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sirthisisa-wendys · 3 years

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Irreplaceable Things: Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader

synopsis: You’ve both failed to take simple precautions; now you’re the one paying the price.

words: 1930

tw: unplanned pregnancy, thoughts of abortion.

The stick clatters to the tile floor. Your shaking hands reach down to pick it up again, and you’re hoping that the results might change in the time you lift it from the cold, unforgiving ground and up to your eyes. But they’re the same as before, plain as day.

“Oh, god…” You whisper, feeling the strength leave your bones. It was only a matter of time before things began to unravel, and the endless options to solve the problem you faced were in front of you. But before you can even consider the tamest of options, you hear the door to the bathroom open, and you tuck the stick into an empty pocket of your backpack. For now, you would go out and train as if you didn’t find out the most important information of your life thus far. No one would suspect your circumstances had changed - things had changed drastically - and somehow you would convince them that the only thing they had to worry about were where their next recommendations were coming from. Once you exit the stall, you check your appearance as you wash your hands, then leave without acknowledging the other woman standing at the sink.

The nausea, the moodiness, hell, the tender breasts were all signs that pointed toward the suspicion that you were in trouble. After briefly mentioning the issue to Shoko, she tossed the pregnancy test at you, along with three condoms.

“I’m surprised either of you went without protection considering --” Shoko cut herself off, turning to rummage around in her dresser drawer and handing you a drawstring bag. “Just don’t let anyone see you with those.”

You had been irresponsible. Paying the price was all you could do now, whether it meant you would carry the child to term and be kicked out of Jujutsu Tech, or you would--

“You took forever in the bathroom,” Satoru whined, dropping his shoulders. “I almost left for lunch without you.” You know that the threat was half-assed. If Satoru showed up to lunch without you in tow, Suguru would throw a fit. And even the blue-eyed man walking ahead of you wasn’t in the mood to fight with him. Yet.

Thoughts of a child swirl around your mind as you follow Gojo to the restaurant. You can’t focus on anything else, and you wonder if you should tell Suguru, or if you should keep it to yourself like you want to.

“I’m not going to ask why you’re so quiet,” Gojo tosses over his shoulder casually. “But if it has anything to do with the way my ass looks in these pants, I want you to keep it to yourself.” You choke out a laugh, momentarily forgetting your troubles, but you don’t catch Satoru’s relieved smile as you wipe away tears from your eyes.

Before long, the restaurant appears and the both of you go inside, instantly greeted by the warm welcome of the staff members. When you spot the familiar half bun in the crowd of people, you point it out to Gojo, then make your way over to them.

The closer you get, the more your feet drag against the cheap red carpet. A strong urge to tuck your tail and run washes over you, but you know that wouldn’t make anything easier. Suguru stands to greet you with a tender kiss, pressing his hand against your lower back before pulling out your seat beside him.

“We thought you’d never show,” Shoko sighed, shuffling her menu on the table.

“Y/n took ages in the bathroom. I was sure she flushed herself down the toilet,” Gojo gripes and Geto snorts in response. You catch the knowing glance from Shoko over your menu, but you don’t acknowledge it. You just look back to the words on the menu, the words blurring and losing shape the longer you stare.

When the waitress comes around, you still don't know what to eat, and in your moment of indecision, Geto orders for you.

“We’ll split it,” he murmurs, placing a hand on your thigh. “Gojo, you said something about losing your dorm room key today?”

As the two banter back and forth about the case of the missing key, your thoughts overwhelm you again. You stare off into space and consider your options: for one, you could go to your town and to the clinic should you need this taken care of. Or you could tough it out. Adoption was an option, but that meant you would have to carry it to term, but it would be the safest thing to do… No child would be safe having two sorcerer parents who were always getting into trouble.

The food arrives without fanfare or flourish, and while Suguru divides the lobster and rice into halves, your stomach lurches. You place a hand on his arm, and he looks up, pausing mid-cut.

“I think I’ve lost my appetite.”

The admission makes Suguru frown. He presses his lips together and places the utensils back on the table.

“Do you want to go back to campus?”

“I don’t want you to have to wait to eat,” you reason, standing up from the table quickly. “I think I’m going to go lay down for a little bit. Feeling kind of woozy.” Before Suguru can argue with you, you grab your bag and leave, rushing out into the stale fall air. You try to walk as fast as you can back to campus, avoiding your rushing thoughts like the cars passing by, but to no avail. When you get back to your dorm, you throw open the door and toss your backpack onto your bed, fishing out the stick once more, hands trembling in fear.

“Please be a joke, please be a joke…” you mutter, flipping the damned plastic thing over.

The two lines had faded a bit, but it was still painfully obvious that the verdict was in. After dropping the stick on your desk, you go into the bathroom and pull up your uniform shirt, feeling the fabric crumple under your fingers. Sticking a hand down your skirt and to your abdomen, you seek the evidence of anything with your fingers, but find nothing except tender skin. It would take some time, but if the test was right, you’d feel signs of growth within a few months. You don’t have time like that.

It’s either being a jujutsu sorcerer or being a mother.

There’s no compromise. No ‘and’s. The next thought dawns on you as if someone opened a window and let fresh air in.

You could move out.

You could leave Jujutsu Tech without a word, without any fuss, and go back home. With some convincing, your family would understand. They wouldn’t be upset. You don’t think about Suguru as you pack your clothes in a hurry, tossing them onto your desk and then stuffing them into a large suitcase that brought your things here in the first place. You can only make one trip, you reason, so you have to leave the non-essential things behind. Only take what’s irreplaceable.

It’s only when you’re rummaging through your tshirts that you happen across three of Suguru’s shirts, neatly stacked and waiting for someone to wear them. You consider leaving them behind as a final goodbye instead of a note or a text. But another part of you wants to take them, wants to feel the cloth that touched his skin resting against yours and engulfing your frame. You want something to remember him by; something that you can look at and remember all of the good memories at Jujutsu Tech…

You press a shirt to your face and inhale the freshwater scent of Suguru’s cologne. It was just as fresh as the first day you two had met. Without warning, you feel tears slip out of your eyes and run down your cheeks in rapid succession. You couldn’t tell Su goodbye. Not when he would beg you to stay and make it work and push you to stay by his side. You couldn’t cripple him like that and make an even bigger target for his enemies to aim at.

Conversation outside of your door reminds you that time is running out and fast. No doubt Suguru was on his way to confront you about your sudden exit, and you would need to be gone before his bulky frame walked through the door. There were no other options.

With a grunt, you wipe your tears away and press his shirts into your overflowing suitcase. The flap won’t even close correctly as you try to press on it and zip it, but you fail miserably. Tears of frustration leak out of your eyes this time, and you jerk the zipper back and forth, trying to dislodge the item of clothing that caught the contraption.

Heavy footsteps are making their way toward you and you know time is up. You’re caught before anyone even opens the door, but you still try to get the suitcase closed. As the door unlocks, the zipper breaks, and you’re left with an overfilled suitcase and three very confused sorcerers standing in the doorway.

“Y/n? What are you doing?” You turn to see Geto, Shoko, and Gojo all standing in the doorway, Suguru’s right hand holding the leftovers from the restaurant.

“I…” The words won’t come out.

“Gojo, let’s let them talk.” Shoko pushes the sullen white-haired man off to his dorm, realizing what the fuss is about before anyone can utter another word.

Suguru still stands in the doorway, brows furrowing. “You’re packing.” The statement is met with more tears and he looks down the hallway before entering and shutting the door, placing the food on the counter. Without words, he examines the mess around the room, noticing the haphazardness of the scene. He picks up a few items of clothing from the floor and walks around with his hands behind his back before stopping in front of you and cupping your face between his palms. “Tell me.”

“I can’t,” you croak, wetting his fingers with your tears.

“Don’t start keeping secrets from me now, kitten. What’s got you so worked up?” The tenderness of his voice breaks your resolve, and you slide your eyes over to the desk where a pile of clothes sit on top of your shame. Suguru notices and removes his hands from your face. As he removes your clothes and puts them on the chair, the stick slides off of the desk and hits the floor again.

I could run for it right now, you think. But your limbs don’t move an inch, and Geto doesn’t need to bend over to take a closer look at the stick. He already knows what’s taken place by the fact that it resides within the four walls of your room.

“Is it mine?” he whispers, staring at the white thing blankly.

“Of course,” you reply, hands creeping toward your abdomen. “There’s been no one but you for the past year.” He pauses, wringing his hands carefully.

“And we’re keeping it,” he states, but it felt more like a question to you.

“If that’s what you want.” Before you can blink, he advances toward you and presses his lips against yours, holding you close. When you break the kiss, Suguru nudges your nose with his, running a hand up and down your back. “But how--”

“Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.” You relax into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. “I’ll protect you like I’ve always done. And I’ll protect our child.”

#geto x reader #jjk geto #jjk gojo #jjk headcanons #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen getou #getou suguru #getou x reader #jjk shoko ieiri #shoko ieiri

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advxjennie-blog · 7 years

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the games we play: solo!

Months.

Of reconnaissance. Of dressing up and dressing down to fit the backdrop of her gamers’ lives. Of rewiring personalities to become someone she’s not, but to fit the ideals of someone she longs to kill. Of smiling till her cheeks hurt, even though the bitter taste of contempt is present on her tongue. Of being stoic and hiding the effervescent joy that her late father so loves her for. Of being touched even when it’s the last thing she wants. Of pretending it’s the very thing she wants. Of having to bite her tongue and endure the odd looks like she’s not affected by it in the slightest—because such is her in-your-face behaviour, so she must be comfortable with the judgement that comes with it, right? Of being screamed at due to her persistence. Of running back to the drawing board as she blocks out all emotion of sadness and disappointment, because all she has endured may very well have been for nothing. Of never giving up regardless.

Weeks.

Of sleepless nights and blocking the release of melatonin—the hormone responsible for tiredness—released by the pineal gland. Of cans upon cans of energy drinks and an uncountable number of coffee cups of different shapes and sizes. Of cracking codes. Of breaking through the defences of anything from military databases and police files, to social media accounts. Of having to read through every painful conversation and looking at the occasional scandalous pictures, in hopes of finding that one piece of information she can use to end this suffering and move on to the next. Of having those pieces of information escape her. Of having her days and nights blur into a single moment: her, sitting at her cluttered desk as she forces the sleep out of her eyes and blink away the tears caused by the bright laptop screen. Of having to start again.

Days.

Of planning. Of dissecting the mysteries that are her gamers’ personalities. Of trying to figure out the boundaries of their comfort zone, and trying to figure out how to push them past it. Of guessing what they’re willing to do and what they’re not, and of how suspicious they are. Of tailoring tasks that are unique to their skill set, courage and respect for the justice system. Of having to piece everything together perfectly, because she is about to tangle her gamers’ lives together intricately, and if one rope happens to be faulty, the whole system collapses. Of finally avenging her father. Of finally taking revenge on her mother.

It all ends here.

Here is a boy with adventure written into his genetic code. There is an insatiable lust erupting within him that longs for adrenaline to pour under his flesh, an unexplainable need for the spark of life to run through his veins. If there is ever a man who would choose to live out of suitcases and in the snug economy seats of a budget airline in place of living in an extravagant mansion and lying on silk sheets and beds that are unnecessarily large, it would be Kiwoon. But the thing about him is neither the former nor the latter is an option: because on days when he is not off chasing the stars, he is scrubbing floors and washing dishes in a local diner.

He is the embodiment of peaks and troughs living a life of flat-line, and God, all he longs for is to escape.

And so he fills his idle moments with activities that trigger the release of adrenaline. It starts oh, so very vanilla: walking up to a pretty girl to ask for her number, or joining the local dance competition. But very gradually, it turns much, much darker: grabbing anything he can from the local mart and hiding the items under his jacket, jacking a parked car to test its control and acceleration and attempting to put it back with none the wiser. It is as though he starts to get used to the activities that once charged his bones with electricity, starts to see them as simply another part of his monotonous life, and so he begins to look for more dangerous, adrenaline-triggering things to do, and oh, how slippery he finds the slope. His heart sings when he partakes in activities that are decidedly bad, and although his mind is plagued by guilt and regret, it does little to stop his fingers from shaking as they itch to feel the smooth texture of a leader-covered steering wheel of a car his bank account most certainly cannot afford.

His reckoning comes in the form of a series of joyful pings from his phone while he’s busy at work, and he quickly steals a glance at the texts—surely his boss wouldn’t mind this much—but what he sees sends his phone falling to the ground due to a loosened grip and the forces of gravity. Because in it are video footages from hidden security cameras of him stealing from the local mart, as well as him breaking into a moderately priced car. It seems odd for the guards watching the security footage to have missed all of this, but perhaps it is because they had been oddly deleted, as though someone wishes to save him from the police only to exercise justice in their own, special way.

[private number] I wonder what mommy and daddy would think if their baby boy went to jail?

[private number] Maybe you shouldn’t have been so chatty with the regulars at the diner.

[private number] Wait for my instruction! xoxo

His eyes dart to the many customers in the diner as though afraid someone had caught him, and if he’s noted the ‘regulars’ comment, he doesn’t bother wondering which as he has bigger problems to deal with. He’s quick to pick up his phone, drop it into his pocket and pretend like he is not phased, but the sweat that breaks out on his forehead and the permanent wrinkle between his eyebrows betray his countenance.

He is awaken by the next text that comes in the middle of the night.

[private number] Knock, knock! You ready, Woonie?

[private number] Let’s go on a ride! Get dressed and be at the nearest convenience store in twenty minutes.

[private number] Might be smart for you to wear all black today. A hoodie would be good! Also maybe one of those surgical masks you use as fashion statements.

Perhaps he is angered from being rudely awaken, or perhaps he is just angered by the blackmail in general, because he is quick to slam a reply that consists mostly of cursing and threats. But he doesn’t get a reply back, and because he is truly, truly afraid of going to jail—or of having to force his parents to pay a fine when they’re already struggling as is—he decides to do as the texts say.

When he gets there, the first thing he does is scan the store for his perpetrator. Unfortunately, all he sees are two cops chatting over an early breakfast of cup ramen. Kiwoon pretends to be busy deliberating over candy bars when really, he just longs for his phone to ring so he can get this nightmare over and done with. And then, he’ll never steal again; this is enough adrenaline to last him a damn lifetime.

The phrase ‘speak of the devil and he doth appear’ proves itself to be true when his phone rings just as he had wanted it to before, but now that his wish has bled into reality, he finds that it is not as satisfying as he had imagined it to be. Still, he fumbles with his phone before reading the texts.

[private number] You’re early… I’m really impressed!

[private number] Anyway, you still know how to jack a car, yeah?

[private number] Show me. Black hummer parked on the far right. It’s the only car in the parking lot.

[private number] Sorry I didn’t tell you to bring your equipment. I forgot. Maybe. :P

[private number] But the good news is there are a lot of rocks! You can break the window.

When the police are this close? The person must not be aware of the situation. He texts his concerns, but he gets a simple ‘:/’ emoticon in return. What the hell could that possibly mean? After five minutes of waiting for another text, he decides to leave the store and check the car out, just in case.

The car is a beauty, there is no denying it. As his eyes land on the silver of light made by the reflection of the sleek, gloss finish, Kiwoon’s hands begin to tremble. Fingers reach out to caress the side mirror in adoration, and he belatedly pulls himself back and reaches for his phone in hopes of finding a new series of text messages that he may have missed in his haze. What he gets instead makes his heart sing, but his teeth grit in frustration.

[private number] Pick a rock for your favourite girl. I happen to like the big, sparkly ones, just FYI.

So it’s a girl; he guessed as much from her use of x’s and o’s. His mind spins as he thinks of what he could possibly do with this information, but agitation grows when he finds that he can do absolutely nothing, and so a succession of slamming the side of his fist against his forehead in frustration follows. But Kiwoon has no time to think: the cops are in the store, and they could be done with their ramen and chatter at any moment. And so he grabs a rock the size of his palm and slams it repeatedly against the window. The window shatters shortly after the alarm blares, and Kiwoon hops into the driver’s seat and reaches for the wires hidden beneath the plastic cover of the steering column. The addictive hum of the engine starting causes a wild, euphoric smile to pull on his lips, but the mood is ruined by shouts that he later realises are coming from the two cops whom have since left the store, and so Kiwoon steps on the gas and escapes with the car.

He’s driving on some small road, a large smile plastered on his lips in response to the rapid beating of his heart against chest that he is so desperately addicted to, and he is so taken with joy that the ringing of his phone does not dampen his mood. He parks on the side of the road and unlocks his phone hastily.

[private number] That was impressive! You’re so cool!

[private number] Drive the car to the address attached and leave it near the front door.

[private number] Leave the door unlocked and the engine running.

[private number] No time for sleep, sorry. :( You have a big day ahead of you!

His heart falls at the text. He’s done everything she’s asked for; is it too much to ask for her to let him go now? He types up a series of texts conveying his anger and brokenness, but he is greeted only with silence. Dejected, Kiwoon slowly drives the car towards the given destination. He’ll deal with everything else later.

There was once a girl with galaxies in her eyes. Her soft kisses could turn beast into man, her innocent heart making a sinner fall to his knees in awe and repentance. And perhaps her alluring nature has sparked the jealousy of the snakes she calls her friends, because they bare fangs that are sheathed with layers upon layers of lethal venom, and they poise to strike. It starts small: in place of Yeonjoo, they call her ‘piggy’, their thin fingers pulling back the tips of their noses as they snort in mockery. And it escalates: they catch her off guard by pinching her belly, they point and laugh, they push her down until her knees are scraped and her tears fall to the ground. It all hurts the same.

They tell her that she is ugly, and that no one is capable of loving her, and she starts to believe it; but what she doesn’t realise is that if she’d only see her true worth, she’d see that there are fairy-tales written of her, and in those stories, her love is the treasure below the x, the ethereal princess guarded by a menacing fire-breathing dragon, and still, it would not deter the many who would fight for and gladly die for her affection. But as she stares at her reflection, all she sees are their shallow words that, beneath the veil, lies jealousy in its rawest form. As she stares bitterly at the girl she so loathes in the mirror, she finds that she becomes her worst critic, and she morphs into the very girls who crush her spirit—the very villains of her fairy-tales.

In the vacuum of space, a star burns out.

Here is a girl with heavenly lips and an angelic face; but do not be deceived by her cherubic appearance, for she snarls and snaps at anyone who dares approach her. She is venomous tongue and biting words, and she has black holes for eyes that whisper a tale of once having brilliant stars beneath her flesh, stars that have since died and in its place, lies a petrifying vacuum that swallows men whole and leaves only their shell behind. Through secretive surgeries, Yeonjoo has now attained the shell she has always wanted, but she has lost the person she had desired to be in the process.

She blames her success—or perhaps, is it her downfall? The lines are awfully blurred—on fat camp, and she spits on all the girls who once laughed at the numbers that show up on the scale she steps on. Oh, look at her now, as her sharp heels leaves holes in the hearts of men and women alike. But she has never truly escaped the villains of her story, has she? For still, she keeps them in her presence, and still, she secretly and oh, so desperately longs for their approval. (As she looks in the mirror, the person that looks back is not her, but them.)

And that is the cause for the rapid tattoo on her chest, the gasping for breath and the way her arms reach out for something to hold as she attempts to steady herself. Because there, in her phone, lies the evidence that her rapid weight loss had been the work of doctors rather than trainers—information she was promised would never see the light of day—and there, in her inbox, lies a series of messages:

[private number] Would be such a shame if this got out and your posse hears about it, no?

[private number] This is what you get for playing nice with your stupid ex-neighbour, Kim Jinyoung.

[private number] Wait for my instruction! xoxo

And like a wilted flower, Yeonjoo falls to the ground in heaving sobs.

[private number] Morning, Yeonnie! Are you ready?

[private number] There’s a black hummer waiting for you outside. The door is unlocked and the engine is running.

[private number] Drive it to the next street and park in the third bay of the closest gas station.

[private number] You’ll be picking up a passenger. He’ll come to you, so all you have to do is wait!

With shaky fingers and trembling knees, Yeonjoo drags her weight to the car parked in front of her house, the low hum of the engine confirming that the text messages, unfortunately, hold no lie. The way in which she hurriedly runs towards the driver’s seat shows her desperate want to quickly get this over and done with, but the broken window that she’s first greeted with momentarily slows her pace. Slim fingers comb through her hair in disbelief as her vision begins to cloud from the tears that surface, but Yeonjoo bites her lip and pulls her hoodie further towards the front, determined to just hurry up so she can wash her hands of all this mess. She quickly slips into the driver’s seat of the car, and the other thing that catches her attention is a black, square object with a blinking red light stuck to the dashboard. If she had any suspicions that it was anything other than a camera, the confusion is quickly cleared by the loud ping of her phone.

[private number] Stop looking so glum! Smile for the camera, won’t ya? :D

An unfitting scowl graces her cherry lips, and her thumbs slam against the screen as she conjures up a reply, but as she catches sight of all her previous inquiries and pleads to leave her alone from the night before—all of which have been left unanswered—she decides that it would be wise for her to save her breath and just drive. Besides, all she has to do is pick up a passenger, yes? It shouldn’t be too hard, she reasons.

(But oh, is she in for a surprise.)

Jaesuk is a snake. There are no other words to describe him.

Perhaps there is a mistake in his genetic code, because disloyalty seems to be etched deep in his bones, and for the life of him, he cannot think about anything other than his own benefit. But he has a small mind, so he does not have the capacity to think so far into the future, and that is how he ends up angering many, many trigger happy individuals who act as though they have been given the license to kill.

Unfortunately, their weapons are all aimed at the same spot between his eyes.

But regardless of being dense, like a snake, Jaesuk’s key trait must be that he’s slippery, because he seems to be able to evade their shots and hide in places that no one would ever find him. He slithers into holes and hides between bushes, and when he thinks it is safe, he comes out yet again and hunts for his next prey.

Perhaps in an alternate universe, Jaesuk could change. Perhaps he could build friendships and strike alliances if he were only tamed into submission; but as of yet, he is like a child that has been spared the rod, and so now he is spoilt rotten. What use is it to change the only way he knows how to live, when he proves, time and again, that it is the best lifestyle for him to have?

(As said, Jaesuk is hardly the most intellectual, because as he foolishly tempts fate with rhetorical questions, he’ll find that fate always has unlikely answers.)

Like clockwork, at eight o’clock on a Tuesday night, Jaesuk stands in front of the window of an electronic shop with a cold drink in his hand, eagerly waiting for his favourite program to air on the many different televisions in front of him. What greets him instead is a nightmare in the form of a series of footages all staring a very familiar reptile.

There he is, slipping into his favourite hidey hole that he visits thrice a month. And there he is, slithering through the crowd and into the darkest alley of Incheon, so dark that no one—not even criminals—dares to enter. (Jaesuk had spread enough rumours of that place to keep everyone out, but it seems that his efforts are all for naught, for there it is on the screen for all of South Korea to see.) And there he is, walking towards his favourite struggling restaurant that only ever holds three customers at once. And there he is, there he is, there he is, at all his favourite hideouts that he had been so sure no one knew about.

The shrill tone emitted from his phone scares him half to death, and during that brief distraction, the screen cuts back to his favourite program, and his eyes meet with his favourite actress as she cries about a love lost. Tears build up in his eyes as well, but for entirely different reasons.

[private number] Did anyone tell you you sucked at hide and seek? Because you really do.

[private number] Relax! It wasn’t on national TV. Just on those TVs. You’re welcome!

[private number] It will be aired nationwide, though. Be sure to catch it at 8pm on Tuesday! Sorry for ruining your favourite broadcast again, oops.

[private number] You can get out of it, though. Just turn up to the Citibank across the street next Tuesday at 10am. Bring your gun and a hat. Maybe some sunglasses. Oh, also a duffel bag might be handy.

[private number] …yup. That’s exactly what it sounds like, Sukkie. :(

[private number] Probably should’ve kept your hands to yourself, and definitely off that old hag, Kim Jinyoung.

[private number] Wait for my instruction! xoxo

Jinyoung? Who the fuck is that? From the message, Jaesuk suspects it’s one of his one night stands, and if he ever sees that woman again, he’d kill her. But God, he has absolutely no idea what she looks like, for the women he shares his nights with have all blended together to make an unidentifiable face.

But whatever; none of that matters, because he’s not going to do it. To think that someone could threaten him—him, the person who has more lives than a damn feline—is laughable. So his old spots have been revealed: bad luck, but that simply means he’ll have to find new hideouts. Jaesuk texts a simple ‘fuck you’, throws both his drink and phone into the bin closest to him and leaves before his favourite broadcast is over. He’s lost the mood and besides, it seems he needs the time to look for a new spot to sleep tonight.

He’s lying on an old, springy mattress in the middle of some abandoned building when the bullet hits his shoulder. Screams of agony echoes through the room, but Jaesuk knows that if he were to cave to his want to lie down and baby himself, he’ll die. And so he bites his lip and roars as he pulls himself up and runs to take cover, his hand wet as he rests it on top of the wound in a lousy attempt to slow the bleeding.

A fucking sniper; and he already has a good idea of who the bullet belongs to. Why, it had been twenty years ago when he made nice with Jeongah, a girl with a penchant for falling in love: first with weapons, and then with him. But what she does not understand is Jaesuk does not make connections, he makes scapegoats; and so he had charmed her into taking a leap of faith with him, but as she jumped, she had belatedly noticed that his own feet did not leave the ground.

He left with the money, and she was left with the blame.

But now she’s back with a vengeance it seems, because there is a bullet lodged in his bone.

(And how does he know it’s her?)

It’s simple, really. Jaesuk had been drawn to her all those years ago because of it. The thing is, Jeongah is the type of girl who loves a challenge, and so she had always found sniping at a stationary target boring and frankly, thoroughly unfair for her victim. This is the reason why her first shot is always non-fatal, despite being known to never miss: it’s purely because the first shot gets them running and then, that’s when the game really starts. Well that, and because she’s the only sniper with a reasonable excuse to want him dead.

Jaesuk knows it is imperative that he leaves before she takes her second shot, because if she does, it’ll be his head. He knows in his heart that there is a small chance of survival, but still, he grips his shoulder a little tighter as he prepares to make a run for it. But just as he’s about to stand, his new phone blares.

Really?

Still, he is safe where he sits now, and he knows the second he moves will most definitely be his last. So he stalls and prays for a miracle, and then he pulls his phone out and quickly scans over the text messages.

[private number] I really have to hold you at gunpoint, huh?

[private number] Jeongah really wanted to kill you, but I’m holding something juicy over her head.

[private number] Did you know she had a son!? :o

[private number] Anyway! Tuesday, 10am. Yes or no?

Yes. Yes. Fucking yes. Blood is smeared onto the screen as he hastily types in the reply. He receives a response instantly.

[private number] Great! That wasn’t so hard, was it?

[private number] I’ve put her leash back on. You can let your guard down! Best take care of that arm before the big day. She tells me it’s rather bad.

Slowly and cautiously, he stands and turns to look behind him, just in time to see the menacing figure of Jeongah standing on the roof, a sniper rifle lax in her hand.

[private number] You ready, big boy?

[private number] There’ll be a black hummer waiting for you in the gas station beside the bank. Third bay.

[private number] Good luck!

The scowl plastered on his face is hidden by the surgical mask he wears. Fingers fly to the bandaged gunshot wound as it throbs beneath his clothes, and he allows himself one deep breath before paying no heed to the pain altogether. This should be quick and easy, he thinks; he’s done this once before, so it really shouldn’t be any different from the last time, right?

Without further ado, he pushes past the glass doors, pulls the gun out from under his jacket and fires at the ceiling.

Yeonjoo startles when the door on the passenger side opens, and when she catches sight of the gun in his hand, her soft lips part as a scream threatens to spill from her lips. But he had already seen what she had looked like through the broken window—had seen her fidget, her looking around nervously like a damn gazelle—and so he aims the gun directly at her forehead and screams for her to “just drive, Goddamnit, or I’ll blow your fucking head off,” and so she hurriedly steps on the gas and leaves skid marks where the car was once parked.

She sobs uncontrollably as she drives, pleads spilling pathetically from her lips as she struggles to keep the car moving at a consistent pace. It is clear to all that she is just a child with not a bad bone in her body, and so Jaesuk sighs audibly as he puts the gun away. And then come the plethora of questions that has him reaching for his gun again, if only to get her to shut up.

“W-Did you just rob the bank? Why are you— Wh— Why is this happening to me, oh God—”

He blocks it all out and instead, unlocks his phone to read the new message.

[private number] Good job! I’m so sorry you have to deal with Yeonjoo.

[private number] Anyway, I’ve attached the address to drop the money.

[private number] Leave the gun in the car and bring Yeonjoo with you.

[private number] I’ll be meeting you guys there!

[private number] Also, I can see you from the camera. So no funny business! Leave the gun, or Jeongah’ll pay you a visit very shortly.

There is fire in his eyes as they dart up and scan the car for a camera, and his jaw locks upon realising that it’s on the dashboard, right in front of the sobbing mess of a girl. In his anger, he carelessly attempts to reach for the camera for the sole purpose of yanking it off and destroying it, but the wound begins to throb at his hasty movements, and so he is forced back into seat. Of course, another consequence of his sudden movements is a scream coming from the girl in the driver’s seat, and it has him rolling his eyes so far back, they begin to hurt.

“Would you just shut up, for the love of God—” he pleads, but it only invites louder sobs. He gives up altogether and decides instead to gruffly pass his phone to Yeonjoo. It takes her a few seconds to finally take it from his grasp.

“T-there? They want me to drive you there?” she asks between hiccups, a hand reaching up to wipe the tears from her cheeks with her sleeves.

“They wants you to drive us there.”

And the sobbing returns with full force.

Yeonjoo had always believed she coped well with stress, but today is the day she finds out that she most absolutely does not. She doesn’t mean to be such a cry-baby, really, but try as she might, the tears keep coming. And now, the hardened bank robber who previously held her at gunpoint wants her to follow him past some trees and into what seems to be a damn forest. She’s watched enough movies to know how this ends up.

“I— please, please don’t do this! I won’t tell anyone, I promise, just please, please let me go, please—”

The gun is aimed at her once again, and Yeonjoo flinches and cowers at the sight.

“I will kill you if you don’t get out of the car right now,” Jaesuk threatens through grinding teeth, “I’d go by my damn self—I don’t need some deadweight who only knows how to cry and beg—but they said you had to follow me, so stop fucking around!”

Yeonjoo holds her face in her hands. With eyes shut, she barely whispers words of comfort and tells herself that this is not happening, that she’s somewhere else, that this is all a dream—

She feels the cold rim of his gun touch her forehead, and an embarrassing sob spills from her lips.

“Get. Out. Now. I’ll count to ten, and then I’ll blow your fucking brains all over this car! Just fucking get out!”

Please wake up, please wake up, please wake up—

Her hands fly up in surrender, and her eyes stay permanently on the ground as she clumsily falls from the safety of the car. Her legs tremble as they struggle to keep her up, and when she finally gathers the courage to look up, she sees him slamming the door shut and throwing the gun into the car through the broken window. She feels a heavy burden lift from her chest, but she is plagued with confusion.

“Why—”

He doesn’t let her finish her sentence, merely pushes her forward harshly, and she stumbles as she attempts to steady herself. They quietly walk past the trees and what seems like forever is really only a few steps, and then they arrive at a clearing. There is a lone figure that greets them.

The person turns towards the direction of footsteps and the ruffling of leaves, but Jaesuk does not give them time to do any more before he lunges, one hand wrapping around their neck to choke them. Yeonjoo screams yet again as the two fall and roll around the grass, and the situation is so catastrophic that they fail to notice the whirring of a drone camera fast approaching.

“Starting early, I see!” the voice blares from the speaker taped to the drone, and it’s enough to halt the struggle between the two men, “I like it!”

A maniacal cackle follows, and if it wasn’t obvious who the real culprit was, it is now.

“Welcome, welcome, to the game of life! As you can see, Jaesuk is carrying a black bag with lots of cash, and today, one of you will be the lucky winner!” she sings in an inappropriately cheery voice, and it causes wrinkles to form between Kiwoon’s and Jaesuk’s eyebrows—not Yeonjoo, though, she’s still sobbing and using her sleeves to dry her never-ending tears, “the rules are simple: kill, or be killed. The last one standing gets the gold! So don’t say I never reward good behaviour! You have 20 minutes to beat each other to the pulp, and if there’s more than one of you alive by the end of it, I’m afraid I’m going to have to publish all those dirty, nasty things you’re trying so hard to hide. So if you’re thinking of holding back, don’t—”

“Just fucking post it! Tell them! I don’t care! Just let me go, you bitch—” the scream grates against Yeonjoo’s sore throat after having gathered enough courage to fight back.

Jennie growls in anger at the rude intrusion, but she gives herself a second to calm down before she replies in a comforting tone that is very obviously fake, “Yeonnie, dear. Oh honey, you were an accessory to a bank robbery! Remember the camera? I have all the footage I need to send your cute butt to jail! You don’t want to go to jail… do you?”

A loud sob follows.

“I figured as much! Anyway, let’s not waste any more time. Now, Jaesuk and Kiwoon, please get off of each other; we want a fair fight, alright? Surprise elements are a no-no!” Jennie chastises, before once again getting back on track, “anyway, without further ado, the game starts in 3, 2, 1. Your twenty minutes start now!”

Kiwoon clenches his hands into fists and brings them up as he assumes a Southpaw stance, but the trembling of his lips and the rapid blinking of his eyes as he fights his tears reveal that he is not at all skilled in fighting. Adrenaline flows through his veins, but as he readies to fight for his life, he wonders why any of it ever mattered so much.

Bloodied hands reach to grab the black duffel bag on the ground. His eyes are reduced into thin slits, swollen and bruised from receiving punches. A small chuckle escapes his lips as the words, ‘you should see the other guy’ flies past his mind, but the chuckle slowly morphs into a whimper, and his once confident stance now melts to the ground gracelessly.

He hears the sound of police sirens through his heaving sobs, and what follows are thunderous footsteps and a shout, “freeze! Hands in the air where I can see ‘em!”

Kiwoon doesn’t struggle.

They say that he was so tired of his life, of being poor, and he was so desperate to turn his situation around that he resorted to going above the law and taking what he needed forcefully. A quick fix. They say he was the mastermind behind it all: that he had found unlikely alliances with a wanted criminal and a beauty queen, and that he wasn’t willing to split the money three ways, so he murdered them all in cold blood once they had done most of the dirty work for him. They say that he was an adrenaline junkie, and this was his biggest rush yet. Some try to put themselves in his shoes and say that he did all this for his sick mother and struggling father—that he was desperate to get her the help she needed but could not afford—and others counter, “but at what price?”

The media paints him in a tragic light, a victim of circumstance, and the masses criticise the news stations for glorifying a murderer. Some praise the media for being able to read between the lines. There are mixed reviews, but whatever the verdict is, time goes on, and soon, everyone forgets about a friendly guy who once worked in a rundown diner, who had monsters dancing underneath his skin. Instead, they talk about how scandalous a dress a certain actress donned on the red carpet, or speculate how accurate it was for a certain high profile CEO to be accused of embezzlement.

(And as for the phones? The text messages? The evidence of another possible explanation? Why, they cease to exist, because Jennie has already hacked into phone companies and deleted any archives kept.)

Everyone forgets, but Jennie always remembers. A sinister smirk graces her lips as she stores the video recording of the fight—of her games—onto a disc, and she places it on the shelf beside the many others. Just in case she ever finds herself bored, and is ever in the mood to relive her success.

She clears her desk of the empty cans of energy drinks, coffee cups, and shreds the many documents she has on her deceased gamers and she burns the evidence. And then she fills her empty desk with new energy drinks, full coffee cups, and her printer once again gets to work as she prints documents upon documents of information on her newest victims.

Today has passed, and dawn breaks, signifying the arrival of a new tomorrow.

#s: the games we play #tw: manipulation #tw: bullying #tw: murder #tw: intimidation #tw: swearing #tw: blood #tw: just... jennie #( ho l y fuck i spent the entire week working on this #6.1k words fuck me up #also in case anyone was wondering how her games worked #this is a v watered down version of it #i imagined it to be more complicated and w more gamers but li s te n #i am not writing anymore im sr y )

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