#maybe they’ll never be mentioned again

[tevanbuckley]

see this is what I don´t get. i love him - but we did not need Tommy in 8x01. Buck could have mentioned him and that would have been enough to remind the audience of them being together. Leave him out of 8x01 and put him in 8x02 or 8x03 instead! He is a pilot. This is a plane emergency. It will make more sense then having him eat cake at Eddies house, Tim!

On the other hand, they barely managed to integrate Hen, Chim and Eddie in 8x03. I wasn´t very excited for the first 3 episodes and it really turned out as expected. It was the Bathena show again with a side of Buck.

yeah, ppl have brought up the practical costs of including him, but if that were the case surely they’d prioritise this over chris’ zoom party? the inclusion of the 217 makes me wonder if they did initially intend for him to be there but got lost in the bathena of it all and ended up not having room for anything else. Even all the stuff they set up with the guest characters got dropped, like what happened to dog girl and viagra guy? we didn’t even get to see jem and his dad reunite!

ridiculously, I think the highway landing went a little too smoothly, they cook up this insane plan in 30 seconds that just kinda works, and the dennis/pedo ring stuff didn’t have high enough stakes for an act 2 follow up imo. They could’ve had more pushback from ATC or made more out of athena having to chose between making a risky landing that could kill even more people or sacrificing the passengers on the plane who were probably gonna die anyway.

not only would something going wrong give them a reason to call the pilot they know, by proximity having to get tommy’s help could’ve given chim, eddie and hen something to do, seeing as they were twiddling their thumbs a fire truck over!

if they really did want to go all in on the plane crash, they should’ve left the dennis stuff as a lose thread to pick up later, especially because I assume athena pissing off a bunch of high powered sex pests is gonna have further consequences down the line.

[starweed]

heyyy, guess who’s back with more thoughts about itoshi rin????

so, we’ve already established that rin is a very extrinsically motivated person, at least when it comes to football. he doesn’t play football for himself, and he never has. and in a setting like blue lock i just don’t think that’s a sustainably way to play football. blue lock is a place that wants people have a real love for the sport, and would play it every single day of their lives if they could. ego wants people who want to win and want to be the best striker in the world.

rin,, doesn’t really want that. sure, he wants to beat isagi and prove his brother wrong, but that’s not really a longterm, sustainable goal. what happens when he succeeds? does he just stop and say, “okay, that’s good enough”? what happens if he never succeeds? if isagi just continually gets better and better and rin never beats him in a way that makes sae acknowledge him?

having extrinsic motivations is good and normal, but you also eventually have to do things that you want to do for you or you’re going to get burnt out. and i feel like that’s the path that rin’s headed towards if we’re being realistic about this. he just goes and goes and goes in a really unsustainable way, and eventually it’s going to catch up to him.

he’s a really interesting foil to isagi, who’s motivations are almost entirely intrinsic. part of why isagi’s mindset feels more sustainable to me is because he really only plays football for himself. he plays because he really loves the sport. and we don’t ever really see that in rin, so i feel like it’s eventually going to kind of blow up in his face as we’ve seen in previous rounds of blue lock.

or i’m entirely wrong about this. idk, i’m not kaneshiro. i’m just saying that i don’t think that rin’s got anything sustainable going on in how he plays football ¯\_ (ツ)_/¯

[the-bluestreak-cat]

My extremely personal red flag is if you’ve never lived independently.

Do not open tags it’s just a personal vent and I hit the tag limit (30) and that’s never happened to me before ajskdlf

[feyburner]

I ??? woke up at 3am with this scene fully written in my mind palace and quickly jotted it down in the Notes app

*

Clark’s shaking his head before he realizes he’s doing it, and feels a twinge of embarrassment at his own bad manners when Bruce stops mid-word to look at him, brows raised.

“No?” he says.

“No,” Clark says, again without thinking, and again with the reflexive urge to apologize. Somewhere his mother is tutting without knowing why. But he doesn’t apologize, because he’s already saying, “No, it can’t—it can’t be that.”

“Okay,” Bruce says slowly. “Can you elaborate?”

He is, honestly, having trouble taking his eyes off the screen. The mockup design of his new suit is there, dark and sleek, ridged like tactical gear. The blue is like the last shade of evening before you can’t call it evening anymore, the color of nine PM in Kansas in July, so exact there’s a strong chance Bruce color-picked it from a photo. The yellow accents are the cool fluorescent yellow-green of lightning bugs. The red is dark as arterial blood. Every aspect of the suit has been updated—the colors deeper, the angles sharper, the S extending to the corners of its frame—but Bruce has done it without changing the fundamentals. It’s immediately recognizable as the Superman suit, just… well, a little cooler, maybe. A little more of the times. Even the tailoring is modernized. The neckline. The shape of the boots. Where the belt hits at the waist. Clark can tell just by looking that Bruce has not only spent a lot of time on this in general, he’s spent a lot of time designing it specifically with Clark in mind, Clark’s needs and preferences and the small discomforts of his current suit, things he might have mentioned offhand after a mission but never with the assumption that Bruce was listening or filing it away. No doubt the next slides of this presentation will detail all the hidden features of the new suit, and they’ll all be incredibly thoughtful if not slightly overkill, and Bruce will pretend his sole motive here was practicality and risk reduction and respond to any thanks with a curt nod.

And Clark wants to thank him. He will. It’s just.

“It can’t be… cool,” he says, inane. Bruce is watching him with that steady look that used to feel clinical, piercing, and now mostly reads as attentive. “It can’t be—like yours. Tactical, military-grade.”

“Lightyears beyond, actually.”

“It has to—Ma said once, a kid should be able to draw it with crayons. You know? I can’t look like a weapon. I have to—I want to look like a friend.”

He can feel himself flushing. It’s rare that he speaks like this, and rarer still that he does so while being stared at intently. Bruce may think of himself as the darkness, but his gaze is a spotlight: unwavering and revealing and more a little sweat-inducing, for one reason or another.

“Sometimes, when I show up, people laugh,” Clark says. “If it’s somewhere out of the way, where they haven’t seen me before. I show up and I look like a festival performer. It’ll be the worst day of their lives, and they’ve got no reason to trust my face, but when they see what I’m wearing—it goes from ‘Who are you?’ to ‘Who is this guy?’ And that’s a good thing.”

“Hard to be afraid of a man dressed in primary colors,” Bruce says, almost to himself.

“Exactly.”

“I see. Thank you,” he says, “for explaining.”

Clark tries not to show how surprised he is to hear that. Judging by the crook of Bruce’s mouth, his success is negligible. “Of course. Sorry I didn’t—I mean, thank you, obviously, for going to such trouble. I didn’t mean to come in here and—I really do appreciate it, I can tell you put a lot of work in—”

Bruce’s eyes cut away. “No. No need. I didn’t ask, before I…. It was only a first draft. If you’re amenable, I’ll incorporate your feedback into the second one.”

“Oh! Yeah. Yes, of course, but you really don’t have to—”

“If you have any further notes, I would like to hear them.”

There’s something determined in the lines of his face. Clark has the sense that this moment is important, that it’s a turning point, even if he’s not sure why. It feels like striking out into a sea of ice, a blank white expanse under which something precious and vital is hidden, has been hidden all along, just waiting for him to find it. To want to.

“Sure,” he says. He looks back at the suit and swallows, and knows Bruce will see the flicker of his throat and take some meaning from it, and wishes he knew what the meaning was. Or maybe Bruce won’t notice or read into it at all. Maybe Clark needs to calm down, in fact. “Um. I don’t want to assume, but does it… do things?”

“It does things,” Bruce confirms, after the barest pause. “Let me show you the next slide.”

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: implied noncon, hyrbid au, hybrid auction, sex trafficking, suicidal ideations, dystopian laws, subjugation

♡ FEM reader

♡ P2: Clientele

It’s scary being a bunny hybrid—especially in a world where all natural prey is bred and raised like livestock, then handpicked and auctioned off to society's apex predators.

But then again, that’s been reality all your life.

If the choice were up to you, you’d stay at the farm and become a womb for breeders. Granted, they’re a bit intense, but rabbit bucks aren’t so bad. You would spend your days cozy in the hay, barefooted and messy-haired, with other fellow herbivores—all the cows, mares, ewes, and does out on the pasture, kept safe and far removed from the belly of the beast—free to live out your days never once having to lay your round eyes on an apex at all. 

But such wasn’t your luck...

Of course, you could have fought. But fighting back is never a good idea—you never know if and when they could decide to send you to the slaughterhouse to make rabbit stew out of you instead— keep your fur to make a coat or carpet. They’ll have better use of you that way than they will with a misbehaving pet, after all.

You think about ending it yourself once you’re sitting in your cage listening to the speaker announce a heifer. That’s how the auction goes—typical farm animals first, other domestic species, then wilder exotic ones. 

In an ill-thought way, you wish you were an exotic breed—something with wings or something they’d have to keep in an aquarium—all in all, something a little harder to come by than being a rodent. Rabbits are cute, but they’re a dime a dozen and are usually sold to those who don’t feel like spending too much—trigger-happy hunter types who’re looking for cheap toys that are easily broken and just as easily replaced.

You swallow thickly. Better yet, you wish you were a bigger badder herbivore that required respect—like an elephant or a rhino. No one would mess with you then. 

But there’s no point in mulling over what you’re not. You’re prey. That’s just how it is.

But who knows? Maybe it won’t be so bad. You’ve seen someone come back to the farm after being auctioned. She’d lost an ear and could no longer speak, but other than that, she was alive and well…

You reconsider killing yourself. Suppose, the only thing keeping you from going through with it is the option of doing it later if and when it actually proves to be as bad as you imagine. You’ve never been good at making such decisions. Must be that prey mentality.

“Up next, we have a mini lop bunny,” the speaker announces, and you feel your cage move, carrying you into the spotlight where you can only see bright red eyes glaring back at you. You immediately look away.

“Known for their long ears, button nose, and round eyes—not to mention their docile nature. As one of the most popular bunny breeds on the market, mini lops are a house pet staple. Believe it or not, they’re also intelligent and social, thriving on attention, whether that be playing games or cuddling—making them the perfect choice to anyone in want of a domestic companion or a pet toy.”

You sniffle—crying and shivering, curling yourself up in a little ball within your cage, making yourself as small as possible, hiding from the predatory glares you feel surrounding you. You’ve only seen a handful of carnivores before—the shepherd dog that herds the flock back home being the biggest one. You’ve heard wolves are twice the size. Maybe you’ll be lucky and have a heart attack right now before any one of them can make their bids.

But then it starts. One number after the other. It feels over in the blink of an eye.

“Sold!” the speaker calls. “To the fine grizzly gentleman on table nine.”

Your eyes peel from being sealed shut, staring intently at your lap where you sit with your knees tucked to your chest—frozen and tense and teetering on passing out from lack of breath. Grizzly? You gulp with a swallowed whimper. Did you hear that right? As in bear? 

“No-” You suddenly understand the point of the chains that had been fixed around your ankles and wrists—given they were the only thing keeping you from thrashing against the bars—breaths hitching as you felt the cage being reeled away to make space for the next one up.

A blanket is thrown over your enclosure, engulfing you in pitch dark before you’re carried off and placed down somewhere. The floor shakes beneath you after a small moment. Something purring underfoot. It feels a little different from the carriage you’re used to but you think you’re being moved.

It’s an hour or so until you feel it come to a halt, at which point your cage is picked up and carried off again, then placed down a few moments later.

You can’t see it, but you can smell it in the air—something dangerous. It must be him. The bear that bought you.

You shield yourself once the drape is lifted and you’re exposed to the light again, squealing, “Please, mister—please don’t eat me. I only eat grass—I wouldn't taste good. And- and—I wouldn’t be very filling anyway–” while trembling underneath the shadow of the apex predator before you.

Your jumping heart was expecting nothing short of instant death, though that’s not what ensued. Instead, there’s an unfamiliar sound. A rumbling. Almost like a growl. It takes a while before you recognize it as laughter. 

“Shh, bunny,” the bear chuckles. “Don’t worry—I have no intention of eating you.”

He crouches down before your cage, though still big enough to tower over it. 

“After all,” he says. “There would be little point in spending so much on something only so bite-sized.”

Your eyes flicker to his paw, where it jingles with something. 

It’s a key.

“How about we get you out of that cage? Those shackles don’t look pleasant. I’ll remove them for you.” He unlocks the gate and swings it open, leaving you room to crawl out.

You don’t know if you should. On the one hand, the cage is keeping you safe, but on the other hand, you doubt you can stay in it forever. And who knows what might happen to his seemingly gracious mood if you refuse him.

“D’you—” It’s a silly question, but you don’t know what else to say. “You promise?”

He makes that sound again. Humored by you, it would seem. “Yes, Bunny, I promise.”

You decide to come out and only feel smaller for it, now exposed. But he keeps his promise, removing your shackles. Your eyes are peeled as he does, watching his claws be so close to you. Thick, long, curled, and black. They would puncture your skin and tear into your meat like it were nothing. You go goosefleshed at the thought.

“They always do these so tight…” he sighs. “Utterly unnecessary for domestic species such as yourself.”

You look up at him at that. He’s done this before, which must mean… “Do you—do you have others?” Or has he had others? Meaning… he doesn’t plan on keeping you around for long. 

It’s funny how that overwhelming urge to run makes you go completely numb.

Meanwhile, he looks at you in silence. Surprised at your observation, perhaps, but then he smiles, fangs and all, and you nearly skitter back into your cage.

“You’re quite astute.” Again, he rumbles with a laugh. Then he stands and walks off, setting your cuffs down on a dresser.

You only now realize you’re in a bedroom, of all places.

“I suppose there’s no use in beating around the bush.” He turns around again and leans back against the drawers, arms folded upon his broad chest as he starts explaining, “I run an entertainment business—a fun house of sorts—you might call it a burrow, as my staff is exclusively made up of bunny rabbits such as yourself.”

A burrow? Like back home? Why would a bear be doing that?

“From now on, you’ll work for me. You’ll be trained in the arts of hospitality and pleasure and cater to a clientele of sophisticated apex predators such as myself.”

Hospitality and pleasure? It almost sounds like he means for carnivores to breed with you… But that would be ridiculous. What would be the point? It’s not as if you can carry other litters but kits anyway.

“You look confused,” he chuckles again. “Allow me to explain.” He pushes himself off the dresser. “Unlike most other mammals, bunnies don’t go into heat. No, instead, bunnies are, in many ways, in a state of permanent mating season—which makes you ideal for my intents and purposes.”

You’re not sure you understand what he’s implying. But you’re growing more certain you don’t like it…

“Moreover, bunnies are any hunter’s natural prey,” he continues while walking back toward you. “Making you the perfect meal to fulfill any customer's appetite.”

He pushes the gate of the cage closed, and it clicks back in place, now locked for good and no longer an option of escape, however poor.

“Not to mention…” He smiles again, and this time, you really wish you had a place to hide. “Bunnies are natural sluts.” He crouches back down, closer now, and curls his black claw up under your chin. “All you want is to be fed and bred all day, then fall sound asleep come night.”

You swallow thickly. Your question answered. 

“And since you seem to be a smart cookie. I suppose there’d be little point in waiting."

He removes his tie.

"So, let’s start your training right away.”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Deku, Kirishima, Hawks, Aizawa ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Naoya, Toji ♡ BLLK – Aiku ♡ DS – Doma ♡ HxH – Chrollo

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[dollfacefantasy]

SNOW ON THE GLASS ♡

pairing: dilf!leon kennedy x fem!reader x milf!ada wong

summary: you love your job as the kennedys nanny. it's fairly easy and pays great. plus you may have a tiny crush on your bosses. but as it turns out, they may reciprocate that feeling more than you know.

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, mild dubcon, p in v, oral sex (f receiving), daddy kink, mommy kink, intoxication/intox kink, breeding kink, praise kink, age gap (late 30s, early 20s)

a/n: birthday gift for my wonderful bestie @explorevenus!! i love you so so much <3 also also also, imagine them both at their re6 ages, i just couldn't find any pics of re6 ada i liked sue me 😔

Little white flakes of snow landed one after another on the clear pane of glass in front of your face. You chewed your bottom lip while watching the flurries compile on the window, and in-turn, your car parked in the driveway.

Behind you, a pair of sharp heels clacked against the tile floor as the owner of said driveway returned to the room. Ada stepped through the archway and down the half-step to approach you by the front door. Laying a gentle hand on your shoulder, she smiled when you turned to look at her.

“Here’s your check, sweetheart,” she said, bringing a small rectangular paper to brush against your fingertips.

“Thank you,” you replied as you took it from her. Your eyes immediately made their way back to the storm outside that grew worse by the second.

She followed your gaze, her palm staying in place on your shoulder. Unlike you, Ada’s face remained composed. She wasn’t worried in the slightest. She’d known this storm was coming. It was an integral part of her plan for tonight.

But despite her internal calmness, she furrowed her dark brows and injected some worry into her tone.

“It’s getting bad out there. That snow is just piling up,” she proclaimed, “There’s no way you should be driving in weather like that.”

Reluctantly, you nodded. Your thoughts had been reaching the same conclusion. You were just hesitant to voice them because after a long day of work, you yearned for the comfort of your apartment. It was finally the weekend, and your plush bed and soft sheets called to you. You’d been dreaming of the quiet between those walls all day. The privacy to do whatever you wanted that you didn’t have when you were here for most hours of the week. 

Make no mistake, you loved your job as the Kennedys full-time nanny, but regardless of your enjoyment, it was still work that required a lot of attention and labor. Their daughter was the sweetest child you’d ever met; however, carting her to and from dance class and kindergarten along with making her food, playing with her, and putting her down for naps piled up on you.

“Maybe if I leave now, I can make it…” you thought aloud.

“Oh please. Honey, you live across town. You’d have to take the highway, and people drive crazy as is. I should know, my husband is one of them,” she joked.

Your brows raised at the mention of Leon. You hadn’t even thought about how your other employer would get home tonight. You looked over your shoulder at her again. “Do you think he’ll be ok? It’s coming down really hard out there,” you said.

“Oh he’ll be fine,” she waved off, “His friend is giving him a ride home tonight. I’m sure they’ll make it in one piece.”

Releasing a small breath of relief, you nodded again.

“It’s really no problem if you stay,” she continued, “We have the guest room all set up. It has a bathroom attached, so you’d have total privacy. And I wouldn’t make you watch Christina or anything if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Oh no,” you reassured, “It’s not that, don’t worry. I just don’t want to be a burden on you and Mr. Kennedy.”

“You’re never a burden on us. With all you do for Christina, you’re practically part of the family. I wouldn’t want you driving off and getting into an accident just because you didn’t want to impose. I’m sure you know that we have more than enough space in this house,” she said and ran her hand over your bicep down to your wrist. Her manicured nails scraped over your skin, eliciting a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

You felt a simmer of heat in your chest upon hearing those kind words coming from her painted lips. That combined with the teasing touch had your heart pumping a little faster in your chest. It was something you rarely thought about, but maybe, just maybe, a tiny part of why you enjoyed this job so much was because both of your employers looked like reoccuring stars in people’s wet dreams all over the world.

“Thank you. I would really appreciate it,” you answered, your prior trepidation dissolving under the heat of her gaze. You slid your check into your purse and then placed the bag back down on the end table by the door.

She smirked, though she tried to make it appear as an earnest smile. Of course, Ada sensed the little crush you had on her and her husband. It wasn’t hard to tell given the way you preened in the face of the slightest of compliments or gave them the look a puppy would give its owner whenever they praised you for your hard work.

“Great,” she said, “Come with me. I’ll put on some dinner. We’ll get you fed and then I’ll show you to your room and be out of your hair for the night.”

Her slender fingers clasped around your hand, guiding you back through that archway and towards the kitchen. The two of you passed by a few family portraits and expensive paintings before reaching your destination - the luxurious kitchen that probably held a value higher than all the money you’d made in your life.

You could fit about six of your kitchens in this one. That would be another nice thing about staying here for the night, getting to use the high end items they had stocked rather than the odds and ends you owned.

She led you across the gray marble floors over to the spacious island, all but sitting you down on one of the stools.

“You just relax for a few minutes, and I’ll work on the food,” she said.

You took your seat, not willing to protest her hospitality further. Your eyes scanned around the kitchen you’d become so familiar with over the last year. She walked into the pantry for a couple seconds, returning with a box and some small containers before setting them on the counter.

“You like pasta?” she asked.

“Who doesn’t?” you responded.

She let out a small laugh at that. “No wonder Leon likes you so much. A girl after his own heart.”

Your heart fluttered at the idea that Mr. Kennedy liked you. Before hearing that, you didn’t suspect he had any problems with you. In fact, he let you know all the time that he was pleased with your performance and couldn’t ask for anyone better to take care of Christina. But appreciating you and liking you were two separate things, the latter of which gave you that warm feeling in your stomach.

In the corner of the counters, Ada bent down to grab a pot. Your eyes went with her, dragging along her figure to where her form-fitting black slacks covered the swell of her ass. As soon as you realized you were staring, you averted your gaze. You pushed out any further thoughts about how her red blouse was probably unbuttoned at the top, allowing a clear view of her breasts down the front of the shirt.

She stood back up with the pot in hand and filled it with some water. Tapping the electric stove to life, she put it on to boil. You watched as she poured some oil in the water and then grabbed a pan to put on for what you assumed would be the sauce.

With both pieces heating up, she moved to the cabinets up above. She reached for the one next to the section that held all of Christina’s dishes, her sippy cups and princess plates. The cupboard you took from most of the time you were here.

Instead of grabbing a Little Mermaid themed piece of tupperware, her hand retrieved two wine glasses. She spun around to face you and brought the fragile items over to the island. After placing them in front of you, she stepped into a nearby alcove, the place you knew they kept all the liquor.

She came back with a nice bottle, something more rich than you’d ever drink on your own. Popping it open, she went to pour, but you interrupted.

“I don’t really need any,” you said with a timid smile.

While you weren’t a prude about drinking under other circumstances, Ada was still your boss. Being under any kind of influence around her held a risk you didn’t find worth taking.

She just smirked at you though, not making any effort to conceal it this time.

“C’mon, loosen up a bit,” she coaxed, “You’re not on the clock. You’ve been working all week, even later today since I was late. Take it as my apology.”

“You don’t have to apologize. You paid me for the overtime,” you replied.

“Still. Keeping you longer than expected on short notice is inconsiderate,” she said. 

She rounded the counter with the bottle and your glass in hand. Upon reaching you, she set the glass down directly in front of you with the bottle beside it. The proximity left no room for hesitation. One of her hands came up, brushing across the back of your neck to rest on your shoulder like it had earlier.

“You’re not saying no because you think this is some sort of test, do you? Because I wouldn’t bother with something like that, sweetheart. I was young once too,” she told you. You swore she was leaning in closer as her voice became more of a purr next to your ear, but you didn’t dare look. “I know how good a drink can feel after a long week. You’re human. My husband and I don’t expect you to be a child-friendly saint even when you’re not working,” she continued.

Her fingers rubbed miniscule circles on the cloth of your top. You still didn’t think it was the best idea to drink around your boss, but Ada had never given you a reason not to trust her. It was quite the opposite. Most days, the Kennedys seemed too good to be true.

You knew they were human. Occasionally while speaking to you, they’d slip in a jab about the other or allude to some sort of marital problem that sprouted up after years of being together. They’d make mistakes like coming home late or forgetting to tell you that Christina’s dance lesson had been canceled until you were already on the way there.

But when it came to their relationships with you, they were absolute dreams. They gave you expensive gifts for your birthday and Christmas. Paid you above what was the standard for nannies in this area. Talked to you like someone they were interested in rather than a person they were forced to interact with. And hell, now they were offering up their home to you when you needed it.

“Alright. If it’s ok with you,” you agreed.

“That’s what I like to hear,” she said and tilted the bottle towards your glass.

Deep red liquid spilled into the curved dish. She wasn’t shy with how much she gave you, that was for sure. You could already smell that heady aroma swirling around the air.

“You can have as much as you’d like. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, we want you to feel at home here with us,” she said.

Before she walked away, her hand swept down your back, stroking it with a domineering, almost maternal sort of affection. It sent another round of chills through your body. You reached for the wine glass and gripped the stem hard. It was probably for the best that she and her husband weren’t actually around for most of your work here if this was how you reacted to a simple touch.

You brought the glass to your lips and sipped some of the liquid as she poured her own. After taking down some of the drink to numb your responsive nerves, you set it down again. You didn’t want to over-indulge.

“I really do feel at home here. I wasn’t saying no because I’m not comfortable with you. I just really care about what you and Mr. Kennedy think of me. I wouldn’t want you thinking you hired someone irresponsible to watch over your daughter,” you explained. What was left unspoken was that you didn’t want either of them thinking you were trashy in your own right either.

She nodded and stirred the bubbling sauce on the stove. She had to stop herself from saying I know. “That’s good. But you don’t need to worry so much. Both me and my husband think very highly of you,” she said instead.

A rush coursed through you upon hearing that. You smiled and raised your glass again, ingesting some more of the intoxicating liquid.

She watched out of the corner of her eye. It was a struggle to keep quiet and not fawn over how adorable you looked when you got all giddy. She kept her attention on dinner though, adding the noodles when the water reached a boil and spicing the sauce.

There was nothing she needed to say right now. She’d just be quiet and let you nurse that drink. It wasn’t that she needed the alcohol for what she wanted to do tonight. She could probably seduce you right now without much effort if she so desired. But tonight had been well-planned out, and for all the effort she put into it, she was gonna get everything she wanted out of it.

Ada had wanted you since the day they hired you. She could still remember the cute little outfit you wore on that Sunday you showed up for your interview. A nice plaid skirt with a dark sweater up top. Objectively modest but still attractive enough to garner attention. You’d been so polite, sitting with your ankles crossed and perfect posture. She could tell you were fighting off nerves with each answer you gave her and Leon. You were only the second candidate they’d met with, but Ada dismissed any other option before you’d even said your goodbyes.

That craving for you only became more intense over the last month or so. She’d had enough of coming home to you passed out on the couch, all sprawled out and vulnerable but not being able to take advantage. She was sick of only feeling grazes of the silken nature of your skin as she caught you before and after your shift.

That was why she calculated everything for tonight down to the minute. It would go off without a hitch. This wasn’t one of Leon’s missions that stumbled along and almost collapsed at multiple points before barely reaching the correct target. No, she’d thought this through.

By the end of the night, she would have you in the palms of her and Leon’s hands. She’d known this snow storm was coming, and she’d intentionally stayed a little later at work so that she’d be home by the time it was already raging outside and you’d put Christina to bed. She’d have the guest room for you, but you wouldn’t have any of your own belongings, which meant she’d have chances to lure you into her territory. She’d get you all peaceful and pliant by giving you a nice dinner and a fair amount of drinks. Everything would play out just like she intended it to.

She longed to see you at a baser state without any of your usual modesty impeding on your desires. She wanted you all giggling and cute, falling into her arms and spreading your legs without even being asked. You would love it. She just had to show you that.

She hummed to herself at a low volume while finishing up the food. Combining the curled pasta with the creamy sauce, she scooped two helpings onto each plate and made her way over to you with the dishes.

The two of you sat at the island, eating and drinking and talking. The conversation started on Christina but moved around to your personal life and her job among other subjects. She made sure to top off your wine whenever it got close to being empty.

“I know this job must keep you pretty busy, but do you do anything outside of it?” she eventually asked, “Maybe school or some other interests taking up your time?”

“Um… well,” you answered, “I tried out school for a while, and it wasn’t really the best fit for me… I messed around with some other things, and you know how that goes.”

A little laugh slipped from your lips. Your words were definitely more free-flowing than usual.

“Well there’s nothing wrong with taking things day by day,” she replied with a warm smile. She took a sip of her own drink before continuing her point. “You’re still young. You could stumble on something you don’t even know about right now.”

“Exactly!” you responded, all too excited to have someone agree with you, “That’s exactly how I feel. Like you know, this job. I feel like I won the lottery with you guys most days I’m here.”

“That makes me so happy to hear,” she said.

“It’s the truth. Ugh, the kids I babysat in high school were nightmares. And their parents barely paid me anything. I wasn’t even allowed to eat the food at the house. It was horrible. But you guys, you’re perfect I swear. Christina is so sweet and funny and smart. And this house is great. And you and Mr. Kennedy, you two… you’re like dreams,” you rambled.

“Really?” she asked with mild amusement. She set her drink down and leaned forward on her forearms.

The way your eyes widened and your lips parted, you looked like a little fish upon realizing how your last statement sounded. “I just mean you guys are like so great to work for. My favorite job I’ve ever had for sure,” you added.

She reached out, laying her smooth hand on your wrist. “That’s so sweet of you, honey. You’re great to have around too. Much better than our last nanny,” she said, “She always had some complaint about something, and her hours never ended up being consistent. Plus, she wasn’t as cute as you.”

The statement struck you like a bolt of lightning. You were sure your eyes widened to the size of gold medals. Heat oozed up from your chest into your face. This honestly felt like a dream. In reality, you were supposed to think your boss was hot. You were supposed to thirst after them, pine for moments of reciprocation that would never actually happen. But one just did.

“Oh, thank you,” you shrugged, an involuntary smile pulling at your mouth.

A low, knowing laugh echoed from her without her lips ever breaking that calculated smile. Ada’s rich eyes stayed on yours, not letting you get a reprieve from eye contact that lasted longer than a handful of seconds. Her fingertips massaged little circles onto your wrist as you spoke. The light touches felt like the tips of sparklers against your skin. Each one sent tingling warmth up your arm down to your belly.

“Oh come on, don’t look so nervous,” she said, “You must get compliments like that all the time. You’re a very pretty girl.”

Again, you shrugged. “I guess,” you answered. The weight of her attention pressed on you, causing your gaze to lower to your lap.

She didn’t let you get away though. One of her hands ventured up to cup your jaw and pull your face upright. Her fingers lingered there as she stared at you. The curled, the flat backs of her knuckles smoothing across your cheek.

“Do you have a boyfriend? Or a girlfriend?” she asked.

Your pulse thundered in your ears. You shook your head no.

She hummed in response. Her fingers continued exploring the expanse of your cheek before dropping to lie on your shoulder.

“That’s good. No need to tie yourself to one person at your age. Though you do deserve someone to take care of you,” she said.

That dull heat in your stomach had long outgrown something so mild. It festered into full arousal by this point, a need hot and pulsating between your thighs. You bit your lip. It was all you could do to keep yourself from squirming in an attempt to grind on the stool.

“I can take care of myself,” you said, though the tone of your voice alone called the truth of that claim into question.

She laughed softly, the sound light and condescending. Her hand glided back and forth along your shoulder in short strokes.

“I’m sure you can, sweet girl. But you shouldn’t have to. You spend all week caring for someone else. You deserve to relax in your free time and have someone take over,” she said.

A visible shiver ran through you. Your teeth dug into the inside of your lip harder as you looked at her now.

“That does sound kind of nice,” you agreed.

She nodded along and brought her hand back to your face. One set of her nails lightly scraped along the frame of it, trailing down after to stroke your jaw. The sensation was enough to make your eyes flutter and send another small burst of desire through you.

“Of course it does,” she said, “You work so hard. You shouldn’t have to go home and cook or do dishes or laundry. You’re probably so tired by the time you get there.”

A hazy sigh puffed out from your mouth. “Yeah sometimes,” you confirmed.

“Mhm. Poor baby,” she cooed, “Someone should be there, letting you rest, doting on you like the precious thing you are.”

Now you felt as though you were glowing. Your breaths came in deep, lifting your chest up and down with each breath. A lazy, blissful smile sat on your features as your dreamy gaze fixated on her. Everything really was starting to feel like a dream. If you weren’t so captivated, you might have tried pinching yourself.

She chuckled at the expression before standing up. Her palms swept down to your shoulders again.

“You look tired, honey. We should probably get you some clothes to sleep in and then send you off to bed,” she said.

“Sounds good to me,” you said and started to rise from the stool yourself.

“Perfect. Just finish this off for me, sweetheart,” she said and lifted your glass to your hand again. It was nearly empty, but it couldn’t hurt having you drink a few drops more.

Denying her didn’t even occur to you in this condition. You brought the drink to your lips and swallowed the remainder while she cleared the counter of other dishes. 

In the blink of an eye, she was back at your side. One of her arms slipped around your waist while the other held your shoulder.

“Good girl,” she praised, “Come with me.”

Again, you followed the order without a trace of resistance. You walked alongside her down the path you had come. This time around you leaned into her for support. Your head felt cloudy. A sense of dizziness pervaded every movement you made. She watched with pure satisfaction as she led you to the hall.

“There you go. We’re almost there,” she cooed as if you didn’t know the layout of the house.

You passed the front door and turned into the area that held the doors to one of the bathrooms and the office space. At the end of the small corridor, she opened up the double doors that led into her and Leon’s room. Despite being here five days a week, you rarely ever went in here. You could use one hand to count the number of occasions in which you ever needed to cross this threshold.

The decor was much darker than the rest of the house. Shades of gray morphed into dark black in here. Obsidian drapes framed the window, separated at the moment to let the moon shine through. All the furniture was crafted in deep tones of wood. The rug sprawled across the floor was nearly pitch black, spare the thin red designs sewn throughout.

You took it all in as if it was brand new to you. She paid your curiosity no mind and sat you down on the edge of her bed.

“Stay here for me. I’ll go find you something that fits you,” she said, running her hand over your head as if you were a prized pet.

You obeyed like one, not moving as she stepped away and into the walk in closet in the corner of the room. Your palms spread out on the bedding. The plush comforter tickled your fingers. It had to be one of the softest things you’d ever felt. Much different than the ratty old throw blankets you had on your bed back home.

A sigh seeped from your lips, and you found yourself laying back against the luxurious surface. You spread your arms out as though you were making angel wings in the snow outside. What would it be like to come home to this every night? To work hard all day and then be able to really relax in a place like this? To unwind with each one of your bosses at your side tending to you?

As these thoughts danced through your mind, you felt a hand grasp your thigh. You popped your head up to find Ada before you again, a couple pieces of clothing draped over her arm.

“Don’t fall asleep on me yet,” she teased.

“I wasn’t. Sorry. Your bed is just like really comfy,” you said with a small giggle as you sat up.

“Isn’t it? We just got this one last year. Leon loved our old one, but I just find this one so much easier to sink into,” she agreed.

“Mhm. For sure,” you said, nodding your head up and down with too much enthusiasm for the subject.

That didn’t matter though. Ada didn’t think she could find one thing wrong with you right now if she tried. Beside you, she laid out the few things she’d taken from the closet.

“I wasn’t really sure what type of clothes you liked to sleep in or what you would fit so I brought a few for you to choose from,” she said.

With a gentle hand, she directed your attention to the outfits on the mattress. There were two, and they looked like night and day. Two opposites with no neutral middle. 

The one on the left consisted of a small black camisole, one that had to belong to Ada. A pair of silky, navy blue shorts sat with them, another find from her side of the wardrobe. Next to those two was a large gray sweatshirt and some flannel pajama pants, probably her husband’s if you had to guess.

Your eyes lingered on each. It appeared as though you were taking your time to decide, but really you just couldn’t stop trying to picture the clothing on their owners’ bodies. You imagined Ada’s soft curves covered by the thin cloth, her smooth thighs emerging from the shiny fabric of the shorts. Images of Leon flickered in your head too, the sleeves of that shirt rolled up to his elbows and leaving his forearms exposed. The plaid pajama pants hanging low on his hips and giving you a nice view of his v-line.

While you stared at your options, she angled herself behind you, lifting one knee onto the bed. Her hands landed upon your shoulders to gently massage.

“Pick whatever you want. It’s totally up to you. You can take one or the other or combine the two. Maybe layer a bit since it’s so cold,” she whispered. She had leaned in right next to your ear. Her lips brushed your skin with every word.

It took everything you had not to whimper for more from her. Under normal circumstances, you would be squirming out of your skin, stuttering and awkwardly trying to justify her affection for you. But right now, you leaned back into it, letting the warmth flow through you.

She smiled and snaked her arms around your body, holding you tight against her. “I’ll have to buy you some clothes to keep here in case this ever happens again. We’ll keep a cute little wardrobe for you in the guest room, so you can stay whenever you like,” she added.

That pulled another giggle out of you along with growing the lazy smile on your face. “I’ll take both of these,” you finally decided and pulled the two tops toward yourself. You messily bundled both pieces into your lap.

“Great. But you still need some pants, sweetheart,” she teased.

“But I don’t like sleeping in pants,” you said and looked up at her with earnest eyes.

She reveled in your thoughtless confession but played it cool. “Are you sure? The bed upstairs has a lot of blankets and the heat should be on, but I wouldn’t want you getting cold,” she offered.

You shook your head. “I’ll be ok, but thank you,” you answered.

Standing up, you swayed on your feet a little. She rose from the bed herself and moved the rejected pairs of pants to the dresser nearby. When she turned to you and caught the wobbly nature of your stance, she moved in like a viper through tall grass and grabbed you by the elbow.

“Why don’t you just change in here? You know that way if you don’t like anything you won’t have to stumble up and down the stairs. Plus you can just leave your clothes here, and I’ll put them in the wash in the morning,” she said, making the offer as if it was based on a genuine desire to help you.

You blinked at her. “Like… change in here? In the bedroom?” you checked.

She nodded, her fingers gliding up your arm. “Mhm. We’re both girls, honey. No need to be shy. I’ll even turn around if you want me to,” she said in a way that somehow soothed you and set your whole body on fire.

You felt like a fireworks show was going off in your stomach. The adrenaline rushing through your veins made you light-headed, and the wine probably didn’t help. You couldn’t think of a reason to say no.

“Alright,” you agreed with a heavy breath.

“Good girl,” she praised with a squeeze to your shoulder.

You felt your clit throb between your legs. At this point, you knew you’d probably have to rub one out as soon as you reached the privacy of the guest room.

Turning around, you dropped the two shirts back on the bed. Without much hesitation, you started to undress. Your shirt was first to go. You tucked your fingers beneath the hem and peeled it off.

Ada’s gaze focused completely on you as she saw the soft skin of your back completely exposed. This was the most important part of the night. If she messed up here, all of it would have been for nothing. She hadn’t planned out every minute movement she would make, but she could think on her feet. This would work.

She headed over near the closet entrance again but didn’t venture inside. She stood right outside in front of the full length mirror, a seemingly reasonable position where she was sure you’d be able to see her if you turned around.

Bending down, she unbuckled her heels and then kicked them to the side. She undid her slacks next and shimmied them off to pool around her ankles.

You heard the rustling of the fabric and the clicks of unfastening. It didn’t register in your mind what they would be coming from until you glanced over your shoulder and spotted her. Your jaw fell open while your eyes bulged from their sockets. You were pretty sure you stopped breathing in the middle of removing your bra.

She stood there as if nothing about this was odd. Her fingers worked on undoing the buttons on her blouse, parting the two sides and revealing a sliver of her skin. Her legs were already out in the open, all for your eyes to see.

In the reflection of the mirror in front of her, she caught your wide-eyed stare. She spun around to face you head on. She unhooked the last button. Her shirt fell open, allowing you to see her flesh from her navel to her collar bone. Underneath the blouse, she still had on a lacy bra and matching panties.

Not missing a beat, she just chuckled and walked closer. “Did you get stuck, honey? Need some help?” she asked.

She approached your frozen form and brought her hands to your shoulders where your bra straps sat. Using her nimble fingers, she guided the thin pieces down your arms. The entire garment fell away and dropped to the floor in front of you.

“There you go. Let mommy help you,” she whispered.

This time you actually couldn’t tell if the words were real or imagined. They’d been so hushed, so faint, but you would swear on anything that you felt them fan over your neck.

She moved to your jeans next, flicking the button open and tugging the zipper loose. The denim crumpled under the force of her hands shoving them down. You stepped out of each pant leg before she kicked them aside along with your bra.

Her hands came to rest on your hips for a moment before gliding up your sides. They smoothed over your curves like streams of warm water. You felt the gentle pressure move from your sides around to your tummy. She was only teasing you right now. Her touches felt good, but they didn’t explore anywhere that would give you true pleasure.

“You have such soft skin,” she cooed.

“Thank you,” you hummed, preening under her touch.

“So tender and pretty. Perfectly smooth,” she whispered.

You were already melting under her hands, but she knew she could go further. She ducked in and kissed your neck. You moaned at the feeling, at her hot mouth latching onto your skin. She laid a few more there after to follow.

“Mmm, so sweet too,” she hummed.

You whimpered and let your head fall back onto her shoulder, leaving more of your neck accessible to her lips. She took advantage. Leaning in, she licked a stripe over your pulse and followed the trail of saliva with a series of kisses. Her teeth scraped across the sensitive flesh.

“A-ada…” you sighed.

“I’m right here, sweet baby,” she purred, “Does that feel good?”

“Mhm,” you whimpered.

“I bet it does. You’re so sensitive, aren’t you? Jumping under every touch. I was like that at your age too,” she teased.

Her hands broke the little patterns they’d been tracing into your stomach to float upward. One by one they each landed on your breasts. Her palms cupped the mounds and gave them a gentle squeeze.

“You have such a gorgeous body,” she said as she nuzzled the space behind your ear, “You’re so shy. So precious. Running around my house like a skittish little puppy.”

No words of protest or denial made their way out of you. It felt good to bask in her attention, to know that she saw you as something so delicate.

“I think I’m starting to understand why though,” she teased.

Her fingers went to your pebbled nipples, pulling and tweaking the sensitive nubs. You mewled and squirmed in her grasp.

“Mommy,” you whined, not caring if she had actually been the one to say it first.

“Mhm. Look at you, already calling me mommy. You were thinking about this, weren’t you baby? You’ve been wanting mommy to take care of you?”

“Yeah,” you admitted, not being coy about it.

She grinned against your neck before turning you around. Once you could see her, she displayed a much more seductive expression. “Let mommy take care of you then,” she said.

With caring hands, she guided you onto the bed and laid you against a mountain of the pillows near the headboard. She crawled above you, looking down at you like a panther that had just caught its next meal.

“Let me have a taste of those lips. See if they're as soft as the rest of you,” she murmured before lowering herself.

She connected her mouth to yours. Her lips engulfed your own in a kiss, her tongue teasing you. You reciprocated. Your lips parted as you moaned, granting her access. She didn’t waste any time. Her breaths came out heavier as she focused herself entirely on you.

As her mouth worked on you above, her hands continued roaming your body below. She groped your hips and explored your thighs. You gasped softly at the mix of sensations, rolling your hips up against nothing.

“So impatient, baby,” she breathed as she pulled back, “You act like such a good girl all the time, but I bet that leaves you so desperate, huh?”

“Mhm,” you whimpered.

She nodded and moved down to your neck again. Her mouth trailed over the skin with little pecks and soft sucks. The idea of leaving marks tempted her, but that could come later. She didn’t intend on this being her only time with you.

You felt her kisses migrate across your throat to your collarbone and down to the valley between your breasts. Her tongue played there for a moment, drawing out the moments before she would give you your first real taste of relief.

“Mommy, please,” you tried, eyes fluttering.

“So demanding,” she cooed. She moved her mouth to the right though and wrapped her lips around your nipple.

You arched your back off the bed and breathed out a whiny sigh. The tip of her tongue swirled around the bud. She laved at it, applying the perfect amount of pressure to get you squirming. Her hands massaged your waist in the meantime. She would make sure you felt good all over.

Your legs shifted around at the tingling building between your thighs. You craved some friction so badly, but she was still fixated on your chest. Her mouth released your nipple and planted one more kiss on it before she moved to the other and gave it the same treatment.

It got the same pleasured reaction out of you that only increased when one of her hands came up to toy with the sensitive peak that already experienced her mouth. You mewled without shame, digging her heels into the mattress.

She finally let it go as she had the other one, with a wet pop. Her eyes flitted up to you, taking in your breathless expression. After a couple seconds, she started kissing down your belly. She scooted herself down between your legs.

“You’re so needy,” she cooed, “No one’s taken care of you in so long. It’s left you aching.”

Her fingers ghosted over your thin panties, the ribbed fabric nowhere near as luxurious as hers. You watched her eyes follow her hands. The dark irises locked on your center. Her thumb traced the length of your cunt, grazing over your clit down to your leaking entrance. A nice wet patch began forming on the seat of your panties.

“That’s ok though. No one else could take care of you like mommy can. You’d be wasting your time.”

Your eyelids felt heavy as you watched her tug your panties off, drooping with the weight of your lust. You felt the cool air hit the glistening folds between your legs as soon as your lower half was free of the thin covering.

“So wet for me already,” she said, “That’s my good girl. Always so eager to please.”

She didn’t waste time teasing. Why would she? After months of coveting, she finally had you within her grasp, ready for the taking. She gripped your thighs and dove in, flattening her tongue against your soaked core. With a broad stroke, her tongue dragged over the slick flesh.

You mewled in response. A soft gasp accompanied the sound. She spotted your fingers gripping the bedding. So responsive from the simplest of touches. You were going to be fun.

She attacked your clit next. First, she treated it with little flicks of her tongue. Quick and repetitive, it stroked the tiny bud until you let out a pretty whine. She then latched her lips on, sucking on your pulsing bundle of nerves.

All the thoughts in your head melted away. The only thing you could do at this point was babble out a small collection of words including “mommy” and “please more.”

She got into it. All her focus trained on you. This was what she had been dreaming of for a year after all. Ever since she saw you in that little plaid skirt. She’d have to have you wear it again one of these days so she could eat you out under it.

Your thighs squeezed around her head as she lapped at your entrance. It felt good, a more dull kind of bliss than what she’d brought you before, but still good. She didn’t mind the pressure from your legs. Her nails dug into your tender flesh and kept you right in place to continue on with her task.

You trembled and twitched with the ecstasy coursing through you. Your eyes rolled back, your vision going out for a second. It felt as though your head was engulfed by drowsy clouds straight from the heavens. The few people you had been with before never made you feel like this.

Your head had lolled back for a moment in the throes of carnal pleasure. When your vision started to return, you brought it back up to look at her again. Only she didn’t catch your attention this time.

Instead your pupils landed on the shadowy figure at the double doors you had entered through.

You practically jumped out of your skin before you realized who it was. She felt you startle and briefly looked over her shoulder before returning her attention to your pussy. The person stepped forward, allowing moonlight to cast over their figure and show their face.

Leon.

“It sounds like you broke her already,” he said as he approached the bed. Making his way to your pair, he ended up standing beside you. His eyes scanned over your nude body, drinking in every inch of your figure.

“I told you I’d have her nice and warmed up by the time you came home,” she replied, shooting him a smile from the crux of your thighs.

Their words flew over your head. You couldn’t really hear them with how fast your heart was beating. God, how could you have been so stupid? You totally forgot about Leon until this very moment. Apparently, a few drinks was all it took to let your pussy take control. All you had been thinking about for the last half hour was how badly you wanted Ada, how beautiful she looked laying in front of you, devouring you whole. The fact that she was married with a husband completely slipped your mind.

“Mr. Kennedy, I’m so sorry. I- um- We just-” you stammered, incapable of coming up with any sort of defense for your actions.

But he didn’t look mad. He sat down beside your shoulder, gazing down at you with some sort of affection in his eyes.

“I think I’ve told you before that I prefer when you call me Leon, sweetheart,” he told you, petting your head.

Biting your lip, you leaned into the touch. Your eyes looked so sweet gazing up at him as you did. He felt his blood beginning to flow South in response. His hand continued stroking over your scalp before moving to your shoulder, feeling your soft skin beneath his fingers.

“She’s been such a good girl for mommy,” Ada praised from below before rubbing your clit rapidly with her middle and index finger. The quick motion drew a whiny moan from you, only adding to Leon’s arousal.

His eyes flicked between you and his wife. “You didn’t give her too much to drink, did you?” he asked.

She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “She only had a few. What do you take me for?”

“Well she looks a little out of it. I just thought I’d check. My mistake,” he said, rubbing your cheek with his thumb absentmindedly.

She laughed softly at that. “You know I’m good with my mouth, darling. I don’t need any help getting her to look like that.”

You whimpered as she reattached her mouth to your cunt. Turning your head, you squished your face against his thigh. Your hips bucked. You could feel your release building up, the urge to let go flourishing inside you. Your noises became more high pitched, more needy. He looked down at you with something resembling curiosity with a trace of adoration.

“That feel good, baby? Not too much for you?” he asked.

“N- no, feels- mmph! Feels good,” you choked out between labored breaths. The hand closer to him flew up to grab at his thigh. Your digits dug into the material of his pants as another whine erupted from you.

He swapped his leg for his hand, letting you squeeze his palm as hard as you wanted.

“That’s it. Good girl. Hold daddy’s hand. I’ve got you,” he hummed.

Ada let her hand take over again and brought her head up to watch the two of you.

“Are you close, honey?” she asked.

“Mhm,” you responded instantly.

“Good. I want you to cum for me, ok? Cum for mommy and daddy. We’re gonna get you all nice and wet before you take daddy’s cock,” she said with the sweetest smile on her face in contrast to her dirty words.

You jolted at the prospect. A sharp breath tore through you right before your orgasm did. Your body shook and convulsed, arching and rolling as if you were possessed. Vaguely, you could hear both of their voices. You couldn’t make out the exact words, but the tones were that of praise.

The world around you faded away as you came on her fingers. Your chest puffed up and down with heavy breaths, and your head went limp against Leon’s leg.

Moments later as you began to come down, you felt him shift your weight onto the pillows. His presence receded and more hushed words filled the room. You heard fabric crinkling and a belt hitting the floor.

The mattress dipped as he climbed back on. Your eyes cracked open in time to see him kneeling between your legs. His hands rested on your bent knees, fingers caressing your skin. 

Your eyes swept over one of the bodies you’d been imagining in recent months. You could see the few veins that marked his forearms and biceps. He was still muscular despite getting older, but he had begun to fill out a little with some softer flesh. Brown hair dusted the skin from his navel down to a thicker patch of it at the base of his cock.

Meanwhile, Ada landed by your side. You took a breath, and her scent overwhelmed you in place of Leon’s. Her curves pressed up against you. Your head rested against the cushion of her breasts while you could feel the smoothness of her belly against your arm.

She kissed the crown of your head, nestling her nose against your hair. “You ready for daddy, baby? I know he’s ready for you,” she whispered.

You nodded, watching Leon as he gave his cock a few tugs. His eyes remained soft even in the midst of his desire.

While Leon wasn’t the one who’d hatched this plan to get you here, that didn’t mean he was oblivious to your beauty. There was a reason he’d agreed to this in the first place. He’d become just as enamored with you in the same time his wife did. He couldn’t help it. Even though he knew it was such a cliche at his age, he couldn’t stop himself from lusting after the babysitter.

He was only human. It was only natural for his eyes to linger on your waist when you squatted down to say goodbye to his daughter. The flutter in his stomach when you hugged him from the side a few times was just a matter of instinct. It wasn’t his fault the sound of your laughter nearly had him drooling or that the sight of you carrying his child to the car made him weak in the knees.

At least that’s what he told himself. That it was just a harmless crush. Something he’d never act on or get to experience anywhere other than the little scenarios that played in his head while he jerked off in the shower.

But then he found out his wife had an interest in you too. Your name came up during an intimate moment of their own. Between kisses, Ada asked him what he thought of you. He had pulled back, confused by the sudden question (and slightly nervous that he’d have to discuss you while already half-hard).

“Uh… she’s good. Christina likes her. She’s sweet, responsible, hardworking. Little shy, but I’m sure that’s just when we’re around,” he’d shrugged.

“Not like that,” she’d rolled her eyes and leaned back in to kiss his neck, “What do you think of her? She’s young, pretty, looks at you like you hung the stars. Don’t tell me you’ve never had a little babysitter fantasy before, darling.”

At first he’d thought it was a test. He denied it, proclaiming that was wrong. He only had interest in his wife, and you were just trying to do your job. The fact that you were easy on the eyes meant nothing to him. He didn’t care about your sparkling eyes or soft lips or nice curves. He didn’t notice the sweet sound of your voice or any of your cute little mannerisms. Pffft. No way.

“That’s a shame. Because I think she’s beautiful. She’s just so sweet and cute, and she doesn’t even know. The only place she could look any better is lying between us. And you know she’d be so sensitive to every little touch. She’d whimper like a little puppy,” she whispered against his skin.

In that moment, all his guilt had zapped away. He groaned at her words, accepting them without hesitation. There was no jealousy on his end, absolutely no discomfort at the idea of his wife lusting for someone else. Not when that someone else was you.

Because it meant that he got to have you like he did right now, spread out before him all blissed out and pretty. He guided his length to your entrance and dragged the tip over your folds. It glided through your wetness, nudging your clit before falling back down.

“You sure you’re ready, princess?” he asked.

“Mhm. Pretty please,” you affirmed, natural puppy dog eyes on display.

“Look at you. So polite,” he mumbled.

He prodded the head at your entrance, popping it inside. For a few moments, that was all that entered you. He let you adjust to the intrusion and let himself get used to the vise-like clamp of your velvety walls. The few seconds were necessary if he didn’t want to humiliate himself by blowing his load in less than a minute.

After that time though, he began easing it inside of you inch by inch. You whined at the light stretch. Ada stroked your arm with one hand and caressed the swell of your breasts with the other.

“That’s right, honey. You’re taking him so well,” she crooned.

“Fuck, she’s tight,” Leon grunted.

Ada grinned at that before looking at you again. “Are you squeezing daddy nice and tight? Showing him where to go?” she teased.

You moaned and nodded while Leon groaned and shut his eyes. Ada kissed your cheek as her husband bottomed out. Her hand fell to your stomach, rubbing over it. He leaned forward. His palm pressed down next to you on the mattress to keep his balance. He hovered above you, blue eyes looking down with lidded awe.

Pulling his hips back, he rocked them forward again right after. He dragged his pelvis away and then brought it right back, flush against your core. You whimpered with each movement. The satisfying slide sent warmth through you each time.

“Atta girl. Taking it so well, just like mommy said,” he mumbled.

Now he pumped his hips with more dedication. He increased his speed. Exploratory moves became deliberate strokes. Leon settled into a rhythm. He swiveled his hips and angled the way he pistoned them based on the little noises you’d make and the expressions that took over your face. He paid close attention to it all, wanting to learn what you liked, what made you feel good.

Ada continued moving her hands along your form. One moment she played with your nipples, the next she held your hips, after that she pulled your knees up further. It was dizzying trying to keep up.

“Our sweet girl,” she cooed in your ear, “Precious baby. Maybe this should be your new job. You’re good at your other one, but I think we’d like having you all to ourselves.”

Leon groaned again, his head hanging forward. Although the words had been directed at you, they had just as much of an effect on him.

“You’d like that wouldn’t you, baby?” he asked, “Sitting around and looking pretty. Letting us spoil you like you deserve”

“You know she would. Do you even have to ask?” Ada said, “She’d love it. Spending the day kneeling between your legs while you work, using that mouth of hers whenever you want.”

“She could spend some with you too. Sit on your lap and let you play with her with one hand while typing with the other,”  he offered in return.

“And then one day, if she’s really good, maybe daddy will breed that cute little pussy and fuck a baby into her,” she whispered.

Leon’s hips snapped against you hard as you turned to eye her. The words broke you out of the spell his cock had you under before.

“What?” you asked.

She chuckled and cupped your jaw, giving you a patronizing kiss.

“What, sweetheart? You’d like that wouldn’t you? It’d make mommy and daddy so happy, you giving us another baby,” she said.

Your head spun at the idea. You blinked and sputtered. In your right, rational mind, you’d put a pause to this. But with a few drinks in you and one orgasm already under your belt, the idea didn’t sound all too bad. It’s not like you were gonna sign a contract or something. They weren’t even asking you to agree to anything right now. But just imagining it…

“You’d look so pretty, babydoll. Your hips all rounded out, all those curves nice and full, that cute stomach swollen with our baby,” Leon sighed.

Imagining it was in fact fun you decided. Your pussy clenched around him again before relaxing. You heard Ada moan softly beside you. Glancing over, you could see her fingers moving beneath her panties, working herself to the edge alongside you.

“You’d love it, honey. You’re made for it. And we’d take such good care of you, make sure you had everything you could want,” he added.

“Mmmm… daddy,” you babbled, unable to voice the full extent of your enthusiasm.

“Uh huh. Daddy’s right here. I’m gonna fill you up. You’re first little taste, yeah? I’ll get you nice and full so you know how it feels,” he moaned.

His bicep flexed as he continued to pound into you. Over and over, he slammed into your cunt. Ada continued moaning beside your ear. Her own noises were growing more desperate. You could feel her hips rocking up to meet her own touch.

“Daddy gonna- gonna- ah- gonna cum,” you whimpered.

“Go ahead, pumpkin,” he grunted, “Cum for daddy. Let me see my pretty girl let go.”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

You let release wash over you in a smooth wave. Your body writhed and twitched below his. You squirmed atop the blankets, letting your muscles melt into the plush comfort of them.

Next to you, Ada reached the high too. Watching you fall apart was the final straw in her own resolve. She bucked her hips and nuzzled into your throat while crumbling under the bliss of release.

Leon was the last one to join the club. He fucked you through your euphoria while approaching his own. When he finally hit it, a strangled moan burst from him. He fell forward against you, burying his face in the side of your neck not occupied by his wife. His hands gripped your hips and held them in place as he rolled his pelvis against your ass like a dog in heat. He fucked rope after rope of hot cum into you.

By the time he pulled out, you were nice and full just like he said you would be.

You were also undeniably sleepy. Your eyes were all but shut, and your body was curling up as though you were ready for a nap.

He stretched his arm out and pulled you against his side to rest. His other hand rubbed down your body, tenderly coasting over your soft skin.

“Such a good girl for us. You were so good,” he murmured, “Our sweet baby.”

Ada scooted near your back, her hand joining Leon’s in soothing you.

“Don’t keep her all to yourself,” she teased.

He rolled his eyes. “You had her to yourself hours before I got here,” he dismissed.

She smirked and pecked his lips before looking down at you. Leaning in, she nuzzled your ear. “Sleep now, baby. You need the rest. Daddy will carry you to bed in a little bit,” she whispered.

Like before, you didn’t need any convincing. Your muscles relaxed as they got comfortable and pulled the blankets into place. You let yourself drift off between their two bodies while the storm raged on outside. Your mind slipped into dreamland, letting reality melt away for a little while.

[swtheartz]

i loved your little drabble of the “breaking up with mark doesn’t work” post and i’d really like to hear your thoughts on how that would go down with some of his variants if you have the time pretty please🫶✨

ohh of course dear !! been thinking abt it and this req inspired me even more info : obsessive behavior, mentions and acts of murder, stalking, he’s crazy in every universe. gn!reader a / n : this is a gift to you guys for 348 followers. i’m soo grateful n happy <33

SINISTER MARK

he thinks it’s a joke at first. you’ve no real reason to actually want to leave him, right? he’s utterly convinced that there was nothing wrong with the relationship. and to be fair, there wasn’t. other than the fact he was possessive as shit and always had tabs on you. would scare off your friends and constantly linger around you whenever he wasn’t terrorizing the masses. the second he realizes that you’re serious? he doesn’t take it very well. you won’t ever find someone better than him. he won’t let you. just what human could ever be better than him?

“You’re not very good at jokes,” Mark says—voice and expression both hauntingly blank. It sends chills down your spine for the simple fact he’s never had such an empty tone. The way he looks at you is something that you can’t exactly put into words. Maybe he’s disappointed. Maybe he’s annoyed, or expectant, or some other emotion that you cannot be bothered to decipher. Not when there’s blood staining your clothes and his, the floor, your cheeks and his hands. Whatever ‘friend’ you were hanging out with was dead before they’d hit the ground. It’s been twelve days since you had gathered the courage to tell Mark you wanted a break, and it took him this long to take you seriously. Thought, it hadn’t taken much effort for him to take a life. “I don’t know why you thought this was a good idea. . .” He hummed, tilting his head as he crouched down in front of you, watching you tremble like a deer in front of an incomprehensible creature. ”But let’s not do this again, hm?”

OMNI MARK

calm. at least, he seems calm. but he also doesn’t take you very seriously. acts as he usually does, even asks you when the next date night is. as if he’ll even be able to make it with his schedule and how often he cancels on you. looks at you as though you’ve said something ludicrous when you answer that there isn’t a date night—you’re not together anymore. surely, you don’t know what you’re talking about. if you wanted him to plan the next date, you could have just told him. he’s usually the one that does all the thinking, anyway, so it doesn’t really matter. honestly, what made you think you could walk away from him? the one human he cares for, and you’ve the nerve to try and separate from him? funny.

“We’re not dating, Mark.” The way the two of you stare at each other for a few tense moments is a little awkward, though he doesn’t seem to care. He holds eye contact with you before sighing—like you’re a child who doesn’t know what they’re talking about. Like you’ve garnered the nerve to tell some dry joke. “If you have a problem,” Mark starts, arms crossed against his chest as he ignores your exasperated expression, “we talk it out. Like a couple is supposed to do.” “But we’re not a couple anymore. That is what I’m telling you.” You’re attempting to be reasonable, you really are, but you swear up and down he’s making you feel like the crazy one. This has got to be the third time you’ve had this conversation with him, and it hasn’t even been a week. There isn’t any way you can get through to him and you just don’t understand why. Mark scoffs, again, ignoring you. “I’ll make sure I’m not busy. Crime’s been going down, so it should be fine. They’ll manage without me.” “Just kill me already.” You mutter to yourself, unable to decide whether or not you’ll be able to ever get your point across. . . . You’ll just try again tomorrow.

FULL MASK MARK

more pathetic than mainstream mark. this man is like a wet cat in the rain. tries to maintain distance, but ends up following you everyday, texts you without thinking about it while he attempts to reason that it’s okay. you just need some distance and time, and maybe you’ll both get better. ends up outside your window after a particularly bad fight with a villain he had. he didn’t do it on purpose, he just sort of ended up here. call it muscle memory if you will. all he knows is that he’s a mess without you—needs you like oxygen, can barely think or focus on anything without you. probably the only one that tries to be the best he can be for you outside of the main universe. and probably the only one you didn’t really want to break up with.

“ ‘m sorry.”

“Markus.”

“ ‘m sorry,” Mark sniffles, face tucked into your neck as he clings to you. You’d think of it as pathetic if it were anyone but him, honestly. He’d shown up with your favorite candy and drink, bloody and looking like a stray abandoned on the side of the street. You practically had to drag him through the window when he tried to turn back around. It took a bit of insisting and a med-kit to get him cleaned and patched up, despite him reminding you that he technically didn’t need it. You snapped at him to shut up before inevitably pulling him to your room again—letting him stay the night was an easy decision, almost too easy. As of right now, he was simply listening to the sound of your heartbeat, your soft breathing, enjoying the way your gentle fingers tangled in his hair. It was sweet. Familiar. Something Mark had missed so much it made his heart ache and hurt, to the point felt as though it was being ripped apart. Though, if it were done by your hands, he wouldn’t mind.

a / n : i liked writing this, i might make a part two to this and i’m gonna make the healer reader thing a series if you guys are up to reading that. mwah mwahhhh

taglist : @lxkoluvsu // @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha // @tokoyamisstuff

[dollishmehrayan]

BATBOYS JEALOUSY HCS ── .✦

a/n: I just ate which like now my stomach hurts because I ate this spicy burger (10/10) and my stomach is hurting so let’s hope i don’t die from a burger😭 also request from anon (here) tysm!

(Tags: batboys when jealous of crush!reader)

BRUCE WAYNE ── .✦

Internally Brooding, Externally Stoic: Bruce keeps a calm, composed exterior, but inside? Full-on brooding mode. He watches every move, his jaw clenching just slightly whenever the other guy laughs a little too much.

Passive-Aggressive Moves: Bruce subtly but effectively tries to interrupt. Maybe he’ll walk by and offer you something he never does, like coffee or water, just to make his presence known. “You looked thirsty,” he’ll say, while the guy looks confused.

Petty Rich Guy Move: He’ll ‘accidentally’ mention something about Wayne Enterprises, as if to remind everyone just how wealthy and powerful he is. “Funny, we were discussing corporate acquisitions the other day,” he’ll drop casually, as if it relates. (Let’s hope he doesn’t drain his bank 😞🙏)

The Comedy: When Alfred catches him glaring, he’ll dryly say, “Master Wayne, perhaps you should try blinking before you permanently furrow your brow.” Bruce will immediately deny he’s bothered, even as he side-eyes you again.

DICK GRAYSON ── .✦

Charm Dial Up to 100: Dick doesn’t even try to hide his jealousy. He’ll swoop into the conversation, throwing in his most dazzling smile. “Hey, I didn’t realize we were letting random guys have all the fun,” he’ll say with a teasing grin, while subtly nudging the guy aside.

Over-the-Top Compliments: He’ll suddenly become your biggest hype-man. “You know, she’s literally the smartest, funniest, and most beautiful person in the room, right? No offense to you, man.” The other guy feels awkward, and you just laugh while Dick grins smugly.

Puppy Dog Eyes: If you keep talking to the other guy, Dick’s smile might falter just a little, and he’ll stand in the background, clearly pouting. It’s so obvious that even you can’t help but laugh.

The Comedy: He’ll mutter, “Didn’t even know jealousy could feel this personal,” under his breath while side-eyeing the guy like it’s a soap opera.

JASON TODD ── .✦

Grumpy But Trying to Play it Cool: Jason’s jealousy is obvious in how stiff and silent he gets. He leans against the nearest wall, arms crossed, glaring like the other guy just insulted his whole family.

Blunt Interruptions: He doesn’t have the patience to be subtle. He’ll walk up and ask, “So, who’s this?” in the least friendly tone possible, with a fake smile that could curdle milk.

Accidental Intimidation: Jason’s sheer presence is intimidating, so the poor guy talking to you will probably start feeling uncomfortable as Jason looms over, cracking his knuckles or adjusting his jacket dramatically.

The Comedy: If you don’t notice, Jason will mutter sarcastically, “Oh sure, talk to Captain Chit-Chat over there. Not like I’m standing right here or anything.” Roy, nearby, might add, “Jason, you’re doing that ‘death stare’ thing again,” and Jason will growl, “I’m not jealous.”

TIM DRAKE ── .✦

Awkward and Overthinking Everything: Tim doesn’t get jealous often, but when he does, it’s a mess. He watches from a distance, wringing his hands, thinking, Should I interrupt? Maybe she likes him? Maybe I’m reading too much into it…

Accidental Sulking: He tries to focus on something else, but his mind keeps wandering. He sits down nearby, pretending to work on his laptop, typing nonsense just so he can stay close without being obvious. “Haha, yeah…no big deal…” deletes everything he just typed.

Passive Observing: Tim eventually tries to casually stroll by, acting like he just happened to be there. “Oh, hey… didn’t see you there. Weird, right?” He’s so awkward it’s endearing.

The Comedy: If Kon or Bart sees him sulking, they’ll tease him mercilessly. “Dude, go talk to her.” Tim panics, “I can’t. She’s busy… laughing… with him…” Kon: “You’re hopeless.”

DAMIAN WAYNE ── .✦

Silent Judgment Mode: Damian watches with narrowed eyes, judging every aspect of the guy talking to you. He might even mutter things under his breath like, “He stands like a fool,” or “He can’t even articulate properly.”

Direct Interruption: Damian doesn’t have time for subtlety. He’ll walk up and flatly say, “Are you finished with this conversation? It’s becoming unbearable.” The other guy is usually too shocked to respond.

Unintentional Comedy: He’ll start critiquing the guy’s conversation topics. “She doesn’t care about your opinions on sports,” he’ll state matter-of-factly, as you try not to laugh.

The Comedy: If you ask if he’s jealous, he’ll scoff. “Jealous? Of that imbecile? Hardly.” But the tips of his ears are turning red, and you know he’s lying.

[gojorgeous]

“heatwaves”

pairing: alpha!gojo x omega!fem!reader summary: when a work trip takes you to japan, the last thing you expect is a heatwave... and some guy with blue eyes? content: MDNI (18+ only), nsfw, a/b/o dynamics, no established relationship, dubcon (i feel like it’s always kinda dubcon with a/b/o), p->v, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding, biting, blood, marking, spit, praise, swearing, pet names (baby/sweetheart/princess), brief mention/implication of pregnancy, knotting, reader gets picked up, reader is american, reader is unaware of their omega status, reader experiences their first heat, reader and satoru “bond” without having a fully conscious conversation, reader and satoru are early twenties. a/n: it's here! somebody spay me. by popular demand i have written alpha!gojo for you all… just a classic reader goes into an accidental heat at work and (x) character happens to be the nearest alpha LMAO. this is entirely uncreative, but i love it for that!!! straight smut with a little plot if you squint hard enough! i hope it lives up to your expectations. find my alpha!geto fic here and find the list of my 1k event fics here. enjoy and remember, ALL AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED! credits: dividers by @cafekitsune. wc: 5k

Nobody ever told you that Japan was so damn hot. 

Hot was not what came to mind when you’d heard you’d be taking a trip to Tokyo. Temples? Sure. Mt. Fuji? Great. Hot? No fucking way. 

But, here you were, boiling away under the sun on what you’d thought would be a fun little work trip. Instead, you were just suffering with every step, trying to listen to what Principal Yaga was saying and failing miserably. 

“These are the sparring courts. No students right now, but they’ll start training within the hour.” 

You rub at the back of your neck, cringing when your palm comes away coated with a thin layer of sweat. Gross. 

You lift your eyes to the sky, wondering how much longer this was going to take. Your little trip to Japan was to organize an exchange program with Jujutsu Tech. Your students had been begging to take a trip to Tokyo, to where their cursed energy would be closer to the source and, consequently, stronger. You had to admit, it was a good idea. A few months spent training here in Japan would do them good. From the moment you’d set foot on Japanese soil, your power had thrummed faster in your veins than ever before. 

Principal Yaga was giving you a tour of the grounds and had sealed your horrible fate when he’d decided to start outside. You barely heard a word the man said. New York was never this hot��

“Are you alright?” You blink, fanning your face as best you can. It provides no relief. God, it felt like the heat was penetrating your fucking bones… 

When your eyes slide to Principal Yaga, you’re surprised to see that he looks genuinely concerned. “Y-yeah.” You blink again, shocked by your own stutter. Maybe you were coming down with something? “I’m fine, just not used to this kind of heat, I guess.” You fan your face again and clench your jaw when it still does nothing. 

Yaga’s brows furrow and you see him glance around, like he’ll find said heat standing next to him. How was he wearing so many layers? 

“How about we head inside and take a break, then? We can continue the tour… later.” You nearly fall to the ground and kiss his feet. Air conditioning is truly God's gift to man… 

You smile and it’s all genuine. “That would be amazing. Thank you.” 

Yaga nods, but you think his eyes linger on you for just a beat too long before he turns. He still looks confused… or maybe flustered? That only leaves you confused. 

You follow after him, each step feeling like you’re sinking deep into cement. You tug at the collar of your shirt, trying to get some ventilation. When you finally reach the building you nearly sigh with relief. Air conditioning… that’ll be good. Just what you need. A few minutes inside and you’ll be good to go. You’ll just have to remember not to wear so many damn layers again when you continue the tour. 

You’re smiling as you step inside, so ready for relief that you’re practically shaking– but relief never comes. Your brows furrow. You brush your arm through the air. It… doesn’t help. It’s strange– you can feel the coolness of the air conditioning, feel it gliding up and across your skin, but the heat doesn’t subside, doesn’t so much as lessen. 

“I trust you know how to find anything you might–” Yaga clears his throat. “Need?” 

 Your brows furrow. He’d shown you all the school’s resources last night and your room was already stocked with food, toiletries, and every other thing you could possibly need. Of course you knew where everything was… 

“Yes… Thank you.” 

Yaga shifts so uncomfortably you think that maybe he’s about to pee his pants. “Right, well, you have my contact information. Let me know if I can be of assistance in connecting you to any… resources.”

You’re more confused now than you were at the start of this conversation. “Right…” 

“Take care.” 

Yaga shoots you one last– worried?- glance and stalks down the hall. You’re left wondering what the hell is happening in his mind and why he seemed so desperate to offer you resources? 

You blink, clearing your mind as best you can, but some sort of fog seems to be settling over your consciousness. Definitely coming down with something, you think. 

You make your way through the halls, steps still feeling suspiciously heavy and heat still radiating off your body. A cold shower. That’ll help. Or so you thought. The further you walk, the more each hallway starts to look like the next. Was it left or right next? Was this hallway always a dead end? Since when was there a bathroom there?

You’re leaning against the wall now, panting. Something is pooling in your gut, something warm and far too intense. Your inner thighs are wet, too. You want to convince yourself it’s sweat, but… you’re horny. More horny than you’ve ever been in your whole damn life. You think you might die if you don’t get some dick in the next ten minutes. What the fuck?

You slide yourself into the next room you see: an empty classroom. Thank fucking god. You grab the back of a chair, hands shaking with how hard you’re gripping the wood. You take a deep breath. You need to get a hold of yourself, need to figure out what the fuck is happening to you.  

You swallow and try your best to think. It’s not without difficulty. Your head feels like somebody’s filled it with glue. It takes a minute for a coherent thought to come through, but when it does, you think it’s a good one. Doctor. 

Yes– you don’t feel well, so obviously a doctor is the correct choice, right? You scramble for your phone in your back pocket but freeze when the brush of your own hand against your ass sends a jolt up your spine. What the fuck is wrong with you? 

Carefully, you extract your phone from your pocket, but it’s too difficult to even remember your fucking passcode. You press your thighs together, trying to relieve some of the overwhelming ache that’s forming between your legs. Something is definitely wrong.

You fumble with your phone, but your hands are shaking so hard it just tumbles to the floor. 

“Fuck,” you breathe. “Fuck, fuck, fuck?” 

“Yo, who’s baking cookies in here without me?” 

Your head snaps up and, with some difficulty, your eyes settle on a… man. You suck in a breath. He’s… dazzling. He’s wearing all black, but it’s not a student uniform. One of the teachers that you’ve yet to meet, then. White hair and pale skin contrasts against his clothes, but his eyes are covered by a pair of sunglasses set low on his nose. Even in your delirious state you still have the wherewithal to wonder who the fuck wears sunglasses inside. 

You get a quick look at him before a wave of intense- fuck, desire?- washes over you. You tremble again and shock yourself when a whimper tumbles from your lips. 

“Oh, shit,” you hear him say. You glance at him from the corner of your eye and watch him inhale again– deeply. His lips part. “Oh, shit.”

You clench your jaw and tighten your grip on your chair. Your legs are shaking now– you can barely stand. You squeak pitifully. 

The second the sound leaves your throat you hear footsteps– rapid, hurried, concerned, ones. Warm hands clasp your waist and you cry out at the touch, electricity sparking on your skin. 

“Shhh, it’s okay.” He turns you gently to face him, hands steadying your swaying body. “Who the fuck left you alone in here?” His hand is rubbing soothing circles on your lower back now and you think you’ve never felt something so good in your life. It’s so good that you almost miss what he said. Almost. 

“W-What?” You see his brows furrow as you peek up at him. At this angle you can see under his sunglasses. His eyes are blue. Really fucking blue. You think he might be the most attractive man you’ve ever seen, even with the expression of… anger?- that he’s currently wearing. 

“Whoever he is, I'll kill him.” 

That makes you blink. An extra sliver of clarity opens in your brain. “What are you talking about?”

He tugs you a little closer, wrapping an arm fully around your waist and pressing you up against him. You try to ignore the fact that you love it, that you want nothing more than to wrap yourself around him and climb him like a fucking tree. 

“What idiot leaves an omega going into heat?” He’s glaring at the doorway like he’s torn between staying here with you and running after said idiot to pommel him into the ground. 

“‘M not an omega.” The words are out before you’ve even stopped to consider them. It’s true. You’re not an omega. You’re a beta. You’ve always been a beta. You’ve got the little “B” on your ID card to prove it. You were tested at birth, just like everyone else, and even if you really were an omega you would have presented years ago.

He only glances down at you and snorts. “Funny, sweetheart.” His hand is still rubbing those little circles into your back and it’s enough to make that fogginess in your mind grow a little thicker. 

But your fear, your uncertainty outways your instinct. You pound a weak fist against his chest, not to push him away, but to get his attention. He’s still glaring at the doorway like he wants to murder it. 

“‘M serious,” you gasp. “I’m a beta… I don’... know whas’ happenin’… to me.” Each word is a tremendous effort to form. Your tongue seems to have lost its ability to do anything but hang limply. 

That gets his attention. He lifts a hand, gently brushing your hair back from your eyes and then cupping your jaw. “Is this your first heat?” 

You find yourself leaning into his touch despite the fact that you’ve only known him for thirty seconds. Your eyelids flutter. “N-Not a heat… jus’ feel… sick.”

His brows furrow again, deeper this time, and he shakes his head. “How old are you?”

You know why he asks. Most omegas present around eighteen or nineteen. “Older than… nineteen…” You try to laugh, but it only comes out as a whimper.

That answer only serves to make him push closer. You feel his hand trailing down your neck, skimming gently over the skin until he reaches a spot you hadn't even realized was so… sore. You keen at the touch. Fuck, no. There was no way. You had swollen fucking scent glands. 

You try to push away, but he pulls you in, burying his face in your neck. You shudder when he groans. “You smell like a damn bakery exploded,” he chuckles, and the sound is muffled by your skin. When he pulls away he makes it look like the action is physically painful. He cups your face again. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but you’re an omega. If this is your first heat then…” he swallows and your eyes track the bob of his throat. “You’re just a late bloomer, baby.”

You shake your head desperately. It’s just the stupid heatwave. It’s just… hot outside… right? 

You try to think about how this could be possible. It could be that the test you took as a baby was wrong… it happened sometimes. It was rare, but it happened. But if you were an omega, what would have triggered your presentation now? What had changed? 

Your eyes widen. Japan. You’d set foot in fucking Japan. Ever since you’d gotten here, you’d felt power pulsing in your veins. Maybe it hadn’t been just power… 

“N-no–” 

A gentle thumb smooths over your cheek and you meet his eyes again. You shiver when you see a whole lot more black than blue. “You have no alpha?” 

You whimper, leaning into him. Touch me, touch me, touch me, a part of you begs. You shake your head again and a tear slides down your cheek. “No,” you whisper. 

Strong arms slide beneath your knees and you squeak when you’re suddenly suspended in the air. When you glance up he’s grinning triumphantly. “You have one now,” is all he says before he’s carrying you out of the classroom and twisting through the halls. 

Warmth rushes over you at the sensation of being held, and something begs you to give into it, to give into the heat still washing over you, to the throbbing between your legs. You fight it and fight it hard. 

“Where’re we going?” you ask, but your voice is sounding more and more like a whisper. 

His eyes stay focused ahead, even as he presses a comforting kiss to the crown of your head. “Your room, sweetheart.” 

Your brows scrunch. “How d’ you know where–” 

“‘M following your scent, baby.” 

He can do that? You bury your face in his neck, embarrassed, only to be hit by a different scent so delicious your mouth starts watering. You groan. Loudly. There’s a scent pouring from his neck that’s filling your head with memories of spices you can’t name, but suddenly know you love. 

You think you hear him chuckle and then feel a gentle hand on the back of your neck, encouraging you. You snuggle deeper into him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and burying your fingers in his hair. Taste him, taste him, taste him your mind chants. It’s too good an offer to deny. You lick a stripe across his skin. 

Your groans are instant. He’s squeezing you closer, leaning into your touch, and you’re pulling him closer. Your fingers curl into his jacket, tugging and tugging. You lick again and now he’s the one groaning. 

“Damn, that feels good,” He sounds as surprised by that fact as you feel. The swaying of his steps comes to a sudden halt. You whine, missing the rocking of his body. “Think we’re here, princess. This it?” His hand is smoothing over your hair, slowly coaxing you away from the curve of his neck. You blink, not wanting to leave the paradise of his scent, but also feeling some overwhelming urge to please him.

Your eyes settle on a door and you recognize a little chip in the wood. You nod. “Mhm.” 

You gasp when his hand grips your hip, wriggling through your pocket until he pulls out a little brass key. 

“Perfect,” he says, and his voice sounds like he’s all too pleased with himself. He shimmies your key in the knob until the lock clicks and then you’re inside. The door slams shut loud enough to make you jump and squeak. 

“Oops, sorry, baby. Guess I’m a little excited, heh.” His hand squeezes your hip soothingly and you mewl at the wave of heat that pulses through you. Your clit throbs almost painfully and you feel something gush onto your thighs. You whimper. 

He inhales. “Oh, shit,” he breathes, and then you’re moving again. He navigates your room like he knows it. He probably does. From what you can tell, most of the rooms at Jujutsu Tech follow a standard layout. He weaves down a hall to the left and then into your bedroom on the right. 

He lays you on the bed gently, tenderly, like he’s afraid you might break if he drops you so much as an inch. “There we go,” he breathes. You can’t deny that it feels good, that it feels right, to be lying on the softness of your mattress, but it’s not enough. 

You claw at him, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck and pulling him close. You want something from him, need something, but you can’t name what. You just know that the heat boiling beneath your skin can only be sated by him, that the throbbing between your legs can only be calmed by him. “P-Please,” you whimper. Tears well in your eyes. You need him so bad it physically hurts. 

The smile he gives you is soft and genuine and it takes your breath away. He dips his head and you think you see him slide those sunglasses down his nose and toss them to the side. You don’t pay too close attention, though, because he’s kissing your neck again and your body is screaming with sensation. 

“Aw, I know, baby. Don’ worry. ‘M gonna take care of you now. Jus’ relax.” 

His words spark something in you– your last bit of consciousness. A brief moment of clarity shines through the fog of your mind and you remember what the hell is happening, what the hell you’re doing. You squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head desperately. No, no, no, this is not happening to you. There’s no way.

“Hey, now. None a’ that.” Fingers clasp your chin, holding you still. When you peek your eyes open, you see that he has in fact removed his sunglasses and that his eyes are more black pupil than dazzling blue. His jaw is clenched and his breathing is heavy. “Don’t try t’ fight it. Jus’ try to enjoy it…” His head dips and suddenly he’s nipping at your scent gland again. 

You thrash and scream, but not in fear or pain. You’ve never felt something so good in your life. Every graze of his teeth feels like heaven. Your skin zings with electricity, sending pulses of pure need straight between your thighs. 

You grab at him, tangling your fingers in his hair and tugging him closer. Your chest is heaving when you speak. “Please, p-please-” 

“Shhh…” You think you hear your shirt tearing, but you’re too focused on pulling him closer to care. His tongue licks a stripe up your throat and your eyes roll back. 

You’re sure your shirt is off now. You can feel the cool air, but it does nothing to ease the heat raging inside you, pulsing and pumping through your veins.You feel him tugging at your pants, too, and you try to raise your hips. He only shushes you again. “Jus’ relax. Let me do the work, baby.” 

Your pants are gone in seconds, even without your assistance. So is your bra and then your panties. He tries pulling away to undress himself, but you mewl and his eyes blow even blacker before he’s back over you again. He settles for popping the buttons straight off his shirt and shimmying out of his pants. 

The sight of his bare skin makes you whimper and then you’re clawing at him again, dragging your fingers across his shoulders, over his chest, down his abs. It’s a greedy touch and one that he returns. His palms move along your body, kneading and squeezing at any flesh he can grab. It feels so good that you think you might pass out– but it’s still not enough. Something is still missing. You feel… empty. 

His fingers trace across your stomach and it’s too late to realize what’s happening before he’s circling your clit. You jerk and jolt at the touch, but he presses his chest to yours, pinning you. The throbbing only worsens when his fingers settle into a rhythm. 

Tears leak down your cheeks. It’s too overwhelming. You’re burning– burning from the inside out. The pulsing between your thighs is all-consuming with its intensity, with its-

“Need! N-Need–” you’re crying out, but you don’t even know what to ask for– don’t even know what you need. 

“God, Fuck, I know, princess,” he groans. He licks a long stripe up your neck. “But ‘s your first heat. Gotta–” he has to pause to swallow. He’s panting, now, just as lost as you are, and you get the sense that he’s restraining himself. “Gotta get you ready… go slow.” 

You shake your head. Now, now, now is all you can think. You need him now. “No… please…” You bury your head in his neck and find that spot that’s pouring his spicy scent into the air. Your mouth waters and you lick him, letting your teeth graze his skin.

“Fuck!” He shivers atop you and you feel the pure strength restrained within his muscles. “Fuck- okay. Okay. Relax f’ me, princess.” 

You try, you really do, but your body refuses to do anything but try to pull him closer. You feel his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs, pressing them up, up, up until they’re pressed tightly to your chest and your feet are dangling on his shoulders. The position makes you whine, feeling more exposed than you ever have before. 

“You on birth control, baby?” 

Your brows furrow. It’s becoming harder and harder to focus on what he’s saying rather than simply the sound of his voice. Were you? You try to think, try to remember through the pit of glue that is your brain. No…

You shake your head. “N-No…” 

There’s a slight pause, a beat of contemplation, and then he’s laughing. “Guess I’m bouta be a daddy then, heh.” He chuckles again and the sound rings through you with a wave of pure bliss. His lips brush your neck again, settling on your pulse and making you whine. “Don’t really mind as long as I get you.” Your head rolls back submissively, exposing your throat. Yes, yes, yes, your mind screams. There’s nothing you want more than that, you think.“Okay, here we go, baby.” 

There’s hardly any more warning. One second you feel him shifting between your thighs and the next he’s pressing inside of you, feeding his cock in inch by inch. The stretch is… delicious. It burns, fuels that fire inside you, but it makes the heat feel more… pleasurable. Your back arches and your head rolls back submissively. 

“Oh, fuck, princess.” His voice has gotten higher, more like a whine than anything else. When you gaze up at him you can see the flush in his cheeks, even through the fog in your mind. More, more, more your mind screams. Or maybe you say it aloud, because more is exactly what he gives you. The second you feel him tucked up against your cervix the second he begins to take you. He sets a pace that is somehow both brutal and gentle, with strokes that rattle your skull and also give you exactly what you need. His hands grip your hips, holding you still to take exactly what he wants to give. His head dips until he has his lips wrapped around your nipple, and his tongue is swirling so deliciously that you can’t help but drag your nails down his back. 

Your body rocks with every thrust, teeth rattling and eyes rolling. The heat inside you grows… tighter, like it’s all pooling to your core, waiting for something you still can’t quite name. 

“N-need…” You don’t know what you need, still. Only that you want to beg for it so badly it hurts. 

His tongue slides away from your nipple, tracing a line up between the valley of your breasts, over your collarbone, before he finally settles on your pulse once again. The nick of his teeth makes something click in your mind. This is what you need. Bite me, bite me, bite. Claim me, claim me, claim me. 

“Yes,” you breathe. Your fingers dig into his scalp, pulling him closer, coaxing his teeth to sink in, to stake their claim. “Oh God, yes. Please.” You sound delirious, you think, but then so does he when he answers. 

“Not yet, princess. Not yet.” His tongue darts out to lick across your neck again and you can only sob. Why not yet? Now, now, now… 

Tightness coils in your muscles, the throb at your core reaching a breaking point. You feel something coming, something like an orgasm but yet also not. You know that when whatever is pooling inside you releases, you will shatter, and you’re not sure you’ll ever be put back together. 

Your nails claw across his back hard enough to draw blood and the action forces out some sort of low grumble from his chest that makes you whimper and melt into the mattress. The tip of his nose draws a line up your throat. “Keep doin’ that, baby. Mark me up.” 

You don’t dare deny him. You scratch at his skin, desperately trying to pull him closer. His thrusts grow faster and your thighs begin to tremble and shake on his shoulders, overwhelmed with the intensity of all you’re feeling. You pull at him, grab at him, thread your fingers through his hair. 

Your body jolts with each thrust and you’re sure you’re going to burst any moment. But you can’t. Not yet. You still need something, something he hasn’t given you yet. He groans and the sound is so delicious that you feel it sliding over your skin and settling in your bones. 

“M’ gonna knot you now, princess,” he breathes. “Gonna make you feel so good. Gonna take care ‘ve you.”

You whimper at his words. You hope they’re true. You don’t think you can take much more of the incessant gnawing of need in your gut. 

“Please…” your voice is hardly more than a whisper. His breath is hot as it shakes against your neck. He’s licking and nipping at you ravenously, like he needs you just as badly, like he wants to claim you as badly as you want to be claimed. 

His thrusts quicken even further and your jaw falls open, neck arching. You don’t think you can hold on much longer. Apparently, neither can he. 

You feel it the moment he starts to swell inside you. It’s perfect, you think. It can’t get better than this– but then it does. 

His teeth graze your throat again, this time a little harsher and with a little more intent. “Mine,” he whispers. The second he bites you everything goes blurry. 

You’re experiencing… heaven. There is a rush of that electricity that buzzes under your skin. It bursts forth and you feel it reaching out, forming a link between the two of you that you know is now impenetrable. It pulses and burns and you can feel him, feel his pleasure, his desire, his need for you and only you– his need to make you his. You think your souls must be blending, merging, with how deep the connection runs. You think you know him, know everything you could possibly ever need to. You know he’s the one. You know he’s yours.

It’s perfect, the way it fulfills every desire you’ve ever had, the way he notches inside your cunt like that’s where he was made to be, the way his teeth clamp around your throat and bond you together forever.

You scream for him, you think, but you can’t tell through the complete and total haze of pleasure. Your walls spasm around him, milking him for every last drop, and you feel the heat of his cum coating your cervix. The heat at your center finally releases, bursting and flooding through you in a way that feels like pure bliss has been injected into your veins. Your thighs quake and tremble with the pure intensity of it all and white spots dot your vision. 

His body is tense above you, shivering with the magnitude of what’s just happened. He’s groaning into your neck, your flesh still clamped between his teeth like he never wants to let go. You’re not sure you ever want him to. 

Your breaths shake in and out, lungs heaving as you finally come down. His knot is still settled deep inside you and with the few strings of consciousness that slowly filter back into your mind you know that he’ll remain there for a while.

His teeth release from your neck with a squelch that you think you would be sickening in any other context, but only makes you whimper at the loss of contact. He only hums and finds your hand, twining your fingers together as he laps at the fresh bite on your throat. It feels… amazing. Not in the way it felt before, like he was licking pure lust straight onto your skin, but more like he’s giving you a comfort you have never known in your life. You feel safe in his arms, like nothing could ever hurt you here. 

His lips press a final kiss to your throat before you feel him shifting. He gently rolls you both onto your sides, getting comfortable and pulling you to his chest while you both wait for the next wave of lust to hit you. It will, you know. Sooner rather than later, too. Your mind has cleared enough to realize what’s happening, what’s to come. You won’t be leaving this room, this bed, for quite some time. 

A gentle hand brushes a sweaty lock of hair from your eyes before it settles on the nape of your neck, massaging the sore muscles there. You sigh and raise your gaze to find him already looking at you, an easy smile on his lips. He has dimples, you realize, and he’s… breathtaking. And now… he’s all yours.

There’s a beat of silence between you, a moment of reconciliation with what’s just happened between you, of what it means. You blink up at him, your lips parting to say something, anything, but instead your brows furrow in thought.

His smile drops instantly. He leans into you, thumb caressing your cheek. “What is it, sweetheart?” 

Your mouth runs dry. You peek up at him from beneath your lashes. “What’s your name?”

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[physalian]

Avoiding Plot Holes by Seeding Doubt

Having an “expert” character conveniently fuck up right when the plot needs it to happen, when they otherwise would never, always loudly looks like the hand of the author sabotaging things. Which is exactly what’s happening.

However, if you set up that scene in a way where that fuckup is possible and warranted, you can turn “this is so contrived” to “omg I knew that was going to happen”.

Some suggestions!

Firstly, if we’re dealing with humans, humans are not machines. Variability in skill even at the expert level happens. Go watch the Olympics or any professional sporting event and people have terrible days all the time.

In fiction, a conveniently terrible day because that’s just how this works doesn’t fly. Diablos ex machinas tend to go over easier than deus ex machinas, but a character failing at a critical challenge in the narrative for no reason screws with a lot of the tension and expectations. “For no reason” takes no effort by the author to set up and pay off, and it reads as cheap.

Behavioral variables

I am a novice archer. I write expert archers. I do not write supernaturally accurate archers. From the very beginning of my story, my expert, with four centuries of experience, isn’t nailing perfect kill shots with every hit. A) he doesn’t need to and B) leaving his enemy to die slowly and painfully is a low he will absolutely stoop to if he thinks it’s warranted.

He’s as good as he has to be and if he gets the job done, he doesn’t care if it’s a little messy. Him being messy and overconfident is what gets him in the end, too. If he’s trying, he’ll do better, but most of the time “eh, I got close enough, they’ll die eventually” is his mindset.

“Expert” in fiction being “this is a character who will reliably pass the challenges set up for them by the narrative”.

So if you have an “expert,” allowing them to get a little bit lazy and overconfident, or simply not think of themselves as needing to be perfect in a given situation, you allow yourself a lot of wiggle room for them to majorly fuck up.

Doesn’t work very well if I throw my archer into an archery tournament, but I haven’t done that, and I’ll get to that later.

Environmental variables

Using the archery example once again: Archery is finnicky and precision is key. So if you’ve got your archer, or any marksman, in a windy environment, they have to work that much harder to factor in the wind when setting up their shot.

If it’s rainy, or the sun’s in their face, or it’s dark, or it’s loud and they can’t focus, these things aren’t exact data points the audience is going to do the math on. Or, if they and their enemy are moving, which, in combat, is highly likely.

Physiological variables

Maybe your character didn’t get enough sleep, or they’re stressed about this moment, they’re cracking under the pressure, they’re doubting themselves, the enemy got into their head, or they’re distracted worrying about something else. Or they got drunk the night before, they ate too much or too little. They’re sick, their hands are sweaty, they’ve got a sinus headache. They’ve got cramps, or hot flashes, or earlier they pulled a muscle and it still tweaks.

These are all, once again, introducing doubt into the narrative so that, when they fuck up as the plot demands, the audience should consider “well they weren’t at their best, I believe it”.

—

The sloppy way to do this is to go, in the moment:

“But because it was windy, X missed his shot”.

Is this the first time the reader is learning that it’s windy? Pretty convenient to introduce it right as it becomes important.

Rather, establish your variable beforehand in a disconnected moment. Try to ground it to a different element, otherwise it might look like it’s being mentioned for no other reason than “this is important”. Or, if it’s environmental, bury it with the other sensory descriptors.

When establishing the scene and setting, casually mention how the wind is interacting with the characters—making their hair a mess, throwing pollen everywhere, making skirts billow, etc.

Have another character complain about this variable bothering them

Have the character instantly regret the decision they made the night before for unrelated reasons. Like, if they got drunk, now they’ve still got a headache.

Depends on the story and the audience, of course, but I personally think having the narrator explicitly call out the variable fuckery going on reads a bit hammy. I like letting the audience figure out what went wrong with the clues I give.

If the scene demands, I'll also let my characters get annoyed and upset about their shots going wrong and blaming the environment. So long as it's not "hand of the author here to tell you what went wrong" you've got options.

I wouldn’t pull this trick too many times, otherwise your “expert” ends up consistently not an expert and then their sudden success looks suspect and contrived.

If you are writing some sort of tournament where this character is deliberately setting themselves up for success and is considering all these variables… a great example I like is Todoroki vs Bakugo in My Hero Academia season 2.

Dude is an uncertain mess throughout the rest of his tournament once his “fuck you dad I’m gonna win by half-assing it” suddenly isn’t enough to beat Midoriya. He’s forced to face some Tragic Backstory and it throws him off his game—establishes doubt.

He has a string of successes once he starts taking baby steps with the other half of his powers, and in the finale, he’s up against someone where he really does have to give it his all if he wants to win. His brute force powers are up against someone who has honed his very specific and powerful abilities for a decade.

And he can’t do it.

The final fight stops being a matter of power metrics and who would win if they both were competing at their best with all the tricks in their playbook available, which is what most of the tournament had been up to this point.

Basically—it stops being a numbers game, and starts being an emotional one. If you have a character you need to fail at something, but who wouldn’t otherwise, consider shifting the battle from external to internal, so the task failure is just the catalyst for the real meat of the story: what this loss means to this person in the long run.

**Side note there are of course a ton of anime tournament fights probably better than this one, Rock Lee’s whole arc against Gaara is one of them, I just don’t remember it well enough to comment on it.

Not every reader is going to be savvy enough to go “well that’s going to be important later”. Use betas and editors to help gauge how vague or obvious your foreshadowing is.

But even if you have readers sussing out your foreshadowing: Part of the fun is figuring out how the journey will end, even if we know when and where. Otherwise tragedies and prequels wouldn’t be made.

The dramatic irony of knowing variable fuckery is at play when the character is unaware can be so fun as the audience. Horror films are kind of built on it.

[thatfeelinwhenyou]

SAFE & SOUND — part 7 (finale)

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

word count: 27.6k

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

MASTERLIST

Hope.

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

At the cost of your own life.

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

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

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

And worst of all—hope makes you stupid.

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

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

Futures you won’t get to see.

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

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

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

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

And you can’t understand why.

What crime did you commit to warrant this?

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

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

Screams.

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

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

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

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

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

Would that have been your sin?

Was that the moment the universe condemned you?

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

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

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

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

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

And not for yourself.

For them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are the thing that is going to break him.

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

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

Redemption.

Not salvation. Not forgiveness. But a chance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And for the first and last time—

You meet them halfway.

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

But time is a luxury you no longer have.

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

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

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

A flicker of movement catches your eye.

There. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s working.

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

But then—it stops.

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

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

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

The gate slams shut.

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

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

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

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

It’s done.

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

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

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

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

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

Except—

A cold chill slithers down your spine.

Where is Jungwon? 

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

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

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

And the answer to all your questions?

You don’t know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s tracking someone.

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

He’s signalling toward you.

And just like that, everything clicks into place.

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

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

But why? Why the hell are they doing this?

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

They let you go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is the only way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The dead turn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You just wait.

Wait until the screaming stops.

Wait until the feeding slows.

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

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

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

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

They’re looking for you.

But they won’t find you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t matter now.

Nothing matters except finding A.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you could end this yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A.

Your breath stills in your throat.

Of course. Of fucking course.

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

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

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

Your stomach twists.

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

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

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

And he sees it.

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

Nothing exists except you and him.

And rage.

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

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

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

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

He knows exactly who you are.

He knows you’re not one of his people.

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

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

Because neither of you is paying them any mind. 

All you see is A.

And the big red target painted on his fucking forehead.

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

But you? You have nothing to lose

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

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

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

Amusement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s for you.

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

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

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

He’s waiting.

Daring you to make the first move.

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

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

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

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

"What do you want?"

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

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

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

But he isn’t done.

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

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

A muscle twitches in your jaw.

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

But you won’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there’s the other problem.

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

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

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

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

And then—you feel it.

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

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

A loaded gun.

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

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

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

There is one bullet in the chamber.

Not for A.

Not for his people.

For you.

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

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

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

And thus, the opportunity presents itself. 

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

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

And that’s his mistake.

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

All you have to do is take them out first.

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

And A is nothing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Click.

“Some of us aren’t total monsters.”

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

You pull the trigger.

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

Fuck.

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

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

The gun clatters, skidding across the floor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The dead are nearly here.

The scent of blood is thick in the air, drawing them in like moths to a flame. You can feel the heat of their decaying bodies pressing closer, their guttural moans blending into a single, endless drone, the sound of hunger, of death. If you can’t get out of this, if there’s no escape, then you have to make sure A doesn’t either. You have to make sure that no matter what happens, no matter who gets out of this alive, he doesn’t. No chance to slip back into the horde. No chance to hide among the dead. No chance to run.

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

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

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

Both of you are exposed.

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

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

Not until he’s dead.

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

Gunfire.

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

A’s grip on you falters.

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

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

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

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

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

No one hesitates.

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

And then—

BANG.

BANG.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Procedure?

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

Your stomach lurches.

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

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

“We’re taking it off.”

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

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

“We’re amputating your arm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She was bit.”

You freeze.

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

You stare at him, your mind racing.

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

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

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

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

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

“To save you.”

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

But it’s not there.

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t have to die.

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

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

You’re fucking terrified.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were wrong.

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

So what if you’re missing an arm?

You’re not missing them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake doesn’t hesitate this time.

“We cauterise,” he says, and the moment the word leaves his mouth, a cold chill slithers down your spine.

Burn.

Burn.

“We burn the tissue to seal off the blood vessels.”

The room goes deathly quiet.

You don’t move.

No one does.

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

You should have expected this. You did expect this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except now, he’s here.

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe. Maybe not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then the saw comes down.

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s not over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still you.

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

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

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

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

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

Alive.

“She’ll wake up”

“It’s been hours, Jake."

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

“We should tie her up”

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

“Y/N, hey.”

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

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

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

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

Jungwon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s already watching you.

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

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

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

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

You look him dead in the eyes.

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

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

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

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

Not peace. Not comfort.

But certainty.

A mercy, promised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jungwon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“After you passed out…” Heeseung begins, his voice low and careful. “I guess his emotions sort of overwhelmed him. He—he wanted every one of the dead to be gone. Every last one. It was like he couldn’t stand the idea of them being near you.”

“He went out on his own,” Heeseung continues, his eyes darkening with something that feels like guilt. “He wanted to open the gate to draw them away, but… it was already open. Whatever remained of A’s people, they fled. Jungwon spent the next two days leading the horde away from here. And he wouldn’t let any of us help him.”

“Two days,” you echo, your heart sinking. Jungwon’s name leaves your lips like a prayer, like a plea.

“He’s been hunting the rest of A’s people after that, the ones who managed to escape.” Sunoo’s voice cracks slightly. “He’d come back late, just to check on you. He’d sit beside you, take short naps, then leave again.”

“He’s not… he’s not himself,” Heeseung admits, his gaze shifting to the floor. “He’s blaming himself for what happened. And now… he’s tearing himself apart trying to fix it.”

The revelation settles over you like a cold, heavy weight. You can feel the tension in their faces, the worry etched into their expressions as they recount what happened. Jungwon, running himself ragged. Jungwon, fighting alone. Jungwon, refusing help and throwing himself at danger over and over again.

Sounds awfully like someone you know.

You look around the room, catching the strained expressions on everyone’s faces. They’ve all been watching this unfold, powerless to stop him, just as they were powerless to help you when you were dying. The guilt must be eating them alive.

“He’s still out there?” you ask, your voice coming out smaller than you intend.

Heeseung nods, his shoulders slumping. “He’s… he’s been relentless. He comes back just to make sure you’re breathing, to make sure you’re… still here. But he doesn’t stay. Not for long.”

“Where is he now?” Your stomach twists painfully, a combination of hunger, exhaustion, and something far worse—fear.

“We haven’t seen him since yesterday,” Jay admits, his voice trembling. “He said he was tracking some of A’s people. Trying to make sure none of them come back.”

“He’s going to get himself killed,” you whisper, horrified. “Why didn’t any of you stop him?”

“We tried,” Jay interjects, his tone defensive but layered with shame. “He wouldn’t listen. Just… shut us out. Every time we tried to help, he pushed us away. Like he’s punishing himself or something.”

“That sounds like him,” you murmur, your heart sinking. You feel the weight of it now, the sheer magnitude of what Jungwon’s been doing. What he’s been putting himself through because of you. Because of his failure to protect you.

You want to get up. You want to run out there and drag him back yourself, force him to see reason, to stop tearing himself apart. But your body is still weak, your muscles still shaky from the long sleep, your mind still foggy with fever and painkillers.

“Where did he go last?” you ask, fighting to keep your voice steady.

“We don’t know,” Ni-ki admits, eyes dropping to the floor. “He’s not exactly good at giving details before he storms off.”

“But he’ll be back,” Sunghoon adds, though even he sounds unsure. “He always comes back to check on you.”

You stare at the door, the silence stretching out, the air thick with unspoken fears. Jungwon is out there. Alone. Hunting ghosts and chasing vengeance. And the worst part? He’s doing it for you.

You insisted they bring you outside the convenience store, claiming you needed fresh air—something clean, something that didn’t reek of blood and antiseptic. But the truth is, you were slowly losing your mind cooped up inside that building, the walls pressing in closer every hour, the air growing stale and heavy.

It wasn’t just the confinement—it was the not knowing. The isolation. The feeling of being cut off from everything happening beyond the convenience store doors.

You could hear the faint, muffled sounds of activity outside, the occasional barked order, the dragging of something across the pavement. But no one would tell you what was happening, not really. And you couldn’t stand the uncertainty.

The thought of being kept in the dark while the others were out there, exposed, dealing with the aftermath of everything that had happened.

So you’d demanded to be brought outside, your voice sharp and unyielding until they relented. They’d been hesitant, their concern clear in the way their eyes darted between you and each other, like they weren’t sure if moving you would make things worse. But you’d been relentless, and eventually, they caved.

Now, as Sunoo carefully lowers you into one of those old, rickety wheeled chairs they’d scavenged from behind the counter, you feel the cool air prickling against your skin, the sunlight filtering through the clouds like a balm. It’s not clean air by any means—still thick with the cloying scent of blood and decay—but it’s different. It’s real. It’s enough to keep the madness at bay.

And yet, as the wheels creak and groan beneath you, and Sunoo pushes you further into the open air, you realise that knowing what’s happening isn’t always a relief.

Because the aftermath of the battle stretches out before you like a twisted, grotesque canvas—blood smeared across the concrete, darkened and congealed where the sun has begun to bake it into the ground. 

But worse than that is the silence. The absence of groans and snarls from the dead. It’s all been replaced by the laboured breathing and strained grunts of your friends as they work. And that’s when you realise. Even though you wanted to know what was happening, even though you’d fought to be brought outside—it doesn’t make it any easier to face.

The others are working with grim efficiency, their movements mechanical, burdened with exhaustion but fuelled by necessity. They’re piling the bodies into the back of the van. Blood smears the metal doors and the ground beneath it, dark and sticky where it pools in shallow depressions.

Sunghoon and Ni-ki are doing most of the heavy lifting, their shoulders hunched, jaws clenched as they haul corpses over their backs and dump them into the van. The thud of lifeless weight against metal sends a shiver down your spine.

You catch glimpses of A’s people among the carnage—bodies twisted and torn, their limbs splayed at unnatural angles, eyes lifeless and empty. The horde had done its work well, the evidence strewn across the earth like discarded remains of a nightmare. 

You try not to look too closely at their faces but it’s impossible not to see them. A’s people. The horde. Everything blurred together in death, no distinction left between monster and man.

“They’re going to burn them,” Sunoo says, voice low and weary as he pushes you closer to the van. “We didn't know what to do with them. But they started smelling real bad so Heeseung suggested to…yeah.” His tone is flat, resigned, like he’s already distanced himself from the horror of it all.

You swallow thickly, the air tasting of gasoline and decay. Your gaze locks onto the pile of bodies—they are stacked like firewood, limbs twisted and broken, some barely held together by the flesh that remains. It’s a horrifying sight, but somehow you can’t tear your eyes away.

“Guess it’s better this way.” Your voice is a hoarse rasp, the words scraping against your throat. “No more traces. No more reminders.”

Sunoo’s expression flickers, his gaze sharpening as he looks down at you. “Nothing’s ever gone for good,” he murmurs. “We just… pretend it is.”

The heaviness in his words cuts through you, a bleak truth that settles like lead in your chest. Pretending. Isn’t that what you’ve all been doing? Pretending you’re safe. Pretending you’re strong enough. Pretending you’re not terrified of what comes next.

And as you watch them load another body into the van—this one smaller, thinner, a girl who couldn’t have been much older than you were when the world went to hell—you realise Sunoo is right. The bodies might be gone. The blood might be washed away. But nothing is ever truly gone.

You’re all just pretending.

The minutes blur into hours, a cruel, dragging passage of time where every creak of the door, every shuffle of footsteps sends your heart plummeting and soaring in equal measure. The others try to distract you—Sunoo attempts to feed you more soup, Jake checks your temperature again, Ni-ki keeps making offhand comments to lighten the mood. But nothing cuts through the anxiety clinging to your chest. Nothing numbs the gnawing ache of Jungwon’s absence.

He’s been gone too long.

You force yourself to stay awake, eyes fixed on the door like if you look away for even a moment, he’ll slip past and disappear for good. You hate the way your body feels so fragile, like you could shatter if you so much as breathe wrong. You hate that you can’t be out there with him, helping him, keeping him safe. Instead, you’re stuck here—waiting, helpless, counting the seconds as they bleed into one another.

Evening stretches into dusk, the world outside dimming as the sun begins its slow descent. Shadows creep along the walls, the air growing colder, the faint groans of the undead in the distance a grim reminder of the horrors beyond the barricade.

He’ll come back, you tell yourself, over and over again. He has to. He always comes back.

But as the hours continue to slip away, doubt begins to coil around your heart, icy and relentless.

Heeseung is the first to suggest you get some rest, his voice gentle but firm as he tries to coax you away from the door. But you refuse. You can’t sleep. You can’t even sit still. 

You try to imagine what Jungwon must be going through, the battles he’s been fighting—both with the dead and with himself. And it hurts. Because he shouldn’t be out there, tearing himself apart for you. Not for something that was your own fault to begin with.

The sun has almost fully dipped beneath the horizon when you hear it—the sound of the gate creaking open.

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you think you’ve imagined it. But then the others are stirring, their heads snapping toward the door, their eyes wide and hopeful.

You push yourself to your feet, the world tilting slightly as your legs tremble beneath you. The dizziness is immediate, but you force yourself forward, stumbling toward the door just as it swings open.

He’s there.

Jungwon stands in the fading light, his silhouette ragged and hunched, blood splattered across his clothes and dirt smeared across his face. His eyes are wild, haunted—like he’s been to hell and back and barely clawed his way free.

The moment his gaze lands on you, something inside him shatters. His shoulders sag, his knees nearly buckling. But he doesn’t hesitate. He crosses the distance between you in seconds, his arms encircling you, pulling you into him with a force so desperate it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

“Y/N.” His voice breaks over your name, the syllables raw and cracked. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his entire body trembling as if he’s holding back a flood of emotions he can’t even begin to contain.

You feel his tears against your skin, hot and unrelenting. His grip on you is almost painful, fingers digging into your back like if he lets go, you’ll vanish right before his eyes.

“You’re okay,” he chokes out, the words tumbling from his lips in a frantic rush. “You’re okay. You’re awake. I—God, I thought—” His voice breaks completely, his breath hitching as a sob tears its way through him. “I thought you’d never wake up.”

You cling to him just as fiercely, your arm wrapped around him as tightly as you can manage. “I’m here,” you whisper, your own voice thick with emotion. “I’m okay.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his gaze sweeping over your face like he’s trying to memorise every detail, every line, every scar. His eyes are red-rimmed, swollen, his expression so broken it nearly crushes you.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, his fingers trembling as they trace the line of your jaw, his touch feather-light, as if he’s afraid you’ll break under his hands. “I should’ve been here when you woke up. I should’ve—”

“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head. “You did what you had to do. You kept them safe. You kept me safe.”

His shoulders quake with the force of his sobs, his forehead dropping against yours as he struggles to catch his breath. “I thought I lost you,” he whispers. “I thought I’d lost you forever.”

“I’m here, Jungwon. I’m alive. I’m alive.” Your voice cracks, splintering like glass under too much pressure. And somehow, saying it out loud makes it feel real. Like the words themselves are anchoring you to the present, tethering you to something solid and true. You’re alive. The truth of it thrums beneath your skin, a steady beat you’d almost forgotten how to hear.

Jungwon’s eyes widen, his breath stalling like he’s forgotten how to draw air. His fingers tighten around yours, his grip fierce and trembling. “You’re alive,” he echoes, voice raw, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. 

“God, Y/N… you’re alive.” His voice breaks entirely, the words dissolving into a strangled sob.

You wrap your arm around him again, fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt, clutching at him like he’s the only real thing left in the world. “I’m here,” you repeat, the words thick with tears. “I’m here, Jungwon. I’m not going anywhere.”

He trembles against you, his shoulders shaking as he lets himself break, lets himself feel every ounce of pain and relief and desperate, aching hope. And for a moment, it’s just the two of you, tangled together against the cold, cruel world outside. Two people clinging to each other like lifelines, refusing to let go.

And despite the ache in your body, the sheer exhaustion ravaging through your veins like fire, it doesn’t even compare to the yearning. The longing that pulses through you stronger than pain, sharper than fear. It’s like everything you’ve endured, every broken bone, every drop of blood spilled, has only been leading you to this moment.

His hands are trembling as they cradle your face, his touch impossibly gentle even as desperation trembles beneath his fingertips.

He presses his forehead to yours, his breath mingling with your own, both of you drawing in ragged, uneven gasps like you’re trying to remember how to breathe.

And then, his mouth finds yours, the kiss urgent and desperate and filled with everything he can’t say. His lips are rough and unsteady, his hands cradling your face as if you’re something precious, something he’s terrified of breaking.

“Jungwon…” His name leaves your lips like a plea, like a prayer, your voice barely more than a broken whisper.

“I’m here,” he breathes, his words shaking but fierce in their sincerity. “I’m here. I’m not leaving you.”

And you believe him. God, you believe him. Because you can feel it in the way his arms tighten around you, in the way his eyes burn with something deeper than relief—something like love, something like hope.

You press your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in, grounding yourself in his presence. Because no matter how broken you feel, no matter how shattered and battered and barely holding on, Jungwon’s warmth fills the cracks. His presence mends the parts of you that have been fraying at the edges for so long.

When he finally pulls away, his eyes are searching yours, his breathing ragged and uneven. “Don’t ever do that to me again,” he says, his voice trembling. “Please. Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

You nod frantically, the motion sending fresh tears streaming down your cheeks as you cling to him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only solid thing in a world gone mad. “I promise,” you whisper, the words spilling out with a fervency that feels like both a lie and a vow.

But even as the promise leaves your lips, you know it’s one you may never be able to keep. Because this world is a cruel, unpredictable place, where survival is measured in moments and safety is an illusion that can be torn away in an instant. And yet, despite the impossibility of it all, you want so desperately for it to be true.

Still, it’s a promise you’ll try your hardest to uphold. Even if you lose all your limbs, even if your body breaks and bends and folds beneath the weight of this relentless, unforgiving world, you’ll try. You’ll keep fighting for him. For all of them. For yourself. Even if every breath feels like a rebellion against death itself.

Jungwon tucks you in that night, his body angled towards yours as if trying to close every inch of distance between you. He lies on his arm, propped beneath his head, while his other hand gently threads through your hair, fingertips brushing tenderly against your cheek. His gaze is unwavering, his eyes tracing every detail of your face like he’s memorising you—like he’s still struggling to accept that this moment is real.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you murmur, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you nuzzle into the warmth of his touch. His fingers linger against your skin, delicate and reverent.

“I was just thinking how nice it would’ve been if we’d met in the world before all this,” he admits, his voice barely more than a whisper, each word weighed down by longing. The vulnerability in his tone is disarming. And you know exactly what he means. You’d had those thoughts before, fleeting and bittersweet. Wondering what it would’ve been like to meet him, to meet all of them, before the world tore itself apart.

“But if we did,” he continues, his eyes searching yours, “we wouldn’t have met each other the way we did. And I don’t know how I feel about that. I know I shouldn’t be happy that this is our reality. That everything’s gone to shit. But at the same time…” He trails off, a quiet, breathless laugh escaping him. “I’m so fucking happy you’re here. With us. With me.”

Your expression softens, your eyes glistening in the dim light. “Me too,” you whisper. And for a moment, the weight of the world fades away, leaving only the two of you tangled together in the fragile glow of something like hope.

“Gosh, not to break your bubble but some of us have been hauling dead bodies the entire day. Go to sleep.” Ni-ki’s voice cuts through the quiet, his tone laced with mock irritation as it echoes from the other side of the store.

You can’t help but let out a laugh, the sound coming out cracked and uneven but genuine all the same. Jungwon’s lips twitch into a smirk, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement.

“Sorry, Ni-ki. We’ll keep our heartfelt declarations to a minimum,” Jungwon calls back, his voice lighter than it’s been in days.

“Please do,” Ni-ki grumbles. “Some of us actually need sleep to function. Unlike you two, who apparently run on emotional angst and melodrama.”

You snort, burying your face against Jungwon’s shoulder to muffle the sound. “He’s got a point.”

“Yeah, well. He can complain all he wants.” Jungwon’s arm tightens around you, pulling you closer. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

Ni-ki mutters something about “disgusting couples” under his breath, but you can hear the smile in his voice. And as you drift off to sleep, cocooned in Jungwon’s warmth, you swear you catch the faintest hint of Ni-ki’s laughter from across the room.

The days blur together, bleeding into weeks. The aftermath of the battle is a bitter memory, but the world doesn’t stop for grief or guilt. It moves on, drags you with it, demanding blood and sweat and whatever scraps of hope you can muster. 

The camp becomes something of a sanctuary, though the scars of what happened are still fresh. But with each passing sunrise, life finds a way to grow amid the ashes. It’s not perfect. Far from it. But it’s something. It’s yours.

Heeseung and Sunghoon have turned the gas station’s old garage into a makeshift workshop, fabricating weapons, fixing broken tools, and finding ways to reinforce the perimeter.

Ni-ki spends most of his time tinkering with the generator they managed to find, his hands stained with grease and dirt, his eyes constantly scanning the area for new materials to scavenge. He’s been working on fixing the lights inside the convenience store—solar-powered lamps that offer a faint, flickering glow through the darkest hours of the night.

Meanwhile, Sunoo has somehow managed to coax the earth into giving life. He and Jay have cultivated a small patch of vegetables in the cleared lot behind the station, green shoots from seeds they found in the backroom poke defiantly through the cracked soil. The produce is meagre, but it’s something. Something they’ve managed to grow from nothing. And if you’re being honest, it’s a refreshing change from the endless supply of canned food you’ve all grown so sick of.

Jake, on the other hand, is tirelessly working to set up a small infirmary in the backrooms of the convenience store. It’s a crude setup—scraps of old bed sheets strung up to create partitions, tables pushed together and covered with whatever clean material he can find. It’s not much. But it’s something. And Jake has never been one to settle for nothing. 

You caught him once, hunched over the counter, scribbling notes in the margins of a medical textbook he managed to scavenge. He’s been trying to teach himself more advanced medical techniques—how to stitch deeper wounds, how to recognise infections before they become life-threatening, how to keep fevers from turning fatal. It’s admirable, if not a little reckless. But then, you suppose recklessness is a trait all of you share now.

You’re still healing, both physically and emotionally. Your stump is scarred and sore, but Jake assures you it’s healing well. You find yourself contributing in small ways, like offering the others water when they forget to hydrate themselves or helping to brainstorm plans and routes on their next expedition, all while still learning how to adapt to the limitations of your new body. And while it’s agonisingly slow, it’s progress.

And then there’s Jungwon.

Jungwon stays by your side most days, helping you adjust, never straying too far even when the others urge him to rest. He’s different now—quieter, his gaze haunted but still fierce. He’s more cautious, more deliberate. But there’s something else, too. A softness to him that wasn’t there before. Or maybe it was, and you just hadn’t seen it.

Most times, you find yourselves back on the rooftop. The place has become your refuge—an escape where the world’s chaos fades into a distant hum and it’s just the two of you, wrapped in the quiet of the night, the stars above like scattered fragments of a world that’s long since crumbled. It’s where you go when everything just feels too much, when the faces of the dead won’t leave you alone, when you need to feel like something still matters.

He’ll hold your hand and whisper reassurances you both desperately need to believe. And you’ll share stories—small, inconsequential details about your lives before everything fell apart. It feels like you can almost pretend the world is still intact. That the only thing that exists is you and Jungwon, just existing in the same space, breathing the same air. sharing the same silence, and reclaiming pieces of yourself you thought you’d lost forever. 

You remember a conversation you had with Jungwon a few days after you woke up. It was one of those nights on the rooftop, where the air was cool and crisp, the stars sharp and clear against the darkness.

It had been a conversation you wouldn’t forget, not because of what was said but because of what it meant.

“You never told me how you managed to lead the horde away,” you say, your voice quiet, almost drowned out by the gentle rustle of the breeze.

Jungwon’s gaze flickers towards you, the faintest hint of a smile playing at his lips. But it’s not a happy smile. It’s something else—something strained and distant, like he’s trying to find the right words to explain the inexplicable.

“I don’t even remember half of it…” he admits, his voice thick, roughened by exhaustion he hasn’t yet shaken off. “I was just… making a whole lot of noise to lure them out. Screaming, banging on metal, anything to get their attention.” His fingers trace absent patterns along the rooftop surface, his eyes never quite meeting yours. “Then I just started walking… for two days straight I was just walking back towards the city.”

Your breath catches. You’ve heard fragments of what he did from the others, but hearing it from him—hearing the quiet resignation in his voice—it twists something deep within you.

“It started raining somewhere in the middle,” he continues, his tone growing distant, like he’s reliving it all over again. “I was cold, exhausted, fuck, I almost collapsed right there and then. My legs were giving out, my head was spinning… but I knew if I did, if I fell, I wouldn’t be able to come back to you. So I sucked it up.”

You’re staring at him now, eyes wide, the air suddenly feeling too thick, too sharp. The thought of him out there alone, fighting against the world itself just to keep you safe—it’s almost too much to bear.

“The horde was just mindlessly walking behind me,” Jungwon continues, his voice tightening. “Occasionally something else would catch their attention and I had to shoot a few bullets to get it back. That was risky… drawing attention like that. But it worked. They kept following me.”

He pauses, the weight of his own words pressing down on him like a lead blanket. “Eventually, I passed by the village. Remember the two people we left behind?”

You nod, a cold dread settling in your stomach. You remember the desperation in their voices, the hollow looks in their eyes as they pleaded with you to stay. And you remember leaving them behind anyway.

“They were there,” Jungwon says, voice hollow. “One of them had half their face chewed out and the other… the other had their guts hanging out of their body. They were just… walking. No purpose. No sense of anything. Just… dead.”

The silence that follows is brutal. You don’t realise you’ve stopped breathing until your lungs start to burn.

“I eventually reached the city,” Jungwon continues, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “I hid out in a random store. Waited for it to clear out a little before I started making my way back.”

“Jungwon…” Your voice trembles, your chest tightening with something that feels too close to grief. “I’m so sorry…”

“Why are you apologising?” Jungwon’s eyes finally find yours, a flicker of frustration mingling with something softer. “You didn’t make me do it. I chose to do it. And you know what? When I passed by the village again, I noticed a small patch of wildflowers growing at the side of the curb.”

His lips twitch into a small, self-deprecating smile, and his laugh is more air than sound. “Stupid me thought it was a sign that you’d woken up, so I started running back. Like a maniac. I tripped over some broken glass, nearly twisted my ankle, but I just kept going.”

He’s laughing, but the sound is hollow, edged with a madness born from desperation. You stare at him, your own chest tightening with something raw and painful, wondering how he could find humour in something so devastating. “How are you laughing like you didn’t almost die?”

Jungwon shrugs, the motion careless but his eyes—his eyes are anything but. “Trust me, after experiencing your near death… everything is laughable.”

It had taken you a moment to realise what he meant. That the thought of losing you had been so unbearable, so incomprehensibly horrifying, that everything else paled in comparison. That even his own suffering had become insignificant when measured against the possibility of losing you.

You remember how you had reached for him then, your hand finding his, fingers intertwining like they belonged there. How he had squeezed your hand so tightly it almost hurt, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

The two of you had sat there in silence, the cool night air brushing against your skin. And for that moment, it didn’t matter that the world was rotting. It didn’t matter that you were both scarred and afraid and haunted by ghosts you couldn’t outrun.

All that mattered was that you were still there. Still breathing. Still fighting.

You’ve both changed, that much is clear. But you’re trying to grow from it, not let the darkness consume you. Jungwon has his own demons to battle. The rage he harbours against A’s people is still there, burning beneath the surface. But it’s not consuming him anymore. Not entirely. He’s found something else to fight for. Something more important than revenge.

There’s a careful balance now, one of acceptance and compromise. You still argue, still struggle against the stubbornness that pulls you apart like opposing forces. There are days when he snaps, frustration boiling over when things don’t go as planned. And there are days when you retreat into yourself, overwhelmed by the reality of your own limitations. But you talk. You let yourselves be honest, raw. And somehow, it makes all the difference.

You think about the garden often. It’s a quiet thought, one that creeps into your mind during the silences between breaths, when the world feels steady and the nightmares are held at bay. You still remember the metaphor you conjured for him—wildflowers breaking through cracks, roots winding their way through stone, claiming life where there shouldn’t be any.

But now, you realise it’s not just about him. It’s about all of you.

It’s in the way Sunoo coax life from the soil. It’s in Jake’s quiet determination as he scours books. It’s in Ni-ki’s resourcefulness as he scavenges supplies, building something from nothing. It’s in Sunghoon and Heeseung’s tireless efforts to keep everyone safe, their strength unyielding even when exhaustion clings to their bones.

It’s in Jay’s stubbornness, his dedication to protecting what’s left of this fractured family, even when his own doubts threaten to swallow him whole.

And it’s in Jungwon. The boy whose name means ‘garden’. The boy who, despite the darkness pressing in from every side, still reaches for the light. Still fights to grow, to thrive, to protect the things he’s come to care about.

You think of all the times you tried to pull away, tried to distance yourself from the tangled web of connections that’s formed between you all. You think of the nights you spent on the rooftop with Jungwon, trading secrets and fears like offerings, daring to believe that maybe you weren’t as alone as you thought.

The truth is, you’ve taken root here. Somehow, against all logic and reason, you’ve let yourself be part of something. You’ve let yourself care. And as much as you’ve tried to convince yourself otherwise, you can’t keep running from that.

Because gardens aren’t meant to be contained. They’re meant to grow wild and untamed, to spread and intertwine and thrive in the most unexpected places. And maybe—just maybe—that’s what this is.

A wild, tangled, beautiful mess of people who’ve found each other in a world that’s done everything to tear them apart.

Now, you climb up the ladder with more ease, having slowly adapted to the awkwardness of using only one arm. The process is far from graceful, but you manage.

And when you reach the top, Jungwon is already there, his back resting against the convenience store sign, arms draped over his knees as he watches the fractured skyline. He looks tired, eyes bruised with exhaustion but softened by a look that borders on longing.

He glances over his shoulder at the sound of your approach, and some of that tension melts away. He offers you a small smile, the kind that feels just a little too tight around the edges.

The air is cool and crisp, autumn bleeding into winter, and you feel the cold bite at your skin. You draw in a breath, feeling the chill of the air scrape against your lungs. But the moment you settle beside him, his hand slides into yours, pulling you into his warmth without hesitation. 

You lean into him, letting yourself soak in the quiet. “Heard you had an appointment with Jake today,” Jungwon says eventually, his voice low and careful. “What did he say about your arm?”

You glance down at the stump of your arm, the place where flesh used to be. “He says it’s healing well. But I guess my body’s still adjusting.” You lift your arm—what’s left of it—and shrug as if it’s not a big deal. As if it’s not still tearing you apart from the inside out.

Jungwon’s gaze lingers on your arm for a moment, but he doesn’t flinch or avert his eyes like the others sometimes do. He meets it head-on, his acceptance so genuine it almost hurts. “Does it hurt?”

“Not really. Not anymore,” you answer, though it feels like a lie. It’s not pain in the conventional sense. “It just… feels weird. Like it’s still there sometimes. Like I can still move my fingers if I try hard enough.”

“Phantom pain,” he murmurs, the words sounding heavy on his tongue. “Jake mentioned something about that. How your brain’s still trying to make sense of what’s gone.”

“Yeah.” Your throat tightens, a lump forming that you can’t seem to swallow down. “I guess it’s like trying to walk when your legs are asleep. The more you try, the more it hurts.” The admission is raw, but Jungwon doesn’t shy away from it. Instead, he shifts closer, his warmth seeping into your bones.

He watches you, eyes searching, waiting for something you’re not sure you can give. And you hate how perceptive he is, how easily he sees through the cracks you try so hard to hide.

“I’ve been thinking,” he starts, his gaze fixed on the jagged silhouette of the city as if the answers lie somewhere beyond the darkness. “About all of this. About us. About… you.”

Your eyes flicker toward him, curious but patient. A silence falls between you, one that feels too heavy to break. And then he speaks again, this time he’s looking at you when he does. “You’ve been different since it happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“Not in a bad way,” he says quickly, his voice stumbling over itself. “You’re just… you’re quieter. You’re more careful. It’s like you’re always holding something back.”

You want to deny it, to tell him he’s wrong. But you can’t. Because he’s right. You’ve become cautious, restrained, afraid of repeating the mistakes that nearly cost you everything.

“Maybe I am,” you admit, the words barely above a whisper. “I think… I think it’s because I realised how close I came to losing everything. And not just my life. But all of you.”

“Everything feels so fragile,” you continue, your voice wavering. “Like it could all fall apart any second. And I keep waiting for something to go wrong. For someone to get hurt again. For me to lose you.” The confession spills out before you can swallow it back, your voice cracking under the weight of the fear that’s been festering inside you.

Jungwon shifts closer, his arm coming around your shoulders, pulling you into him. The warmth of his body seeps into yours, his fingers tracing gentle circles along your upper arm. “You’re not going to lose me,” he says, his voice steady and fierce. “Not now. Not ever. I won’t let that happen.”

“But you can’t promise that.” Your words tremble, tears burning the corners of your eyes. “None of us can.”

He hesitates, his expression clouded, the weight of his own words pressing against him. “No, we can’t.” His admission is soft, broken. “But we can fight for it. We can make it count. And we can do it together.”

“Together.” The word feels heavy on your tongue. You want to believe him, want to cling to the conviction in his voice. But his certainty only makes your own doubts grow louder.

Because the truth is, you’re terrified. Terrified that this second chance is nothing more than a cruel joke. That you’ll fail them again. That you’ll get someone killed. That you’ll keep making reckless decisions because you’re too stubborn to admit you can’t do this alone.

He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes never leaving yours. The silence stretches between you, thick and heavy, but not uncomfortable. Just… real. Then, slowly, he reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips lingering against your skin, warm and steady. His thumb brushes over your cheek, tracing small, soothing circles that send a shiver down your spine.

“Y/N. You didn’t lose us. You’re still here. And it's because you fought for this, the same way you’ll continue fighting for this. Am I wrong to say that?” His voice is low, soft, but there’s a strength beneath it—a quiet conviction that refuses to break. His eyes bore into yours, searching, as if daring you to deny what he’s saying. As if his words alone could anchor you to this moment, to this fragile hope you’re both trying so hard to keep alive.

But it’s more than just words. It’s the way his touch grounds you, the way he holds you like you’re something precious, something worth fighting for. It’s not just reassurance he’s offering—it’s belief. A belief so strong it feels like it could shatter all the doubts you’ve been harbouring since you woke up, feverish and broken and terrified you’d never be yourself again.

And you realise, with a clarity that cuts through the doubt like a blade, that he’s right.

You’re still here. Bruised and battered and so damn tired, but you’re here.

The night stretches on, the air thick with the scent of soil and metal, the quiet hum of insects, the distant creak of the watchtower Ni-ki and Heeseung built not long ago swaying in the breeze. You lean against Jungwon, your head resting on his shoulder, your hand curled around his. It’s not perfect. It’s not easy. But it’s something. And maybe that’s enough.

And then, when the silence feels like it’s about to swallow you whole, he starts to sing.

His voice is soft, hesitant at first, but it grows stronger with each note, weaving through the air like a thread of gold. You close your eyes and listen, the melody sinking into your bones, soothing the ache of old wounds and new fears alike. 

You recognise the song. It’s the same one he sang to you when you thought you might never wake up. The same one that carried you through the darkness and back to him.

Just close your eyes The sun is going down You'll be alright No one can hurt you now Come morning light You and I'll be safe and sound

The song ends, but the warmth of his voice lingers. And as you sit there, tangled up in each other, you realise that the fear hasn’t gone away. It never will. But it’s quieter now. Bearable. Something you can live with.

You’re reminded again how both of you are not just trying to survive, but you’re learning how to live. And for the first time, you let yourself feel the weight of it. The love. The fear. The hope. And you know—whether you deserve it or not—you can’t push them away. Not anymore.

The rest of the night passes in silence, leaving you alone with a thought that plagues your mind: Is it weird to say you met your soulmate in the middle of a zombie apocalypse? 

Maybe it is. And if so, then you’re weird. To find people you care about in the same way they care about you feels like a miracle in a world where kindness is punished and compassion is a weakness. Where caring too much can get you killed.

But you found them. Against all odds, you found them. And somehow, that feels more surreal than the dead walking the earth. Because, really, what are the chances? That you’d stumble upon people willing to risk everything for you? People who’ve seen you at your lowest, your most broken, and still choose to stay?

What are the chances that, even in a world this cruel and unforgiving, you’d find someone who holds your hand like you’re still whole? Someone who looks at you like you’re something precious, something worth protecting, worth loving.

The others have joked about it before. How you and Jungwon gravitate toward each other like it’s second nature. How he becomes someone else entirely when it comes to you. And maybe there’s some truth to it. Because when he looks at you, it’s not just with fondness or admiration. It’s with something deeper, something that grounds you even when everything else is falling apart.

The world outside is a nightmare, a constant fight for survival. And yet, somehow, you’ve found your place. Not just in the camp you’ve built, but in the blooming garden of the boy who holds you like you’re his reason to keep fighting. Like you’re his reason to hope.

So, maybe it is weird. Maybe it’s insane to believe in love in a world like this. But as you sit beside Jungwon on the rooftop, his arm draped over your shoulders, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns along your skin, you realise you don’t care how absurd it sounds.

You found your soulmate in the middle of a zombie apocalypse.

And it’s in that moment, with his arms wrapped around you, his heartbeat thundering against your own, that you truly understand what it means to be alive. To feel everything—joy, pain, love, fear, hope—so intensely that it leaves you breathless.

You’re alive. And so is he. And somehow, against all odds, you’re here. Together.

You fall asleep on the rooftop that night, your head resting against Jungwon’s shoulder, his arm wrapped around you. The stars blaze above, indifferent and eternal, but for the first time in a long, long time—

You feel safe. You feel sound.

part 6 - dusk | masterlist

♡。·˚˚· ·˚˚·。♡

notes from nat: omg... i actually did it. i actually finished this. 124k words. I've peaked. I'm never recovering from this series, actually. first of all, thank you so much to every single one of you who've supported me and this series. i know the wait in between parts were lowkey incriminating, and yet all of you were still so kind and patient. I'm not an author who knows how to fully engage her audience interaction-wise and I truly appreciate all of you for approaching me and engaging with my blog. the amount of mutuals and lovely people I came to know through this series is actually insane. so thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I'll talk more about my feelings and thoughts writing this series in a separate post, but for now this is where I officially close out safe & sound. this is definitely not the last time you will hear from me but until then, please stay safe & healthy!

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[rafedarling]

𝐢 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮

pairing: dad!drew starkey x mom!reader

summary: atter giving birth to lola, you begin feeling insecure about your stretch marks and body changes. you start locking the bathroom door and avoiding intimacy. drew doesn’t notice at first but when he does, his reaction is far from what you feared.

warning(s): english is not my native language. postpartum body image insecurities, mentions of stretch marks, soft emotional comfort, lots of gentle love, drew being the sweetest partner ever.

au: like, reblog and feedback are much appreciated. discussion can be send through my ask box, please feel free to send in anything. ⭐️ taglist | tagging: @rubixgsworld @rafeyslamb @bisexualcvnt @tracymbcm @maybankslover @anamiad00msday @stuffyownswrld @httpsdrewstarkey @mileyraes @enjoymyloves @akobx @noobmazter69 @victwrvale @xoxohoneymoongirl @xoxosblogsblog @wearemadeofstardust0 @saviorcomplexrry @percysley @littlelamy @winniemoe @emberaurora @issabellec7 @alexxavicry @rafestoothbrush @moonlightluna23

It started small.

The click of the bathroom door locking behind you.

The oversized shirt you insisted on keeping on even when it was just the two of you.

The dimmed lights before bed, even on warmer nights when the baby monitor glowed softly by the nightstand.

Drew didn’t notice it at first.

There was Lola to take care of, Rustyn to chase after, bottles to warm, lullabies to sing. The nights blurred into days and back again, and amidst the warm chaos of new life, your quiet hesitations faded into the background.

Until they didn’t.

It was the fourth evening in a row where he reached for the bathroom door to tell you dinner was ready only to hear the soft click of the lock before his hand touched the knob.

He didn’t say anything at the time. Just paused, hand hovering, and slowly stepped away.

But he noticed.

He noticed the way you kept the towel wrapped tightly around your body until you were safely tucked into pajamas.

He noticed you flinch slightly when his fingers grazed your waist without warning.

And he especially noticed the way you avoided his eyes when he asked if everything was okay.

That night, after both kids were finally down and the house fell into a rare silence, you crawled into bed beside him, quiet, tucked in a soft cotton tee, your back turned to him the way it had been more nights than not.

Drew slid closer anyway.

Wordlessly, he wrapped one arm around your waist, his nose tucking into the space where your shoulder met your neck, the tip of it brushing the baby hairs near your ear.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he murmured.

You hummed, eyes focused on the shadows dancing across the ceiling.

“Just tired.”

He didn’t press. Just held you tighter.

But then,soft, slow, and safe he asked,

“Is it because of me?”

You blinked.

“Because I noticed…”

He added gently, his thumb brushing over the hem of your shirt.

“You’ve been locking the door. Not letting me see you.”

You swallowed.

For a moment, you thought of deflecting again. Maybe even blaming hormones, or sleep, or some other distant excuse that didn’t carry the weight in your chest.

But Drew’s voice was so quiet.

So careful.

And his arms around you didn’t budge. They only held you steadier.

You turned your face slightly toward him, just enough for your voice to find its way back.

“It’s not because of you.”

He kissed the back of your head once, then rested his forehead there.

“Then talk to me, baby.”

You exhaled shakily.

“After I gave birth to Lola, my belly never went back. The stretch marks… they’re everywhere. They’re deep. And red. And I know they’ll fade, but Drew, I don’t look the same. I don’t feel the same.”

He said nothing, but his hand shifted, sliding beneath the hem of your shirt, palm flat against your soft tummy.

You tensed.

“I used to be confident,” you added, your voice cracking.

“I used to love when you looked at me. Now I just… I can’t stand the idea of you seeing me like this. Of seeing what’s left.”

The silence was heavy but not cold.

He was thinking.

You were about to speak again maybe take it back and when his hand gently turned you over to face him.

Drew’s eyes met yours, soft and sea-glass blue even in the dark.

“You think I’d stop wanting you because your body did something incredible?”

You opened your mouth, but he kept going, his words steady, raw, and real.

“Do you know how many nights I stayed up just watching you sleep with one hand on your belly, feeling her kick? Do you know how much I loved your body then? How I love it now?”

His hand rested over your ribs.

“You made our baby. You made two of them. Your body changed because it had to because it grew love inside of it.”

You looked away, embarrassed by the tears slipping down your cheeks.

But Drew gently brought your face back to him, kissing your temple.

“I miss seeing you,” he whispered.

“Not because you look different but because I want you to know that nothing’s changed for me. Not one damn thing.”

You closed your eyes, letting the truth in.

He continued, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I married you knowing every version of you will evolve. That’s the promise, right? I don’t just love the you from our wedding, or the you carrying Lola. I love the woman you are now, a strong, tired, stretched thin but still here, still beautiful, still mine.”

Your lips trembled.

“You think I see stretch marks?” he asked.

“No. They’re like… superhero battle scars. You literally built humans, babe.”

You let out a shaky laugh, burying your face in his chest.

“That was so corny.”

“It was true, though,” he teased, smiling softly against your hair.

You stayed like that for a long time, breathing him in, letting his warmth push out every last lingering shadow.

Eventually, your hand found his.

You pulled it under your shirt again, guiding it to your belly.

“They’re really red right now.”

“I know,” he murmured.

“And I still think you’re the sexiest damn thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

You snorted. “You’re impossible.”

He tilted your chin to kiss you slow.

“Nope. I just madly in love with my wife. Even the parts she’s still learning to love herself.”

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

.（ℱ） LEAVE ME, RUIN ME ?!

✩ tw : nsfw/smut, creampie (vaginal), angst, no aftercare, no fluff, mentions of sexual assault (none happens dw), Possessive mydei, rough mydei, fem!reader, chocking, hair pulling & others. [MDNI]

✩ sum : As Mydei prepares to leave for a dangerous mission, he and the reader share a desperate, punishing night together, knowing it might be their last. Fueled by fear and unspoken love, he takes you with a raw intensity, marking you as his even as he’s forced to walk away. Left alone in the aftermath, your left to grapple with the unbearable weight of his absence, fearing he may never return.

✩ note : short fic since i’m not good at writing angst. not proofread.

The chamber felt suffocating. The air was thick with candle smoke and the scent of something burning, but nothing smelled stronger than Mydei’s desperation. His fingers curled into his palms, his golden eyes stormy as he stood in front of you, his breath unsteady. He was leaving—heading straight into Amphoreus on a mission that could very well be his end.

And there was nothing you could do to stop him.

“You know what they’ll do to you if they catch you,” you said, your voice sharp, your heart slamming against your ribs. “You’ve seen what they do to traitors. To people who go against them.”

You swallowed hard. “To me.”

Mydei flinched. His jaw clenched, his breath hitching. Of course, he knew. You had been captured once before—torn away from him, left in the hands of those monsters. They hadn’t broken you, but the memories of what almost happened never left. You had told Mydei everything, and he had listened. Had held you so tightly you thought he’d break you apart just to put you back together.

But now, he was choosing to walk right into their hands.

“You think I don’t know that?” he rasped. “You think I don’t see their faces every time I close my fucking eyes? You think I don’t remember what they did to you? What they almost did?”

His hands were shaking as he reached for you, gripping your shoulders like he was trying to steady himself.

“I won’t let them take me,” he swore, voice raw. “I won’t let them take me the way they took you.”

“Then don’t fucking go! Stop spitting out random bullshit!”

The words ripped from your throat, but you already knew they were useless. Mydei had made up his mind long before this conversation started.

And it broke you.

He must have seen it—the way your body slumped against the wall, the fight leaving your limbs. Because something inside him snapped.

He surged forward, his lips crashing into yours, desperate and bruising. His hands moved to your wrists, pinning them against the cold stone wall, pressing his body flush against yours as if he could carve himself into you, leave his mark before he disappeared into the abyss.

“Tell me you hate me,” he whispered against your lips, his breath ragged. "Tell me I disgust you."

You stared at him, horrified. “What?”

His grip tightened, his forehead pressing against yours. "If you say it, maybe it’ll be easier to leave." His voice cracked on the last word, his entire body trembling. “Say it.”

Your throat closed up.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” you whispered. “And a coward.”

A broken sound slipped from his throat.

Then, suddenly, he was tearing your clothes from your body, his hands rough as they grabbed at your tits, squeezing, marking. His mouth latched onto your throat, biting hard enough to leave bruises, his fingers moving between your legs, dragging through your wetness.

“You’re soaked,” he murmured, almost in disbelief. “Even when you hate me?”

“I never said I hate you,” you bit out.

His hands gripped your thighs, lifting you, forcing you to wrap around him. He lined himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, but he didn’t push in.

Not yet.

He let his fingers slide over your slit again, teasing your clit, spreading your wetness.

“I should’ve fucked you like this sooner," he whispered. “I should’ve ruined you long before now.”

“Then do it,” you spat. “Before you run away again.”

Something dark flickered across his expression, and then—he slammed into you.

The stretch burned, but you took him all at once, your back arching, your nails clawing at his arms. He was relentless, thrusting deep and fast, his grip bruising, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your ear.

He needed this.

Needed to feel you, needed to brand himself into your skin before he walked to his own execution.

He grabbed your throat, squeezing just enough to make you lightheaded, his cock driving deeper, hitting that spot that made your toes curl. His pace grew frantic, each thrust rougher, more desperate.

“You’re mine,” he rasped. “Even if I die, you’ll still be mine.”

Tears burned in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall.

His grip tightened on your throat, his other hand shoving between your legs, rubbing your clit in fast, messy circles.

“Cum for me, baby,” he ordered. “Now.”

Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up. Pleasure tore through you, your walls clamping down around him, milking his cock as you came undone.

Mydei let out a broken moan, his hips stuttering as he buried himself inside you, filling you with his release, his breath shuddering. His grip on your throat loosened. His entire body trembled.

For a moment, he just held you.

Then, his arms tightened around you—so tight it hurt. His face buried in your neck, and when he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.

"I don’t want to go," he admitted. “I don’t want to fucking leave you.”

Your hands came up, gripping his arms. “Then stay.”

But you both knew he wouldn’t.

And before you could say anything else, he was gone.

The door slammed behind him, leaving nothing but the echo of his absence and the suffocating scent of sweat and sex in the air. Your legs trembled as you slid down the cold stone wall, cum dripping between your thighs, your body still aching from the way he had taken you—desperate, punishing, like he could fuck the pain away.

But he was gone.

Your chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, your fingers clutching at nothing. You told yourself you wouldn’t cry. That you wouldn’t be weak. That you wouldn’t let his absence carve its way into your ribs and settle there like a festering wound.

And yet—

A choked sob slipped past your lips, and then another, and before you could stop yourself, you were breaking.

Mydei had held you like you were his lifeline, had kissed you like he was trying to breathe through you, had fucked you like he was already mourning what he was about to lose.

And now?

Now, he was walking straight into hell.

You curled your arms around yourself, body wracked with silent, shaking cries. You could still feel him—his bruising grip, the way his fingers had tangled in your hair, the possessive, desperate way he had growled mine over and over again.

It wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

Because if he didn’t come back—if he didn’t survive—then you’d be left with nothing but the memory of his touch, the ghost of his body pressed against yours, the taste of his lips lingering on your tongue.

You forced yourself to stand, your legs weak, your body unsteady. The sheets on the bed were still a mess, the scent of him clinging to them, and for a moment, you considered crawling beneath them, burying yourself in what little remained of him.

But you knew better.

You knew that if you let yourself fall into that grief now, you would never crawl back out.

So instead, you cleaned yourself up, wiped the remnants of him from your thighs, and dressed. Every movement was mechanical, your hands shaking as you wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to pretend you weren’t still trembling.

The outside was quiet.

Too quiet.

You walked through the dimly lit corridors, your mind a mess of fragmented thoughts, of whispered prayers you refused to let yourself believe in.

He’s coming back.

He has to.

And yet, deep in your chest, you felt it—something cracking, something breaking, something warning you that this time, hope might not be enough.

Bonus : he doesn’t come or cum back, he’s stuck outside of okhema. Oh, also, you get pregnant and he doesn’t know that. ❤︎︎

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

[viennakarma]

Everything I Wanted I.

LESTAPPEN X READER (Part 1)

Summary: Your journey to become a Motorsport legend wasn't easy, especially when your path clashed with your greatest rivals, Max Verstappen and Charles Leclerc.

Word count: 7.1k

Tags: Driver reader, mentions of crash, abusive parent, daddy issues, trust issues, character death (not reader), cursing, strong rivalry, misogyny in motorsport, invasive media, aggressive fans, reader suffers with cyberbullying and hate, smut, female reader, +18, unprotected sex, voyeurism, exhibtionism, edging, filthy, porn with plot, queer! everyone, polyamory lestappen, bit of dirty talking, pet names, not beta read

Relationships: Lestappen x Reader

Mentor!Kimi Raikkonen x Reader

Sebastian Vettel, Fernando Alonso, Lewis Hamilton x Platonic!Reader

Notes: this is full of motorsport categories inaccuracies, just go with the vibes please. There are a few inaccuracies regarding other drivers' lives, but they are just to fit the story. I know I said it was a oneshot, but the thing got out of hand, and I had to split it in half. Soon there will be a part 2! English is not my first language, so please ignore any mistake!

Find me on Twitter!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

“They’re not friends, you understand? They’re rivals, and that’s all they’ll ever be.”

You stand, hugging your helmet firmly against your chest, your dad’s words louder than the ringing in your ear from the way he slapped the side of your head. You were 9 and it was your first time competing in a karting competition. You tried to befriend the other kids your age, but as soon as your dad called you away, fuming, you knew it was a mistake.

You followed your dad’s orders, and didn’t talk to any of the boys again. Max was already cold towards you, so he pretty much ignored your existence. But Charles was more talkative, and as you stopped answering him, he became taunting, annoying, but you didn’t fall behind, you used to clap back at him with the same intensity.

Sometimes you eavesdropped on their conversations, initially it wasn’t intentional, but they were always complaining about you, calling you names, and you realized your dad was right, they would never see you as a friend or equal, only as a rival.

One day you’re walking by when you hear your name in their conversation.

“Nah, don’t worry about Y/N,” Max shrugged, his accent thick, as he pointed to the side of his temple “she’s a little slow, but maybe she’ll catch up.”

You stood there, his words echoing in your head, she’s a little slow, that was a kind way to call you stupid, which, compared to the way your father called you that many times, it was much sweeter. You shouldn’t have let that get to your head, specially said that way. But then again, you were 11, and you kept hearing those words again and again in your head. You never considered yourself dumb, your grades in school were average, and whenever you had time off of karting to study for your exams, your grades became even better, a little above average.

And despite knowing that, after going back home after the competition, you spent the whole Saturday at the local library, studying everything you could find on motorsports and Formula One. You lent books on strategy, history, and even mechanics. Every spare time you had, you spent reading those books, or lending others. You didn’t want to be slow as they had called you.

After that, you stopped talking to Max completely.

“This is a waste!” Your dad shouted, and you flinched, taking a discreet step back, away from him, trying to avoid him getting physical.

You had argued with him, which made him more furious. You tried to tell him it wasn’t your fault, you were just as good at racing as everyone else, maybe better, but no one was willing to give a girl a chance. It made him even angrier.

“You had one job! You get into F4 on your first try!”

You wanted to tell him it wasn’t your fault. That they weren’t willing to give a girl a chance, even if you were better than half of the boys who made it to F4. But your dad didn’t care about any of it, he wanted you to succeed or nothing. He used to always say that anything below first place is failure.

So he decided you, at 14, weren’t worth the money he spent on karting. And he simply left. Making peace with the fact that your dad never saw you as his kid, but more like an investment, was hard.

“You’re never going to be a Formula 1 champion.” Was the last thing he said to you, before dropping you at your mom’s to never come back.

Living with your mom ever since your dad gave you up was something else. She had lost everything after the divorce, thanks to a prenup she had naively signed without knowing anything about it. So when you moved in with her, you noticed how the house was smaller than your dad’s, you two slept in the single room that was there. Your mom worked two jobs living paycheck to paycheck, and you barely saw her. But she was kind, comforting.

You soon realized that she wouldn’t be able to provide for your karting career. So you lied, you told her your dad was still paying for the karting, and you found two part time jobs to pay for racing. You mom worked so much, she didn’t notice your absence in the afternoons, when you went to work in an auto repair shop. Sometimes, on the rare occasions she was off work in the afternoons, you lied and told her you were out with friends, or studying in the library or even doing extracurriculars. You had the best intentions, you used to tell yourself at night whenever you laid awake, you knew she would blame herself or even work herself to death to provide for you.

The entirety of the next year was a constant struggle, and you worked, and scrapped and lied your way through the entire karting competition. It was one of your last chances to get into F4, and you weren’t sure you could live another year that way, without a sponsor.

When the competition ended, you were second place overall. Your kart had problems during the race and you were sad that it affected your performance in a race you could’ve won.

You walked closer as you saw a few of the other boys gathering around some adults, you eyed them curiously. As soon as you noticed who they were, you swallowed. They were probably scouts, it was very common in finals of these competitions, you were used to it. You also were used to being ignored by all of them scouts. You had tried many times before to make connections and make yourself known, maybe even meeting a potential sponsor, but they always ignored you. They weren’t interested in a girl, they didn’t care about a woman in motorsports. Your only hope was that one day you would meet a female scout and she would see your potential.

But meanwhile, there were only men, and they didn’t give two fucks about you. So you didn’t even get close enough to join, you heard Charles and Max talking with them, and you just turned around, going back to your kart.

You pulled a few tools from your backpack, working to fix the difficulties you felt during the race.

“What are you doing?” A man approached you, crouching close to watch your work. You briefly looked up, the guy was wearing sunglasses and a cap, just a normal guy, looking like someone’s dad.

“I’m fixing my steering wheel, it was a bit stuck during the race so I had to double the force used to be able to make it work,” you explained, and he nodded.

“You finished second, right? Why are you here by yourself?” The man asked.

“The other kids don’t like me very much. And they’re talking to the scouts,” you shrugged, trying not to think about all the opportunities they would get and you wouldn’t.

“You should be there, no? Meeting scouts is important for your career.”

“They’re not very interested in a girl racer. Believe me, I know.” You muttered, finishing with the steering wheel, testing to see if it was working all right. You turned, fixing your left rear tyre. The tyre wasn’t responding very well to the braking, “besides, my kart won’t fix itself, right? Look, you see how this tyre is slower to respond to my braking? It messed up with my balance during the race. I could have won.”

“Shouldn’t you take your kart somewhere to get it fixed?” The man asked, helping you unscrew the tyre.

“Can’t afford it,” you said, “I’m saving to try and get into F4, so I can’t spare any money on this one.”

You weren’t usually this talkative with new people, mostly keeping to yourself. But maybe you were missing a grownup figure in your life since your dad had dipped and your mom was always busy. And that man sounded really interested in your stuff, so it felt natural explaining to him.

“So, no one sponsoring you?” He asked, which made you look at him again, hesitantly.

“No, uh, I had one but he dropped me last year” you said, leaving out that part that it was your dad.

“You know who I am?” The man asked and you looked at him, shaking your head.

“Someone’s dad? I mean, I haven’t been introduced to all the kids and their parents yet, but you’re kinda familiar, so-” As you were babbling and trying to explain, he took off the cap and sunglasses, and you immediately recognized him, “oh my god!”

“Shh, shh” he silenced you, putting the disguise back.

“You’re Kimi Raikkonen!” You whispered, and he nodded.

“I’ll be your new sponsor, eh? What do you say?”

"Just like that?"

"Just like that," he nodded.

"How do you know I'm good enough for a sponsorship?" You asked, genuinely curious.

"Well, are you good enough for a sponsorship?" He asked. He had been keeping an eye out at that very category, and you had caught his attention as seemingly smart and emotionally controlled with the kart.

"I'm the best of the bunch," you smiled at him and you won him over with that answer.

Kimi became your lifeline, in a way. His family was quick to embrace you in an affectionate way you would’ve never expected of them. They invited you for their little New Year’s party, and you eventually told everything about your life to Kimi. His wife Minttu had also taken you as one of her own and their kids liked you a lot.

Under Minttu’s suggestion, Kimi also enrolled you in language classes, so besides English, you spent the next years learning French and Spanish, and you also caught a little Finnish from being so close to them.

You kept pushing your way up from F4 to F3 and so on, but instead of climbing it steadily like the boys, you had to win two or three times more than them to prove you were worth taking the next step.

You were 16 when your paths crossed with the boys from your childhood again. They recognised you, but they never really talked to you, so they didn't this time around either.

Coming out of the bathroom you once again caught a conversation, and you stopped dead as soon as you heard your name.

“No, not really… I don’t see her like that at all- she’s- uh-” Charles was speaking, probably looking for the words in english, “-she’s more like one of the boys.”

You paused, your breath hitched.

“Yeah,” that was Max, “I don’t see her like that either. I guess she doesn’t care about the things girls her age do.”

You felt a lump in your throat, retreating back to the bathroom. You stood in front of the mirror, watching your face as the tears fell down on your cheeks. You were dressed in your regular racing day attire, cargo pants and a sweater. You didn’t wear makeup and your hair was all frizzy because of the helmet.

The next time you went to the Raikkonen residence, you pulled Minttu aside one moment.

“I want to be pretty. Will you help me?”

You two went through a long chat with Minttu reassuring you that you were pretty in your own way and you insisting you wanted to be pretty like other girls, more feminine and girly.

When you entered F2 after the winter break, you felt and looked like some better version of yourself. Minttu had helped you set a skincare routine that was already helping clear your face from teenage acne. She also took you to a hair salon, where you trimmed your hair and made a few highlights. She upgraded your wardrobe, and even if you tried to refuse saying it was too much, she said it was a Christmas gift and wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Your path until reaching F1 was slow and steady, and you were a reserve driver for two years before finally getting a seat at McLaren. You knew Kimi probably had a hand in getting you a chance, but he denied every time you asked.

Kimi told you the raw truth before the season started. He and Minttu sat you down and talked about how the world and Formula 1 would expect more of you than of any other rookie. How they would stress your mistakes tenfold. How they would diminish your achievements with the same intensity. You weren’t afraid, really.

“I’ve lived with my greatest hater more than half of my life, I can handle strangers” you had laughed to the couple.

Still, Kimi taught you everything about his Iceman persona, and told you to pick whatever you wanted from it. Minttu also convinced you to start therapy, which you accepted.

The hate started as soon as you were announced. Beyond the regular misogyny, they were calling you too old to be a rookie at 24, they were questioning your abilities even with numerous championships from other categories to back you up, even with the fact that your mentor was Kimi fucking Raikkonen. But you didn’t let any of that get under your skin.

Sebastian Vettel was quickly drawn to you, and he became your first friend in Formula 1. He had been close with Kimi from the time they were teammates, and he kinda adopted you.

The guys your age didn’t want to get too close to you. The very few times they talked or walked with you, it sparked romance rumors, and soon they pretty much ignored or avoided you. You knew their intentions weren't to be mean, they were probably just avoiding problems with the media and their girlfriends or wives, but it didn’t hurt any less every time they walked straight past you.

One of those times you were going to the group press conference and all three of the guys walked past you as you tried to chat with them. Your shoulders slumped, and you swallowed the lump in your throat.

“What was that?” You jumped at the sound of another voice. You looked behind you to see Fernando Alonso walking up to you. Up until that point, he had been polite to you.

“Oh,” you stumbled over your words, “being seen talking to me is bad press, apparently.”

“Una tontería,” he muttered, shaking his head, which made you laugh, surprised. He put a friendly hand over your shoulder and led you to the media session.

Simples as that, Fernando too became your friend.

You asked your PR manager, Amanda, to bend a few rules to make sure you would always be at the press conference with Seb and Nando or at least one of them. Most of the time, you did. But sometimes you were unlucky and had to sit stiffly through rounds of absurdly odd (and downright misogynistic) questions by yourself.

Soon you gave up on befriending the other drivers and being charming to the media. You realized the Iceman persona of Kimi looked like a good way to protect yourself from the clutches of the motorsport world. By the sixth race of the year, you gained the Lioness nickname. An agile hunter in your driving style and just as fierce in your answers.

“You’re always seen more comfortable with either Sebastian or Fernando, who are way older than you” some reporter said, “why is that?”

“I believe we’re closer in maturity age,” you said, face expressionless. You heard snickers around the room and you looked to Fernando who was visibly holding a laugh.

“So you’re saying the other drivers are immature?” The reporter pressed, but you didn’t want to talk anymore.

“No,” it’s all you answered, putting your mic down.

Everyone already thought you were arrogant, selfish, and superficial, and as you embraced your cold persona, you just fed into their assumptions. You couldn't care less, it was a good way to protect yourself, to be distant from the media who were constantly trying to drag you to the dirt. 

“You mentioned the other day that you believe you should’ve joined F1 around the time the guys your age did. Why do you think that didn’t happen?”

“Because of what’s between my legs, Brian” you deadpanned.

You had to prove yourself two or three times more than the boys every single step of the way, to get into F4, F3, F2 and now F1. You made it, you were there, between the 20 best of motorsport in the whole world… and still… Still you had to hear questions about how you managed to race with a period, questions about boyfriends, questions about hair care or skin care, or whatever. You wouldn’t mind any of that if those were common questions, if they were asked of every driver, but they were only asked of you.

“I would like to express that, from now on, I will only answer questions that would be asked of the male drivers too, about the sport, about the cars, about strategies and everything that revolves around racing,” you warned one day before the end of a media conference when someone asked if your PMS interfered in your racing.

You started to not give two fucks about the media. Every time someone asked you a misogynistic question you just stared at them and put your mic down. So those types of question died down a little bit.

“Do you think you would’ve already been world champion had you entered Formula 1 earlier, let’s say at age 19/20?”

“Yes.”

Most of the guys ignored or avoided you, but your path always clashed with Charles Leclerc and Max Verstappen. They always hinted at not liking you in the slightest, and the media and the fans started catching up to it, throughout your rookie year. They would shamelessly shade you, and you never backed down, giving it as hard as you got.

You walked to a reporter, still using a towel to dry your face at the post race interview.

“Did you hear what Leclerc said about your move as you left the pits?” The man asked you.

“No, I didn’t. Do I look like I care about a man’s opinion?” You said, loud and clear.

You got as many fans as you got haters, especially as you messed with Leclerc’s and Verstappen’s loud fanbases. It wasn’t really on purpose, but one of them would usually jab at you in interviews, and when word got back to you, it would anger you to no end, and you would shade them back, and in an insane amount of back-and-forths until your rivalry was in articles, the news, twitter threads, and in the mind of every single reporter in a race week.

“Verstappen talked about your overtake at lap 49, he said it was a dirty move.”

“Like he did to me back in Silverstone?” Your eyes held a mischievous glint as you scoffed, “Funny, you didn’t see me whining about it back then.”

You had the best rookie year ever since Lewis Hamilton debuted. You almost reached the same overall numbers as him, getting six podiums and your first ever Formula 1 victory. You finished the driver’s championship in fifth place, over older drivers that were literal champions of the world.

The first time Lewis Hamilton really engaged in conversation with you was during the FIA Prize Giving Ceremony by the end of the season. You were proudly smiling, holding your Rookie of the Year trophy. He had been polite to you before, but he always looked unattainable, in a way. He was beyond the world of Formula 1.

“Congratulations!” He smiled at you, sitting by your side. Your heart thrumming in your chest, trying not to fangirl too much. Sometimes it was unbelievable sharing casual conversation with legends you grew up admiring from afar.

“Thank you, Lewis. Congratulations on the championship!” You said.

“I’m sorry for not realizing most of the boys were excluding you. I chatted about it with Seb, and he told me your only friends are him and Fernando.” Lewis whispered, looking genuine, “I guess I was so focused on the championship that I didn’t bother to check on you. I’m sorry, really.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you raised your trophy, “I made it, right?”

“Succeeding despite the adversities… I see traits of a champion in you, congratulations” Lewis got up, raising his flute in a toast for you, “see you around, Lioness!”

Soon the next season you realized you had a competitive car. More than the year before. As for the first few races of the season, you had a win and podiums, which put you as a contender for the driver’s championship. Unfortunately the other people competing closely with you were none other than Charles and Max. Your rivalry had died down a bit when they noticed that you only shaded them when they provoked you first. So as their jabs became few and far between, it meant your clap backs did too.

The season was as good as it could get, that is until Monza.

You had felt the problems braking specifically during qualifying and your team tried to fix it but there wasn’t much anyone could do due to parc fermé. So you spent part of the night before the race working with your strategist to find a way around your braking problems and the best way to preserve your tyres.

The data had shown it would take a bit more strength to brake, which would eat up at your tyres quicker than usual, but other than that, everything seemed normal.

You all were wrong.

As the race went on, your brakes got progressively worse, to the point that curves were taking your body strength so much you could feel your muscles sore.

“We are considering retiring the car,” Jace, your engineer said. You inhaled, trying to calm down.

You were barely holding your P5, when you saw a Red Bull approaching you. You weren’t in position to fight, so he overtook you turning in a chicane. But your brakes didn’t work as you tried to slow down behind Max’s car, you tried not going into him but your tyres locked as you tried to avoid his rear. You drove straight into his rear, making the two of you lose control of your car. You braced for impact against the wall but luckily the gravel slowed you enough that you just touched the barrier.

After checking with your engineer, you left the car and saw Max leaving his, both DNFs.

You knew of your fame of being a reckless driver, often known for risky maneuvers and overtakes, but you never dove into someone intentionally because you knew trying to take someone out would mean yourself getting taken out too. As a marshal took you back to the garage on a motorcycle, you were ready to swallow your pride and apologize to Max for accidentally taking him out.

But as soon as you stepped down from the motorcycle, Max was in your space. His face was red and his hair all sweaty and disheveled, when he fronted you, chest to chest. You knew there were dozens of cameras pointed to you, so you tried to diffuse the tension for once.

“Are you insane?! Why did you drive into me?!” He kept advancing and for each of his steps ahead, you took one back to try and explain. But he didn’t give you a second screaming all kinds of curses and blame, “you should’ve never made it to Formula 1!”

His words were like a slap to the face, and you stopped trying to apologize or explain. You put both hands to your back, inflating your chest to face him.

“You don’t get to fucking decide that! You dipshit! Who the fuck do you think you are?” You said to his face, that’s when someone from the RedBull garage ran closer and stood between you.

You watched as he was taken away from you and inside his garage. At the same time your PT found you and walked you back to McLaren.

Changing from your race suit, you tried to cool down before going to the media. You gulped down your water as you watched Charles leading the race, and getting closer to the championship than you.

“There was an altercation between you and Max Verstappen, can you comment on that?”

“He was visibly upset with the racing incident.” It was all you said, after chatting with your PR manager before stepping out to chat with the journalists.

“And what happened at that incident? Can you walk us through it?”

“Yes, uh, we’ve been feeling something wrong with our braking system since yesterday. The data showed us it would require me to be more forceful during braking, which seemed feasible. But the brakes were wearing off during the race and we were about to retire when I completely lost the brakes. I really tried to avoid him but my tyres locked and I ended up hitting Verstappen.”

“Are you sure this accident has nothing to do with the ongoing rivalry between the two of you?” You got offended by the reporter's words.

“Of course! I would never intentionally do something to put myself or other drivers at risk. I have all the data to back me up and anyone can check my onboard.”

The FIA investigated your altercation with Max, and you ended up getting an unsportsmanlike behavior penalty. Two points in your super license.

“What the fuck?! Why the fuck would I be punished for that! There are fourteen different angles from that argument and all of them show how Verstappen aggressively came on to me first!”

It got worse when you heard that only you had gotten a penalty and Max didn’t even get a reprimand.

Everyone close to you noticed how you were on edge next week. During media day your answers were short, dry, and every single journalist seemed to want to talk about the penalty.

“Yes, I do have opinions on my penalty. But no, I won’t talk about it, only the FIA’s opinion is relevant” Your words during the press conference were enough to express a little dissatisfaction and to put an end to those questions. Everyone was surprised at the fact you chose to be quiet about the whole ordeal, they were all expecting your complaints and harsh words.

When you went back to your driver’s room, you went straight to lay your head on your mom’s lap, feeling a bit down. You stayed quiet as she ran her hands through your hair softly untangling it. She knew you were upset and why, so none of you bother to voice anything, bashing in the comforting silence.

The best thing about Formula 1 was being able to retire your mom from working, now you didn’t have to worry about her burning out and she didn’t have to worry about bills or mortgage or debts. Now she had a new, bigger and better house, everything was paid for and you even gave her a credit card for hobbies or whatever she wanted. She sometimes went to the races, but she usually stayed at home, relaxing.

“I know things are hard right now,” you mom started, her voice soft, caring, “but I know you can do it, honey. You’ve faced pushback since the beginning of this dream, but you always came out on top.”

“Thank you for believing in me.”

“You will be a world champion, honey. I know it.” She smiled down at you.

You sat up as your mom removed her watch, handing it to you.

“I wanted to give it to you on your birthday, but I feel like this is the right moment,” she turned the watch, showing you the inscription that read strong woman, and you felt your eyes water, “this was my grandma’s. She gave it to my mom, who gave it to me, and now it’s yours.”

That week you got a victory, raising your P1 trophy for your mom, who was watching you with a hand on her heart, crying happy tears.

As the season progressed the championship became even tighter between the three of you. Mere points set the three of you apart, and with each week result, the P1, P2 and P3 shifted between you. It had become one of the most competitive seasons in the sport.

When the third to last race came in Qatar, you were P3 in the championship, and you needed at least P4 in that race to keep fighting for the championship. You didn’t care about anything other than getting a podium, focused on your racing mindset, no distractions. If you only got that win, it would mean getting back that P1 in the championship and you would go down in history.

You were P3 after your last pitstop of the race, you had a small window of time to take advantage of being with new mediums while everyone else was with old softs. You had to pull ahead and open at least ten seconds, so you could become first when Max went to the pits. You had the perfect opportunity for an undercut.

That was until you overtook Charles’ Ferrari for P2. You passed him easily, he hadn’t gone to the pits yet, so he had old tyres. But you frowned as Jace warned you about Leclerc trying to take the position back. He couldn’t fight against your new tyres, everyone knew that. You accelerated to open a distance, but as you went fast into turn 4, you only felt the hit to your side, making you lose control of the car.

It was barely a few seconds that you couldn’t wrap your head around, so shocked you couldn’t brake, only feeling your stomach churn as you braced for impact. The second hit came against the barriers even harder than the first, it shook your whole body, leaving you dizzy and out of breath.

You talked with Jace, telling him in a shaky voice that you were okay but out of breath, and you unlocked your seatbelts with trembling hands. After removing your steering wheel, you tried to get up but you were dizzy and your legs felt like jelly. A marshal helped you out of the car, but as soon as your feet were on the ground, you stumbled to your knees. The nausea got the best of you and you puked against your balaclava and inside the helmet. The marshals made a small shield around you, as one of them helped you remove the helmet and balaclava, still dry heaving. The marshal gave you a towel, and you cleaned the best you could as the ambulance was coming.

You looked behind you to your destroyed car.

And just like that, you had lost any chance at the championship.

You held your tears as you went through the medical procedures and examinations. The world had been muted in the background and you could only hear the noise of the crash, visualizing your ruined car, and your dreams being crushed once again.

But as you came back to the hospitality, you found your mom, and sobbed quietly against her chest.

“It’s ok, honey. It’s okay,” her voice was so soothing and the pain meds were working, so you cried yourself to sleep while she held you.

Later that day, you watched the replay of your crash. Leclerc had gone way too close to you, but in turn 4 he hit the curbs and lost control, hitting your car right in the middle, full force. Your car had spun out a lot then hit the barriers. It was lucky that you had come out of the crash relatively unharmed, it was ugly and could’ve been a lot worse, from the way you spun and the G force your car hit the barrier with.

“You’re still watching that?” Your mom’s voice sounded in the middle of the night.

“He shouldn’t have tried to fight for the position back, he didn’t even have enough tyres for that! And he was way too close, look!”

Your mom closed your laptop, putting it on the coffee table. She took your hands in hers and smiled gently.

“I’m sorry about the championship. But I’m glad you’re okay, that was one of the scariest couple of seconds of my entire life,” she whispered, teary eyed.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered, ashamed that it didn’t cross your mind how worried she might have been.

“It’s okay, honey. There’s always next year, I’m sure you will be world champion. And will be there cheering for you.”

The next week in Jeddah, you felt like the world was out to get you when they put you in the press conference with both Max and Charles, as well as Lewis and Sebastian.

“Y/N, how are you feeling after last week’s crash? It looked pretty bad.” Someone asked.

“I am doing ok, thank you,” that’s all you said into the mic.

“Unfortunately, the crash ultimately took you out of the championship, what do you say about that?”

You were so tired of that question, so tired of your PR manager talking in your head about not blaming Charles publicly, despiste your desire to scream to whoever may hear that the monegasque just wanted to take you out of the competition, so he could fight only Verstappen for the championship. You just wanted the season to be over, in all honesty.

“There’s always next year, right?” You echoed your mom's words, that were also your rehearsed answer. You looked to the side, feeling Sebastian’s hand softly on your forearm, a silent show of support.

You left as soon as it was over. You knew Charles had been trying to talk to you. You supposed it was to apologize, but you weren’t having it. You were still so angry at him that you worried you’d punch him as soon as he was in your face. So you just avoided him like the plague. You didn’t want to see him, and you couldn’t afford another punishment if you acted on your anger.

“Charles has been looking for you,” Sebastian said, walking up to you as you were finishing braiding your hair for the race.

“I have been avoiding him,” you said, not looking at Seb, still focusing on your braids.

“He just wants to apologize.”

“And I want to punch him in the face, so what? We can’t always get what we want” You clenched your jaw, using an elastic band to finish.

“Y/N…” Sebastian sounded tired.

“Don’t Y/N me. I just want this season to be over, ok? The championship was in my reach, and now it’s not. And it wasn’t even my own fault. So no, I won’t see him.”

Sebastian didn’t say anything as he walked to you and pulled you in an affectionate hug that made you want to cry again.

During the driver’s parade, Fernando acted almost as a guard dog, not letting anyone close to you. You talked with him and Lewis about the crash, explaining how it felt to you.

When the season ended, you got a third place trophy during the Prize Giving Ceremony. You remembered your dad’s words throughout the entire night. Coming down from the stage, and you met with Minttu and Kimi, they congratulated you, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of failure. You looked at Charles on the stage with his P2 trophy.

“Anything other than the first is failure, right?” You sighed, eyes glued to the stage, where Max got the trophy of Champion of the World.

“What crap is that?” Kimi said, suddenly.

“My dad used to say that when I was a kid.”

“Well he was an asshole,” Kimi said matter-of-factly, “and he never made it to F1. He didn’t even make it to F4, he has no reason or power to get in your head. You were just a kid. You understand?”

“Yes, Kimi," you swallowed, feeling some kind of wheight being lifted from your shoulders. Kimi had done many great things for your life with very few words, and his succint way of being was great to pull you back to the present whenever you anxiety got the best of you.

You ended up getting the Personality of the Year award too, which was such a surprise that it worked wonders to lift your spirits and to end the season with a sweet note.

Even being in a better mood, you didn’t stay at the party too late, saying your farewell to your friends as you dropped Kimi and his wife at the hotel. You were removing your makeup after a shower when there was a knock on your hotel room door. Thinking it was an emergency, you rushed only to be faced with Charles Leclerc.

“What are you doing here?” You looked around the hall, confused.

“Can I talk to you?” Charles was still dressed in his formal attire, black tie. He fiddled with his fingers as you let him in, afraid someone might see him at your door.

“What?” You crossed your arms as you closed the door.

“I’m really sorry about the crash in Qatar,” he waited for your answer with bated breath.

“Can we have this conversation when next season starts?” You proposed. You knew you weren’t ready for that talk yet, too much anger was still clouding your judgment for a level-headed talk.

“It wasn’t my intention to take you out-” He started but you cut him off.

“Look, you’ve never liked me, I’m aware, and you cost me an entire championship, so I don’t know if I believe you.”

“It really wasn’t intentional, the accident cost me the championship as well,” you could see in his eyes that his patience was wearing thin. But so did yours.

“No it didn’t. You still had a chance even after that DNF, you just didn’t win anyway,” your anger simmered again, making you raise your voice.

“Fuck you! You treat me like this because you always felt like you were better than everyone-”

“I treat you like this?! Be fucking for real, Charles! You hate me so much you took my chance at the championship away!”

“If you had more wins during the season maybe this wouldn’t be a problem right now!”

“Unbelievable! Because you are so much better than me, all you got was second place!”

“Shut up.”

“You’ve always hated me for absolutely no reason-”

“Shut up.”

“And now you think you can barge into my room and tell me you think I’m a shitty driver? I’m not standing for-”

“Shut up!” He shouted, which was so surprising you actually stopped talking.

The both of you were breathing heavily, in one second you were sure you could strangle him, in the next, his lips were against yours and his hand gripping your hair. The kiss was nasty, all teeth and lips and tongue, his hands going down your body, pressing you into him, and your fingers tugging at his suit, ripping the buttons. You broke the kiss, gasping for air, but Charles’ lips found your neck and he bit into your pulse point.

“Fuck you, Charles” you said, breathless, opening his trousers and he ripped your little sleep top with his bare hands.

It was so hot as you stumbled backwards and he followed you, tossing your top behind him, you took off his shirt and undershirt and he helped you kick out your shorts.

Charles pressed you against the wall, kissing you aggressively again, and you moaned as he placed his thigh between your legs, and you ground against him, turned on, dampening his trousers with the wet of your panties. You pressed your hand against his bulge, and he groaned, pressing into you even harder, humping like horny teenagers.

You didn’t even bother to get him naked, with his trousers half undone, you just pulled his cock out, heavy in your hands. You watched his pained expression as you spit on your hand so you could masturbate him.

“Fuck it,” you moaned, knowing grinding on him was not nearly enough.

You pulled your panties to the side, and lined his cock up into you. It was so tight as he slid into you, that your eyes rolled in pleasure, and he raised one of your legs against his waist to make room for his hips. He pulled back and snapped his hips into you again, his cock stretching you so good you were shaking. You put one arm around his shoulders holding on him and the other hand you held his ass under his loose trousers, your nails biting into his flesh as you pushed him even deeper.

“Fuck, ah-” he moaned in your ear, “so hot- putain-”

The loud, wet sounds of his hips pistoning into you were obscene. You angrily bit him, his shoulders, his chest, his jaw and he went even harder, your back hitting the wall behind you, and you pulled his hair, sweat starting to form all over your body.

“Fuck, Charles!” Your moans got even louder, and Charles stuck two fingers into your mouth, muffling your sounds as he fucked you.

He was hitting the perfect spot inside you, and it was enough for you to know you would come that way. You slapped his cheek, taking out some of your anger and he groaned, going harder. He pulled his fingers from your mouth and held your neck, pressing your torso against the wall and choking you a little bit.

“I can’t hold much longer” he warned you between gritted teeth, relentlessly fucking you.

You pinched your own nipples and it didn’t take long for you to come, your cunt clenching so hard around him, it was enough to send him over the edge too.

Shaking, the two of you slid to the floor, breathlessly lying down, half naked and sweaty.

None of you said a word.

When he was ready to go again, he put you on your knees, your torso against the mattress, and he pounded into your cunt mercilessly from behind.

The third and last time was lazy, slow missionary and he held your wrists above your head with one hand, pressed your clit with the other, sucked a few hickeys around your tits and his cock pressed over and over your g-spot.

When you woke up the next morning, Charles was still asleep by your side. You went into the bathroom and showered, hoping he would catch the hint and leave. But as you came out showered and dressed, he was still out cold. So you quietly packed your bag and left for the airport.

[propertyofwicked]

YOUR NECKLACE - LN

no warnings just fluff + some SMAU <3 (one mention of sick, no specific detail)

-> lemme know ur thoughts! my inbox is open!! <3

masterlist the playlist

after successfully keeping their relationship secret for 9 months, lando truly believed it was time for him to properly introduce his girlfriend to the world of motorsport. she’d attended races before but always under general admission, usually alone, but sometimes accompanied by the likes of max and p. and it wasn’t as if the fans didn’t know who she was, they just knew her as ‘y/n who works with quadrant’, ‘y/n that reset the cones in the driving video’, ‘y/n that keeps her social media private’ - never once being considered lando’s girlfriend, which worked well for the two.

the panic had set in that morning as she dressed for the day, her hands constantly running over her outfit, checking the way she looked in the mirror from every angle - she wanted to believe that no one would care, or even notice that she was there, but deep down she knew that making the jump from general admission to paddock would gain some chatter on twitter.

“you look perfect,” lando had whispered in her ear from behind her, his hands wrapping around her waist as he tugged her away from the mirror.

“maybe they’ll just think im helping with a quadrant project,” she said absentmindedly, more trying to convince herself than actually respond to him.

“maybe,” he nodded along with her, mulling over his next words, “we can walk in separately if you want? they might not assume anything if they don’t see us together?”

“it’s not that i dont want us to be seen together,” she told him as she moved to the floor, tying her shoelaces up, “i just hate to think what’ll be said about me if they do.”

“i know, angel,” he reassured her, offering out a hand to pull her up, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead when she returned to his level.

the journey to the track was a quiet one, the two of them engaging in light conversation, eventually deciding they’d just walk in together, keep PDA to the minimum and ‘run and hide at the first sign of trouble’ y/n had joked.

lando paced up and down his drivers room, the sleeves of his racing overalls swinging with every step, from where they sat around his hips. he was getting into the right mindset, music playing, and yet his mind raced with every fear of the looming race.

“sit in the garage,” he asked her, halting his pacing to turn and face her.

“what?” she replied, half unsure she’d misheard him.

“watch from the garage - please,” he repeated moving to take steps towards her, noticing the way her fingers twisted at the rings that adorned them.

“are you sure?” she checked, as he grabbed her wrists to stop her anxious fiddling.

“never been more sure in my life,” he told her, using her arms to pull himself closer, joining the two of them in a sweet kiss.

“ok, ill be there,” y/n responded against him, parting only for a moment before connecting their lips again. the kiss was short and sweet, cut off by oscar knocking telling him it was time to go.

she stood in the garage, smiling at a few engineers she recognised before finding herself a seat. the nerves were washing over her again, but now they were for lando. y/n always worried during races, scared on his crashing, worried he wouldn’t perform as well as everyone knew he could. her hand reached up to her chest, instinctively searching for her necklace - lando had bought it for her before they were even together, knowing from the moment she smiled at it and looked up to thank him that this was it for him, she was his future. but the necklace wasn’t there, the girl panicked slightly, fearing she had lost it or it had fallen off before concluding that in her distraction this morning she had simply forgotten to put it on.

that’s ok, you’re a grown woman who can control her nerves. you don’t need a necklace to calm yourself down - you’re not even the one racing she told herself, letting out a deep sigh as she tried to believe herself. no one else in the garage seemed to notice her, a fact she was fairly happy about, hoping that the same would be said for the hundreds of news and tv stations priming their cameras for the race.

but someone had noticed her, recognising the look on her face as the same one she had been wearing all morning. only lando could decipher what her expression meant - she was nervous, of course, scared for him, but also filled with a small buzz of excitement - he couldn’t quite understand how one person could feel so much all at the same time, and not combust on the spot. nevertheless he jogged over to her.

“lando? aren’t you supposed to be like, getting your helmet on?” she asked him, shocked slightly at his sudden appearance. he looked at her, his hand tugging at the top of his fireproofs and pulling his own necklace from where it was trapped behind the fabric.

“forgot to take this off,” he told her, hands moving behind his neck to unclasp the metal, “will you look after it for me?”

she nodded up at him, her outstretched hands halted as he stood close, hands moving the metal around her own neck and clasping it. the metal dropped against her skin, the warmth from him wearing it transferring to her.

“thanks, love you,” he told her, a rushed kiss planted on her lips before he jogged away from her again.

his face carried a smirk as he left her, knowing he hadn’t truly forgotten to take the piece of jewellery off. in actual fact, he’d noticed her missing necklace the moment they’d arrived at the track and made it his mission to have his own hung around her neck, almost as a badge of honour. the two had agreed to keep their relationship private from the public, somewhat of a secret - but now she sat in his garage, wearing his necklace. it was the bare minimum display of the love they shared, but it was enough for him, and it was enough for her.

oscar quirked his eyebrow at his teammates smirk, receiving a quick tell you later before the two pulled their balaclavas down.

the gesture was so simply and so subtle and the girl was oblivious to the moment being caught on camera. the moment a yellow flag was called, the sky tv cameras filled the wait time by zooming in on the faces of loved ones sitting in each drivers garage. however, y/n remained oblivious to the lens focusing closely on her, the camera closely capturing the way she fiddled at the necklace before dropping it as normal lap conditions resumed.

"good day then?" y/n asked him softly, her head resting on his bare chest as she listened to his heart beat - lando felt the way her cool fingers fiddled with the necklace around his neck. that godforsaken necklace, quite frankly the only necklace to ever cause so much uproar online.

"soft launched on live tv and p3? i wouldn't have it any other way," lando replied softly, chucking lightly as his hand brushed through her hair.

“that checks out, mr nowins,” she teased, tilting her head to grin at him.

"being with you is a win in itself," he replied, taking the nickname in his stride.

"gross," the girl responded, pretending to vomit at his attempt at being cute.

“i am sorry though - i should’ve known that would happen, i should’ve checked with you before hanging the “lando’s girlfriend” sign around your neck,” he replied with a sigh, his head dropping to press a kiss to her forehead, his cheek resting on her head as they spoke.

“it’s ok lan, i knew there was a possibility of something like this happening,” she replied.

“and it was fairly subtle - we could probably play it off for a little longer,” lando suggested, knowing that neither of them were quite ready to expose the extent of their relationship just yet. at least this had given them the opportunity to be a little more careless with their efforts to hide from the public. they were private, not secret, and lando couldn’t be happier to preserve this part of his personal life for a little longer.

“im just glad we no longer have the responsibility of a big announcement,” she laughed, “god knows we’re both too lazy for that.”

“who’s we?” he grumbled jokingly, “im the one with the public account. besides, im more than hard launched on your page.”

“ah the joys of an ordinary life,” y/n joked, her arms stretching out in feigned bliss, “however i feel like i should steer clear of twitter for a while.”

“that’s probably for the best,” he agreed, his tone saddening slightly at the memory of things he’d seen posted about not only his ex girlfriend, but some of the claims people had already began making about the girl lying below him.

“hey!” she started noticing his change in mood, and pushing her body weight back to look at him, “none of that. today is a good day. trust me, ill take any excuse to get my screentime down.”

“i love you,” he told her, grabbing at her body to pull her back into his embrace, “more than you could imagine.”

liked by maxfewtrell, team_quadrant and 111,230 others

landonorris soft launching on live tv wasn't enough, time to promote her to the gram

comments on this post have been limited.

maxfewtrell so glad i dont have to worry about slipping up on stream anymore

-> maxfewtrell chat aren't ready for what i have to say.

maxfewtrell 2nd photo is a violationnn - ynpng, pietra.pilao u gonna let this slide?

-> ynpng am i fuck. pietra.pilao we ride at dawn.

-> pietra.pilao omw queen.

-> maxfewtrell run landonorris whilst u still can

-> pietra.pilao you told me you deleted that photo maxfewtrell - sleep with one eye open xx

ynpng hate u with every fibre of my being rn <3

-> landonorris nuh uh

-> ynpng gonna unprivate my acc and let the world see the video of you falling down the stairs

-> landonorris might accidentally leak the video of you and the shoe incident

-> ynpng you wouldn't dare.

-> landonorris you wanna bet?

[saetiate]

itoshi sae x f!reader smut, reader's mad at him for the media reporting he's dating someone else and he fucks you like it's an apology

“you know what they’re saying? ah-, about you and that girl?"

your voice is filled with malice even with his dick so far up inside of you that you can feel it in your throat, even with each gasp that leaves you as he slams into you hard, his hips meeting yours again and again.

truthfully, he doesn’t. he didn’t spare the article more than a glance. what some bullshit reporter chasing a title for cash said has never phased him.

he grabs you gently by the chin, fingers wrapping around either side of your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “if i fuck you on the balcony and let everyone see, would that satisfy you?” the way he thrusts into you doesn’t falter once, even as he presses a hungry kiss to your mouth, teeth nipping at your lower lip, breath ghosting over as he speaks. “then everyone will see i’m yours.”

you jerk your face out of his grip, eyes sharp. “the only thing they’ll see is what a fucking womanizer you are, you asshole.”

maybe they will, maybe they won’t. but he can feel the way you’re gushing around his cock when he mentions it, wetness seeping down to his balls, glints like moonbeam. he presses a thumb to your clit and watches your back arch into a crescent moon, always so responsive to him.

“please, please please —,” your voice comes out so wrecked it has him taking in a sharp breath. even as you hate him, slap your hands against his chest as you tell him exactly that, “i hate you i hate you,” followed by please, please.

if it was any other day, if it wasn’t truly his fault for even allowing himself to get photographed standing just a little too close to someone that wasn’t you, he might’ve teased you for it. made you beg even more, cooed at you for being so needy. but it is his fault, so he relents. gives you exactly what you want, circles your slick pearl and fucks you so hard the words you say turn into nothing, until the way you hit his chest turns into your nails scraping over his shoulders, down his back.

he watches you as you come, has to, with tears on your lashline and a high pitched whine. at least this way, he knows the tears are a good thing, that he’s fucked you right.

(he doesn't let himself come, considers it some kind of penance, like it might be the thing that sways the guilt that eats at his heart.)

“you’re so pretty.”

“fuck you,” you spit, breathless. “this doesn’t make us even.”

he grabs you by either side of your thighs and slams you back down onto his cock with a scream.

“yeah,” his hand presses against the headboard above you, until the wood creaks down with his weight, his warmth radiating against yours. “i got that.”