#there's no blood or guts or anything like that but like-

[atiyasnake]

As predicted, I wrote some more (1,143 more words). TW for mentions of blood and vomiting.

~~

On The television Gotham watched as the Joker smiled with glee at this ‘supposed Wayne’. It was hard to believe considering how many black-haired and blue-eyed children there were. Either way, it was with waited breath that they watched what was about to happen to the Joker's latest victim. 

When the Joker finally released the kid’s face he pranced around on the screen before reaching off to the side to grab something.  A modified gas makes came into view. A crude drawing with red and white paint of a familiar smile was on the front. 

With resignation, they watched as the Joker roughly put it on the boy’s face. 

__________

The mask was tight. It dug into Danny’s skin and pulled at his hair from the straps the Joker roughly pulled over his head. In comparison, it wasn’t as bad as what he had grown used to. Still, he wanted to rip the damn thing off.  

Instead, a hand gripped his hair and yanked, showing his face again to the camera. The Joker hummed before caressing his hair and then clapping with a laugh. 

“Now! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you a front-row seat to a new treat I’ve made with my dear dear friends,” the Joker said as he showboated in front of the camera while a couple of men stood off the side. 

He was getting tired of this shit. He didn’t want to be anyone’s show pony, he had enough of it with Vlad. 

The Joker kept talking with little chuckles in between, and with each one Danny clenched his jaw more and more. 

“Now let the show begin!”

Suddenly, there was a hissing sound from the mask and reflexively Danny tried to hold his breath. He had heard about the different gases in Gotham before in short mentions in the news. He’d rather not test anything. He had enough experience with all sorts of ‘concoctions’ and their ‘interesting effects’.

Though, as expected, whether it be scientists or rogues in Gotham they didn’t like to see him be stubborn. So with a snap of the Joker’s fingers, a swift punch was delivered into his gut and Danny couldn't help but gasp and try to take another breath.

A sickly sweet and rotten smell filled his nose, making him gag which only made it worse. 

At first, it didn’t do anything, but slowly his chest began to hurt and there was a warmth inside. The Joker laughed, monologuing to the camera and the warmth began to burn. 

Danny had already been hurting. He’s been continuously hurting for far longer than he’d care to think about. He knew the routine. He knew how this went. 

Stay quiet. 

Keep still. 

It’ll pass. 

He tried to keep telling himself this when the echoes of screams started. 

Danny didn’t know how much time passed as he just kept still. The fire was burning underneath his skin and he could feel it leaking out of his nose and mouth. There were still men around and the red dot of a camera looking towards him. He kept quiet and a bigger hand grabbed his hair, pulling it enough to make his neck strain as he was still tied down to the chair. 

Then suddenly shadows rained down with shattering glass and all hell broke loose. 

The hand retreated but another pulled his chair down and he fell to his side, his head knocking into the ground. Another point where fire leaked out while the mask dug into his cheek. He could only watch around him. 

There was yelling and laughter. The sound of crackling of electricity sent phantom spasms down his limbs as the echo of screams reached a higher pitch. 

There were so many shadows moving around. The grunting sound of bodies surrounded him.

At some point, he felt the restraints fall away but still, he didn’t move. 

Be still. Be still. Be still. Be still bestill bestill bestillbestill bestillbestillbestill. 

Except a hand was reaching for his face. 

The mask straps tugged at his hair as it was slipped off. It no longer dug into his face. The gas was taken away. Except whenever they take away the mask it's for something worse. They lure you into a false sense of relief only to rip it away. So he did what he always did. 

He got his mouth on the closest hand near his face and he bit down.

They hated when he did that in the lab. They’d scream for ‘it’ to let go. He never let go unless they made him. 

Danny knew how this went. He clenched his jaw shut harder and felt something begin to give beneath his teeth. He couldn’t taste whatever it was given his mouth full of his own burning blood. He still didn’t let go. 

He could barely see past it all but he would not let go. He couldn’t, he was burning inside and out and the screams were pulling at him. Hands were reaching out to him but then there was an explosion and they were blown back. 

His body rolled and he caught himself hitting something before scrambling onto all fours. Fire was licking at his throat and he couldn’t stop it from coming up. He hacked and coughed as something wet and hot filled his mouth. The taste of iron and the sight of red on his skin were far too familiar. 

It was ironic. This weird ‘concoction’ seemed to make him bleed just like the lab did. Just when Danny thought he finally got away. He chuckled. 

Light and shadows danced off to the side. Two of them looked like they had pointy ears and one of those looked like it had wings. They moved swiftly and gracefully around each other, never straying too far as if they were bound back together by some unseen force. 

Huh. 

The light caught on something and Danny found himself looking at the camera, its red light still lit. His limbs shook as he grabbed the camera, it was surprisingly high quality and he couldn't help but laugh lightly. Still, the button to turn it off was the same.  Someone was running towards him and he threw the camera chuckling again when it hit their head and they dropped though he had to stop when he coughed up more blood that burned. 

It hurt.

The room wouldn’t stop shifting as the colors warped around him with stains of black. His chest was in agony and pressing his head against the floor and curling up wouldn’t stop it. The whispers and screams were coming back again, reaching out to grab a hold. His throat kept spasming with each cough that wouldn’t let him get rid of the taste of iron. 

He couldn't do anything but let the agony and darkness take hold. 

Be still. Be quiet. 

It’ll pass.

Shrodinger's BatCat Child

DP x DC Prompt

When Selina was pregnant with her's and Bruce's child, she was thinking of settling down and raising the child. But when she had given birth to the boy, someone had broken into the hospital and stolen not only her baby but also other babies had been taken from the hospital. She tried to find out who took her baby boy but couldn't find the perpetrator.

Heartbroken at the loss of her baby, Selina masks her grief with being Catwoman. She doesn't tell Bruce about their baby boy, even after the new boy that goes under the Bats wing. She does treat each new Robin as if they were her own son. She talks to Harley about what had happened when Damian comes into the fold, where she then reveals that she had a baby with Bruce to the man and what happened to their baby after a few sessions with Harley.

Danny is on the run from Amity, from the Fentons, from the GIW, and from Vlad. The Fentons found out about him being Phantom and attacked him. They then teamed up with the GIW to hunt him down. He doesn't want to go to Vlad, as the Fruitloop is slowly becoming more and more crazy to get him to become his son and slowly focusing less and less on Maddie.

He heads to Gotham, as the city spirit, when she was chosen to be part of his court because of her knowledge and power, had told him that he was one of hers, a child born in Gotham to a woman that wasn't Maddie, Catwoman, and that's also how he found out that he's the son of Batman as well, because Lady Gotham gave him that answer as well, but she didn't tell him their real names. He just hopes that his mom and dad will be happy to learn that their son is still (mostly) alive and on his way to them.

And then Danny is caught by the Joker. He couldn't put up that much of a fight as he used up a lot of Ectoplasm escaping the lab he was in. Tucker's family moved away during middle school, and so did Sam's family when the start of high school came, Jazz had returned from college to help him escape the lab he was held in, but had to go back if she wanted to keep the scholarship.

The Batfam was having a family day out in Gotham. Bruce and Selina were engaged and wanted to bond as a family. Then Joker began broadcasting across Gotham.

"Hello Gotham! Today, I have a special guest with me"

The camera panned to a boy tied up in a chair, head hanging low.

"Brucie Boy seems to have forgotten to mention that he has another brat to call his own, so I took it upon myself to inform you all about him!"

When Joker grabbed the face of the boy and showed it to the camera, the entire Batfam tensed. Because the boys face had the features of both Bruce and Selina, the cuts, bruises, and blood on the boys face couldn't hide that fact, and now they need to find the boy to save him from what Joker has planned for their son.

[thehighladywrites]

you’re just like me

pairing: cassian x crazy stalker reader

summary: cassian thinks of you as his insanely obsessive ex girlfriend who’s downright crazy. you are obviously cassian’s one true love and will eliminate anything that stands in your way.

warnings: murder, dark romance, cheeky little twist👀, stalking, obsessive behavior, sexual content, knives, nasty sex, um also a sick way of getting off just downright crazy, description of murder… um this is just kinda dark. two psychos encouraging each other

amara’s note: so i might be making this into a series bc i have an amazing idea for azriel next😫😫😫 also guys this was a lil dark lol

You couldn’t understand how Cassian had the nerve to walk away from you. There was absolutely nothing wrong with you, not one single thing. People just didn’t get it; love was supposed to be all-consuming, right? Obsession wasn’t a flaw. It was just proof you cared deeply. So what if you knew his schedule down to the minute, memorized the exact scent of his shampoo, or followed him everywhere he went like your very existence depended on it? That wasn’t weird, it was love. Real, burning, raw love.

Cassian must have been confused, that’s all. Poor thing, probably led astray by some outside influence. Maybe someone whispered lies into his ear or cast some strange spell over his mind. Yeah, that had to be it, because Cassian did love you. He did. He just needed to wake up and realize it again.

And when he did , he’d thank you for never letting go, for being the one person who truly saw him, who loved him without limits.

Seeing Cassian sitting next to some water-wraith makes your heart pound harder and harder, fury bubbling under your skin. That’s it — that’s why he hasn’t been his usual self. That wretched wraith is manipulating him, filling his head with filthy lies about you. Poisoning what was meant to be perfect.

You have to stop this. You have to save him. And the only way to do that is to get rid of her. Permanently.

Your hands itch for action, and you’re already stepping forward when a hand clamps around your wrist.

“Are you about to go over to Cassian?” Feyre’s calm voice cuts through your haze of rage. “Don’t cause a scene.”

You tilt your head, offering her a polite smile. “I don’t know what you mean. I’m simply going to claim what is rightfully mine.”

You tug at her grip, but it holds firm. Feyre’s eyes narrow. “Not so fast. You know Cassian will think you’re crazy if you kill her right here and now.”

Your breath catches. How the hell did she know? Were you that obvious?

Before you can respond, she steps closer, her intoxicating perfume filling your senses. Her voice, low and smooth, sends shivers down your spine.

“If you want that little whore gone, gut her like a fucking fish. I’ll even help you. But not now, it’ll look bad for us.”

Your eyes widen slightly. Never in a million years would you have expected Feyre to suggest murder.

“Why are you so interested in me killing her?” you ask, voice curious.

A wicked smile curls at her lips before she presses a quick kiss to your cheek. “That little bitch tried to fuck Rhys right in front of me. Didn’t even bother pretending she didn’t know who I was. She didn’t care. And now I want her gone.”

Her voice cracks with a manic edge before she smooths it over, composure snapping neatly back into place.

She was just like you, a comfort you took pleasure in, someone who understood that love was meant to be fierce, consuming, and without limits.

—

You did exactly what Feyre suggested — waited until the big meeting with all the courts had ended, biding your time until the wraith was on her way back to Spring. She was alone, vulnerable, just as you had hoped.

Before she could winnow away, you struck. Kidnapping her had been easy, far too easy. And then came the best part: stabbing her over and over until you were drenched in her warm blood. Her look of terror sent a sick thrill down your spine, flipping your stomach in delight. Fuck, it felt good to finally get rid of her. Like being on edge for an eternity and finally getting the sweet, blissful relief you'd craved.

You cleaned up meticulously, disposing of every shred of evidence. No one would ever find her.

Winnowing back to Velaris, you appeared just outside Cassian’s house, dagger still in hand. Breaking in through your usual route was second nature by now. You settled yourself on his sofa, waiting patiently like you always did when he needed a gentle reminder of who truly belonged to him.

The door creaked open, and Cassian trudged inside, shoulders sagging with exhaustion. Normally, you'd feel a pang of sympathy for how hard he worked — how much he gave of himself. But not tonight. Tonight, you were kinda pissed.

His eyes flicked toward you, squinting in the dim light. He hesitated, unsure of who he was looking at until he flipped the lights on.

The color drained from his face as he stumbled backward, eyes wide with shock. “What the hell?” His voice wavered. “What are you doing here?”

You tilted your head, offering a sweet, unwavering smile. “Hi, Cassian. Done being a manwhore? Ready to come back to your senses?”

His gaze darted to the blood soaking your clothes, the gleaming dagger in your hand. He shook his head in disbelief, taking another step back, as if distance could protect him from you.

“I said, what are you doing here?” His voice hardens, sharp and commanding.

Yours matches his, cold and steady. “Well, since you seem to be under some delusion that you can get away from me, I figured I’d burst your little bubble and remind you that’s not the case.”

A calm smile spreads across your lips as you lift the dagger, pointing it directly at him. The weight of it feels right in your hand, steady and sure.

Cassian’s chest rises and falls as tension coils through the room. “You’re insane,” he mutters, disbelief lacing every word.

“Call it what you want. Call it love, call it obsession. Call me fucking insane,” you say, taking a slow step forward. “But you belong to me, Cassian. Always have. Always will.”

You shake your head and laugh, a hollow, unsettling sound. “Gods, Cassian. I don't know why you're doing this to me. Stop being so damn difficult and realize there's no one else for you. That water-wraith slut sure knows it now.”

His face goes pale, a hand pressing against his chest. “W-what are you talking about? You... you killed her?” he asks, horrified.

“Sure did.” You smile sweetly, tilting your head. “And I'll end anyone you think can take my place. Am I clear? Either you realize it now, or I keep killing people. It's all up to you.” You shrug nonchalantly, inspecting your nails as if this conversation were about the weather.

There's a long silence, thick with tension, and then something changes.

His voice drops, lower and rougher. “Took you long enough.”

Your head snaps up, eyes narrowing in confusion. His pale, horrified expression has melted away, replaced by something darker, more primal. His eyes gleam with something unholy, and his mouth twists into a cruel, wicked smile.

“Was wondering when you’d kill that little wraith,” he says smoothly, his voice dripping with amusement. “Gods know it was hard feigning interest.”

A warmth spreads through your chest, almost dizzying. Was this a dream? No way. Cassian matching your intensity, your madness — that was only supposed to happen in fantasies.

“What?” you whisper, barely believing what you’re hearing.

He steps closer, eyes gleaming darkly. “Didn’t think I noticed your stalking? Or the way you conveniently disposed of anyone I talked to?” His smirk widens, sharp and dangerous. “The way you just happened to show up at places I had scheduled? I’ve been onto you since day one.”

Your breath catches, heart thundering. “And?”

“And I knew you were the one the day you snuck into my room and stared at me, thinking I didn’t know,” he murmurs, eyes burning into yours with dark satisfaction.

A shiver runs down your spine, both thrilled and unhinged by his words. “You knew?”

He leans in closer, voice low and possessive. “Of course I knew. Your heavy breathing was a dead giveaway, sweetheart. You looked like you were seconds away from crawling into bed with me.”

You grin, eyes gleaming with madness. “I almost did.”

And it was true. He had been shirtless, skin smooth and golden in the moonlight, hair tied back so his sharp, handsome features were perfectly highlighted. Only years of discipline had kept you rooted to the spot instead of crawling into bed with him like you’d wanted to.

His smile deepens, dark and taunting. “You should’ve.” He steps closer, voice dropping to a low, sinful whisper. “Not the Gods themselves could have pulled me away.”

Your pulse races, wild and electric. This was so not fucking happening. “Don’t tempt me.”

“I’m not tempting you, my love.” he says, eyes gleaming with something dangerous. “I’m inviting you.”

He looks down at you, hands settling on your hips as he pulls you so close. Cassian’s heat makes your brain go fuzzy and for a moment you’re lost. Just as he is about to kiss you…

”Wait. So you felt the same I did? Why did you act all high and mighty when you’re literally worse than me?” You step back and raise an eyebrow at him, arms crossed over your chest.

Cassian blinks, clearly taken aback by your sudden outburst, but instead of guilt or surprise softening his expression, something darker gleams in his eyes — intrigue, even delight. “You’re mad at me, baby?”

“Of course I’m mad!” you snap, practically vibrating with frustration. “You knew I’m bsessed with you, and instead of saying anything, you just sat there, playing with me, making me feel insane.”

Your grip on the dagger tightens in pure frustration. “Do you know how many nights I spent plotting ways to keep you? How much blood I spilled thinking you didn’t care?”

His lips twitch, eyes filled with dark amusement.

“You could’ve just matched my crazy from day one, but nooo, you had to be all stoic and mysterious. Gods, Cassian, that’s infuriating.”

He steps closer, his voice low and dangerous. “You’re adorable when you’re pissed off, ya know? A cute, hotheaded little thing.”

“Adorable? I should stab you,” you snarl, but he only grins wider.

“Do it,” he whispers, his voice dripping with challenge. “I’d love to see what happens next.”

Your breath catches, heart racing as his words sink in. Cassian wasn’t just tolerating your madness, he wanted it, thrived on it, matched it beat for beat.

The realization sends a dizzy thrill through you, but you pout anyway, refusing to let him off the hook that easily. “You’re the worst,” you grumble, turning your head away with a dramatic huff.

He chuckles darkly, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you flush against him. “I was only interesed in seeing how far you’d go. Didn’t know if you’d run for the hills when I told you I murdered Helion’s advicer for looking at you yesterday.”

Your heart skips a beat, then thunders wildly in your chest. A sharp, wicked grin tugs at your lips despite yourself. “You did that?”

“Snapped his neck right before breakfast. Or did I feed him his own fingers then strangle him with his insides? Can’t say I remember.”

A sick thrill courses through you. Man, he was fucking perfect. It was so fucking wrong but your knees went weak and you started throbbing. He killed someone just for staring at you?

That was actually hot.

—

With no surprise, cassian fucked you for so long, so hard so fucking deep. It was so nasty, a reaaaal mess. one hand of his grabs onto your thigh, another gripping your waist while he’s glancing down at your sloppy cunt, what a masterpiece. Cassian decided he needed to see better so he pulled out as you whimpered pathetically.

his fingers smear his oozing cum all over you, from the slit all the way to your, swollen, throbbing clit.

“look at you makin’ a damn mess.” Your shaky hands gripping his wide shoulders start to slip. His arm tightens around your waist before you fall backwards. “fuckkkk, baby, look at how good your pussy was takin’ me, see how fucking wet she is?” you shudder as his fingers go knuckle deep into your cunt, giving you a few pumps before he pulls it right out, stringy wetness coating them.

he places two thick fingers inside of your mouth, you suck them clean whilst still moving against him, silently pleading for him to fill you out.

“shiiit, not fair. you got these killer hips that’ll dumb down any man.” Cassian finally fills you up again, his fat cock gliding against ypur wall just right. “oh-fuckkkk thaaat’s it, slow baby. slow, fuck me good, yeah?”

Cassian’s breath hitches as you tighten around him, his arm hurling behind the headboard. the desperation of having something to hold on to gives you an ego boost. was your just pussy too damn good?

“c-cas,” you moan, feeling his big fingers stroke their way against your waist to the very undersides of your thighs. you made sure to go slow, slow and steady just like he wanted. cassian’s got a sleazy grin, feeling the wetness of your cunt take him with all its might. “g-gonna cum!”

“i can tell, ah shit— you’re squeezin’ the fuck outta me,” He grunts in response as he feels you writhing, groaning at the gummy texture of your walls mightily gripping around him tight.

But it’s not enough. The rush lingers, addictive and gnawing, and you want more — need more. Something to cling to, something to burn into your memory for the rest of the week. A painfully sweet reminder of just how far you’ll both go for each other.

Your lips curl into a sly smile, voice dropping into a breathy tease. Finally, you’d lock in one last time to see if he was really as crazy as you. “Do you want to know,” You pause, your breath hitching in pleasure, “how it felt to kill t-that wraith?”

Cassian’s entire body tenses, his pupils dilating as a spark of something wild flickers in his eyes. His pulse kicks up, thrumming like a war drum. Fuck yeah, he wanted to know. Every sickening, twisted detail. Morality be damned—this was love.

“Tell me,” he demands, voice low and raw, filled with a dark hunger.

You grin wickedly, savoring his reaction. “It was beautiful,” you whimper, letting the memory flood your senses. “The way her breath hitched when she realized she was going to die? Gods, Cassian, it was intoxicating. She looked so helpless.”

His breath shudders as he pumps harder, his voice gravelly. “What did you feel?”

A dark satisfaction blooms in your chest. “Relief,” you murmur. “Pure relief. Like I’d been waiting forever and I was free.”

Cassian’s eyes burn into yours, his lips curling into a slow, dangerous smile. “You’re perfect,” he whispers. “Absolutely perfect. Absolutely mine.”

Your heart races as you lean in, lips hovering near his ear. “Next time,” you purr, “I’ll let you watch then fuck me right there.”

That’s it. Those few sadistic words are all the power he needs to finish you both off.

“you’re a nasty fucking girl—ughhhh.”

his speed had the bed creaking louder, and cassian’s grunting in your ear was getting louder as you were feeling fuller than ever. with hot pounds of skin against skin roughly slapping against each other after each second, the two of you felt the same pangs of pleasure and fervent dizziness. “inside, cas—fuck, cum inside me!” before an inevitable flood of heavenly pleasure consumes you both.

your cunt throbs the second he spills an entire whopping load inside of you raw, and you nuzzle your face into his neck. “cas—,” you stammer, and your walls were oh so greedy, adjusting to the way your pussy convulses around him, sharp nails dragging over his back. you both cum together as a surge of electricity pulses through each of your veins.

“fuck… ya better take every drop, s-shit,” he groans before slumping back against the headboard, tugging you closer so your face rests on his neck.

This was absolutely perfect. Cassian was yours now—forever. He could never leave you. And if he tried? You wouldn’t just kill him; you’d burn the entire world down with him. If you couldn’t have him, no one could. He simply wouldn’t exist without you.

That was love.

And Cassian being utterly, unapologetically insane? A gift wrapped in chaos. He understood you better than anyone ever could. Maybe you’d push him, see just how far that darkness in him stretched. Because Cassian didn’t get jealous—he got even. He got murderous.

“I love you, Cassian. So, so much,” you sob into his neck, your body trembling under the weight of the confession.

“I know you do,” he rasps, his voice rough as he grabs a blanket, wrapping it around your shivering form. His strong arms envelop you completely, his touch obsessive, possessive. His hand trails down your hair and back with agonizing tenderness as though memorizing every inch of you.

But something gnaws at you—a flicker of unease. Why wasn’t he saying it back? Did he need more proof that you were his literal wife(even if he didn’t know it yet), his reason for fucking breathing?

As if sensing your doubt, his grip tightens, pulling you even closer until you could hear the rapid, frantic beat of his heart. His lips brush against your ear, his voice low and raw, trembling with emotion.

“There are no words for what I feel for you,” he says, voice breaking. “Love is too weak, too pitiful. What I feel for you—gods, it devours me whole. It’s a sickness, an obsession that digs its claws into me and never lets go. You are everything. My breath, my blood, my madness.”

His words crash over you, wild and terrifying and utterly beautiful. And you know—he belongs to you as much as you belong to him.

Always.

[pursued-by-the-squid]

vii. stage fright

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

word count: 12.5k

ao3 | masterlist

“You should eat.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“[___]?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Young-il-nim.”

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

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

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

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

Confusion flickers in his eyes. “Eating?”

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

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

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

“You’re angry.”

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

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

“So why?”

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

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

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

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

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod quietly in agreement.

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

Another nod.

“So, he’s a friend of yours, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” he nods, “after each game.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Young-il!”

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

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

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

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

“Are you alright?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah, shit. Here goes nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello.”

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

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

“Can I sit with you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe. But I still feel bad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. “Sure.”

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

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

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

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

“May I ask you something?”

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

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

He swallows heavily. “I did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lights click out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What's the game then?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry won't cut it!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can… I can find another team.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gi-hun-a.”

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

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

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

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

Ddakji. Biseokchigi. Gonggi. Spinning top. Jegi.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’re alive. There’s hope!

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

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

Hope.

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

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

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

In-ho very highly doubts that.

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

“Gi-hun-a!”

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

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

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

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

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

Bang!

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

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

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

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

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

The intercom blazes to life. “Fail.”

Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit, I’m sorry–”

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

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

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

A minute thirty. He has time enough.

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

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

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

“Pass.”

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

“Pass.”

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

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

[moonyswifee]

Nemesis and Tutors

Remus Lupin x fem!reader [part 3]

summary: enemies to lovers, full moon week. remus is pretty exhausted, snape and avery being jerks like always.

warnings: violence, swearing, fluff, banter, she/her pronouns used for reader, mentions of blood and injuries, use of wizard blood slurs.

word count: 1.5k words

a/n: hi lovelies, i knoww this part is late, so sorry to all the people who wanted a part 3, but here it is! sorry i couldn't write it sooner, i have been so busy lol. i have had such a bad writer's block, i could not come up with good ideas for the plot at all. i had this idea, and i think its pretty good, but hope you all like it!!

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

-------

You return back to your dorm, your mind still reeling. What the hell was that? You did not know why you were suddenly feeling this way, and more than that, you definitely did not know why you were feeling this towards your sworn nemesis, Remus freaking Lupin.

Those were just feelings…of annoyance. That’s it. Nothing, nothing more than that. You sigh heavily and dump your bag on your bed.

Lily looks up from her bed as you enter. “Hey, how was tutoring? By the way, I got us those ginger cookies that were out of stock”

You shrug absentmindedly. “Eh.”

Lily chuckles softly and shakes her head, the response valid from you. She leans back on her bed, flipping through her book. “Was Remus terrible, then?” She asks teasingly.

You blink and look away, your heart skipping a beat at the name. “What? Why would I care what Remus was like? I mean-" You scoff a small nervous laugh. “Remus can just like, go missing, for all I care. Like, I just hate him, you know, I hate his guts. That man is intolerable. Completely and utterly infuriating. Did I mention I hate him?” You blabber defensively, almost like you were trying to convince yourself that you hated him.

Lily blinks and furrows her eyebrows in confusion and surprise. “Oookay? Are you okay?” She asks in concern.

You nod with a wide grin. “Me? I’m fine- I am. I am just…amazing. Why, how are you?” You say with a nervous laugh.

Lily narrow her eyes, and looks at you with a tilted head. “Why did you get so…defensive when I mentioned Remus?” She asks in amusement.

You huff. “Because…I hate him. Yep. I. Hate. Him.”

Lily nods slowly, with a slight smirk and goes back to reading. You’re relieved Lily seems to have dropped the subject. You walk inside the shared bathroom, sighing.

Lily calls out from the bed, still looking down at her book. “Do you like him?” She asks with a knowing smirk.

The bathroom door opens so fast it might have broken. “WHAT?”

You look at her with a horrid expression. “Why would you say that? I hate Remus, I don’t like him, Jesus.”

Lily smirks up at you triumphantly. “I never said anything about Remus.”

You groan and face palm yourself. How did you fall for that one? Lily, unbeknownst to your agony, sits up in bed and looks at you with the most excited grin. “Oh my god! Do you have feelings for Remus?”

You huff and narrow your eyes, pointing a threatening finger at her. “I don’t have feelings for Remus.” You grimace. “The only feelings I have for Remus are hatred. Pure hatred. And anger. And frustration. And infuriation. Is that a word? Is infuriation a word?” You ask, threatening finger still pointed.

“Yes, it’s a word.”

“Great! That is exactly what I feel for him, then.”

Lily puts her hands up in defense, smiling. “Okay. You hate him. I got it.”

You huff. “Good. Now where are those cookies?"

-----------

The next time you saw Remus, he looked as pale as a ghost. There were deep bags under his eyes and he looked like he could pass out any moment.

You knew why it was. It was the week of the full moon, and those days had to be hard. You would know, you had read all about lycanthropy the day you found out about Remus. Out of pure curiosity and thirst for knowledge, of course. You found yourself almost concerned for him, in a sense. You weren’t one to empathize with Remus, but you weren’t made of cold stone, either.

You sit down, late as always, on the desk next to him. Remus sits up, wincing slightly, and opens his books. “Where did we leave off last time?”

You open your books and show him the last topic. You look at his tired expression. “You’re not going to lecture me this time? Scold me for being late?”

Remus sighs and closes his eyes for a moment before opening them again, looking at his book. His head was bursting. “Not really. Sorry to deprive you of the pleasure.”

You narrow your eyes at him and start working. You look at Remus as he explains the topic to you, and you almost feel bad, listening to him drawl on about the effects of Veritaserum.

His eyes are tired and his face is pale. The brightness in his expression is gone. You find yourself thinking how unfair it is, for someone innocent to be affected so much by something that wasn’t even their fault. You almost feel yourself pitying him, stuck in this library and teaching you Potions. But you know Remus would never want pity. He’s just not like that. It’s the one thing you can bring yourself to admire about him.

As you study, you try to keep to yourself as much, to not bother him. Not because you care, but because you don’t want to get into an argument.

After a while, you hear hushed (or not so hushed) voices from the other side of bookshelf. The voices snicker quietly. “I would be embarrassed if I was him.”

You distinctly recognize the voices as Snape and Avery’s. The library is quiet, and you and Remus can hear every word they are saying.

“Yeah, always hanging out with those two arrogant pricks like their lapdog. I can bet they only keep him around because they feel bad for him.”

“And have you seen his face? It’s all scratched up, like some scary monster. He’s such a freak.” They snicker.

Remus feels his entire face heat up, and looks down at his book. Normally, he would say something, stand up for himself. But, he was too exhausted to even stand up right now. You notice Remus’ embarrassed gaze on his book, and your hands clench subconsciously. Why wasn’t he saying anything?

Avery snickers, “Must run in his blood. I mean, what would you expect after his father married that filthy muggle?”

Snape continues, “No wonder he doesn’t hang out with many people. I don’t know why Lily goes near him, anyways. Hanging out with Half-bloods like that Lupin. Serves her right for being a mudblood, I guess.”

That was the last straw. With a loud scrape of chairs, Remus and you both got up. Before Remus could make his way to them, however, you had already beat him to that. You stood with your hands clenched into tight fists and a death glare fixed on the two slytherin boys.

“What did you say?” You ask dangerously, your jaw tightened.

Avery and Snape faltered beneath your stare but retorted back, “You heard what we said. He’s a lousy, fucking filthy Half-blood who can’t keep his mouth sh-"

A sickening crack was heard as Snape was cut off with the courtesy of your fist to his crooked nose. He groaned in pain, clutching his nose. Remus stood with his eyes widened, his gaze fixed on you. Was this a dream? Had you really defended Remus? Had you just punched someone for him? He almost felt surprised at the little flutter his heart did.

You lean down, your glaring eyes level with Snape, who was still holding his bleeding nose. “No one gets to talk about him like that except for me.” You say, in a threatening dangerous voice. Remus would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little intimidated by you himself, as he watched with his mouth gaping.

You stand back up, and Snape and Avery scuttle out of their seats, running away from there as fast as they can. As they leave, you shake your hand slightly, wincing as you look down at your now injured knuckles.

Remus stands there speechless for a moment before he finds his voice again. “I didn’t know you could throw a punch like that.”

You grimace at you hand and look at him. “Well, there’s plenty you don’t know about me, Lupin.” You say, but there’s no real hindrance in your voice, only a weird gentleness and concern in your expression.

You both stand in silence for a while. “Thank you.” Remus says sincerely. “For…doing that.” He’s touched albeit a little awkward. Who knew Remus Lupin would be thanking you one day?

You didn’t, that’s for sure. You blink at him, caught slightly off guard by his gratefulness. You look away, flexing your hand. “ Yeah, well…He was saying stuff about Lily, too.” You say attempting to be as nonchalant as you can with your knuckles bleeding from punching a guy in defense of Remus.

Remus nods, looking at your hand. “You should, um…You should probably get that cleaned up.”

You huff slightly with a slight smile. “By Pomfrey? No way. She’s scolded me far too much for scraped knuckles and bleeding noses. I would never hear the end of it.”

Remus finds himself chuckling slightly at your statement. “I could help.” Remus offers casually.

You look at him, surprised by his offer. “What?”

He blinks. “Oh, I mean…I um, I have some experience with…this stuff.” He says, gesturing vaguely to your scraped fingers. “I just…I could clean that up. I mean, I kind of owe you now.” He shrugs.

You nod slowly, looking thoughtful on the outside. “You do owe me. Okay, fine. How do I know you’re not just taking me to your dorm to murder me in cold blood?”

Remus rolls his eyes with a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Ha-ha. Very funny. I still hate you. Come on, smart-ass.”

You smirk slightly as you both pick up your bags and make your way out of the library. “Yeah, I know. I hate you, too.” Your heart felt otherwise. You sigh quietly.

This was going to be one long night.

-----------

thank you so much for reading!! ♡ let me know if you want to be added or removed from the taglist!

taglist:

@boromoony @blueikky @daydreamandforget @lupinzlover @cinnamongirlmmaya

[the-most-humble-blog]

Damien Leone Said Terrifier Is Just Entertainment, and the Woke Brigade Shit Themselves

Shut Up, Snowflakes, It’s Just a Killer Clown With a Hacksaw

Damien Leone, the evil genius behind Terrifier and the creator of Art the Clown—aka your sleep paralysis demon with a hacksaw—just set off a firestorm of outrage. Why? Because he had the audacity to say his franchise is, get this: “pure entertainment.”

That’s right, he didn’t kick a puppy, drop an f-bomb on live TV, or piss in someone’s oat milk latte. He simply said his batshit horror movies about a clown murdering people in horrifying ways aren’t political.

Cue the woke mob collectively losing their shit.

What Did Leone Actually Say?

Here’s the “controversial” bombshell:

“Terrifier is NOT in any way shape or form a political franchise. I fell in love with horror as a form of pure entertainment, and those are the films I like to make.”

That’s it. That’s the whole scandal. But because the internet is the internet, snowflakes read this and went, “Wait, what? No politics? HOW DARE YOU!”

Seriously, you’d think he told them Art the Clown was running for Congress.

The Woke Outrage Olympics

Let’s dive into the bullshit:

🔹 “Saying it’s not political IS political!” 👉 No, Karen, saying “my horror movie is just for fun” isn’t political. It’s called entertainment, and not everything needs to be a goddamn manifesto.

🔹 “Horror has always been political!” 👉 Sure, some horror is. Night of the Living Dead tackled racism. Get Out dunked on white liberals. But you know what else horror is? Watching people get hacked to pieces for no reason other than it’s fun as fuck.

🔹 “Art the Clown’s violence against women is misogyny!” 👉 Oh, piss off. Art the Clown kills everyone with the same level of brutal creativity. If anything, he’s the most progressive clown out there—an equal-opportunity murderer.

The Hypocrisy is Hilarious

Let’s get real for a second. These same woke assholes who are crying about Leone’s “lack of political depth” are the ones gleefully cheering when Art saws someone in half from the crotch up.

You don’t get to celebrate excessive gore and mutilation and then act like a Terrifier movie owes you a TED Talk on systemic oppression.

You can’t root for a clown eating someone’s face and then clutch your pearls because the director doesn’t want to wade into your political dumpster fire.

Pick a lane, you whiny hypocrites.

Why Woke Twitter Really Hates This

Here’s the actual reason the woke mob is so pissed: Leone didn’t pick a side. He refused to plant his flag in their never-ending culture war.

In 2025, saying “I don’t want my movie to be political” is basically code for, “I just committed a hate crime in the eyes of the woke police.”

One particularly brain-dead Twitter user screeched:

“If you’re not explicitly supporting marginalized voices, you’re complicit!”

What the fuck does that even mean? He makes slasher movies, not campaign ads. Get over yourselves.

Let’s Talk About the Feminists (and Their Fragile Feelings)

Oh boy, you knew the feminists would crawl out of their Twitter caves for this one. They’re out here crying that Art the Clown’s brutality toward women is some kind of secret anti-feminist agenda.

Here’s a reality check:

Art the Clown doesn’t discriminate. He’ll kill men, women, dogs, probably your goldfish.

He’s not pushing an agenda. He’s pushing a hacksaw through someone’s chest.

And to the feminists whining about “violence against women” in a slasher movie: What the fuck did you expect? Did you think Terrifier 2 was a Hallmark Christmas special? You signed up for blood, guts, and horrifying deaths, not a gender studies seminar.

Final Thoughts: Get Over Yourselves, You Sensitive Morons

Damien Leone is out here delivering some of the most batshit insane horror we’ve seen in decades. If you’re mad that he doesn’t want to turn Terrifier into a soapbox for your personal grievances, maybe you should stick to the Disney+ safe zone.

Not every horror movie needs to hold up a mirror to society’s sins. Sometimes, it’s just about a psychotic clown wrecking people’s lives in creative ways. And that’s perfectly fine.

So, to all the woke liberals, feminists, and crybabies clutching their pearls over this: Shut the fuck up, grab some popcorn, and let Art the Clown do his thing.

Tired of sensitive morons ruining your fun? Follow The Most Humble Blog for unapologetic takes and ruthless truths about everything from horror movies to the woke bullshit plaguing society. You’re welcome.

[hymnserendipity]

Sylus break up pt 2

Angst, no gender mentioned

Sylus spent his days, as usual, his mind lost between one meeting and another until suddenly his phone vibrated in his pocket, because he still had, for some reason, your ig stories updates. And he saw you smiling as you kiss someone.

It wasn't his place to feel anger or anything else, but seeing your happy smile next to another man made his blood boil. He couldn’t take his eyes off his phone, looking at you and your new boyfriend, thinking about how it had hurt him so much and how you had gotten over it so quickly, and it pissed him off even more. So he decided to send you a message, maybe piss you off too. "So?" He typed. And you blocked him.

Sylus wasn’t expecting you to block him. He was at his office when he tried to get into your story again and found that you had blocked him. He was angry, hurt, and annoyed. He spent the rest of his day working, but his mind wasn’t really in it. All he could think about was you, how caring and loving you had been, and how much he had been a prick to you.

After a few days, he gave in and tried to find you on social media once again, only to remember that you had blocked him. Sylus's emotions were like a whirlwind inside of him as he realized that you had blocked him. He felt a mixture of anger, annoyance, and sadness. Anger that you had blocked him without even giving him a chance to talk to you, annoyance because he couldn’t check on you even if he wanted to, and sadness because he missed you, he missed your smile, your voice, your everything. He tried to stay focused on his work, but your memory occupied a significant part of his thoughts. Sylus couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw you, walking down the street, with another guy on your arm. A knot was forming in his stomach as he watched you smile and laugh with the stranger. The sight of you happy with someone else made his blood boil with anger and jealousy, and before he realized it, he was walking towards you. His steps were quick and resolute as he approached you. He couldn’t help but glare at the man by your side, and as he reached you, he spoke up, his voice a mixture of irritation and possessiveness....

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

"Hum?" With a sight you tell your new boyfriend to give you a moment and follow him in a alley.

"What do you want?"

Syluswas surprised that you had accepted to talk to him alone, and he wasted no time in getting to the point.

“Who the hell is that guy?” He asked, gesturing towards your companion. The jealousy in his eyes was evident.

"My boyfriend, someone that actually care." Sylus clenched his jaw as you spoke. The mention of your boyfriend felt like a punch in the gut, and he did his best to control his rising anger.

“Yeah? And how long have you been together?”

"Three days. We broke up four months ago." Sylus felt a pang in his chest as he heard how long you had been dating. Four months, and you had already moved on and found someone new. He wanted to know more, but his jealousy and anger got the better of him.

“So you’re already dating another guy? And you're happy with him?”

"Yes."

Sylus's face became a stony mask as he tried to hide his emotions. He was seething with jealousy and anger.

"So you're happy with him, huh? You don't even miss our time together?"

"Leave me alone. You broke my heart, now i'm happy." Sylus's eyes flicked from you to your boyfriend and back again.

"And what? You think he's going to make you happier? He doesn't know you the way I did. He doesn't know what you like, or what you don't like. And he sure as hell doesn't know how much better I was for you."

"Stop. I don't want to talk about it again, that's what u did." You were mad as you left, he didnt follow you. Sylus watched you walk away, feeling a lump forming in his throat. Your words hit him like a ton of bricks, and he couldn't blame you for not wanting to talk to him again. He had hurt you, and now you were happier with someone else. The jealousy and anger that had filled him had turned into a wave of sadness and regret.

He clenched his fists, holding back the tears that threatened to fall. How could he have let you go so easily? He had been a fool. And now it was too late to change anything.

[twinribbonz]

Decussate is the ultimate bastard and here’s why.

Note: Some characters featured here might not be ones heard of. Decussate and Sever. Errik. I implore you to check them out first so you aren’t confused when reading.

Humble beginnings:

The first nine timelines of Xtale do not really matter here. Decussate was not important enough to develop his much deeper personality.

They never mattered anyway.

Moat of these timelines play out similarly to those of canon.

Timeline X:

Decussate and XPapyrus were adopted by the Royal Scientist known as XGaster. Already putting him in a rather important place at such a young age.

His best friend is XFrisk the adopted child of the Dreemurr family. The one who broke the barrier out of the kindness of their heart.

Decussate did feel he was important due to being so close with the royal family. He would brag to other kids about his best friend being XFrisk. But his attitude was kept in check by XGaster.

XGaster did not approve of Decussate acting like this. Scolding him for thinking that he was even of importance at all. These words would shatter Decussate’s self confidence greatly.

Growing up into a teenager who needed to prove himself to everyone. He demanded the Royal Guard to protect his best friend from the humans

He has always been expectedly skilled when it comes to combat. Picking up on things quicker than others.

It made him feel really proud of himself. He finally found his purpose. This is the one thing he’s the best at.

No one else is a better solider than he is.

Though, Papyrus and Undyne were there to deflate his ego, keeping it in check. It only dwindled his self worth and confidence. Making Decussate feel uncharacteristically miserable.

Sinking himself into training and protecting the only things he is good at.

Timeline X plays out similar to the events of canon.

The Downfall:

Being stuck in the void of Xtale was hell for Decussate. Trapped with Sever who wanted nothing to do with him. They cursed him and his stupid actions for getting them in this mess. Mocking him for thinking that overwrite would even work for someone like him.

Both of them grew to hate each other so very much. It was suffocating.

Eventually even Sever fell eerily silent. Becoming apathetic and nihilistic. Their will to keep going started to fade away. Thinking that they were hopeless stuck with the murderer of everyone they knew and loved. It was too much for them. So, their trait of determination began to fizzle out.

In a moment of sheer panic, Decussate reabsorbed Sever’s soul. His own determined soul kept theirs from destroying itself even more. Keeping them fundamentally alive. He admitted that he didn’t want to be even more alone. Sure, he hates their guts but they didn’t deserve to disappear.

Sever called him selfish for thinking of only himself. It was unfair to put them in this situation. But they did appreciate his rare kindness.

Ink:

Decussate asked Ink what gave them importance. They pondered the question before bringing up their position as protector. Telling him about he got to oversee a lot of people.

A twinkle returned to Decussate’s eyelights in that moment. He needed to know more about this but Ink denied telling him anything further.

Error:

The destroyer tried to rip the culmination of his being away. Error was quickly overwhelmed when Decussate freed himself with ease, impaling through the ribcage with the hack sword.

Ink arrived too late on the scene only to see Error fleeing, a trail of blood following behind.

Decussate demanded an answer on who that was. Ink tried to dodge the question, not wanting to reveal the information too soon. This was not supposed to happen. This wasn’t apart of his plan.

But being towered by him greatly was swift to dissolve any resolve they built up. They caved in and told him about the wider multiverse outside the void of Xtale.

That Error is the destroyer. He destroys alternate universes and timelines. Killing everyone inside and stealing the soul of the one with the greatest determination. So a reset could not happen to fix any damage he caused.

Protector:

Decussate was utterly sickened by Ink’s lack of protecting what mattered most. The scripts by the creators? It sounded like religious nonsense to him. The people inside mattered the most.

He knew what he needed to do. Forcefully taking over the role of protector from them. They weren’t no protector. Allowing the likes of the destroyer to run around and kill the innocent.

Decussate was made to protect others.

No one deserved to lose their loved ones or home because of an uncontrollable outside force.

He could not allow that to happen ever again as long as the soul inside of him was beating.

Decussate steeled himself immediately and recalled all his training as a guard. Ordering Sever to help access these other worlds. They told him to use a portal like Ink does.

Of course, he knew how to make one. Summoning the sword to tear a rip into the fabric of reality, entering the dorm of the world tree. Yggdrasil stood before the duo in its ethereal glory.

This is the hub for Ink to enter everywhere. He seized the paper of his home, storing it in the heart locket for safe keeping.

Being protector returned Decussate to his sense of self worth. He was back doing to what he did best.

Declaring the title of Decussate for himself. Abandoning his old identity as Cross.

God slayer:

Killing the likes of Error and Nightmare gave Decussate an incredible ego boost. He had protected everyone from the evil that plagued the multiverse.

Not even gods can bask in his greatness. Which just fed into his ego even more.

The Delta Sanctuary:

Knight’s tale Omega timeline equivalent.

Decussate had established a connection there due to his acts of heroism. He agreed to help people evacuate there during an attack on the alternate universe.

He was thanked immensely for his efforts. His accomplishments were celebrated. Becoming a hero to all who talked to him.

Yet, he made no actual friends. Most found him unbearable to how he acted and his constant bragging. Some even grew tired of him altogether and outright ignored him.

He brushed it off as them being jealous of his superiority. Deep inside he was extremely insecure. Wasn’t his best enough? He is doing what he is the best at.

Banishment:

The gods of Knighr’s tale banded together and cast Decussate out of the multiverse. His actions doomed the balance of the multiverse. Its fate would be collapsing into the Sea of Code.

They were originally going to kill him for this level of treason.

But the Messenger of The Angel stepped in and told them that it would personally deal with him.

Errik:

It had lied to the gods. They were sent to retrieve him.

Feeding into his ego and playing it up. Telling him about the countless other multiverses that desperately needed him and only him to save them from evil.

Errik struck up a deal with Decussate to provide him access to anywhere and everywhere. In return, he would act as entertainment for him.

Sever was concerned about this deal, telling Decussate to not take it. That Errik felt strangely dangerous to them. Their pleads were ignored. He needed to protect even more.

LV:

It is obvious. His level of violence would skyrocket to alarmingly degrees because of his nonstop slaughter.

Decussate and Sever soon grew even more distance from everyone. The LV coursing through the shared body is a constant reminder.

This affected Decussate worse, fueling his ego and making him worse as a person to interact with.

Nowadays:

The duo still wander through the multiverses purging them of evil.

But Decussate has become a shell of his former self. His pride became so massive that he doesn’t even bother to talk anyone. No one is worth it anymore to him. With the only exception being Sever.

His temper has gotten only worse. If someone dares to question him or his actions, he will only glare at them. His mannerisms become aggressive making him seem hostile even if he doesn’t do anything. His large stature makes most refuse to approach him. He refuses to kneel down to even speak with someone shorter than him. He is above them in every way after all.

Sever has taken up doing the talking for Decussate. They are awful at it. Being rude and judgmental about everything. But upsetting them in any way will provoke Decussate.

Most choose to keep a conversation with Sever. Peeking at Decussate’s expression to make sure they aren’t doing anything wrong.

Miscellaneous:

Decussate does believe that he is the best version of Cross. Since all the others fall into similar situations. Him being a protector makes him superior to them.

Sever doesn’t argue with it. They know it’s true with everything they have accomplished in comparison to other Cross. He’s better because he did not get rid of them the moment it presented itself.

Decussate truly cares about Sever despite everything. He prioritizes them over all. They are the only who has seen him at his worst.

[thefullmolloy]

"Yeah?"

They're so close still, close enough Daniel's lips brush Louis' as he speaks and send an electric tingle traveling from his mouth down into the nerves of his jaw, into his carotid until it reaches his heart.

There's the urge to pull back further. Not to end things but to see how Louis looks right now- whether the little bit of mortal blood lingering in him from his last feed has rushed to his cheeks, if his hair is fanned out across the pillow. Daniel has seen him napping on the sofa at Trinity Gate enough to know that he looks gorgeous in repose, has even seen him overtaken by Armand once or twice. But this is different. This is because of him and he aches to see.

But distance now would mean the death of whatever is building between them. And he can't tear himself away from Louis' anyways; can't stop pressing his parted lips to the corner of Louis' mouth, the hollow of his cheek. Nudges the tip of his nose against Louis' and inhales the cold exhale of his breath. Slow, gentle touches while he waits for Louis to say something, anything, but it doesn't come.

It's not silent, exactly. There's the quiet rustle of the blankets, the tattoo of their pulses. Little sounds whenever Daniel's lips press a half formed kiss against cold skin, but still, something is stretching out, threatening to suck up the air in the room and so-

"I like you like this. I've thought about it before, you know. Silly mortal fantasies when I was alive, or sometimes after seeing you with Armand, but this is better than any of that."

The words tumble out of his mouth and into the pale skin of Louis' cheek before he can stop them. It's like being drunk. Liquored up and inhibitions down, the way he used to get when he was mortal and had a itch to be the one pushing Armand back onto the bed for once. Like he might as well say anything, put exactly what he wants out there while he's got the guts.

And maybe it makes sense that Louis is the one that's got him like this. It had, after all, only taken a handful of hours of talking to him in that little room in San Francisco for Daniel to go from shy and hesitating to a shameless, demanding thing.

He drags his nails over Louis' scalp. Nuzzles at his cheek again and lets the anticipation build, burning up the back of his throat with every low drum of Louis' pulse.

"I want to taste you," he murmurs. "It doesn't even matter how at this point. Fuck, you could cut your arm and I'd lick the blood off it if you just let me."

If anyone asks, he'll tell them Daniel started it.

He did, after all, in a way. He stared it when he opened his mouth at that bar. It would have been so easy to pick him off and drain him, but he'd started it when he looked at Louis with those hungry eyes full of curiosity and lust and that strange spark of cynical hope.

He started it. Louis is simply rolling the dice for what happens next.

He tries to think of this as a gamble. Tries to remove the act from the experience, as he always does. The worldview of the vampire is one of symbols, after all; every act in service to some higher aesthetic, some grand picture in which the logistics and fallacies matter so little.

This is an experiment, and he is calling Daniel's bluff.

And maybe, just maybe, if Daniel is kind enough, he will break away eventually, mutter something snarky under his breath before they both go about their business and never speak of this again. That's his hypothesis, anyway. That's what he hopes for.

And perhaps that is why Louis had taken his chances on this bet in the first place. Because the odds are 50/50. One of them must pull away first, and then it will all be over, and Louis will finally have the answer to the question that has been lurking in the recesses of his mind for years now: Does Daniel want him— truly want him— or will the remnants of that foolish mortal dream pass into oblivion with the disappointing reality now known to him?

He waits for Daniel to pull away.

And waits.

And waits.

And when he doesn't pull away, when he shifts and deepens the kiss, and clutches onto Louis' hair as he catches his lip between the razor's edge of his fangs, Louis feel something twist in his stomach as he realizes the odds might not actually be in his favor.

The thing is— it's easy, kissing Daniel. Not wolfish like Lestat, or all-consuming like Armand. It's something soft and slow and pleasant, even when the fangs come out. He wonders what it might mean, to have Daniel slice through the flesh and taste him after all these years. Will it live up to the fantasy? Will it live up to his maker?

It's Louis who pulls away, finally, as those questions fill his mind. He breaks the kiss, but only just so. Only just enough so that the danger of being known doesn't feel so imminent. He keeps his face close to Daniel's, feels his breath and his pulse and the fluttering of his eyelashes.

"I..." He starts, and for the first time in ages, he realizes that he has no idea what to say.

[roseofhybrids]

so, I'm looking up reference pictures for deer hooves and-

that is certainly an image right there

[zkretchy]

Nothing better than having 2 favourite characters who are destined to kill each other every time <3

i say this as if I didn't love almost everyone connected to the Hachetfield-verse but the 50/50 survival chance for either of them is special to me personally okay

[defira85]

Also all of my surgical dressings are off except for one (because I'm an anxious picker and I couldn't leave it alone) and it has come to my horrified attention that they have changed the shape of my bellybutton and the psychological damage this has caused to me is unfathomable

[erasinglines]

she expects deflection. is waiting for it with each second that passes, while the initial shock of the confrontation wears off. trust her when she says she doesn’t want to be having this conversation either, but something needs to be said— surely neither of them think this could continue in the way it has been, right under her nose? so, yes, she anticipates there will be some form of divergence, but this just makes her blood boil. hopes her countenance doesn’t give her away, that her face isn’t growing hot, like she feels it is. at least they can’t look at each other, her own gaze travelling beyond the other female, to the view beyond glass doors. “ i didn’t say anything about playing a game. ” but eden’s good at that, isn’t she? planting seeds of doubt without needing to say much at all. she’ll allow the other to think that, however, like maybe it’ll act as enough to have her think differently about how they all move forward, from here. she, for one, refuses to continue turning a blind eye to what was happening right in front of her— clearly unfinished business. has ignored it for as long as she can; let them sneak off into unoccupied rooms, text at all hours throughout the night, call each other when their days were rough. isn’t outright opposed to them being cordial, but as close as they are, as they act… it was weird, wasn’t it? was she the only one who saw through it? “ right, and fletcher, ” she adds quickly, again, a reminder that there was a fourth party tangled up in their mess; one she was certain was catching onto… whatever it is they’re trying to do here, hiding from them. that’s the part she still hasn’t figured out, and she hates them for it. “ i get it, though. you have history, ” and i can’t compete with that. head shakes then, ignoring the sinking feeling in her gut. she’d heard the same from him, too. “ it’s just… you chose to let him go, right? ” poses the question, intentions not as pure as the way it initially comes out. “ i’m not trying to sabotage either, but i just don’t see an ending in this where he’s going to choose you, again. ”

the pit in devon’s stomach feels heavier, now, as she watches eden’s pretense fall away once they’re completely alone. no one wants to be alone in a room with their ex’s current partner, but especially not if they’re still hopelessly in love with said ex, like she was. and there’s an incredible amount of guilt, too, finding it difficult to look her directly in the eye as she thinks about how miller’s hands were just pressed against her skin, how she would’ve done anything he asked of her, in that moment. that’s why it was dangerous for them to get so close— all rationality fell away, and they forgot about the people they would hurt. now that she’s face to face with it, hearing the edge to the other’s voice, devon wishes she could just melt into the floor and escape it all. brows furrow slightly at her words, at her mention of cruelty— that’s not how she saw any of this. then again, she still hasn’t quite figured out what’s happening between them, what the future might hold, just that that spark had never actually extinguished. and apparently, other people could see it, too, judging by the other’s observation, that she noticed how they look at one another. fuck, that’s not good. she thought they were being discreet, but apparently not. guilt slaps her right in the face, teeth chewing on the inside of her cheek. so why hold on ? she lets out a quiet sigh at that question, certain that she didn’t want her to say that she held on because she loved him, because he was all she thought about, that she still believed they were soulmates, in the end. tries not to take offense at her repeated insistence that their relationship wouldn’t work, that everyone thought so, too, but she’d be lying if she said it didn’t affect her at all. “ that’s not… i mean i’m not, like, just playing some kind of game with him, if that’s what you’re saying, ” at least, that’s not her intent, and she hopes he knows that, too. “ and i’m not trying to sabotage anything, or— ” she pauses, to let out another sigh. she owed her some kind of honesty, as she’s never been able to share her side of all of it. “ look, with miller and i… there’s always going to be something between us. i mean, we were together so long, i never thought we would— ” break up, she thinks, but she should probably save it. “ think we can agree he’s just… really special. it’s hard to not imagine him in my life, somehow, i guess, but i’m really not trying to be cruel. not to you or him. ” 

[greenerteacups]

Is Harry a horocrux/ parselmouth ?

What, in canon?

[deathjitsus]

it's like crazy how hard the bucks try to make it up to hangman too like i think they really realized that they were shitty friends to him and they missed him and wanted him back in their lives but especially once hangman met swerve (though tbh they drifted apart before this) it was like this switch had been flicked in his brain and he had this one track mind all of a sudden . . . & i don't even think hanger was trying to get back at the bucks or anything i think he did that by joining the dark order i just think maybe something had been broken that couldn't be repaired this time. I don't know

[smile-files]

(tw for blood & gore!!!)

oh, so i am real!

[the-library-of-forgotten-endings]

do you have a favorite mirror world/id of yours? a least favorite? (or if you want to just talk about your favorite, as the muse, feel free.)

Ans: My favourite would be my tingtang id. Sinclair and I dance together, apparently, ahaha~!

any id you'd think would be fun to have personally?

Ans: I *really* wanted a Cinq id to match with sinclair, but Dante couldn't extract it... hmph, I wanted to duel alongside with him in battle...

what your favorite/least favorite abnormality that you've either seen or faced in battle?

Ans: Well, they all kill you the same, don't they? But if I had to pick, maybe Pink Shoes, because it's the cutest~ oh, and blubbering toad as my least favourite, it got water all over my hair

would you say you're particularly close to anyone in your branch? is there anyone you'd like to get closer to?

Ans: I'm closest to Sinclair, but I'd like to get closer, teehee~

on the contrary, anyone you particularly don't get along with? anyone you can't really stand?

Ans: ...Heathcliff. I still haven't forgiven him for what he did to Sinclair. Better watch your back, heath~ ❤

why did you join the company? if you don't mind disclosing.

Ans: Well, I didn't have anywhere else to go.

what experiences do you believe make you a good fit for the company? or, do you even believe you are a good fit for the company?

Ans: I don't know, I'm not used to this sort of grunt work... I guess determination~? You'd have to ask faust or something.

do you think you've changed from the person you were when you first got hired? in what ways?

Ans: Well, I met Sinclair, so I've definitely changed! <3

if you could resign from the company, would you? (not that you can, just curious what you'd answer if you had a choice in the matter.)

Ans: I wouldn't resign and leave sinclair alone, but if he resigned...? Hm...

in general, what do you think of your job here? do you like it?

Ans: It's fun~ Kinda violent, and it's really gross getting blood and guts on myself all the time, but I got to meet sinclair, so it's not all bad

anything you particularly dislike about the company?

Ans: Why is everything so obtuse? Surely there's no need to be so secretive. Faust, if you're reading this, do try and open up

what would you consider to be your own "weaknesses"?

Ans: Well... I guess I'm the type to not see what's coming until it's too late.

which do you find more appealing: working on your own, or working with others?

Ans: That's a toughie~ Both solo and group performances can be equally captivating. But... I think a stage is less lonely when there's other people with you, no matter who they are

how would you describe yourself in a single sentence?

Ans: The best, most talented idol~★!

what do you think about your home district? anything you liked there?

Ans: ...Don't ask me that question again.

favorite dinner place? what's your favorite thing on the menu there?

Ans: My favourite is naan and lamb curry... hahh, i could go for a plate right now.

would you rather fight 1 horse-sized duck or 100 duck-sized horses?

Ans: A horse sized duck can't be any more dangerous than an abnormality, right...? I'll pick that, then.

heard we're having a company potluck soon. what are you planning on bringing? (if… you're bringing anything. you can admit you don't have anything. it's alright.)

Ans: Samosas, because they're tasty and I don't think anybody else would have trouble eating them.

i give you the classic trolley problem. what's your answer?

Ans: Which trolley is sinclair on?

what do you do in your free time? (whenever you have it, that is.)

Ans: Mostly practicing my dance and vocal routines. Talent takes work!

OC - Rambha, Sinner number 13 (Weapon: गाना)

LCB interview(esque) questions

[ note: these questions were made with Limbus Company OCs in mind, but technically these could be for any OCs ]

[ meant to be answered in character, as if answering questions from an interview. you can twist the questions to be 3rd person if you wish, however ]

do you have a favorite mirror world/id of yours? a least favorite? (or if you want to just talk about your favorite, as the muse, feel free.)

any id you'd think would be fun to have personally?

what your favorite/least favorite abnormality that you've either seen or faced in battle?

would you say you're particularly close to anyone in your branch? is there anyone you'd like to get closer to?

on the contrary, anyone you particularly don't get along with? anyone you can't really stand?

why did you join the company? if you don't mind disclosing.

what experiences do you believe make you a good fit for the company? or, do you even believe you are a good fit for the company?

do you think you've changed from the person you were when you first got hired? in what ways?

if you could resign from the company, would you? (not that you can, just curious what you'd answer if you had a choice in the matter.)

in general, what do you think of your job here? do you like it?

anything you particularly dislike about the company?

what would you consider to be your own "weaknesses"?

which do you find more appealing: working on your own, or working with others?

how would you describe yourself in a single sentence?

what do you think about your home district? anything you liked there?

favorite dinner place? what's your favorite thing on the menu there?

would you rather fight 1 horse-sized duck or 100 duck-sized horses?

heard we're having a company potluck soon. what are you planning on bringing? (if… you're bringing anything. you can admit you don't have anything. it's alright.)

i give you the classic trolley problem. what's your answer?

what do you do in your free time? (whenever you have it, that is.)

[ divider credit ]