#this is how i imagine that conversation would go

[munsster]

hey girl!! so i was rewatching season 3 and saw the part where max and eleven are playing the spin the bottle and spying on people and had an idea! what if the reader is babysitting them and the girls drag her in to play and they spin in on steve, so she’s like “alright that’s enough” bc she doesn’t want to invade on her friends privacy but she sits through it anyway, and she hears him talking to robin about how much he likes her and wants to ask her out. IDK i thought that was cute :))

don’t hate the game

A/N: UR SO RIGHT THIS IS SO CUTE. I’m so glad i FINALLYYY found motivation to tackle it <3 (gif creds: @buckysbarnes)

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

Summary: The girls convince you to play an embarrassing party game from your past. It’s nothing like you remember. 2.4k words

Warnings: pet names (sweetheart, honey), ‘like’, overthinking, implied bullying, stupid pining, insecurity

It's a Friday night in the middle of summer, and you're wondering how you got here. Well, actually you're in your living room, so it's not that great of a mystery, but more confusing than that, you're letting two adolescent girls teach you how to play spin the bottle. If someone had told you at graduation that this is where you'd end up, you'd laugh right in their face.

Who's laughing now.

"But!" Max says, "if you hadn't noticed, none of these people are in the room, so how would we kiss them?"

You fight the urge to sink into your seat, blithely nodding and avoiding anything that might alienate you from your younger counterparts. You're almost sorry you surrendered your night to babysit two capable teens, but you promised El's dad who promised to pay you handsomely. Plus, they seem to like you enough to find you cool. Enough to tell you teenage secrets and complain about their boyfriends.

As they're explaining the rules, a memory creeps in of the first time you ever played this godforsaken party game. On Steve Harrington's floor in eighth grade. The cheers dying off as the mouth of the bottle slowed to a stop in your direction. No one expected him to actually lean over and kiss you. Or that you'd stay good friends despite his high school career soaring into stardom while yours sort of... didn't.

"We don't kiss them!" El chirps with an excited glint in her eye. The girls lean in like it's the first time they're hearing the rules but you're almost certain they made them up.

"Right. Instead, El here becomes our spy. I'm not exactly sure how it works, but she can see into their conversations or something. It's wicked." Max looks to El with something like admiration.

Intrigued, you glance down at the post-it notes arranged in a circle, scribbled with assorted names from yearbooks and yellow pages. A few you recognize: Mike and Lucas, one of the Hawkins Middle math teachers, even Will’s mom wasn’t safe from their antics.

But among the many names, you're most drawn to Steve. The way the letters loop and curl into his name, you go a little dizzy imagining that you really were playing the game. That he was seated across from you now. That he might lean over like he did the first time while your mind raced with a thousand possibilities. It's a prank or a dare or his wholehearted commitment to the game, anything other than his own free will.

You blink out of your silly, nostalgia-fueled trance when Max presses the cold glass bottle to your palm.

"You first."

They giggle and fall into each other when you half-twist the bottle. You're still in disbelief that you agreed to this as you watch the bottle spin, ticking off names as it loses momentum.

"Who is that?" you ask, leaning closer as if you'd read the yellow post-it wrong.

"Oh," El says. She cringes away from the board and crosses her arms over her chest in defiance.

"That bitch from P.E.," Max grumbles, and you have half a mind to scold her if you hand’t found universal bitch-aversion endlessly amusing. "You can spin again, she's not worth the trouble anyway."

You imagine your dream game once again. The bottle flies in the other direction at your fingertips, haywire and picking up a new gravity. It draws a wild, fiery line beneath your stare as you consider the possibility of Steve. It slows and slows until it's spinning almost at the same pace as Earth from a distance. Listening to the roaring sound of the universe as the bottle turns. Turns and turns and turns. Your eyes light up.

The girls giggle.

"No," you say sternly, regretting all your daydreams and fantasies in the face of cold, hard reality. "No, not Steve."

"Please!" they whine.

"Ladies, that's enough. He's a good friend, we're not spying on him."

They act like kicked puppies, though you know they're tricking you as they pout and bat their eyes. You know they know more than they should. About you. You and your feelings towards Steve Harrington. Something they discovered through a quiz in some teeny bopper magazine or other. Those magazines that somehow hold the secrets of the universe and the answers to every haircare question.

“Come on, I’ll make us popcorn and we can start a movie. A horror, if you really want.”

They seem satisfied enough, springing to the couch and settling into the cushions there.

The stove heats slowly. You fish through your cabinet for the last pan of Jiffy Pop, peeling back the thin cardboard cover when you hear snickering from the other room.

“What’s he saying?” Max whispers. You strain to hear her with your back pressed to the wall, just out of sight.

You shouldn’t be eavesdropping. You know better. You’re not a prepubescent girl anymore, you’re the babysitter with responsibilities. Like a job. Yet, you can’t seem to pull yourself away from the doorway. Every time you hear his name, your heart soars with what-ifs. You feel your eyes slip closed as El speaks.

“Steve is speaking to someone. I see her”—Your heart sinks—“Robin!”

You selfishly let out a breath. You’re mostly thankful he’s not spending his evening alone, but you also knew his friendship with Robin was strictly platonic. Robin had sworn by it without you even having to raise the question. You didn’t have to, she said, she could see it in your face. You wondered if Steve found you that transparent.

“He’s talking about… A girl. Her eyes. A smile. And he’s smiling, too. Oh, wait, now he’s frowning because Robin flicked him,” she says with a playful lilt.

She gasps.

“What?” Max yelps, shifting closer on the squeaky couch.

“Steve wants to confess his feelings. Big feelings, he says. Like-like.”

You not sure if that’s El’s paraphrase of Steve’s so-called big feelings or if the term like-like came from his own mouth. Neither option would surprise you. What does surprise you is that you’d never heard any of this from Steve before. You liked to think you were friends, even one of his best friends. He was surely one of yours. You told each other almost everything because you can’t exactly discuss complex relationships and sex with middle schoolers.

But you’d never heard of Steve’s seemingly new, mystery like-liker lover.

“He’s thinking of asking her out. Robin told him he might as well, it’s obvious that the girl he’s talking about likes him back. He doesn’t agree,” El says, her brows furrowed beneath the thick black blindfold, “Robin’s shouting. Steve looks sad.”

“What’s she saying?” Max whispers.

“Shh! ‘You like her so much, you might as well tell her and let her react. But I’ll say this, she’s going to say yes. That girl has been in love with you since the eighth grade’. He’s thinking.”

“Think faster, hair-brain!”

El giggles, her face suddenly falling serious. “‘Really?’” You stifle a laugh at the deeper voice she affects.

“‘She’s never said anything to me about it’. Robin looks angry. ‘Obviously, dingus! Do you go around telling people you’re in love with them?’”

“She has a point,” Max says. “Who’s he talking about?”

“I don’t know—Oh! Here we go,” El huffs, fists clenched eagerly, “He’s making a plan to ask her out, he’s going to call her. He’s getting up—”

Just then, the popcorn bursts from its aluminum confines with a bang. You let out a strangled noise between a yelp and a grumble, annoyed at the rude and very loud interruption. As you set the burner knob in place, you consider the fact that Steve has very real feelings for someone else. Someone who’s just not you. And as you shake the popcorn into a ceramic bowl, the landline rings.

“Will someone get that?” you call, grabbing a few small packages of sweets stashed in the cabinet. You hear the girls spring from the couch, and you shuffle into the living room to a giddy scene huddled around the receiver.

“Yes, she’s here!” El squeals. There’s a muffled response from the other line, and they share a conspiratorial glance.

“It’s for you,” Max says, handing you the phone with a smirk.

“Thank you. Go pick a movie while the popcorn’s hot.” You clear your throat, preparing yourself for the worst. Maybe your boss firing you or a repo man taking your TV. “Hello?”

“Hi, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to interrupt girl’s night, I can call back later,” Steve’s gentle voice filters clear through the speaker. In the silence, static hums, and you press the phone closer to your ear.

Trying to listen for what he might be thinking. He sounds like rain. Like Sunday and a lack of pressure. He sounds inviting and warm like that big green sweater he’s always wearing. If only you knew he wears it because you adore it. You tell him every time; why would he ever stop.

“No!” you chirp, “no, perfect timing actually, we were just about to start a movie.”

“Oh! That sounds fun,” he says. You fidget with the springy cord, facing away from the living room and from the attention of the two flittering girls.

“Yeah,” you say, hoping he doesn’t recognize the disappointment coloring your tone. “So, how’d it go?”

He chokes a little. “How’d… what? Go?” There’s a soft snicker from the other line at his incidental voice crack.

“Your… I mean, did you have something you wanted to tell me?”

The line dips, but you hadn’t heard the telltale plastic clatter of a hang up. Just soft shuffling and a curse from under his breath. You curdle at the near silence.

“What did Robin tell you?” he grumbles.

“What? Nothing. Was she supposed to?”

“Well, no! I just called to tell you—”

He goes silent, and this time you’re actually convinced he hung up. There’s no sound at all, and you double check your receiver to make sure the problem’s not on your end.

“Stevie?”

“Yep, sorry. Just… feel silly.”

“Okay, you’re starting to scare me a little,” you hum, clutching onto the handheld.

“No! Sorry, not trying to scare you, honey, I just need to get something off my chest. But it’s not scary. Or, well, I guess it could be taken that way, and that would be okay. A little sad, but yeah, no hard feelings—”

At this point, you’re sure he’s talking about his prospective date. He knows you have a stupid, obvious crush on him, and he’s trying to soften the blow of new romantic conquest. Of course, introducing his new girlfriend to you would be terrifying, but you’d always put on a brave face for Steve. He knows that. He’d do the same for you.

“Steve?”

“Yeah.”

“Just get it over with,” you sigh, leaning your head against the wall and bracing for heartache.

“Right. Not trying to waste your time. Here goes.”

I’ve got a new, smoking hot girlfriend who just agreed to go on a date with me. And she’s got beautiful eyes and a gorgeous smile, and I’ve been in love with her since I can remember, and we’re gonna run away together forever and get married and have perfect babies.

“I like you,” he huffs.

“Well, duh, I like you, too, you’re only my closest friend,” you say. You’re tense, waiting for the other shoe to come hurling through the skylight. “Now, tell me.”

“No, sweetheart, I like-like you. Have since I was nine. Miss Boyd’s class, if I’m not mistaken.” There’s a soft thud like his forehead colliding with the wall beside his phone.

You inhale a shaky breath. He’s kidding, and it’s a prank. Your heart races, and you want to curse him out for picking on you. He should know better. Right?

“Steve,” you warble, “please tell me you’re joking.”

There’s more shuffling, muffled voices, and you think you’ve just exposed one long drawn out joke. You’re about to hang up with what’s left of your dignity when he says:

“Are you rejecting me?”

He sounds almost mad. Hair ruffled, skin on edge. How you imagine his father might sound just before one of his awful fits. But there’s something much softer to Steve, more understanding. Hurt like a child.

Still, you can’t help you suspicion.

“Quit it. I know it’s a joke, don’t drag it out.”

“Hey, wait a second,” he urges, “It’s not a joke. I like you. A lot.” He says it so softly, your heart just might believe him. As if all the stars have aligned, and he’s actually confessing his feelings for you. You didn’t think the stars did that. Not really, anyway.

There’s a new tune to his voice you’d almost name teasing, “c’mon, don’t leave me hangin’.”

And just like that, he’s back in school again, fawning over you from a distance, finding an excuse to tag you during recess only to avoid you in class so you wouldn’t see him blush. He’s back to whispered secrets through the phone at midnight so he’s parents wouldn’t catch him. He only ever told you what wouldn’t give him away. He’s back to not letting you pay for your ice cream and shrugging it off with a smile. He’s back, and he might just be yours.

“I—Sorry, you like me? Like like-like, like enough to ask me on a real date?” you huff. He chuckles.

“Well, that last part kinda depends on whether or not you like me back. But yes, I like-like like like-like you.”

You spin to face the living room only to be confronted by an empty popcorn bowl and two fidgety, blushing, wide-eyed teens. They urge you for answers, gesturing wildly and wiggling towards you across the floor.

“Of course, I like you. I thought you knew.”

“Everyone keeps saying that. I guess I was too distracted,” he admits.

“I guess we both were,” you say, unable to keep a grin from your face, succumbing to joy as your fingers dance along the telephone cord.

“So, how about that date?” It escapes him barely above a whisper. He can’t believe he’s actually saying it after all this time. The only thing that convinces him it even came out is your soft laughter.

“Sounds wonderful!”

“Good!” he coos.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“Great, yeah. That’s… I can’t wait.” He’s earnest until his cheeks hurt, and Robin teases him for it.

“Tomorrow, it is,” you purr, nearly in tune with the low hum of the receiver, “I’ll call you later.”

“Bye, sweetheart. Don’t forget: I like-like you.”

You smile, slotting the phone back into its place. A chorus of giggles erupts at your feet. Spin the bottle had been a good idea, after all.

stranger things masterlist

[lilianne-tarot]

⋆.˚PICK A CARD: "What Are They Really Feeling About You" ⋆.˚

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I. II. III.

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Hey there loves! Welcome to another PAC reading on my blog page—I hope you all enjoy it! Comment down what you felt about the reading and if it resonated with you and please show some love, Your support means everything to me!<3

How to Pick Your Pile: Take a deep breath, clear your mind, and look at the images below. Which one pulls you in the most? Trust your gut! Once you choose the image, The number below your chosen image is your pile. If more than one catches your eye, that just means there’s extra tea for you—go ahead and read both!

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⋆✮ Pile I

"I have so many feelings for you, but I don’t know how to handle it."

These cards are laid out in front of me, and whew—the energy is giving emotional confusion and major mixed signals. Like, imagine someone typing out a long-ass paragraph to send to you, deleting it, and then hitting you with a dry "hey" instead. That’s the vibe we’re working with here. typical situationship situation. There’s this undeniable connection between you two—the kind which makes yalll like, "what are we?" . But The World Reversed tells me they feel like something between you is incomplete or not quite where it should be. Maybe y’all had a near miss, an almost-relationship, or things just never fully clicked into place the way they were supposed to. OR—they’re still caught up in past issues, cycles, or even other people who are messing with their perception of this connection. And then—BOOM—the Queen of Swords Reversed—This person sees you as intelligent, sharp, and perceptive, but also a bit intimidating. They might feel like if they were to step to you, they’d have to bring their absolute A-game because you don’t fall for weak, half-hearted energy. (And tbh, they’re lowkey scared of getting called out if they’re moving weird). They could also think you’re a bit distant or hard to read at times—like, do you actually like them back, or are you just naturally that cool? (Spoiler: they’re dying to know).

Okay, but what’s holding them back? The Five of Cups is coming in here , showing that this person is stuck in regret, sadness, or some kind of emotional baggage that’s stopping them from moving forward with you. If this is an ex or a situationship, they definitely still think about you, but they’re too caught up in the "what went wrong" instead of focusing on "what could go right." I just feel like this spread is mainly for people who are stuck in a situationship or are pondering over an ex. So yeah, they feel something deep and nostalgic for you, whether you’ve known each other forever or not. They might replay certain memories, old conversations, or even compare new people they meet to you—because you set a standard, babe. There’s something pure about how they feel toward you, even if their emotions are a hot mess express. They might fantasize about simpler times between you two, or even wonder if there’s a way to rekindle or repair things if you’ve grown apart. They feel drawn to you in a way they can’t ignore. You’re on their mind more than they’ll ever admit (probably even to themselves).

At this point, it’s their move. Will they break free from their past and step toward you? Or will they keep living in the land of "what ifs" and "almost"

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˙⋆✮ Pile II

"They are literally perfect, I’m obsessed."

Like, this person thinks about you way more than they probably should. Your person doesn’t just think of you in passing—nah, you stick in their brain like a catchy song they can’t get rid of. There’s something fated about this connection in their mind (Wheel of Fortune is SCREAMING destiny vibes, and especially when I RARELY get this card in my spreads so you just KNOW). Whether they admit it or not, they feel like you’re significant in some way. They don’t know why, they don’t know how, but the thought of you feels important—like a turning point in their life, even if nothing has happened between you two yet. But here’s where it gets messy (and a little spicy). The Judgement card is staring me in the face like 👁️👄👁️, and I’m telling you right now, your person sees you as someone who forces them to self-reflect. You’re triggering something deep in them. This person sees you as someone who’s put together, maybe even out of their league. You give off an "I know who I am, and I don’t settle for less" vibe—even if you don’t feel that way inside, that’s what they’re perceiving. They might assume you have high standards that makes them second-guess how they should act around you. (Like, are they worthy???)

And the funny part? They think you have your life figured out. But seriously, you project this energy of wisdom, tradition, and stability, and it’s making them think twice before approaching. "What if they don’t take me seriously?" is a VERY real fear they have. They don’t want to come at you wrong and fumble before they even get a chance. Also, sidenote—this card sometimes gives ‘teacher/student’ energy. Not literally, but like, they feel like they could learn a lot from you. Now, let’s talk about the Two of Pentacles Reversed, because this is where the real mess begins. This person is struggling internally when it comes to you. They admire you, they think you’re lowkey untouchable, and they are absolutely not treating this as just a casual crush or just lightly. Whether they realize it or not, And let me be real with you—they’re not going to approach unless the universe forces them to. They’re waiting for some kind of cosmic push (Wheel of Fortune) to make things happen because right now, they’re paralyzed by their own overthinking. THEY ARE TIED UP IN KNOTS ABOUT THIS.

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˙⋆✮ Pile III

"Who are they?? Why do they live in my head??"

Ohhh, Pile 3’s situation is serving mystery, intrigue, and a whole lot of overthinking on their person’s end. If this is someone who only sees you from a distance—like a coworker, a classmate, or someone —then whew, the way they have created an entire personality for you in their head is actually insane.

To them, you are literally the hardest puzzle they've ever encountered, and it's driving them nuts. Like, you know how in movies, there’s always that one person who walks into a room and suddenly the main character is hyper-aware of their presence? That’s you to them. Even if you don’t talk much, or at all, your energy is too loud to ignore. They probably observe you a lot but feel like they never get the full picture. It’s giving “they seem so cool but I have no idea what’s actually going on in their head”. You might be quiet, reserved, or just really selective with who you engage with, and that makes you feel even more untouchable to them. If you are talkative or social, you still confuse them because you might act differently around different people. One second you’re laughing with someone, the next you’re in your own world? It’s throwing them off. 😂 But here’s the thing: this isn’t just curiosity. No, bestie, this is a full-on obsession. They don’t just want to know more about you—they NEED to. Their brain is playing detective without their permission. The Magician here is interesting because it means they think you’re in control, while they feel completely out of control around you. It’s giving “they probably don’t even know I exist, but I can’t stop thinking about them” energy. due of 10 of cups here, I can say, they’ve already mentally placed you in a soft-focus fantasy movie of their future.(just marry yall😭😭) They don’t just see you as someone cool—they see you as someone who could be the perfect person for them. even if they’ve never spoken to you, they already imagine what kind of relationship they’d have with you. You are the “dream person” in their head, but here’s the problem: they have no clue who you actually are. It’s like they’ve created a whole storyline about you without fact-checking it first 😭. Basically, their mental image of you is 50% real, 50% a fanfiction they wrote in their head.

Bestie, listen… If you’ve ever caught them staring at you like they’re trying to solve a crime, that’s exactly what they’re doing. They’re dying to know who you actually are because right now, you exist as a walking mystery and a romanticized daydream in their head.

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Thank you so much for reading all the way through! I hope my reading resonated with you and that you had a lovely time going through it. If you enjoyed it, please like and reblog—it really means a lot! Let me know which pile you chose; I absolutely love hearing your thoughts and feedback on my readings! ♡

Note: tarot cards provide guidance and possible insights into what could happen based on current energies, thoughts, and actions. the cards can highlight potential paths or outcomes, but they do not predict the future in a fixed way. this is a general reading so take what resonates!

[myloveer0]

My lovely darling

Girlfriend Ambessa Medarda X Fem!reader

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Summary: You were just trying to survive your family reunion when Ambessa Medarda—your girlfriend—showed up unannounced. Now, you have no choice but to introduce her to your entire clan. What’s got you nervous isn’t just introducing any partner—it’s the fact that you’re dating a woman who also happens to be twice your age.

💋 Enough with the smut we need sweet girlfriend Ambessa💋

Well… I didn’t expect everyone to like it that much, but anyway, here’s part 2. Part 3 will be last and be upload the day after tomorrow.... Enjoy reading!😊😉

Part II

This was not how tonight was supposed to go.

You had it all planned out—show up to the family reunion, smile through the awkward small talk, dodge questions about your love life, and make a graceful exit by faking a headache. The perfect escape. Then you'd be back to your regular life—your job, your apartment, and most importantly, your girlfriend.

Simple. Easy. Safe.

But Ambessa had other plan.

Amazing? She literally flew from the other side of the country just to see you—because she missed you already. Like you’d left her and promised to be back after two weeks.

And now, here she is, showing up before those weeks are even over… and demanded to meet your parents. You should’ve run. You should have. But with Ambessa’s hand wrapped firmly around you telling there was no turning back.

So now, here we were. Standing on your parents’ porch, the warm glow of the house lights peeking through. You could still hear the muffled sounds of laughter and conversation from inside, but all you could focus on was the weight spinning on your mind.

“You nervous?” Ambessa asked, her voice low, amused.

You shot her a look. “You think?”

She chuckled softly, leaning down to brush a kiss against your temple. “Relax. They’ll love me.''

You release a nervous laugh. You weren’t so sure about that.

Standing in front of the double doors, the weight of what was about to

happen doubled this time. You turned to face Ambessa, your heart pounding so loud..

“Bess…” you began. Ambessa raised an eyebrow, waiting. “B-before we go in, I need to say this. No matter what happens—no matter what my parents say—I’m still with you. Nothing will change, okay? We’ll stand together, even if they’re started to go against us.”

Ambessa’s lips curled into a smirk, but her eyes softened. “Of course, dear,” she said with that same effortless confidence, like there was never a doubt in her mind. Like nothing could shake her.

Was she even nervous? She was about to meet your parents for the first time, and yet she looked so calm, so in control while here you are looking like a frightened wet penguin. Wasn’t meeting the parents supposed to be the most terrifying part of a relationship? Even more nerve-wracking than getting married?

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself as you reached out to adjust her suit. Your fingers brushed against the lapels, but you didn’t realize they were trembling until Ambessa's hand gently closed over yours.

You already imagine all the worst-case scenarios before the night would end, and none of them sat well with you. You could possibly lose Ambessa. Or your family. Or worst, both. Just the thought of it made your chest tighten painfully. You didn't want to choose between the people you love.

The mere possibility of it was unbearable. You don't know if you can take it.

Ambessa's touch was grounding, steady, like everything you needed in that moment. Ambessa gently cupped your chin, guiding your face toward hers.

“Little one… look at me.”

You met her gaze, and the calm, steady confidence in her eyes was enough to slow your racing heart.

"Calm down... Everything’s going to be alright. We will be alright." Her voice was soft yet steady "Don’t be nervous—I’m right here, okay?"

You nodded, swallowing hard, and she gave your hand a reassuring squeeze.

Before you could chicken out, you took a last deep breath before you swung the door open. Your heart thudded violently in your chest as you both stepped back inside, and it felt like the entire world paused.

Every conversation stopped mid-sentence.

Every fork froze halfway to someone’s mouth.

Your uncles, who had been lounging on the sofa watching football, paused mid-game, their attention snapping at your direction. Your aunties, mid-gossip, fell silent, their eyes narrowing at the front door. Even the children, who’d been running around shrieking with laughter, slowed to a halt, retreating to their parents like they were afraid on something.

Every pair of eyes—at least thirty family members crammed into the living room and dining area—snapped right to you and your unexpected guest. A shiver ran from your toes all the way up your spine, your heart pounding in panic.

You were just introducing your partner to the family, like your cousin did, but they never gave that kind of attention—the way they’re staring at you and Ambessa now.

It was like time had hit the brakes.

And how could they not?

When the woman beside you was an attention grabber, what more Ambessa was intimidating. She stood taller than the average man, her broad, powerful frame impossible to ignore. Every movement she made was deliberate, exuding a quiet authority that demanded respect and commanded attention the moment she entered a room.

Even board directors didn’t dare challenge her—no one did. Her employees were even terrified of looking onto her eyes or crossing path with her.

You blinked multiple times, trying to steady yourself, before glancing at Ambessa. Not a single hint of nervousness crossed her face. She stood tall and composed, completely unbothered by the dozens of eyes glued to the both of you. You could practically hear the collective whisper ripple through the room.

It wasn’t nice being gawked at, especially by this many people, especially when their eyes keep on shifting from you and Ambessa.

Ambessa was dressed in that perfectly tailored red and black suit—one that probably cost more than your car—she stood out in the best way possible. It was just a casual family gathering, and yet, there she was, looking like she’d stepped off the cover of a high-profile magazine.

And then, through the stunned silence, you spotted her.

Your mother. Eyebrows shot up so fast you thought they might hit her hairline.

You could feel your pulse in your ears. This was it. No turning back now.

Your mother’s brows knit together, her eyes narrowing slightly as she took in the sight of you and Ambessa standing side by side. She didn’t miss the closeness between you— and the way your hands brushed together.

Like she knew.

Like she had already put the pieces together but was desperately hoping she was wrong. But then, with a practiced calm, she clapped her hands together and forced a smile.

“Alright, everyone,” she said, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “Let’s not hover. Go on, continue enjoying your food.”

Slowly, like someone had hit play on a paused movie, people started moving again. Conversations resumed, but not without the occasional glance thrown our way. You could feel them peeking, eavesdropping, pretending they weren’t doing exactly that.

And then your parents moved in.

You drag Ambessa as you led toward the dining room. Your mother stood by the table, stirring the salad with slow, deliberate movements. She didn’t look up right away. Your father appeared behind her, his expression was unreadable, but his eyes flicked from you to Ambessa—and then back again

Meanwhile, your mother’s gaze turned laser-focused as you both stopped in front of her. Her eyes immediately darted down to yours and Ambessa's intertwined fingers.

Which made your palm run ice cold. Ambessa must’ve felt it too because she tightened her grip slightly, giving you support as her warmth seeping into your skin.

You glanced around the room, wishing the ground would just open up and swallow you whole. Why was everyone staring at you like you were the evening’s drama? You could practically feel the tension crackling in the air.

Your mom’s lips pressed into a thin line. “And who,” she began, her voice deceptively polite, “might this guest be?”

Before you could say anything, Ambessa took a step forward.

“Ambessa Medarda,” she said, offering her hand with the kind of poised confidence that could melt glaciers—or in this case, try to thaw your mother’s frosty demeanor. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet Y/N's parents.”

Your mom stared at her hand like it might bite, but she eventually took it—barely—but then turned to you, her eyes pointing dagger demanding an explanation. Your Dad, still buffering, finally shook himself out of his daze and gave Ambessa a quick handshake.

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your voice. "Ambessa, this is my mom and dad. Mom, Dad… this is Ambessa."

...

"She’s… my girlfriend," you added, your voice softer but clear.

For a moment, it felt like time itself had stopped.

You could feel the shock ripple through the room. Eyes widened. A few audible gasps echoed in the sudden silence, and you swore even the ticking clock on the wall seemed louder than before.

You understood their reactions perfectly. Your whole life, they had known you as a straight woman—never once had you hinted otherwise. You were so good at hiding it. And now, here you were, standing before them, introducing your first-ever lover… who just so happened to be a woman.

It wasn’t just introducing Ambessa; it was, in a way, coming out. Tearing down the version of you they thought they knew and revealing something they’d never expected. You could see it in their eyes—the shock, the disbelief, the scrambling to process what this meant. And being the only gay person in the family? It was a whole new revelation for everyone.

And as much as you tried to steel yourself for this moment, you couldn’t help the nervous knot twisting in your stomach..

Your mom’s eyes widened,

''G-girlfriend?” she repeated, like she wasn’t sure she’d heard you right. The word hanging in the air like an accusation.

She immediatly stopped on what she was doing. Then, with a disbelieving shake of her head, she let out a sharp little laugh. “Since when did you have a lover? And her? really… a woman? Y/N”

You felt like you were going to be sick. Your throat tightened, but you forced yourself to nod. “Yes.”

Her lips twitched—not a smile, more like an involuntary reaction she couldn’t quite control. “Are you being serious? Right now?”

Before you could answer, Ambessa’s voice cut in.

“Yes,” she said firmly, her gaze locking onto your mother’s “We’re serious.”

From the look on Ambessa's face, she was clearly quite upset by your mother’s tone.

Your mother was just about to start arguing when your father gently pulled her aside, murmuring something to calm her down. Surprisingly, she let him, though the tension in her face made it clear she was far from pleased.

“Now, now… save the conversation for later,” your father said smoothly, shooting you a look before turning back to Ambessa. “A-ambessa right? Have you had dinner yet? I bet you haven’t. Why don’t you grab a plate and help yourself?”

Relief flooded you, and you shot your father a grateful look. He only smiled, giving you a quick wink.

You were about to guide Ambessa toward the food when you noticed she hadn’t moved. Furrowing your brows, you turned to her. “Bess…?”

Before she could answer, you caught movement from the corner of your eye—Ricktus, her ever-loyal guard, stepping inside, both hands occupied with something.large.

“Before that,” Ambessa spoke, “I’d like to give something first.” She gestured toward the items in Ricktus’ hands. “I brought some gift baskets. It’s not much, but I didn’t realize Y/N had quite a big family.”

All eyes turned toward the baskets, and you could practically hear the collective shift in the room. These weren’t ordinary gift baskets—they were luxurious, the kind only the wealthy could afford. Even from a distance, you could see the careful arrangement of imported wines, artisanal chocolates, and items that looked far too expensive for anyone to afford.

Your father let out a nervous chuckle, offering a polite tone “Ah—thank you, you didn't need to but that’s very kind.” He reached out to take one, but Ricktus didn’t let go. Instead, the guard gave a small, respectful nod.

“Forgive him but they’re quite heavy,” Ambessa said evenly, her tone smooth yet firm. “Let my men carry them—just tell us where you’d like them placed.”

....

The meal was tense. You could barely swallow the food in front of you, your stomach knotted with nerves. Other than Ambessa, the martini in your hand was the only thing giving you strength. Your mom was definitely more upset than you had imagined. She had been demanding for years that you finally introduce someone—and here you were, doing exactly that. But clearly, this wasn’t what she had expected. What a way to suprise everyone..

It had been hour, and the crowd had thinned as the night stretched on. A few of the younger kids had finally tired themselves out, curled up in corners or carried off to bed by their parents. The once lively energy had settled into something quieter, more subdued.

Some of your aunts had struck up light conversation with Ambessa—mostly out of curiosity, you suspected—but you could tell they were still hesitant. And then there was your mother.

She hadn’t said a word to you.

Not since then. Not since everything.

She wasn’t throwing a fit or making a scene, but that almost made it worse. The way she moved around the room, politely engaging with everyone except you—it was deliberate. A silent cold shoulder. Like you hadn’t just been laughing together at your uncle’s joke moments ago.

And damn, it hurt.

Meanwhile, Ambessa? the unbothered queen, savoring every bite like she was at a five-star banquet instead of sitting in the middle of this emotional minefield.

She was even enjoying your mother’s homemade mac and cheese, which was shocking considering how picky of an eater she was. Even a world-renowned chefs had to bent over backward trying to impress her, and yet here she was, casually indulging in a simple family recipe.

You sat beside her leaned in slightly, your elbow resting on the table, your head propped up by your hand as you watched her. Seeing her eat—actually eat, rather than picking at her food like she usually did—made you happy. It was such a simple thing, but it meant something.

Your voice was low, “I like what you did to your hair.”

Ambessa's usual free-flowing curls were now braided back into a triple dutch braid, weaving tightly along her scalp in thick sections into the center one. A few white strands near the front contrasted against the dark, adding a striking edge to her already commanding presence. She looked good. No—she looked ridiculously good.

Ambessa paused mid-bite, glancing at you. “Ah, yes, little one… You did say you liked it this way.” She smirked, setting her fork down. “So, I had it styled before I got here.”

Your lips parted slightly. “You did it… for me?”

She hummed, taking another bite, as if it was no big deal.

Your heart stuttered, and heat crept up your cheeks. “Well, I do like it,” you admitted, staring at her shamelessly. “I can see your face clearly. You look so—”

Ambessa cut you off, her gaze sharp and knowing. “I see what you’re doing, little one.” Her voice dipped lower, teasing but firm. “But don’t flirt with me right now. You might not like what I do to you in front of your family.”

You choked on your drink. Your cheeks burned as you quickly averted your gaze.

What is wrong with this woman?!

Ambessa just chuckled, sipping her wine like she hadn’t just sent your brain into a tailspin.

You were lost in your little moment, completely wrapped up in Ambessa’s teasing, when someone cleared their throat. You both turned, and it was none other than the devil itself—your mother.

Your stomach dropped. Shit.

How could you forget she was sitting just two seats away? You had been so caught up in Ambessa’s presence that you completely overlooked the fact that your mother had full view of your shameless flirting. You could only hope she didn't hear any of it.

Wine glass in hand. Then your mother began to approached and took a seat—this time, directly in front of you. The shift was small, but it was enough to make the entire table fall quiet.

A few of your family had noticed it too.

Your mom wasn’t done. You could feel it. Maybe she was just waiting for the crowd to subside, which, in a way, was a relief—at least you wouldn’t have to endure her torture in front of an audience.

Your mother, set down her drink with an audible clink and looked directly at Ambessa “So,” she began, “Ambessa… what do you do?”

You winced internally. Here we go

______

Taglist:) @jhyoos @dakotapaigelove @daenerysluvrr @marve1stranger @angrywhisperslove @ghostie1131 @natsaffection @vyvvycg @euphoricnyctophilia @cloudstoday @imconfusrd @chezze-its

[takes1]

oh my lord i love your writing it literally has me geeked every time. any possibility you write more for my man asahi? i’ll take anything you have to offer but i can’t stop thinking about something similar in premise to the wrestling where, instead, it’s 7 minutes in heaven? possible details about the closet they’re in being too small for him, perhaps~ because what asahi fan doesn’t appreciate some size difference goodness

asahi azumane x reader w/ size kink

i literally said, out loud, "ohhh!!!" and started writing it as soon as i saw this ask - you have a gift for ideas my love. thank you for sending this in!!!

warnings. heavy nsfw. minors DNI

details. fem!reader / 7 min. in heaven / heavy size kink / heavy claustrophilia / soft top!asahi / mutual?crushing / manhandling / thigh riding / making out / hickeys and marking / semi PDA / rough but sweet!asahi / 2.3k words / oh lord another maybe? two parter

links. my masterlist. more haikyuu. my ao3. my imagines. my request box

"Well, it's not a closet per se," Suga cocked his head at the half-done, dusty, crawl space the group chose for this game, "But it'll do, right?"

Asahi glanced down at you and didn't stop. You were taken by a big wave of chills, crossed your arms, looked away, then back up-- and he was still looking down at you. Any hope of subtlety was over.

He nodded, despite being the most effected by the size problem of this unfortunate reality.

"Well, there's nothing in it."

A fair point. The other closets were filled with closet-like things. Towels, cleaning supplies, pantry items, tools. The group, consisting of mixed-up members of Karasuno volleyball teams, had a fun treasure hunt with that stuff, but this was what you were after. A closet to play your thirsty game in.

'Unfortunate' was just one mode of perception. Less room meant more contact, but nobody was saying that aloud.

"Can you even fit in here, dude?" Nishinoya clambered out with relative ease, albeit sideways.

Every girl except you looked away as Asahi tried, embarrassed at the way the boards creaked, how he wouldn't be able to enter normally because his shoulders were too wide for the space. He had to bend at the waist because he was far too tall. You scanned the empty space in front of him, warm and tingly.

There was some room! You could fit there and you would, maybe, die trying.

Ever since Daichi retired to his room for the night, nobody had taken up the burdensome mantle of responsibility. His dad-like severity had a strong influence on the types of activities that were 'allowed' to happen.

7 Minutes in Heaven would have never been brought up with him present.

As long as the Karasuno teams were quiet enough to not wake him, you could carry on.

It's not that a game of spin the bottle, or some truth or dare, was necessarily scandalous, but it was enough to get everybody giggling and generate the who-has-a-crush-on-who type of conversations. Since everybody left downstairs were the interested ones that hadn't gone to bed already, it left this smaller, more intimate group to carry out some otherwise repressed desires.

You weren't the first to go in, but it was clear that the first pairing didn't do anything. That was fine and all, and a good reminder that you didn't have to kiss, if you didn't want to.

When Asahi was asked who he wanted to spend the time with, he returned your previous admission from a different game.

"I mean- why would I not say (Y/n)?"

He looked from Suga, who had taken the mantle of 'fun-mom' in all of this, being the bottle-spinner and card-holder and question-maker, back to you.

You realized the time he took to look at his friend was probably the only instance in the past 30 minutes that his eyes hadn't been locked onto you, ever since you admitted your little crush for him.

Getting in was about as easy as you imagined.

It had you both packed so tight that you had maybe an inch to move, at best. It forced you to put your hands on each other, just to stay oriented in the pitch black, and not trip.

"G-od," He sighed, and you earned a centimeter of space for two seconds. Then he had to take another breath and you were immobilized again, "We gotta- gotta adjust, or somethi-ng."

A strained, "Y-eah," was all you could get out. This was not a space meant to fit two people.

"I think, if... I..."

In the darkness, all you could see was some vague shadows move as he stretched down. His palms swallowed up your sides, and you desperately tried to keep your excitement down when you felt for his shoulders. He curled you up and threaded a strong, wide thigh between yours.

Most of it was genuine adjustment, but that didn't mean that it felt any less erotic. Just having to wrap your arms around his body and pull, so that you could sit higher up on his leg, was making your heart race.

"That feel better?"

His grumbly tone forced your thighs to tighten, the way you sat becoming more arched.

You could only give him a whisper, voice strained, because of how nervous you felt, "Yes."

Asahi chuckled right away, his breath ghosting right past your temple.

It was impossible to tell if he was bent to purposefully be close, or if there was no space to straighten more. You assumed the most polite option.

"You, uh- you... comfortable?" He muttered, more against you instead of anywhere else he could've possibly spoken, "Comfortable enough- I guess?"

You laughed, "Sure, yeah."

His thumb started rubbing against your side as he laughed with you. You could feel yourself getting wet, and tried to suppress any automatic squirming.

"You're- a... a nice seat--," Your face scrunched, your innocent words unsuccessful at trying to make things silly, and easy.

"Oh?" He chuckled at you.

"I- didn't--," You looked up in the dark, but couldn't see anything, and tried to pray away your embarrassment, "I did not mean it like that."

His grin spread, and you could feel his stubble really clearly against your forehead.

A tiny kiss to your hairline made your fingers grip his t-shirt, your spine straighten, your poor heart work even harder.

"It's okay if you did," The smile in his voice was so sweet.

Kissing him was shockingly simple. You felt like you had lots to say, things to explain, but they were so unimportant when his lips were soft and reading you like an open book.

The only crucial detail needed, for the moment, in this closet, was that you were super into him, and he was at least entertaining it.

For minutes, he couldn't decide where, how, he wanted to hold you. His arms would trade off between pulling you against his front in a hug, so he could feel more of your body on his.

Or, he would take more of a direct route of using his hands to pull you in for kisses, by the back of the neck, with his other palm keeping you pressed hard against his thigh.

The switch would happen any time you weren't heavy enough on his leg, or when your back wasn't arched enough to stay smushed against his chest.

"M-mh-," He was rolling your hips for you, weighing you down more on his thigh, flexing it just so.

You squirmed, having to part, at his lewd sounds.

He searched for you, huffing, in the dark, "Does that feel good?"

The tone he used with you was genuine, despite how dirty the phrase felt. For a moment, he stopped rubbing you against him.

You swallowed the mixture of spit in your mouth and tried to wipe the drool off of your lips, trembling, "Y-eah, it-- it's--,"

When your hand dipped to fix the seam of your shorts, you accidentally grabbed something warm, and stiff, and just off of where he had you grinding.

"Oh-! Sorry," You retracted your hand, face radiating heat, "I'm sorry."

His chest swelled in a restrained gasp through his nose. His voice was higher, and different as he reassured you it was completely fine.

"Was- that--? Mmh--," Before you could finish your tentative question, he wrapped one arm around you, palming half ass, half hip, while the other yanked you against his torso. It seemed he had realized a good middle ground between his holds.

Another partial moan at how he was able to pull you further up -so that you were trapping his cock between your bodies- got cut off by another clumsy kiss.

He bit you, at your bottom lip, and it throbbed for the rest of the time you kissed him. It made you shove a hand down the back of his shirt, give him an otherwise embarrassing sound, that he ate right up.

What you could feel of his print throbbed against you. A weakness radiated down through your fingers and toes as you scratched lines into his bare skin. It didn't do shit. It was like he didn't even feel it.

Actually, you wanted that shirt off.

It took just three seconds of pitiful tugging for him to let off, pull it over his head with one hand, and swing it to the dusty floor. Forgotten.

He was rough when he put his hands back on you, when you returned it, tugging, wanting to be closer however possible.

"Fuck-!" You sighed, breathing hard, fast, at his busy sucking down your neck.

His nails dug into your skin, his breathing characterized by needy groans that sounded a lot like he in the middle of a workout, if anything.

Since when did he like you back? Was it just because you were available? Would he have done this with any of the girls on your team? Not that it was much of a competition- none of them thought he looked 'civilized' enough to entertain him as an option.

Your legs were jelly, your thoughts heavy, but it didn't matter.

His shoulders would stretch further with every huff, expanding and resetting, and you couldn't stop yourself from scouring every inch while he was over you. It was getting hot in here. He was getting tacky, a little slippery in some areas.

He bit you too hard in a soft spot and you cried out, barely stuffing the sound into his bare shoulder. It was loud and you both knew it was audible through the other side of the door.

Asahi slowed, as gentle as he started, again, with an apologetic hum in the crook of your neck.

"Sorry," You could hear his smile, "Too much-"

He sighed and collected his nerves for a second as he readjusted his grip on you. More palm, less fingertips. It didn't sting as much and you missed it.

He said definitively, mostly to himself, "That was too much."

"I liked it!" You reassured him quietly, palm moving from his shoulder, to his neck, to the side of his face.

"I liked it. I liked it," Got repeated, in a tiny giggle, as he stilled.

You were delivering multiple little pecks across his face, craving his intensity as soon as you lost it. You tried holding him tighter, but it wasn't the same when he wasn't pushing and pulling.

That tingly sensation of his breathy laugh, his skilled tongue, was back on your neck, closer to your ear.

You melted at once with a whimper, the need to rock your own hips short-lived because he pushed his own against your heat.

"Ahh-!"

He grinned, sucking another bit of skin in an obvious spot, "Shhh."

The heartbeat between your legs was strong. He could feel it clearly against his thigh, wishing it was better placed and put to good use.

His fingertips were digging, pushing past the waistband of your shorts, further down, palm against your tummy. Maybe it was that feeling, maybe it was your enthusiasm, or maybe the fact that you were so wet he could feel that, too, but something possessed him to start getting greedy.

But he paid for it. While you were encouraging him, a hand around his thick forearm, guiding and pushing it down, a gasp already on your breath-- you were both completely blinded.

No courtesy knock. Just a bright light and a loud screech. Asahi retracted his curious hand in a flash, but there was not much else to do to make this look less provocative.

Though the sound was higher-pitched, it was not made from anyone on your team.

Nishinoya dropped to his knees, slack-jawed, and that's all you were able to register before the door slammed shut again.

Suga scolded him from the other side, others were shushing incessantly.

"You were supposed to knock, Noya!!"

"Now Daichi's gonna wake up! Nice going, dumbass!"

It gave you both enough time to try and separate. However, without opening the door, you couldn't get fully off of one another.

You were shaking, beyond nervous, and forcefully sobered. Not exactly happy.

"Um- that was great. Thank you," It was a short, and curt, way of telling him you didn't expect much after this. You had one hand on the door.

Asahi grabbed you by the waist and dragged you back. "C'mere--,"

His rough, messy, desperate last kiss was enough to leave you dizzy. He readjusted himself during it with one last rub.

"We're not done yet," He told you. Another hasty peck to the top of your head, and he was leagues lighter in tone, "Uh, sorry- As far as I'm concerned. Do what you want, though!"

He turned the knob for you and pushed it open a crack. You stumbled out, wiping your mouth.

☆VIP☆

@integers @paradoxicalwritings @yuchacco @screamin-abt-haikyuu

potential for part two but i need to refrain from making promises. lmk if you're interested and i can make a taglist if i revisit!

my masterlist. more haikyuu. my imagines. requests open.

[joelsrose]

First Date? Part 7

Hey guys! 💛 First off, I just want to say how much I appreciate all of you—the love and excitement you show for this story means so much to me! I know some of you were hoping for a longer chapter last time, and I totally get it. I love that you’re so invested but it did make me a tiny bit sad seeing those comments eeek but thats me being very sensitive and i just want to please all of you. I truly appreciate all the feedback and love, and I can’t wait to share more with you soon. Thank you for being here and for caring so much—it really means the world. ✨

previous chapters

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The scent of freshly brewed coffee drifted through the dining hall, mingling with the quiet murmur of conversation and the occasional scrape of a chair against the wooden floor.

Morning light filtered in through the high windows, casting long, golden streaks across the worn tables. Maria sat across from you, her fingers curled around a chipped ceramic mug, steam rising in soft, twisting tendrils.

She looked as composed as ever, her expression carefully measured, but you caught the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers tightened just slightly around the mug before she lifted it to her lips.

“How are you feeling?” you asked gently, leaning forward, your elbows resting on the table. “You know… about Tommy leaving?”

She shrugged—a small, deliberate movement—but her eyes wavered for just a fraction of a second before she blinked, masking whatever had surfaced. “It has to be done,” she said, her voice even, too even.

You realized then that you hadn’t even asked Joel what the patrol was for. The thought surfaced abruptly, pulling your focus. “What’s going on out there?” you asked, your voice quieter now, like saying it too loud would make it worse.

Maria exhaled, glancing down at her coffee before meeting your gaze again. “More infected near the highway,” she said, tone clipped, as if keeping it simple would make it easier. “Tommy’s gotta check it out, see if it’s manageable. If not… we’ll have to call off scavenging runs in that area.”

You nodded absently, but your mind had already unraveled, drifting to where Joel was—wherever that was. Was he safe? Was he warm? Was he hungry? Was he breathing? The thought curled at the edges, dark and treacherous, threatening to bloom into something unbearable.

Despite the anger and the hurt, despite every reason you had to turn away, there was no denying the way he had settled into you, deep and unshakable, woven into the marrow of your bones. No matter how much you tried to push it down, tried to bury it beneath layers of resentment and frustration, the truth remained—your heart was not capable of existing in a world where he did not. You couldn’t bring yourself to imagine it, couldn’t let the thought fester in the corners of your mind, because if you did, if you let it take shape, it would consume you whole.

You refused to picture him as anything but alive—breathing, walking, existing in the same world as you. You would not allow yourself to envision him otherwise, would not let the image of him broken and cold, lost to the same cruel world that had never once granted him kindness, take root in your mind.

The very idea of it sent something sharp and unbearable through you, something that made your chest tighten and your throat close, something that felt too much like grief. So you rejected it, pushed it down and locked it away, clung to the certainty that wherever he was, he was still out there. He had to be.

Maria tilted her head at your silence, a knowing smile tugging at her lips as she studied you. “What’s up with you?” she asked, her tone light, teasing. “I’ve never seen you this quiet. What, Joel finally manage to shut you up?”

The words were meant to be playful, but they landed heavier than she intended, lodging somewhere deep in your chest. The air around you felt denser, each breath a little harder to pull in. You sighed, dragging a hand over your face, fingers pressing into your temple as if you could knead away the ache building there.

“Look, Maria,” you said, straightening, forcing steadiness into your voice. “I need to switch patrol partners.”

Her smile faltered, the amusement slipping from her face as her brows drew together. “Huh?” She blinked, the sharpness in her eyes softening into confusion. “What do you mean? Did… did something happen?”

“No.” The lie was too quick, too easy, tumbling past your lips before you had the chance to stop it. You shook your head, trying to keep your expression neutral, but the tension in your jaw betrayed you.

“Nothing happened. I just—I can’t—” The words caught, snagged on something you couldn’t name. You exhaled sharply, leaning back in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest as if the posture alone could make you feel less exposed. “I just need to swap, okay? I’ll take anyone else.”

Maria didn’t respond right away. Instead, she sat there, watching you, eyes narrowed in quiet scrutiny. Then, slowly, she leaned forward, mirroring your earlier posture, elbows resting against the worn wooden table. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, quieter, but it carried a weight that pressed down on you like a held breath.

"Tell me the truth," Maria said, her voice steady, unrelenting, her gaze locking onto yours with the kind of weight that left no room for evasion. "What happened with Joel?"

You shook your head, fingers curling and uncurling around the fabric of your shirt, a nervous habit you couldn’t shake, something to anchor you when the ground felt unsteady beneath your feet. "Maria," you said, her name slipping from your lips like a warning, sharp and edged, slicing through the thick, suffocating silence that had settled between you.

It wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be—there was a weight to it, something final, something immovable, like a door being shut and locked from the inside. A line drawn in the sand, not in anger, but in quiet desperation, a plea wrapped in steel—don’t push me, don’t make me say it, don’t make me open that wound when I’ve spent every waking moment trying to sew it shut.

Her lips parted, poised to argue, to press in the way she always did when she sensed something unraveling just beneath the surface, when she caught the quiet tremble in your resolve and sought to pry it open with careful hands. But whatever she saw in your expression—the silent plea, the raw, unspoken desperation you weren’t even sure you meant to show—stopped her cold. You weren’t in the mood to explain, and for once, she seemed to understand that.

The scrape of wood against wood rang out sharp in the quiet room as you pushed back your chair, the sound too loud, too abrupt, splitting the moment in two.

You stood, movements mechanical, reaching for your coat draped over the back of the chair, fingers tightening around the worn fabric as if grounding yourself in something tangible, something solid, while Maria’s gaze burned into you. You felt it, felt the weight of her questions, her concern pressing against your back like a force you weren’t ready to meet head-on.

“Just… please,” you murmured, the words slipping free before you could swallow them back down, quieter now, the sharp edge in your voice dulling but never fully breaking. It wasn’t a demand, not really, but something close to it—something that held the weight of exhaustion, of quiet surrender. “Do this for me.”

A long beat of silence stretched between you, thick and heavy, before she finally exhaled, a slow, measured breath that felt like reluctant acceptance. Her shoulders dropped, the tension easing just enough, her gaze still searching, still waiting for something you weren’t willing to give. “Okay,” she murmured at last, her voice quiet, careful, as if she were handling something fragile, something that might shatter if she held it too tightly.

You gave her a small nod, barely more than a movement, before turning on your heel and slipping out of the dining hall, the cool air swallowing you whole as you walked away.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The decrepit cabin groaned with every passing breeze, little more than a skeleton of rotting wood and splintered beams barely holding together. The air inside was thick, damp with the scent of earth and blood—some theirs, some not. Shadows danced across the peeling walls as the flame of a single lantern flickered precariously on a broken crate.

Joel and Tommy sat cross-legged on the warped floor, a battered tin of something unappetizing between them.

Neither spoke. Neither looked at the other.

The silence hung heavy, broken only by the occasional scrape of a fork against metal, the sound grating in the stillness.

Joel’s hand hovered near his thigh, his fingers curling and uncurling like they didn’t know what to do with themselves. His knuckles were split and bloodied, the dried crimson cracked against his skin, and his wrist bore the faint tremor of adrenaline not yet spent.

In the uneven light of the lantern, his face looked carved from stone—hard and unyielding, his jaw locked tight, the muscle ticking in a relentless rhythm. His chest rose and fell in steady breaths, but everything about him was taut, coiled, like a spring ready to snap.

Tommy watched him out of the corner of his eye, his own shoulders stiff and squared, every line of his body radiating tension. The silence between them was louder than words, a pressure building with every passing second.

It had been less than an hour since it happened.

Less than an hour since Joel had fucked up—big time.

They had been tracking through the woods, moving through the underbrush in a silence that should have been second nature by now, but Joel was off.

Sluggish, unsteady, tripping over roots he should’ve seen, his footing clumsy in a way that made Tommy shoot him sharp looks out of the corner of his eye. He had muttered something under his breath—something half-frustrated, half-worried—but hadn’t pushed. Not yet.

Because Tommy could tell.

Joel had been off his game all damn day, his mind caught in the snare of something he couldn’t shake, something that had curled around his ribs and hollowed him out from the inside. You.

It was always you.

The way you had looked at him that night was destroying him.

It chased him through sleep, through dreams that twisted into something unbearable the second he reached for you. It haunted the corners of his mind in the quiet hours before dawn, when exhaustion should’ve claimed him, but never did. You were there—always there—eyes wide, raw, unshielded, just before you had let those words slip past your lips, quiet, reverent, terrifying.

"I love-"

Said into the hush, carried on the breath of a moment too fragile to last. And he—fool, coward, goddamn wreck of a man—had shattered it in his hands before he even let himself hold it. Had told you it wasn’t real. Had let you tuck it away, no—forced you to pretend it had never happened at all.

And now, the weight of it was drowning him.

His head wasn’t where it should have been. It was on you—always on you.

Too busy wondering if you had eaten, if you'd remembered to stoke the fire before the cold set in, if your hands had been warm when you woke up or if the chill had crept beneath your blankets, making you shiver.

If you'd had enough coffee at home or if you'd been forced to drink the one from the dining hall—the one you never liked, too bitter, too weak. He imagined you grimacing at the first sip, pressing your lips together the way you always did when something disappointed you, curling your hands around the mug anyway just for the warmth.

He wondered if you’d taken your time getting ready that morning or if you'd rushed, still half-asleep, fumbling for your boots with that little furrow in your brow you always got when you were running late.

If you'd worn that sweater—the one he knew was soft because he’d brushed past you once, and the feeling had lingered on his skin longer than it should have.

But worst of all—the cruelest, most selfish thing—was that he wondered if you ever thought about him. And he had no right to. Not after everything, not after the way he had left. He had forfeited that privilege the second he walked away, the second he let his fear speak louder than the truth, the second he chose silence over you.

And yet, he still found himself lingering in the possibility. Still found himself wondering if his absence clung to you the way yours clung to him, curling around his ribs like a phantom limb, something lost but never forgotten. If you missed him the way he missed you—with an ache so deep it felt carved into his bones, a hollow, gnawing thing that lived beneath his skin, a hunger that had nothing to do with food.

And then—reckless, aching—his mind wandered into dangerous, delicate imaginings of you.

Soft. Small. Intimate.

He let himself imagine it. If you wore your hair to bed in that loose braid like you sometimes did on patrol, strands slipping free, curling at your cheek, at the delicate slope of your neck, swaying with each breath, soft and effortless. Or if, in the privacy of your room, you let it fall completely—untamed, unbound, spilling over your shoulders, cascading across your pillow in quiet disarray. A sight untouched by the world. Untouched by him.

And God—God, how he wanted to touch.

Not just to see, not just to admire, but to feel. His fingers threading through it, slow and reverent, tugging gently just to hear the quiet hitch of your breath.

And then—before he could stop it, before he could drag himself back from the edge—his mind wandered deeper, sinking into something unspoken, something desperate, something reverent in its ruin.

What did you wear to bed?

Something soft, something thin, worn-down cotton stretched over your skin, clinging to the curve of your body, whispering against your thighs when you moved beneath the blankets. Did it slip higher in the night, baring the plush swell of your hips, the gentle dip of your waist? Did it ride up just enough that if he were there, if his hands were on you, he could push it further with the barest brush of his fingertips?

Did the cold make you shiver? Did it pull your nipples into soft, aching peaks, pressing against the fabric, sensitive and untouched, a secret only the night knew? Did you tuck your hands beneath the blankets, pressing your palms over your arms for warmth, sighing softly as you curled into yourself? Or did you stretch out, limbs long and languid, sheets tangled around your legs, the air against your skin cool, your body flushed with heat?

Had you ever—just once—rolled onto your side in the hush of sleep and whispered his name? Had it ever slipped past your lips without you realizing, soft and absent, breathed into the pillow, lost to the quiet? Did you ever wake up gasping, heart hammering, fingers curled against the sheets as if searching for something that wasn’t there?

Had you ever dreamed of him the way he dreamed of you?

Did your hands ever drift, slow and uncertain, down the length of your stomach, lower still, seeking relief from a longing that refused to be named? Did you ever press your thighs together, sigh against the emptiness, the want curling deep inside you, leaving you restless, burning? And if you did—if you had—what did you do about it?

These selfish, cowardly preoccupations had nearly been the death of him today. Had nearly been the death of them both.

The raiders had come out of nowhere. Just three of them. It should have been easy, routine—Joel and Tommy had been through worse, had fought side by side too many times to falter. They moved like a well-worn machine, an unspoken rhythm, a brotherhood forged in blood and war. But today, for the first time in thirty years, Joel had been off.

His timing. His aim. His goddamn instincts.

He had hesitated when he shouldn’t have. Missed when he couldn’t afford to. And the price had been blood—his and Tommy’s both. They had almost died because of him. Tommy had managed, somehow, had stepped in where Joel should have, had been sharp and quick and ruthless, had been himself. But Joel—Joel had been slow. Unsteady. Somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere with you.

Now, the cabin bore witness to their silence, thick with tension and the raw weight of two men aching, bruised, barely holding together. The fight had been ugly. Joel could still feel the imprint of a rifle stock against his ribs, the deep-set ache that pulsed with every breath, a reminder of where one of them had caught him hard in the side.

His knuckles were split and bloodied, dried crimson cracked against his skin, and beneath the sleeve of his jacket, his shoulder burned where a knife had grazed too close. Tommy didn’t look much better—a cut above his brow still sluggishly weeping, his jaw darkening with the promise of a bruise, his breathing tight, measured, like he was favoring something in his ribs. They hadn’t left that fight unscathed.

Joel stared hard at the floorboards, fingers twitching against his thigh, a storm roiling just beneath the surface, something barely restrained, barely holding together.

Finally, it snapped.

The sound of the fork clattering onto the tin was jarring, slicing clean through the stagnant air, cutting through the silence like a blade to the throat. Tommy leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees, his voice low and sharp, rough with frustration, with disbelief, with something dangerously close to fear.

"The fuck is wrong with you, Joel?"

Joel exhaled slowly, the breath dragging out of him like it took effort, like it hurt. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, feeling the tension locked deep in the muscle, the ache of exhaustion woven through his bones. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet but firm, edged with warning. "Tommy. Drop it."

"No." The word came quick, firm, crackling with barely restrained anger. Tommy’s hands curled into fists against his knees, his whole body tight, shoulders squared, voice raw. "No, I ain’t droppin’ it. We almost fucking died out there. Died, Joel. Because your head ain’t screwed on right."

His breath was coming faster now, anger bleeding into something else—something deeper, something heavier. His voice cracked as he said it, just slightly, just enough for Joel to hear the truth beneath it.

"I gotta get back for Maria, Joel. You know that, right?"

Joel shut his eyes for a long moment, pressing his lips into a thin, unyielding line. He let the words settle in his chest, let them sink in, let them land square in the hollowed-out space where guilt already sat like something rotting. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Just took it. Because Tommy was right.

They could be dead. And it was his fucking fault.

But Tommy wasn’t done. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping, no longer sharp with anger but something colder, something edged with realization, with disbelief, like he was piecing it together in real time, like he was staring at his brother and seeing something wrong for the first time in a long time.

"Joel." Tommy's voice was quieter now, but no less sharp, no less cutting. "When was the last time you shot at somethin’ and missed?"

The words landed like a bullet to bone, precise and unforgiving, and Joel felt the weight of them settle deep, heavy in his chest, pressing against something raw.

Finally, Joel exhaled, a slow, fractured thing, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse, rough like gravel ground beneath a boot. "Not sure what the hell’s wrong with me." The words came low, almost like they weren’t meant to be heard, almost like they weren’t meant to exist outside of his own head.

Tommy stilled, something shifting in his expression—less anger now, less frustration, something steadier, something careful. He leaned forward slightly, voice quiet, deliberate, like he was stepping around the jagged edges of something fragile, something that might splinter if he pressed too hard.

"Jesus, Joel," he murmured, shaking his head. "What the hell’s goin’ on with you?"

Joel exhaled sharply, dragging a rough, calloused hand down his face. "I fucked up." His voice was low, uneven, barely more than a breath, like the words hurt coming out, like they had splintered inside of him before ever reaching the air. "With her."

Tommy froze, his eyes widening just a fraction as he processed the weight of his brother’s words. Joel—tough, unyielding, always carrying his burdens in silence—was admitting something. Something raw, something broken, something that didn’t sit right in the space between them.

Tomym exhaled through his nose, a soundless oh, the pieces clicking into place like a blade sliding into its sheath. His voice, when it came, was steady but careful, the kind of calm meant to keep something from breaking apart. "Alright." He leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees, his words measured, deliberate, like he was talking to someone standing too close to the edge. "What happened?"

Joel’s hands twitched, fingers flexing, "After dinner at yours." The words were gravel, scraped raw and unwilling. "I walked her home."

Tommy gave a slow nod, his expression patient but expectant, waiting, urging. "Yeah? And?"

Joel swallowed, shaking his head like he could shake off the memory, like it wasn’t stitched into every breath, every thought, every restless hour he spent staring at the ceiling, replaying it over and over. "She was drunk." His voice dropped lower, tighter, like the words themselves hurt.

Tommy’s nod was slower this time, his brow furrowing, his voice softer now, careful. "Okay. Then what?"

Joel swallowed hard. "She..." His throat tightened, voice catching, breaking on the edges. He forced the words out anyway, unraveling, fraying, something inside him splitting at the seams. "She said some things."

Tommy didn’t speak. Didn’t shift. Didn’t even breathe, just watched him with that quiet, patient scrutiny that made Joel feel like his insides were being pried open, like there was no hiding from what came next.

"Things she shouldn’t have said."

Tommy tilted his head slightly, his gaze steady, cautious. “Like what?” he asked, his voice low, careful—like he wasn’t sure if pushing would make Joel shut down or finally crack open.

Joel exhaled sharply, the breath jagged, uneven, more pain than air. He let out something that might’ve been a laugh in another life, but here, now, in this moment, it was empty, bitter, something worn and threadbare. He shook his head, lips twisting into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, wasn’t quite a grimace—just something hollow, something caught between regret and disbelief.

"She told me—"

The words caught. Lodged in his throat like a fist, like they weren’t meant to leave his mouth, like speaking them aloud would make them real in a way he wasn’t sure he could handle. His chest rose and fell, breath slow, heavy, every muscle in his body tensed like he could brace himself against the weight of it. The pause stretched long, unbearable.

Then—finally, quietly, wrecked—he let them slip free.

"She told me she wanted me to kiss her."

Tommy blinked, his brows lifting, the disbelief settling in his features before the words had even fully landed. “What?”

Joel’s voice was quieter now, rough around the edges, worn. Like saying it aloud stripped him raw, made it worse—made it real. “She asked why I didn’t kiss her at your birthday.” A bitter scoff, a shake of his head, like the memory itself was something that gnawed at him from the inside out. “During that stupid goddamn spin-the-bottle game.”

Tommy exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face, the movement heavy—weighted not just with exasperation, but with something that looked an awful lot like disbelief. He leaned back slightly, shaking his head. “Jesus, Joel.” It wasn’t scathing, wasn’t reprimanding. Just tired. “What the hell did you say?”

Joel tipped his head back against the wall, his eyes fluttering shut for half a second, like he could will himself away from this conversation, from the weight pressing against his ribs, from the ache winding its way through every breath. But it didn’t work. It never worked.

"That’s not even the worst part." His voice cracked—just slightly, just enough for Tommy to notice. Just enough for him to feel it, for his chest to tighten, for the words to stick in his throat like something barbed, something clawing its way out. His breath turned uneven, his fingers twitching at his sides as his mind betrayed him, dragging him back there.

Back to you.

To the way you had looked at him that night—drunk, vulnerable, so damn pretty, eyes glazed over, lips kiss-bitten from too much whiskey, voice soft, slurred, sweet. Sitting there, knees drawn up beneath you, the dim glow of the lantern casting golden light across your skin, bathing you in something holy.

You had ached for him. Had looked at him with wide, pleading eyes, like you were offering yourself up to him completely, giving him something raw and reckless and real, something fragile and too big to be taken back. You had already laid it bare at his feet, already given him everything, and God help him, he had stood there and done nothing.

No—worse.

He had left.

"She..." Joel hesitated, his jaw tightening, his throat working around the words like they physically hurt to say. His breath came short, uneven, as if he was choking on the weight of it, drowning in something too big, too heavy to carry. And then, finally—finally—he said it, the confession tearing from his lips like something jagged.

"She was gonna tell me she loved me."

Tommy stilled. His breath caught, his eyes snapping to Joel’s face like he hadn’t heard him right. The silence that followed was thick, suffocating, coiling around them like a vice.

"What?" Tommy’s voice was softer now, quieter—disbelieving, like the word had slipped out before he could stop it. He blinked, shook his head once, twice, his brow furrowing as if he could physically force himself to understand. "She—what?"

Joel swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his breath unsteady as he finally lifted his gaze. His eyes were raw, burning with something unspoken, something heavy and unrelenting, something he hadn’t let himself name.

"I stopped her." The words barely carried in the stillness, rough and uneven, like they scraped against the inside of his throat, like saying them hurt. "Told her she didn’t mean it."

Tommy just stared, his mouth parting slightly, something flickering behind his eyes—disbelief, frustration, something softer, something Joel refused to look at. When Tommy finally spoke, his voice was quiet but firm, sharp but not unkind. "Why?"

Joel’s fingers curled into fists against his thighs, his jaw locking so tightly it looked like it might snap. He could feel the muscles in his neck pull taut, the ache spreading down his spine, winding around his ribs like something trying to crush him.

"Because she was drunk, Tommy."

Joel’s voice dropped, rough and unsteady, something raw curling at the edges of his words. "I couldn’t let her say it. Not like that. Not when she’d wake up and regret it."

He shook his head, almost to himself now, voice dropping even lower, "She was drunk." The words weren’t for Tommy anymore. They weren’t even for you. They were for himself, for the part of him that needed to believe it, that needed to hold onto the idea that pushing you away had been the right thing.

Tommy didn’t speak right away. He just looked at him, long and hard, like he was waiting for Joel to catch up, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. His expression was unreadable, but something flickered beneath the surface—frustration, maybe, but not anger. Something quieter. Something tired. Then, slowly, he shook his head, exhaling like he didn’t know whether to laugh or curse or just sit there and let Joel drown in his own damn misery. He dragged a hand down his face, let it linger for a second, like the weight of this was just as exhausting for him as it was for Joel.

"Christ, Joel." Tommy tilted his head slightly, studying him, his gaze unreadable, searching Joel’s face like he was looking for something—some sign that he understood, that he knew.

"You really don’t see it, do you?"

Joel said nothing. Just sat there, jaw locked, breath unsteady, staring down at the floor like if he looked anywhere else, this might not matter so damn much.

Tommy huffed a quiet, almost bitter laugh, shaking his head again. He leaned forward slightly, elbows braced on his knees, voice softer now, measured, but dragging something heavier into the space between them.

"That girl," he started, his words slow, deliberate, like he needed them to land just right, like he needed Joel to feel them. "She looks at you like you’re the only thing in this whole goddamn world that makes sense to her. Like you’re the one thing she knows won’t let her down. Like you’re safe, Joel."

"She was drunk," Joel muttered, his voice brittle, strained, breaking in the middle like if he said it enough times, he might finally believe it. "She didn’t mean it."

Tommy scoffed, shaking his head, exhaling slow and sharp, like he was losing patience, like he was done watching Joel twist himself into knots just to avoid the inevitable.

"Doesn’t mean it wasn’t true," he shot back, his voice cutting through Joel’s flimsy excuse like a blade, clean and unforgiving. He leaned in slightly, his stare unwavering, piercing, seeing right through him, through all of it. "And you know it."

Joel’s fingers twitched against his knee, his jaw tight, his pulse hammering somewhere deep in his throat. "Doesn’t matter anyway," he muttered, quieter now, dull with something closer to resignation than he wanted to admit. "I talked to her the other day. She said she didn’t remember."

Tommy blinked, then scoffed again, sharper this time, full of disbelief. "And you believe her?" His voice wasn’t just cutting—it was aching, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. "Jesus, Joel. Could you be any denser? You rejected the poor girl—of course she’s gonna pretend she don’t remember. What the hell else is she supposed to say?"

Joel’s jaw locked. "I didn’t reject her," he bit out, but there was a crack in his voice, something unsteady, something that settled between them like a wound laid bare.

Tommy arched a brow, unconvinced. He leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees, voice quieter now but no less sharp. "No? Then what’d you do, huh? Did you stay? Did you tell her it was gonna be alright? Did you—"

Joel shook his head, quick, sharp, like he could shove the words away before Tommy could finish them. "No." It was barely more than a whisper, but it landed between them like a punch to the ribs.

Tommy’s brows furrowed, his voice dipping low, wary. "Joel—"

"No," Joel said again, the word scraping out of him, his breath unsteady, his hands gripping his knees like he needed to brace himself, like the weight of it all might finally crush him.

His fingers flexed once, twice, then curled in again. His voice cracked, raw and splintering apart. "I… fuck." He let out a sharp breath, pressing the heel of his palm against his temple, his shoulders curling inward like he could fold in on himself, like if he made himself small enough, maybe the guilt wouldn’t sink its claws so deep.

"I left."

"You left?" tommy repeated, slower this time, like he needed to say it aloud to believe it. "What the fuck is wrong with you, Joel?"

Tommy let out a slow sigh, long and weary, the weight of it settling between them like dust in the dim cabin light. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, gentler, but no less resolute. “Joel.” He said his name like it was something fragile, something worth handling with care. “I know you’ve been through hell. I know you think you don’t got room for anything else in your life. But you’re wrong.”

He hesitated, lips pressing into a firm line, as if he was trying to find the right words, as if they mattered more now than they ever had before. His voice dipped lower when he finally continued, steady and sure, leaving no space for argument.

“You deserve better than this. Better than sittin’ in a goddamn cabin, beatin’ yourself up ‘cause you’re too scared to believe someone could actually give a damn about you.”

Joel stiffened, his hands flexing against his knees, his shoulders tightening like he could brace himself against words alone. He still wouldn’t look up.

Tommy exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “She cares about you, Joel. And you know it.” He leaned in, his tone firm, but not unkind, pressing into the silence, forcing Joel to sit with it. “And if you’re too damn stubborn to let her in, you’re gonna regret it. Hell, you already do.”

The words landed like a blow, cutting deeper than anything else Tommy had thrown at him tonight. And Joel—Joel just sat there, staring at the ground like if he looked hard enough, he might find the answer to a question he hadn’t been ready to ask. His breath was uneven, his body wound so tight he felt like he might snap.

Tommy watched him for a long moment, expression unreadable, then sat back, his voice dipping even lower, quiet enough to be mistaken for something close to mercy.

“It’s alright to let someone care about you, Joel.” He paused, then softer, like a final offering. “It’s alright to let someone stay.”

Joel flinched, so subtle most people wouldn’t have noticed. But Tommy did.

Because he knew exactly what was running through Joel’s head now.

Sarah’s laughter—bright, unrestrained, filling every space it touched like it belonged there. The weight of her in his arms, her small hands clutching at his shirt, trusting him to keep her safe. Gone in an instant.

Tess—sharp-tongued, unshakable Tess, standing beside him, never asking for more than what he could give. A life spent fighting, surviving, and in the end, a fate she had chosen, one he couldn’t stop. Gone.

Ellie—her jokes, her sharp humor, the way she wore it like armor. The way she filled the hollowed-out space in Joel’s heart without even meaning to. Still here. Still his. But for how long?

Every person he had ever loved, slipping through his fingers like water, like dust, like something that had never belonged to him in the first place.

His breath hitched, barely audible, but enough. The ache in his chest twisted, raw and unrelenting, pressing up into his throat, threatening to consume him whole.

"I don’t—" His voice broke, rough and heavy, barely there. He shook his head sharply, like he could shake this loose, shake the ache out of his bones, shake himself free of the past clawing at his heels.

He swallowed hard, tried again. “Everyone I love ends up—” The words got caught, sticking in his throat like something jagged, something that would tear him apart if he forced it out. His hands curled into fists against his thighs, trembling slightly.

Tommy leaned forward, his voice cutting through the wall Joel had thrown up around himself, slicing through the silence like a blade. “I know you love her.” The words weren’t a question, weren’t a guess—they were fact, spoken with the kind of certainty that left no room for denial. His tone was firm, steady but insistent, forcing Joel to hear him. “Don’t tell me you don’t, ‘cause I’ve seen it. I see it every damn time you look at her. You’re scared—I get it. But, Joel…”

His voice softened, the edge giving way to something warmer, something quieter, something laced with an urgency that settled deep into Joel’s bones. “You gotta stop punishin’ yourself for things that weren’t your fault.”

Joel’s head dropped lower, his fists slowly unclenching, his fingers splaying against his thighs. They trembled, faintly, betraying the storm raging inside of him, the war he had been losing long before he had even realized he was fighting it. His voice was barely there when he finally spoke, the words dragging out of him like they were made of stone, heavy with doubt, thick with regret.

“She won’t wanna talk to me.” The words came rough, dragged from somewhere deep, like saying them out loud gave them weight, made them real in a way he wasn’t ready for. His throat tightened, breath hitching as his hands pressed harder against his legs, bracing, steadying—holding himself together by force of will alone. “Something’s off. She’s—fuck—she won’t wanna hear me out.” The thought sat heavy in his chest, suffocating, a truth he could feel in his bones even if he wasn’t ready to accept it.

Tommy exhaled, slow and even, sitting back, arms crossing over his chest. He studied Joel for a long moment, that quiet, knowing look settling on his face—the one Joel had seen a thousand times, the one that always came when he needed it least but maybe most.

"Then don’t talk."

Joel’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face, breaking through the thick haze of guilt and self-loathing. He glanced up, guarded, skeptical, his voice rough with exhaustion. "What the hell’s that supposed to mean?"

Tommy leaned in again, his tone deliberate, unwavering. “Write.”

Joel blinked. “Write?” The word felt strange in his mouth, foreign, like it didn’t belong to him.

Tommy nodded, his gaze locked on Joel, refusing to let him look away. "Put it all in a letter—every damn thing you’ve ever wanted to say to her but couldn’t. Everything you’re too scared to say out loud. Everything you regret. Everything you feel. And then give it to her."

Joel shook his head slightly, his hands tightening on his thighs, his breath unsteady. “Tommy—”

"Just let her hear you, Joel."

The words settled between them, pressing down on him, pressing into him.

He could see it now—you, sitting somewhere in the soft glow of lamplight, brow furrowed, fingers ghosting over the edge of the page as you read. He imagined your lips parting slightly, your breath catching, imagined the way your expression would shift as you took in every unspoken thing, every piece of him he had never known how to give you. He imagined your hands shaking, just a little, the way his were now.

And for the first time in a long time, Joel felt something close to hope—raw and terrifying and fragile, but there.

Joel shook his head, lips pressing into a thin line, his eyes dropping again, fingers curling into fists like he needed something to hold on to, something to anchor himself before the weight of this conversation swallowed him whole.

His breath came slow, measured, but it did nothing to steady the ache building beneath his ribs. "And what if she don’t wanna read it?" The words left him quieter than he meant, rawer, catching at the end like they had splintered in his throat before escaping.

Tommy exhaled through his nose, his expression softening, something quieter settling in his features as he leaned back, arms still crossed, gaze unwavering. “Then that’s on her.” His voice was calm, even, but there was something resolute beneath it, something steady, something Joel could feel pressing against the fragile edges of his doubt. “But at least you’ll know you tried. At least she’ll know how you feel. And maybe that’s all she needs to hear right now.”

Joel swallowed hard, his throat working around something thick, something impossible to name. He turned his face away, jaw tightening as his chest rose and fell in uneven waves, as he wrestled with the weight of Tommy’s words, with the war raging inside of him.

Because he knew what Tommy was saying made sense. He knew the truth of it. But knowing and acting—those were two different things. The thought of putting it all down, of laying himself bare, of giving you every feeling he had spent so long shoving into the darkest corners of himself—it terrified him.

Because vulnerability had always been a weakness. Something to be buried, something to be stitched shut, something to be survived. But this—this wasn’t just fear. It was something worse. Something quieter, something fragile.

Something infinitely more dangerous.

Hope.

And Joel—he knew better than to hope.

Because hope was a slow-acting poison. Hope meant risk, meant loss, meant opening himself up to something he might not get to keep. And God, he couldn’t lose you. He couldn’t stand the thought of reaching for something just to watch it slip through his fingers, of wanting something so much it destroyed him.

"I don’t know if I can do that."

The admission barely broke the silence, barely existed outside of his own head, but it was there. It was real. And it cut him open just to say it.

Tommy didn’t hesitate.

He leaned forward, pressing a firm hand to Joel’s shoulder—grounding, solid, steady, the way only a brother could be. “You can.” His voice didn’t waver, didn’t leave room for doubt. “And you should.”

Joel’s fingers twitched against his thighs, his body coiled so tight it felt like he might snap. His breath stuttered as he dragged a hand down his face, his pulse a heavy, uneven thing against his ribs, everything in him screaming to pull back, to close the door before it was too late.

But then—so did the thought of doing nothing.

The thought of letting you slip away, of knowing he had the chance to fix it and chose not to take it—that was worse. That was unbearable. That was the kind of mistake that lived in your bones, the kind you carried for the rest of your life, the kind that haunted every quiet moment, every sleepless night.

And Joel had enough ghosts already.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Patrol had been nothing short of torture.

Toby filled every silence like he was afraid of letting the quiet settle, his words tumbling over each other, meaningless stories and half-hearted jokes spilling from his mouth in a way that made your skin itch. He spoke just to speak, just to be heard, just to push back against the weight of the stillness that had never once unsettled you—not when it had been Joel by your side.

His proximity set your teeth on edge. The way his hand brushed against yours too often, his fingers grazing your arm as he stepped ahead of you on the path. He touched without thinking, without asking, without knowing—not in the way Joel had. Not with quiet certainty, not with careful restraint, not with the kind of gravity that turned the smallest touch into something felt days later.

Your mind betrayed you, pulling you back, dragging you under. Joel’s hands, big, warm, calloused, threading through yours in the hush of the forest, steady, solid, a quiet promise in the way his fingers had pressed between yours, anchoring you, holding you. The contrast of it, of him—this unyielding, gruff man, carved out of war and grief, tempered by loss—offering you something so soft without ever speaking a word. You had felt it, down to your bones.

You missed it.

He didn’t notice the way your shoulders tensed beneath the weight of his presence, how your steps edged just slightly faster, carving out whatever distance you could without making it obvious. Or maybe he did notice, and he just didn’t care. Maybe he mistook it for something else, something that suited him. The thought made your stomach twist.

You hadn’t asked for this. Hadn’t asked for Toby to be your new patrol partner. And yet, here you were, suffering through every over-familiar glance, every unnecessary touch, every empty word meant to fill the silence that had never once unsettled you—not when it had been Joel by your side. Maybe this was karmic retribution, the universe righting itself after you had been foolish enough to think Joel might be yours.

By the time patrol ended, relief rushed through you like a breath you’d been holding too long, your lungs aching with the effort. But it didn’t last. Toby, oblivious or persistent—or maybe both—stuck close as you made your way back into town, his voice still filling spaces that didn’t need filling, his presence still too much.

"I’ll walk you home," he said, like it was a kindness, like it was something you should be grateful for, like he was doing you some grand favor.

Your stomach twisted. The irritation in your chest sharpened into something colder, something heavier. You didn’t want this. You didn’t want him.

"You don’t have to." The words left you firm, clipped, sharper than they needed to be—sharp enough that anyone with even a shred of awareness would have picked up on it, would have known to take the out you were handing them.

But Toby just smiled, unfazed, enthusiasm unwavering. "I want to." He shrugged, like your words hadn’t mattered, like he hadn’t heard them at all. His voice was bright, easy, brushing off the steel in your tone like it was nothing, like he was entitled to this, to you.

The streets were quiet as you walked, the echo of your boots against the cobblestones the only sound besides Toby’s chatter. You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, hoping even he could read the signal, but still, he stayed too close. His presence was suffocating, clinging like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

When you finally reached your door, you stopped abruptly, your hand hovering over the doorknob as you prayed he’d take the hint. But Toby lingered, his boots scuffing against the ground, his posture awkward as if he were working up to something.

“Hey,” he started, his voice softening in a way that made unease coil in your stomach. “I know the last time we hung out was a bit… weird.”

Your chest tightened, dread pooling in your stomach as the memory surfaced—the movie night that had gone sideways. You’d bolted right after, mumbling something about needing fresh air, and you hadn’t looked back.

Toby chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, it’s no big deal, right? We’re good. I just thought—”

"Toby." Your voice cut through the cold night air, sharper than you meant it to be, the frayed edges of your patience bleeding through. "Thanks for walking me home, but I’m really tired." You tried to make it final, tried to press an ending into the space between you, hoping he’d take it for what it was—a dismissal.

But he didn’t. Didn’t stop. Didn’t pause. Didn’t even hesitate.

"Fuck it," he muttered, barely audible, barely there. But you heard it. And before the words could even register, before you could react, before your body could so much as move—he leaned in. Warm. Insistent. Wrong.

His lips pressed against yours, stealing a moment that was never his to take. Your body locked, your breath stalled, something sharp and sick curling in the pit of your stomach as your mind scrambled to catch up, to process, to understand. His hands settled on your arms, gripping too firmly, his presence suffocating, closing in, closing around you. The weight of it, the sheer audacity, the way he just assumed—

You didn’t kiss him back.

You couldn’t.

Your limbs felt heavy, pinned beneath a moment you hadn’t chosen, trapped in something you wanted no part of. And yet, there you stood, caught in it, drowning in it, the wrongness of it spreading through your veins like a sickness.

And then, it was over. He pulled away, looking pleased, looking satisfied, like he hadn’t just taken something from you.

"See you soon."

His voice was light, casual, like this had been inevitable, like you had wanted it. His footsteps faded into the quiet before you could even find the words to respond, before you could scrape together the breath to tell him how wrong he was.

You stood frozen on the doorstep, the cold biting against your skin, against the places he had touched, against the places you wished he hadn’t. Your fingers lifted to your mouth, trembling, hating that the sensation was still there, that it lingered, clinging to you like something spoiled, something rotten.

Tears burned at the edges of your eyes, hot and unwelcome, threatening to spill over as the weight of it all settled deep into your bones. This was wrong—all wrong. Every part of you recoiled, your body rejecting the memory of Toby’s lips, the unwanted heat of his breath, the foreign press of his touch. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was never supposed to be like this. You didn’t want him, didn’t want this moment, didn’t want the shape of someone else’s hands lingering where they had no right to be. The disgust curled in your stomach like something spoiled, like something taken from you before you could even flinch away.

Because it wasn’t his kiss you had spent countless nights longing for, pressed beneath the blankets, fingers ghosting over your lips as if you could summon the phantom of something that had never been given to you. It wasn’t his hands you wanted to feel, warm and sure, threading through your hair, gripping your jaw, tilting your face toward his like he needed to breathe you in. It wasn’t him you ached for, wasn’t him who had haunted every soft and aching part of you, lingering in the quiet moments where your heart whispered his name into the silence like a prayer.

No.

It was Joel.

Joel, with his impossibly soft lips, so achingly pink, so at odds with the rest of him, always pressed into that thin, unreadable line, always bitten raw when he thought too hard, when he let himself feel too much. Joel, whose touch you had memorized without ever having the privilege of knowing it fully, whose warmth had brushed against your skin in the moments between longing and restraint, in the spaces where your hands had lingered just a second too long. Joel, whose stubble you had dreamed of feeling against your own tender skin, scratching against the delicate line of your jaw, leaving a burn in its wake as he kissed you like he had been starving for you, like the moment had been inevitable since the first time his eyes met yours.

You wanted him—God, you wanted him—wanted to lose yourself in the slow, agonizing press of his mouth, to whimper into him as he took what was his, what had always been his, what you would have given freely if only he had asked. Wanted to feel the way his hands—large, calloused, steady—would cradle your face, holding you there, keeping you close, like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers, like he needed to know you were real.

And standing there on the doorstep, the cold biting into your skin, your stomach twisting with the weight of a moment that had never belonged to you, never belonged to him, all you could do was press your fingertips to your lips, eyes burning, chest hollowed out and aching with a grief you didn’t know how to carry.

Because no matter how much you wished otherwise, no matter how desperately you tried to push the thought away, you knew the truth of it.

You only wanted Joel.

And Joel wasn’t here.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Joel and Tommy had made it back from patrol hours ago, boots heavy with dust, the cold still clinging to their skin. But his thoughts weren’t on the ride home or the sharp bite of the wind. They were on you. He wondered if you’d heard—if someone had told you he was back. If you’d been relieved to know he was safe, that he’d made it home in one piece. He liked to think you would be. That maybe, just maybe, you’d been waiting to see him.

He had spent the entire day drowning in the dim, suffocating quiet of his bedroom, the curtains drawn tight, shutting out the world like it might lessen the ache inside his chest. But nothing did. Not the silence, not the solitude, not the weak glow of the half-burned candle flickering against the walls, casting unsteady shadows over the wreckage of his own making.

He missed your face—missed the curve of your smile, the way your cheeks rounded just enough to make you look younger, softer, like something untouched by the weight of this world. He missed the way you looked at him, the way it made him feel something he hadn’t let himself have in too long. And now, sitting here in the thick, suffocating quiet, all he could do was hope—hope that maybe you missed him, too.

Crumpled scraps of paper littered the floor around him, a graveyard of failed attempts, of words that had never made it past the ink, of confessions that had died in his hands before they had ever been given the chance to live. His breath was heavy, uneven, dragging through his lungs as he sat hunched over, elbows braced against his knees, his face buried in his hands. His fingers curled tight into his hair, gripping at the strands like he could reach inside himself, pull the chaos from his skull, drag the words out of his traitorous, treacherous heart by force.

That goddamn heart. The old, battered, useless thing. Beaten down by time, by loss, by grief that had settled too deep into his bones, a part of him now, woven into the fabric of who he was. A heart that should have hardened by now, should have shut down, sealed itself off, stopped making a fool of him. But it hadn’t. That weak, worn-out thing had kept on beating, kept on loving, despite every reason not to, despite the past, despite the certainty that love only ever ended in ruin.

Despite you.

He felt fucking stupid.

Stupid for thinking this would be easy, for believing even for a second that he could lay his heart bare on paper when he had never been able to say it out loud. Not when it mattered. Not when you had stood in front of him, eyes wide and pleading, offering him something rare, something reckless, something he had wanted with every aching part of himself and still—still—he had let it slip through his fingers.

Every letter started the same—I’m sorry—because it was the only truth he knew, the only thing that had burned in his chest since the second he let you walk away. And every letter ended the same—ruined, ripped apart beneath the weight of his own cowardice, of his hands shaking as he scratched through the words until the ink bled so thick the paper tore beneath it.

His gaze dropped to the latest attempt—his last, failed attempt—the ink smudged and uneven, the words unraveling somewhere in the middle, buckling under the pressure of too much feeling, too much of you lodged between the lines. He had started with I’m sorry—because it was all he could offer, because it was all that he was—but the rest had turned into a tangled mess of hesitation, of crossed-out confessions and thoughts too raw to see the light of day.

It wasn’t enough.

Not for you. Not when you deserved more—deserved everything—the world, if he could rip it apart and carve something softer from its wreckage. But no matter how many times he started over, no matter how many times he picked up the pen with shaking fingers and a chest too full of things he didn’t know how to say, it always ended the same way.

He wanted to tell you.

Wanted to lay it all bare, to strip himself down to the rawest parts, to put words to the impossible and make you understand what you did to him—how you had wormed your way into the deepest, most guarded corners of his soul, how you had become something he could no longer separate himself from. But how could he? How could he possibly articulate something so foreign, so unnerving, so terrifyingly real? How could he explain the way you had upended his entire goddamn existence, cracked something open inside him that had been locked away for decades—something he hadn’t even realized was still there, something he never thought he would need?

How could he tell you—his sweet girl, his undoing—that in fifty-six years of being a man, of surviving, of standing on this wretched, merciless earth, he had never felt anything like this? That you had touched something in him that had never been touched before, something that had never even stirred, never even dreamed of waking up? That he had lived his whole life thinking he was past feeling this way, past the kind of hunger that keeps a man restless in his own skin, past the kind of longing that hollows him out from the inside?

And how could he ever admit that every night—without meaning to, without deciding to—the last remnants of his waking mind always belonged to you? That it had become a quiet, unspoken ritual, a habit carved so deeply into him that he barely noticed it anymore, like muscle memory, like instinct, like breathing. That as sleep pulled at him, as exhaustion weighed down on his bones, it was always you who filled the spaces between consciousness and dreaming. You, always you.

How could he tell you that in those stolen moments, when the world had gone quiet and there was nothing left but his own thoughts, he let himself have you in the only way he could? That his mind was greedy, starved, painting images of you in devastating detail—the soft sighs and sweet little whimpers, the warmth of your skin beneath his palms, the way your lips would part beneath his, trembling, pliant, waiting for more?

That in the darkness, in the safety of solitude, he allowed himself to sink into the fantasy, let himself imagine you tangled up in him, pressed beneath him, fingers twisting in the sheets, whispering his name like a prayer, needing him in the way he so desperately, so helplessly needed you? That he could see it, feel it—his hands tracing reverent paths over your body as though trying to commit you to memory, his lips worshipping you in slow, unhurried devotion, trailing from your temple to your cheek, your jaw, your nose, your throat, drinking you in, tasting, savoring, claiming? That he could hear the way you’d gasp his name, the way you’d shudder under the weight of his touch, the way you’d look at him—eyes wide, lips swollen, undone—like he was something worth wanting, worth keeping, worth loving?

And God help him—how could he ever admit that, for all his restraint, for all his goddamn willpower, more often than not, he was just a man? Just a weak, desperate man who unraveled at the mere thought of you, who came undone in the dark where no one could see, where there was no one to witness the ruin you made of him. That he could fight it all he wanted, could curse himself for it, could try to bury it beneath guilt and self-loathing, but it didn’t change a damn thing—because it was you. It had always been you.

How could he tell you that some nights, the ache of you was unbearable, a hollow, gnawing thing lodged deep in his chest? That he would lay there, eyes shut tight, fists clenched, jaw locked, trying so fucking hard to will it away, to pretend he didn’t feel this way, to pretend he hadn’t already lost the battle the moment you looked at him like he was something soft, something safe, something good? That no matter how many times he told himself it was wrong—how many times he reminded himself that you weren’t his to think of like this, to want like this—it didn’t fucking matter.

Because he did.

Because he always would.

And that was the cruelest thing of all—that no matter what he did, no matter how much he tried to be better, to be stronger, to be the man he was supposed to be, he would always belong to you in ways he had no right to.

Joel swallowed, the weight of everything pressing down on him, settling deep in his chest like something immovable, something that had been there for years—decades, maybe—buried beneath grief and regret and every goddamn thing he had ever lost. But beneath the wreckage, something flickered, fought—a spark of determination catching at the edges of all the things he had ruined, all the things he had walked away from, all the things he still had a chance to fix.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached forward, his fingers trembling as they brushed against the scattered pages at his feet. He hesitated for only a second, barely long enough to exhale, then wrapped his hand around the pen, lifting it with a quiet, steady resolve.

And this time, he wouldn’t stop.

This time, he wouldn’t let the fear win. Wouldn’t let himself be ruled by the ghosts of the past, by the ugly, vicious voice in his head telling him it was too late, that he had already lost you.

This time, he would give you everything. Every unspoken thought, every aching confession, every piece of himself he had spent years keeping locked away. Because he owed you that. Because you deserved that. Because if there was even the smallest chance that you would read it, that you would understand, that you wouldn’t turn away—God help him, he would take it.

Because no matter how much it terrified him, no matter how much it threatened to unravel him from the inside out, the thought of losing you—of never getting the chance to make this right—scared him more.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

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[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

Hello again wonderful person of the Internet!

Thank you for answering my previous question! But I have came to you for another one.

So I’ve seen a little bit of dialogue from Ford, but how does he speak? Like what is his speaking mannerisms? Is it all gibberish? Does he stutter? Does he repeat words?

Keep on making your art and being awesome! :)

~ Question asked from the Tiniest Cyclops ~

Hello, hello again, tiny cyclops in my inbox!

As I mentioned in this post where I go a bit more in depth on Ford's brain injury, Ford suffers from aphasia! Which is basically the loss of one's ability to express language and communicate, while not losing the ability to understand it. But I'm sure you already knew this; and if not, the more you know!

How does he speak? It really depends when you were to go up and talk to him in the timeline. His speech mannerisms the few following years right after his head trauma is very different from how he speaks now in canon! He's had 30 years to recover, after all.

Ford's speech right after his injury was practically non-exitstent. He was smacked in the face with all of the textbook definition symptoms of aphasia, ramped up to 100.

Speaking in short or incomplete sentences.

Speaking in sentences that don't make sense.

Substituting one word for another or one sound for another.

Speak unrecognizable words.

Have difficulty finding words.

Conversations with him back then were not "gibberish" per se, but more so just... slow. And frustrating for everyone involved, although no one could ever be more frustrated than Ford himself. I mean, can you imagine? He could barely say anything without monumental effort, and whatever meager words he managed to squeeze out of his throat were lackluster, to say the least. Every part of his speech were hindered: grammar, pronunciation, heck, even the tone, volume and rythm of his speech didn't always come out correctly.

Due to how recent his brain injury was, there was also the added physical impairments to his speech. The muscles involved in producing speech were weakened, affecting Ford's control and clarity of his words (this is also called: dysarthria).

From an outsider's perspective, listening to him would have felt a little like listening to an extremely corrupted audio file, or a faulty record player. He would often take long pauses in the middle of his words; his words sometimes blended into one another; and his sentences were short, and simple. I think this quote from this website explains it best.

"Speech may be 'telegraphic' omitting small words such as 'the'. So, 'tomorrow I'm going to the pub with my wife for our anniversary', may be expressed as 'tomorrow...pub... wife... anniversary'. This requires the listener to accurately piece the message together."

So, yeah! As you can imagine, speaking for him was extremely hard. Often times, the townfolk he tried to speak to didn't have the patience to stick around while he finished a sentence, and gradually even Ford lost patience with himself, so he just. Gave up. Which was why he used to be much quieter in the beginning, lurking around town wordlessly, not even really bothering even when someone tried to initiate conversation with him. For a genius who once prided himself so much of his eloquence, losing that ability was a huge blow for him.

How fast one recovers from aphasia really depends on the severity of the injury. It can either take up to a few hours, days, maybe even weeks to fully reover with no long term repercussions, or the symptoms can last months, even years to shake off, and occasionally it's a lifelong condition. Ford, due to the severity of his injury, drew the short end of the stick, and was stuck with the lingering aftereffects of aphasia pretty much forever.

BUT, he evenutally managed to find the will to speak again! At some point during his 30 years of recovery, he decided that he'll figure this shit out himself, goddamnit, he was a scientist. He outsmarted a demon! He didn't have time to be depressed, he needed to relearn how to SPEAK!! (fuck yeah, determination, baby).

And learn he did. Very painfully, very gradually, Ford became basically his own speech therapist for a few decades and relearned everything his body and brain forgot. And although the results aren't perfect- he still stutters, he still gets stuck on words and he still stumbles over them- considering the fact that he had no professional treatment from a clinic or doctor available, it was good enough.

Now he won't shut up! (lovingly)

[thatfeelinwhenyou]

Omg??? Love, I didn’t think you meant a FULL on review??? Thank you so much for putting your time and effort into this! How do I even begin to reply, I’m actually overwhelmed right now 😭 and I don’t even know how to address you! Do you have a nickname you’re comfortable sharing with me?

I’ll try to reply to as many of these as I can and provide insights into my creative process!

YES! People or human beings are always going to be the world’s apex predators, dead or alive. And I might have mentioned this somewhere before, but I’ll just say it here too. Humans are very sentient beings, and I believe, when stripped down to nothing, are capable of anything. Especially in a lawless world, like the one they’re living in—there’s no consequence. There’s only life or death.

Regarding the point if she ever thought it was already too late. I definitely see where this perspective is coming from. It’s like she’s not just fighting the situation—she’s fighting herself, too. The urgency in "now" suggests she knows deep down that if she lingers even a second longer, she’ll lose the will to walk away entirely. For me when I wrote this, in my head, it’s less about just leaving but more about proving to herself that she can still leave, that she hasn’t lost all control. That’s why she’s running—not just from the situation, but from the hope that could betray her.

YES! The contradictions are a very huge part of this chapter. This is also exactly why I mentioned at the start to only read when you’re 100% awake, because it won’t make any sense unless you catch the contradiction of her internal struggles. In that sense, thank you for catching that nuance!

Funny BTS about how I write my stories, I actually brainstorm paragraphs/lines that I think would make great impact and build the scene around those lines. It’s not majority but a good number of the scenes you read in S&S are built off a singular line that I really want to include inside LOL

Exactly. It’s almost contradictory—why commit their faces to memory if you’re trying so hard to detach? But maybe that’s the cruel irony of it all. Leaving doesn’t mean you stop caring; it means you care too much and can’t afford to. And no matter how much she wants to shut it off, to disconnect, she’s still human. It’s like a silent promise that even if she’s walking away, she won’t pretend they never mattered. That their existence won’t just vanish with her absence. Even if she never sees them again, even if remembering them will haunt her. Because forgetting would mean it was all for nothing, and forgetting would mean she never cared, which is not true!!

The contradictions are to express her inner turmoil but also to make the readers question themselves too! I hope it made you question yourself HAHAHA

Yes, exactly. The fear outweighs everything else. Fear has a way of making choices for you before you even realise it. And it’s not just fear of dying or suffering. It’s the fear of what she might become if she stays. The fear that fighting for them will break her in a way she can never come back from. She sees it as a choice between them and herself, and that’s the cruelest part—because if she stays, she might win the battle for them but lose the war within herself. And if she leaves, she’ll carry the weight of it forever.

AAA thank you for appreciating the descriptions of that bus terminal scene where MC finds out about the whisperers. I actually spent an ungodly amount of time on that scene because I was fr struggling…

I don’t think she’ll ever truly understand herself, not completely at least. But I see it as she’s slowly accepting parts of herself, parts that Jungwon and the others completely embrace and love even if she herself doesn’t understand why.

Hehehe the whole conversation with Jay is also one of my favourite parts to write! I’m glad you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it. Not gonna lie, sometimes I imagine conversations in my head between the characters. I could be doing literally anything, and I would drop whatever I was doing just to write it down before I forget LOL

In Park Jongseong’s wisdom we trust!!! That whole “Anger, fuelled by hope, becomes determination” bit actually came to my head while I was lying in bed trying to fall asleep. I sat up immediately, opened my Notes app and went crazy. Not to toot my own horn, but I pat myself on the back for that.

Fun fact: the word ‘Hope’ was mentioned 69 times in part 5 alone!

Growing up I read a lot of fiction novels and I always loved how I was able to immerse myself in the world beyond the paragraphs. One of my favourite books that does that for me is Delirium by Lauren Oliver and also every book Suzanne Colins has ever released. So to think I’d be able to do that with my writing is surreal. Thank you <3

About using Sunoo as a hostage. I DON’T KNOW HOW IT CAME TO THAT. It’s not any selective process. I just used Sunoo because he was the one in-charge of taking stock and rations within the group. And thus, is most likely to encounter the lady in the basement 😅

YES!! There’s a line in the part that went “And yet, you left them here. With her.” I don’t even want to begin to imagine how shit will go down if MC wasn’t there with them to mitigate the situation.

I absolutely hate when female main characters are written as useless and needy of a man to solve their problems (of course depending on context). So, that is something I was sure I didn’t want her to be when I wrote her character. That’s why her backstory of surviving alone is so important! It’s because she’s used to surviving alone that she’s instinctively coming up with solutions to solve her own problems rather than waiting around for someone else to come along and solve it for her.

To me, Jake is extra sensitive about killing people because his job is to save them instead! That’s also why he doesn’t see eye-to-eye with Jay—it’s a conflict of interest. But that doesn’t make them love each other any less 🥹🫶

I think a part of why Jungwon is able to know her so well is because he sees himself in her. You know that feeling when you meet someone and you click instantly? Yeah. Jungwon is observant by nature, and so is the MC from her experience in surviving alone. You may notice throughout the entire story that the MC always notices when he’s calculating in his mind. And that’s because they’re always thinking; thoughts always spiraling with the what ifs and what not. And that’s how he knows her so well.

 I need me a Jungwon, ACTUALLY.

“Not only does she make him feel normal and has given hope to the others. All of them have given her something she never thought she would get back—or more like she never wanted it back, because of the fear of getting left behind, or just watching them lose themselves, or straight up lose them—a team.” Took the words straight out of my mouth. I love you, let me give you a kiss 😙

“yes, they did do a lot of damage for the people in there. But they’re doing what it takes to survive.” In my mind, they care so much that they'd do anything to keep the people they love alive. And that's the thing—because when they realise that the collateral damage are strangers who probably have people they care and have people care about them and would do anything to keep them alive, but failed. It fucks with their mind, and it only fucks with their mind because they care. It's fucked up. Also “Crazy lady Kim” IM CTFUUUUU

Okay that’s everything! I know it’s ridiculously long but I wanted to give you back the energy you gave me! Thank you so much for the encouragement and willingness to wait patiently for the next chapter! Work has been picking up for me so it’s harder to find time to actually sit down and write, but it’s because of readers like you that keeps authors like me motivated! So, once again, thank you for this! ❤️

Love, Nat

SAFE & SOUND — part 5

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

word count: 23.7k

a/n: there's a lot of lore dumping in this one, please read this when you're 100% awake or you'll probably not understand a single thing. additionally, i must preface by saying that this part is all kinds of fucked up. i really urge you to read with discretion. REALLY.

MASTERLIST

People.

They’re dangerous—more dangerous than the dead. It’s a fact that’s been drilled into your mind, reinforced over and over by the world you’ve come to know.

Once stripped down to their core, people will cling to any semblance of purpose. Not just in the sense they'd do anything to keep themselves alive. But they’ll latch onto whatever scraps of hope they can find—convincing themselves that a crumbling building, a barricaded corner of a burning city, is worth dying for if it means they don’t have to face the one truth that terrifies them most: that nothing is safe. That nothing lasts.

But now you understand something even more unsettling.

The only thing more dangerous than people are people with something to lose.

That’s what Jungwon is. That’s what he’s become. He’s not just surviving anymore—he’s holding onto these people, this place, like a lifeline. Like it’s all that stands between him and the abyss.

And that’s what makes him dangerous.

You don’t keep your distance because you think you’re smarter or stronger than him. You do it because you’re afraid. Afraid of the weight he carries every day, the weight of responsibility, of leadership, of knowing that every decision could mean life or death for the people who trust him.

And maybe that’s why being alone feels safer. Because if you’re on your own, you don’t have to deal with the messy, volatile nature of human emotions. You don’t have to shoulder the weight of someone else’s hope or risk letting them down.

You glance around the camp, taking in the barricades, the makeshift beds, the worn-out faces of people who are holding onto hope with everything they’ve got. You’ve already done enough for them.

You’ve gotten them the medicine they need. You’ve made sure they have enough food and water to keep going for however long the heavens permit them to stay alive. You’ve fought alongside them, bled alongside them, and given them more of yourself than you ever intended to.

But that’s it. You’ve reached your limit. You don’t have to hold yourself back for their kindness anymore. You don’t owe these people anything more than you owe yourself. And what you owe yourself—more than anything—is your chance at survival. And with that renewed mindset, you steel yourself.

Quietly, you gather your things. You don’t need much. Just what you can carry. The essentials—enough to keep you moving. Enough to keep you alive. Your hands tremble slightly as you pack, but you don’t stop. You’ve survived this long by knowing when to walk away. 

And that’s exactly what you’ll do.

At this juncture, you have to walk away. Now. Before it’s too late. Before hope takes root in you too, and you lose the capacity to leave. You told yourself you’d do it once the immediate danger had passed. Once you were sure they were safe—at least for a little while. It seemed logical, practical. The right thing to do. 

But now, standing here with that gnawing sense of dread in your gut, you realise that even that thought in itself was hope.

And hope is stupid.

You can’t stay. You won’t survive if you do—not just because of the imminent danger, but because of them. Because losing them would destroy you in ways the world never could.

The only thing more dangerous than people is people with something to lose.

And you have something to lose.

“I don’t want to see you lose yourself.” your own words echo in your mind, sharp and piercing. They’d felt like a knife to the chest when you said them, and they still do now. Because what you didn’t realise then is that it’s not just about Jungwon, or the group, or the rest stop. It’s about you. You’re afraid of losing yourself, of what you’d become if you stayed.

When you die—because everyone in this world eventually does—you only hope you can die as yourself. Human. Both physically and mentally.

It’s the one thing you’ve clung to since everything fell apart. The idea that, no matter how bad things got, you’d hold onto your humanity. You wouldn’t let the world take it from you. Because once that’s gone, what’s the point? What’s left of you then? A shell. A husk. Something that breathes but isn’t really alive.

You’ve seen it happen to others from the community building. People losing themselves, bit by bit, until there’s nothing left but desperation and violence. Until they become unrecognisable—barely different from the monsters they’re trying to survive. It’s why you’ve kept your distance, why you’ve chosen solitude time and time again. 

Once you stay, once you put down roots, the danger will come for you. Because in this world, the danger never truly passes. It’s not something you can outrun or wait out. It’s relentless, always coming back, always finding new ways to haunt you. It’ll keep chasing you and every other survivor until it slowly, inevitably consumes you—or worse, you’ll have to stand there and watch it consume the people around you. 

You’ll then risk losing yourself as their deaths start to carve pieces out of you, leaving nothing but jagged edges and hollow spaces.

And you can’t afford to lose yourself like that. 

Not to them. Not to hope.

Tonight, you’ll take the first watch, sit through the long, silent hours, and leave without waking anyone for their shifts. Just before the sun rises—before they stir, before they have a chance to notice you’re gone—you’ll disappear.

It’s the best time to disappear—when the world is caught in that liminal space between darkness and light. This way, they won’t be in any immediate danger. They’ll wake to the sun rising over the horizon, unaware of your absence—at least at first. It’ll give them time to adjust, to make plans without you. And it’ll be easier for you to convince yourself it’s for the best.

The thought repeats in your head like a mantra, though it does little to ease the ache in your chest. You pull your jacket tighter around yourself, trying to ward off the chill creeping under your skin. The others are tucked away in the convenience store, huddled in their sleeping bags. Jake is next to Jay, keeping an eye on his breathing. Sunoo and Heeseung are resting against a stack of supplies, their heads lolling to the side in exhaustion.

Climbing onto the roof of the rest stop to take up the watch, you’re greeted by a perfect view of the vast horizon. The landscape stretches endlessly before you, dark and quiet under the blanket of night. From here, you’ll be able to spot a threat from miles away—long before it reaches the camp.

The night air is still, save for the distant rustle of leaves. The barricade feels impenetrable for now, but you know better than to trust in fleeting security. Nothing in this world is permanent. Not safety. Not peace. And certainly not the fragile connections you’ve built with these people.

Your gaze drifts toward the campfire, where the flames flicker weakly in the dark. Jungwon sits there, motionless, the rifle resting across his lap. Sunghoon and Ni-ki are beside him, their quiet conversation dwindling as the fire dies down. But Jungwon hasn’t moved since you started your watch. His posture is tense but controlled, his gaze fixed on the flames.

You wonder what he’s thinking—if he’s still replaying the events of the day in his mind. If he’s questioning the choices he’s made. The burdens he carries are etched into the lines of his face, visible even in the dim moonlight.

A part of you wants to go to him. To say something. To apologise for what you’re about to do. But that would be cruel.

Instead, you sit in silence, letting the minutes crawl by as the night drags on. Every second feels like an eternity, your heartbeat loud in your ears. You keep your gaze on the horizon, but your thoughts keep pulling you back to Jungwon. To the people who’ve come to trust you enough to leave you on watch alone, unaware of what you’re planning.

Slowly, one by one, they start turning in for the night. Sunghoon is the first to get up, quietly disappearing into the convenience store beneath you. Then Ni-ki. But before he goes, he pauses, glancing up at you on the roof. His expression is soft, boyish in a way that reminds you just how young he is.

“Don’t forget to wake me for my shift,” he says quietly.

You don’t think you can trust yourself to speak without your voice betraying you, so you simply nod, managing a small, tight-lipped smile.

Ni-ki lingers for a moment, as though sensing something is off. But when you don’t say anything, he finally turns away, disappearing inside.

And then it’s just Jungwon.

He hasn’t moved. The fire has almost gone out now, leaving only embers glowing faintly in the dark. His silhouette is barely visible from where you sit, but you can still feel the ghost of his presence.

Another hour passes before you sense it—a subtle shift in the air, the faint crunch of footsteps retreating into the convenience store.

You glance toward the campfire. It’s nothing but darkness now, and Jungwon is gone.

You don’t even know how much time has passed when you notice it—the faintest hint of dawn creeping over the horizon. The dark sky softens to a deep grey, the first light of morning stretching across the landscape. 

And you know. It’s time.

You descent from the rooftop quietly, careful not to make a sound. The camp is still, the soft snores of your companions the only indication of life. Your gaze lingers on each of them, committing their faces to memory. 

Your feet move silently across the gravel, carrying you toward the gate. The path ahead feels both endless and final, the weight of your decision pressing heavier with each step. You push open the metal gate just small enough for you to slip through, pausing only to adjust the strap of your bag.

Freedom.

The word feels hollow as you take your first steps beyond the safety of the camp. The road stretches out before you, bathed in the soft glow of dawn. The world is vast and empty, and for the first time in a while, you’re completely alone.

But as you take another step, a voice cuts through the silence.

“Y/N.”

You freeze.

Slowly, you turn around, your heart hammering in your chest. Jungwon stands by the gate, his silhouette outlined against the rising sun. His rifle hangs loosely in his hand, but his posture is tense. His eyes meet yours, dark and unwavering.

“You’re leaving.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement—a quiet, resigned truth.

You swallow hard, your throat tightening painfully. There’s no point denying it. He’s always been able to read you too well.

“I thought you might. After everything… I knew you wouldn’t stay.” His voice is steady, but there’s a roughness to it, like he’s holding something back.

Jungwon takes a step toward you, but you instinctively step back, creating distance between you. The space feels heavier than it should, like the air between you is suffocating.

“Don’t. Don’t make this harder than it already is.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, but it cracks under the vulnerability of your own emotions. The real shock is in the pain you hear in your own words—pain you weren’t ready to acknowledge.

He stills, his gaze never wavering. There’s anger in his expression, exhaustion and a deep sadness that cuts through you like a knife.

Jungwon’s jaw clenches. “Last night, you said you were going to share the burden with me.” His tone is quiet, almost hollow. “Was that a lie?”

You clench your fists at your sides, your nails digging into your palms. “If you already know, why ask?”

A humourless laugh escapes his lips, the sound hollow and bitter. It echoes in the quiet of dawn, amplifying the ache in your chest.

“I had hope that you would stay,” he says simply.

Hope.

Not that damned hope again.

Silence stretches between you, heavy with everything said and unsaid. But you both know there’s nothing either of you can say to change the other’s mind. Nothing Jungwon says will convince you to stay—not if it means standing by while they get hurt, while they die. And nothing you say will convince him to leave—not when he’s already made this place feel like home.

“Why?” His voice breaks the silence, softer now. There’s something in his eyes—exhaustion, yes, but also something more vulnerable. Something broken. “Why are you leaving?”

You don’t answer him. You just stare at the void in his eyes and that’s when you notice the bags under it, the way his shoulders slump under the weight of everything he carries. He hasn’t slept all night. He must’ve been waiting—waiting for you to wake Ni-ki up for his shift. Waiting to prove himself wrong about you.

But you never did.

“So that’s it?” His voice rises slightly, frustration seeping in. “You’re already convinced we’re going to die? You don’t even want to try to fight?” His grip on the rifle tightens, his knuckles turning white. His whole body trembles with barely contained anger.

“For god’s sake, Jay took a fucking bullet for you!”

The words hit you like a slap. You flinch, your mind racing back to that moment. The blood. The panic. The sheer terror.

He’s right. Jay did take a bullet for you.

And you repaid that debt by risking your life at the bus terminal to get him the medicine he needed. Give and take. That’s what survival is, isn’t it? But suddenly, that line of thinking feels wrong. Twisted. Because with that mindset, you could justify anything. You could justify stealing from innocent people, killing whoever stands in your way, and calling it necessity. Just like The Future.

Your chest tightens. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, but even to your own ears, it sounds hollow.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it,” Jungwon snaps. His voice is raw, laced with hurt and anger. “If you were going to leave, you should’ve done it that night at the motel. You didn’t have to wait until I started caring about you.”

His next words strike harder than anything else.

“What makes you different from the people who walked away from you?” 

The question hangs in the air, cutting through you like a knife to the gut.

What makes you different from the people who left you behind? 

Everything.

Because those people didn’t care about you when they chose to leave. They didn’t hesitate when they abandoned the community building. And you didn’t care about them when you barricaded yourself in that corner to survive.

But here? Here, you care.

And walking away makes you a monster.

Jungwon steps closer, but this time you’re rooted to the spot. His eyes are searching yours, almost pleading. “You don’t feel anything at all?” His voice trembles, and it shatters you to see him like this—vulnerable and exposed in a way you’ve never seen before. 

“Y/N. Say something. Don’t just stand there—”

“You think it’s easy?” Your voice cracks, rising with anger you didn’t even realise you were holding in. “You think it’s easy choosing to leave you? To leave them?”

Tears burn at the corners of your eyes, blurring your vision but you don’t bother wiping them away.

“I wanted to leave that night at the motel,” you continue, your voice trembling. “Hell, I should’ve left. But that would’ve meant leaving all of you to die. I thought I could stay long enough to help, long enough for you to let your guard down so I could slip away. I never meant for it to come this far. I never meant to care.”

“You’re leaving all of us to die now. What’s the difference?” he asks quietly, though you can hear the spite in his words.

“Because I don’t want to stay here,” you choke out. “If you’ve already decided to settle down, there’s nothing I can do to change that. But I will not let myself stay here and watch the worst things imaginable happen to any of you.”

Your voice breaks, the tears flowing freely now. “At least out there, I can tell myself you’re still alive. That maybe I was wrong to think this place is a trap.”

Jungwon takes a shaky breath, his frustration cracking through the cracks in his composure. “Then stay,” he says quietly. “Stay and see for yourself. Stay and make sure you know damn well we’re alive. Leaving won’t keep us safe, Y/N.”

“Well, staying won’t keep you alive either!”

The words come out louder than you intended, your voice breaking as you sob. “I can’t lose any of you. You already saw the state I was in when Jay almost died. Sooner or later I will have to experience that kind of grief—if I have to lose you—I don’t think I’ll survive it.”

He scoffs, and you wince at the evident annoyance. "Back then, you barely knew any of us, and you were willing to sacrifice yourself to save our lives. Now that you do know us, you want to leave because you’re too afraid to see us die?" His voice trembles, rising with frustration. "You’re so full of shit, you know that?"

The words hang in the air, harsher than either of you expected. You see it in his face—the way his eyes widen slightly, the way his lips press together, as if trying to pull the words back. He hadn’t meant to say it, at least not like that. But it’s out there now, and there’s no taking it back.

Jungwon’s expression softens almost immediately, the anger melting into something quieter, something more painful. His shoulders sag, and you can see the weight of everything pressing down on him, heavier than ever. When he speaks again, his voice is low, barely above a whisper, broken by the raw emotion behind it.

“I—I didn’t mean it that way—”

“No.” You cut him off, shaking your head. “You’re right.” Your voice trembles, the truth unraveling inside you, spilling out in a rush you can no longer control. “I’m a coward. I’d rather walk away than experience that loss.”

Jungwon flinches at your words, his expression crumpling as though he’s trying to keep his composure, but failing. His gaze locks onto yours, and in that moment, all the walls he’s built to keep himself steady come crashing down.

“And it’s not a loss to leave us? To leave me?” His voice cracks as he takes a step closer, his eyes dark and glassy with unshed tears. There’s no anger left in him now—just pain. Raw, unfiltered pain. 

You can barely breathe past the lump in your throat, your chest tightening with each second of silence that passes. You blink rapidly, trying to push back the tears threatening to fall, but it’s no use. The emotions you’ve tried to bury rise to the surface, clawing their way out. 

Jungwon’s hand reaches out, hovering just beside your face. He’s waiting for you to lean in first, to close the distance, to give him a sign that you won’t leave. His fingers tremble slightly, so close that you can feel the faint warmth of his palm.

But you don’t move.

“You’re the greatest loss, Jungwon.”

Your voice is so quiet, you almost don’t hear yourself say it. The words slip out like a confession you’ve kept buried for too long. And for a moment, everything is still. Silent.

Jungwon’s eyes widen slightly, as though he’s just realised the weight of what you’ve said. His lips part, like he’s about to say something—maybe to beg you to stay, maybe to tell you he feels the same—but you don’t let him.

You don’t give yourself the chance to change your mind.

You step back, his hand falling limply to his side, and the space between you feels insurmountable. You take another step back, then another.

And this time, when you turn your back on him, you don’t look back. Even with tears streaming down your face, even as your chest aches with the implication of everything you’re leaving behind, you force yourself to keep walking.

Because you know that if you see the look on his face—if you see the heartbreak in his eyes—you won’t be able to walk away.

But even now, as you tell yourself it’s better this way, there’s a small, nagging voice in the back of your mind. A whisper that wonders if isolation is really strength or just another form of self-destruction.

You have no idea how long you’ve been walking. Your thoughts swirl chaotically, clouded by the argument with Jungwon that still plays in your mind like a broken record. The sun hangs high in the sky now, its rays cutting through the morning mist as the chirping of birds fills the air—a hauntingly normal sound in a world that’s anything but.

When you turned your back on him and walked away, you hadn’t planned on where to go. You’d just moved, one foot in front of the other, mindlessly pushing forward like one of the undead you’ve fought so hard to avoid. 

All you know is you have to keep moving. Don’t stop. Don’t let yourself get tied down by people, places, or promises.

Before you even realise it, the bus terminal comes into view on the horizon. That bus terminal. The one where everything nearly ended for you. Where Jungwon saved your life.

The memory threatens to surface, but you shake your head sharply, forcing it down. No. Don’t think about him. Don’t think about any of them. You left them for a reason.

And yet, here you are, heading back toward the city. Back toward the very place you tried so hard to claw your way out of when the outbreak first began. It’s almost laughable, the irony of it. Back then, you were desperate to escape, fleeing the chaos and death that seemed to choke every street. But now? Now you’re willingly going back.

It’s not because the city has become safer—it hasn’t. The streets are likely still teeming with the dead, and the stench of decay probably still clings to the air like a curse. Survivors rarely venture in, the danger too great for most to justify. That makes it a kind of sanctuary in its own twisted way.

You don’t know when it happened—when avoiding the living became more crucial than avoiding the dead. But after everything you’ve been through, after everything that went down with the group, you realise now that some people are better off left alone. Like you.

It’s easier this way. In the city, you don’t have to constantly look over your shoulder for someone else’s sake. Every action, every decision you make will only affect you. There’s no group to protect, no lives depending on your choices, no shared weight to carry. You can move freely, without the suffocating burden of responsibility pressing down on your chest.

As you approach the outskirts of the bus terminal, you freeze, your breath catching in your throat. 

What lies ahead makes your stomach churn, the sight so incomprehensible it feels like your mind is playing tricks on you. A horde—massive, grotesque, suffocating in its sheer number—fills the gaps between rusting cars and crumbling buses, their guttural moans and the wet shuffling of decayed limbs filling the stagnant air. The commotion from last night must’ve drawn them here. 

No, something is off.

Your first instinct is to duck, to press yourself against the side of a nearby car, but curiosity keeps your eyes locked on the scene. The horde’s movements are... strange. It’s not just the usual shambling chaos of the dead, not the erratic, aimless wandering you’re used to. It’s too... coordinated. Sections of the group lurch forward in unison, turning together as though responding to some unseen signal.

And then you see them—figures standing atop the cars, scattered like silent sentinels amidst the chaos. Their heads swivel, scanning the area, their posture betraying an awareness the undead don’t have. 

From your hiding spot, you squint, trying to make sense of what you’re seeing. Their bodies are draped in something you can’t quite make out at this distance—tattered rags, maybe? No. Your stomach twists as you squint through the haze. It’s flesh. Patches of rotting skin and gore strapped to their bodies, like grotesque armour. Their faces are hollowed out, decayed. But their eyes… it’s clear. Just like the zombie you spotted in the clearing that day. The one that stood eerily still, watching, waiting.

Then one moves. Not with the jerky, mindless motion of the dead, but with purpose. Deliberate. Intentional. Your breath catches in your throat as the realisation hits you like a punch to the gut.

They’re… human? But the dead is not going after them. How is that possible?

You watch as one of the figures on a car stomp its foot onto the roof. The horde responds almost immediately, a section of the undead turning in unison, moving as if corralled toward a tighter group of vehicles. Another figure lets out a whistle, low and sharp. The sound sends a ripple through the horde. The zombies lurch toward the source, shuffling like sheep to a shepherd’s call.

It’s sickeningly methodical. Choreographed chaos.

Your mind races as you try to process the scene. These people—whoever and whatever they are—they’ve figured out how to control the dead, how to manipulate them like tools.

Then, you spot another one of them on the roof of the terminal, the one you and Jungwon came from. He’s wearing the same decayed face but his stance is confident, almost arrogant, as he surveys the horde below. 

“Friends!” he calls, his voice echoing above the chaos, carrying an authority that you’ve never heard before in this ruined world. The horde reacts immediately, pushing forward as if his words alone are a leash pulling them to heel. They claw at the walls of the building, their rotting fingers scraping against the brick, desperate and unrelenting.

Your heart hammers in your chest, the sound almost deafening in your ears. Friends? The word twists in your mind, warping into something grotesque. He’s speaking to the dead like they’re equals, like they’re allies in some twisted cause.

“We’re not far now,” he continues, his voice filled with a fervour that makes your stomach churn. The horde responds again, the shuffling and groaning growing louder, almost like a chant. “Tonight, they’ll pay for what they’ve done!”

Your breath catches, and your grip on your bag tightens. They? Who’s they?

The man raises his arms, the action reminding you of a preacher before his congregation, a maestro before his orchestra, and the dead press closer to the building, their movements frenzied in response to him.

“They won’t even know what hit them!” His voice reverberates, filled with rage and something else—something almost gleeful. It’s the sound of someone relishing the thought of destruction, of revenge.

Your gaze darts to the figures on the cars. At first glance, they seem indifferent, but then they raise their fists in unison, a silent cheer. A rallying cry without words, their collective movements eerily synchronised, like a grotesque sermon preached to the dead.

The noise of the horde grows, a crescendo of chaos that grates against your nerves. You can’t tear your eyes away from the man on the roof as he reaches back, his movements slow and precise, untying something from the back of his head.

Your breath catches as he pulls it forward, letting it swing for a moment in the wind. It’s a mask—thin, gnarled, stitched together from the decayed skin of the dead. The detail makes your stomach churn: patches of dried flesh, sinew hanging loose, and hollowed-out eye sockets that must have once belonged to something that used to breathe. When he looks up again, your blood runs cold.

It’s him. The guy Jay went after.

Your stomach flips violently as the pieces snap together in your mind. The zombie from the clearing—that eerily still, haunting figure that locked eyes with you—it wasn’t a zombie. It was him.

Your gaze jerks back to the other figures standing on the cars, to the masks they wear, and the realisation makes your skin crawl. They’re all wearing the dead. Covering themselves in the stench of decay to mask their scent, blending seamlessly with the horde. Walking among them. Herding them like livestock.

The realisation sends a cold shiver racing down your spine, leaving your limbs heavy and unresponsive. The world around you feels like it’s tilting, the ground shifting beneath your feet as you struggle to process the horror in front of you. Your mind races, frantically revisiting every moment that didn’t make sense before: the horde that ambushed you in the city, the back door at the motel, the perfectly timed attack at the camp. It was them. It’s always been them.

The bile rises in your throat, burning and bitter, but you force it down, swallowing hard as you cling to the only thing you can do right now—stay quiet. Your breath comes shallow, the sound of your pounding heartbeat drowning out the chaos around you. 

Your hand trembles as you steady yourself against the car, the metal cool under your palm. You’re not sure how long you can stay here without being spotted, but one thing is clear: these people are dangerous. More dangerous than the dead, more dangerous than any survivor you’ve encountered.

Every instinct screams at you to run, to put as much distance between yourself and this nightmare as possible. But you can’t.

They’re moving the horde. 

Towards you. Towards Jungwon. Towards all of them.

Without realising, your legs move on their own, instinct taking over as you bolt back in the direction you came from. It doesn’t matter that it took you nearly an hour to walk here; you’re running now, faster than you thought your body could manage. 

Your mind races just as fast as your feet. The whole thing feels like some cruel cosmic joke. 

And now, with every step closer to that rest stop, you feel the pull of something you thought you’d severed. It’s not just the danger that’s pushing you back—it’s them. 

Jungwon, with his quiet, unshakable strength that masks the unbearable weight he carries. Jay, who bled for you without hesitation. Ni-ki, who never stopped believing in the group’s survival. Sunoo, Jake, Heeseung, Sunghoon—they’re more than just people you met along the way. They’re the only thing tethering you to this broken, crumbling world.

And that’s exactly why you left.

You left because you couldn’t stand the thought of watching them die. Not Jungwon. Not any of them. Because you know what would happen if they did. The rage would consume you, boiling over until it scorched everything in its path. The grief would hollow you out, leaving nothing but an echo of who you used to be. You’d do things you promised yourself you’d never do, and the world would win. It would take you, just like it’s taken so many others. You’d become a stranger to yourself.

But the irony isn’t lost on you now. You left because you didn’t want to watch them die. You told yourself it was about survival—your survival. You couldn’t stay and risk being reduced to ashes by grief and rage.

And yet here you are, sprinting back to possibly watch them die. Back into the chaos. Into the danger. Into the pain.

You don’t want to go back. You do. You don’t. The contradictions whirl in your mind like a storm, a tempest of fear, anger, and regret. Every step forward feels like a step closer to doom. But every thought of turning back feels like a betrayal of something you can’t quite name.

Back then, it was just an invisible threat—a vague, looming shadow of danger that hung over you like a storm cloud. You couldn’t see it, couldn’t touch it, you don’t know for sure, you could only feel it. That gnawing dread, the constant whispers of worst-case scenarios. And you’d told yourself that leaving was the only way to spare yourself the pain of the inevitable.

Or maybe they wouldn’t die at all. Maybe you were just being paranoid. Maybe you were wrong about that place. Maybe they’d prove you wrong by thriving, by turning it into the refuge they so desperately wanted it to be. You told yourself all of that to justify the decision to walk away, to convince yourself it was the right thing to do.

But even that was just another lie. Another twisted attempt to deny what you really felt. And despite your best efforts to shut it out, to drown it in logic and practicality, you realise now—that thought in itself, that denial, that ignorance—is hope.

Hope that leaving would somehow shield you from the pain of watching them fall apart.

Hope that they wouldn’t die, that you were just being overly cautious, overly cynical.

Hope that you were wrong about that place, that it wasn’t a death trap waiting to claim them all.

And maybe that’s why you hate the whole idea of hope.

Hope, in all its naive, fragile glory, has been the cruelest trick the world ever played on you. It’s a poison wrapped in pretty words and good intentions. You’ve told yourself time and time again that hope is what gets people killed. It makes you reckless. Makes you believe in things that don’t exist. Hope makes you stay when you should run, makes you trust when you shouldn’t, makes you care when you can’t afford to. And the worst part? Hope doesn’t stop the bad things from happening. It doesn’t save you from loss, from grief, from pain. It just makes the fall hurt that much more when it all comes crashing down.

And now, running back down this highway with every nerve in your body screaming at you to hurry, you feel the weight of it pressing down on you.

You didn’t leave because you thought they’d be fine. You didn’t leave because you believed they’d prove you wrong.

You left because you hoped. In your own twisted way.

But now? Now, knowing what you know, hope feels like a cruel joke. There can’t be hope. Not anymore. Because you know the truth. You’ve seen it with your own eyes.

The people on the cars, the masks of flesh, the herded horde—it’s all proof that this world doesn’t care about hope. It doesn’t care about survival. It only cares about death, about how it can twist and shape and devour until there’s nothing left. 

They’re not fine. They won’t thrive. They won’t prove you wrong. You can’t even tell yourself that you’re overthinking it, that you’re paranoid, that it’s all in your head. Ignorance is no longer bliss because you know. It’s not just some superficial, nebulous fear anymore. It’s real, and it’s heading straight for Jungwon and the others, and you’re the only one who knows. 

They don’t know what’s coming. Jungwon doesn’t know. The group doesn’t know. And if you don’t make it back in time—

The thought hits you like a sledgehammer, knocking the breath out of you. You trip over a crack in the asphalt, your body hitting the ground hard, the impact jarring your entire frame. 

For a moment, you’re dazed, your palms scraped and bleeding against the ground. But the sound of your ragged breathing snaps you back to reality. There’s no time to stop. No time to let the pain sink in. You scramble to your feet, dirt clinging to your hands and knees, and keep running.

You don’t even know how long you’ve been running. All you know is the tightening in your chest, the fire in your lungs, and the unrelenting truth clawing at the back of your mind.

They’re actually going to die.

That knowledge burns, searing away any last shred of hope you might have clung to.

And maybe that’s why you hate hope so much. Because you wanted it to be real. You wanted to believe, even if it was just for a moment, that they could have a chance. But this world doesn’t allow for chances. It doesn’t allow for happy endings. It only allows for survival—and only for those willing to tear apart everything and everyone in their way.

Your pace slows as the rest stop comes into view in the distance, the barricade just barely visible against the horizon. Your heart twists at the sight of it. It looks the same as when you left, quiet and still, like it’s waiting for something to happen.

You can’t stop the bitterness from rising in your chest as you picture Jungwon’s face when you walked away. The disappointment, the anger, the heartbreak—it’s burned into your memory like a wound that refuses to heal. He probably thought you were giving up on them, giving up on him. And maybe, in a way, he was right. Because you couldn’t bring yourself to watch them cling to hope like a noose tightening around their necks

And yet, here you are, running back. Not because you believe you can save them. Not because you think there’s still a chance. But because you can’t bear to let the world prove you right. Not like this. Not when the price of being right is their lives.

You hate hope. You hate what it does to people. But what you hate even more is the thought of standing here, doing nothing, and watching it die. Not just them—you. 

Because saving them is saving yourself.

You realise that now, with every step you take. You can’t separate the two. You can’t convince yourself that walking away from them doesn’t mean walking away from who you are, from the part of you that still has a purpose.

The choice isn’t about hope or survival anymore; it’s about what you’re willing to lose in the process.

If you’re going to lose yourself, let it be in trying. Let it be in throwing everything you have into saving them, even if it breaks you in the process. Let it be because you cared enough to fight.

Because the alternative—the guilt, the regret of turning your back and knowing you could have done something—would be far worse. It would eat away at you. Hollowing you out in a way you’d never recover from.

So if saving them means letting the world take the last piece of you, then so be it. If the cost of trying is everything, you’ll pay it. At least this way, when you lose yourself, it’ll be with a purpose. At least it won’t be for nothing.

And if it comes down to it, if the fight doesn’t go the way you hope, you just pray you won’t live long enough to witness the fallout. You hope the world will be merciful enough to take you before it forces you to watch it take them.

You’re close now, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you force your legs to keep moving. The thought of Jungwon and the others pushes you forward, fuels your determination. You can’t let them be caught off guard. You can’t let them die.

The gates swing open before you can even catch your breath to announce your presence. Figures. They probably saw you miles before you even reached the rest stop, perched from their vantage points or perhaps by sheer habit of being on guard.

It’s Sunoo who greets you at the gate, his face lighting up when he spots you. “Y/N! Back already?” he asks, his tone casual, cheerful even. Like you’ve just returned from a harmless errand rather than the most tumultuous hours of your life.

Back already. The words settle uneasily in your chest as you step through the barricade. You glance at him, noticing the messy state of his hair, sticking up in odd angles, and the faint marks of sleep still etched onto his face. He doesn’t know. None of them know.

You scan the area, catching sight of the others. Sunghoon is by the fire, stretching as if he’s just woken up. Heeseung’s leaning against a pillar, rubbing the back of his neck. Even Ni-ki, who usually has a sharp, alert edge to him, is sitting cross-legged in the back of the van, yawning into his hand.

They don’t know you almost left for good. They have no idea that you had stood on the edge of this very decision, ready to walk away from all of this—from them.

Your chest tightens as you realise how quickly things could have gone another way. If it weren’t for what you saw back at the terminal, you’d be gone right now, miles away from this place, convincing yourself that this is how it had to be. And yet, here you are, standing in the midst of them, and not a single one knows how close you were to never coming back.

And then you see him.

Jungwon is leaning against the wall near the van, his arms crossed over his chest. His gaze locks onto yours the moment you step into the camp, his expression unreadable. There’s no accusation in his eyes, no anger, no “I told you so.” He just looks at you, and you know.

He didn’t tell them.

Whatever passed between you before you left—whatever anger, whatever hurt—it’s gone now, buried under something heavier. Something you can’t quite name.

Your breath hitches as you hold his gaze, a silent exchange passing between the two of you. There’s no point in asking why he kept it to himself. You know why. He’s protecting you, just like he always does, even when you don’t deserve it.

Sunoo, oblivious to the weight of the moment, grins at you and gestures toward the rest of the group. “We figured you were off hunting or something, but damn, you’ve been gone for three hours. Did you get anything?”

Three hours. That’s all it’s been. You glance down at your hands, still clutching the strap of your bag like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. It felt like so much longer. Like a lifetime has passed since you last stood here.

You glance back at Jungwon, who hasn’t taken his eyes off you. And in that moment, you understand something you didn’t before. He didn’t just protect your secret because it was the right thing to do. He did it because he knows you. Knows how close you were to walking away. Knows how much you’ve been wrestling with the weight of staying. And somehow, despite all of that, he’s still here, waiting for you.

“Well, are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to tell us what you found?” Sunoo’s voice jolts you out of your thoughts, and you force a smile, your mind already racing with how you’re going to explain what’s coming.

Because they may not know that you almost left. But they’re about to find out what you came back for.

You take a deep breath, willing your trembling hands to steady as you adjust the strap of your bag. Sunoo is looking at you expectantly, his cheerful demeanour a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside you. The others are starting to notice now—Heeseung raises an eyebrow, Sunghoon straightens his posture, and Jake steps closer, his gaze narrowing slightly in concern.

“I… didn’t go hunting,” you begin, your voice low but steady. You glance around the group, meeting their eyes one by one before landing back on Jungwon. His expression remains unreadable, though you catch the slightest twitch of his jaw. “I went back to the bus terminal.”

The ripple of confusion is immediate.

“What?” Jake’s voice cuts through the silence, his brow furrowed. “Why the hell would you go back there?”

“I had to check something,” you say, your words rushing out faster than you intended. “Something didn’t sit right with me about that place, about what happened. So I went back to see if—” You pause, your throat tightening as the images flash through your mind again: the horde, the people, the masks.

“If what?” Heeseung prompts, his voice calm but edged with concern.

Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag as you force yourself to say it. “There’s a horde at the terminal.”

“A horde?” Sunghoon echoes, his voice laced with disbelief.

“Yes,” you say firmly, your eyes scanning the group to make sure they’re listening. “A massive one. Bigger than anything we’ve seen before. But that’s not the worst part.” You take another breath, steeling yourself. “There are people. People controlling it.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating.

“People?” Sunoo’s face twists in confusion, his earlier cheer replaced with unease. “What do you mean, controlling it?”

“They’re… wearing the dead,” you say, your stomach churning at the memory. “Masks. Clothes. Covering themselves in the scent of decay to blend in. They’re herding the zombies like livestock. I saw them. They’re leading the horde.”

Silence. The kind that feels too loud, too sharp.

“That’s not possible,” Jake finally says, his tone disbelieving. “No one can control the dead.”

“I’m telling you, I saw it with my own eyes!” you snap, the frustration bubbling to the surface. “They’re moving the horde, and they’re coming this way. They’re coming for us.”

Heeseung’s expression darkens, and he exchanges a look with Sunghoon. “How do you know they’re coming here?”

You hesitate, your gaze flicking to Jungwon. He’s still silent, his eyes locked on yours, waiting.

“Because he was there—the guy that Jay went after,” you admit, your voice dropping. “I saw him. Seems like he’s the one in charge too. They’re planning to attack tonight. They know you’re here.”

The weight of your words sinks in, rippling through the group like a shockwave. The air shifts, heavy with dread, the fragile sense of safety they tried to hold onto cracking under the pressure. Sunoo looks pale, his cheerful energy drained away as he stares at you like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. Jake’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing with determination, though the tension in his shoulders betrays the fear he’s trying to suppress. Ni-ki, who’s just stepped out of the van, freezes mid-step, his expression hardening into one of unease.

Then, movement from the convenience store catches your attention. You glance over, your breath hitching when you see Jay standing in the doorway. Relief washes over you at the sight of him upright, alive, looking much better than the last time you saw him. He’s out of bed—too soon, really—but still, he’s here. Thank god.

But then the relief wanes, replaced by a twinge of worry. The pain in his posture is evident in the way he leans slightly against the doorframe, his body curling in on itself as though every breath takes effort. His complexion is pale, almost ghostly, the lack of colour suggesting someone still in convalescence, still vulnerable. Yet he’s standing there, bearing witness to everything.

And there’s something else. A look on his face that tugs uncomfortably at your chest—regret. It’s there in the tight line of his mouth, in the way his gaze flickers between you and the others. He must’ve heard what you said about the guy. About how he’s still alive. About how he’s leading this horde straight to them.

The regret in his expression cuts deeper than any words could. It’s not regret for himself, not for the pain he’s in or the bullet wound that’s barely begun to heal. It’s regret for what he didn’t finish. For the job he couldn’t complete. And now, because of that, the people he cares about are going to suffer the consequences.

Jay’s the type to bear the blame even when it’s not entirely his to bear. And now, standing there, he looks like he’s drowning in it, his regret and guilt weighing him down like a stone tied to his chest.

“What do we do?” Sunoo’s voice is small, almost childlike. It trembles with fear, breaking the heavy silence that’s gripped the group since your return. His wide eyes dart from person to person, searching for reassurance that none of you can offer.

“We leave,” you say firmly, your gaze locking onto Jungwon’s. The words leave your mouth with more force than you intended, your desperation bleeding into every syllable. “We pack up and leave now, before it’s too late.”

But Jungwon doesn’t respond. His dark eyes remain fixed on yours, unreadable, like he’s searching for something he’s not sure he’ll find.

“Jungwon,” you press, your voice rising slightly as the urgency claws at your chest. “You know we can’t stay. Not with what’s coming.”

His jaw tightens, his posture stiffening as the group watches the two of you with baited breath. You can feel the tension rolling off him, coiling tighter with every passing second. For a moment, you think he’s going to argue. But then he speaks, his voice low and measured. “If we leave now, they’ll follow us. A moving group is easier to track. We need to think this through.”

“Think this through?” you echo, incredulous. The disbelief cuts through your voice, sharp and biting. “There’s nothing to think through. They’re coming, Jungwon. If we stay here, we’re sitting ducks.”

“And if we leave, we’re exposed,” he counters without missing a beat, his calmness only fuelling your frustration. “We don’t even know if we’d make it out of the area before they catch up to us. We need a plan.”

The group falls silent again, their eyes darting between the two of you like they’re caught in the middle of a battlefield with no way to escape. The weight of their stares presses down on you, amplifying the tension already thrumming in your veins.

Your chest heaves as you search for the right words to push through his resolve. But before you can, Jay speaks, cutting through the thick air like a blade. His voice is quiet but firm, carrying a gravity that makes everyone turn toward him. “He’s not going to stop, you know.”

You snap your head toward him, your breath hitching at the resignation in his tone. His gaze locks onto yours, and in that moment, you understand what he’s trying to say.

“He’ll find us,” Jay continues, his voice steady despite the obvious pain he’s in. “And he’ll keep finding us until he gets what he’s looking for.”

"If you're suggesting we leave without you, forget it. We—"

“The only choice is to stay and fight. To settle it once and for all.” Jay’s eyes flicker to Jungwon, then to the rest of the group, his words slicing through the growing sense of dread.

The silence that follows is deafening. You can feel the ripple of fear that passes through the group, the unspoken understanding of what staying to fight would mean. It’s not just survival anymore. It’s war. And war always demands sacrifice.

Jungwon’s gaze shifts to you again, his expression unreadable but weighted with expectation. He’s waiting for you to argue, to push back. But you don’t. Because deep down, you know Jay’s right. This isn’t just some random attack. It’s a personal vendetta. 

Even if you manage to convince them to leave, to escape the immediate threat, it won’t guarantee their safety. These people don’t just want resources or a fight. They want vengeance. They want blood. And they won’t stop until they have it. Running will only delay the inevitable. 

You swallow hard, the words catching in your throat. “If we stay,” you finally manage, your voice trembling slightly, “we need to be ready. Completely ready.”

Jungwon nods once, the tiniest flicker of approval crossing his face before it’s gone again. He turns to the group, his voice steady and commanding as he begins issuing instructions. “Ni-ki, Jake—check the barricades. Reinforce every weak spot you find. Sunghoon—bring out all the guns and ammos from the backroom. Sunoo—gather anything we can use to secure the perimeter. I saw some extra rows of barb wires in the basement earlier. Heeseung and I will map out entry points and blind spots. Jay, you stay inside.”

Then Jungwon turns to you.

You wait, holding your breath, anticipating the order he’ll give you. But it doesn’t come. Instead, his gaze lingers on you for a fleeting second before he looks away, addressing the others again. He’s leaving you out of it—deliberately. The realisation hits you harder than it should.

At first, you think he’s still angry, that the tension from your earlier argument hasn’t fully dissipated. But as you study his face, the way his jaw is set but his eyes avoid yours, you see the truth. He’s not mad at you.

He’s giving you an out. He’s leaving the option open—the option to walk away, still.

The group disperses quickly, each person moving with purpose as they carry out their assigned tasks. The sound of hurried footsteps and shifting supplies fills the air, but you remain rooted to the spot. You feel like a ghost, watching them prepare for a battle you’d been so desperate to avoid. A battle you tried to flee from. A battle you brought right down on them.

You glance back at Jungwon. He’s already bent over Heeseung’s map, pointing at something with a furrowed brow. His posture is tense, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring ready to snap. Even from here, you can see the weight on his shoulders, the burden he carries not just as their leader but as someone who cares too much.

Your chest tightens. You can’t tell if it’s guilt or anger—or maybe something messier than both.

He’s leaving the choice to you because he knows you. He knows you’d hate being told to stay, that forcing you would only drive you further away. But this, this silent permission to go—it feels worse. It feels like he’s already preparing himself for your absence. Like he’s already accepted that you might leave.

You tear your gaze away, your fists clenching at your sides. He’s giving you what you wanted. The freedom to walk away without confrontation. The chance to escape without tying yourself to their fate.

So why does it feel so wrong?

Just then, Jay approaches, his steps slower than usual, but his presence steady. “You look like shit,” he says flatly, his voice cutting through the quiet.

“Could say the same thing about you, Jay,” you shoot back without thinking, the words slipping out with a touch of dry humour. Your chest tightens as you’re brought back to the moment on the roadside—the weight of his voice when he confronted you, the guilt that still lingers in your bones. You wonder if he knows just how close you came to leaving.

Jay tilts his head, studying you in that unnervingly perceptive way he has. “Come on,” he says finally, nodding toward the convenience store. “We can keep watch together on the roof.”

Your brow furrows. “Jungwon told you to stay inside.”

“Inside and on top, same thing,” Jay replies, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “At least on the roof, I get to feel somewhat useful.” He clicks his tongue, and there’s a stubborn edge to his tone that you know all too well.

“Jay,” you start, but he cuts you off, his gaze narrowing.

“Don’t start. I know my limits better than anyone, and sitting around waiting to feel like dead weight isn’t doing me any favours.” His voice is sharper now, but not angry. Just resolute. “You can watch my back if you’re so worried.”

You let out a quiet sigh, glancing toward the roof. He’s not wrong—at least up there, he’s out of harm’s way but still contributing. And truthfully, part of you is relieved for the company. You nod reluctantly. “Fine. But you’re not pulling anything heroic. Got it?”

Jay grins faintly, though the usual arrogance in his expression is muted. “I’ll leave the heroics to you this time.” His voice softens as he adds, “Come on, let’s go.”

The scent of the morning feels sharper now, almost intrusive, carried by the cool breeze that brushes over your face as you and Jay sit cross-legged on the roof. The faint rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of birds fill the silence between you. Both of you lean back against the convenience store sign, the metal cool against your shoulders.

“How’s recovery been?” you ask, your voice quiet as your gaze stays fixed on the horizon stretching endlessly past the rest stop.

“Good,” Jay replies, his tone nonchalant. “Thanks to the medicine you and Jungwon brought back. And, well, Jake, obviously.”

“So, it doesn’t hurt anymore?” you ask, glancing at him briefly, searching his face for any hint of dishonesty.

Jay lets out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “Are you kidding? It was only two days ago. Of course, it still hurts like shit.”

A wave of guilt crashes over you, sharp and unrelenting. Of course, it hurts. He’s carrying the pain for both of you—for a bullet that was meant for you. Your chest tightens, and before you can stop yourself, the words slip out.

“I’m sorry.”

Jay turns to you, his brow furrowing slightly. “I told you, it’s fine—”

“No, it’s not fine, Jay,” you cut him off, your voice trembling with emotion. “You really could’ve died.”

“Yeah, if you were a little bit taller.” His lips twitch, and you can see him trying to hold it back. But it doesn’t last long before he bursts out laughing—a bright, unrestrained sound that feels almost alien in this grim world. The laughter cuts short, though, as he winces and curls in on himself, the pain from his wound quickly bringing him back to reality.

Your instinct is to reach out, but you hesitate, your hand hovering in the air before dropping back to your lap. “See? It’s not fine,” you mutter, your voice softer now.

Jay breathes through the pain, shaking his head with a faint grin still lingering on his face. “Worth it. That reaction was worth it.”

You stare at him for a moment, incredulous. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re predictable,” Jay shoots back, his grin lingering, though the weariness in his voice cuts through the lightness. Then his expression shifts, something sharper and more knowing in his eyes. 

“This morning, you left, didn’t you?”

You freeze, the words hitting like a jolt to your chest. Of course you can count on Jay to call you out on your contrarian shit.  

You don’t answer right away, but the silence is all the confirmation he needs. “Yeah, I figured when I woke up and saw Jungwon sitting on the roof. Legs dangling over the edge, just staring at the horizon. Like he was waiting for something. Guess that something was you.”

Your chest tightens, and you turn your gaze back to the horizon. You want to say something, to deny it, but what’s the point? He already knows the truth.

“Did he say anything?” you ask cautiously, your voice quieter now. “Jungwon, I mean.”

Jay’s eyes flick to you, studying your face for a moment before he answers. “Not much. He’s not really the type to spill his guts, you know that.” He pauses, his gaze turning distant, like he’s replaying the memory in his mind. 

Jay continues, his tone lighter, but there’s an edge to it. “For what it’s worth, he didn’t look angry. Just… resigned, I guess. Like he already knew what you were going to do before you did.”

You exhale shakily, your fingers tightening around itself. “I didn’t mean to—” you start, but Jay cuts you off.

“I know,” he says, his voice softer now. “And so does he. Doesn’t mean it didn’t mess with him, though.”

His words land heavier than you expect, and you nod, swallowing hard as the guilt settles deeper into your chest. It’s a hollow ache, twisting and gnawing, but you can’t bring yourself to say anything else. The silence between you stretches thin, and you feel yourself teetering on the edge of collapsing into the depths of your own self-loathing.

Jay, ever the mind reader, speaks up before you spiral. “But that just means he truly cares about you. That you bring him comfort and hope in a world that’s devoid of it.”

Hope. That word feels like an accusation, like it doesn’t belong anywhere near you.

"Why?” you whisper, barely able to hear your own voice. “Why does he care about me? I met you all barely over a week ago.”

“What about you?” he counters. “Why do you care?”

His question takes you off guard, echoing in your mind like a challenge. Why do you care? You left to avoid caring, to avoid the inevitability of their deaths, to avoid watching the world tear them away from you like it’s done to so many before. Yet, here you are, sitting on this roof, your chest tightening with every word, every thought.

You glance at Jay, his face calm but expectant, the faint lines of pain around his mouth betraying the effort it takes for him to even sit upright. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t have to. The weight of his question lingers in the air, demanding an answer you’re not ready to give.

“I shouldn’t care,” you say finally, the words falling flat. They feel like a shield, something to protect yourself from what you’re afraid to admit. “It’d be easier if I didn’t.”

Jay lets out a soft laugh, though it’s tinged with sadness. “Yeah, it would be. But that’s not who you are, is it?”

You don’t respond. Because he’s right, and you hate that he’s right. You hate that you care, that you couldn’t stop yourself from coming back, from throwing yourself into the fire again and again. You hate that their survival has somehow become entwined with your own, that you can’t even think about saving yourself without thinking about saving them.

Jay shifts slightly, wincing as he adjusts his position. “You care because you see it, don’t you?” he continues, his voice quiet now, almost gentle. “What we have here. It’s not perfect—it’s messy and dangerous, and it might not last. But it’s something. And for some reason, you want to protect that.”

You shake your head, frustration bubbling to the surface. “I came back because I knew what was coming,” you argue, more to yourself than to him. “Because if I didn’t warn you, you’d all be dead by midnight. That’s it. That’s the only reason.”

Jay tilts his head, studying you with an expression that feels far too knowing. “Sure,” he says, his tone neutral. “Keep telling yourself that.”

You glare at him, but there’s no real anger behind it. Just exhaustion, and maybe a little bit of fear. Because you know he’s right. You look away, your gaze drifting back to the horizon. The beauty of it feels almost mocking, a cruel reminder of what you’re all trying to hold onto in a world determined to take it away.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to keep going when everything feels so... fragile. Like it could all fall apart any second.”

Jay’s expression softens, and for a moment, he looks older, wearier. “None of us do,” he says simply. “We’re all just figuring it out as we go. Even Jungwon. But I guess he tries to hide that from the rest of us.”

“Why?” you ask, finally turning to look at him. “Why does he feel like he has to hide it?”

Jay leans back further against the convenience store sign, his expression heavy with something close to regret. “When things fell apart, we were all with him at his new university. We were stuck there—trapped with him. And Jungwon...” He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think he blames himself for that. Like it was his fault we were there instead of safe at home with our families when it all started.”

You’re reminded of your first real conversation with Jungwon, the way he spoke about the group as if their survival was entirely his responsibility. He hadn’t said it outright, but now, hearing it from Jay, it all makes sense. The guilt he carries, the sleepless nights, the endless drive to keep moving forward—it’s all because of them. Because of what he believes he owes them.

“He really thinks it’s his fault?” you murmur, half to yourself.

Jay nods, his gaze distant. “Yeah. But it’s not. We wanted to be there. We wanted to stay. Hell, we probably made it harder for him by refusing to leave. And now, we’re his reason to keep going.” He lets out a quiet laugh, but it’s hollow, lacking any real humour. 

You don’t say anything, letting Jay continue. You can tell he’s speaking from a place that’s deeper than his usual wit, pulling from a well of memories he rarely lets anyone see.

“Somewhere along the way, we just… started relying on him,” Jay says. “On his reassurance, his direction. It wasn’t even intentional. It just… happened. Even someone like me, who hates showing weakness—I faltered. When it happened. When she died.” His voice cracks slightly, and he swallows hard before continuing. “And I would go to him, night after night, just so I can fall asleep. Because his presence brought me that comfort. That feeling that everything might be okay, even when I knew it wouldn’t be.”

Jay’s gaze flicks to you, his expression distant, as though he’s caught between the past and the present. “He does it because it’s in his nature. He feels like he has to carry us, all of us, because we’re still here. That’s just who he is. He’ll carry the world on his shoulders if it means we can breathe a little easier. But it made me realise… Jungwon probably gets scared too. He probably has countless sleepless nights, only he has nobody to lean on.”

You stare at Jay, his words settling over you like a weight you’re not sure you’re ready to bear. The breeze brushes past, carrying with it the faint scent of morning dew, but even that isn’t enough to distract you from the raw honesty in his voice.

You’re quiet for a moment, processing his words. Then Jay’s voice softens even more, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Well, until you came along.”

That catches you off guard. “Me?” you echo, frowning slightly. “What are you talking about?”

Jay tilts his head, his expression somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “You’re really going to pretend you don’t see it? The way he looks at you. The way he listens when you speak, even when you’re arguing. Especially when you’re arguing.”

You do. You do see it. Only you didn't think it was that significant for someone else to notice it too. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mutter, but the heat creeping up your neck betrays you.

Jay raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Come on. You’re not that dense. The guy practically lights up when you’re around. Even when you’re pissing him off.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the words catch in your throat.  “He doesn’t need me,” you say finally, your voice quieter now. “He’s strong enough on his own. He always has been.”

Jay lets out a low, disbelieving laugh. “That’s the thing. He doesn’t need you to carry him, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t need you. You’re not taking away his strength; you’re giving him a reason to keep using it.”

“Don’t underestimate the kind of relief you bring him,” Jay says firmly. “He’s been carrying all of us for so long, I don’t think he realised how much he needed someone to push back. To challenge him. To make him feel like he doesn’t have to carry it all on his own.”

You glance at Jay, his expression serious now, his usual smirk replaced with something softer. “Why are you telling me this?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Because someone has to,” he replies simply. “And because I know you care about him, even if you’re too stubborn to admit it.”

The silence that follows feels heavier than before, but this time, it’s not uncomfortable. It settles between you like a fragile truce, delicate but unbroken. Which is surprising, considering you’re having a heart-to-heart with Jay, of all people.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, half-expecting some sarcastic remark or a biting joke to cut through the moment. But he doesn’t say anything. Instead, his gaze fixes on the horizon. His profile, usually so sharp and full of defiance, seems softer now, like the weight of the conversation has smoothed out his edges.

“You know,” you start, breaking the silence, “you remind me of someone from the community building.”

Jay glances at you, curious. He notices your attempt to change the topic but he doesn't call you out on it. “Yeah? I bet they were a real charmer.”

You snort, shaking your head. “No, he was an idiot. But it’s something about the way neither of you know how to sugarcoat your words. That brutal honesty, whether anyone’s ready for it or not.”

Jay chuckles, the sound low and surprisingly genuine. “Well, I hope he’s thriving and doesn’t have a gaping hole in his side.”

“Yeah, well… he was a real troublemaker,” you say, your tone growing more reflective. “Got into all sorts of shit before everything fell apart. He was one of those kids the adults would always shake their heads at. A ‘bad influence,’ they’d say. But I went on a few supply runs with him, so I got to know him better. Yeah, he was reckless, stubborn, and constantly looking for trouble, but he was a nice guy deep down. Helped me out of a few tight spots.”

“He had a little sister. Around four years old when it started,” you continue, your voice lowering. “She was everything to him. No matter how much of a mess he was, he took care of her like his life depended on it. You could see it in the way he looked at her, the way he’d always make sure she had enough food or that she wasn’t scared.”

You pause, the memory sharp and painful. Jay’s quiet, sensing that there’s more to the story. His gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t interrupt, letting you take your time.

“One day, there was this fight. Between him and an older man in the building. It got… bad. Heated. I don’t even know what it was about anymore—something stupid, probably. Everyone was watching, caught up in the chaos, and I guess no one noticed his sister trying to stop them. She ran in, got caught in the middle.” Your voice falters, and you swallow hard before continuing. “She got pushed. Fell against the edge of a table. Her skull… cracked open.”

The words hang heavy in the air, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. The weight of the memory presses down on you, and you can feel Jay’s gaze on you, quiet and steady.

“At first, he was devastated,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “Grief just… swallowed him whole. But then, something shifted. His entire demeanour changed. He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He just… got up, grabbed the man who’d pushed her, and dragged him outside. Fed him to the dead. No hesitation. After that, he left. Never saw him again.”

Jay exhales slowly, leaning forward slightly. “What’s the moral of the story?” he asks, his voice careful, like he’s testing the waters.

“I guess…” you hesitate, trying to put your thoughts into words. “I guess I’m afraid of becoming like him. Detached. Insane. Letting grief consume me to the point where I’m not even me anymore. I still remember his eyes that day, when he dragged that man outside. It was like… everything human about him was gone. And I don’t want that to happen to me.”

Jay watches you closely, his expression unreadable. Then, after a long pause, he asks the question you’ve been dreading. “Is that why you left? Because you were scared to face what you’d lose?”

You flinch, the truth hitting you like a slap to the face. “Yeah,” you admit, your voice trembling. 

“Do you think he made it?” he asks suddenly, his gaze still fixed you.

You blink, caught off guard by the question. It’s not one you’ve ever let yourself think about, not in detail. “I don’t know,” you admit, your voice hesitant. “I think about it sometimes. Whether he found somewhere safe, whether he made it out of the city alive... but I guess I’ll never know.”

“Do you think you would’ve done the same? If it had been you?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy with implication. You hesitate, but only for a moment. Because deep down, you already know the answer.

“Yes,” you say quietly, the weight of the admission settling deep in your chest. Your fingers curl into your palms, your throat tightening.

“I think I would’ve done the same thing. And that’s what makes it worse.”

Jay nods slowly, his expression unreadable. His gaze lingers on you, as if weighing something in his mind.

“There are some things in the universe that are just out of our control,” he says, staring up at the sky like the answers might be written in the clouds. “Like the weather, for example, or who your parents are. And when things go wrong, it’s easy to say, ‘It was out of my hands,’ or ‘There’s nothing I could’ve done about it.’”

Jay’s voice is steady, measured, but there’s something raw underneath it, something that makes you listen even though you don’t want to. He glances at you then, his expression unreadable. “But when you do have control over something—when you actually could have done something, but you choose not to—and then you lose control? That’s worse. That’s so much worse.”

Your fingers curl into your palms, nails biting into skin, but you don’t stop him.

“Because this time, you actually had a hand in it,” Jay continues, his voice quieter now. “Not doing anything about it, knowing what you could’ve done to prevent it—that thought consumes you. It haunts you in your sleep, over and over again. And I think, deep down, you already know this.” He lets out a soft breath, shaking his head slightly. “If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have come back.”

“Human emotions are fickle. And more often than not, we’re driven by the negative ones,” Jay muses. “Anger, fear, guilt, regret, grief. I mean, it’s hard not to be when you’re forced into a world where the undead is constantly trying to eat you.” He huffs a quiet, humourless laugh, running a hand through his hair.

“But the one thing stronger than all of those emotions? Hope.”

He says it so simply, like it’s a fact, like it’s something undeniable. Like he knows you've been grappling with this dilemma.

You want to deny. You really really want to.

“It’s a funny thing, hope,” Jay says, looking back at you now. “You can’t survive without it—not really. It’s the one thing that keeps people moving forward, that makes them cling to life even when it feels impossible. In the apocalypse, you can never have too much hope. Because it’s all we have left.”

His gaze sharpens, like he’s making sure you’re listening.

“That includes each other.”

The lump in your throat grows tighter.

“We’re hope for one another,” Jay says, his voice unwavering. “You’re hope for us. And we damn well need to be hope for you.”

You let out a shaky breath, turning your head away. You stare down at your scraped hands as Jay’s words settle deep into your bones, into every part of yourself you’ve spent so long trying to shut off. You hate hope. You fear it.

Jay leans back against the sign, watching you carefully. He doesn’t press, doesn’t rush you. He just lets you sit with your thoughts, lets you process.

Eventually, you find your voice, though it comes out quieter than you expect. “But you only feel those negative emotions when you hope. Hope sucks the life out of people. Hope gives people false reassurance. People lose all sense of logic just to hold onto hope and yet, it's hope that makes the pain so much more excruciating when it's ripped away from you. You’re only disappointed because you hope. Too much hope is dangerous.” You don't even realise you've been raising your voice until you're done.

Jay huffs out a small, humourless laugh, shaking his head. “It’s a paradox, isn’t it? This fragile, beautiful thing that’s supposed to keep us alive is also the thing that can destroy us.” His voice is steady, thoughtful. “Hope is the spark that ignites negative emotions—but it twists them into something else. Something with purpose.

“Anger, fuelled by hope, becomes determination. Fear, tied to hope, becomes caution. Guilt and regret, tethered to hope, becomes redemption. Grief, woven into hope, becomes strength.”

You flinch at that, but Jay doesn’t let up. “Without hope, those emotions are just weights dragging you down, holding you back. But with it, they’re a reason to fight. A reason to survive.”

“Hope is what gives meaning to every choice, every sacrifice. It’s what makes us human.”

You stare at him, your throat tightening. The words claw at something deep in you, something you’ve spent so long trying to bury. 

“And that’s the cruel irony of it all,” Jay continues, his voice quieter now. “Because hope is also the thing that hurts the most. The thing that leaves you raw, vulnerable to disappointment and despair when it’s inevitably taken away. But even knowing that, we can’t let it go. Because without hope, what’s left?”

His gaze flickers to you then, sharp and knowing. “Not you,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “And definitely not me.”

Jay’s words settle into you like a slow, creeping ache—one you can’t ignore, no matter how much you want to. They seep into the cracks, the ones you’ve spent so long trying to patch over, the ones you told yourself didn’t exist.

And for the first time in a conversation with Jay, you have no response.

You know he’s right. But it hurts—because hope is also the reason you’re here. The reason you turned back. The reason you’re sitting on this rooftop, trying to make sense of the war that rages inside you.

Hope, in the apocalypse, is both a necessity and a curse—and that contradiction is what makes it so powerful.

If you hadn't seen what you saw, you would have been long gone by now. You would’ve walked away with the comfortable lie that they’d be fine, that they’d beat the odds like they always do, that their naive faith in safety would somehow be rewarded.

But you know the truth now. And the truth doesn’t allow you the luxury of ignorance. Because they’re not okay. They won’t be okay.

Not unless you do something.

Leaving now—knowing what’s coming—wouldn’t just make you a coward. It would make you complicit in their deaths. It would mean standing by while the world tears them apart, pretending it isn’t your problem.

And you know yourself well enough to understand exactly how that would end. A lifetime of guilt. A lifetime of knowing you could have done something but chose not to. That guilt would fester inside you, wear you down, strip you bare until there’s nothing left of you that’s worth saving. Until the world finally wins.

And either way—whether you leave or stay—you’re not going to come out of this intact. You’re already too deep, too tangled in it all.

So you choose the path that has even the smallest, most fragile hope of something good coming out of it.

In the end, you chose hope. 

And hope guided you back to them.

The silence between you and Jay stretches for another half-hour, comfortable in a way that doesn’t demand words. There’s no need to fill the space with forced conversation, no pressure to dissect the weight of everything you’ve just talked about. Just the two of you, sitting side by side, watching the horizon as if it holds the answers neither of you have.

Occasionally, your gaze drifts downward, taking in the organised chaos of the camp below. The others move with purpose, their figures threading seamlessly through the makeshift fortifications, pulling them together, binding them to one another. Binding you to them.

Your eyes find Jungwon without meaning to. He’s hunched over a roughly drawn map with Heeseung, tracing escape routes with a furrowed brow. His lips are pressed into a thin line, his jaw tight, his entire body braced as if the sheer weight of their survival rests on his shoulders alone. Heeseung says something, pointing at a different spot on the map, and Jungwon nods, his fingers tightening around the paper.

You wonder what he’s thinking. If he truly believes they have a chance, or if he’s just convincing himself to. Because no matter how much you try to push it away, the doubt creeps in before you can stop it. It slithers through the cracks in your resolve, wrapping around your thoughts like a noose.

The horde is too big.

There’s no way this place will hold against it.

Even if you get past the first wave, they’ll surround the camp before you even get the chance to turn around and leave.

You press your lips together, gripping the edge of the roof so tightly that your knuckles turn white. The old wood groans under the pressure, but the sound is drowned out by the weight pressing down on your chest.

It’s a losing battle.

You know it. They must know it too.

But then, you look closer. The exhaustion on their faces is unmistakable. The shadows under their eyes, the weariness in their shoulders, the way Sunghoon drags a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply as if trying to breathe the tension out of his body.

They don’t fully believe this will work. Not really.

But they’re trying anyway.

Because what else is there to do? Give up? Lay down and wait to be torn apart? No. That’s not who they are.

And despite the gnawing dread in your stomach, you realise—it’s not who you are either.

Just then, panicked voices rise from directly beneath you, coming from a blind spot you can’t see. Your body tenses instinctively as your ears strain to make sense of the commotion. 

Jay stiffens beside you, his head snapping toward the sound. You exchange a knowing look, silent but immediate in your understanding—something’s wrong.

You focus, trying to visualise the situation in your head, piecing together what you can hear against what you can’t see. The sharp edges of alarm in the voices. The sound of someone struggling. A threat, spoken with dangerous intent.

Your eyes flick to Jungwon. His expression is tight, unreadable at first—until you notice the tinge of worry, the fear etched just beneath the surface as his gaze locks onto the entrance of the convenience store.

You’re already counting heads.

Jungwon. Heeseung. Jake. Sunghoon. Ni-ki. Jay, beside you.

Your stomach twists.

Where’s Sunoo?

Before you can say anything, a voice cuts through the tense silence. A voice you don't recognise.

“I know there’s two more,” the stranger calls out, their tone sharp with authority. “You’d better show yourselves before I do something to this boy.”

The world around you stills.

Your breath catches.

Sunoo.

You and Jay exchange another glance, this time urgent, alarm bells ringing in both of your heads. Without hesitation, you inch closer to the edge, careful not to make a sound as you peer over.

Your worst fears are confirmed.

Sunoo stands frozen in the doorway of the convenience store, his hands raised slightly, his posture rigid with fear. His chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, his eyes darting toward Jungwon—toward all of them—searching for an escape that doesn’t exist.

Behind him, partially obscured by the pillars, you catch a glimpse of someone else—an outsider. A woman, dressed in ragged clothing with a cloak draped over her frame. Yet, despite her tattered appearance, her stance radiates a quiet, dangerous confidence that sends every instinct in your body on high alert. With one hand, she presses a pistol firmly against the back of Sunoo’s head, keeping him locked in place.

She’s inside the rest stop. How?

Then it hits you.

She’s been here. Probably ever since you arrived. Hiding. Watching. Acting as a spy for your attackers.

Jungwon’s expression remains unreadable, but you see the tension in his shoulders, the slight tremor in his fingers. He takes a slow step forward, his hands raised in a non-threatening gesture. His voice is calm, measured.

“You’re outnumbered. Are you sure you want to do this?” He tilts his head slightly, eyes locked onto hers. “Let him go, and we can talk.”

The woman doesn’t even spare him a glance.

“I said show yourself,” she orders, her voice sharp, unwavering. “You have ten seconds.”

And then she starts counting.

"Ten."

Your gaze flicks to Jay.

What should we do?

"Nine."

Jay’s jaw tightens.

Let’s wait it out.

"Eight."

Your stomach knots.

And what if she shoots him?

"Seven."

Jay exhales sharply, weighing the risk.

I don’t think she will. She’s outnumbered.

"Six."

Your fingers twitch at your sides.

She’s bluffing.

"Five. I’m really going to do it."

Your breath catches.

She’s not bluffing.

"Four."

Jay hesitates.

She has nothing to lose.

"Three—"

“Alright, we’re coming out.”

The words leave your lips before you fully process them. Your arms lift above your head, palms open, your body moving before your mind can tell you to stop. Slowly, carefully, you begin your descent from the roof.

Jungwon’s eyes flicker to you the moment your feet touch the ground, but he doesn’t say anything. His jaw tightens, his fingers twitch slightly at his side. You know he doesn’t like this, but what other choice do you have? You had seconds to decide—risk Sunoo’s life, or give her what she wants.

Your boots hit the pavement, dust kicking up beneath you as you step forward, keeping your hands where she can see them. Jay lands behind you, slower, deliberate. You sense the stiffness in his movements, the way his breathing subtly shifts as he fights to keep himself from wincing. He’s trying not to show it, but he’s still weak.

She can’t know that.

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” the woman sneers, swaying the pistol trained on Sunoo. He flinches but doesn’t make a sound, though you can see the tension in his frame, the fear flickering in his eyes. He’s trying to be brave. You need to be braver.

You and Jay stop a few paces away, keeping the distance just wide enough to not seem like a threat. Jungwon, Heeseung, and the others remain still—coiled like springs, waiting for the right moment. Looking for an opening. But you know there might not be one.

A chill creeps down your spine, slithering like ice through your veins, settling deep in your bones. You swallow hard, forcing air into your lungs. Stay calm. Stay in control.

The air around you feels thick, suffocating in its stillness. Each breath is laced with tension, heavy with unspoken words, unspoken fears. Your fingers twitch at your sides, hovering near your weapon, but you don’t dare move—not yet. One wrong twitch, one flinch in the wrong direction, and the woman’s finger might tighten around the trigger.

Then, as if the universe is offering you a cruel favour, a faint breeze stirs the stagnant air, cutting through the oppressive heat and unsettling the dust beneath your feet. The edges of the woman’s tattered cloak flutter with the movement, lifting for the briefest moment.

But it’s enough.

Your breath catches and your gaze snaps to the sight beneath the ragged material, to the place where her left forearm should be.

A stump.

Jagged, uneven, the skin around it healed but rough—evidence of a wound that wasn’t treated with care. A makeshift bandage barely holds in place, frayed from time and neglect.

Your mind races, the implications hitting you like a blow to the chest. 

She’s injured. She’s weaker than she wants you to believe.

The realisation strikes you hard, but before you can fully register how to use it against her, a voice cuts through the tension.

“Hey, I know you.”

It’s Jake.

His tone isn’t hesitant, but certain—sharp enough to make the woman’s smirk falter ever so slightly.

“You do now?” The woman regains her composure quickly, her smirk returning as she idly plays with the safety of her pistol, flicking it on and off, the quiet click-click-click filling the charged silence.

Jake doesn’t flinch. “Lieutenant Kim Minseol. Ammunition Command. You’re part of The Future.”

His words send a ripple of confusion through the group.

Jungwon stiffens beside you, his gaze sharpening as he scrutinises the woman up and down, searching for recognition in her face. The others exchange uneasy glances, but Jake keeps his eyes locked on her.

“I remember you,” he continues, voice controlled but unwavering. “A few weeks before our escape, you came into the treatment facility with a fresh stump on your left arm. It was because of your absence that we were able to sneak into the supply depot.”

For a brief moment, something flickers in her expression. A shadow of something sinister, something ugly. Then she lets out a hollow, bitter laugh.

“What a good memory you have there, Doctor Sim.” The mockery drips from her words, but beneath it, there’s a tightness—like the words taste sour in her mouth.

Jake doesn’t react, his expression carefully guarded.

And then her smirk disappears altogether.

“But you’re wrong about the first part,” she says, her voice dropping lower, losing its feigned amusement. “I was part of The Future. Until they expelled me. Said resources were running low. But of course, that’s because someone helped themselves to six months' worth of supplies.” Her gaze sweeps over all of you, sharp and knowing.

A chill settles over the group.

“It’s not our fault,” Heeseung says evenly, though there’s a tightness in his jaw, a flicker of tension beneath his composed exterior. His gaze shifts—almost unconsciously—to her left arm, lingering for just a second too long. “They would’ve expelled you anyway. For your… unfortunate disability.”

Her head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing like a predator sizing up its prey.

“Someone of my rank would still be valuable enough to keep around, even with my unfortunate disability,” she counters, her tone dripping with cold certainty.

The click of a pistol’s safety disengaging slices through the silence. Sunoo flinches, his breath catching as the muzzle digs harder against his skull.

“You think I’m lying?” Her voice sharpens like a blade, each syllable cutting through the air with precision. “Then what about the dozens of able-bodied men and women they cast out with me?” Her eyes sweep over the group, daring anyone to challenge her, to deny the truth she’s laying before them.

“What excuse do they have?”

No one answers.

“How did you end up here?” you ask, grasping for something, anything to keep the upper hand.

The woman lets out a scoff. “What? Didn’t think a lady with a stump could survive this long?” she sneers. “I was military for a reason, you know. And lucky for the group of us that got expelled, we ran into A.” Her smirk widens, something cruel glinting in her eyes. “Who just so happened to have a long-standing unresolved affair with one… of… you.”

Her gaze sweeps the group deliberately, before landing on Jay.

It lingers.

Your breath stills.

Is she talking about him? About the man Jay went after?

Your head snaps to Jay instinctively, and sure enough, you see it—the slight stiffening of his shoulders, the sharp clench of his jaw. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, but that’s all the confirmation you need.

You keep your voice even, biting back the unease bubbling in your gut. “Did A suggest you lot dress up as freaks too?” you taunt, eyeing the grotesque remnants of the dead clinging to her clothes.

Her smirk doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens.

“Call it whatever you want,” she purrs, rolling her shoulders back, “but it’s kept us alive.” There’s something almost reverent in the way she says it. “It’s what got us this sanctuary of a rest stop.”

Sanctuary. The word makes your stomach churn.

The woman gestures around like she’s unveiling some grand conquest, her voice thick with smug satisfaction. “The Future didn’t see what was coming when we rolled over this place. They never even put up a fight.” She shakes her head, laughing—mocking. “That’s how confident they were in this place. That sure of their survival.”

She spreads her arms wide, as if to drive the point home. “And just like that, they left all this behind! For us, of course.” Her eyes gleams with something almost predatory, as she levels her gaze at you. “Not you.”

She’s getting caught up in her own villain monologue. She’s getting cocky.

“‘The Future are monsters.’” She spits the words out like they taste bitter on her tongue. “It’s easy to just say that, isn’t it?” She lets out a mocking laugh, one filled with more exhaustion than humour.

“Have you ever considered that some of us were just doing what we were told? That we were just trying to survive?”

Silence.

Then, her smirk fades, replaced with something colder. 

“Bet you didn’t think stealing wouldn’t have any implications on the rest of us, did you?” Her grip on the pistol tightens, her knuckles turning white.

“Did you?” she repeats, quieter this time, but the threat behind it is unmistakable.

The weight of her words settles over the group like a thick fog, suffocating in its quiet accusation.

She’s right.

They had never stopped to think about what had happened to the people they left behind. The ones who weren’t part of The Future’s elite, the ones who had simply been following orders. The ones who weren’t cruel enough, strong enough, useful enough to be worth keeping around.

And when they took those six months of supplies, when they ran, they might not have pulled the trigger on those people themselves—

But they might as well have.

It’s a sickening realisation.

The Future is a tyrant military organisation. That much is true. But tyrants don’t survive without followers, without structure, without soldiers willing to do anything to keep their people alive.

Isn’t that exactly what they’ve been doing?

Taking what they can. Keeping their own alive, even if it means condemning someone else.

The guilt twists in your stomach like a knife. You feel it rippling through the others too. She leans in ever so slightly, her lips curling into something almost gentle—but the pistol pressing into Sunoo’s skull tells a different story.

“You see it now, don’t you?” she murmurs, tilting her head. “The hypocrisy. The way you tell yourselves you’re different.”

“You’re no different from The Future.”

“And now you’re back,” she continues, voice like poisoned honey. “Trying to steal something that isn’t yours, again.”

The shift in the air is almost tangible. It’s subtle, like a silent crack forming in a foundation that had once seemed unbreakable—but it’s there.

You see it in the way Jake’s shoulders slump just slightly, in the way Sunghoon’s lips press into a thin line, in the way Heeseung’s gaze flickers to the ground like he can’t quite meet anyone’s eyes, in the way Ni-ki’s jaw is clenched so tight it looks like it might shatter, in the way Jay’s hands twitch at his sides, in the way Sunoo disassociates even with a gun pointed at his head, and among them is Jungwon’s gaze—still sharp and unreadable.

It’s setting in—the weight of her words, the seed of doubt she’s planted.

Because she’s not just threatening them. She’s challenging everything they’ve told themselves to keep going.

The belief that they’re different.

That they’re good.

That, somehow, their survival is more justified than anyone else’s.

But survival is never clean, is it? And now that she has said it, now that she’s painted that picture in their minds, you can see them starting to crumble.

These people—your people—their sole reason for fighting is the belief that they are not monsters. That they are not like The Future, or A, or the ones who take and take and take without looking back.

But now, faced with the consequences of their own actions, you watch that belief fracture.

They’re breaking.

She sees it.

And she revels in it.

This has been her goal all along—to make them doubt themselves. Because a group that doubts itself is a group that falls apart from the inside.

You need to stop this. Now.

“Then let’s talk about what is yours, Lieutenant,” you say, keeping your voice steady, sharp. “Tell me—what exactly did you earn?”

Her smirk falters, just barely. But you catch it.

“What?”

“You and the others,” you press, eyes locked onto hers. “Did you build this place? Did you earn the supplies you’re hoarding? Did you put in the work to secure it?”

Her lips part slightly, like she’s about to say something, but you don’t give her the chance.

“No,” you answer for her. “You stole it. Just like The Future stole from the people before them. Just like we stole to survive.”

Her fingers twitch.

Good.

“You think you’re better than us?” you continue, pressing the words forward like a knife slipping between ribs. “You took this place the same way we would’ve if we’d gotten here first. Yet, you’re walking around acting like it's your birthright.”

Her expression darkens, her grip on the pistol tightening, but you don’t miss the way her jaw clenches.

A flicker of something shifts through the group.

They exchange glances, the tension easing just slightly, as if your words—blunt and unforgiving—have cracked through the air of helplessness surrounding them. Jungwon’s stare flickers between you and the woman, the gears in his head turning, assessing, waiting for her next move.

The silence that follows is thick, heavy with unspoken truths and fractured justifications.

Then, she speaks.

“We did steal,” she admits, her voice low, sharp, controlled.

Her head tilts, dark eyes locking onto yours, something almost amused flickering in them despite the rage simmering beneath her skin.

“But the difference between us—” she leans in slightly, voice dipping into something razor-thin, something meant to cut, “—is that you’re parading around, pretending you have some kind of moral high ground.”

And this time, it’s your turn to flinch. It takes everything in you to keep your face blank, to not let her see the way her accusation burrows under your skin like a splinter.

Because she’s right. They all know it.

Survival was never about who deserved to live. It was about taking. About seizing what you could before someone else did. About carving out a space in a world that no longer cared who was good, who was bad, who had once been kind.

Because kindness doesn’t keep you alive. Compassion doesn’t put food in your hands or a weapon in your grip. Morality doesn’t stop the teeth that tear through flesh or the hands that pull the trigger.

And if you’re all the same—if you’re all monsters—then what’s left?

There’s only one answer.

Whoever wins.

The only law that exists now is power.

Not justice. Not fairness. Not mercy.

Just power.

And the only ones who get to live in this world are the ones strong enough to take it for themselves.

Survival of the fittest.

That’s what the world was before, and it’s what the world is now. Only now, the stakes are higher. Much higher.

Because before, losing meant failure.

Now? It means death.

And if you hesitate, if you second-guess, if you let yourself be weighed down by the ghost of a world that no longer exists—

You’ll lose.

And the world won’t mourn you. It won’t stop. It won’t care. It will keep turning, indifferent to the bodies left behind, to the names that fade into nothing.

Because nothing from before matters anymore.

Not the rules. Not the morals. Not the person you used to be. You can no longer afford to hold on to the past.

Because the past won’t save you.

Only the future will.

And the only way to have a future—is to take it.

"You think you’ll make it out of here alive if you pull that trigger?” you challenge her, forcing your voice to remain calm, steady. She tilts her head, lips curling into something almost amused as she meets your eyes.

“You should’ve left when you had the chance,” she says, completely disregarding your threat. The blood in your veins turns cold. 

“But who knows? Maybe A will let some of you go. Like what we did with The Future,” she continues, leaning in slightly, as if daring you to flinch. “Let them scurry back to HQ like little mice. So they know to never come back here again.”

Her grin widens, twisting into something cruel. “And now that you’re here, fallen right into our trap, you’ll soon be one of us!” She laughs, the sound sharp and jagged, like glass shattering in the quiet.

Never come back here again…

Soon be one of us…?

The words settle like a stone in your chest. And then, like a curtain being pulled back, you see it—the bigger picture.

She’s laughing. She thinks she’s won. But she doesn't realise what she's just given away.

If A and his people wanted you dead, they wouldn’t have resorted to games. They wouldn’t have wasted time luring you into an ambush or toying with you—not with all these guns and ammos at their disposal. No, they would’ve wiped you out back at that forest clearing when they had the chance. 

They haven’t. They insist on bringing the dead down on you—because they have an ulterior motive. 

They don’t want you dead. They want you alive. 

Why? 

Because only when you’re alive—when you’re standing, breathing, fighting—can you turn. Turn into the very army of the dead they control. Become one of them.

That’s why they let The Future walk away. Not out of mercy. Not because they couldn’t fight them. But because they didn’t need to. The Future was never the target—you were. They wanted you to lead the others right back here. They’ve been waiting for this moment.

And The Future? The Future won’t come back. Not for revenge. Not for a counterattack. They cut their losses and retreated—not because they were outnumbered, not because they were weak, but because they were unaware.

They didn’t understand what they were fighting. They couldn’t defend against something they had no clue how to fight. They knew they couldn’t stand against an enemy that moves undetected through hordes of the dead. Couldn’t win against an army that grows stronger with every person it kills.

So they ran.

But you? You don’t have to. Because you know exactly what’s coming.

And now, standing in the heart of what should have been your own grave, you see it—hope. This place isn’t just a temporary solution. It’s an opportunity.

If A and his people could take this place, then so can you. If they could push out The Future, then there’s a way to do the same to them. And if they could survive out there, using the dead as shields and weapons, then you can find a way to use it against them.

Your fingers tighten into fists.

If you secure this place, they’ll never have to run again.

Not from A. Not from The Future. Not from anyone.

You let out a slow breath, forcing your heartbeat to steady as you shift your stance, eyes locking onto hers.

She thinks she’s won. Thinks she’s backed you all into a corner. But she’s just handed you everything you needed to know.

You tilt your head slightly, allowing the barest hint of a smirk to tug at your lips. “What makes you so confident we can’t just take it from you?”

Her smirk holds firm, but you catch the slightest twitch in her expression—just for a second. “Oh?” she muses, arching a brow. “I’d love to see you try going up against military-trained personnel and a horde of zombies. It’ll be fun.”

You shrug, feigning indifference. “Who said anything about confrontation?” You let the words hang in the air, watching carefully as confusion flickers across her face. “If you lot figured out how to walk with the dead, why can’t we do the same?”

For the first time, her bravado falters. Her eyes widen ever so slightly, and there it is—realisation and doubt all at once. Almost like she had never thought about it. Which makes sense because you finding out about their mechanics, isn't part of their plan.

That hesitation—that moment of uncertainty—is all Sunoo needs.

He moves in a blur, striking before she even registers what’s happening. His fingers close around her wrist, twisting sharply as he wrenches the gun from her grip. It clatters to the floor with a thud, and in a single fluid motion, Sunoo has her pinned.

She lets out a sharp grunt, struggling against his hold, but she’s at a disadvantage—distracted, handicapped, unarmed.

And just like that, the tides turn. Sunghoon is on her in seconds, his knee pressing into her back as he yanks her arm behind her. The fight drains from her quickly, the weight of the situation finally sinking in.

You exhale, the adrenaline still buzzing beneath your skin, your mind racing through every possibility.

This place can be yours.

They don’t have to run anymore.

Hope is starting to take root.

“Fools. You think it’s easy? Walking among the dead?” she sneers, her voice laced with mockery despite the fact she’s sprawled face-down on the cold, hard floor. Sunghoon’s hands move swiftly over her, searching for any hidden weapons. 

“It takes everything you are to walk with the dead.”

There’s something unsettling in the way she says it, something almost reverent. Like she’s speaking of a religion rather than survival.

Sunoo scoffs, standing over her with her pistol now in his hands. He checks the magazine, clicks the safety on and off before shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah, keep talking, lady. It’s not getting you anywhere.”

But she just smirks. That same infuriating smirk that hasn’t left her face since the moment she was caught. She’s lying completely still now, unnaturally calm as Sunghoon and Heeseung haul her up onto a chair. She doesn’t resist—not even when they start binding her arms—or whatever's left of it—tightly behind her, securing the coarse rope around her torso and the back of the chair. If anything, she lets them.

"I've really underestimated you, Y/N." Her voice drips with amusement, her lips curling into something eerily close to admiration, but there’s something sharper beneath it—something darker. "You’re not just similar—you’re just like us. Conniving. Merciless. Dead."

She giggles then, a sound too light, too mocking for the weight of her words, for the quiet horror settling deep in your chest. "You might not even need to wear their skin to walk with the dead."

A chill slithers down your spine, but you force yourself to hold her gaze, to not give her the satisfaction of seeing how deeply her words sink in. Heeseung pulls the final knot tight, the rough rope biting into her skin, binding her in place. Yet, she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t struggle. She just leans back, head resting against the chair, exhaling like she’s settling in, like she’s making herself comfortable rather than sitting bound and at your mercy.

As if she’s the one in control.

"But don’t say I didn’t warn you," she murmurs, her voice almost singsong, a taunting lilt woven through her words. They linger in the space between you, curling like smoke, seeping under your skin. The room feels too quiet now, as if the weight of what she just said has stolen all the air from it.

She tilts her head slightly, her eyes gleaming—not with anger, not with fear, but with something worse. Something that almost looks like pity.

"You’ll understand what I mean soon."

The smirk widens. It stretches across her face, slow and deliberate. You stare at it for too long—long enough for Ni-ki to shove a loose piece of cloth into her mouth, silencing whatever cryptic words she might have let slip next.

But her eyes remain fixed on you, unwavering. Cold. Calculating.

You can’t look away.

Something about the way she’s staring at you feels wrong. Like she’s seeing straight through you, past the layers you’ve built, past the walls you’ve tried to keep up. Like she’s already figured you out before you’ve even figured out yourself. Like she knows exactly how this will play out, and you don’t.

In that sense, you’re already losing. Not in the way you expected—not in battle, not in blood, not in death. But in yourself. Because you can feel it, can sense it creeping in at the edges of your mind, curling into your thoughts, whispering where doubt used to be.

You’ve already begun losing yourself.

It’s only when someone calls you over that you manage to tear your gaze away, the spell breaking.

“What the fuck happened, Sunoo? Where did she come from?” Heeseung demands the second they’re out of earshot, his voice low but urgent.

Sunoo, however, huffs, dramatically rubbing at his wrist as if he’s the real victim here. “Geez, I’m fine, thanks for asking,” he grumbles.

Heeseung rolls his eyes. “Sunoo.”

“I was in the basement,” Sunoo starts, crossing his arms, “looking for anything we could use to fortify the barricades. Found this stack of those things—the masks—hidden away in one of the boxes shoved in the corner. Thought, great, more nightmare fuel. And then—bam! She jumped me out of fucking nowhere. How the fuck was I supposed to know she was there?”

His frustration is evident, his gestures exaggerated as he recounts the moment. “If I had known, her one-armed bitchass wouldn’t have even been able to pull that gun on me like that. Ugh.”

The irritation in his voice doesn’t quite mask the underlying unease. She had been down there the whole time—hidden, watching, waiting. Maybe that’s why you couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling of being watched.

And yet, you left them here. With her.

A chill runs down your spine. The weight of realisation presses against your ribs, suffocating, threatening to pull you under. But before your mind can spiral further, you hear it—your name.

Spoken by the very voice you’ve been yearning to hear call out your name since you left.

“Y/N.”

Jungwon.

“Are you okay?”

Your breath catches as you turn to face him. His expression is unreadable at first, but his eyes—his eyes betray him. There’s worry there, concern woven into the fabric of his gaze, despite everything. Despite the fight. Despite the fact that you left. You walked away. And yet, here he is, standing before you, asking if you’re okay.

He still cares.

You don’t trust your voice. You’re afraid it’ll betray you, that it’ll crack under the sheer force of everything you’re feeling. That if you try to speak, all that will come out will be fragments of whimpers, of apologies left unsaid.

So instead, you nod. A small, barely perceptible movement. The best you can offer.

Jungwon watches you for a moment, searching. Then, after what feels like an eternity, he nods back. A silent exchange. An understanding.

“Y/N… did you really mean that?” Ni-ki’s voice cuts through the thick tension, pulling your attention away from Jungwon. You turn to him, barely registering the weight of his question. Your mind is still foggy, reeling from everything.

“You think we can walk with the dead?” Ni-ki presses, his gaze unwavering.

“I—I don’t know.” The words feel hollow in your mouth, the uncertainty hanging in the air like a guillotine. Your eyes drop to the ground, unable to meet his stare. “I’m sorry, I just—I always say shit, but half the time, I don’t even know if it’ll work.”

A beat of silence. Then, you swallow hard, forcing yourself to push through the self-doubt. “But… I have seen them do it. They blend in with just a mask over their heads. It can work.”

“But once they get inside the walls, it’s going to be chaos. It’ll be dark. We’ll probably lose sight of one another. You won’t even know if the zombie in front of you is actually dead or one of them.”

“Wait. Once they get inside?” Heeseung’s voice is sharp, cutting through the moment like a blade. His eyes narrow, scanning your face. “You’re saying we let them in?”

Ni-ki exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head as if trying to process it all. 

You inhale deeply, forcing yourself to meet their gazes. “You and I both know the barricades won’t last,” you say, steadying your voice. “Against a normal horde, maybe. But they will be walking among them. Herding them. Pushing them against the gates. Even if they can’t break through the main entrance, they’ll find another way in.”

The unspoken horror settles over the group and you see the fear flicker across their faces.

“But if we leave the gate open,” you continue, your voice quieter now, more deliberate, “they’ll walk in on their own. And we can blend right in.”

“Okay, but then what?” Jake asks, his voice cautious, calculating. “What do we do after that?”

“We take them out.” You don’t hesitate this time. You don’t waver. You meet his gaze head-on. “From within.”

A thick silence follows your words. You can feel it—the doubt, the fear, the pure insanity of what you’re proposing.

“Fight?” Sunghoon is the first to break the silence, his voice incredulous. “Surrounded by the dead? You must be insane.” He lets out a bitter scoff, shaking his head in disbelief. “The moment we make a single sound that doesn’t match the dead, we’re finished. You know that.”

You exhale, willing yourself to stay patient. “No,” you say firmly. “Not fight. Just—sneak up on them. Get close. A small cut, enough to draw blood. That’s all we need. The scent will do the rest.”

They stare at you.

Realisation dawns.

It’s not about fighting. It’s not about going up against them in a losing battle. It’s about turning their own strategy against them. The horde is their weapon. But it can be yours too.

Heeseung’s throat bobs as he swallows. “You mean…” His voice trails off, understanding sinking in.

You nod. “We let the horde do it’s job.”

The plan is reckless. Insane. Dangerous. But it’s the only shot you have. 

And if you’re being honest—it’s a solid plan. But you’re not sure if it’s a plan you’re proud to have come up with. You should be. A plan like this—calculated, ruthless, effective—should bring you some sense of relief. Some assurance that you can outthink them, that you can survive this.

It makes sense. It’s logical. It’s exactly the kind of plan The Future would execute without hesitation if they had known what was coming for them. And that’s what unsettles you the most. 

Jungwon hasn’t spoken. He’s been listening, watching, absorbing every word you’ve said. When you glance at him, he’s already looking at you—his expression unreadable, his gaze sharp and searching, as if trying to pick apart what’s going on inside your head.

You’re dragged back to your conversation with Jay on the rooftop. The way he told you—so plainly, so matter-of-factly—that Jungwon relies on you more than he lets on. That you bring him comfort in ways you never realised.

Then your mind goes back further. To the conversation with Jungwon yesterday. The way he told you that he felt a sense of reprieve when you came along. That you were his moral compass.

The weight of that knowledge settles in your chest, and then, just as quickly, it twists into guilt. It crashes over you like a tsunami.

You wonder if he still feels that way about you.

“Sounds like a plan.” Jay’s voice cuts through the silence like a blade, slicing through the tension that had been suffocating the group. Everyone turns to him, eyes wide, like he’s just said something insane.

You’re staring at him too.

“Why are y’all looking at me like that? I’m not the one that came up with this insanity.” His lips twitch with the ghost of a smirk, but the humour doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Then, as if on cue, they all turn to you. Then back to Jay as he continues, “But it’s a plan that could work,”

“Of course you think that,” Jake snaps, his frustration bubbling over. “You’re always about killing people. I mean, look what got us into this shit in the first place.”

The words hang heavy in the air, and you know he doesn’t mean it—not fully. It’s the fear talking. The frustration. The sheer helplessness of the situation that’s clouding his judgement. But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

For a moment, you expect Jay to fight back. To argue. To defend himself. 

But he doesn’t. 

Instead, he giggles. It’s a quiet, breathy thing at first—then it morphs into something sharper, something bitter, something unhinged. And it unnerves you.

“You’re right,” Jay says, still grinning, his voice eerily calm. “If I could go back to that night when I went after him, I’d have made sure I watched him die before I left.”

The silence that follows is deafening. 

Then, you feel it—the weight of it pressing down on everyone’s shoulders. No one dares to speak, as if acknowledging it would make them sinners.

And the worst part?

You had said something along those lines to Jay, back at the field. You told him if you were in his shoes, you’d have done worse. But back then it was a figure of speech, a way to make a point. You hadn’t really thought about it, hadn’t truly placed yourself in his shoes, in the heat of that moment.

But now?

Now, you know.

You would have done the same.

And hearing Jay say that—hearing him put words to the rage, to the vengeance clawing its way up your throat—it brings you a twisted sense of relief. A reassurance that you’re not the only person losing yourself in this fucked-up world.

And maybe that’s why you don’t flinch. Maybe that’s why, instead of recoiling from his words, you find yourself gripping onto them like an anchor, like something grounding you in the mess of it all.

Sunoo clears his throat, shifting awkwardly, his fingers tightening around the pistol he’d confiscated from the woman. “Alright, well. That’s… dark.” He tries to break the tension with forced levity, but no one laughs.

No one even breathes.

Jake rubs his face with both hands before exhaling sharply, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear his thoughts, like if he could just reset for a second, maybe this whole situation would make more sense. Ni-ki shifts uncomfortably beside him, his fingers twitching at his sides. His gaze flickers toward Jungwon, waiting—hoping—for him to say something. Anything.

But Jungwon is quiet.

He’s still watching you, his expression unreadable. There’s no anger in his eyes, no judgement, not even disappointment. Just thought.

And that’s almost worse. 

Because you know that look. It’s the same one he gets when he’s met with an epiphany. When something suddenly clicks into place in his mind, when a realisation takes hold and refuses to let go.

He’s thinking.

Not just about the plan. Not just about them.

He’s trying to make sense of you. Trying to piece together something about you that he hadn’t considered before—

No.

Something about himself. Something about his own moral dilemma. Something he’s been trying to lock away, bury deep beneath all the responsibilities, all the weight on his shoulders.

Jungwon blinks once, his gaze hardening, focus snapping back to the present.

“If we’re doing this, we can’t leave any room for error.” Jungwon’s voice slices through the silence, steady but weighted. It’s the first thing he’s said in minutes, and yet it carries the kind of finality that makes your stomach twist.

He’s still looking at you, but it’s different now. It’s like he’s seeing you for the first time—not just as another survivor, not just as someone he needs to protect, but as something else. Something more dangerous.

Something like him.

And for the first time, you see it too.

You’ve cracked something in him. You’ve forced him to acknowledge something he hadn’t wanted to. You’ve opened Pandora’s box.

He knows it. You know it.

But neither of you say it.

“We can’t leave any room for error,” Jungwon repeats, his voice firm, sharp with an edge that slices through the tension like a blade. “We do this clean. Precise. No heroics. No last-minute changes. We stick to the plan, and we survive.”

The shift is immediate. The air changes. Everyone straightens, pulling themselves together, waiting for instruction. No one argues. Not even Sunghoon, who had been the first to call you insane. Because there’s no alternative. No second option. It’s this, or death.

Jungwon’s eyes sweep across the group, calculating, weighing every person’s strengths and weaknesses in the space of a single breath. “We’ll move in groups. When the dead come through, we stay in pairs. No one moves alone. We cover for each other, watch each other’s backs.”

His gaze lands on Jay. “You’re still injured. One wrong move and your stitches will come apart. Not to mention you have the biggest target on your back. So, you stay on the roof.”

Jay’s mouth opens, already ready to protest, but Jungwon cuts him off with a look. “We’ll cut the access off, so nothing can get to you. You’ll have the best vantage point—watch for gaps, any tight spots, and make noise to draw attention elsewhere if things start getting too close.”

Jay exhales sharply, jaw tightening, but he nods. He knows better than to argue.

Jungwon turns to the rest of the group, his expression unreadable. “Like Y/N said, it’s going to be dark. We won’t be able to see clearly, but neither will they. Remember, you just need to draw blood. The dead will do the rest.”

Jungwon’s gaze sweeps across them, sharp, calculating. His hands are loose at his sides, but there’s tension in his stance.

“And they don’t know that we’re on to them,” he continues. His voice is even, but there’s something colder beneath it now—something sharp-edged and deliberate. “We use that to our advantage. Move slow, stay quiet. Don’t rush. If you panic, you die.”

The words settle in like a final nail sealing a coffin.

A heavy silence settles over the group, thick and oppressive, pressing into your lungs like a vice. The weight of the plan is suffocating in its reality. The risk, the blood that will spill before the night is over. 

This is it. 

There’s no turning back. No room for hesitation. No time to process the sheer insanity of what you’re about to do. Your hands feel too light, your heartbeat too loud, hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape. 

You picture the bodies—your people, their people, the dead in between—limbs tangled, faces unrecognisable beneath the blood and decay. 

What if you fail? What if you hesitate at the wrong moment? What if someone doesn’t make it? What if you don’t make it? Would it matter? Would it change anything? Would the world even notice if one more person disappeared? 

You inhale sharply, trying to ground yourself, but the air feels thin, slipping through your fingers like sand. You don’t realise you’re gripping the hem of your jacket too tightly until your knuckles ache. 

Move. Breathe. Don’t think. 

Because thinking means fear, and fear means weakness, and weakness means death.

Your mind spirals again. It’s been doing that a lot—a relentless, asphyxiating current dragging you under. And just as it’s about to bury you, a palm presses against the small of your back. Warm. Grounding. Your breath hitches at the unexpected touch.

"Y/N, let’s talk."

Jungwon’s voice is quiet but firm, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside you.

He doesn’t wait for a response, simply leading you away, up to the rooftop, where the two of you are left standing under the weight of everything unsaid. You face him, but suddenly, all the words you’ve been rehearsing, all the explanations and apologies you’ve run through in your head over and over, disappear. The moment you look at him—at the quiet intensity in his gaze, the weight in his shoulders—you’re speechless.

Jungwon opens his mouth first. "I—"

But you don’t let him finish. The words burst out of you before you can stop them, raw and desperate. "I’m sorry." Your voice wavers, thick with emotion. "I’m sorry I left you. I know now that I shouldn’t have. God, I was so stupid."

The words come faster now, tumbling over themselves. "I know you said before that you don’t hate me, but you must hate me now—after everything. After I left you. I left you to die." Your breath shudders, a sob catching in your throat. The tears you’ve been holding back finally spill over, burning hot against your skin. "I’m so sorry, Jungwon. I—"

He exhales sharply, shaking his head as if exasperated. "God, you never let me speak, do you?"

You blink through your tears, caught off guard. "What?"

Jungwon watches you for a moment before his expression softens, something almost amused ghosting across his face. "I told you before, I don’t hate you." His voice is steady, deliberate. "Nothing in this world will ever make me hate you."

You struggle to believe it, your chest tightening as you shake your head. "But I saw it." Your voice is barely a whisper. "That look on your face, when I suggested this insane of an idea."

You swallow, trying to steady yourself. "I thought I told you I didn’t want you to think. To second-guess what you’ve always believed in just to weigh me in."

Jungwon sighs, rubbing a hand over his face before lowering it again. "Well, it can’t be helped," he murmurs. "You’re someone that makes me think. A lot."

His words make something crack inside you, splintering under the weight of your guilt. "I’m sorry." Your voice is smaller this time. "I’m sorry I brought out the worst in you. All I did was shatter your resolve."

Your gaze drops, unable to bear looking at him any longer. "And them? Have you seen the way they look at me? They look at me like I’m a monster."

Jungwon tilts his head slightly. "No," he counters. "Have you seen the way they look at you?"

His response catches you off guard. You open your mouth to argue, to insist that you’ve seen their fear, their hesitation. But something about his tone makes you stop. He gestures for you to look, to truly look.

And so you do.

Your eyes drift down to the group below.

Fear, dread, terror—it’s all there, woven into their expressions, etched into their postures, marinating in the thin air. It clings to them like a suffocating fog, thick and unrelenting. Your stomach churns at the sight of it.

But then, as you really take them in, you notice something else. You see it in the tight-set jaws, the clenched fists, the flickering light behind their eyes. You see it as clear as day—something beneath the fear, the dread, the sheer, gut-wrenching terror.

Determination.

Resolve.

Hope—

"Hope." Jungwon’s voice cuts through the moment, soft but certain.

The word reverberates through you, lodging itself deep in your chest. He says it as if he knows exactly what you’re thinking. As if he sees the moment you realise what you’ve done.

"And you gave that to them."

His words knock the breath from your lungs.

Hope. The very thing you ran from. The thing you tried to abandon. The thing you convinced yourself was a lie, a cruel trick played by the universe.

And yet, here it is. Staring back at you in the eyes of the people you are trying to save.

Jungwon studies your face, watching as the realisation settles into you. Then, almost casually, he asks, "Has anyone told you what division I was in back when we were still in The Future?"

You blink, thrown off by the sudden change in topic. "No," you admit.

He exhales, his gaze flickering to the horizon before meeting yours again. "Tactical Functions."

The words hang heavy in the air between you. You wait for him to elaborate.

"I was one of the people who decided who got to stay and who was expelled. I played a part designing the tactics and strategies The Future used against the communities around them. All hell could break loose, and I would still be prioritised to stay. Because they needed people like me."

Your blood runs cold.

Jungwon’s voice remains even, but there’s something detached in it now. "You can’t bring the worst out of me, Y/N. I’m already him. And every night, I would see their faces in my sleep. In the trees. In the breeze." He swallows, his throat bobbing. "What’s worse is the only reason I even suggested we leave in the first place was because the committee brought up the discussion to expel Jay for insubordination."

Your breath hitches. "Jay?"

Jungwon lets out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "Yeah. The man just couldn’t sit still without stirring some kind of shit. And they saw it. Saw how he could be a problem to the system. So, I orchestrated the entire escape. I left those people to reap the consequences of my actions. And I’d only done it because of Jay. If it wasn't for him, I would've sucked it up and continued doing whatever it took for us to survive.”

A weight settles in your chest, heavy and unrelenting.

He turns to you fully now, his eyes unwavering. "So no, I’m not going to sit here and let you talk about yourself like that."

It's a shocking revelation. Your mind reels, trying to reconcile the Jungwon standing before you with the boy who once stood on the watchtower, his voice laced with pure, unfiltered hatred.

You still remember that night vividly—the way his face twisted with something raw and wounded when he first told you about The Future. The way his voice dripped with venom as he spoke of them as something worse than the dead. Back then, you thought it was just anger, just the words of someone who had been wronged, betrayed, and left to fend for himself.

But now, the truth wraps around the two of you in a slow, suffocating chokehold.

He wasn’t just talking about them.

He was talking about himself.

It’s only now that you realise—when he cursed The Future, when he spat their name like it was poison, it wasn’t just about what they had done to others. It was about what they had turned him into. What they had forced him to become.

Jungwon looks at you, waiting for a response. But what can you even say? That it’s not his fault? That he was just doing what he had to do to survive? You already know those words will mean nothing to him.

"I—I didn’t know." Your voice is barely above a whisper when you say.

"Now you do."

Jungwon tilts his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "And knowing what you know, does that change how you see me?"

Your response is immediate. "God, no. Never."

A flicker of something—relief, maybe—passes through his eyes. He nods, as if confirming something to himself.

"Precisely. And that's why you don't have to worry about how I see you.”

A humourless laugh escapes him, but it lacks warmth. "I was crazy to think I could be even a fraction of a good person. Maybe my obsession with holding onto my humanity was just deluded because I had already lost it a long time ago."

His voice drops to something quieter, almost contemplative. "And hearing you and Jay say that? It made me feel… normal. Which, in hindsight, fucking sucks."

A faint, bitter smile tugs at his lips. "But it’s oddly liberating."

All this time, you had convinced yourself that you were a burden to him, that your presence chipped away at his resolve, that you were the thing dragging him into the dark. You thought you were making him worse—forcing him to question himself, to second-guess the beliefs he had once stood so firmly upon.

But standing here, you realise the truth is something entirely different.

You weren’t breaking him.

You were keeping him together.

Jungwon was relying on you in ways you hadn’t even considered—not just for your insight, not just for your ability to challenge him, but for something far more simple. Something far more human.

You made him feel normal.

In a world that demanded ruthlessness, in a life that had forced him to carry responsibilities far heavier than any human being should bear, you were the thing that reminded him he was still just a person. Not just a leader. Not just a tactician. Not just the one keeping them all alive.

Just Jungwon.

And maybe you needed him for the same reasons.

Maybe the two of you had been holding onto each other without even realising it, tethering yourselves to something real in a world that had long since lost its meaning.

Tears spill down your cheeks before your brain even registers them. They come silently, effortlessly, like they belong there—as if your body has been holding onto them, waiting for this moment to finally let go. You don’t wipe them away. You just let them fall, streaking warmth down your cold, dirt-streaked skin.

It’s a bittersweet moment, one that catches you off guard with how deeply it settles into your chest. And you realise, standing here in the quiet, in the wreckage of everything you once thought you believed in—how truly fucked up the two of you are.

But it’s not the kind of fucked up that makes you recoil. It’s the kind that makes you stop and think.

Because if you had truly lost your humanity, would you be standing here now? Would you be looking at Jungwon, voice trembling, hands shaking, with tears running down your face? Would he be standing here, looking at you with something equally raw and conflicted in his expression?

No. You’d be long gone. And they’d all be dead.

But you’re here. You came back. And it’s because you have your humanity that you did.

It’s because Jungwon has his humanity that he’s still here, still standing, still trying. Still fighting to be something more than the sum of his past.

Yes, you’re fucked up. You’d cross lines. You’d do the unimaginable. You’d become a version of yourself you never thought possible if it meant keeping the people you care about alive.

But if that’s what it means to survive in this world, if that’s what it takes to hold onto even the smallest fraction of something real—then maybe it’s not such a bad thing.

Maybe it means you’re still human after all.

And in that sense, you’re fucked up in the most beautiful way the world has left to offer.

Your eyes flicker to his hands, catching the way his fingers twitch at his sides, hesitant, uncertain. He’s deciding whether to reach for you—whether to wipe your tears away or let them fall.

It reminds you of this morning. The way he had extended his hands towards you, offering comfort, only for you to step away. You remember the flicker of hurt in his eyes when it happened 

This time, you won’t step away.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you move, reaching out and grabbing his hands. Jungwon flinches at the sudden contact, startled, his breath hitching ever so slightly. His fingers twitch beneath yours, as if caught off guard by your warmth. For a second, he just looks at you, wide-eyed, unreadable, but you don’t let him pull away.

Gently, deliberately, you guide his hand to your face, pressing his palm against your tear-streaked cheek.

His expression shifts. The surprise fades, softening into something else—something quieter, something careful. His thumb brushes against your skin, tentative at first, then firmer, wiping away the tears that refuse to stop falling.

“Y/N…” your name comes out tender. So achingly tender that it makes your throat tighten, your chest ache.

His touch is careful, almost reverent, as if he’s afraid that if he presses too hard, you’ll shatter. But you won’t. Not here, not now. You lean into his palm, closing your eyes for just a moment, letting yourself soak in the warmth, the steadiness of him.

Jungwon exhales, his breath shaky, as though he’s only just realised how much he wanted to touch you. His hands are calloused but warm, grounding, steady. His fingers move instinctively, tracing the curve of your cheek, brushing the dampness away with an intimacy that makes your stomach twist.

Then, without thinking, you move closer.

Your hands leave his, trailing up to his wrists, then his arms, gripping onto him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth. Maybe he is. Your breath stutters as you take another step, closing the space between you.

Jungwon freezes, his fingers going still against your cheek. You can feel the tension in his body, the way he’s holding himself back, waiting, unsure.

So you make the choice for him.

You fall into him.

His arms come up instantly, as if on instinct, wrapping around you the moment your body collides with his. His grip is firm, solid, like he’s been waiting for this just as much as you have. His breath catches against your temple, his body warm and steady as he pulls you in, pressing you close.

And you let him.

You let yourself melt into his embrace, burying your face into the crook of his neck, the scent of him—faint traces of sweat, earth, and something inherently Jungwon—flooding your senses. His heartbeat is strong beneath your palms, his chest rising and falling with each breath, grounding you in a way you hadn’t realised you needed.

His arms tighten around you, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other splayed across your back, holding you together as if you might slip away if he lets go.

Neither of you speak. There’s nothing that needs to be said.

This is enough.

This moment, this embrace, this quiet understanding between the two of you.

Jungwon exhales, the tension in his body easing as he presses his forehead against the side of your head. You feel the way his fingers curl slightly against your back, as if anchoring himself to you, as if you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart too.

His breath is warm against your temple, steady and grounding. You can feel the weight of his past pressing between you, the guilt he carries like a second skin, the ghosts of decisions he can never undo.

You wonder if he can feel it—the weight you carry pressed between you, the invisible burdens you’ve never spoken aloud, the guilt of saving yourself when the community building fell, the regret of walking away from him when he needed you most, the haunting thought that maybe, just maybe, you were always destined to be alone.

The ghosts of your past intertwine with his, shadows merging, regrets bleeding into one another. He’s carried his burdens alone for so long, just as you’ve carried yours. And maybe neither of you are saints—maybe you’ve both done unspeakable things, crossed lines that can never be uncrossed. 

But here, now, in this moment, none of that matters.

Because, here, now, in this moment, that weight is shared.

And somehow, it feels lighter.

So you stay like this, wrapped up in each other, holding onto something fragile, something unspoken. Neither of you dare to move, as if the slightest shift might shatter whatever this is, whatever red strings of fate have bound you together in this cruel, unforgiving world.

part 4 - blood | masterlist | part 5 - dusk

♡。·˚˚· ·˚˚·。♡

notes from nat: this part was supposed to be wayyyyyy longer but i've been nerfed by the block limit (y'all can thank tumblr for that). so what was originally suppose to be 6 parts, i will have to extend into 7 because i doubt i can squeeze everything into one post. from this part onwards, there will be no update schedule. i appreciate your understanding on this as i'm writing on my own free time outside of my 9-5. i'm really sorry for the disappointment because i know how eager some of y'all are to read this and i also want y'all to get these chapters asap!! T.T

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non-grey/underlined = cannot tag

[theemporium]

Blurb about Nico hand crafting you something because he is the cutest but it actually looks hideous 🥹

thank you for requesting!🫶🏽

.

Nico had reminded you of the charity event that morning when you had been rushing around to get ready for work. 

Not an awfully detailed conversation, just a reminder that he would probably be gone by the time you came back but that he would leave dinner in the fridge for you to reheat. He had told you more about the event a few weeks ago, something related to the Devils Youth Foundation and some other local children’s charities, but most of it had slipped your mind. 

Not that it mattered because you knew enough to know that, from the messages Nico had been sending you all night, he was having a blast at the event. You had caught up on them as you ate, snorting a little at the sporadic updates about Jack letting a little kid ‘give him a tattoo’ with a sharpie and Curtis apparently somehow swindling Luke out of a lot of money despite no gambling or betting games being involved at the charity event.

You had expected him to come home a little after you arrived. You just hadn’t expected him to come in with one hand hidden behind his back and a huge grin on his face.

“I’m scared,” was the first words to leave your mouth as you watched him kick the front door shut with his foot.

Nico rolled his eyes, though it was fond. “Don’t be, it’s a surprise for you.” 

“That is not reassuring in the slightest,” you told him as you sat up on the couch, the blanket still sprawled over your lap as Nico quickly took the closest seat next to you.

“Hi,” Nico grinned, leaning in to peck your lips with his hand still hidden behind his back. “How was work?” 

“Alright,” you answered, your eyes narrowed in suspicion as you tried to peek around but the boy moved faster. “How did the event go?” 

“Good,” he said, still grinning. “They had us doing crafts with the kids. They had a local pottery place donate a bunch of extra pieces for everyone to paint and decorate.” 

You raised your brows. “Yeah?” 

“Mhm,” Nico nodded as he finally pulled the surprise from behind his back and held it out for you. “For you.” 

A smile instantly worked its way onto your face as you took in the details of the mug. It was charming, in that way hand-done projects tended to be. But you could see the effort he put into it, from the stick figurines you assumed was meant to be you both to the little objects that were clearly sentimental to you both.

“Is that a dolphin?” You laughed, grinning wildly as you eagerly took the mug in your hands to analyse every inch of it. 

“I tried to paint that one from that weird movie we watched,” Nico said, his eyes crinkling a little when he smiled. “That movie we watched on our first date.” 

And you could envision it so clearly. You could imagine Nico sat amongst a bunch of children, smiling and laughing and joking with them. You could imagine him taking the painting so seriously, his tongue peeking out as he tried to focus on the small details with a paintbrush that probably looked ridiculous in his big hands. 

You could see it all so clearly, and the fact he did it for you made you swoon.

“I love it, baby,” you said, sincere and genuine as you placed a lingering kiss on his lips. “Thank you, it’s my new favourite mug ever.”

Nico’s expression brightened. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah, gonna keep it forever.”

.

[xetlynn]

Jjk imagines- Nanami Kento an answer to your prayers

18+ content ahead!!!

Synopsis: in which you come back home and you go to your old childhood church with your parents… only to meet a new pastor.

containing: smut with a plot, pastor/priest kink, blowjob, handjob, piv, unprotected sex. (Not very detailed, just testing the waters with this)

“You’re going to love him, he’s a lovely Pastor. Brings a new… young full of life energy the church needed.” Your mother tells you with a certain look on her face. As if she was almost stuck in a daydream. You fold your arms over your chest, walking in between her and your father.

Yes, your mom was practically drooling over a man in front of her husband- your dad. And that man being none other than a Pastor of the church that you haven’t gone to since you were seventeen years old. And when you went, the Pastor was far from hot. He was a wrinkly old man who lectured you about the nose piercing you got at sixteen behind your parents backs.

That obviously evolved to other piercings… not visible to the eyes of others. “So you’ve said mom, the last six times.” You huff out, and she giggles like a schoolgirl. “You’ll agree with me, even your father does. Don’t you, hun!?”

Your eyes peer up to your father who has a small smirk upon his lips. “Mhm. He’s a great young man. He’ll do amazing things with this church like his uncle did before him.” He states confidently and you raise an eyebrow. “His uncle was Pastor Jo?” You grimace, now you know for a fact you’re going to hate this man. He has the same blood as someone so… irritating.

“Yup,” Your mother pops, leading the way into the building. Waving hi and greeting others as you pass them. Forcing you to do the same and stop for a few. The same spiel about how old you are and how they haven’t seen you since that horrible phase you were in as a teenager.

Little did they know that phase never left, your body covered in little tattoos and a septum flipped up into your nose. The piercings underneath the clothing you wore. You’d smile and laugh, agreeing on how silly that “phase�� was.

And then your mother clings to your arm, acting like she was a fangirl and her favorite musician was standing before her. “There he is! Pastor Nanami!” She suddenly shouts, earning a few stares but nonetheless earning the attention she was yelling for. You squint your eyes, attempting to get a good look before he comes closer.

He wore that typical clerical collar, his hair was blonde and that was quite literally all you could see from the distance between you guys. Until he excuses himself from the conversation he was having with some older gentleman. Making his way over to the three of you. Your face was scrunched a tiny bit as you observed him. Shamelessly I might add. His attraction was more than your mother could even explain. The man was like a sculpture made by God himself. Picked out to be the most perfect man your eyes have ever laid on. It was absolutely ridiculous.

You were in the middle of your parents so you obviously caught his eye quite fast. He gives you a polite smile before speaking to the two beside you. “Hello, Mr and Mrs. [Last Name]. This your daughter the two of you have told me so much about?” His voice was silky smooth, deep and just the tiniest bit raspy. But it sounded like butter being spread on a perfect toasted piece of bread.

Your face dropped at the sound of it. Not only was this man incredibly handsome- making you agree with your parents on something, but his voice perfectly matched him. And all it made you do was think very, very… impure thoughts inside of a church. “Yes! This is her, [Name] this is Pastor Nanami Kento!” Your mother overly smiles, nudging you forward. Not giving you the chance to not take his hand.

You grunt lowly, shooting your hand out. “Nice to meet you, I’ve heard quite a lot about you [Name]. I hear you’re a tattoo artist.” He smiles and you glance over to your parents in shock. Surprised that they would tell their Pastor that. They’ve always, always. Been against what you do for a living.

“Uh, yeah you too. Yes I am. Is that a problem with you, Father?” You decided to tease the man as you firmly took his hand. Looking up at him through your eyelashes. Not in a flirtatious way but a way to let him know you are not going to take any of this seriously and that this… is not your scene.

He lets out a deep chuckle, squeezing your hand back. “Not a problem at all, all of God's children here are welcome. We do not judge or discriminate here. Especially not by their interests.” His other hand joins in the handshake, sandwiching your smaller hand between both of his now.

“And I’m sorry to inform you but Christian Pastors are not normally called Father.” He says in a quiet tone and shivers go down your spine. “Ah, don’t be sorry. I’m still going to do it though.” You take your hand back with a laugh. Your mother shakes her head, pinching your side at your antics. An amused smile appears on his face along with a flicker of darkness to his eyes. Something you almost didn’t catch. But you did.

“Well, I shall not put an end to that if that’s what you wish to call me.” He fixes his posture.

“Thank you for introducing me, it was a pleasure meeting your beautiful daughter.” He bows his head to your parents, they thank him and let him leave to talk to other people before the sermon begins.

“What do you think?” Your mom whispers in your ear with a smug look on her face and you roll your eyes. “He’s okay. Seems to be a little eh to me.” You say and you know for a fact that you’re lying. That man was perfect. No wonder your mom was talking about him the way that she was last night over the phone.

And his Sermon started, everyone quickly taking their seats. Your parents hurriedly got their front row seats on the wooden benches. And as it started you noticed all around you just how much Pastor Nanami was respected and loved in the building.

The way he got everyone entranced within his words, on the edge of their seats and just listening to him. Taking in everything he was putting out. Well… everyone except you.

You had no interest in what he was saying, your eyes wandering numerous times to his belt- and below. You couldn’t look away from him.

Your parents were surprised by how quiet you were. How still and respectful. When you were a teenager you’d be on your phone, chewing and cracking gum. Not a care in the world. Your mother was proud, thanking the Lord that he brought someone you’d finally listen to. Find Jesus and be on the right road.

Only that was far from the truth. You were not listening, your head was filled with thoughts of fucking the Pastor right then and there in front of everyone in this room. Leaving hickeys on the man’s neck to show that even a church leader can’t hold down to celibacy.

Your thighs plush tightly together, biting your lip to control yourself.

And Nanami… oh sweet, innocent Pastor Nanami. As he’s up on stage, talking and engaging with his people of the church.

He caught himself repeatedly staring down at you. Catching eye contact numerous times only to look away first. Your gaze was hard on him and surprisingly it made him nervous. Him. Nanami Kento who was a stern man. Known for his easy going nature. Never really anxious about what others think.

You made him nervous.

Not only that, you were making him think sinful things. Sinful things that could ruin him.

But as he spoke, the thought of you on your knees before him… “praying.” Kept repeating in his mind. He had to hurry this up somehow. Sweat was beginning to form on his neck.

•••

“This- this has to be- hah… the last time, Angel.” And there the Pastor was, balls deep in your tight little pussy. You bent over his desk, nails gripping onto the wood with your eyes rolling to the back of your head. “M-mhm~” You mewl out with a smile on your glossy lips.

His dick pistoned in and out of you, he watched as your pussy took him so well. Swallowing him whole. His hands laid on your ass, subtly spreading your ass cheeks to get a better view of what he wanted- no, needed to see.

“I-I’m seriousss.” He puffs, leaning over your back while still humping into you, leaving kisses on the back of your neck. He felt dizzy, he could barely think. That’s what your pretty little cunt did to him. Left him drunk and stupid. “It’s not right- I sh-shouldn’t be doing this.” He groans into your ear, one of his large hands trailing up and down your side.

Nanami knew he spoke of heaven and how wonderful it is to his people of the church. But he thinks this was even better than whatever heaven is waiting for him up above.

Hearing the way your cunt gushes around him, the way it speaks to him for more. Pleading and begging for him, a prayer only he could hear.

“But I loove it, Father Kento…” Your face turns back to him with a pouty expression and your doe little eyes pleading up at him.

This had been the third time you and the Pastor had intercourse. The first time was roughly three days after meeting him on that gorgeous Sunday. You went to Wednesday’s Sermon and later that night you decided to stay to help clean. Only to leave you stuck in a conversation with Nanami until everyone left the Church. And now you can’t get enough of him ever since that night.

You don’t know if it’s the thrill or what. But the adrenaline rush along with the pleasure he gives you, you weren’t giving up on this any time soon.

Nanami’s eyes darken at your words, he slips out of you harshly. You go to talk with disdain but he roughly stands you up before shoving you down to your feet.

“You love it? Love what, Angel?” His once whimpering, pathetic demeanor is long gone as he stares down at you with his shirt half unbuttoned and his pants seemingly missing.

His collar was a mess, red kisses not only smeared on the white plastic but all over his neck. It only turned you on even more.

“What do you love, c’mon tell me.” He orders and without skipping a beat you give him your answer.

“I love your cock,” You start, your hands going to his dick immediately. Rubbing it up and down, your own pussy juices being a flawless lube. Nanami reacted immediately to your touch. His abs flexing and contracting.

His tip was angry and red, ready to burst at any second.

“I love the way I can feel all of its veins one by one against my walls. Like it was made just for me.” You plant a simple kiss upon it causing it to twitch. Showing how much he’s enjoying you like this. His mouth begins to gape open at what you’re doing. “I love how pretty it is, how it curves in the most perfect, perfect way.” You purr out.

You were admiring his cock in your hands like it was frail and easy to break. Being careful with it as you hold it in your hands. Your words become almost incoherent as you were practically doing this for yourself now.

Complimenting and praising his dick like it was the most prized possession. In this case it was to you. You don’t think many people have gotten the chance to fuck Pastor Nanami.

“I’m done with the words now.” He growls, taking his cock within his own hand, his other hand grabbing the back of your head.

“Your next few actions need to match your words of admiration. I want to feel how much you truly appreciate this cock.”

[one-green-frog]

Hi!

Can I request a yandere platonic batfam with a willing readers like your most recent fics who is a total bookworm

Like imagine a male or gn version of belle from beauty and the beast

And they see that they’re getting a bit bored so they show them the library

Lost In Pages

Platonic yandere batfam x bookworm m!reader

The Wayne Manor had quickly become your new home, surrounded by loved ones that practically begged to take care of you. It became your new safe space, where nothing bad could happen. Not to mention that the manor was huge! It was so spacious that nearly every corner could be your little " private reading space. Book in hand an blanket wrapped around you as you flipped page after page, enjoying the story. Or well you used to.

As of late you just lost motivation, not because the book was bad, it really wasn't, but there are only so many times you cam reread it before it becomes simply too repetitive. You could always ask one of them to buy you a new book, but you didn't want to use them, doesn't matter that they are billionaires.

Your demeanor didn't get unnoticed by anyone. They always notice. And they are quick to figure out what's wrong too. Of course they saw that you were staring at the book in your lap with disinterest, heavy sigh leaving your lips.

Dick approached you, charming smile on his lip "You know that we have a library, like a huge one? Why don't we go down there?"

Oh, apparently every rich person had a private library. To say you practically stormed down there was an understatement. No one had mention this secret library before, of course you would be excited to go there.

Throwing the door open you saw heaven. Rows upon rows, farther than you could see, filled with books. And the decor! This was probably the most expensive and most beautiful library you have ever seen.

Now your days were filled with hour long reading sessions here, enjoying every single new story that came before your eyes.

And the others were happy too. They may have forgotten to show you the library before, figuring that during the tour of the manor someone mentioned it, but that's in the past now.

Dick, while not the biggest book fan, would take up some of the shorter novels you read. Something to connect to. But usually he'd just sit next to you, as you read, having you lean against him. It made him feel so close to you, so connected, that he was still a part of your routine. You too were happy to have him by your side, Dick is amazingly warm, and comfy to lean on and even while you were immersed in your book you still enjoyed the company. Dick loved being so close to you, being able to constantly have you in his arms. It made his pride grow, you were so comfortable with him that you spent you special time with him. As a big brother he strived that all of his siblings could trust him and the fact that you so openly showed it made him

Jason was probably your favorite. Just like you he'd spent hours upon hours in this library. He was part of your own little book club, where you would spend all your time discussing every book you read, what the author was implying or how certain character actions are metaphors. It was fantastic. The library brought you closer than anything else ever could, it was the place where you two could meet and no one would dare disrupt you too. Alfred hardly came by, only dropping off hot tea each time, he knew you two would be to focused on the conversation, but he still did not want to interrupt. Jason loved being able to connect with you like no other, it means that in some way he is special, he is better, that he was allowed to stay by your side, since no one else could understand you like he did.

While Tim couldn't be called a book lover, he did rea dsome sort of detective novels. For him it was always easy figuring out who the perpetrator was, but he still liked reading them since it was like a downtime for his brain. Tim would recommend you a few books he read, giving you clues, helping you figure out the killer, teaching you the ways of a detective. It was fun, sharing ideas and motives, trying to figure everything out before the book ends and Tim always seemed to know everything, like a walking search engine. You picked up quite a few "detective skills" and the books seemed to get easier to decipher. Tim loved being able to ramble about the story of the book, finally someone who would just listen. That's what makes you so special, that's why he needed you by his side.

Duke was your average guy. Someone who read classic but other than that he didn't really show an interest for books. Sitting down for hours just reading seemed to normal for him, just a bit boring in his opinion. Not that he means your hobby is boring, no, everything about you is perfect just the way it is. Duke usually laid in your bed while you walked around the room explaining a plot twist in the book your currently reading. You would excitedly talk and talk, never once stopping because you knew he was listening, just listening, taking in every word you said, and he would never try to stop you. No, this was your time and he'd make sure you enjoyed every single minute of it. He loved watching you get excited, the way your eyes lit up made his heartbeat quicken. His eyes were just totally fixated on you, the center of his world.

Then there is Damian. Even as a young boy he was well versed in many types of literature, though his favorite form was poems. He talked about different poets, different ways the poems could be interpreted, the raw emotions, the dedication they showed. Oftentimes he even wrote some poems himself, dedicated to you. Other times he would share his favorites with you. Damian enjoyed having a person to share his interests in. The way you wouldn't just brush him off. Wouldn’t just look past him. He loved that you could think for yourself, interpret the meaning of each poem, appreciate the beauty of a masterpiece. Finally spending time with someone that knew more than just the basics. Conversing for hours about how different factors changed the way a poet wrote. Damian truly appreciated that the manor was now home to such a lovingly dedicated person that appreciate all different kinds of literature.

And Bruce? He was the one that made everything happen in secret. He watched happily as his family was brought together by you, listened as conversation were held for hours with no fight. If it meant buying every book he could get his hands on, then so be it, sometimes even buying doubles just so you could keep one in your room. Money certainly wasn't an issue for him and making you happy means making the family happy. Unlike the other he would not directly engage with you, no, he would simply stand by the doorway and watch. Watch as his children, his family enjoyed their time. You gave all of them a sense of normalcy, a saving grace, someone to cling to in their dark times. He watched as something ad simply as reading could save his family.

Taglist: @lilyalone

Thank you so much for requesting!

[burrythebusy]

This page never fails to make me laugh (in a good way) because I just have to imagine being sasaki here. Every previous impression of Kagiura (that wasn't because of what Hirano has said about him) has been wiped from his memory (e.g. ch. 12). You think you're having a normal conversation with your friend and you look up and your friend's roommate is giving you the CRAZIEST look and we've yet to see what the look is. I find it so funny particularly because of how tense this moment was. Like I FELT it. And the fact that it's sasakagi makes me have to laugh. This is (at least some) the context of their awkward "i don't like him" thing we've been waiting for.

Which makes me wonder why in ch. 46 sasaki was asking about him, like considering the state of their relationship were seeing currently, I couldn't imagine sasaki going out of his way to talk to him, so why ask about him at all lol also he really does not retain any info about kagiura only "kagi-kun" because that's what hirano calls him and that's he's on the basketball team. They're so funny dawg. I bet kagiura couldn't even tell u anything about sasaki at all. They're too funny

Also, I rlly hope we get to see them interact again... preferably alone bc that would be hilarious. Can yall tell I love them they're so awkward and stupid and weird. It's the funniest dynamic in the series by far and they've interacted (directly) once. I don't have them but there were graduation messages for each character from sempai to kouhai and vice versa after the movie, and Kagiura did thank Sasaki (reluctantly) and Sasaki did acknowledge Kagiura (reluctantly) which makes me think they do interact again. And my God they're just so funny. I could write an essay on how funny I find them

[pinkkpjobx]

can you do an imagine where jj is obsessed with reader but he’s also very shy around her like he’s always confident and his flirty self with everyone else but with reader he just gets flustered everytime he’s around her. maybe him asking her out or confessing his love for her or something idk

I gotchu babes

warnings: none really, just fluff! not proofread.

notes: yall....i had like all of it written, then Tumblr decided it hates me and deleted all of it, so i had to rewrite it (it did it twice 😭) ...i actually cried.

°♡°

it all began in freshman year, when jj started flirting with every girl to distract himself.

every girl but you. every time he tried, he would stumble over his rehearsed pick-up lines and walk away a blushing mess. he didn't understand it.

he didn't understand you.

until junior year, when he finally realized he liked you. which didn't make a whole lot of sense because the only interaction he had with you (other than the failed attempts at wooing you) were small smiles across the classroom and friendly waves when he just so happened to go surfing at the exact same time as you.

he would be so entranced by the way you balanced on your board as you rode the waves that he would fall off of his. you would look over curiously, unaware of the previous staring. on the rare occasion that he was able to stay up, he would show off and hope that you were looking.

and you were. every time he caught a wave, you were watching him as he did some over the top trick, giggling to yourself as he messed up half the time.

now, you weren't stupid. you knew he liked you, but you wouldn't act on it. not unless he initiated it.

so you started going to the same parties him and hanging out with the pouges in hopes to get closer to jj.

as soon as he would see you at a party, he would find some random girl to hook up with, just so he could leave the party with a reasonable excuse.

as for the pouge hangouts. he would always manage to sit on the opposite side of the room, twinkie, bonfire, you name it.

you were completely fine with it, knowing he needed time. however, the other pouges were not. namely sarah and kie, the other two were dragged into it.

so one surf trip, while you, pope, and jj were in the water, the others were building a fire and ploting. they came up with a plan to get you and jj to sit next to each other and hopefully spark a conversation. then they'd get up and pray that jj would build enough courage to ask you out.

pope, done for the day, swam back to shore, leaving you and jj to ride the next waves.

well, leaving you to ride the waves and jj to watch as he failed to stay up for even one.

after a few more waves (and a couple wipe outs on jj's part), the two of you returned to shore as well.

"some sick waves today." kie said as you sat down next to pope, leaving the last open spot the one on your left.

"best i've seen in a while." pope, responded. the group fell into another comfortable silence as everyone waited for jj to return from the twinkie.

"beer, weed, and marshmallows. or what i like to call, a good time." jj announced his return as he tossed the bag of marshmallows at john b. once he passed out beers, he looked at he empty spot next to you. "uh, yeah! i'll just...i'll just sit here." he sat down next to you, careful not to let his knee or elbow graze you accidentally.

kie and sarah smirked at each other, while pope and john b looked at each other with weary expressions, not quite sure how this would pan out.

"tough waves today, jj? couldn't seem to stay up." kie teased.

he looked down, thankful for the fire infront of him for masking the blush on his cheeks with orange and yellow hues. "not my day, i guess."

"says the best surfer on the island." you complimented.

"that's rich coming from you." he responded, internally patting himself on the back for managing a sentence without stuttering or stumbling over any words.

"i've had off days before." you said, wanting to keep the conversation going.

"y-yeah, but your off days are on the same level as my good days." he looked at you briefly, catching your eyes, before looking back to the fire.

you smile at the compliment. "thank you."

as the conversation continued, he grew more confident in his words. he even started fishing for opportunities. suggesting surf trips, parties, even offering to walk you home that night.

he was so concentrated on not making a fool of himself that he didn't even notice the other pouges leaving.

over by the twinkie, sarah smirked at pope and john b. "told you it would work."

pope smiled over at jj while john b just shook his head. "i shouldn't have doubted you."

'*'*'*'*'*'*'*'*'

"if you could travel anywhere in the world, anywhere, where would you go?" jj asked. he was walking you home, your path only illuminated by a flickering street lamp.

"hmm, I've always wanted to go to greece." you replied.

he nodded, taking a mental note of that.

"what about you?"

"south africa." he said.

"why?"

"apparently, the waves there are top tier."

you hummed at that. "maybe i'll tag along....if that's okay with you?"

"yes!" he cleared his throat. "i-i mean..yeah, pfft, sure. why not?"

he smiled too. "great, um. do you-do you wanna go to lunch? or, or surfing? or both...we could do both, if you wanted-"

your house came into view and he took a deep breath, wanting to ask you before the night was over. "actually, i, um, i wanna ask you that. well, not that specifically, but, something close...kinda-"

"jj." you stopped his nervous rambling. "calm down."

he nodded. "right. right, yeah. um, i wanted to ask, if um, if your free tomorrow?"

you smiled. "i am. i am free."

"yes."

he paused. "what?"

"yes, jj. i would love to go out with you."

his face broke out into a smile, brighter than that coming from your porch light. "okay. okay, great, i'll-i'll come by at noon?"

you nodded, your own smile stuck on your face. "perfect." you looked up at your house. "thank you for walking me." then you did something he would remember forever.

you leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

"n-no problem."

"i'm gonna go inside now." you said, giggling.

"yeah! yeah, that's- that's good. i'll uh, i'll pick you up at noon."

you nodded and walked up the stairs to your house, closing the door with one last glance at jj.

he stayed there for a few minutes, bathing in the feeling of bliss that came from spending time with you.

when he finally started to walk back to the chateau, he couldn't stop himself from doing a small victory dance.

you watched from the window of your room, smiling at the idiot who stole your heart.

°♡°

[writingwisterias]

I had this random idea that came to mind - how would the different eras Leon act around reader's parents. like I imagine him meeting them for the first time and they're the stereotype old overly sweet parents that like to show pics of reader as a kid, making so so many questions about marriage and kids and future plans in general, embarassing them sm 😭 i have a feeling that especially with re2r Leon it would be so cute and funny

OMG! I'm so happy you asked for this because I was originally going to do Leon meeting the parents for the first time but I got so many requests! Ily for this

Also I'm so sorry it's out late I've just been working on some personal oneshots but now working through the requests!!

Warnings: insecurities, Fluff, themes of self doubt

AFAB!Fem!Reader

RE2:

When meeting your parents for the first time he sort of shy

He doesn't really talk much unless asked questions and it's not until a few times visiting your house that he actually interacts with them

I feel like he would have the relationship with your dad where he just gets dragged to help out and do things

He doesn't care though, it gets on his good side

Polite enough to help your mom clean up after dinner too

I think he would get flustered over topics of the future because he's still in that puppy love phase.

He does think about it but admitting aloud that he does makes him all giddy

RE4R:

Think's way too much in his head about what to say to your parents and how to interact with them

He's forming a whole as script and checklist making sure to tick all of them

Feels more comfortable around your mum but really stresses out internally on making sure he proves to your dad that he's actually worthy of your love.

In terms of chats about the future I feel like he has them in his head already, so when they bring it up it's a subject that he can talk about and doesn't wait for you to divert the subject

By that it's obvious that he can't say what his job is so when they originally asked he allowed you to explain it briefly.

Infinite Darkness:

He hides his stress a lot better and doesn't have a hard time sliding in your family dynamic because of his humour

They love him because he's respectful, funny and kind

He loves it when your mum brings out the photo albums

Asks if he can take some home just so he can look at them and picture what your children would be like

Helps out your dad with the car all the time, offers to do any odd jobs for him as well

He enjoys feeling useful

He would get flustered when he actually admits he has thought about the future with you only because he glances at you and sees the heart eyes you give him

Damnation:

Despite his more miserable look he manages to surprise your parents and they are quick to admit they have misjudged him

They don't get to see him often because he's always being dragged somewhere by his job

So when they do they have prepared a big meal for the both of you

Leon spends this time bonding with your dad working the BBQ and you get your mum talking about how cute you are together

The conversation carries to the evening when they offer for the both of you to stay the night and they bring out the albums

She even declares that she's got one ready for all the future photos of grandkids and your wedding

That makes Leon choke on his drink in surprise they even think about that for you

RE6:

Comes across as very confident but on the inside he's panicking about saying the wrong thing

Knows nothing about sports but pretends for your dad if there's a game on, will just watch him carefully and match his vibe if they do or don't score.

All the answers in his head are planned out in fear he will say something that seems cringey or too annoying

Gets along with your dad really well very quickly

After any event or meal with them he has long naps because he's so mentally tired from thinking about everything he is doing

You have caught him and your dad napping on the sofa and armchair at the same time.

Vendetta:

They can tell that things are bothering him and trusts that the two of you can work it out together

He hides it well to give him credit but towards the evening like always his mood will falter

Your parents don't judge him of course, from the little bits of information they have about his path they offer their support

It's almost weird to him to have parents that are so loving and care about not only you but him like a son

Appreciates them but can never really express it right

For events like christmas or thanksgiving he tries his best to be happy and present but they understand he needs a break

It's like a silent acceptance of them knowing he's a great guy just going through bad things so they opt to just be a place of comfort and let him relax with you here.

Death Island:

He is a dick if you end up sleeping in your childhood bedroom

Teases you with your dad all the time

Loves it when your mum brings out the photo albums! He's looking through them all

He will openly talk about his plans for the future and keep them in the loop about any updates in your life

He texts/calls them more than you at this point

If they want something from you they just ask you through him because they know he'll reply

Plays board games with them all the time, and helps with anything they need around the house like he does with you at home.

[that-hazbin]

Media Demon AU

Imagine Alastor giving off raw theatre kid energy as he tells Charlie about his current hyperfixation the production, the books, the actors ect.

And Lucifer and Lilith realise The Media Demon does have a ulterior motive, a captive audience to gossip with. I imagine he leaves them with a business card for his Radio Studio, praising Charlie's enthusiasm for the arts and telling her if she ever wants to sing or act professionally she can audition any time when she's older.

Unlikely but a funny possibility: Years later Alastor being approached by his Radio Studio's headline imp singer/actress/gossip bestie who reveals herself as the Princess of Hell. He did not expect that.

Funnier possibility: Alastor offers to sponsor the The Princess of Hells project, not knowing she's his headline singer(maybe Lucifer made it a condition that Charlie keeps her identity secret if she chooses to work with him, so Charlie's the one with a secret deal instead of Alastor). He tells his headline singer (and you can bet he's hammed up and perfected the daughter stealer act, he adores this little imp who reminds him of Charlie) the Princesses project has potential and he believes in it being possible while telling Charlie he's merely there for entertainment. She's nodding along with the warm fuzzies because Alastor her third parental figure genuinely believes in her project and she wants to hug him like she could as his headline singer and can't because of that blasted contract!!

Lmao it's really funny that Lucifer, Lilith, and Charlie would continue building a relationship with Alastor in their imp/succubus personas. It makes it 100% more adorable that he'd be talking about how much he believes in Princess Morningstar's redemption project to his favorite musical starlet.

He wouldn't even be the one to bring it up, disguised Charlie (maybe she calls herself Chelsea or Charlene) would be testing the waters like "Heyyy, I heard a rumor that the princess of hell is starting a... redemption hotel? What do you think—" And Alastor immediately gets INTO the conversation, full attention, practically vibrating with energy. He thinks it's a GREAT idea and Princess Charlotte Morningstar seems to have a BRILLIANT mind, isn't it GREAT that she cares so much about her subjects, and you know what, what do you say we go visit her daring hotel project and offer some advertisement services, let's go RIGHT NOW and—

and Charlie is holding onto her tears for dear LIFE.

She definitely wouldn't have the will to keep the secret from him when he meets her as the princess, though. Especially when he goes into his whole "I'm a scary overlord, fear me" persona, pretending he's not ACTUALLY that invested in this hotel project beyond the entertainment value. Alastor's all "HAHA, I don't believe in your silly redemption nonsense, no!" and Charlie's cracking up on the inside because SURE, Alastor, SURE you don't. It's not as though you were gossiping over tea earlier about the necessity of professional therapy for true redemption, and it's not like you already half-way redeemed half of Hell on your own just by turning it into a safe space for one's passions and talents.

Real talk though Alastor will be MORTIFIED when he finds out Charlie's identity, not just because he apparently already ruined his Grand Plan For Getting The Hazbin Hotel Back Together, but also because he's been in a sort of weird MAYBE relationship with her parents, and that means he's been ALMOST-DATING THE QUEEN AND KING THIS ENTIRE TIME. IT'S BEEN YEARS.

Wait is that why Hell's political scene has been improving every time he complained about something to them? Those little shits, they've been stealing his ideas and using him as their royal counsel! Hey, he should be PAYED for that shit!

Meanwhile Charlie's glad the secret's out because her parents no longer have an excuse to not ask Alastor, who is pretty much her third parent, out. Like, officially, instead of giving him weird heart eyes whenever he's not looking.

[soubeomies]

꒰୨୧◞ ₊˚ 𝓘𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖾

⤷ 𝓟𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 ﹕ leehan x fem!reader

⤷ 𝓦𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 ﹕reader is mentioned to be wearing a dress, other than that none rlly!

⤷ 𝓖𝖾𝗇𝗋𝖾 ﹕ fluff

⤷ 𝓦𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝓒𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍 ﹕880

⤷ 𝓐𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋’𝗌 𝓝𝗈𝗍𝖾 ﹕ive been so so so obsessed with this song lately and its been stuck in my head, give it a listen guys <3

⤷ 𝓢𝗒𝗇𝗈𝗉𝗌𝗂𝗌 ﹕both you and leehan were first-timers when it came to forming a relationship, but leehan is always gonna try his best for you!

now playing 🎵 shy love — ivoris

⭑｡𖦹°‧

forming a relationship with leehan has got to be one of the cutest things ever. both of you were new to this whole entire.. dating thing. though the both of you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

seeing that valentine’s day was just around the corner, leehan can’t help but feel confused. he has never done anything of the sort. he has never spent time with someone on valentine’s day.. let alone with his girlfriend! 

it all felt so foreign to him, but for you? he’d try it all!

⭑｡𖦹°‧

first step, flowers! every good boyfriend always gets his girlfriend flowers on valentine’s day.. right? he thought to himself. he nervously walks into a flower shop, the gentle and floral scent greeting him upon his entry. he inhales the sweet scent before looking around. confused on what to get, an employee approaches him.

“you look confused, is there anything specific that you’re looking for?” she asks. he turns to look at her, “ah! actually.. i don’t know.. it’s almost valentine’s day and i wanna get my g—girlfriend some flowers..” his voice softens at the last few parts, not used to being able to call one his girlfriend.

the employee could only chuckle gently at his nervousness, “do you know what she likes?” she asks. leehan thought for a while before speaking, “t—tulips i think they’re called?” he blurts. he remembered a conversation between the two of you as you mentioned something about you adoring tulips. his brain couldn’t properly wrap around what you specifically said.

the employee nods whilst she guides him to the section adorned with beautiful tulips. “here are our tulips, feel free to look around and call me when you need any help!”

he inspected the tulips closely, the alluring cup-shaped flower that bloomed in vibrant colors. walking up to one that had caught his attention, he calls out for the employee. “i think i want this one” he says calmly.

not long after, he succeeds in buying you a bouquet of beautiful white and pink tulips.

⭑｡𖦹°‧

next is chocolates! what’s valentine’s day without some nice and sweet chocolates?

he swore he remembered what type of chocolates you liked. approaching the grocery store, he comes to the realization that he in fact did not remember which chocolates you specifically liked.

he arrived at the aisle where the chocolates resided, only to stare at them for a few minutes. he pondered over which ones he thought would be your favorite.

he grabs some heart-shaped milk chocolate mini bites whilst hoping for the best. he approaches the cashier and proceeds to pay for the milk chocolates that he could only assume you liked.

⭑｡𖦹°‧

now that he’s gotten the flowers and chocolates, all he needed to do was to surprise you with them on valentine’s day. luckily for him, he had already made plans with you in order to spend valentine’s day together to have a picnic which was tomorrow.

arriving home, he realizes that he was smiling to himself, imagining how cute your reaction would be to his gifts. but, a part of him still wondered if he had messed up anything.

did he actually hear you right? did you actually have tulips as your favorite flower? did he guess right? did you actually like milk chocolate?

though he quickly shook the thoughts away and assured himself that everything would go perfectly fine.

⭑｡𖦹°‧

the day has come, the day where love is practically in the air. he got up with excitedly, before he continued to put on a simple outfit as well as spritzing the cologne that you had gotten him.

reaching the area you and leehan had planned to meet up at for the picnic, he stands and anxiously waits. he had the flowers and chocolates in hand, occasionally looking at the time on his watch.

not long after, his eyes wandered around as they laid on you. in a beautiful and flowy dress. his cheeks flush a hint of a pinkish hue, his eyes lingering on you. you approach him with a picnic basket in hand. “hi! sorry, did i make you wait?” you ask.

he was silent for a few moments, letting himself take in your beauty. it really hasn’t hit him that you’re his..

he finally realizes you asked a question, “o—oh me?? ahahaha! no i just arrived..” he says nervously. you can only smile at his response. “happy valentine’s day.” he says with nervousness painted all over his face.

“i got you these..” he murmurs as he brings his hands from behind his back, showing you the tulips and milk chocolate he got you.

you gasp, seeing that he successfully got you your favorite flowers and type of chocolate. “seriously!?” you say excitedly, he pauses as he looks at you anxiously.

“i—in a good way?” he asks. “yes in a good way! they’re so beautiful, thank you!” you assure, before he could even process your reaction you had already gone in for a hug.

he can’t help but get all shy, his eyes reluctantly wrapping around your waist gently. 

“i love you.” you say with nothing but adoration in your voice. he melted at your words before gathering the courage to even say it back. “i love you more..”

⊹ ࣪ ˖ networks : @kstrucknet @k-nets

© soubeomies 2025 all rights reserved ♡ do not copy/repost my works.

[ihavenoideawhatiamdoingjustgay2]

Scrap Metal Love

Genre : Fluff

Summary : Sevika has forgotten about Valentine and has to scrap something together now.

Notes : Happy late Valentine you whores (affectionate), had no time to finish this earlier (homework), gave my best to write her in character, F!Reader, Jinx is there, so is that one old lady background character who I gave a vague backstory, stay gay today, sry if the quality of the work isn't good

Link to AO3

Her hand wiped away the blood on her cheek, but the mirror showed only how it smeared. She grunted, she'd remove it after saying hello to you, after going home. She sighed. Home to you. That had been her motivation for the whole day. For everyday in the past few years. She nodded along as Silco talked, only lending him half an ear. It was the usual, a simple callback on what happened and some reports. She completely tuned out once the blue haired demon entered the conversation. She rubbed her neck, her mind drifting back to you, what she'd give to have those hands run along your sides, have her lips drift down your throath, leaving marks, what she'd give to watch your back arch-

"You may take your leave now, Sevika." Silco mumbled and she was ripped out of her fantasies.

She turned around without another word, praying that the devil would continue to pay her no mind, but Jinx of course did not listen.

She popped her lips. "Have a fun Valentine~"

She turned around, slowly. "What?"

Her head crocked, before pointing to the calender at the wall. "It's the fourteenth.", she giggled "Have you" she popped her lips "forgotten?"

She rolled her eyes, pushing the handle down and closing the door once she was out, only to slump against it. "Fuck."

Usually she didn't have a thougth left for the day, but you were the corniest mother fucker she had ever meet. She rubbed her eyes, muttering curses as she pushed herself off the door, hearing Jinxes giggle in her ears, but that migth have just been her imagination. This wouldn't be hard, rigth? What did one buy on valentines day? She slowly moved down, to the busy bar that she gladly ignored, dead set on the exit at the back. The people knew better than to cross her. She remembered you talking about chocolates and roses, only realizing now that those had been hints.

"How fucking dense are you?", she asked herself, pulling both lighter and cigarette out. She protected the fire with her free hand as she chewed on the rolled tobacco as if it was a toy, before the tip finally ignited, she took the smoke in, having it fill her lungs. Usually you would ligth them for her and rigth after you'd lean against her side, she'd grab your hip with her metal arm, leading the both of you out, or she'd push you against the wall. It depended on the day, really. Now she was left to move out alone into the dirty Zaun streets, looking for the impossible while smoke was pouring out of her mouth.

Chocolate and Roses....chocolate and roses...chocolate and- her eyes fell onto some scrap metal on the floor. Roses. She brougth the cigarette back to her lips. She got closer, picked it up to inspect it, turned it in her rough hands.

Maybe that blue devil could be of use for something.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"So you did forget-"

"Shut it and concentrate on that rose."

It took some convincing untill Jinx had agreed to help and take Sevikas idea to her workshop.

"Like yesh, this is fucking corny. Imagine someone figuring out how much of a weakness this woman is for you~"

She clenched her metal arm before releasing it. She'd punch some punks teeth out tommorow, but today she had to be patient. The most patient she had better been. You better appreciate this. She could imagine your smile while you talked about how much you loved it. It would be worth it.

"I mean like, this is such a corny idea too! Metal Roses...what, should I drill her face in there too?"

"Are you done soon?", she was very happy she had found the girl without Silco, she could only picture the stupid face he'd give her. It gave her a fucking headache, like the Devils whole workshop, she needed to get out of there asap.

"Pretty fucking stupid of you to just forget.", she held the finished metal rose up, removing the mask from her face.

"You tell me...", she took it, examing the handiwork as Jinx spun on her chair.

"Now....you'll get me those expensive crayons?"

"I'll talk with Silco about it.", she huffed, stuffing it into her bag and getting the hell out of there.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Her fingers carefully dragged over the smoothed out metal. It had a silver hue, but it was overall pretty blue. She'd never admit it into Jinx face, but the kid had done a good job. Sevika put the rose back, carefully. It was just a shame that she couldn't conjure up some chocolate.

Sevika went on, maybe she could call up some old favors, she would do that for you.

Or she could just- she catched something from the corner of her eyes. She squeezed them, making out a hunched figure through the dirty glass. Or she'd just ask your aunt, who coincidentally enough was one of those favors.

The doorbell rung as she stepped inside, the ligth was dim and there were boxes, stacked up on eachother.

"We're closed."

She called without looking up and Sevika crocked a brow. "Is that a way to greet your future niece in law?"

She looked up, her face blank. "Oh, it's you."

The Lady didn't sound exactly happy to see her. But the feeling was reciprocated. She got back to counting her money. "So...you did...?"

She chuckled. "No, not yet, I'm here for something else."

Aunt Soph gave her a quick glance.

She swallowed some of her spit before going on. "I need chocolate."

The woman turned her full body towards Sevika, her lips pressed against eachother in a tigth line, her eyes were squeezed together. "Did you forget about Valentines day?"

She shock her head, nearly angry. "No. It's just hard to get to topside and buy chocolate when you're Silcos rigth hand."

She nodded. "Yeah. It migth ruin your reputation."

She groaned "No it's not just..." the woman's lips had quirked up into a grin. Sevika groaned. "Do you have the chocolates now or not? I'm asking a favor here."

Her old ears picked up on that. "Why did you not say that when you came in? I got her favorites in the back."

"Do you need help climbing the stairs?"

Sevika asked, crocking a brow.

Aunt Soph looked back, as if insulted. "Nah, didn't lose any of my limps yet."

Sevika snorted, waiting for the hag to come back with thudding fingers and her mind on you. Did you have anything prepared? Would it be extremely corny? No, you knew her to well for that. But it would be something and it would be planned better than hers.

The door to the back was opened again and the old woman stepped out. "That was quick."

"Had them closer than expected.", she explained as she handed them over. They were in a neat pink box, though it probably has seen better days. It was sealed shut with a pink ribbon. You always were happy to unpacke them, so very entranced by the bow. "Greet her for me, will you?"

"Of course I will.", with that last promise Sevika left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sevikas flesh hand slid along the metal railing, it was cold and a bit rusted, like the rest of the building. But it was on the outskirts, so it was safer and it certainly was enough. You had lived further in before, but did not like it because of the noise and because of other things.

She took out her keys, with a fee turns the door sprung open, revealing the living room. The only source of ligth were the window and a candle on the table, next to that very candle were two glasses and a flask of wine. And on the couch there was you, who blinked her eyes open as the ligth of the hallway hit her. You sat up as she shut the door behind her, making sure that the lock clicked into place.

"Sevika..." she barely heard you mumble, the thin blanket shifted around you as you kneeled on the couch, she walked into your arms, pulling you closer even, hiding her face in the crock of your neck as her hands found their way under your shirt.

"Hello to you too.", you greeted with a chuckle, squirming a bit under her cold hands, she meanwhile was busy kissing the line of your jaw.

"I have something for you in my bag."

You pulled back to look at her, with that sparkle in your eyes. "Chocolates and roses?"

Sevika nodded, already grabbing for both with one hand, her other was way to occupied. Her eyebrows shot up as she got to your bra. "That's a new one."

You tried to slap it away. "Shush, that's a suprise for later."

"Can't wait for later.", she carefully put both chocolates and the rose next to the wine. Your eyes moved to it and she released you, only realizing how much she nedded this once she leaned back to watch you turn the rose between your two fingers.

"Sevika did you make this?"

She chuckled. "Got some help from the blue devil, but it was my idea."

You gave her that sweet smile, to then open the chocolate while she poured the wine. "My favorite, did you go to topside?"

"I've got my sources.", she said, draping her arm across the couch to invite you in. You leaned onto her like expected and her arm came along with you.

Sevika had never been a wine person, it was to sweet and way to fruity, but this one was different, a bit similar to whiskey even. "Where did you find this, doll?", she asked, taking another gulp.

"Somewhere.", you said, snacking on the candy with one hand and the wine in another. "Had to mix it with whiskey."

Sevika snorted. "So that's why it tastes so good."

You hummed, cuddling into her. "Do you want some?", you asked, picking out a piece.

She stared at it before shrugging. "To hell with it.", she plopped it into her mouth. The foreign taste spread in her mouth, accentuated by strawberries. "Hm."

"Like it?"

"I prefer to taste it from your mouth.", she confessed as her hand slowly crept back under your shirt.

You crocked your head, the chocolates left your hands and slipt back to the table. "Is that an offer?"

"It's later now, isn't it? Time for my suprise..."

She pulled you closer and you chuckled as she kissed you. You'd like tonigth.