a smile on his face when he opens his eyes and looks up, and the screaming has stopped, finally.

A body barrels into Perimedes', knocking them both to the ground, and he's embraced by a person he hasn't seen in more than a year, and Polites' glasses are cracked, and there's blood on his face, a poor mimicry of the horrific wounds that killed him and broke his fragile body, and Perimedes knows that they're both dead, but he sits up, pulling Polites tight into his arms and burying his face in his hair, and he's here.

Another pair of arms engulfs them then, a warmer, wider, louder pair of arms that Perimedes doesn't need to open his eyes to recognise, but he does anyways, just to see the face of his lost love. Elpenor has his gentle smile on his face, and Perimedes untangles one of his arms from his little brother to pull him close too.

Because he doesn't care that they're all dead and traumatised. They're all together, and they're here, with Perimedes, and he's not letting them go ever again.

Ever.

#epic the musical #epic polites #epic eurylochus #epic odysseus #epic elpenor #epic perimedes #epic the musical au #my writing #my art

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jesterfairy · 3 months ago

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.♠︎.💜 𝐀 𝐏𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐈 𝐂𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭 💚.♠︎.

Chapter 9: At His Mercy

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

Chapter Word Count: 5,834

Fic Summary: Alina Vale dreams of escaping her dead-end life as a diner waitress, finding solace in painting Gotham’s haunting shadows. But when a routine trip to the bank turns into a living nightmare, she finds herself face-to-face with the Joker—a man as captivating as he is terrifying.

As his twisted games unravel her defenses, Alina is forced to confront the pull he has over her, a collision of fear and desire she can’t control. Trapped in his world of chaos and power, survival means facing not only him but the darker parts of herself he’s brought to life.

A story of obsession, control, and the intoxicating allure of letting go.

Genres: Dark romance, Gothic romance, Stalker romance

Pairings: TDK Joker x Female OC

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: non-con, extremely dubious consent, violence, psychological manipulation, kidnapping, stalking, slow-burn, toxic relationships, trauma bonding, childhood trauma, graphic sexual content, stockholm syndrome, dead dove do not eat

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

Chapter 9: At His Mercy

The Joker’s shoes echoed against the concrete floor as he gripped Alina's arm tightly, dragging her along the dimly lit hallway. The corridors of the abandoned warehouse stretched on in front of them, endless and foreboding.

Each step echoed through crumbling walls, the flickering fluorescent lights casting jagged shadows on graffiti-streaked surfaces.

Alina struggled to keep pace, her arms cradling the toiletries and clothes she’d compromised herself for like precious jewels.

The deeper they went, the more oppressive the space became, its damp, stale air tightening around her lungs. The walls groaned with age, every crack and shadow murmuring of long-forgotten things buried beneath layers of rot and decay.

The realization hit her like a chill in her bones—this horrifying place, with its endless, crumbling corridors and the stench of forgotten ruin, had surrounded her every moment she lay in her cell alone. She'd been buried alive in the belly of something forgotten and dying, its quiet menace pressing in on her from all sides.

This place wasn’t just her prison; it was a decaying tomb, swallowing her whole.

They passed rooms she couldn’t bring herself to look inside—gaping mouths of darkness, filled with nothing but shadows and silence. Each door was a reminder of how far she’d fallen from the life she once knew.

What would my parents think if they saw me now? The thought tightened her chest, making it harder to breathe.

The Joker said nothing, his silence more unnerving than his usual teasing banter. The rhythmic thud of their steps filled the void, each echo a reminder of how deeply she was buried in his world.

Finally, they reached their destination: a rusted door hanging slightly ajar, its edges flaked with decay. A faint flicker of light seeped through the crack, weak and sickly, like the heartbeat of something long forgotten.

The Joker paused, one hand resting lightly on the doorframe, his other gesturing toward the opening with an exaggerated flourish. “Your private oasis awaits,” he drawled, his voice heavy with mockery.

Alina hesitated, as her gaze drifted past him. The bathroom beyond was a relic of neglect—a grimy, claustrophobic space that reeked of mildew and rust. The tiles on the floor were cracked and the sink stood crooked, rust blooming along its edges like a disease. Above it, a mirror clung precariously to the wall, its surface clouded and warped. Alina caught a faint glimpse of herself in its murky depths, the image fragmented and distorted—a ghost staring back at her.

The room was no sanctuary; it was another extension of her cage.

“Go on,” the Joker coaxed. He stepped aside, leaning casually against the doorframe. His gaze followed her with a predatory amusement that made her skin crawl. “You don’t want to waste your big moment, do you?”

Slowly, cautiously, she stepped forward, the toiletries clutched in her trembling hands like a lifeline.

The moment she crossed the threshold, she glanced back, half-expecting him to follow. But he stayed where he was, eyes gleaming with the cruel satisfaction of a cat watching a trapped bird.

“Ten minutes,” the Joker said, his voice soft but unyielding. “Make them count.”

Alina’s pulse quickened. Ten minutes. It wasn’t enough. Not even close. The words slipped out before she could stop them.

“I need more,” she said, her voice trembling but firm.

He tilted his head, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. “More? My, my, aren’t we greedy?” He straightened and crossed his arms with languid ease, his fingers tapping once against his bicep before stopping, as though considering her request. “Alright, doll. Twenty minutes. But nothing comes free.”

The air seemed to thicken, her stomach twisting as she forced the question past her lips. “What do you want?”

A low sound escaped him, a thoughtful hum, cold and calculated. “After your shower, you let me hold you." He said, his gaze piercing, as though daring her to refuse. "No fighting, no pulling away. Ten minutes. You get your time I get mine. Fair trade, don’t you think?”

Alina swallowed, her voice catching in her throat. “Hold me... how?” The words escaped her before she could stop them, her nerves betraying her.

The Joker’s grin widened, his eyes flickering with something wicked. “Oh, I’ll let you decide,” he teased. “I could hold you on my lap…” He chuckled low, watching her squirm under the weight of his words. “Or maybe in your bed. Or…” His gaze flicked to the shower, lingering there for a beat too long. “Right in there. Nice and close."

Each option he laid out felt more unbearable than the last, but the way he dangled them in front of her, savoring her discomfort, made it so much worse.

Why is he doing this? The thought flared, sharp and desperate. He could do anything to her—she was completely under his control. So why make deals? Why toy with her like this?

Then it hit her, cold and sharp.

Of course. He wanted her to give him permission. To say yes. It wasn’t enough to shatter her—he wanted her to break herself. To make her complicit in her own destruction.

Her gaze dropped to the cracked tiles, her stomach twisting as she considered his offer. She wanted to refuse, to deny him the satisfaction, but the thought of walking away from ten extra minutes of warmth and cleanliness was unbearable. She needed this, and he knew it.

“Fine,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. Her chest burned with shame as the Joker’s grin twisted into something triumphant.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. He stepped back, arms spreading wide in a mock display of generosity. “Enjoy yourself, doll. And don’t forget…” His tone sharpened, an edge of menace slicing through the mockery. “You owe me.”

The door creaked shut behind her, the sound sealing her fate. She stood frozen, staring at the grime-coated tiles, the crooked mirror, the flickering bulb. Her hands tightened around the toiletries, the weight of her choice pressing down like a stone.

Even with the door closed, she could still feel his eyes on her.

---

The water sputtered from the grimy showerhead, lukewarm and weak, but to Alina, it was a relief she hadn’t felt in days. She let the thin stream cascade over her shoulders, washing away the grime caked on her skin. Yet no matter how hard she tried to relax, to enjoy this rare reprieve, she couldn’t escape the suffocating burden of what was waiting just outside the door—the Joker, ready to collect what she had promised.

Her fingers trembled as she worked the harsh, synthetic soap over her arms, its chemical scent biting at her nostrils.

Lather, scrub, rinse.

She tried to focus on the routine, to ground herself in the task, but her mind betrayed her, dragging her back to a place she had tried to bury.

Aunt Marlene’s bathroom came rushing in—small, stifling, its cracked linoleum floor curling at the edges.

“Don’t take all day in there, Alina! You’re wasting hot water we can’t afford!” Marlene’s voice rang sharp in her ears, even now.

Alina remembered scrubbing herself as fast as her small hands could manage, rushing to beat Marlene’s temper. Showers weren’t comfort—they were obligations. Punishments waiting to happen...

Her breath hitched as the memory twisted in her gut. She sped up, instinctively, her movements frantic. Even now, without Marlene standing outside the door, she felt the same compulsion to hurry, the same fear of running out of time.

But the Joker wasn’t Marlene. And his voice, low and taunting, felt like something far worse.

She braced herself against the wall, the weak stream trickling over her face. For a fleeting moment, she imagined disappearing into the water, dissolving with the soap suds and grime. But the stream was too weak to wash everything away—not the dirt, not the memories, and certainly not the sensation of his eyes on her.

Her chest tightened as the reality of the deal hit her again. Ten minutes—in his arms. No fighting, no pulling away. What kind of person agrees to something like that?

Pathetic. She thought bitterly, scrubbing at her arms until her skin stung.

Soon, his arms would be around her, his breath on her skin, his grip tightening as he claimed what she’d promised.

The soap slipped from her fingers, clattering against the cracked tiles. She pressed her palms against the shower wall, letting the water cascade over her as tears stung her eyes.

“Good girl.” His mocking words crept in, unbidden. The way he said them, dark and dripping with triumph, made her stomach twist.

As she retrieved the soap, her mind shifted, latching onto a face that had always anchored her: Emma. The memory struck suddenly, making her breath hitch, her hand freezing mid-air. Emma, with her fierce eyes and biting tongue, had always pushed her to stand her ground—especially with Eddie.

“Don’t let him twist you around. You’re not a doormat,” Emma had insisted.

But now, in the cold confines of this nightmare, Alina felt like exactly that—a doormat, a pawn, crumbling beneath the Joker’s will. What would Emma think if she could see her now? What would she say about the deal, the humiliation, the way Alina had surrendered every shred of control? The thought dug deep, hollowing her out, leaving her feeling smaller, weaker, and even more ashamed.

She dropped to her knees in the shallow puddle collecting on the floor, grabbing at her discarded clothes. The cardigan, the shirt, her bra and panties—they were all filthy, stained with days of sweat and grime. She scrubbed at them furiously, the bar of soap slipping in her wet hands. If she couldn’t clean herself, maybe she could clean these. Maybe that would make her feel less like a walking pile of dirt.

But the fabric wouldn’t yield. The stains were too deep, the fibers too worn. She sat back on her heels, the wet clothes pooling around her as her hands trembled with frustration.

A sharp knock on the door jolted her from her thoughts.

“One minute, cupcake!” The Joker’s voice was bright and mocking, followed by a low chuckle.

Panic surged through her veins. She dropped the clothes, scrambling to rinse the shampoo from her hair. The water sputtered sluggishly, her trembling hands working faster than the weak stream could keep up.

The cold hit her as she clawed for the towel on a nearby rusted hook, the coarse fabric scrapping against her damp skin as she dried off in a frantic, clumsy blur.

Her eyes darted to the folded bundle of clean clothes sitting on the counter—the Joker’s offering, his twisted version of a favor. She grabbed it, her fingers fumbling as she unfurled the fabric. The moment her eyes registered what she was holding, her breath hitched.

It was her nightgown.

The same white cotton nightgown she’d left on the arm of her couch, the one that had disappeared without explanation.

She held it up, the material almost translucent against the dim yellow light. Her stomach churned as she traced the delicate neckline. She could feel the imprint of his hands on it, his twisted satisfaction.

Of course, the bastard. He’d planned this perfectly—stripping her of even the illusion of dignity.

Her gaze flicked to her wet clothes, a flicker of defiance sparking, only to be snuffed out by the unrelenting cold clinging to her skin.

With trembling hands, she tugged the nightgown over her head. The fabric clung to her damp body, hugging every curve, every hollow. It wasn’t just clothing—it was a message: I own you.

Another knock echoed, sharper this time.

“Time’s up, dollface,” the Joker called, his voice dripping with mock cheer. “Don’t make me come in there.”

Alina froze, her chest heaving. The cold bit at her skin, her nipples pressing uncomfortably against the thin fabric. She knew—just knew—that he would notice. Of course, he would. He’d designed it this way.

Before she could steel herself, the door creaked open, his shadow stretching long across the dim room like an ominous specter.

"Well, well..." His voice rolled out, low and edged with dangerous ease. He leaned against the doorway, his eyes dragging over her from head to toe. "Don’t you look cozy."

Her stomach churned, a deep flush creeping up her neck. The way his gaze lingered on her—piercing and possessive—made her want to sink into the floor.

She crossed her arms over her chest, the gesture futile. If anything, her attempt to shield herself only deepened his amusement.

“You know,” he drawled, tilting his head as though studying her like a piece of art, “I think white might be your color.”

She couldn’t meet his gaze—couldn’t bear the weight of it.

He shifted closer, every step deliberate, the thud of his footsteps sharpening the silence. The space between them seemed to collapse, her stomach knotting under his steady approach.

“But then again…” His voice dipped, silk laced with thorns. “I’ve had plenty of time to imagine it, haven’t I?” His tongue darted out, flicking across his scarred lips, the hungry glint in his eyes making her shudder. “So nice of you to leave me something so… intimate.”

He let the silence stretch, his eyes gleaming with calculated amusement before he murmured, “Now that I’ve got you, I thought it was only fair to return it.”

The room felt smaller, her breath catching as his words pressed against her like a vise. She couldn’t force out a single word.

He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, the motion as casual as it was unsettling, his eyes never leaving hers. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?” His voice was mockingly gentle, each syllable stretched with cruel delight. “Cat got your tongue? Or maybe…” His gaze dipped briefly to the nightgown, lingering just long enough to make her skin crawl, “…you’re just overwhelmed. I’d understand. It’s not every day a girl gets to play dress-up for me.”

Her face burned, anger and humiliation rising in equal measure, but she bit the inside of her cheek, refusing to give him what he wanted.

That refusal only seemed to embolden him. His gaze dragged over her once more, lingering as though he could peel back every layer of her defenses.

“You don’t have to say a word,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a dangerous whisper. “I know exactly what you’re thinking. And I can promise you…” His words curled around her like a noose, tightening. “…it’s worse than that.”

Abruptly, he straightened, his laughter cutting through the tension like a jagged blade. His tone shifted in an instant, light and sing-song, dripping with mock cheer. “Let’s go, doll,” he said, waving her forward with exaggerated ease. “We’ve got ten minutes to make the most of.”

Her legs trembled as she moved past him, his gaze following her every step, crawling over her like a physical touch. The fabric swayed lightly against her thighs, damp and clinging, leaving her feeling raw and exposed.

Behind her, his laughter echoed softly, dark and low, following her like a shadow.

---

The Joker's grip remained firm around her arm as they made their way back, her damp nightgown clinging to her skin and the cold air biting at her. Each step felt heavier, the weight of what was coming pressing down on her like a stone.

Finally, they were there. The small room—barely more than a cage—greeted her with its oppressive, claustrophobic air. The Joker pushed open the door, then released her arm with a small, almost casual shove, as if reminding her that she wasn’t going anywhere.

Alina stepped inside, flinching as the door closed behind her with a sharp, final click. The Joker lingered in the doorway, his presence looming, his eyes gleaming with a shadowed amusement that made her stomach twist.

“Ten minutes,” he said, his voice smooth and edged with a dangerous sweetness. “You’ve had your time. Now it’s mine.”

Dread bubbled under her skin, but she stayed frozen, arms crossed tightly, her fingers clutching the thin fabric of her nightgown as though it might save her. She still couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze.

The Joker tilted his head, watching her with a slow, deliberate grin. “Well?” He took a languid step closer, his shoes whispering against the floor. “Where do you want it?”

When she didn't answer, he chuckled softly, the sound dark and unhurried, as though savoring her silence.

“I’ll give you some choices,” he began, his voice low and smooth, “We could do this standing,” he continued, gesturing lazily toward the corner where she stood, pressed tight against the wall as though it might swallow her whole.

“Or…” He drifted toward the bed, trailing his fingers along the edge of the mattress with an almost tender care. His grin widened, sharp and knowing. “We could make this… a little more civilized. Comfortable, even.” He paused, letting the word hang in the air like a dare.

He turned back to her, tilting his head as if he could see straight through her. “Decisions, decisions,” he murmured. “But don’t keep me waiting.” His grin stretched wider, teeth gleaming. “You know how I get when I’m bored.”

Each option felt more unbearable than the last, yet the Joker’s tone left no doubt—there would be no good choice. He was enjoying the way she squirmed, the way her eyes darted from one place to the next, looking for an exit that wasn’t there.

Her voice barely escaped her lips. “Here,” she whispered, gesturing to the floor, her back pressed against the cold wall. It wasn’t much of a choice, but at least it didn't carry the intimacy of the mattress.

The Joker chuckled, his scars stretching with delight as he stepped forward. “Good girl,” he murmured, his voice soft and dangerous. “Right here it is.”

He shrugged off his coat with slow, deliberate movements, draping it over the old table in the corner. But the playfulness was gone, replaced by something darker—a quiet, dangerous calm that clung to him like a second skin. Without the heavy coat, his body was revealed in the thin fabric of his purple, button-up shirt and green vest, the lean, taut lines of muscle sharply defined.

The sight of him—so effortlessly confident, so controlled—sent a ripple of unease through Alina, her pulse quickening against her will.

He reached into the pocket of his pants and pulled out a stopwatch, its metallic sheen glinting ominously in the dim light. With deliberate slowness, he set the timer, then slammed it down on the table with a foreboding thud that echoed through the room. Turning back toward her, his lips curled into a smile—sharp, unsettling, and full of dark promises.

“Time starts now,” he drawled, the smile never wavering.

Before Alina could fully process his words, he caught her wrist in his hand—his touch firm as he pulled her down to the floor. She landed in his lap with a sharp gasp, her back pressed against his chest. His legs bracketed

hers, the fabric of his trousers brushing her thighs with every slight shift he made.

She stiffened, her breath catching as his arms looped around her waist, pulling her close and locking her in place.

"You’re always so tense,” he whispered, his breath hot and maddeningly close against her neck, each word brushing her skin like an unwanted caress. “Relax, doll. Who knows? You might even enjoy this... if you let yourself.” His voice dripped with dark amusement, yet there was something else beneath it—a dangerous intimacy that burrowed under her skin like a splinter.

Her nails dug into her palms, desperate for the sharp sting to ground her as his fingers started tracing lazy paths along her waist, maddeningly light, each touch leaving her skin crawling with awareness.

The cold concrete beneath them seeped through her nightgown, a sharp contrast to the heat of his body against hers. His breath, slow and measured against her neck, sent shivers skittering down her spine. It wasn’t just warmth—it was a calculated pressure, an unspoken threat that somehow felt... tender.

And that was the worst part.

Against her will, her body began to betray her, softening, sinking into the sinister comfort he offered.

“That’s better,” he crooned, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “See? I’m not so bad, am I?”

Her breath faltered as his fingers dipped lower, skimming the thin, delicate fabric of her nightgown. Every nerve in her body screamed at her to pull away, to resist, but her muscles felt caught in quicksand, sinking deeper with every passing moment. She could feel his grin, wicked and triumphant, ghosting against her neck.

No, she thought fiercely, her mind clawing for control against the tide of sensations overwhelming her. Don’t let him win.

But the more she fought, the harder it became to resist. The tension in her spine gave way, her shoulders slumping as she unwillingly relaxed against him. The low hum of satisfaction in his chest told her he knew exactly how much he was unraveling her.

Gently, almost absentmindedly, one of his hands left her waist, his fingertips brushing lightly against her collarbone before circling slowly along the curve of it. The touch was maddeningly delicate, tracing lazy circles that mirrored the steady rise and fall of his chest against her back.

"You’re so soft, Alina," he murmured, his voice low and rich, carrying an unsettling warmth that felt almost reverent. The words slid over her like a dark caress, igniting an unwelcome bloom of heat beneath her skin.

His fingers slid down her arm, lingering at the delicate curve of her wrist, where her pulse fluttered against his gloved touch. His thumb brushed over the rapid beat, a cruel, knowing smile curling his lips. "Do you feel how perfectly you fit here, doll?" he murmured, his voice a velvet trap. He paused, exhaling softly, his warm breath spilling into the hollow of her neck, sending an undeniable shiver of goosebumps across her skin. "Like you were made for this... made for me."

Without warning, he shifted her more fully into his lap, his hand sliding to rest on her hip, fingers pressing firmly against the delicate curve of bone. The movement forced her closer, and that’s when she felt it—a solid, unyielding pressure beneath her.

For a moment, her mind refused to comprehend, but then, realization struck—sharp and undeniable.

He’s hard.

Her pulse stuttered, heat blooming low in her belly even as dread tangled in her chest. She froze, caught between instinct and the horrifying awareness of his desire.

Every nerve screamed at her to recoil, to shove him away, but the strength of his grip on her hip was unyielding and possessive—rooting her in place. The helplessness tightened her chest, her thoughts splintering as the realization sank deeper, darker.

She knew he could feel her reaction—her sudden awareness of just how dangerous this game had become. His breath against her neck grew heavier, more deliberate, and she could almost feel the wicked grin curving his lips in the silence.

His fingers flexed against her waist, digging in just enough to draw a shiver from her. Then he laughed—a low, gravelly sound that made her stomach twist.

“You feel that, don't you sweetheart?” he murmured, his tone laced with dark satisfaction. “That’s your fault.”

The jagged ridges of his scars grazed her neck as he leaned closer, his breath hot against her ear. “You’ve been teasing me since the moment I laid eyes on you,” he continued. “Every little look, every little move…” He sighed, feigning exasperation, though his grin only widened. “You’re just lucky I’ve got a lot of self-control.”

Alina’s breath snagged, her pulse hammering so loudly it drowned out everything else. She wanted to speak, to shove him away, but her voice was trapped, suffocated by the unrelenting pressure of him and the horrific, undeniable truth: he wanted her.

"Does it scare you, Alina?" His voice dropped to a low rasp, teasing yet predatory. "Knowing what I could do... right here, right now... with no one to stop me?"

She tensed, every muscle locking in place as the weight of his words sank in.

Then, with terrifying ease, he pressed her tighter against his lap, the contact sending a wave of cold fear through her veins, laced with a dark, shameful thrill.

"No, no” he murmured, almost gently. “That’s not what terrifies you, is it?” His gloved hand slid up, curling around the base of her throat with a possessive ease. He didn’t squeeze, but the weight of his touch was enough to steal her breath. “What terrifies you…” His thumb brushed the line of her jaw, tipping her head back just enough to expose her neck. “…is how much you like this.”

Her eyes squeezed shut, hot tears pricking at the corners as his words carved through her. No, she thought fiercely, clawing at the edges of her resolve. Don’t give in.

But his grip tightened, the pressure sending a shameful exhilaration through her that she couldn’t control. “There it is,” he purred, his tone thick with triumph. “That little spark I saw back at the bank. You felt it then, didn’t you? That pull… that electricity.” His lips brushed the shell of her ear, his grin wicked and unrelenting.

Her pulse quickened as the memory resurfaced, but she couldn’t outrun the truth tangled in his words. She had felt it—a magnetic pull that cut through the fear and chaos, something raw and undeniable.

It terrified her how deeply she'd felt it.

"You can’t lie to me, doll," he whispered, as his fingers brushed down the curve of her throat, lingering just above the frantic beat of her pulse. His arousal pressed harder against her, a dark reminder of his control. "I saw it in your eyes. You wanted me to devour you, just like you want me to now."

The words slid into her mind, and before she could summon the strength to deny him, he pressed on.

"I can feel it," he purred. "Every beat of that pretty little heart, every shiver under my touch." His scarred grin widened, curving wickedly against her skin.

"You like being at my mercy."

Her pulse pounded violently in her chest, a frantic rhythm of fear and confusion. She stayed silent, her lips pressed tightly together, refusing to give him the reaction he craved. But his words, slow and hypnotic, continued to cut through her defenses, feeding the storm of shame and terror churning within her.

The Joker’s grip on her waist tightened, his voice dropping into a low, velvety murmur. “Silence won’t save you, sweetheart. It only makes me want to push you harder.” His fingers slid down, tracing an agonizingly slow path over the curve of her hip before descending to her thigh. He paused there, teasing the hem of her nightgown, pressing just enough to make her breath hitch. "You can pretend all you want, but your body… it’s far more honest than those pretty lips of yours

Alina squeezed her eyes shut. She hated him—hated everything he stood for. But now, trapped in his lap, his warmth seeping into her—she couldn’t deny the terrible truth in his words.

“You belong to me,” he murmured, his voice barely audible but impossibly heavy, a truth he pressed into her skin with every lingering touch. “And deep down… you know it too

The words hit her like a physical blow, cutting deep, slicing through the storm of confusion and self-loathing that swirled inside her.

No. She screamed internally.

This was wrong. All of it.

Maybe she couldn’t control the way her body betrayed her—clouded by fear, exhaustion, and the crushing absence of human touch. But her mind, that was still hers.

No matter what he did, she had to hold on to that. She had to remember who she was.

Her fists clenched in her lap, her nails digging into her palms as she forced herself to breathe.

Stay strong, she told herself. Don’t let him break you.

With a sudden surge of defiance, she pushed against him violently, the words bursting from her lips with a force that startled even her.

“Stop!” she demanded, her voice sharp and raw as she dug her nails into his unyielding forearms. She felt the sting of her own grip, certain she’d drawn blood, but his arms didn’t falter. They remained locked around her, a cruel reminder of his control.

The Joker stilled, the tension in his embrace like a coiled spring. His laughter—low and guttural—broke the silence, vibrating through her back and sending a shiver of fear down her spine. “Oh, sweetheart...,” he purred “you’ve got claws.”

His lips hovered against the curve of her neck, brushing her skin with a deliberate, unnerving softness that lingered just a beat too long.

“Go ahead,” he murmured, his voice a low, dark drawl, rich with menace. “Scratch me up all you want.” A faint chuckle slipped from his lips, hot against her skin. “I don’t mind a little pain.”

Alina’s heart pounded with a mix of fury and fear. She wrenched her head to the side, her nails digging deeper into his flesh.

“You don’t own me.” she spat, her voice sharp and defiant.

The Joker’s grin widened—she could feel it in the way his breath hitched for just a moment. “Don’t I?” he said softly, dangerously. His voice dropped lower, a whisper steeped in menace. “Because here you are, in my arms. My doll. And I didn't have to force you, did I?”

His grip on her waist tightened, his lips barely grazing her ear. “You don’t want me to stop, Alina,” he whispered. “You want me to show you just how much you belong to me.”

Her body froze, caught in the tension between her anger and the dark pull of his words. She hated him—she hated this. Yet the slow, insidious heat unfurling between her thighs betrayed her, each pulse of arousal more damning than the last, terrifying her far more than his words ever could.

It sickened her how he could stir anger, fear, and arousal within her all at once.

And then, just as quickly as he had tightened his grip, he loosened it, letting his hands rest lightly on her waist. His sudden ease was unnerving, like a predator toying with prey.

“Or…” he drawled, his tone playful again, “we could pretend you’re still in charge. That’s fun too.”

The piercing jolt of the stopwatch shattered the silence, its sharp sound cutting through the moment like a blade. Alina flinched, her breath hitching as the sudden intrusion snapped the tension taut between them.

The Joker tilted his head, his grin widening as he glanced at the ticking device. “Looks like our little sessions up,” he said, his voice dripping with mock cheer, "Lucky you.” His grip on her waist gave the faintest squeeze before he pulled back and released her, standing up as if the moment they shared meant nothing to him.

Alina felt the cold rush back instantly, her skin prickling as the warmth of his body left hers. She stayed on the floor, knees drawn and curled in the nightgown, feeling an emptiness creep in where he’d just been.

She should have been relieved—should have celebrated the fact that his hands were no longer on her—but the relief wouldn’t come. Instead, a slow, insidious dread coiled up her spine, tightening its grip with every second that passed.

Soon, he would leave her alone, with nothing but the cold walls and the oppressive silence that pressed in from every side.

That unbearable, suffocating silence.

The thought coiled around her, sending her mind spiraling, her heart pounding in her chest. God, she wasn’t sure how much more she could take.

She needed something—anything—to anchor her, to keep her from slipping into the dark void of her confinement.

Maybe… just maybe, he would bring her something to read? The idea felt fragile, dangerous, as though it might shatter if she dared to say it aloud, but the need clawed at her relentlessly, refusing to be ignored.

The Joker moved to the table, retrieving his watch and coat with casual indifference, the weight of his presence somehow heavier as he prepared to leave. He slipped the watch into his pocket, adjusting his coat with practiced ease, and turned toward the door.

Before the words could dissolve in her throat, Alina spoke, her voice hesitant and small, a sharp contrast to her earlier outburst. “Can you... bring me some books next time?” The question hung in the air, fragile and exposed, as though it might shatter under the weight of his gaze.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he chuckled softly, the sound low and indulgent, sliding under her skin like a creeping chill. “Books, huh?” he murmured, his tone laced with casual amusement. He plucked an imaginary speck of lint from his jacket, flicking it away with a lazy, dismissive gesture, as though brushing off her plea. “I’ll think about it, doll.”

Then, he turned on his heel, his steps measured and unhurried, as though her world wasn’t unraveling with every inch he moved away.

Pausing in the doorway, he glanced back over his shoulder, his grin dark and mocking. “Enjoy your time alone, doll,” he drawled, the words dripping with cruel cheer. “Try not to miss me too much.”

And then he was gone, his footsteps echoing faintly in the corridor, leaving her with nothing but the silence—and the cold weight of his absence.

She hated it. Hated herself for the pang of loss that crept in the moment he left.

She crawled back to the dingy mattress and sat down, the springs creaking gratingly in the silence. Wrapping her arms around herself, she tried to will the lingering warmth of his touch away. But her hands moved of their own accord, tracing the curve of her waist, following the path his gloved fingers had taken just moments before.

She clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms, as if the sting might pull her back to reality.

He’s a monster. This is wrong. The thoughts pounded in her skull, but his voice slithered through, stronger—You like being at my mercy, don’t you?—taunting her, twisting the knife deeper.

Tears welled up in her eyes, hot and unwanted, but she blinked them away. Crying wouldn’t fix this. Nothing would.

How much longer can I hold on? The question clawed at her. How much more of myself will I lose before there’s nothing left?

A single tear slipped free as she lay down, pulling the thin blanket tightly around her trembling frame. She closed her eyes, willing herself to block out the silence, the cold, the phantom touch of his hands.

God, what’s wrong with me? The thought echoed in her mind, but no answer came.

There was no comfort left to be found in this room.

Not anymore.

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

Wow, I spent an absurd amount of time editing this chapter, but I think I’m finally happy with it! At this point, I’ve pretty much lost all objectivity, so if you’re up for it, please leave a comment and let me know what you think—I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Only one more chapter to go before things take a darker, more sexual turn 😅.

Thank you so much for the comments on the last chapter! They mean the world to me. I started writing this story for myself, but knowing that there are real people out there enjoying it is such an incredible motivator to keep going. 💜

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

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@furisodespirit

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