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iznsfw · 1 year

Text

The Rabbit

IVE's Jang Wonyoung x Male Reader Smut

9,623 words

Categories | maid!Wonyoung, if you could get the movie this is based off of you're awesome, blowjob, anal

Yep, I finally wrote Wonyoung. Who knew, right?

Maybe you'll meet your end today. Tomorrow, if you're lucky. Either way, they'd find out. That's definitely certain; mandatory love is no winning game. Love in general isn't, especially when it's founded on merely scrawny and lustful sex. The lines between lust and love blur, and it becomes more dangerous than it actually is.

And one could say that it really isn't love (you've heard that a couple more times than you'd like) when you barely know anything about her, when your mind only dances with the thought of ruining her angelic self again, but they know you'd never listen. You refuse to.

So, where did all this—a young, gorgeous woman by the name of Jang Wonyoung in the crook of your arm, her hand on your cock and glossy lips on yours—start?

Well, to understand, you have to stay in the present and reminisce about the past, just one more time. You've to live in it as if the former days were the current ones and what's now is nothing to worry about. But you shouldn't dwell too long; the world out there is no land for lonely men.

1. HOP

Your nerves and fears merge and struggle as one as you line up to the counter. They've plenty of reasons to do that sickly collaboration that makes your stomach hurt, but you find solace with the fact that it's at least a nice hotel. The soft yellow paint on the wall makes a lovely pair with the yellow one smeared on the outlines. The rooms are all well-furnished, and the frames bear replicates of several famous abstract masterpieces. In general, the hotel possesses a grand and pretty aesthetic, and you would have rated the stay five stars out of five if you weren't hoarded out of your home and in here.

Everyone dresses nicely, too. The older woman in the line next to yours wears a blazer and a high fashion tube top under it, her main color all over being pink. On the other hand, the man in front of you dons a formal black suit. It's like there was a recurring oath all around to dress grandly that they left you out of. How rude of them.

Suddenly self-conscious, you smooth down your simple shirt and jeans. You're already making an exception for yourself from the expensive dress code; the obligation to look clean should at least be followed. There shouldn't be any crinkled lines riding the fabric of your shirt, or a single speck of dirt on your cheap shoes.

"Next," says the woman at the counter briskly.

You make your way forward. Said woman is dressed in mandatory, dead-looking uniform and has no sign of a smile on her emotionless face. She doesn't want to be here more than you do. She makes that clear as she flashes you a tired look.

"Name?"

You tell her your name, switching your weight from one foot to another.

"Age?"

"Twenty-one years old."

"Sexual preference?"

"W-what?" you ask. It bears repetition; you have no idea why the woman would ask that.

She—(you should start calling her "Kim Gaeul" now; you've read the name on her breast pocket tag)—sighs, not caring to hide her frustration. "You know why you're here, don't you?" she asks.

Her tone suggests that you should know. However, no idea comes to mind. If they ever informed you of your purpose here, the message got lost in translation in the stress of packing your belongings and traveling all the way to this hotel. It's a decent upgrade from your humble little house, but it can’t mimic the safety of the place you grew up in. You're basically being held hostage here—this place will never be home.

"I don't," you admit guiltily.

"Well, if it's not obvious, you're a twenty-one-year-old heterosexual—I assume—man, and you still haven't found a partner."

Gaeul says it in this unnecessarily audible voice that makes you flush red to your ears. Everyone is going through the same, hence their presence in this very hotel, but when it's uttered out loud, it's like rubbing salt over an already throbbing wound.

Your face feels hot with humiliation. "Yes? And?"

"This doesn't go well with your purpose of being fruitful and multiplying," continues Gaeul. To quote the Bible in these times is… well, something, but you’ll let her have this one. "Here, you'll be able to find your lifetime partner—"

You're confused. "And how does being here help with bagging a girl?"

"—and spend two weeks together to prove your bond to us." Gaeul glares at you, clearly annoyed that you've interrupted her. For that, and out of pure, unyielded spite, she dodges your question expertly. "You're given forty-five days, and, if by the end, you're unable to find someone who shares the same qualities slash traits with you, you're turned into an animal."

Well, you did not expect that one coming.

(But, if your memory serves you well, the cop in the van that took you to this place said, as he brushed down his gray uniform: "They skin you alive to make you a little critter, that's what they do—it's heinous. Happened to an old friend of mine. Miss him more than ever."

"Did you see it happen?" you asked, his words stealing your attention from the lands running to keep up with the vehicle.

"Was told about it," answered the cop. "He said he wanted to be a dog. They took out his organs and gave all the blood to the hospitals. Dunno what happened to those, but they probably went down the same route. Wonder what kid out there got his lungs now, heh."

"Well, did it work? Did he become what he wanted?"

"No idea. All I can say is after that, dogs kept following me around.")

"You know," you say, leaning forward on the counter with your arms crossed, in hopes of appearing more in control of the whole thing than you actually are, "it takes more than forty-five days to find a wife, Gaeul. It takes years."

"Oh, really?" Gaeul gives you a condescending look one would give to a rambling, precocious toddler. "Didn't know that."

"Hey, I'm not doing this. I'm out."

"Suppose you're a Loner, then?"

"I've heard that one before."

She sighs. "A Loner doesn't believe in what we do here," she explains tiredly. "They don't believe in love."

"Sounds like me."

"If one wishes to extend their forty-five-day period in finding a partner," adds Gaeul helpfully, her statement definitely not a thinly veiled threat, "they're required to kill a Loner."

You're stunned by how everything works. Just forty-five days to get a wife? Those who don't want to comply with the system being hunted down as a consequence? What has this world come to?

You look back in line. There are numerous other men and women waiting for their turn, and you're wasting their time and Gaeul's. Not that you care much for her since she's been rude to you since the beginning, but she does look like the kind of person able to make someone disappear off the face of the Earth if they don't fit in. What if you don't match her criteria either? What would she have the people in charge do to you? What if the animal thing was a lie and they actually just killed you off?

It's either death, becoming an animal, or having someone to hold.

You haven't had the third one in a long, long time.

You inhale, hold that breath, and exhale slowly. Straighten your shoulders. "Fine, I'll do it."

"Alright. Sexual preference?"

"Heterosexual." You think.

"If, in any circumstance, you are unable to find a partner, what animal would you like to become?"

A beat.

"A rabbit," you say thoughtfully. "I think I'd want to become a rabbit."

2. DOWN

"A rabbit? Really? Out of every animal out there?"

A small Japanese woman from behind you in line keeps you entertained now in the waiting room. She has short, auburn hair and a cute smile. Her cheeks remind you of dumplings. Speaking of, you can smell some of them cooking in the kitchen nearby. You can hear your stomach rumble.

"It just… feels right, you know?" you say, shrugging in your seat beside her, in which she's strangely pressed up closely to you.

You haven't really given the animal thing much thought. You know that there's an underlying reason for it, but you can't really ponder exactly what. Perhaps it's a favorite animal from childhood? Nope, couldn't be it—your favorite animal back then was a lobster. And you can't even recall the reason for that.

"A rabbit… carrots…” You give up. “No idea.”

The woman nods understandingly. Her fingers guitar a rhythm on her knees. "Aren't you gonna ask what I'd like to be?" she says expectantly.

Alright, sure; you'll play her game. You've nothing else to do, anyway; you're just waiting for your room number to be announced. It might take a while, too, with the number of people waiting before you. The richer ones obviously get more privileges as well.

"What animal would you want to be?" you ask the girl.

"A butterfly. Be nice to just fly around and be pretty, don't you think?"

"A butterfly’s an insect, no?"

"Insects are also animals."

Desperate to keep the conversation going to fill the eerie silence, which makes you grow more and more uneasy, you prompt more lines from her. "Are they?"

She twitches her mouth to one side with a thoughtful look. "I'd like to think so."

You're given only forty-five days to find the one, you remind yourself. You have to constantly give yourself reminders lest you forget about your new life here in the hotel. Here's your chance.

"What's your name?" you ask her.

"Rei."

A cute name for a cute girl—nice. Rei's adorable from head to toe. Even the clothes she wears are sweet. Her plump cheeks allude to that, too. "Well, Rei, you want to team up?"

Rei scoffs, suddenly moving away from you. Her face, which you once saw as adorable, suddenly looks scary. "Is that what you think of all this? A defense-offense field game?"

"Uh, no, I meant that it’s—"

"No, save it. I want to actually find love here, you bastard. Love isn't a game you can just play anytime."

Yeah, of course it isn't; love is a fucking requirement. Does Rei really think she'll find true love in a world like this? You pity her Snow White enthusiasm for true romance, for a prince who’d sweep her off her feet without the feeling of obligation, but maybe she really wants to be a butterfly. You're not gonna stop her from what her heart desires; you're far from that kind of guy.

At least, you hope so. God, are you becoming one of those men?

Rei's obviously upset. From the pure shock in her face, it's clear she saw something in you that was quickly made meaningless by your mindset. She rises from the sofa, fuming, and walks away. She says in heated breaths that she needs some fresh air.

You watch your chance disappear just like that and smile tightly. Oh well.

"Tough, ain't it?" remarks the man from the loveseat across the room. He's a lot older, and he looks like he'd be the best grandfather. He'd probably let his grandkids stay awake past bedtime and give them candy. Why is he here? Maybe he recently broke up with Grandma? "Finding a girl?"

"Don't I know it," you sigh.

He smiles sympathetically. "It's better than being a rabbit," he says.

"I'd take a rabbit over a no-jerking-off policy."

That's how it works here: real life torture, in an unusual way, since they're depriving you of self-pleasure. They don't believe that masturbating would help find a girl. Gaeul told you earlier that if you were caught doing so—(and they will; they have CCTVs in the damned rooms, which definitely breaks more than a few laws about privacy and the like)—there would be severe punishments.

You truly don't want to know what punishment awaits your refusal to obey.

The man chuckles. "At least you get a lap dance. That's better than yankin'."

"A lap dance?" you ask. Gaeul didn't mention that.

"Every night, a maid comes over and gives ya a good grind down the groin. You don't actually get to touch her or do the thing, if you catch my drift,” he winks, “but it helps with mating. Wouldn't want someone who can't get it up at night, amirite, mate?"

"Suppose not."

The man sees the sparkle in your eyes. His laugh evolves from a soft, olden chuckle to a full-on guffaw. "See? There's pros in this place, too, getting a pretty girl on top of you every night."

"Can't the maid be my wife instead?" you joke. That would make the flow of things here a whole lot easier, if that were true.

He shakes his head. "Nah, some say they're part of the Loners. Wouldn't want to mess with them."

The Loners… you've heard about them during your drive here. You saw them lurking in the woods, guns cocked, with eyes flashing demonic looks at every passerby. While the cop told you not to make eye contact with them, Gaeul informed you about their beliefs earlier during your heated exchange: love shouldn't be mandatory. And you agree, but getting hunted down by desperate rich people isn't at the very top of your bucket list.

You're a coward, but you like to think it's just you playing safe. One wrong move can land you in a place where your eyes would never behold the light of day again, where life holds no meaning unless a carrot is present.

"You're lying about the lap dance thing, aren't you?" you say finally. The world is fucked up, but it can't be that bad, right?

He grins. "See for yourself, and don't say I didn't warn you."

If there's anything good in this hotel besides the air-conditioning and paintings, it's the food. The platters served on the white-drapes tables make you feel more well-off than you actually are. There's fish skillets, sushi, gravy, and mashed potatoes. Spoons and knives of varying sizes and utilities sit on the opposite sides of every plate.

"Guess I like this place now," you joke to a woman beside you. She giggles back politely, but doesn't respond; her mouth is stuffed with crispy chicken skin.

You eat to your heart's content. Pour gravy all over the hills of mashed potatoes. Scoop up unlimited rice and pair it with the soup. You wonder what kind of cooks they hired to produce these delicacies. Was there a certain secret degree that had to be obtained to be accepted here? A secret recipe worth signing an NDA for?

"Good, isn't it?" asks the young gentleman across from you. It's clear he's used to grand dining; he's dainty with his chewing, and knows on which occasion a specific utensil should be used. However, his eyes are kind—there's no judgment in them as he watches you wolf down your food.

"Definitely." Letting go of table etiquette, you speak with half your mouth full. Glance down at his plate. "Do you usually eat that little?"

"Not really," he responds. "Just keeping room for dessert."

"There's dessert?"

As if on cue, chocolate cake and more chicken wings are placed on the table. You take one of the chicken wings and eat it with rice, classic Filipino style.

(Speaking of, you really, really miss Jollibee.)

Should you go for the cake, too?

You glance at the cake, then at your growing belly. Fuck it. You slice a generous part of the cake onto your golden plate. The frilling of the dessert is made of flowery cream. The bakers decorated the top of it with coffee-flavored candy, which you fork into your mouth gladly. Your stomach and heart feel full, but you just keep eating. It’s rare to come across food this delicious, and you’re not going to waste it. It’s all or nothing.

"Let's take half and half for this bad boy," the gentleman gestures to the cake with a pinky, "and leave nothing for the rest of these fuckers. How's that sound?"

"What the hell, I'm in."

As promised, he slices the dessert smoothly with a serving knife and places a good amount for you, and another one for him. You're gluttons, you two, but it's exactly that which made you like each other.

You become quite uneasy when you see staff looking at you strangely. Their eyes are squinted, and they’re murmuring among themselves, pointing in your direction. You try to look away, but they’re approaching already. There’s nowhere else to run.

"Sir, you might want to come with us."

You look up, ready to bear whatever they're planning to do to you. But then you realize they’re talking to your new friend, who looks nervous. The look in his eyes matches the one you’d see in an animal caught in a bear trap. He follows them anyway to the backrooms; the staff look pretty serious, and they don't look like they'd back up.

You've no idea what happened after, but you hear the words "masturbation" and "disobeyed," watch a few heads turn out of curiosity, and smell the horrid scent of burning skin.

You also hear screaming.

Safe to say that no one used the toaster after that.

You enter the chambers of your room with a fulfilled stomach. There's just a tiny amount of alcohol in your system, enough to keep your nerves at bay, and maybe a few mashed potatoes. You make sure to brush all that off in the tiled bathroom, using the small tube of hotel toothpaste and the children's toothbrush they provided for you. Drain it all down with mouthwash and leave your mouth feeling minty.

You thought the bedroom would be as grand as the rest of the place. To your surprise, its design and furniture look like ones you'd see at a gas station motel, nothing more. There's no expensive comforter to slip under, or a tiger's carpet to rest your feet on. It's all just… normal.

Maybe you'd like it that way. One day, it'll feel like home. You're not entirely sure about it, but you're hoping it'll happen.

You're just watching TV on the vintage television they set up on a small table (it’s a pretty old movie called Psycho) when a knock sounds on your door. Wondering who it might be, coming over at this hour, you open it.

"Good evening, sir."

A girl with braided hair twisted by dark bows in a stereotypical and an obviously fetish maid outfit stands timidly outside of your room. In spite of your tiredness, it still astounds you how she looks like an expensive, vintage porcelain doll brought to life. Her skin is as pale as the frilly, ribboned fabric forming the top of her black dress and the gloves that wrap her thin arms like a present. Her hands are curled behind her back, but they hide nothing, not even her nervousness.

"I'm sorry," you say. She's pretty, and you would have done her, but you don't know what the hell she's doing here. "I didn't ask for room service."

"It's not room service," she says. She's tall for a girl, only a little shorter than you, but you forget it with how often she hangs her head. "I'm, I'm here to give you the… you know…"

"Huh?"

"The grinding thing?" the girl goes on. Her fingertips tap against each other. Her eyes meet everything but yours. "The lap dance?"

Oh, now you remember. Your mind let go of the idea, having trained its focus on the food you consumed, but now, you can't stop thinking about what this girl is going to do. And here you thought it was just a joke to get you going.

You take a proper look at her. She's really beautiful. That face and body of hers, visually striking and slim in all the right spots, doesn't belong in a maid's uniform, now that you look closer. She should be a model, strutting down the catwalk with confidence in every one of her strides. She should be out there walking for fashion weeks and shows, not grinding on random strangers varying from old and young.

(However, in all unfiltered honesty, you certainly wouldn't mind her rubbing her thighs and ass on you, or holding those braids as you plow her—)

"Who are you?"

"I'm the maid," she replies. She bites her lip, getting even more anxious about what's to come, but it just looks undeniably sexy to you, even if its effect on you is wholly unintended.

Nodding: "Yeah, I know that. But what's your name?"

"W-Wonyoung…"

"Well, Wonyoung, do you want to do this? It's completely fine if you don't."

It's probably her first time hearing this because her blush is intense. She can't recall the last time anybody asked if she actually consented to her job. "I don't mind," she says honestly. She crosses her arms together and looks down. "I think I kinda like it."

You smile widely. "You do, huh?"

"Yes, but I'm a little nervous. I… I've never done stuff like this before."

Her voice is small and sweet. Pair that up with her angelic face and the outfit, then it equates to her looking like the perfect fuckdoll. You can imagine a million different scenarios with her if the world were kinder: having her as your pretty little sugar baby, with Wonyoung always following you like a tail and calling you daddy. Perhaps as a young wife, too, who'd welcome you home in ways that stray from a simple breakfast or kiss. Oh, you lament those lost universes.

But for now, you can have her pretty ass on your crotch.

"Come show me what you came for," you say.

"I—" Wonyoung shakes her head. She has to get a hold of herself. "Sorry, I'm just scared."

"Don't worry, I'll help you out."

Your lower body descends on the bed. And after, so does her tight, round ass on your center.

Your hands hold on to her tiny waist and guide her in her routine. She's on your lap, and you're in heaven.

The skirt, created and woven by the wealthy seamstresses in the hotel, is mesmerizing, but it's the natural way of her butt grinding left and right on your crotch that catches you whole, as if she were born with the ability to make the simple, subtle action of nuzzling her rear end on your cock feel like every good thing in the world. In that moment, you have strong faith that a million dollars or a good life can't compare to Wonyoung's ass.

The doubled pleasure from her thin safety shorts and her round butt causes you to let out a deep, guttural moan: "Fuck, Wony."

"Wony?" she asks, looking back at you with glassy eyes that still hold impossibly delicate innocence in them. Oh, how much you want to see the corruption's lust bloom in her irises.

"Sorry." You throw your hands in the air with a soft, broken laugh. "Just slipped out of me, dunno why."

"No, it's fine," says Wonyoung. She winks. "I like it."

Temptation taunts you in the form of the young girl's skirted ass. You wonder if she's lying about being a neophyte to this; she's a natural talent. She takes care to press her butt hard against your rising erection, and pleasure its covered tip by grinding on it with a rapid rhythm. Your cockhead starts to feel hot and tight, and you can tell she's aroused as much as you are; her safety shorts are attractively damp.

"Does it feel good?"

"Yes." You hold on to her dancing hips that grind on your growing erection, guiding her movements to what feels good for you. "Mmm, fuck, faster."

"I can't, I'm sorry..."

Wonyoung halts and rises from your lap. It's a terrible decision to make; it leaves you with unfulfilled desire and her with shaky, buckling legs. She bows apologetically. "I—I'm not supposed to do anything other than that, sir," she explains. "I have to go now. I'm sorry."

You can't believe you were teased like that. And you can't even masturbate to get down from the path to your high. You've seen what they did to the man who was caught touching himself, and you aren't keen on having your hand shoved inside a burning hot toaster.

"Wonyoung, please—"

She exits the room, head bowed and cheeks flushed. You're sitting like a rejected schoolboy on the bed, with blue balls and a throbbing erection, and you couldn't be more disappointed.

The next day arrives faster than you expected, and you still can’t stop thinking about her. Well, there wasn't a minute in the nighttime you spent without thinking of Wonyoung. Although your eyes ought to be on the pretty girls aplenty who’re looking for a man like you—(there’s Miyawaki Sakura, the wealthy heiress with pink hair and a charming, camera-trained smile, and; Kim Jiwon, who would have stolen your heart with her cute, cat-like ways back in your high school days)—your mind remains caught up in Wonyoung.

Pick up your cup, and the black design makes you think of her dark braided hair, which would have felt amazing curled up in your hands as you have your way with her. It’s difficult to drink coffee when the bitter taste reminds you of how she’d taste infinitely better, if last night her crotch was parked on your face instead of your lap. Wiping your mouth with the provided tissue paper sparks a new lamentation: the similar smooth feel of her maid’s dress, and, with her slim shape, how easy it would be to fold her into every position imaginable just to feel her insides become disarrayed from your needy cock.

She’s like a dream come true, dancing in your mind as if she were your ballerina rather than a hotel maid. She’s a sweet, innocent daydream who knows not of how much she stays first in line in your train of thoughts. Wonyoung is temptation in its most innocent form, and it ruins you how you can’t have her for yourself.

"Hey, you alright?" asks the old man you befriended after Rei's rejection. He's still wearing his pajamas and foggy glasses.

You nod, your mind someplace else. "Yeah. You?"

"All is well on my end, too." He lathers Nutella on the plateaus of bread and folds into half tightly. "Did the maid come over to see you last night?"

Chewing through your bread (untoasted, of course), you shake your head. "Nope," you lie through your teeth. "No lap dance, no nothing."

"Huh, that's odd. You probably don't remember it."

"Or maybe you lied," you say.

"Nuh uh, your old man's a saint. She came over to me last night. Gave hot stuff here some action."

"Sure she did."

The man chuckles lightly before taking a bite out of his bread. Now that his eyes are on his food rather than you, you think of Wonyoung again. You wonder if your meeting with her is what love at first sight is. You’re unhealthily infatuated with the girl, and you’ve only met her once. Could it be that this means something more?

Unfortunately, you haven’t got the answer to your own question. But, when she comes tonight, you’ll find out. Your determination is set on it.

3. THE

And come she does; her meek voice barely has audible quality past the glass peephole on your door, but it does make her small face look unusually large. Her expression holds the same lamblike innocence to it, and the dirty thoughts all come rushing back.

Your heart jumps as you welcome her inside. "Hi, Wonyoung."

"S-sir," she stutters, hands folded in front of her skirt, "I want to say that I'm sorry for last night."

Her voice is sweetly precious in a way that, even if you didn't already like her, you would have forgiven her instantly. Her departure last night isn't a grudge you hold on her—she just wants to stay true to the rules, plain and simple. And there's nothing wrong with that; you play by the book, too.

"No hard feelings." You pat her cheek. Feel it become hot. "You're just doing your job. One more time okay?"

You watch the relief wash over her face. But nervousness settles in once more as she sits on top of you.

Her bum erects your cock, sliding up its backside and teasing the tip like she did the night before. You even get a feel of a cameltoe through her shorts. Your hands find her waist and you help her sway her hips side to side. Wonyoung's constantly looking back at you with desperation tinting her gaze. She might not know it, but it's the plea in her gaze that's daring you to break the rules for her just one time. Just one time.

Come on, it seems to taunt, you can live with a burnt hand, you can live with being a rabbit if it means spending a night with Wonyoung. Do it.

So, when she finishes her routine, the first thing you utter is:

"Please don't go."

You've reached a new low: you've fallen for the maid's tight hot body and pretty little face, and now you can't get enough. You won't ever get enough of her, and that both satisfies and dissatisfies you. If she's so far away, how can you ever get to have at least a healthy portion of her? How can you lose yourself in her when it's forbidden?

Wonyoung looks at you regretfully. "Sir," she begins, hand steadied on the doorknob.

"Please, Wony."

The nickname ignites a firework in her. The flame shoots through her trembling hands, pretty face, and drenched core.

When did words alone make her feel so… warm? Her legs feel weak all of a sudden, and though she knows she can get in trouble for entertaining you more, invisible puppet strings drag her to you. Her lust, like some tumors, has formed a mind of its own, and it overpowers her logic already. It intends to keep her on the track towards granting her sexual needs.

"If we do it," she says hesitantly, "do you promise to never tell anyone?"

"I swear."

Wonyoung nods, registering your oath and making a silent one of her own, too. "Okay, thank you."

"Of course."

"And… and can you call me Wony?"

You promise to. You swear on your risked life and heart poisoned by Wonyoung's presence that somehow thrives with the toxicity.

To illustrate what happens after that, and how your pants and her underwear end up slipping off and her thin legs are suddenly curled around your waist, is difficult. It's hard to remember who initiated everything, or even make verbal guesses when your lips are entangled with Wonyoung. Any attempts to cover any hidden CCTVs should have been made earlier when your hands weren't on her thighs, lifting her to the bed and keeping her down there as kissing becomes the only thing you know.

You don't know if Wonyoung is a good kisser or it's all because of how plump her lips are. They wrap around your own with such soft security that the tenderness of it makes slipping your tongue inside her ignites feelings of just a tiny bit of guilt. But then you remember that corrupting Wonyoung from a sweet girl with little experience to a nymphomaniac is exactly what you want to do, and the guilt goes away almost completely.

"You kiss so well, sir," she says, much to your surprise when you've just completed an internal monologue about how good she kisses.

"You're not so bad yourself. Fucking love these lips." You lick a stripe of lust over her mouth and she giggles. "Show me what they're good for, Wony."

"You mean, like… suck your cock?"

"You're a quick girl."

"I am, but only for you, sir."

Wonyoung takes this as her sign to switch the positions, with you being the one on the bed while she gets on her knees. The size difference between your erection and her small face surprises you. With how small Wonyoung is all over, especially her little mouth, how can she take you?

Luckily for you—and for the equally turned on maid—that's the thrill of it. She's big and tall around everyone but you, and that alone already makes you want to do the most unholy things to her. Show her who's truly the big one in this situation, show her where she belongs, which is below you, between your legs and making puppy eyes for your cock.

The light dawns on Wonyoung's pleading face. She pouts, grabbing a hold of your cock and swiping it on her mouth, before asking, "Please? May I pretty, pretty please suck your cock?"

"You can anytime. Wouldn't mind if I pull on your cute pigtails, right, Wony? You'd let me tug on them while I fuck your face?"

"Oh!" Wonyoung nods eagerly. Is that even a question? Of course she'd let you. "Yes, yes, sir, please do. Wony doesn't care if it hurts. Wony only wants you."

Are those tempting words part of her training course prior to becoming a maid? Maybe, and perhaps closing her sweet lips cleanly around your dick is a lesson there, too; it's a lesson she passed with flying colors.

Her hair's already twisted in your fingers, ready for when the overpowering emotion of lust hits. Meanwhile, her hands are on your thighs to guide her in pushing her head back and forth. Her eyes sparkle more than the stars in the night sky outside the window.

She clicks her tongue on the bottom side of your cock. Hissing, you make your first tug, mumbling her name in almost rueful tones. Yea, rue Wonyoung for how fucking sexy she is, rue her for taking your eyes off the people you're supposed to be with. Oh, yes, rue her. Her punishment ought to be what's happening right now, but she's enjoying it a little too much for it to be called one.

"So good!" she says pitchily, as if your cock were actual food that's left a lasting first impression. "Mm, oh, you're so big and long, sir. I love how your precum tastes. But I want the, the real cum from you, too."

"Wonyoung…"

There's her name again, never leaving your thoughts but departing from your lips. You rise from the edge of the bed and poke your dick against the inside of her cheek, and God, does she look adorable. It feels good, too.

"Mmm, mmm! You'll give it to me, won't you?" Wonyoung looks up at you expectantly, speaking between effortless blowing. "You'll give plenty of cum for Wonyoung, right?"

"If you keep blowing me like that, I might as well."

The last three words come all rambled against each other, tied closely between syllables as you're losing your breath. Dragging your cockhead against Wonyoung's tongue and cheeks brings you a lot closer than you'd like, but you really don't want to deny her of what she wants. You'd love to spoil her with numerous shots of semen, all over her beautiful and angelic face, plus inside her prepared mouth.

"Oh, then I'll keep doing it." She giggles mischievously. Your hips are contained by her hands as she starts to bob her head. You gasp as you fill her throat and part its tightness. Her tongue teases your balls pressing against her lips and your throbbing veins. "Mmm, like this, sir? C'mon, fuck my throat. Give me your cum."

You aren't going to deny her of that either. Your cock enters the depths of her throat with the help of your fists pulling onto Wonyoung's braids. She lets out soft grunts whenever you thrust, and soon, her effortless blowing becomes difficult to replicate.

It's sadistic pleasure when her gags stimulate your cock even further, as if she were just another pretty little fuckdoll whose purpose is none other than that, and her mouth opens wider for air only to be filled again with cock. Her breaths are far away, and with your musky scent filling her nostrils, she can't even get oxygen. Spit and gags are all you can hear aside from your own heavy groans and Wonyoung's whines. A world outside of sex with her doesn't exist at the moment—it's just you and her, and there's no turning back.

And, even with only you and her in this universe, you still get lost in the warm wet pleasure of her mouth.

The merciless assaults you do unto her face, using what's supposed to be the visual of the century being displayed in billboards nationwide as your personal fuckhole, make both of you scream. Like an experiment gone wrong, you explode in Wonyoung's mouth. Her drool slides down her chin as her tongue sticks out, trying to catch the hosed eruptions of semen into her mouth. She wants it all inside her, and there's no excuses that can be made for drops gone wasted.

That's what the rest of her face is for. You pull out and spray your cum on her. More explodes

"Sir, oh, sir, that's so much!" Wonyoung opens her mouth wide and sticks out her tongue, her eyes closed. "Yes, thank you, I'll take all of it!"

There are promises all over the world that are broken everyday, but Wonyoung keeps hers, true to her word: hands on her knees, like the obedient little maid she is, she lets your mess launch into her mouth and face. Even when some get into her hair, or a few specks roll down her maid outfit, she stays still and lets the tide take its toll on her.

It settles eventually, like all things do at some point. But it's made clear that this sex thing won't—you still want more. Like lust and gluttony, the sin of greed has taken over you. You long for more of Wonyoung, for her everything, knowing that this might be the last night you're ever allowed to see her again. They're sure to be watching everything going on.

You stand to lock the door. As the latch falls into place as well as the dresser table for extra security, Wonyoung's eyes sparkle; it means that the two of you aren't done yet.

"You're going to give me the real thing, right, sir?" A good pet and a good girl, Wonyoung crawls, following your steps, and sets her used face on your knee when you sit back down. "Right? Please say I'm right."

You laugh. After stroking her hair, you wipe the cum off her face with your thumb and offer it to Wonyoung. She sucks on it, as expected. "Aren't you supposed to be leaving? I thought you didn't want to do this."

"Oh, but I do, sir. I wanted to but I was scared… but I'm not scared anymore. I want you and your cock inside me, now."

You dig your thumb deeper into her tongue. Wonyoung whimpers, forced to open her mouth wider. "I'm afraid you don't get to make the rules around here, Wonyoung," you taunt. "But maybe if you tell me what you want, I'll give it to you."

"Really?"

"Sure, why not? But don't get your hopes up, Wony."

"Hahmm, okay." Wonyoung's finger dimples her chin. "I want you to fuck me."

"Dirty little mouth you got there."

Wonyoung blushes. "You made me like this, sir. It's your fault. I want you to take responsibility."

"In what way?"

"No…"

"I need you to be more specific, doll," you say. You raise her chin upwards. She juts her bottom lip out. "I'm risking everything here for you. Tell me what you want."

"I want sir to fuck me… to fill me up like I'm his little breeding toy." Wonyoung squirms. She's getting turned on at her own words. "Yes, yes, I want that—I know it'll hurt because I haven't been fucked by a cock as big as his, but I don't care. I want you to fill my insides and fill every hole. I want you to make it last."

"Even if we might never get to see each other again? Even if you might lose your job?"

"I don't care if I do, sir. All I want is you."

"You're a desperate little thing, aren't you, Wonyoung?" you ask, smiling a little. "But that's good enough for me. Get on the bed."

Wonyoung obeys a little too fast for someone who's only met you once. Where is the hesitation from earlier? Out of the window—she's on all fours on the mattress, skirted ass and pussy jut out. She's shameless, bold, and you certainly wouldn't have thought she'd be this weak for cock if you had only met her outside of this hotel. Her angelic looks just sweep out all possibilities of sluttiness, or at least, you would have thought so, because why is she whining helplessly right now, all for your dick?

Her soft sounds are subliminal messages. They tell you to spank her soft ass and have your way with her. They're so powerful that you do exactly that: you draw your hand back as far as you could and slap Wonyoung's ass cheek. Her knees tremble, and she's whispering your soft honorific over and over.

"Sir, please," Wonyoung whispers. "No more. I need you right now."

She doesn't need to say it when her soft, virginal cunt dribbles a waterfall of wetness. You make it a point to let your fingers slap its puffy lips as well. It sends the little maid crying out in pain, but it couldn't be that if she's spreading her legs more, right?

"Need your cock inside me," she says. She winces and cringes through the spanks. "Mm! Need it to ruin me, sir! Need it to make your maid too tired to work, please, please, please!"

"You're risking your job here, Wony," you say, a proud smirk on your face as you remind her of what's at stake, "you're risking everything just for my cock. And you've only met me once. My god, you really are a slut."

"Mhmm, I am!"

"And you know what happens to bad little maids like you, right?" Throwing one last harsh spank, you lean over to whisper in her ear. "They get this."

Wonyoung screams a ramble of curses when your cock enters her. You suppose she's truthful about never having done much of this before; she's painfully tight. Grunts already depart from your lips at the first few thrusts.

"Jesus fucking Christ." You're hypnotized by her reddened ass bouncing against your stomach as you drill into her. Your hands are wrapped tightly around her little waist to feel more of the round cheeks clap.

"Sir!" she shouts. She never gives you a break; her vaginal walls are always swallowing your length and keeping most of it there. "More, please, more, I need it!"

Wonyoung's pussy is better than just having her do a lap dance on you. It isn't even a debatable matter when it's wet just right for you to slide in and out of her hot warm hole, and tight enough to pleasure your cock like she was designed for fucking. Sizable breasts, pretty dazed face, and slim bod? It's hard to believe that those descriptions do not belong to a sex doll but instead to Wonyoung, but she's becoming one herself also.

That's exactly the reason why you're more than happy to give more to her. You glide your hands everywhere, feeling her beautiful body almost worshipfully. You're afraid to break her; she's so slim that you might hurt her with one wrong move, but your fear doesn't really match up with how mercilessly you're pounding her, how you're forcing her to scream out your honorifics as if the walls were soundproof.

You're worried, to be honest. You know they're watching, and you know other people are still waiting for their daily routine with her. You know that the two of you could get in trouble that extends to more than a simple scolding. More clarity would have hit you like a brick wall in your way if it weren't for Wonyoung screaming:

"Yes, yes, yes, fuck me like that! Ha– oh!"

Wonyoung lets out a tiny exhale at your hands pulling on her braids. With the help of the tugs, your eyes enjoy the sight of her expressions contorting with the pleasure and pain. One second, she's pursing her lips and her eyes are wide open, and in the other millisecond her mouth hangs with yelps and gasps. Wonyoung is not afraid to show how she feels, which motivates you to keep pounding. Every flush drill into her naked lower body draws another orgasmic expression on her pretty face.

"That's right, Wony likes having her little pussy stretched out," you growl. Sex might as well be an exercise; you're straining your hips with how hard you pull out and push, and getting your hands sore as they grasp her braids. Wonyoung is merely your equipment. "You do, don't you? Pretending you're an innocent babygirl just to tempt me?"

"Y-yes," she says, biting her lip. "I love sir's hard cock! I love how it hurts, oh yes—"

"Of course you do, baby. It doesn't matter what I do to you, you'll always cum for me. You'll put everything on the, fuck, line just for my dick."

Wonyoung squeals throughout firm rubs on her clit. Her lower body sways and flinches, and she's beginning to struggle to keep herself up. Luckily, there's your grip on her braids to keep her upright, to keep her in position for fucking.

"That's right, sir," she tells you. Her words are cut off by tiny gasps. "I'll always cum for you, I want to be the one you use forever. I don't care if we get caught, I don't care, I just want you."

"Of course. Nobody can fuck you as good as me. You're mine to ruin. Now cum for me like a good girl, Wony. Don't hold back."

She nods. She's almost there. Just a few more sunken thrusts into her warm pussy, and she's going to lose it. It's an ending she actually looks forward to. Being able to squeeze around you and to sheen your girth with squirt seems like an achievable goal. It doesn't even have to be time-based, too, she realizes, when her legs shake once more.

"Ohhhh, fuck! Sir, oh my god, sir, I'm cumming!"

Dragging your penis against her textured sensitive spot, you fuck Wonyoung into an orgasm. It arrives (you smile at the pun) like a heavy flood. If you were the one to spray your cum on her earlier, now it's reversed—Wonyoung's vagina squirts a mess of girl cum and nectar onto your lower body and the little clothes that remained on you. She's screaming so loud that you bet even soundproof walls wouldn't be able to hold back her shouts. No, the walls and windows would shatter, and the bed would break into pieces as well, with the help of her limbs scrambling to steady herself. Wonyoung has gone crazy, finally corrupted to the core as it contains all of your plentiful cum.

You tug her braided ponytails up and let her kneeling form rest against your chest. Her head rests against your shoulder, and from there, you hear her muttering senseless sentences. They can't even be called so when they're fragments of words that don't mix well together, but fortunately, you understand what she means: you fucked her really well.

It could go two ways with Wonyoung when you start to kiss her neck and shoulders: fortunate or unfortunate. She might be ready to have her other hole filled, but on the other hand, she might need more time to recover. But that isn't a matter you linger on when kissing Wonyoung's pretty collarbone and shoulders is a better task to fulfill. She's gasping softly, unable to moan because of losing her voice in her orgasm earlier, but you still work your magic.

"Sir…" she mutters. Exhaustion rides her body like a carousel. It makes her weak, and your kissing doesn't help aid her situation.

"Yes, Wony?"

She leans back more into your neck, and curves her head to the side so that her words play out next to your ear: "I want more."

4. RABBITHOLE

"You sure?" you say. This is probably one of the few times she has had sex, and it's only one night. Maybe it's going too fast?

"Does sir not want to fill my little asshole up?" Wonyoung asks. She guides your fingers to her sides. As if her body and your hands were magnets, they join instantly. "Doesn't he want Wony anymore?"

God knows what Wonyoung referring to herself in third person does to you. Your cock hardens and bumps her ass cheeks, and you’re required to tighten your hold on her hips to maintain your stability. "I—I want you, Wonyoung," you say. "But are you sure you're ready?"

She blushes. It's little caring questions like these that put her into the most passive state imaginable. When that state of mind imprisons her, she only wants to make you feel good. "Yes, sir."

There it is. It's your cue to switch positions, make use of as little time as possible to recover, and get ready.

You lather her asshole with makeshift lube. You drag squirt from her pussy to her rear end, using it as lube. Wonyoung, now sitting on the bed, watches. She's overcome with lust. Her puckered hole twitches as you tease your cock against it.

"Don't tease me, sir,” begs Wonyoung. She parts her leg a little more, then leans back into the mattress. The way she’s looking at you with those sultry yet pure eyes and how her legs are spread underneath the maid dress are straight out of a porn. Wonyoung’s so tempting, so irresistible, that you wonder every now and then if she’s even real. She’s a walking doll from head to toe, made to fuck and be fucked, which leaves the question: why aren’t you filling her asshole up yet?

You bunch together a whole lot of effort to push your cock through her hole. It’s a little less wet than her pussy, but god, is it tight. Wonyoung moans softly and tries to relax, but every push makes her impulsively clench down. You’re afraid that you might blow early, and you really don’t want this to end yet.

“Sir, sir,” she says, eyes widening to the size of saucers when you grab her legs and push them back. “Fuck, it’s so good, I can’t—”

You groan a little. “Yes you can, Wony.” Your thumbs slide up and down on her thighs affectionately. “You’re my good girl, right? You can take it.”

“Hnnn.” Wonyoung shuts her eyes. Her moans and whimpers are a series of pleasure that almost makes you forget about being careful rather than urge you to be. You’d love to hear more of those pretty moans from her, but she can’t make them unless she’s comfortable. “Is it all in yet, sir?”

Her asshole has taken in most of your rod. You suppose that’s good for a first-timer. It’s good enough for a little white lie. “Yep. Good girl. Can I move now?”

“Okay… just be careful.”

With a girl like Wonyoung, careful sex is out of the question. But oh, you try, you truly do. Make use of your shaft covered with Wonyoung’s pussy juices to lube up the journey inside her asshole. Let her wet cunt make it easier to slip into her tight, brown hole. You enjoy the helpless, corrupted look in her face and the feel of her pillowy thighs in your hands, and you can safely presume that she’s enjoying it, too. Soft hums of pain still barely make it out from between her knit lips, but her eyes roll back—it’s a different feeling, for sure, yet it feels good.

“Fuck, Wony, you’re a tight fit.”

“Thank you, sir,” says Wonyoung. Her pale cheeks have turned red again.

She rubs a finger over her nub so more of her juices can lubricate her rear end. It’s effective; although Wonyoung writhes with the double pleasure, the unusual method makes it easier to fuck her. Now, thrusting inside her is almost like doing so to her pussy: tight and wet. Her ass ripples beautifully, and her expressions catch you off guard. Her jaw is on the ground and her eyes look upwards, as if doing so helped ease the experience. However, she shuts them, as making that expression makes you hammer harder into her butt.

“That’s it, sir, it feels so good now. You’re so big inside me.”

“Deeper then?” you challenge her. You push her legs deeper into the mating press position, and you can visibly see her pussy clench around nothing but air. You’re allowed to travel deeper inside her butt this way, and Wonyoung couldn’t be more ecstatic.

“Yes, hmmm! So hard, sir, I can feel you throbbing!”

Does a sir kink exist? If not, it does now—Wonyoung’s polite honorific has become the easiest method to harden and lengthen your erection. Each time she calls you that, with those same watery eyes and puffy lips, you’re driven to deliver hammered thrusts in her hole, whichever one. In a way, she’s corrupted you, too. If you erased the former innocent maid she is, she’s transformed you into a man who can only go weak for her. Other women have no effect on you when the hotel maid is the one you’d rather pin down the bed and fuck till she passes out.

And she doesn’t even know it.

“Fuck, Wonyoung.” You give in to your impulsive thrusting, wringing screams of pleasure from her throat. “What the fuck are you doing to me, hm?”

Wonyoung’s next inhalation of air is delayed due to the obstacle that is your hand wrapped around her throat. She whines out. “Sir, oh my god—”

“This is all your plan, isn’t it, you naughty girl? You want me to do anything for you. You want my cock so bad that you make me want you, too. And for what, hm? For a quick dicking down? You’re fucking pathetic.”

Degrading word after degrading word leaves your mouth, but each makes Wonyoung thrust her core upwards to meet your clashing sex. She’s become paler, weaker, sluttier—all in the span of your furious sex session. You’ve no idea why you’re saying all those words that would hurt a normal person’s feelings and dignity, especially when Wonyoung is too angelic and pretty to be guilty of anything, but if it makes Wonyoung look like she’s on the edge of cumming at all times, then you’ll stick to that plan.

“I bet you like walking around in your little outfit, Wony, and wearing those pigtails, too, because you know people are going to look. Is that what you want? For people to notice how goddamned fuckable you are? Because if it is, it’s fucking working.”

Pausing is a faraway dream; you keep on rambling, and your thrusts remain rapid. A stream of ruined breaths squeeze out of Wonyoung’s mouth. Her pillow-like cheeks clench tighter around your cock, as if it were agreeing.

“Sir,” coughs out Wonyoung. Tears spill down her face, but she keeps on rubbing her small clit, and, on occasion, fingerfucking her cunt. “I’m going—god, I’m going to—”

“Cum? Do it, then. Cum all over my dick, but we’re not finished. The night is still young, Wony; we have all the time in the world.”

Releasing Wonyoung’s throat does nothing to help her breathe when your lips crash into hers immediately. She’s screaming into your mouth. You propel yourself closer to orgasm with your thrusting, then fully cream her butthole. Wonyoung’s cum squirts all over the place: on the bed sheets, your shirt, and your cock. She stops rubbing herself, apparently giving up on taking more, but you continue the loop for her.

Her screams continue. They’re a melody to accompany your thrusts, and your sleep, for you collapse on the bed, tired and weak.

You'll meet your end today. They already found out. That's definitely certain; mandatory love is no winning game. Love in general isn't, especially when it's founded on merely scrawny and lustful sex. The lines between lust and love blur, and it becomes more dangerous than it actually is.

So, now that you remember how all this—a young, gorgeous woman by the name of Jang Wonyoung in the crook of your arm, her hand on your cock and glossy lips on yours—start, what do you do now?

Well, for one, you have to reminisce about the past and pray for there to be a future, just one more time. You've to live in what once was as if the former days were the current ones and what's now is nothing to worry about. But you shouldn't dwell too long; the rapid knocking on your door is growing louder and louder.

#kpop smut #izone smut #ive smut #jang wonyoung smut #wonyoung smut #izone wonyoung smut #ive wonyoung smut #wonyoung #jang wonyoung #male reader #x reader #reader insert #pov smut

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srbachchan · 8 days

Text

DAY 5948

Jalsa, Mumbai May 31-June 1, 2024 Fri/Sat 12:14 AM

🪔 ,

June 01 .. birthday greetings to Ef Barun Sen .. and Ef Manish Singh Rajpoot .. 🙏🏻🚩❤️

Belated birthday greetings to Ef Amit Agrawal from Seattle USA 🇺🇸 .. for May 31 .. 🙏🏻🚩❤️

and all the wishes for the birthdays from the Ef family .. love ❤️

so each day is a learning .. what I learnt today stays .. and is replicated to others , and in particular family and the dear ..

I learn today ..

aaahh .. never mind ..

it be not of interest or importance to share to the other .. there is ever the reason for it .. and it be that , better to get the sharing of another that is greatly more proficient and valued than what you may have picked up .. and that is and has been the practice, at least for me .. I may be of the opinion that my learning could be of value to another .. but what if his or her learning is sufficiently more interesting than mine .. to assume that yours is the best is my fallacy .. and fear in many ways .. to be put down is an embarrassment .. ever .. you think you know all but there are millions of others better than you .. you m ay be the strongest physical presence in your environ, until you turn a corner on the street and discover that there are several others stronger than you .. your boast goes to roast .. !!

so ..

come to me .. yes , come .. but -

wait .. wait .. wait .. !!

I am never the best ..

and wait .. wait .. waaaiiittttt .. could be the utterance from AAA in film coming out of an Easter egg , giberiging :

'the whole country of the system is juxtapositioned by the haemoglobin in the atmosphere .. !!'

but it was just ad. libbed at the recording by me .. not making any sense .. Manmohan Ji just allowed me to say any junk at my request .. just so it looks like a proficient English speaking Anthony, when indeed he is not .. and merely just rattling off some BUMFF .. !

AND ..

you shall be surprised and shocked as am I , that it was mere junk spoken by me .. but the Ef Bushra on a research of the film Amar Akbar Anthony by the interview given by Man ji to an English journalist or writer found this :

The song ‘My name is Anthony Gonsalves’ begins with these lines spoken by Anthony when he emerges from the Easter egg – “You see, the whole country of the system is juxtapositioned by the hemoglobin in the atmosphere because you are a sophisticated rhetorician intoxicated by the exuberance of your own verbosity.” It is an almost exact quotation from a speech in the Parliament of the United Kingdom given by British Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli in 1878. Disraeli (who was referring to William Ewart Gladstone) used the word “inebriated” rather than “intoxicated.”

wooooaaaahhhh !!! 😳

AND .. hang on ..

I had some days ago either a letter or a WhatsApp message from a cinema fan and a very proficient scientist, I think from the US, an Indian doing research on space , that the words :

'juxtapositioned by the haemoglobin in the atmosphere'

is a scientific fact .. that indeed there is this factor and a reality, scientifically proven, of 'haemoglobin in the atmosphere, being juxtapositioned,' or something like this .. and his purpose of writing to me was ..

how did mr B know of this fact years before it was researched ..

🤣

NO NO NO sir .. I knew nothing .. they were just funny sounding words that were invented at the time of the song recording live by me, spontaneously, without any pre prep or meaning, and enacted in the song , my name is Anthony Gonsalves ... !!!!

OHHH .. BABY .. !!!

I must search that mail or letter .. to give the correct interpretation of this scientist ..

so where did we start today ..?

aaah yes .. learning ..

told you .. never a dull day ..🤨

Love night and dreams 😴

Amitabh Bachchan

... such a common phenomena 👆🏼 in the days of the cassette generation

🤣

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mitsuyaya · 1 year

Text

[ magnum opus ] okkotsu yuuta

contains: 409 words. characters are aged up, domestic fluff, implied/referenced sex, established relationship

summary: yuuta has finally seen the greatest artwork ever made and it's you, sleeping like an angel in his bed

jjk masterlist

yuuta feels like he shouldn't be seeing you like this.

so bare, unguarded, vulnerable, cladded with nothing but his thick blanket. sleeping soundly in the comfort of his bed, hair messy and marks from what you both did last night is still etched in your soft skin.

you look like an artwork, a painting so ethereal that a mere human could never come close, could never replicate. it felt surreal for a moment, that in this very second it was just hallucination, a figment of his fantasies and yet, when you slowly opened your eyes, cracked a sweet smile – he was reminded that this is real, that you're here.

“morning yuu” even the half asleep tone in your voice sends his heart and brain in a frenzy. “yuu?” he should speak, he tries to but he can't, he couldn't choke out the words he wants to tell you. yuuta fears that if he speaks the moment would be ruined, the painting he's ever so lucky to gaze at would be sullied.

“why are you staring at me?” a smile reappeared on your face, gazes locked on each other, until yuuta breaks the silence and finally speaks.

“i’m sorry you just look so pretty I couldn't help but stare” you giggled and yuuta swore it sounded like a chorus of angels, a harmonious sound of harps playing in the distance.

“very pretty” his hand slid from the sheets into the side of your face, you leaned into his touch, staring back at him with those angelic eyes, everything is just perfect, it felt like he became one with the painting he's admiring.

yuuta's thumb caresses your cheek, face inching closer until you could feel his breath fanning into yours. “my pretty girl” he says lovingly, kissing your eyelids, your nose, and a faint press on his lips into your own. “you’re so sappy” you scoot closer to him as he wraps an arm around your waist.

silence once again consumes his bedroom, with you lulling back to sleep with his fingers playing with your hair and his eyes still fixated on you.

this was everything he ever dreamed of ever since the first time he saw you, to lie next to you, to have you, to be with you.

yuuta glances at your face one last time, as he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep, engraving in his heart and mind the greatest art he had ever seen.

#jjk x reader #jjk scenarios #jjk imagines #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jujutsu kaisen scenarios #jujutsu kaisen fluff #okkotsu x reader #okkotsu fluff #okkotsu imagines #okkotsu scenarios #okkotsu yuta x reader #okkotsu yuta fluff #okkotsu yuta imagines #jjk x you #okkotsu yuta x you #okkotsu yuuta x reader #jjk headcanons

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targaryenrealnessdarling · 8 months

Text

Innata Malevolentia - Part Two

Summary: Dibs gathers the prisoners for a devastating announcement | Word Count: 2.8k ~ | warnings below the cut!

Series Masterlist | Links to my Taglists: General Taglist | Ettore Taglist

warnings: mentions of past non-con crimes (but vague), intimate examinations, Ettore being creepy, mentions of forced pregnancy, forcing others into sexual situations, manipulation, mentions of a menstrual cycle and ability to bear children, violence, threatening language and actions

Nothing strikes fear in the heart like the feeling of being followed.

Completely helpless. With no weapons but your own fists to use should you need.

Against a man, broad and tall, muscled and fit, what chances were there for her?

If he so wanted, everytime he walked past her cell, looking inside with barely-contained malicious intent, he could do anything.

She dreaded Dibs coming into the room at night, to tighten the zip ties on their wrists to keep them in their beds.

"Is this really necessary for all of us?" She'd asked with a stiff look once.

Dibs didn't reply, and kept her eyes averted to the task at hand, and as punishment had even tightened them somewhat compared to normal. The plastic dug into her wrists uncomfortably, even making it difficult to relax and go to sleep in the first place.

Maybe Dibs knew what Ettore wanted, and thought, that she should be awake to see it happen.

"You shouldn't make her hate you more than she already does" Mink mused, her wrists bound loosely at her sides, only her head turned towards her cellmate.

She scoffed, "You think she hates me?" She asked sarcastically, rolling her eyes, "forgive me for not wanting to be tied down to my bed while I sleep"

Mink sighed and looked towards the ceiling.

"Not ideal" is all she replied with, "Boyse has really dropped us all in it, huh?"

She wasn't in the mood to make a joke of it. For her, it was a real fear she felt. And the idea that the threat named Ettore looked ever closer the more she thought about it.

There were only so many more times he'd simply walk past her room, before paying her a visit.

Mink slept like a fucking log. And he probably knew this, having walked past many times, his steps increasing in volume as if to rest if anything would rouse her into wakefulness.

He was making a meal out of it. Well and truly.

Stalking his prey. Seeing which way was best to tear her open.

Days didn't exist on the ship. Only periods of time between sleeping.

Of course they'd try to replicate days and nights with the lighting but it never felt natural. And it always felt it dragged on more than it would have done on Earth.

When Dibs came back in one morning to cut the zip ties from each of the women's hands, she left with parting words.

"Infirmary. 1 hour"

Simple as that.

She'd given Mink a weird look.

It couldn't mean anything good.

Was it everyone? Or just them?

But they soon found out when they walked to the opposite side of the ship, that it wasn't even the entire population of prisoners, though few. But more like 5 or 6.

The infirmary wasn't large by any means, so when they all piled on, they were practically shoulder to shoulder. Apart from her, who managed luckily to nab a chair in front of Mink, who stood behind her with her hand on her shoulder in comfort of what was to come.

However bad it would be.

Dibs was waiting in her chair near her desk. With a file in hand. Looking stiffly at everyone as they entered.

It wasn't just women, Monte and Tchemy had also joined after a moment. And lastly, three minutes late, Ettore also. He stood leaning disinterested against the doorway, tall enough to see everyone inside.

She didn't miss the way he threw a smug glance in her direction. Her head whipped forward, even the briefest of eye contact made all the little hairs at the back of her neck stand on end.

"Thank you all for dropping by" Dibs started.

As if you haven't forced us to be here, she thought.

Every one of them looked wholly disinterested. Bored even. Monte had his arms crossed over his chest, his chin tipped upwards with his eyes looking down on her.

What was the deal with those two? There was something more to it than met the eye.

"I know the rumours that have been circulating, about the purposes of your frequent appointments" she continued, crossing her legs and playing with the end of her long braid slumped over her shoulder.

"I am here to tell you now that they are somewhat true. In line with my research I wish to create a healthy fetus, to check the effects of radiation on development"

She wanted to scoff.

It sounded so sick when she said it out loud. And yet, she seemed almost proud of it.

"For months, I have been collecting sperm samples, but so far any attempt at conception through artificial insemination have been…unsuccessful"

Good.

She felt Mink's hand on her shoulder grip just that bit tighter. Confirming, she was right. She'd always been right.

"Therefore, I am planning to endeavour upon a new method. One I hope will prove fruitful to our cause"

Our cause.

Who did she think she was? Did she think they were all grateful to be stuffed like a Christmas turkey given the first opportunity?

She was fucking delusional.

Before she could open her mouth, Boyse beat her to it.

She always had a short fuse.

"Just get on with it" Boyse shifted from foot to foot, putting on a front of toughness, despite being afraid herself.

Every woman was thinking the same thing.

What the fuck did this have to do with us?

But Boyse's inability to hide her fear only made Dibs smile.

"I have examined all the females, and have come to the conclusion that you three" she pointed to them, all huddled together to make themselves appear bigger, "have working reproductive systems, and semi-regular menstrual cycles"

And?

"You will be paired up with a male based solely on your genetic compatibility. Opposing immune systems. With the goal of creating a strong, healthy fetus"

What. The. Fuck.

The air was sucked out of the room.

Mink's hold faltered and fell to her side. Shocked.

Dibs smiled as she carried on, "to create a child in the natural manner"

Oh fuck that.

"This is hardly natural" she spat, with poison in her voice. Dibs hooded her eyes as she looked at her.

But it didn't deter her one bit.

She was entitled to give her every bit of anger she felt.

"You're playing god"

Dibs didn't respond to that. But her lips twitched, as if she were holding back the urge to smile.

"And what if we refuse?" Mink asked, her fingers trembling with anger.

"With all due respect" Dibs answered quickly, "I'm afraid that's impossible"

"You can't make us!" Boyse exploded, her cheeks all red, stance like a cat ready to pounce.

She wanted to be sick. It felt like being sold, without even the decency to exchange funds.

Some of these people were murderers. Rapists. The worst of the worst.

It felt wholly wrong to be betrayed by your own sex. Given to the opposite like a fully wrapped present they hadn't been allowed to touch til Christmas morning.

Some of the men, she knew, were just aching for the permission to touch them. Having been restricted for so long inside prison, as well as unable to do anything whilst incarcerated on Earth.

To do anything they wanted.

And all of the women felt betrayed that Dibs had given it, without thought of their pain, their honour and dignity.

She had thrown blood in shark-infested waters.

And she didn't know if something like that could be forgiven.

There was nowhere to hide from them.

Because now, those men they were forced to live alongside in fear felt entitled to them.

To their bodies.

To enact their barely-contained violence in a manner which struck fear into all the women involved.

A fear only a woman would understand.

The fear of suddenly realising that these men were so much larger than them. Stronger.

And it wouldn't take any effort whatsoever to hold them down and do what they liked.

It was like walking home at night all over again, tugging your coat over your body tighter to appear smaller, with each key nestled between your fingers, and the echoed laughter of a group of men behind you.

Women had good peripheral vision.

It was sickening to think it was evolutionary.

A needed skill.

But here, when outside of these cold, metal walls, there only existed emptiness, dread widened a pit in their stomachs.

There was no escape.

Dibs read from her file.

"Based on genetic compatibility, Boyse shall be paired with Monte"

Boyse argued, and Monte simply stated he wouldn't do it, preferring to keep his fluids to himself.

But her gaze remained on Dibs in front of her, arms crossed across her chest instinctually, waiting to hear her name.

"Mink with Tchemy"

She closed her eyes, bracing for impact. Like waiting for an oncoming car to hit you, the headlights becoming brighter, anticipating the air being punched out your lungs.

"And Ettore with-"

Fuck.

Even her name next to his made her want to vomit.

And then came the thought of what they'd have to do.

And that nearly made her gag in reality. An acrid, sour taste flooding her mouth. Her limbs feeling numb, like all the gravity had been sucked out from the ship.

She dare not look at him.

Her eyes immediately went about the room until she spotted what she'd been after.

A scalpel.

She looked at Dibs with indifference. Not wanting to give her the benefit of thinking she cared enough to act out.

Dibs knew what Ettore was.

And still, relinquished her fellow woman to him. In pursuit of a fucked up, unethical experiment on a child.

"You may begin tomorrow. Share a cell if that is easier"

Fuck you, you old cunt.

You know 'he' will not wait a day.

"I will book in weekly appointments, to check your progress"

And I will cave your fucking face in.

It was difficult to say nothing.

She still didn't spare Ettore a look when she got up, slipping past Mink, who was stood still in complete shock. She used this brief moment with Mink blocking her body to slide a scalpel off the table and slip it into her pocket.

Boyse was verbally abusing Monte, stating that she wouldn't let him touch her.

Mink and Tchemy simply stared at one another from different ends of the room, resigned to it.

When she reached the door, his arm was across it.

She lifted her eyes to his, and saw what she expected. A smirk pulled at his lips, his features, sharp and defined, were exaggerated with the harsh clinical light. His otherwise blue eyes, were pushed to the edge with the black of his iris, glimmering.

Like an animal with a meal in front of it.

Unchained.

He leaned back, dropping his hand, to let her pass.

She almost didn't want to walk past him, like she'd be tangled in his vine like hold if she dared. As if he'd drag her beneath the depths and give her no air just to watch the way she clawed at her throat in desperation.

Even when she was walking down the hallway, to the toilets to be sick, she felt no respite. No sense of safety in being away from him.

She knew he'd be back for her.

That he'd let her go now, to play with her. Make her second guess if she was really safe.

It was dizzying, the dull tingle in her gut she got when she saw him now. Like being punched square in the face with your ears ringing, before your body falls limply to the ground with nothing to cushion your fall.

It was unclear if the tingle was a nice one or not. For the sake of her sanity, she hoped not.

They were expected to go about their daily duties as if nothing had happened.

As if their lives weren't going to be irreparably changed the following day.

Whereas before, she saw him everywhere.

She hadn't seen him once since the infirmary.

It was a blessing and a curse.

Not seeing him felt safe, grounded. And that perhaps on his hellscape of a ship, there was something to feel grateful for.

But not seeing him, not even hearing his footsteps, meant that there was anticipation there. A morbid suspence.

She knew what kind of man he was. Heard the rumours of what he'd done to women before, enough to land him in this hellhole.

Who was to say he wouldn't do the same, especially now he was given permission.

But not consent.

Perhaps that's the bit he liked.

Mechanically, she folded the clothes on top of the dryer as it shook violently back and forth, the clothes being tossed inside. The loud hum vibrated the air around her, filling the otherwise quiet space.

The laundry room was a place of respite. The light in there was broken, so it didn't have the same stark vibrancy as the others. It had a dull glow, making the room look as if it caught the sunset.

Those were the things she missed about Earth. The natural things like a sunset.

But she couldn't deny that seeing the stars in a certain way made her feel calm.

But it didn't last long.

She dropped the shirt she was folding when a large, male hand slapped over her mouth, tugging her body back to crash into his. Her first instinct was to fight back.

Her breath hissed quickly against his hand through her nose as she fought, fighting the urge to gag when she felt his breath waft on her neck as he spoke.

"Stay still or I'll break your fucking neck"

His voice was dark and low. Unlike anything she'd heard before.

He sounded like an animal.

Ettore had finally come for her.

He grunted and fought as she thrashed around, his other hand coming round to wrap around her chest to keep her arms from hitting him. But he couldn't keep her from wiggling out of his grasp, and she got one elbow free and hit his jaw with a crack.

"Fucking stupid cunt" he hissed, barely reacting and as soon as she turned he struck her across the face. It wasn't even the force of it that had her vision blur and ears ring, but the abruptness of it.

Ettore grips her face with an iron hold, his fingers digging painfully into her jawbone. Holding her in place, forcing the back of her head harshly against the wall and pressing himself against her.

Even in the orange hue of the room, he looked utterly terrifying, with no warmth to him whatsoever. Only his blond hair gave off some semblance of radiance.

There was that look again.

No colour to his eyes. His jaw tight with rage.

"Don't be a spoilsport. I'm the only entertainment you're likely to get around here" he grins, "Just let me take what I want and we call it even"

Her wide eyes feel like they're shaking looking at him. And while he's preoccupied pressing his erection against her clothed core, her hand rifles in her pocket, fingers wrapping around the scalpel she'd swiped earlier.

"And if you're lucky, I might be gentle" he smiles.

The smile doesn't falter when she reaches up and presses the blade, as small as it is, against his throat before he has a chance to close in on her.

In fact, he looks amused.

"That's cute"

She can hear the blood roaring in her ears. His fingers flex against her face.

She presses the blade flush to his skin, wondering what it would be like, what it would feel like, to slash his throat, and feel his thick, oily blood cost her arms and hands.

"You're out of your league, sweetheart"

"Don't fucking call me that" she says in return, the best she can when he holds her face.

Ettore smirks, "You have no idea what I'm capable of doing to you if you continue to challenge me"

She swallows.

In a way he's right.

She had no idea what he's capable of doing.

And she doesn't want to find out.

"Touch me again and I'll slit your fucking throat"

She laughs through his nose, his fingers slipping from her face, and she takes the first genuine breath she can, after a while of holding it.

He has a way of doing that.

"I look forward to it"

She's only aware of just how close he'd been when he's gone. His tall, broad form seemed to encompass hers entirely. His aura was like the deepest poison, sinking into every pore and crack there was, turning her insides.

He could have overpowered her.

He could have.

And as he slips out of the laundry room, his gleaming eyes looking back at her trembling form with her back pressed against the washing machine, a tiny slit against his neck bleeds where the blade was pressed.

He wipes it away with his thumb like a paper cut.

He said it himself.

'I like a little struggle'.

#ettore x oc #ettore high life #ettore imagine #ettore smut #ettore x reader #ettore #ettore x y/n #ettore x you #ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell characters #high life fanfiction #high life 2018 #high life movie #ettore fan fic #ettore fanfic #ettore fan fiction #ettore fanfiction #ettore fic

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yuri-is-online · 1 year

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And Your Name Is? (Jade, Leona, Riddle)

Synopsis- After successfully resolving whatever was causing NRC to be trapped in an endless time loop of overblotting and disaster, one last reset should give him a chance to experience a normal school year with you. But instead you find yourself trapped in the here and there, appearing as a vague shadow around the school that vanishes as soon as he catches up to you. The kind thing to do would be to allow you to be forgotten in the chance it lets you return to your world.

But this is Twisted Wonderland where the kind thing is seldom done, and he wants you back as much as you want to find him again.

a/n: Look, I don't know who decided to make MICKY MOUSE a sadman deadwife in Disney's attempt at animal crossing but it gave me ideas. This is shamelessly based off that questline, feel free to request other characters. Everyone deserves a chance at angst. This probably won't be the last time I'll write something with this sort of premise meh

notes: angst with the intent of comfort, Jade is a red flag. Otherwise mild.

Jade Leech

It’s a wonder you ever lived here. Ramshackle is cold, Jade can’t bring himself to say lifeless for fear of speaking a crueler fate into existence, but the word’s on the tip of his tongue nonetheless. It’s a pity this is where you call “home,” but he can work with this. He can sweep up the cobwebs, dust every broken surface before popping the timbers back into place, figure out how to repair the upholstery so long as he sees the shimmery light that forms your shape begin to fill in. He knows if he reaches for you that you will disappear, so he lets you observe as he keeps you in the corner of his eye. Jade is careful, methodical, even as his hands shake as he launders your sheets and fluffs pillows on a bed he really wants to burn for its audacity to be so uncomfortable. He vaguely recalls requesting you make one room of this place into a giant terrarium once, a silly request he’s sure he’d make again if he could just speak to you, for no other reason than to hear you laugh. But, he supposes as he slips himself into your bed reaching out towards the in between as if he can pull you from the here and there with the sheer force of his longing; he is already sort of doing that. Just like the Sea Witch keeping creatures in glass bottles he’s trying to replicate the perfect environment for you.

“Jade?”

“I’m here.” he murmurs, not daring to open his eyes just yet, instead reaching for where he thinks your face should be. “Do you hear me? It’s past your bedtime, prefect.”

“Jade.”

“It’s awfully lonely here.” He hates the way he sounds. It’s too raw, too clear with his intent to be the tease he wants it to be. “Won’t you come to bed?”

“Jade!” His eyes open, his hand lands on you, the real you, not a shade made up of his memory, he manages to crush the urge to cry and pulls you up into his embrace. Your eyes are unfocused, confused but moving towards his touch as if you were searching for it. “W-who.. I have to find…” You move, on instinct towards his heartbeat, as he slowly strokes your arms to soothe your shaking. “Jade… I’m looking for-”

“You found me.” Jade is gentle, careful as he searches over you for any sign of distress or injury, sighing in relief when he only finds confusion. It doesn’t matter if you don’t remember specifics. It doesn’t matter to him if you’ve forgotten your own name, Jade’s known and loved you for three timelines now, he’ll remind you of who you are if that’s what you want. In the meantime, he slowly encloses you in the safety of his embrace and tries not to smile too wide as you naturally relax into him. He will build you a beautiful garden in this world, and nothing will ever harm you this badly ever again, he swears it.

Leona Kingscholar

How many times has he been forced to watch you die? He’s not sure, his memory clearly doesn’t want to cooperate with him out of fear he’ll consider the failures a waste of energy, consider you wasted energy. Give in to the self-sabotaging part of him that never wanted to love you in the first place and abandon you to your fate, and yet no matter how many times he held your limp form in his arms he never had. There was something mildly addicting in the realization that you chose him in every lifetime. Not that stupid lizard or stuck up diva, him the second born, grumpy, lazy lion.

“Leona?” Your shade has always been able to speak, and Leona’s always been able to hear it. It’s like you’re trying to retrace your steps through time, starting with your meeting in the botanical gardens up to your stay in his room. He tries to tell himself you’re like a flea burrowing its way into his skin, irritating in your presence, unwelcome. He tries to tell himself if you didn’t mean enough to this world to keep a corporeal form that you shouldn’t mean anything to him. If Twisted Wonderland rejected you then so should he.

“Leona.” He hates how alone you sound. He hates how he can see you around the gardens but can’t hear footsteps, see you sitting on the edge of the balcony but not smell you. He really wants to hate you.

“I have to… promised… Leona…”

“I’m here you know.” he mutters, half asleep under the heavy curtain of vines in the botanical gardens. “You wanna keep your promise? Then quit runnin away.” Silence. Always silence, even in his dreams no matter how hard he tries to will you back into existence. He wants to stare you down, he really does, but how is he supposed to be anything but shocked when it's really you in front of him, listless and confused.

“Leona?” You’re confused, that much is clear. He wonders, smugly as he rises without complaint for once, if his name is the only thing you remember. The flicker of fear in your eyes is something he can do without, but if you know his name then somewhere inside that empty head of yours should be the same memories that have been plaguing him.

“I hope you’re prepared.” his tail swishes in excitement, and though you remain confused he delights in how you remain unafraid. “For just what you signed up for by callin my name.”

Riddle Rosehearts

Your shadow likes to sit in the Heartslabyul rose garden. Riddle is thankful for that, his gaze is hard to avoid here. He can keep an eye on you this way while he tries to find a solution for… whatever this is. It’s sickening, really, how useless he is without a rulebook or a study guide to follow. His memories of the past time loops might be blurry but he wonders if you ever felt frustrated with him in any of them. Someone as beautiful and wonderful as you constantly choosing someone as boring as him, he wants to be proud. He wants to point out that he is clearly in the right, in some sort of way, he has to be if he was loved in any way by you. It hurts him all the more to be so useless to you, to find so little concrete about the here and there and be told by every adult he reaches out to that the only thing they know is that no one who goes there ever comes back.

His dormmates like to keep a degree of distance from you. Riddle knows that they don’t know it’s you, he’s tried to explain to them multiple times and seen as they fight hard against whatever magic is trying to erase you from Twisted Wonderland to remember clearly who you were. It’s especially hard to watch Ace and Deuce loop through their worry over you and their anger at having forgotten only to get lost in the fog once again. He had to stop himself from trying, causing your best friends pain wouldn’t bring you back to them, to him. Riddle’s stubborn, he can take the confused looks of his house when he insists they let him have a private tea party with the strange ghost that’s taken up residence in their maze.

“I’m uncertain if our professors remember what happened, but I can say with certainty some of the material has changed. It’s a relief that the quality of our education hasn’t regressed.” He pours you a cup of tea, working off of muscle memory he can’t recall the context for anymore to make it in a way you must have liked. “I’ve been taking detailed notes on what my freshmen have been learning, when you return-” his voice cracks in panic as your shadow’s outline flickers “when you return…” he tries, softer this time focusing on gently setting down the tea pot “I’ll make sure you aren’t left behind. Ace and Deuce will keep their memories this time and we’ll all get to hang out together again, you’ll always have- you always have had a place in Heartslabyul, so please, please come back.” Riddle likes to think of himself as an adult, but he pouts and cries so easily. He can feel the tears bubbling up and obscuring his vision. Hiding the view of your shadow’s shape filling in.

“Riddle?” He hiccups, undignified, unbelieving the sight he’s seeing. You look so small, so confused but still so concerned for him, pausing to reach for a napkin to wipe his tears despite how unfocused you otherwise seem to be. You reach for him, shaky but still determined. “Are you Riddle?” you whisper. “I’ve been searching for him, I promised not to let go of his hand.” Riddle reaches for your hand with both of his, leaning into you. “I’m worried he’s lonely.”

“I was.” He isn’t crying anymore, Riddle likes to think he never will again as he presses a kiss into your palm. “You can rest now prefect, you’ve made it home.”

#twisted wonderland x reader #leona kingsholar x reader #leona kingscholar #riddle rosehearts #riddle rosehearts x reader #jade leech x reader #jade leech

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judesmoonbeauty · 2 months

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Fairytale Final Assessment 1st Anniversary SE: Jude Jazza's POV Bitter End ཐིཋྀ

Fan translation only. Not 100% accurate. Please expect grammatical errors. Cybird owns everything. Feel free to re-blog, but please do NOT post my translations elsewhere. Translation notes are marked with *** Alternate translation is marked with/// Hour Glass Banners Credit: @/natimiles ཐིཋྀ

Running through the bay, I opened the doors of the warehouses with a fine-tooth comb.

(……Where the hell is she?)

Then I heard a noise in one of the warehouses.

Jude: ……

When I opened the door, I found Kate confronting the man with a gun in question.

Kate: Jude…..and Ellis.

Bowler Hat Man: Jude Jazza! I never thought you'd come to me yourself.

Bowler Hat Man: God must be on my side!

Bowler Hat Man: Now, I can take my revenge.

Kate had a scratch on her cheek, indicating that she and this chestnut had a scuffle with each other.///Kate had a scratch on her cheek, indicating that she and this clit had a scuffle with each other.***

Kate: This is not the person you were referring to Jude.

Kate: You were setting me up for a game that you knew I was going to lose from the start.

Kate: So, this was an unexpected accident. Isn't it?

Kate: Because this person you once sent to the lab shouldn't be here.

Jude: That’s right.

Kate: Then change the game.

Kate: If I can catch this person, you’ll sign the consent form.

(What are you saying at a time like this? If you get killed while you're doing that...)

(Ha. This girl….. What kind of look in her eyes does this girl have at a time like this?)

Despite the gun being pointed at her, Kate’s eyes never give up.

She looks straight at me and smiles at me with a radiant glow in her eyes.

Even though a gun was pointed at her, she had no fear of death in her eyes.

I saw in her eyes what Kate was trying to do.

(How brazen is this princess?)

Kate is smiling as if she won't die even if he kills her.

(A good look…..)

(Then let's see how you do.)

Jude: Yeah, I'll sign anythin’ ya want if ya catch this guy and put a bullet in him.

Bowler Hat Man: Hah, what a horrible man. He only thinks of you, his lover, as nothing more than a pawn.

Bowler Hat Man: When you die and are reborn, choose a better man.

The man puts his finger on the trigger and applies force.

Jude: ……..

But of course the gun can't fire a single shot.

Bowler Hat Man: What?!

A moment later, Kate slams into the man's torso as hard as she can, and he tumbles to the ground in a tangled heap.

FLASH BACK

Ellis: It's not a real gun, it's a replica.

Ellis: It’s used by replacing this gun with the opponent's gun or pretending it is a real gun.

Kate: I see.….It looks like it can be used in many ways!

FLASH BACK ENDS

Before we arrived, during the scuffle, Kate had swapped her own replicated gun with that guy’s gun.

Bowler Hat Man: This….let go of me!

Kate: I won’t let you go, I have to get his signature!

Kate: Besides.

Kate: Jude will never forgive anyone who plays with people’s lives!

Kate: He's so vindictive that he'll chase you to the ends of hell and torture you….!

(You're telling me.)

Kate screams as loud as she can while clinging to the man.

Kate: So…… you will never get away with it, ever!

Kate: As a fairy tale keeper, I can't tolerate someone like you either.

Bowler Hat Man: Shut up…….!

Jude: Kate, keep a tight grip on him.

When the man tried to take out a knife hidden beneath his wrist, I kicked it away and then broke his jaw.

Jude: Makes a nice sound, like musical instrument.

Bowler Hat Man: Argh….stop…..ugh…..

Jude: Ya hurt someone's property, there's no way I'm gonna give ya a pass on somethin’ like this.

Jude: Ellis.

Ellis: Yes, I’ll tie him up with rope.

Supervisor: Mr. Jude, everyone. Are you okay?

Jude: Ya know it when ya see it. Send this guy back to the lab.

Jude: Now you're invited to a tougher place.

Supervisor: You’re indeed callous, Mr. Jude! Then, please leave it to me to send this man back.

Kate: Ah!

Ellis: Kate, what’s wrong?

Kate: The condition for signing the consent form was that if I catch him and got a shot in, so…...

Kate: I'm sorry, excuse me for taking a shot!

Kate slapped the man as hard as she could on the cheek.

Kate: Oh, and Jude and I are not lovers, so please let me correct you there.

Jude: Fuha, stupid……

Jude: Ellis, you're gonna help me take this guy to the lab.

Kate: What……..wait a minute, Jude!

Jude: What. Ya gonna quit bein’ a fairy tale keeper after all?

Kate: Eh……

Jude: A promise is a promise.

Kate: Then!

Jude: What's with that dumb face? Ya wanted my signature, didntcha?

Kate: Oh, I want it. Please sign it!

Kate: Phew, I did it! I'm glad I persisted!

Ellis: Good for you, Kate.

(It's really disgusting…..)

As I walk, I light a cigarette, inhaling and exhaling deeply.

(A person's life is as fragile as a candle's flame.)

(Trust and a sense of justice are meaningless in the face of malice and murderous intent.)

(I understand that kind of thing better than anyone else.)

Even though I struggled to protect them, I felt despair because I couldn't protect them.

(I should've.)

Kate: Jude….

Jude: Whaddya still have to complain about?

Kate: No, just the opposite!

Kate: I realized I forgot to mention something important.

Kate: Thank you for helping me out. Also, I look forward to working with you in the future!

Kate bowed deeply, then raised her head and smiled.

(Don’t smile like that.)

(It's the hardest thing to wake up to - when someone like you dies…...)

I dig my thumb into the wound that lingers on Kate’s cheek.

Kate: Mm….ow!

Jude: Lemme tellya somethin’, smart princess.

Jude: A continuin’ agreement doesn’t guarantee permanent employment.

Jude: Which means I can demand ya be fired at any time.

Kate: What?!

Jude: If ya don't wanna be fired for dereliction of duty, work like a cart horse.

Jude: Poor thing, ya don't feel at ease at all, do ya?

Kate: ………

Kate: That's what I want!

Continuing to be the fairy tale keeper, this woman, will be by my side tomorrow.

There is so much malice in the world that you should spit it out and throw it away.

Everything about it is disgusting.

(I know, but)

(I'm the one who likes this woman’s determined eyes - and that's what disgusts me the most.)

***Translating this line on my lunch break made me choke literally. Here’s the deal: クリ can be rendered as ‘chestnut’ and/or ‘clit’. Could Jude have called this guy a chestnut sarcastically? Sure. However, looking at the context of the situation, he is pissed that Kate has a scratch on her cheek, and it makes more sense to me that he called him a ‘clit’ instead. I did further research and it seems that chestnut and squirrel are used together in a derogatory sense since squirrels like eating chestnuts…..if you get my drift. I decided to include both, so you can choose what you think he said.

[Previous] [Master List]

#ikemen villains #Ikemen villains translations #ikevil #ikevil translations #jude jazza #ikevil jude #ikemen jude #ikemen jude jazza #cybird translations #ikevil spoilers #ikevil jp #ikevil jp spoilers #Jude Jazza POV #I just know I’m going to ball when his route releases. I was almost crying translating his thoughts on despair 🥺

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stellar-constellations · 1 month

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Star Patient: Chapter 5 (ONGOING SLOW BURN SERIES)

WARNING: This series will include; possible inaccurate medical procedures and medical setting, gore, toxic relationships that should NOT be replicated in real life, murder, yanderes, cursing, suicide mentions, implications of misandry (male misogyny), and possibly more.

Inaccurate canon-timeline (this is before Ashley and Andrew murdered their parents).

Reader has a small fear of adult men/rape and has a history of suicide attempts.

Incest is not Wincest.

Amnesiac! Obsessive! Patient! Andrew Graves x Yandere! Nurse! Reader:

Wordcount: 12,000+ words

Chapters: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, chapter 4, current chapter, chapter 6 (in the works)

Andrew glided through the hospital corridors, taking the elevator to the pediatric branch. He really couldn’t care less about the kid, Hailey, but for some reason his favorite nurse just loved the little nuisance.

He felt a bit jealous. Does she like Hailey more than him?

Obviously, she does, considering how she had talked about the girl when they first met. He felt pretty annoyed. Did she spend more of her time and attention on the ill girl? Did she get to innocently hug her like that? If Andrew wasn’t so prideful, he’d definitely ask her for a hug.

Hell, he was really fighting with himself to ask now. Just a small quick hug, nothing bad! He wondered if he could genuinely pull that off. He wondered how she must feel inside his arms. Would she rest her head against his chest, or would she rather prefer resting it on his shoulder? Is she one of those people who cling onto you like their life depends on it, or was she someone who preferred soft and polite hugs? Would she be a long and affectionate hugger, or simple and sweet?

He put that thought in the back of his mind for now, rolling down the hallways to Hailey’s room. He didn’t bother to open the door, much like he did with (Y/N)’s room earlier, as he strolled in without a care.

Hailey laid in her bed, her eyes glued to some book (Y/N) got her, before she glanced at him. Her eyes raised, surprised to see the pale man again.

“Andrew, was it?” she questioned, her voice sounding better from yesterday. “What are you doing here?”

“(Y/N) told me to check on you.” He stated bluntly.

“(Y/N)? Is she here?” Hailey questioned, a smile growing on her face. “I haven’t seen her tonight! I thought she was off work?”

Andrew was about to open his mouth and say (Y/N) was, before remembering how the nurse didn’t want the girl to know about her condition.

“Uh, no…” he muttered, looking away. “She… wanted me to get into books to distract myself… so she told me to go to you for any books.” He lied.

“So you do have an interest in books after all.” Hailey smiled. “You must have an interest in nurse (Y/N) too, huh?” Hailey smirked teasingly.

“…What are you getting at?” Andrew questioned, resisting the urge to glare at the sick girl.

How the hell did this kid know? Andrew questioned to him.

“It’s very obvious.” She smiled. “See, if I had a past life, I’m sure I was like a cupid!”

“Uh, yeah. Sure, kid.” He spoke, brushing off the comment as he decided not to entertain nor deny the idea.

“I’m very serious.” Hailey re-enforced. “I can see it in your eyes! You’re invested in her!”

Who is this brat… Andrew thought, annoyed but intrigued (much to his dismay).

“You know, I’ve known her ever since she came here. I know her type of men.” Hailey lied, a mischievous smirk growing on her face.

“…You do?” Andrew muttered, now he was unashamedly interested.

“I could tell you…” she hummed, trailing off. “Or not.”

Andrew looked hesitant, before letting out a sigh. He rolled his chair up to her bedside, glancing down at her lap where her open book rested.

The book she got from (Y/N)…

God, everything just seems to trace back to that woman, huh? No matter what, everything he sees and hears all traces back to her, even outside of the hospital people are attracted to her (even if the reasons could be malicious). It’s almost pathetic how hooked he is on her, despite not even knowing her for a week. It’s almost scary how everyone seems to be attracted to the girl, she just had an aura that everyone was aware of and drawn to.

He could look at something stupid like his shoes and remember her footsteps as she walked with him to the surgery room. He could remember her hands on his face, chest, wrist, looking all around and checking his condition, his bandages, his vitals. He could look at his bedsheets and remember her hands tucking him in for bed… and imagine things he’d rather not envision for a woman he just met.

Yeah, back in the hatch those thoughts go.

“Could you just tell me?” he huffed, trying to sound as uninterested as possible despite asking for this, rather impatiently at that.

“Well? Do you like her?” Hailey questioned.

Andrew took the moment to think to himself. Yeah, she was a pretty nice nurse, and she knew her stuff despite specializing in pediatrics; though he shouldn’t be surprised, children are basically just the same anatomy as adults, just smaller in size.

She had a nice voice, and she somehow balanced between playful and professional, perhaps that’s practiced for pediatrics to make kids feel comfortable yet still hold authority.

She had a cute smile, and her eyes were pretty to look into. He liked looking at her while she worked, sometimes she’d even bite her lip or stick her tongue out to remind herself to concentrate. She looked like an angel laying on that white hospital bed. Even in pain, she still looked pretty.

He wondered how she was outside of the hospital. She was a human too, how did she act with her friends, or her family? How did she act alone? Was she single? Did she have a boyfriend, or did she prefer girls? Would she take interest in him? Could she see him as a potential partner?

Fuck. Yeah, he definitely liked her.

“Just a little…” he muttered, feeling a little embarrassed.

This feels weird (and degrading, in a sense) to be relying on a sick kid for love advice.

“So you admit it?” she smiled.

“Are you gonna tell me or not?” Andrew growled.

By now, Hailey was no longer fearful or anxious of Andrew. Andrew was just a lovesick puppy hopelessly enamored with her favorite nurse, in her eyes at least. She learned that expression from her books.

“No.” Hailey smiled, picking up her book.

“Why?” Andrew questioned, feeling a little betrayed that she made him admit his feelings only to not hold onto their deal.

“Because I lied.” Hailey smiled. “I don’t know her type.”

“Brat…” Andrew muttered under his breath, unashamed to be talking smack in front of a dying kid.

He could’ve said worse, but it’s quite mean to talk ill to a sick child, especially in front of them. Besides, (Y/N) wouldn’t like it if she found out.

“So, books?” Hailey hummed, getting back to her reading. “This book I’m reading right now is pretty good. I can read it to you.” She suggested.

“No…” he grumbled, still a little upset that he was tricked.

He’ll let her lying slide. Kids will be kids, let them have their fun.

“How about I read it to you instead?” Andrew suggested.

He didn’t want her reading to him; he was the adult, not her. Besides, her voice sounds hoarse and struggling, he’d rather him read it to her than have the kid push herself—not because he’s soft or anything, but because (Y/N) would be upset.

Hailey seemed to ponder the idea, before handing over the book to him.

“Just don’t crease the pages.” Hailey spoke.

“Got it.” Andrew hummed, looking at the page she was originally reading.

He started at the beginning of the page, reading a bit wonky at first, before he started to get into the narration. The words started to flow more smoothly, and he even took pauses for dramatic effect at the intense moments that felt like they needed a pause to sink in.

One chapter became two, and two became four. He was pretty interested in the story, makes sense considering it was his (Y/N) who got the story, of course she’d have immaculate taste too.

He read until his throat went dry, the tip of his tongue aching from all the pronunciations. He looked up from the book to see Hailey asleep.

Did she get bored? Andrew thought, a little offended that she fell asleep at the book (Y/N) gave her instead of giving it to him, especially when he was kind enough to read it to her.

Maybe she just liked his voice? It’s perfect for listening to. His voice wasn’t quiet, but it wasn’t loud either, like a polite demand for attention or to respect his authority. It was deep, but not too deep, with a slight rasp from smoking. He was good at projecting his voice so others could listen to him—well, everyone except Ashley, really.

Thinking of Ashley, where is she? She was sure acting weird today. Something about the demon’s vision she saw in her dream. She also described (Y/N)’s appearance despite not even knowing the nurse; he couldn’t recall any moment they had interacted.

Andrew took a white bookmark that laid on her bedside table, placing it on the page he stopped reading on. He closed the book, placing it down on Hailey’s bedside. He wheeled out of the room, making his way back to the elevators.

He entered the elevator, pressing the button for the emergency branch, waiting for the doors to re-open. The metal shutters opened and he rolled out, going back to (Y/N)’s room.

He made it, opening the door and entering without bothering to knock. (Y/N) laid in the hospital bed, her eyes closed as she appeared to be sleeping.

Damn… Andrew thought, disappointed. I was hoping to talk to her.

He doesn’t know what he would’ve talked about, but he was hoping she’d start the conversation. He wanted to get closer to her, emotionally and physically.

Andrew debated what he should do, before finally giving in, rolling his wheelchair up to her side. He observed her sleeping face, blissfully unaware of his presence as she slept. Her hair was a little messy, perhaps from sleeping or from the attack earlier. Her skin was a bit paler than usual, perhaps from shock or blood loss. She had more prominent bags under her eyes than usual, resting heavily under her closed eyes.

He wondered who attacked her, and why. Was it a crazy ex boyfriend? Some stalker? A jealous friend? Someone suffering under delusions? He wondered what happened.

He had an idea, though he was scared to ponder on it.

Instead of thinking about it, he distracted himself. He looked down at her bandaged arm, trailing his hands down to her wrists, and to her fingernails.

Her nails were strangely clean. They were polished and trimmed, which makes sense considering nurses need to have good hygiene, especially so they don’t transfer bacteria or accidentally infect patients. They looked like they had been scrubbed squeaky clean recently, not even a trace of dirt under her nails.

Her hands looked small compared to his, clean and petite compared to his rough and damaged ones.

His hands had small burns from failing to light his cigarettes as a starter; her hands had small burns from ovens and hot cookware and hot glue guns, yet somehow her scars were far more attractive than his.

His hands were dirty, stained with blood and sins; hers were clean, baptized in purity and commandant.

He wondered how her hands would feel against his. They looked soft, would they feel soft? He wondered if she used lotion, what her favorite nail polish was, how long she liked her nails.

Those thoughts led to other thoughts. What did she like wearing when she’s at home? What does she wear in public? What kind of music does she listened to? What kind of foods does she like?

He decided it was best to stop those thoughts. He stared at her hands, juggling his thoughts in his head, before finally giving in. He reached out and held her hand with his larger one.

He held it gently, feeling the weight of it. His thumb rubbed the back of her hand soothingly, memorized at the difference. Her hand was slightly cold, possibly due to how cold the hospital’s AC is followed by blood loss, but it wasn’t uncomfortable to touch.

He looked at her face to see if she woken up or felt the touch. She didn’t.

His fingers carefully interlocked with her, cautious to make sure she wouldn’t accidentally wake up. She remained neutral, not even a flutter of her eyelashes or any stirring.

She must be really tired… Andrew thought.

His admired their hands as they eloped together. He noticed discoloration on her hands, He shifted his body, laying his elbow down on the edge of the mattress and using his arm as a pillow. He admired her sleeping face, closing his eyes to relish the touch and intimacy of this moment. He doesn’t know how long it took for him to fall asleep, but it was relatively quick. . .

A few hours later, Andrew jolted awake first at the sound of the door opening, turning his head at the noise. (Y/N) groaned, opening her eyes and seeing Andrew by her side, holding her hand as a man stood in the doorway, one Andrew didn’t know.

Andrew squeezed (Y/N)’s hand softly, a silent greeting before glaring at the man, almost possessive of (Y/N)’s vulnerable state.

“Hello, Doctor Ryan…” (Y/N) yawned, before directing her attention to Andrew. “And hello to you too, Andrew.” She hummed, smiling as she gently squeezed his hand back.

She looked down at their hands, wondering when she and Andrew started holding hands, or even when he returned back. Her hands trailed down to her sleeves, more so lack of, as the hospital gown didn’t have any long-sleeves for her. She noticed her scars out in the open and ripped her hand away from Andrew’s, a sense of insecurity and embarrassment rapidly building in her as she hid her arms under her blanket.

Andrew looked confused (even a little disheartened that she let go) as Doctor Ryan walked over to her. Doctor Ryan isn’t usually at the hospital on Saturday nights, but he could’ve decided to work overtime this week. It’s not unusual since he has a stay-at-home wife and three kids.

“Hello! I heard what happened and I figured I’d wait to see you when you’re awake.” The doctor smiled brightly, walking over to her bedside and sitting next to Andrew. “And who is this?” he questioned, looking at Andrew, yet having a good idea of who it was as he sent a knowing smirk.

While Doctor Ryan had never met Andrew face-to-face, he had read his report when assigning (Y/N) to watch him his first night, along with hearing all the gossip from Penelope.

Andrew had a small reputation around the hospital since he’s one of the trouble patients, on suicide watch and needing special treatment for his wounds and wants. Andrew wouldn’t accept any care from any other nurse during the night shift, it was a fight for the day shift to care for him until (Y/N) told him to behave for day shift. His sister was also banned from the hospital due to proving a threat to Andrew’s recovery and health, though she won’t be a problem anymore.

Rumors spread pretty easily of Andrew’s fondness and almost admiration of the nurse he chose, (Y/N). Penelope has a big mouth without meaning to, having a bad habit of rambling and over sharing her and other people’s problems and secrets, so it spread pretty quick of the strange relationship the nurse and patient shared. Penelope’s ramblings of doubt as a nurse because Andrew wouldn’t accept her care had reached Doctor Ryan’s ears, being the catalyst of his teasing to his student, (Y/N).

“This is Andrew.” (Y/N) introduced when she realized Andrew wasn’t going to answer the doctor’s question, only give him a nasty glare.

She cleared her throat, shoving her arms into her blanket so the pair of males didn’t see, and flashed a smile. “What’s your visit for? Don’t tell me you’re gonna make me work.” She chuckled lightly, trying to make a joke.

“I wouldn’t say 'work' exactly.” Doctor Ryan smiled, before it faltered, letting out a sigh. “You’re here today, so I figured it’d be a good time to tell you. I think it’s best if you see Hailey.”

“Hailey? Why? Did something bad happen to her?” (Y/N) questioned, doing her best to not sound alarmed or panicked.

It’s never a good thing for a nurse to panic, it’d defeat a key factor of their job. Nurses are supposed to provide aid to their patients, whether it’s emotionally or physically, or even emotional in cases like Andrew’s. A nurse panicking would panic their patient since they’re going to look to the one with most experience. If a patient panics, they can worsen their condition or provide unnecessary stress that can affect their recovery or even create new problems.

And people think being a nurse is just all fluffing pillows and handing out medication. You have to be constantly in tune with the patients emotions, symptoms, and healing process; from what they're feeling to how much they're eating or using the bathroom. Always checking up on how they are and cater them to the best of your ability; serving them food (and sometimes helping feed them), changing their bedsheets, helping them to the bathroom, helping out with physical therapy, prepping them for procedures or appointments, and charting. The worse is charting. You have to document every single thing; from what they ate and what times, to who visited them today, to how what they said to be feeling and what they looked actually looked to be feeling like, to any improvement or decline or neutrality of their status, to their behavior, to what medicines they had, to their complaints or compliments they have about the hospital or their treatment, and so much more.

“She’s just not in the greatest condition at the moment. I think it’s best she sees you.” Doctor Ryan spoke.

Before she could question it, Doctor Ryan grabbed something from his coat, placing it down on her bedside table.

“Here,” he spoke, patting what looked to be a Polaroid recorder down on her table, “I came to drop this off too. This was supposed to be a wholesome visit, until Hailey at least…” he spoke, allowing his smile to drop. “Check out the contents on the camera later. I have to get back to work. Get well soon!”

“Thanks.” (Y/N) smiled, watching Doctor Ryan leave the room.

“Who was that?” Andrew questioned, glancing over at her as he resisted the urge to grimace.

“That’s Doctor Ryan, he’s my professor! He’s the one teaching me pediatrics since I’m an apprentice.” (Y/N) explained, slowly sitting up from the bed.

Andrew watched her movements carefully, observing how she slowly took her time getting out of bed. She didn’t apply much pressure on her injured leg as her sock-clothed feet hit the ground (with clean hospital socks, none of her blood soaked up in it and used to plug in any stab wounds). The room looked like a carousel, spinning rapidly, and a headache followed with it, screaming loudly in her head. She let out a groan as Andrew quickly placed a hand on her waist.

"Careful..." Andrew muttered, watching her intently as he kept his hand on her waist.

"Thank you, but I'm fine." (Y/N) lied, placing her hand on his shoulder to use as leverage.

"Yeah, sure." He hummed sarcastically.

(Y/N) resisted the urge to glare at him. While she wasn't on duty, she was still his nurse and she didn't feel like having any workplace drama.

"Do you want me to assist you there?" Andrew questioned, his thumb absentmindedly tracing small circles on her hip.

"No, it's fine." She spoke, taking a few steps to the door and ignoring the stabbing sensation in her leg.

"Are you sure?" Andrew questioned, trying his best to not look too concerned for her.

"Yes, I'm sure." She huffed, trying not to be snippy. "It's for the best. I don't want Hailey to be nervous or worried, especially if there's something going on with her."

"Just be careful..." Andrew spoke, watching her limp away. "I'll be here waiting for you."

(Y/N) took the moment to look back at him, confused. Before she could question it, she stopped herself, deciding there was always later to talk about it. Right now Hailey needs her, Andrew can wait.

(Y/N) settled for a nod, rummaging in the hospital cabinets and grabbing a white blanket. She wrapped it around her body to hide her hospital gown; she wouldn’t want to worry Hailey. (Y/N) limped out of the room, going down the halls to the elevator.

She pressed the floor the pediatric branch was on, waiting rather impatiently for the doors to open again as she descended.

Was Hailey okay? What did he mean by she’s not in the greatest condition? Has she gained more symptoms, or weakened?

Hailey has acute lymphoblastic leukemia, also known as ALL. It’s a cancer inside the blood and bone marrow, where the infected white blood cells are rapidly multiplying, creating blocks in the blood and bones that could prevent other cells from getting through and working. The cancer comes with symptoms such as fever, frequent nose bleeds, weakness or fatigue, easy bruising, pain in the bones or stomach or groin, frequent infections, and swollen lymph nodes.

Hailey’s most prominent symptoms are her swollen lymph nodes, hence why her voice is low and raspy, along with her bone pains in her legs, which is why she’s bedridden. At least 90% of kids under 15 who have ALL survive, so long as they’re treated. Even thought Hailey has been in the hospital for three years, she’s made very little progress in recovering.

Despite there being no stages in ALL cancer, if (Y/N) had to guess, she’s assume Hailey would be in stage 3. Over the years of chemotherapy and medications, her infected white blood cells just seem to be multiplying more and more, hence why it’s called acute lymphoblastic leukemia, acute means rapid.

(Y/N)’s theory is that a doctor didn’t give a strong enough dosage to Hailey, therefore the cells grew a resistance to the medication, creating a superbug that could withstand the medicine entirely.

Even then, what matters is if Hailey is feeling alright. (Y/N) exited the elevator and limped down the hallways, making it to Hailey’s room and opening the door.

“Oh. Hello, Ms. (L/N)!” Hailey greeted brightly, her voice still hoarse and raspy, but having life to it. “What are you doing here? You said it was your day off!”

Hailey’s upper body shot up quickly as she sat up from bed, a smile on her face as she greeted (Y/N). Her eyes were bright and lively, even waving her arm at the nurse.

Oh.

“Sorry it’s so early!” (Y/N) smiled. “It’s at least 5 A.M. What are you doing up so early?”

“I couldn’t sleep, I just had such a sudden burst of energy!” Hailey spoke. “I think I’m getting better!”

(Y/N) ignored that comment, sitting down on the guest chair in Hailey’s room. Her eyes trailed to the wheelchair that sat near her IV pole, a wheelchair that’s only used for Hailey to wheel herself to the bathroom now, but even then she needs help from the nurses.

“So? How’s that book you’re reading?” (Y/N) questioned.

“I’m almost done with it. At least 30 pages away.” Hailey answered. “What are you doing here at the hospital? It’s your night off; unless you’re working overtime again?”

“Yes! I’m working overtime again.” (Y/N) lied, smiling at the girl.

It’s best not to tell her anything, not in her condition.

“Are you cold? Why are you wearing a blanket?” Hailey questioned.

“Yes, I’m cold. I’m feeling a bit chilly at the moment. It’s verging to winter and the hospital still hasn’t adjusted the thermostat yet.” (Y/N) lied once more. “Hey, remember when I said I’ll take you to the garden the next time I see you? Would you like to go right now?”

Hailey’s eyes brightened even more, her grin widening as she nodded. “Yes! I want to see the flowers!”

“Let’s get you in the wheelchair, yeah?” (Y/N) spoke, standing up from the chair and using the blanket to hide herself limping from Hailey’s sight.

Hailey used her upper arms and was able to push herself to the edge of the bed on her own, even moving her knees a bit too! (Y/N) still carefully placed one of her arms under Hailey’s knees and the other on her back, picking up Hailey and placing her in the wheelchair.

(Y/N) decided against the wheelchair restraints, not wanting Hailey to feel trapped at the moment. (Y/N) grabbed the blanket off Hailey’s bed, but Hailey spoke up.

“We can leave the blanket. I actually feel pretty warm at the moment.” Hailey spoke.

The only warmth Hailey usually had was when she had a fire spreading in her legs, the bone pains acting up and causing many sleepless nights for her. It’s why Hailey is almost always awake when (Y/N) does her rounds around the hospital at night.

“It’s cold outside. Let’s take the blanket just in case.” (Y/N) persisted, smiling as she covered Hailey’s shoulders and down with the thin white cloth.

Hailey decided not to argue against it and cooperated. (Y/N) wheeled Hailey out of the room, her pace a little slower than usually as she felt that stabbing sensation in her leg and stomach. It made her silently hitch her breath, her ears having a slight ring in them, yet she persisted.

“Gosh, I haven’t seen these halls in forever.” Hailey spoke, her eyes scanning every nook and cranny of the white hallways. “You know, I read that whenever you enter a unfamiliar area, the reason why you feel dizzy is because you have a sensory overload. Like, you’re saving mental images and color palettes and the layout of the area all in your head, that way you remember where you are the next time you go! Even though I’ve been here before, it feels like it’s my first time down these halls all over again.”

Yes, (Y/N) knows that. She was the one who gave Hailey the book she learned that from, but for Hailey’s sake (and to distract her mind from the pain), she decided to play dumb.

“Wow, really?” (Y/N) hummed, smiling. “I never knew that. It makes sense now that you’ve explained it.”

Hailey nodded, smiling. “Yeah! I remember having that dizziness when I was at my friend’s for a sleepover.” She spoke, before her smile dropped. “Though, it was before I had cancer, or at least when I wasn’t placed in the hospital… I sometimes miss having friends.”

“Why, of course you have friends.” (Y/N) spoke. “You have me! And you have Doctor Ryan, and Penelope, and Ruby, and even Andrew too.”

“Yeah, but I mean friends my age.” Hailey spoke.

Normally, that could be arranged in the hospital so long as the patients aren’t being exposed to a infectious disease or illness, especially in Hailey’s case since she’s more prone to getting infections; however, Hailey didn’t want to be friends with the other kids after her hair started falling out due to the chemotherapy. She was insecure of her appearance deteriorating, even if Penelope kept lying to her face and telling her she looked perfectly fine. Hailey preferred (Y/N) over Penelope for that reason. (Y/N) always told her the truth, or at least left it blank so there was no harsh comment.

If Penelope asked (Y/N) if she looked sickly today, (Y/N) would tell her that a bit of water and food would help bring back some color to her face. It was a good way to not only promote healthy behavior for Hailey, but also it helped build trust in (Y/N) to always telling her the truth about her health. If she asked Penelope, Penelope would’ve lied and said she looked as bright as the sun; which is kind, but she could tell Penelope was lying by how Penelope’s right eye would twitch and bite her bottom lip.

“I see… well, I’m sure we can arrange that soon, when you’re ready.” (Y/N) smiled, taking Hailey into the elevator.

(Y/N) pressed the lobby floor as Hailey spoke up.

“Are the flowers even in bloom? Since it’s verging to winter?” Hailey questioned.

“A secret between me and you; the flowers are fake.” (Y/N) whispered, acting as if there was a camera watching her or something. We have scented pads hidden in the soil to make it smell like flowers, and we wet the soil regularly to keep that earthy smell lingering.”

“Really?” Hailey gasped.

“That’s why they’re always in bloom. It’s depressing to have an empty garden, even something as small as colorful flowers give people hope.” (Y/N) explained.

While fake flowers aren’t present in most hospitals, this hospital was different. Even if they were always understaffed and overworked, they at least cared for their patients. Even if the staff excel at their work or not, at least they have work ethic.

The elevator doors opened as (Y/N) wheeled Hailey down the hallways. (Y/N) noticed the stares from guests and even some patients; whether it was because of Hailey’s bald head or (Y/N)’s limp. (Y/N) noticed Hailey’s gripping the blanket on her, seconds away from raising the blanket above her head to hide it. (Y/N) recognized Hailey’s insecurity and spoke up.

“You know, I’m thinking of starting a garden. A real garden with real flowers indoors, that way patients with allergies or conditions can see the flowers too without going outside.” (Y/N) spoke, redirecting Hailey’s attention. “I was wondering what flowers you’d like for me to add. I’ll do a survey with the other patients too, have a nice diversity of flowers. What do you think?”

“I think… it’s a nice idea.” Hailey smiled, letting go of the blanket. “I think daisies. You should do daisies.”

“That’s a nice flower. I’ll see what I can do.” (Y/N) nodded, smiling as she pushed open the glass door, rolling Hailey to the garden.

(Y/N) guided Hailey to the wooden bench, picking up Hailey and placing her down on the seat so she wouldn’t be confided to the wheelchair.

Hailey rambled on and on about anything and everything. She talked so much that (Y/N) contemplated if she should go fetch water for Hailey’s throat given how raspy it was, but she decided against it as she noticed the signs.

Hailey’s bright smile, the almost whimsical joy in her eyes; an expression that (Y/N) thought Hailey has lost over the years as she spent her birthdays in this hospital.

(Y/N) remembers bringing a cake for Hailey’s 7th birthday, the first they spent together. Even though Hailey admitted to not liking vanilla cake, she still ate it. It was the last birthday she’d spend with her parents before they threw themselves at work, leaving Hailey along in the hospital with other sick patients and the staff.

The second birthday they spent together, (Y/N) had to ditch the candles, concerned the smoke would affect Hailey’s lungs. At least the cake was homemade, even if the frosting looked a bit ugly. (Y/N) made sure it was chocolate this time, so Hailey could enjoy it.

And the third birthday they spent together, (Y/N) made an ice cream cake, chocolate of course. She figured the ice cream would soothe Hailey’s throat and Hailey could still enjoy the flavor. It took many tries, but she succeeded in making the perfect cake, gifting Hailey books for her to read too.

If (Y/N) had known it would be Hailey’s last birthday, she would’ve made sure to go all out. Buy balloons and party streamers, force her parents to come back and see her, cover her head to toe in presents.

Unfortunately, you can’t change time.

Hailey’s eyes shined as she spoke, talking about anything possible. She didn’t have many who would listen to her, her doctors and nurses were there for work, and (Y/N) couldn’t visit long since she had other patients to tend to. But now, (Y/N)’s off the clock. At the moment she’s not Hailey’s nurse, she’s Hailey’s friend.

Eventually, Hailey’s voice faltered, before she let out a hum, satisfied as she rested her head on the bench. She took a deep breath, then sighed, smiling softly.

“It really does smell like flowers. Those are some good quality scent pads.” Hailey spoke.

Fake flowers last for years; patients do not.

“Do you ever wonder what’s beyond us?” Hailey questioned after a long silence.

“What do you mean?” (Y/N) questioned, turning her head to face the girl.

“Death. Like, do you ever wonder what happens after?” Hailey added.

(Y/N) hummed, thinking as she kept her blanket wrapped around her, hiding her hospital gown just as Hailey hid from the cold.

She wasn’t sure. Many religions had their own ideals of life and death, but she doubted Hailey wanted an answer based on religion. She wasn’t sure what was beyond. After trying to kill herself, everything in her life started losing value, a spiral of nothing and everything thrown at her all at once.

Even if she stopped hurting herself physically, she couldn’t stop mentally.

“I think it changes for everyone.” (Y/N) spoke. “Like, your own paradise. You could be surrounded by anyone you want, and anything you want.”

“What would you want to be surrounded by?” Hailey questioned.

She didn’t have to think much on that matter. There wasn’t much in her life she cared about anymore. She did nothing but work nowadays. She was an empty husk that worked itself to death to pass the time, awaiting Death by the door.

If she couldn’t open the door, she’ll make Death open it.

“Beds.” (Y/N) answered.

“Really? That’s it?” Hailey questioned, surprised and perhaps kindly disappointed. “I was expecting something… more. Like, deep, or wise.”

“You can’t expect everything to make sense in life, you know.” (Y/N) chuckled. “Sometimes things just happen. I think that’s what’s so fun about life, it’s just a mystery to be solved at the end of the line through all that hard work; or, perhaps there’s no mystery. Maybe it just coexists just like we do.”

“How can your answer be so boring but your follow-up be so wise?” Hailey pouted, cause (Y/N) to chuckle.

“Hey, I never said I’d give you any special answer.” (Y/N) pointed out.

“But, really, why beds?” Hailey questioned.

“I just like sleeping.” (Y/N) smiled, giving part of the truth.

“I guess it’ll suffice.” Hailey sighed, disappointed.

“And you? What would you like to be surrounded by?” (Y/N) questioned.

“My parents.” Hailey spoke. “And my old friends. And tons of my hair, like as much hair as Rapunzel.”

“That sounds nice.” (Y/N) hummed. “Though, you’d have to brush your hair all the time. Maybe it’s not so good having hair, I can’t stand mine at times.” (Y/N) spoke, trying to gently reassure Hailey.

“Well, maybe just normal hair then. What it used to look like before.” Hailey spoke. “You’d be there too. I wouldn’t only see you when you’re working. I’d see you outside of the hospital as my friend.”

“What’s it matter where or how you meet? As long as we’re still friends, I don’t see any issue.” (Y/N) smiled.

Hailey smiled, nodding. “I like that.”

Eventually, Hailey went quiet, no longer having any words to speak. She sat on the bench, observing her surroundings in a youthful fashion. Her eyes sparkled with life, her pulse relaxing as she enjoyed the false nature around her.

“Thank you for staying with me.” Hailey spoke up, her volume decreasing, the sound of her raspy voice cracking more. “I know it’s probably hard for you to see me like this.”

“Anything for you, Hails.” (Y/N) smiled, wrapping her arm around Hailey’s shoulder and giving her a gentle side-hug.

“Thank you for not leaving me alone. It means a lot to me…” Hailey muttered, taking a few deep breaths, before eventually subduing.

(Y/N) glanced at the IV pole, looking at the fluids that gently flowed in Hailey’s veins, before she turned her attention back to Hailey.

After a few minutes, there was no movement from Hailey. No breathing. No eye movement. No leg twitching. Just nothing.

(Y/N) took a deep breath, smelling the fake flowers and wet soil, before letting out a sob she’s been holding.

Hailey had so much life, and yet she died so young. She was so lively in her final moments.

All that matters now is she’s not going to be in anymore pain and that she wasn’t scared. (Y/N) thought.

Even if kids under 15 have a 90% chance of surviving acute lymphoblastic leukemia, it doesn’t mean it’s guaranteed. Life and death is really never a guarantee though, so it’s good to enjoy it while it lasts.

If only (Y/N) could follow her own advice.

(Y/N) covered her face in her hands, crying now that Hailey was gone, so she wouldn’t see her tears. This hurt way worse than any stab she could endure.

(Y/N) almost contemplated covering Hailey’s face with the her blanket, but she decided against it. She didn’t want to be ashamed of Hailey or her presence, she didn’t want to forget Hailey or brush her aside.

(Y/N) stood up, deciding not to waste much time, and picked Hailey up, putting her in the wheelchair. She had such lifeless and glazed eyes, her mouth was slightly open and her arms flayed motionless as (Y/N) moved. She doesn’t look like the suddenly bright and cheerful Hailey from just a few minutes ago.

Terminal Lucidity. It’s an unknown phenomenon that can happen before death, giving you suddenly more strength, a clearer consciousness, and even regaining memory. It’s surprisingly common, at least 88% experiencing the symptoms before death. It can happen from minutes to hours to days before death, and it has a habit of giving false hope to the patients loved ones. While it’s quite common in dementia patients, it can also happen to those with neurological problems or in some special cases those with cancer.

In the hospital, a terminal patient suddenly acting lively and alert is usually a bad thing because it means they’re near death. It’s not quite known why, but some speculate it could be the brain’s last fight, before eventually giving in.

(Y/N) wheeled Hailey’s dead body to the hospital’s mortuary. She checked the body in, guessing the nearest time of death since she didn’t have a watch on her, and the cause of death. She wrote down the parental numbers so they could be contacted, before lumping her way back to the elevator.

The ride up was deathly silent, not that anyone was in the elevator to talk to her, but it was silent in her mind too. Usually she’d at least be thinking of things to do, but she had no thoughts in her mind.

The elevator doors opened and (Y/N) walked out. She walked back to her own hospital room, exhausted and tired. Tears threatened to escape her eyes once more, the pain of losing Hailey and the pain of her wounds piling up on her.

She opened the door, surprised to see Andrew there, sleeping in his wheelchair with his arms crossed. (Y/N) wasn’t sure whether to feel annoyed or happy. Annoyed because she wanted to cry and sleep, but also happy because it meant she wasn’t alone with her thoughts and feelings.

The door opened, jolting Andrew awake. He was probably in a light sleep, whether because he was expecting (Y/N) or because the wheelchair is uncomfortable to sleep in. Whatever the reason was, he was awake.

His eyes trailed to (Y/N), doing his best not to smile and brighten up at her presence (that would be so lame if he did that).

“Hey.” Andrew spoke.

“Hey.” (Y/N) parroted, throwing her blanket at Andrew for him to use instead as she got up in her hospital bed.

There was no point in hiding her hospital gown now that Hailey was dead, so that blanket could now be used by Andrew while she got under her own hospital bedsheets.

“You can go to your room, you know. I’m fine on my own.” (Y/N) spoke.

“So? You got stabbed.” Andrew gruffed, catching the blanket and placing it down on his lap.

“And you have two broken legs, mister. You should still be recovering after surgery.” (Y/N) scolded lightly.

Her response caused Andrew to chuckle. Even injured and off the clock, she still worried about others. Andrew wasn’t sure if it was because she was his nurse or if she was just trying to be a decent human, but he relished the attention anyways.

“Ah, c’mon. I feel fine.” He chuckled.

(Y/N) resisted the urge to kick his leg to prove him wrong, yet she decided not to be petty today. She hummed, lying down on her bed.

“Is there something you want from me? Why are you here?” (Y/N) questioned, looking at the clock.

It was 6:30 A.M. She’ll be here in the hospital until 3 P.M. She wasn’t fond of that. She needed to bury Ashley’s body and deep clean her apartment. Even though the police hopefully had no trace it was her, and hopefully they didn’t invade in her apartment and swab the place (which, they better of not considering it’d be illegal without her permission or a warrant).

Not really. Andrew thought.

He just came over as soon as he heard (Y/N) was put in the emergency unit thanks to Penelope’s big mouth. He doesn’t really know why he came here, maybe just out of curiosity to see how bad she was hurt. All humans are curious when something bad happens.

Maybe he just wanted to spend more time with her, to be happy she was here with him. It’s not like she could fight much with him, she was tired and her eyes were red.

Red eyes. Was she crying?

“I just figured I see you, since you’re here. It gives me something to do other than being stuck in that hospital bed.” Andrew spoke.

“And now you’re stuck in a hospital wheelchair.” (Y/N) chuckled.

“Forget about me. Are you okay?” Andrew questioned.

“Yeah. I told you. It doesn’t hurt much.” (Y/N) lied, ignoring the pulses inside her wounds.

“I wasn’t talking about that. I mean, are you okay? You look like you’ve been crying.” Andrew pointed out, leaning back in his chair as he looked at her.

(Y/N) paused, thinking. Would it be against hospital protocol to say a patient’s status or info to someone if they’re dead?

Well, you only live once. And Andrew doesn’t look like a snitch.

“Hailey died.” (Y/N) spoke. “And, her parents weren’t there to say goodbye. Really, never visited her much either.”

“That sucks…” Andrew muttered.

He’s not too sure if he could care or not. Yeah, it sucks a kid died, but why should he care about a kid he had no connection with? She died, might as well get over it.

“It happens more than I like around here. They pass without their family around.” (Y/N) spoke. “But, I just can’t stand when the parents aren’t there for their kids. They die scared, that’s no way to die, for a kid or adult.”

(Y/N) spoke, looking out her window as the sun started rising.

She wondered where Andrew’s parents were. Why aren’t they here to visit him? Do they not know he’s here? Or perhaps they don’t want to visit their child who’s a murderer…

“What shitty parents.” Andrew spoke with no filter.

“Yeah,” (Y/N) chuckled, “that’s what I think too.”

To really care about someone you don’t have any blood-relation to, must be a special kind of bond; it’s one you can choose, not one you’re born with, unlike the one Andrew and Ashley shares.

“So, where’s your parents?” Andrew questioned.

“I’m an adult, I don’t need them checking up on me.” (Y/N) spoke.

“Yeah, but, wouldn’t it be nice? A sense of security and all?” Andrew questioned.

“Well, where’s your parents?” (Y/N) retorted, a bit annoyed.

So what? It’s not like if she called them they’d come rushing to her. Her mother would care less seeing (Y/N) in a hospital again, and her father would probably go berserk and try to bring her back home where it was safe.

“Touché.” Andrew chuckled. “But I have my sister to visit me.”

(Y/N) mentally grimaced at that, doing her best to not make a face so Andrew wouldn’t question it.

Not anymore… she thought.

Her hands suddenly felt dirty again. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, so she hid them in the hospital blanket. Once again, Andrew was intrigued with her hands after seeing her hide them. It’s like everything she hides them, he immediately gets curious and wants to see them.

He knows of the obvious self-harm scars now, he saw those when she was sleeping. And he saw the small scars and burns from everyday life, but why care so much about them?

Maybe it’s just something you have to go through in order to understand. You can’t understand everything on the first try, especially if you have no experience in it.

Sure, he was admitted for jumping a rooftop, but that’s a bit different than self-harming. Jumping a rooftop is one clear goal; suicide. It has subcategories such as wanting to escape life, or having too many problems to run away from.

Self-harming, on the other hand, is more complex. The desire to harm yourself is there, but you don’t want to die immediately. It’s a slow steady process building up. You hurt yourself possibly because you feel ashamed, that you feel like you deserve to hurt because that’s all you’re worth. Or perhaps it’s to relieve stress or pain. There’s not always such a strong intent to die when you hurt yourself? sometimes pain is the only thing people know that they use to feel normal or detached. Perhaps they even get pressured into hurting themselves. Self-harming isn’t to die, it’s to make yourself suffer because you feel that that’s what you need.

The question is: what is her reasoning?

The question left him wondering, he was almost compelled to answer, but she didn’t look to be in a good mood, so he decided against it.

(Y/N)’s eyes trailed to the digital recorder on her bedside. Doctor Ryan had left it on her bedside earlier, but he didn’t explain what was on it. She reached over and grabbed it, studying it.

It was a shiny silver recorder, with a slot for polaroid photos to slip out of. (Y/N) turned on the camera, pressing a button to the camera roll. The camera roll opened, multiple short videos at least 10 or 20 seconds showing.

She clicked on one and turned it on, seeing a video of one of her patients. They had black hair and black eyes, sitting in their hospital bed with an IV needle in her arm and bandages around her head. She recently had surgery for a tumor in her brain, now resting in bed.

“Hi, Ms. (L/N)! I heard you were doing unwell and I wanted to say please get better and visit me when you’re healthy!” the patient smiled.

(Y/N) chuckled, a smile plastered on her face as she looked at the footage. Andrew wheeled his way over to her side, curious to what she was smiling at. He rested his arm on the bedside, leaning over and looking at the footage.

(Y/N) moved the camera in the center of them so they both could see. She clicked the next video, pressing play.

A boy with brown hair looked at the camera, confused. “What do I say?”

“Say get better.” Doctor Ryan whispered from behind the camera.

“Get better.” The boy spoke.

“Now add more to it, say nice things.” Doctor Ryan whispered, resisting the urge to chuckle.

“Nice things.” The kid spoke.

“No. What do you like about Nurse (L/N).” Doctor Ryan spoke, now using his normal volume instead of whispering.

“I like that she’s nice.” The kid smiled.

“Now say it to the camera.” Doctor Ryan pushed.

“I like that you’re nice, camera.” The boy smiled, one of his front teeth were missing, only adding to the cuteness.

“Ah, close enough.” Doctor Ryan chuckled, ending the video.

(Y/N) giggled at the video while Andrew remained unfazed. She clicked the next video, pressing play. There was a girl inside Doctor Ryan’s office, there for an appointment. She was a frequent regular for common colds, so (Y/N) recognized her instantly.

“Hi, Ms. (L/N)! Please get better soon, Doctor Ryan’s handwriting is too messy! I like yours better!” she smiled.

“Hey! It’s not messy, you just can’t read the prescriptions because it’s long words!” Doctor Ryan laughed.

“Still bad.” The kid smiled.

“Oh whatever.” Doctor Ryan chuckled from behind the camera, ending the video.

The kid was right, Doctor Ryan’s handwriting was bad. The kid would try to read the prescriptions on the paper but couldn’t read the big messy words, so (Y/N) would just simply write “cold medicine” so the girl could read it.

(Y/N) smiled, going through more and more videos as she chuckled and grinned at the kids, their thoughts and feelings, and seeing their current statuses.

She eventually got to the last video, the caption above saying it was recorded just eight hours ago, when (Y/N) was still sleeping in the hospital after surgery.

“Hi, Ms. (L/N)!” the patient with blonde hair smiled, revealing to be Hailey, lively and well.

“I heard you’re unwell and I hope you get better really soon! I can’t wait to see you again and to read the books you lend me. Please get well soon, I miss you already!” Hailey smiled.

“Wow, she looked to be getting better.” Andrew commented, pointing at the screen. “I wonder what happened…”

Even though Hailey was lively and well, anybody with medical knowledge would know that she was doing bad.

“Terminal lucidity.” (Y/N) answered. “Sometimes before you die, your brain acts out on a last defense. You gain more energy and strength; but it’s fruitless.” She explained.

“Oh… that blows…” Andrew muttered.

No wonder she seemed much more vocal and confident today than she did yesterday. He wondered if he died, would he act like that too before kicking the bucket? That must hurt for the loved ones who don’t understand.

“It does…” (Y/N) sighed, her mind going blank as she stared out in the distance.

When things become too much, it’s better not to think and just go on auto-pilot. It’s how (Y/N) went through her life when things became too much.

It’s unhealthy, she knows that, but it helps her cope with reality.

She turned off the camera screen, burning a hole into her lap as she looked at the black screen. She spaced out, going motionless.

Andrew noticed, unsure whether to speak up or not. She was obviously feeling distraught and he wasn’t sure if she should be wallowing in her feelings or not.

Auto-pilot took over and decided it wanted her to cry. Tears started pouring down her face before she knew it, only causing Andrew to shift uncomfortably in his chair. He sighed, grabbing her hand and holding it.

“Hey… it’s okay.” Andrew spoke awkwardly.

“No, it’s not.” She spoke, her voice cracking. “All these kids, they shouldn’t have to go through this so young. They shouldn't be in pain or dying.”

It’s admirable, her care for others. It must take a good heart to do that, always worrying about others instead of herself. Andrew wondered if he was like that before all this happened. Was he a good person before he jumped and lost most of his memory?

No, probably not. This is reality, not a dream. He doubts that he was a good person, judging by the way he acted with Ashley the past three months he could remember. His parents ignored his calls, his girlfriend broke up with him on the phone, and he killed multiple people and even ate his neighbor!

Yeah, definitely not a good person.

“There, there…” Andrew muttered awkwardly, squeezing her hand hesitantly. “Sometimes things just happen?”

“But they shouldn’t happen to kids. They’ve been brought in this world just to get taken out when life has barely even started for them. These poor kids.” She cried, squeezing Andrew’s hand tightly for comfort. “They shouldn’t be wanted to die so early on. They should be enjoying life, not wondering when it’ll end.”

Normally, she’d just hide her feelings or bottle it up until she got home, but she can’t even go home and cry because she has a body to bury and a apartment to clean.

Life just keeps piling up on her more and more. It feels like a never ending cycle of pain. The only time she even feels happy now in reality, without sleeping, is seeing kids happy and smiling. How can she be happy if they keep dying? How can she be happy if these kids keep getting their happiness robbed?

Andrew contemplated what he should do. Should he let her vent? Should he try and comfort her more? Should he offer her to shut up and shove advice down her throat?

He decided it was probably best to just comfort her, he’d rather not see her cry. She can be emotional outside of his vision. As much as he likes this nurse, he hates sensitive people; maybe he just doesn’t like seeing someone he favors crying.

Andrew sighed, reaching over and placing both his hands on her face, wiping the tears off her cheeks with his thumbs.

“Hey, don’t cry.” He spoke. “It doesn’t look good on you, you know?”

(Y/N) sniffled as she tried to speak. The muscles in her throat felt restricting, preventing her from putting them to use, so she only just shook her head.

“That video showed Hailey saying that she wanted you to get better, right?” Andrew pointed out, wiping the tears into her skin.

(Y/N) nodded, unsure of where he was trying to go with this.

“So, she knew you weren’t feeling good, even when she wasn't doing good herself She cares about your health. Do you think crying would make her happy?” Andrew questioned. “I think it would just worry her about you. You wouldn’t want her to worry about you, would you?”

(Y/N) shook her head, her shoulders shaking from her sobs.

"You were there for her when no one else was? Isn't that all that matters in a kid's final moments?" Andrew questioned.

Andrew's right, at least they didn't die alone. Dying alone must be one of the worst ways to die, alone to succumb to your own thoughts and regrets of what could've happen and what did. It must be worse slowly deteriorating over time, at least dying quick you wouldn't be alone with your thoughts, but dying alone just leaves your thoughts, which slowly fade over time the more and more you stop living and just start existing, before even you lose that too.

Yeah, being alone sucks, (Y/N) can vouch for that. Coming home to an empty house with nobody to greet you, eating meals alone, waking up alone and going to sleep alone, shopping alone. It's kind of like dying alone in one way. You're just waiting for that time to come when eventually you stop doing those other things, so you just go on autopilot and wait. Of course, she could easily change all that by dating someone or getting a pet for at home, but it's just so exhausting trying to find a good person to spend the rest of your life with.

There's a reason so many people are single in the dating pool. Besides, she doubts anyone would want to date her with her work schedule; she sleeps in the day and either works at night or stays up at night on her days off. Let's not forget how she's constantly tired and depressed, dating someone like her would be such a buzzkill, you'd have to be desperate; at least that's what her mother said to her last time they met up for dinner.

(Y/N)’s tears stopped, realizing Andrew was right. Hailey wouldn’t want her crying, and if (Y/N) died, she wouldn’t want to be sad either.

(Y/N)’s sadness was soon replaced with embarrassment once she realized she was crying. Crying in front of a man and have the audacity to rely on him for her own emotions. It only makes it worse that he was her patient. This must be wrong in some way to be touching her patient like this, considering Andrew isn’t in any need of reassurance she should be providing as his nurse.

She pushed him away rather quickly, wiping her own tears out of her eyes instead of him doing it for her. Andrew looked confused, mentally wondering if he did something wrong.

Why the sudden change?

(Y/N) adverted her eyes from his face, feeling childish and insecure for crying in front of someone. Even if he was pretty handsome to her, she’d rather not see the pity, or any other sort of expression on his face.

Andrew felt a bit annoyed at the sudden change. He was just holding her and comforting her. She was even leaning against him and crying into his chest! Why did she suddenly push him away? Why did she suddenly not want him anymore?

His eye unconsciously twitched, showing his mild annoyance as a tinge of insecurity washed over him. Before he could question the sudden change of heart, the door opened, Penelope walking into the room.

Penelope’s face brightened once she saw (Y/N), before it dropped noticing Andrew. Penelope suddenly became skittish, playing with her fingers as she avoided Andrew’s gaze (glare).

“Um… Mr. Graves, you’re not supposed to be here at night. It’s protocol for patients to be in their rooms in the night.” Penelope muttered, her green eyes staring down at the white tiles. “Should I escort you back to your room?”

“No.” He spoke quickly, wanting nothing to do with Penelope.

Andrew looked back at (Y/N), his gaze softening just a bit as he looked a bit concerned for her. He didn’t want to leave her. What if she needed help with something? What if she cried some more? What if she needed him?

Andrew mentally groaned, conflicted with his emotions. He unlocked his wheelchair and wheeled to the door, Penelope stepping to the side so he could pass by her.

“You can come back during visiting hours.” Penelope added quietly, resulting in a harsh glare from Andrew.

If only looks could kill.

Penelope watched as Andrew left the room, before she closed the door behind her for privacy.

“Gosh, he’s just so intimidating…” Penelope groaned, taking a seat in the room’s guest chair.

“He’s not so bad…” (Y/N) hummed, smiling.

(Y/N)’s not too sure why Penelope’s afraid of Andrew. Sure, he’s a man, but he’s not really intimidating. Perhaps she’s grown desensitized to him and his menacing aura.

Or you know, perhaps she just likes red flags. A killer cannibal certainly is a red flag, but that’s just a theory.

Besides, what’s he gonna do with two broken legs? Punch her? Penelope just has to climb up on the hospital bed or take the stairs.

Penelope took in (Y/N)’s appearance, a frown making way on her face.

"Oh, you poor thing!" she spoke, the words sounding degrading enough, especially after (Y/N) was just crying a few minutes ago. "Who could do such a thing to you?"

"Who knows..." (Y/N) muttered, ignoring the sudden shock of anger shooting through her.

She looked at Andrew. Why did Penelope look at Andrew? Yeah, she was searching for him to bring him back to his room, but did she have to advert her eyes and mutter like a damn school girl?

The sudden jealousy pissed (Y/N) off, why was she acting like this? Why did she care? What does Penelope even want?

"Did you need something?" (Y/N) questioned, not doing too well to hide her annoyance.

Luckily, Penelope was a bit oblivious, yet still seemed a bit on edge.

"Oh, sorry... Well, before I speak, how do you feel? Do you need anything? Food or water? Painkillers?" Penelope questioned.

"I'm doing fine..." (Y/N) spoke, gritting her teeth as she smiled.

"Good. Well, did you hear the news about that patient? Andrew Graves?" Penelope questioned.

"What about him?" (Y/N) questioned, glancing at Penelope suspiciously as another volt of jealousy shot through her.

"Well, I did some digging online, and I found out he's wanted!" Penelope spoke, her voice a bit too loud for her liking.

"So?" (Y/N) questioned, already knowing this information, before she quickly switched up her attitude, realizing that wasn't an appropriate social response. "Wait, what? Wanted? Like, by the police?"

"Yes!" Penelope nodded, leaning closer to (Y/N) in her chair as she spoke. "Wanted for murder! They said he killed four people at their old apartment. Him and his sister, Ashley. They even said one of the bodies had meat cut off it and it was cut up in pieces! They found DNA and blood in their kitchen, on the counter and pots and silverware!"

Well, the police only has to worry about one sibling now... (Y/N) thought to herself.

(Y/N) stayed silent, unsure of what a functioning human would respond to this. Honestly, she's grown quite comfortable with the fact Andrew is a killer and a cannibal.

"I mean, that's just... vile! And disgusting! How could someone do that?" Penelope questioned, her face turning as green as her eyes.

"Why did they do it?" (Y/N) questioned.

"H-huh?" Penelope questioned, surprised. "What do you mean? They kill four people and ate one! They must be insane or something."

"Let's not jump to conclusions. We don't know why they did it." (Y/N) spoke. "Penelope, we should know better than anyone else that people act out for reasons. We're nurses, we deal with mental breakdowns and patients lashing out all the time, and we know they have motives behind it."

"Yeah, but that's a medical setting, when something's generally wrong with them! Andrew seems stable enough!" Penelope spoke. "He must've knew what he was doing!"

"Peer pressure?" (Y/N) suggested. "Perhaps his act is a facade? We don't know a person's thoughts or feelings. For all we knew, they could've been in a dire situation. I mean, who just randomly kills four people in one day and run? Something must've happened."

Penelope looked frustrated, her bottom lip pouting as she clenched her fists. "And? So? Why should we care?! He killed four people, you know! We need to call the police!"

"No! You can't!" (Y/N) quickly shot up from the bed, flinching as she felt a stabbing pain in her stomach where her wound was.

"What? Why not?" Penelope questioned, surprised at the sudden outburst as she leaned back in her chair. "Why are you defending him? We're nurses! We need to help protect people. He could hurt someone else here!"

"No! You can't take him!" (Y/N) shouted, throwing the bedsheets off her and rushing to Penelope, ignoring the pain shooting throughout her body as she placed both of her hands on the arm chairs, caging Penelope in. "You can't do that! I won't let you."

"W-what? W-why are you acting like this?" Penelope squeaked, her hands pressing together as she curled herself up in a ball, sinking herself down in her chair as she stared up at (Y/N), frightened.

(Y/N) paused, realizing the sudden position she put herself in. Damn it! Why did she just lash out like that? She's never like this! Why can't she just let Andrew go? She needed to think of something quick to diffuse this situation and convince Penelope not to report Andrew.

"Don't you understand? The police are just going to keep him here until he heals up to where he can go to jail. If you report him now and he's aware of that, he might snap and actually hurt people." (Y/N) spoke, trying to come up with a false reason. "You'll just enrage him and give him a motive to hurt others. He hasn't injured anyone severely these past days, only a few books and hits thrown because he was afraid of us recognizing him and calling the police."

Penelope looked uncertain, contemplating whether she should listen to the younger and injured nurse in front of her.

"B-but—" Penelope started, but was cut off by (Y/N).

"Penelope, please. Don't be an idiot. Don't do something so unfathomably stupid!" (Y/N) pleaded.

Just make the idea look stupid. Just act like Penelope's the one being insensible.

"He could really hurt someone if the police come and tell him he's arrested. They're just going to explain that he's under arrest, and will be escorted to prison once the doctors deem him healthy enough to go. He'll just be here, drugged up from his surgeries, and that could cause him to not think sensibly, it'll make him more of a hazard to others. We can't afford that, Penelope." (Y/N) explained.

Penelope adverted her eyes, (Y/N)'s words seeming to sink into her as she started to appear ashamed of what she was previously proposing.

"So... what now?" Penelope questioned. "He's not going to be able to stay here long anyways. We have no emergency contacts to contact for him. He has no records inside our hospital. He can't even fill out any of our forms or such because of his amnesia, either that or he's pretending to not to know the information." Penelope explained. "He doesn't have health insurance or can't remember it, and I doubt he can afford the hospital bills if he can't even remember anything! He probably doesn't even know his banking information if he has it!"

“If we tell him that, it’ll be bothersome…” (Y/N) explained. “I mean… he could get mad and hurt someone.”

“Exactly!” Penelope exclaimed. “I-I don’t know what to do! Should we bring this up to HR or the head nurse?”

“No.” (Y/N) spoke quickly. “I-I mean, c’mon? It’s hard to trust these so-called professionals. The hospital is notorious for its accidents and fatalities. I mean, we're all working here because we were rejected by other hospitals because of our questionable backgrounds and court filings! For gods sake, there’s an advisement a town from here that has a doctor suggesting anesthesia for depression and it has our hospital name on it! We can't trust the board for anything!"

“But… what can we do?” Penelope questioned, feeling hopeless.

“We’re the smartest nurses in this whole shithole,” (Y/N) spoke.

Maybe it was an exaggeration, but she needed Penelope to believe her, or at least stop her from reporting Andrew so that he could escape.

Why does she care so much about a wrongdoer? He should be in prison, he should pay for what he’s done, but for some reason there’s a stabbing sensation in her chest at just the thought of not seeing him again. The feeling was almost as painful as the bleeding wound she currently had.

She needed new bandages, she’s been putting too much stress her body. She would ask Penelope, but she’d rather not stick around with Penelope any longer. Sure, having Penelope around would make it so she’s less likely to snitch, but there’s also the possibility that she could potentially catch (Y/N)’s unnatural behavior and go back on her words.

"I-I just... what if we're making the wrong choice? I can't stand the thought that someone can get hurt." Penelope spoke.

(Y/N) almost felt sorry for the young nurse. The nurse was only three years older than her, yet she seems utterly more helpless in life than (Y/N). Penelope has a bad luck streak with everything. She's terrible at math and doing her taxes. She's terrible at thinking for herself. She's grown up from foster home to foster home. Every relationship she's been in has been disastrous.

(Y/N) would care if Penelope didn’t have such an unhealthy obsession about finding love. The whole reason she became a nurse was to try and nurse someone to health so they’d love her; it’s almost sad, really.

“I just can’t believe it…” Penelope groaned, burying her face into her hands. “Why are the cute guys always so unstable?”

Nevermind. (Y/N) doesn’t feel sad for her at all. Absolutely no pity. Void of emotion. She was almost considering the idea of murdering Penelope. Seriously, you're caring about how cute a guy is despite him being a major threat to your life? Should you really be focusing on a cannibal's looks.

(Y/N) decided to bite her tongue. There was no reason to start a fight (that, and maybe she's just a bit guilty of this as well...) It still didn't stop the bubbling pot boiled inside her stomach and chest as she glared at Penelope though.

“Penelope, can you go find my nurse? I need a new change of bandages.” (Y/N) grumbled, desperate for Penelope to leave her as she sat back down on her bed, wincing as she overstrained herself once more.

Maybe cornering and intimidating a person while injured isn’t the best course of action.

“O-oh, right! Sure!” Penelope spoke, popping up from her makeshift ball as she stood up from her chair. “Whats your nurse’s name? I’ll go find them.”

“I don’t know their name. I didn’t met them, only my doctor.” (Y/N) explained.

“Oh, okay then. Well, I’ll ask around and see if I can find them.” Penelope spoke, walking to the door. “Door open or closed?”

“Close it.” (Y/N) answered.

Penelope nodding, closing the door and leaving (Y/N) to her own devices. (Y/N) let out a sigh of relief that Penelope was gone; however, there were other things to worry about.

She needed to figure out a way to solve the Andrew situation. She could talk to Andrew herself and see if he has any insurance. She might be able to judge if he’s lying or not about knowing anything, if Andrew’s a good liar or not, that is.

She almost felt compelled to leave her room and go to Andrew’s. She could tell him what happens; no health insurance means paying the full entirety of the bills, which could be five digits to possibly even six after all his car, special requests/needs, surgeries, and days he’s spent admitted.

It’s fine… she just needs to sleep. She can deal with it another day. If she sleeps now, time will pass quicker and she can get discharged.

She closed her eyes, seeing nothing but darkness as she used her drawback to escapism once more, distancing herself from reality as she did her best not to think about her patient.

And chapter 5 is done! I do apologize for it being so long, I wasn't planning on it being so long but I guess I did get a bit carried away... Chapter 6 will have quite a bit of drama and new characters being introduced! Now I just have to get chapter 6 done... which I'm unsure of when will be done, but it's in the works already! Thank you for your patience and for reading, and I'm excited for you all to see the development of (Y/N) and Andrew!

Want more Andrew Graves content? Check out the Andrew Graves masterlist!

Inbox is OPEN for questions about the story and new plotlines/ideas, not for request!

Chapters: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, chapter 4, current chapter, chapter 6 (in the works)

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drivinmeinsane · 2 months

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Officer K x GN!Reader ※ { masterlist } ※ { ao3 }

※ Summary: With a tremor threatening to shake his body, he slips his fingers under the edge of his shirt sleeve and pulls it up to his elbow. His soulmark is laid bare before your eyes. The wound that he had left in his own skin when he had tried to carve out the design has faded to a raised, pale line. “That wasn’t there before,” you murmur, taking his forearm in your hands. Your pointer finger traces over the scar. ※ Rating: 18+ for mature content and themes. Please mind the warnings. ※ Content/tags: Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Implied Reoccurring Sexual Abuse by a Supervisor, Emotional Hurt, Identity Issues, Self-Harm, Alcohol Abuse, Smoking, Eye Trauma, Canon-typical Violence, Slow Burn, Developing Relationship, No use of Y/N, No Pronouns Given for Reader ※ Word count: 15,713 ※ Status: One-shot / Complete ※ Author's note: In the wake of a mentally difficult month, I present the story that accompanied me during that time. Here's to brighter days. ※ Song inspiration: Someone to You - BANNERS

In a cruelly human twist, the moment that K is incepted, birthed from a plastic bag like an item purchased at a supermarket in the years before the Blackout rocked the world, is also the moment he begins to die. This is something he won’t mind, once he realizes that death is a gift given only to the living.

As he lays, wet and trembling, atop compressed rubber and metal grating, he feels nothing but terror. His body is stricken by the wracking sobs of the newborn. His face gradually relaxes with each passing minute. The replicant’s wailing turns into coughing when his body chooses to expel the synthetically made amniotic fluid from his lungs.

“Are you done?” comes a woman’s voice. Clinical. Detached.

Suddenly made aware of the world around him, the small sterile room that it is, he opens his sticky eyelids only to be forced to squint against the penetrating glare of the artificial lighting overhead. He lays there for a moment, twisted and gasping like a crushed bird on the pavement—filled with the old memories of the nest and waiting, beak agape, for a mother who will not come. He shivers.

When KD6-3.7 manages to focus his eyes, the first thing he makes sense of is his own hands, and then the mark on his own forearm that is slowly blossoming to life. It’s all too much. His brain feels as though it is pressing against the confines of his skull, threatening to crack the bone and spill out onto the rubber. If it does, perhaps it will slip through the grate like the yolk of a broken egg.

Feet step up to him. They’re clad in sensible heels over black socks, utilitarian. K peers through the pulsing behind his eyes and sees a worn woman’s pinched face peering down at him. For just a moment, he’s certain that she intends to snuff him out. All the same, he pushes aside his fear and reaches out for her. She will become the closest thing to a mother he will ever know. K clasps his slimy hand around her sock-clad ankle. The bones are fragile underneath his grip. One too-tight squeeze and they would snap under the pressure. She tries to shake him off. He clings on, desperate for some kind of contact. He does not yet know that he will be raised solely by the wire mother with no comfort of the cloth.

“Let go.” Her voice cuts over the faint noise of the plastic crinkling above him. Disgust mars her lined face. He will grow familiar with expression. Both from her and from others.

As if burned, he immediately does. The compulsion to obey is too pressing for him to ignore. Every blood vessel and muscle fiber in his body is hardwired for submission. K tucks his hand against his chest, shrinks in on himself. He is not praised for his obedience or comforted through his turmoil. Tools, he learns later, do not need reward.

The woman crouches suddenly. She grabs at his arm and extends it under the harsh light. Her nails bite into his skin. It is the first pain he will experience from another living being. Both he and the stranger look at the elegant lines set into his flesh. She does not speak and neither does he. She lets go of him, red crescent moons grace the pale sky of his skin in the wake of her fingers.

There is a gesture that he doesn’t understand and, suddenly, he is being hosed down. The cold water sluices over him, washing away the newborn taint. With one final look cast down at him, the woman leaves.

Time passes in her absence, minutes smearing together in a twisted tangle made only more disorienting when the lights shut off. He is left in the dark, cold and struggling to comprehend. Refrigerated. He is experiencing punishment for a crime he does not yet understand. Wallace’s creation dared to have the trace of a soul in him. The evidence of it is clearly visible to the naked eye.

Eventually, the woman comes for him and lets him out into the light. He learns that he is hers, like a hunting dog belongs to a huntsman. His madam tells him that the mark adorning his forearm is a meaningless tattoo. She had only wanted him to be special. It’s the first of the many lies she tells him.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Advertisements cut through the gloom of his living room. In them, organics emphatically gesture to convey their success with the soulmate finding services being advertised. The blue light shifts to purple then to red. In the disorienting glow, anything could look real. Seated on his couch with a room temperature glass of whiskey that is only getting warmer with the heat of his hand, K watches Joi dance alone to the easy swing of Frank Sinatra.

“Did you know this song was first released in 1954 under another name by another singer? Kaye’s last name, Ballard, sounds a lot like ‘ballad’, doesn’t it?” she asks.

K hums, agreeable. The alcohol coursing through his bloodstream accompanied with his ever-present exhaustion have left him slumped bonelessly into the rigid angles of the cushions. It had been a day. It always is.

“Sweetheart,” the replicant says to his pretend wife, “will you indulge me?”

The DiJi smiles at him. He can see a knowing curve to her lips. It’s rare that he asks her for this. With a flourish, she flickers to an outfit with short sleeves. Joi kneels by the couch and rests her elbows on the edge of it, chin on her interlaced fingers.

“Is this what you wanted?” she asks, teasing. She presents her arm with an elegant flip of her wrist. The twin to the mark gracing his own forearm twinkles back up at him. He can almost imagine that it’s real.

Wordlessly, he extends his hand out and barely stops himself from reaching right through her projected skin by accident. He manages to stop himself before breaking the illusion. She plays at resting her arm in the palm of his hand. K can convince himself he can feel the warmth of her underneath the hovering passes of his thumb. Like trying to avoid breaking a gossamer thin strand of spiderweb, he carefully caresses her. Joi preens under the attention, reaching for his own mark in return. He feels the faintest trace of static.

He closes his eyes before he can register how the pixelation of her always makes the edges of her copied mark look not quite real. The replicant has to convince himself that this is enough. It’s all he has, so it must be. He cannot afford to dream of what it would be like to feel another body against his. Their kind must never look to the stars.

───※ ·❆· ※───

There had been a time in which K had wondered if the other bearer of his soulmark was his madam. He had been made for her, after all. It would only be right if they were intertwined down to the very cells that made up their bodies.

Joshi isn’t, of course. He finds out the first time that she has him strip her bare in the privacy of her office. Her skin is unmarked by anything but the scars of being human. K cannot boast the same. He heals too fast, too completely, to carry the same marks. For him to scar with any significance, an injury would have to be so severe that an organic’s body would be grievously devastated from the trauma.

He is not sure if the emotion he feels over the lack of mark on his handler is the grieving of what might have been or the relief at what isn’t. It would have been easier if it had been her. She hollowed him out. Used him. Uses him still. His madam owns him in every way that matters.

───※ ·❆· ※───

This retirement job is meant to be routine, the same as the last dirty dozen. He puts down an average of two Nexus 8 models every month. His work ethic has proven to be top of the line, much to the pleasure of the retiring department’s lieutenant. The routine success is enough to give him the security to sleep on the way to the property he’s being sent to. The ‘9 is exhausted from the long night he’d experienced.

K had poured over files at his cramped desk until his eyes burned and his throat grew so dry as to rival the arid chemical wastes of the Nevada desert. Still, he hadn’t bothered asking for water. It would cost money he didn’t want to spend. Besides, his experiences with liquid within the walls of the precinct have come hand-in-hand with punishment.

He wakes when the spinner chimes. Head snapping up, the officer inhales and exhales hard. It’s a sign of vulnerability he feels free enough to express as he turns off the autopilot and regains personal control over the vehicle. In the distance, a scattering of structures rise out from the perpetual haze of the world like a nervous herd of bovine protecting a calf against an approaching predator. He angles towards them, passing over a broken windmill on the way.

Pulling the spinner several yards short of a dead tree, he sets it down in a sprawling waste of infertile soil. A cloud of dirt gets kicked up by the disturbance. There is no hiding his arrival.

As he does on every job, K pops the latch for the spinner’s parrotfish in order to send it lazily into the sky. He gestures up at it to begin its rounds. The replicant tugs his jacket collar up over the lower half of his face. His lungs will ache for days if too much dust finds a home among the tissue. A minor discomfort, but he prefers to avoid them when he can.

Before stepping into his quarry’s home, he knocks the dirt off his boots. He doesn’t rap his knuckles against the door.

Unsurprised, he finds the living space as bare as his own apartment. There are small hints at a life here. Everything is cleaned, maintained, loved. K ignores the stab of camaraderie, buries it. He and this replicant are not of the same kind. He can’t allow them to be. It will only make the inevitability of what’s coming that much harder.

There is a pot of something fragrant boiling away on the stove that he had smelt the moment he opened the front door. He ignores it, for now, in favor of taking a seat in the kitchen. The Nexus 9 knows that he will be joined by the master of the house shortly.

He is proven right by the arrival of the pre-Blackout model shortly after settling into position. Sapper Morton bypasses him on his way to the sink. K silently observes him for a moment, elbow on the table with his gun in hand, as the wanted replicant scrubs at his work-worn hands. The water is loud in on the stainless steel basin. A flash of his inception flares to the forefront of his mind. He speaks to shake it away.

“I hope you don’t mind me taking the liberty. I was careful not to drag in any dirt.” K bites down the urge to continue, to explain that the wind had been turbulant, to actually have a real conversation with someone other than Joi. He’s not here for friendship.

There comes the rattle of something on the window ledge just out of K’s field of view. Sapper’s resigned voice answers him. “I don’t mind the dirt,” he says with a sigh and the noise of eyeglasses being placed on his rough face, “I do mind… unannounced visits.”

Heavy footsteps trod towards him in the dimly lit room. The seated officer tries not to react as the mountain of a replicant approaches him before coming to a halt a polite distance away. “You police?”

“Are you Sapper Morton? Civic number NK680514?”

“I’m a farmer.”

Sapper seems to be just as adverse to answering questions as he is. K can respect that. Answers can be a dangerous thing to give. Any vulnerability can be exploited.

“I saw that. What do you farm?” he asks, genuinely curious.

The mountain moves across the tile floor and a massive hand rises to open a cupboard. Morton slams down a container onto the counter before withdrawing a small cluster of white, wriggling objects. K watches quietly as the ‘8 approaches and drops the mass onto the table by his hand. Nematodes.

“It’s a protein farm. Wallace design,” Morton supplies as way of explanation.

Isn’t everything? K thinks. That man has fingers in nearly every form of industry in their society, both on and off world.

Taking his hand off the gun, he points at the air with a small twirl of his finger, subconsciously mirroring the gesture he’d given the parrotfish before entering the house. “Is that that I smell?”

“Grow that just for me… Garlic.”

“Garlic…” K says, wonderingly. The word feels just as exotic in his mouth as the plant might taste.

“Do you want to try some?”

“No, thank you. I prefer to keep an empty stomach until the hard part of the day is done.” The pot starts boiling even louder on the stove, as if it were protesting the refusal of Sapper Morton’s hospitality. “How long you been here?”

“Since 2020.”

“But you haven’t always been a farmer, have you?” Silence from the other replicant is answer enough. K continues, “Your bag. It’s colonial medical use. Military issue.”

He doesn’t miss the change in the older Nexus’s body language. The almost unconscious touch on the bag’s canvas side reminds K of the way he touches his own jacket when he’s uncertain. He presses onward with his information gathering.

“Where were you? Calantha…? Must have been brutal.”

“Planning on taking me in? Huh? Take a look inside?”

“Mister Morton, if taking you in is an option…” K sighs and leaves his gun aside on the table. “I would much prefer that to the alternative. I’m sure you knew it would be someone in time.”

A frustrated exhalation of air bursts from the other replicant as he pulls off his glasses. K tosses him a cursory glance before looking down, eyebrow slightly raised. He reaches into one of his inside pockets to pull out the small handheld retina scanner the police department issues for use on the field.

“I’m sorry it had to be me.”

“Good as any,” Morton says while K activates the device.

“Now, if you don’t mind… If you could just look up and to the left,” he instructs, uncrossing his legs and getting to his feet.

He knows what’s coming. He had seen him pull the scalpel out of the bag, so it comes to no real surprise when Sapper Morton lunges at him. K catches his hand before the blade can lodge itself between the span of his ribs. In return, he gets slammed against the wall by the far larger replicant. Managing to dodge the punches leveled at him, he tries to break free to create some distance between the two of them. He doesn’t succeed. The ‘8 grabs a firm hold on him and slams his body into the wall like Cain bringing the stone down upon his brother. Fighting to keep his chin tucked against the curve of his shoulder so that the back of his head doesn’t meet a similar end to Abel’s, he takes the brunt of the force over the span of his shoulders until finally the drywall gives out beneath him and he lands hard on the floor.

There is no time to recover because Morton falls with him, dropping the scalpel upon impact. They wrestle, trying desperately to get the upper hand over the other. K doesn’t want to do this. He wants to walk this back, reset and try again. He opens his mouth to tell the farmer just that when Morton is suddenly choking him. It’s as though an iron collar has been fastened around his neck. With tears leaking freely from him, he can feel the blood vessels in his eyes bursting under the strain. He growls, forcing air through his throbbing lungs and slams his fist into Morton hard enough to drop him.

Gaining traction, he manages to straddle the other replicant and he hits him one, two, three, four, five times in the throat in rapid succession. His adversary falls back, struggling to breathe through a damaged windpipe.

K wedges his fingers on the winded replicant’s eyelids and pins the eye open, trying to get the scanner ready. Morton interrupts him by grasping onto the scalpel and driving it into the meat of K’s upper arm. The officer grunts as pain radiates in his right side. He slaps the ‘8 back down and hits him. It’s punishment. Bad dog, his madam would say.

For good measure, he hits him for a second time to quell any further resistance. He doesn’t relish the feeling of his knuckles crushing against the other replicant’s trachea. This time, when he grabs Morton’s face, he manages to hold the eye open long enough for the handheld device to read it.

The screen confirms what he already knows. The man beneath him is Sapper Morton, charged with deadly assault of organic life and wanted for retirement.

Muscles twitching with adrenaline, K gets to his feet and looks down at the replicant choking on his own ruined body. “Please, don’t get up,” he says, accompanying his words with a pleading gesture.

He already knows that he will. They always do. The taste of freedom only serves to kill them in the end. Dying for the it seems… well, K can’t understand it, not like this. His eyes have not been opened to the benefits of being free.

Behind him, he already hears the rustling of Morton sitting up. He retrieves his gun from the kitchen table. It’s heavy in his hand. When he turns around and retraces his steps back towards the living room, the other replicant is on his hands and knees. Those calloused hands are clutching at his throat.

“How does it feel? Killin’ your own kind?” the farmer grits out.

“I don’t retire my own kind because we don’t run. Only you older models do.” There it is. The distinction he must draw between them to keep sane. He won’t pass his baselines otherwise.

“You new models are happy scraping the shit. Because you’ve never seen a miracle.”

K looks at him, jaw clenching with the effort not to speak. It’s on the tip of his tongue, that he has seen his own miracle. He carries it with him every hour of every day, right in his very skin. He doesn’t have a soul and yet he’s marked.

Sapper Morton rushes him, the last efforts of a wounded bull in the arena. K puts two bullets in him. The mountain falls. The house shakes and then goes still.

He covers the dead replicant with a blanket pulled from the back of the couch before extracting his eye with careful hands. He draws the makeshift shroud over Morton’s face when he’s finished. Bloody fingerprints get left behind on the faded fabric.

No matter how much soap K uses in the sink, he can’t get rid of the tacky feeling that seems as though it’s part of him now. His hands will never be clean. Innocence belongs only to the freshly incepted.

Before he leaves the small house, he takes the farmer’s glasses. Some part of Sapper Morton will live on with the replicant that retired him. It’s all K can offer him now.

───※ ·❆· ※───

A fog has laid itself over his shoulders like a second skin. It feels more familiar, more his, than the actual flesh that coats his bones. His DNA was taken from a donor. K is occasionally loathe to even call his body his. Some days, it feels like it has been parted out to anyone who might want a piece of it.

The numbness he’s feeling ensures he passes his baseline with flying colors after the retirement of NK680514. He gets to keep the moniker of “constant” K.

Joshi is pleased at his performance, When he goes to her office for his post-baseline report, she assigns him to another case to keep him occupied while the dig team finishes at the protein farm. His madam doesn’t like him to be idle for too long. He will be heading out in the morning to check in on another old model number.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Having never existed in a world where the skies are clear, K finds the beauty in the varying colors of the haze. Today, the old, industrial streets are bathed in a brilliant orange light due to the rising run. It’s a cheerful hue for the grim work that lies ahead. He supposes this area must come to life at night, being so far from the main heart of Los Angeles and its daunting amount of law enforcement.

K sends the spinner into a slow dive, cruising to increasingly lower altitudes as he gets closer to his destination. As always, the coordinates were provided by Lieutenant Joshi. She had been kind enough to provide him a suspected apartment number, rather than have him go door to door down the halls to find the culprit. Even with a number, K still doesn’t like the idea that there will be neighbors that might bear witness to this.

He finally parks the machine against the curb outside of a run-down apartment building. Even from inside the spinner, the officer can see that that bricks have broken free of the structure's edifice. He deploys the parrotfish for a halfhearted backup that will be useless unless he’s outside and gets out of the spinner.

The front door is uneven on its hinges. It squeals loudly in the silence as he pushes it open. Any dream of subtly is already dashed. The tone for this visit has been set.

Here, the hallways are dusty and unpopulated. He finds it to be a novel contrast to his own living situation. There, the building’s common areas are constantly wet with snow melt and teaming with bodies. The ‘9 wonders if this is how the explorers of ancient tombs felt. Like they were navigating the body of a slumbering Goliath. Finding the door that leads into the stairwell, he mounts the stairs. They creak and shift with the settling of his weight upon each one.

“Unit 405. One known occupant. Possible second.” the message had said.

Officer K reaches the fourth floor to find it predictably devoid of anyone in the hallway. He finds the door with its brass number and steps up to it. The knock echos in the empty hall. There is a long moment of silence before he finally hears footsteps approaching the synthetic wood. A rattle of a chain against the material, and the door opens just enough for an eye to peer suspiciously at him. There’s not enough of a gap for him to get the toe of his boot through.

“I’m sorry for the intrusion. I have some questions I need to ask.”

“You’re a cop?”

K keeps the frown off his face. This is reminding him too much of yesterday. “I’m looking for someone. Civic number NK687725. John Gradus.”

“What if I shut this door?”

“I wouldn’t recommend that,” he says, genuinely apologetic.

The stranger sighs and steps aside, opening the door all the way. “You better come on in, then. Nasty business to do in the doorway.”

Trailing after him, K rolls the situation over in his mind. He already knows the face matches, even from the glance he’d taken. It is now a matter of confirming the identity with the eye scan before the next step. Either the replicant can surrender or they can be retired. As Sapper Morton had demonstrated to great effect the day before, it’s never surrender.

“Please, sit,” the older generation model says with a gesture to a worn couch before taking a seat across from it in a chair that looks to be more tape than metal.

K readily complies, not wanting to make waves just yet. There is someone in the kitchen. They’re just out of sight.

“Can you bring us tea?” Gradus calls out after giving him a searching look. “I think it would do our guest some good.”

He’s in the middle of opening his mouth to protest when he catches movement in the kitchen entrance and he falls still. The last thing he was expecting here was you. An organic. The officer had simply assumed that the other potential occupant was another ‘8 like the one he was paying a visit. There is not mixing across kind. His madam has been aggressively clear about there being lines that must never be crossed.

Taking in the hard look you give him when you emerge from the kitchen carrying two cups, he adverts his eyes to the low table in front of him. The porcelain teacup that you place on coffee table is well loved. The edges of it are chipped and the saucer it’s resting on doesn’t match the delicate floral print.

K doesn’t miss the way that you and the other replicant engage in a silent conversation before you hand him his own drink. He is thrown off balance by this situation. The strangeness of it is putting him on an unfamiliar edge. His hand clenches on his thigh.

Across from him, you take a seat next to the ‘8 on another battered chair. Cracked vinyl and dented metal legs groan feebly under your weight. K realizes that everything in this apartment has been well-used. Repaired instead of replaced. He wonders which one of you is the sentimental type.

“Who are you?” you ask, breaking the uneasy silence. NK687725 looks embarrassed by your bluntness.

Head reeling, he responds. “Officer KD6-3.7.”

“That’s not a name. You’re one of them, then.” It’s not a question. Disgust colors your voice. That, at least, is familiar.

“Easy,” John Gradus mummers to you. He reaches over to pat you on the sleeved arm with his pale hand.

K marks the difference between this model and Morton. Where the farmer had been a combat model, it looks like Gradus was meant for another line of work altogether. He is delicate in the places where the other had been robust. K decides that he is likely an old pleasure model. A doxie, perhaps, or meant to be a private client’s pet. He can be easily overpowered in either case.

“Why are you here, Officer?” the other replicant asks, addressing him. There’s a resigned look in his eyes. K’s presence here is no mystery.

“I was sent to follow up on reports on a… rouge serial number. My betters needed reassurance.”

“You’re going to take me in? I’m afraid I don’t have much left to offer.”

“If you’re willing, I will gladly do that rather than the alternative,” K responds. Maybe today, he’ll catch a break.

“He hasn’t done anything wrong!” you cut in, rising to your feet.

K ignores the twinge he feels in his chest. “He ran.”

“So? Why don’t you?”

Left without an answer he is willing to articulate, he doesn’t respond to your question. Loyalty runs too deep when there is no one else to be loyal to but his madam. The thought of running is incomprehensible. There is nothing out there for him but the LAPD. He’d become what he hunts.

He observes quietly as Gradus manages to coax you back into your seat. Reluctance and anger are painted all over your face in broad strokes. The freedom of your expressions reminds him of Joi.

The officer’s eyes flick to the tea cooling on the table. It’s a different color than coffee, differing scent as well. A faint steam trail rises off of it. He tries to focus his attention on it rather than the strange sensation tucked behind his ribs. Distantly, he wonders if he is having a heart attack. Can his kind even have them or was their DNA too tampered with during the growth process to allow for such a thing?

“What kind is it?” he asks, abrupt.

John Gradus smiles over your disbelieving scoff, seemingly delighted at the conversation change. “Green. I grow it myself right here. Please, have a taste. We do not have any sweeteners, but I have grown to like it without additives.”

Extending his hand out to pick up the cup, his mind drifts. Why do all replicants seem to have a desire to create, to put their own mark on the world? It’s an all too human behavior for beings without souls.

The teacup is dwarfed in his grip. A bit too much pressure and he fears the entire thing might turn to wet chalk in his palm. He hovers it underneath his nose, inhales. There’s a crisp scent to it, something fresh. He presses his lips to the edge of the cup and sucks in a mouthful. Involuntarily, his eyes slip closed as the mellow flavor rolls over his tongue.

“Good, isn’t it?” the other replicant says gently. K opens his eyes and carefully places the cup back on its saucer. His side tingles underneath his gun holder, like its burning a hole into his flesh. It’s a reminder that he’s here for something other than a social call.

Reluctantly, he reaches into a pocket and pulls out his field scanner. K looks regretfully at the pair seated across from him. If he could walk away, he would.

“If you could look up and to the left for me, Mister Gradus…” he says, getting to his feet.

You surprise him by also lunging to your feet and moving to stand between him and the still-seated replicant. “Leave my friend alone. Please.”

“I can’t do that. I’m sorry,” K tries to move around you, but you put your hands against the wide expanse of his chest and try to push him back. Heat radiates from your palms, soaking through the threadbare material of his shirt. He doesn’t do anything more than sway from the sudden pressure. The strange feeling in his chest is worse. Why would you protect the thing sitting behind you? He was taught that all replicants are disposable, meaningless in the eyes of organics.

You must be the sentimental one, he realizes. You can’t bare to let go of broken things.

“Just tell your boss or whoever sent you that you couldn’t find us.”

“I can’t lie. I have orders.” K tries to sidestep you. “Please stand aside.”

You don’t listen. Instead, you continue to block him by crowding into his space. He finally catches you with a hand on your upper arm. Applying just enough force, he makes it to where you have to step aside to relieve the pressure.

“Officer, please,” the other replicant speaks, finally rising from his chair after setting down his own teacup, “You have my full cooperation if you do not—”

Gradus’s words get cut off at your sudden explosion of violence. K feels you sock him in the face with all the strength you can muster. Stars explode across his vision. A tall, white fountain looms into his mind’s eye, beckoning him closer. He staggers but recovers quickly. Moving faster than the older model behind you, he clamps his hand around your wrists before the ‘8 can do more than take a shocked step forward.

You fight his hold, struggling like an animal caught in a trap. He clenches his fingers down just enough to keep you captive.

“Please stop,” he requests of you.

“Let go of me!” you snarl in return.

This visit is escalating fast, too fast. K has no precedent for this. In every other retirement case he’s been involved with, the organics have steered clear of the situation. They never interfere, instinctively knowing better than to get between two replicants. You can’t insert yourself into a dog fight without risking getting bit in the frenzy. Already, he can almost feel your more delicate skin bruising in his grip. You’re fighting him hard despite gaining no ground.

“I’m going to need you to let go of my friend now, Officer.”

In the altercation, K had made the mistake of diverting his attention from the real threat to you. He’s chagrined to find that the other replicant has chosen to level a gun at him. It had been retrieved from its place inside a basket between the two chairs judging by the tangled mess of synthetic yarn draped cross the edges of the plastic.

Gradus is turning out to have a harder edge to him than the ‘9 had anticipated. It looks like you’re the breaking point of the wanted replicant’s amiableness. K releases his hold on you and puts both hands up before taking a step back in a show of placation. The eye scanner is still in his left hand.

“If you could put the weapon on the table,” the officer says with a nod to the surface not far from his knees.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Gradus says apologetically, still pointing the gun at him.

“We all know I can’t do that no matter how much I want to… Direct orders.”

Sighing, the other replicant lowers the weapon in surrender but doesn’t set it aside. It’s still enough slack that K feels comfortable enough to step around you. It’s a mistake.

The instant you aren’t unintentionally shielding him from your friend, K sees movement. Gradus raises the firearm in a quick, decisive motion. K responds instinctively. His fingers leap for the gun holstered against his ribs.

With a deafening pop, the bullet blows a hole in the older model’s shoulder. John Gradus falls, gasping, to his knees. K watches, mentally disconnecting from the scene unfolding in front of him as the injured replicant claws at the wound soaking the carpet with each beat of his heart. K feels your absence in a way that is not dissimilar to a limb being severed when you leave his side and throw yourself at Gradus.

Strange. He doesn’t know you, doesn’t even know your name, and yet he is experiencing loss.

Forcefully dispassionate, he watches as you ease your friend onto his back to get better access to the wound. You pull your jacket off, desperately attempting to stanch the flow of blood by shoving the material against the hole until your knuckles pale from the pressure. There is already crimson smeared across your newly bare arms.

Officer K crosses the floor and crouches next to you. He presses a knee onto Gradus’s side to keep him still for what is coming next. K holds the replicant’s eye open and readies the scanner. He holds steady even when you let go of the wadded up jacket and start to rake at the back of hand he’s using to keep the eyelids apart. Even when you manage to open up cuts in his skin with your nails, he doesn’t react. The gouges you leave behind sting less than your pleading voice.

“Leave him alone. Please, just leave him alone.” You’re sobbing.

Emotions start to bubble up from the soil he has mentally buried them in, he beats them back with a shovel. He retreats into the comforting quiet of numbness until he gets a proper look at your blood-smeared forearm.

A hauntingly familiar mark adorns it. How many hours has he spent looking at the selfsame mark on his own arm? How often has he traced along the lines and let himself dream, just a little, that there really is something real out there for him? He’s even managed to convince himself at times that someone is looking for him because they want him as much as he wants them.

The scanner beeps, flashing green. It slices through his mounting alarm. He manages to spare a glance at it. The number inset into the tissue of Gradus’s eye is a match for the civic number he’d come for, just as he’d known it would be. He hates himself for the necessary evil he is about to preform.

Digging his knee more firmly into his target’s ribs, he extracts a small knife from another pocket in his jacket. He tunes you out. The blade runner accepts the harm you’re trying to inflict on him as penance for his cruelty.

K is as gentle as he can possibly be while he cuts the eye out of the still living replicant. The older model thrashes and struggles underneath him, but is ultimately unable to break free. K had been right about him being easily overpowered.

Trembling, he gets to his feet and moves away from you both. The eye is clasped carefully in his hand, optic nerve dangling freely. With his fingers slick with blood, he finds an evidence bag in one of his pockets and tucks the eye into its new, plastic prison. The bag goes back into the pocket it had come from.

You and Gradus had referred to each other as friends. The way that you’re curled over him, the protective hunch of your shoulders as you tend to him, supports the notion. Replicants were made to be isolated, sank deep in their work. Tyrell and, later, Wallace had engineered them to be the perfect servants. K doesn’t know what to make of this bond.

Before he can leave, there is one other thing left he must confirm or refute even though he already knows the answer. His own memory had supplied it. Grasping the edge of his own sleeve, he pulls it up to expose the mark etched into his cells. He looks from his forearm to yours, eyes following every memorized curve, every line.

They match.

The mouthful of tea he’d just had in what feels like a lifetime ago threatens to expel itself on the thin carpet. He’s found his soulmate. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

K gets to see the moment you realize you register what he’s looking at. Horror blossoms on your face as your mind tries to make sense of what you’re seeing, of what you really are to each other. The emotions running across your face are all caused by him. He feels sick.

“What?” he hears you mumble. It’s a broken little noise.

Stricken by the urge to comfort you, to lay himself on the floor beside Gradus so that you may flay him open, he clenches his hands and takes another step back. You’re looking up at him like he might attack again. The cut on the back of his hand weeps, doing what he cannot.

He isn’t going to hurt you and yours any further. K had already decided that the moment he saw your soulmark. It’s a choice born from a newfound sense of selfishness. His loyalty had gained a chip in the smooth surface of it, like the teacup you had placed in front of him. He is going to lie to his madam. As proof of a job complete, he’ll bring the stolen eye back to the precinct. If the other replicant survives the trauma inflicted on him, he will be continue to be free. He can go through his life without looking over his shoulder quite so often.

As if summoned by his thoughts, a cellular device starts chiming in his pocket. His madam. No one else would call him. The officer withdraws the device and presses the button to accept the call.

Lieutenant Joshi’s voice is tinny and crackling through the speaker. She doesn’t waste a breath on pleasantries. “Your dig came through. Get down here. Leave whatever you’re working on.”

The unit trills when she hangs up. He put the phone back into his pants pocket.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He means it, perhaps more than anything else he’s said since his inception.

Understandably, you don’t say anything in response to him. Instead, you try to stand despite your legs being too shaky to manage it easily on your own. Before he can show restraint, employ any measure of sense, he bridges the distance between the two of you. K offers you his hand. He’s stunned when you actually take it. Yours fits against his own, palm to palm, as though he was made for you. In a way, K supposes, he was.

There is a breathless moment where the two of you simply stand together hand in hand, eyes peering into the other’s. He wants to shift his hold. He wants to interlink his fingers with yours. Just as he is on the cusp of fulfilling that desire, you wrench your hand free of his and that’s when K knows his time here is up.

Gathering himself just enough, he puts his back to you. The door seems miles away as he starts walking towards it.

“Hey.” There is a flinty quality to your voice.

He pauses and looks back towards you. K is unsurprised to see that you’ve picked up Gradus’s discarded firearm and are now pointing it at him. He wishes that you weren’t shaking so much. He pivots to fully face you, keeping his hands at his sides. The least he can do for you is hold still so that you can line up the shot.

The conviction bleeds out of your face and your arm lowers. The gun falls to the floor at your feet with a heavy thud. At the back of his throat, he tastes the bitterness of disappointment.

K exits the apartment unit. Every step feels wrong. He wants to fight the order. He wants to turn around. The officer wants to offer something, anything, that could make this right. He wishes he could undo the blood pooled on the carpet, but he can’t do anything at all but obey. Free will doesn’t exist for him. His madam has called him in, and for now, he belongs to her no matter what the flesh might claim.

───※ ·❆· ※───

In the morgue, K doesn’t find himself to be any more stable. Joshi had called him in to make use of his intuition and rapid processing ability, but he feels numb. His thoughts keep wandering to you.

He’s barely aware of Nandez talking to him as he idly traces a thumb over his jacket where it lays draped over his arm. He thinks the material had been a more vibrant green once, before he had acquired it from an ‘8 who had, in turn, lifted it off a ‘7.

“Your box is a military footlocker issued to Sapper Morton, creatively repurposed as an ossuary. Box of bones. Meticulously cleaned and laid to rest about 30 years gone. Nothing else in it but hair. She’s pre-Blackout so DeNAbase doesn’t give an ID.”

K manages a nod. He doesn’t bother speaking.

“It was she, plus one,” Joshi says as if it were a shocking revelation. It’s not. From his understanding, organics often manage to reproduce.

Pregnancy, death, panning shots over the dead woman’s bones… His soulmark burns like a phantom brand. The fire feels like it’s spreading to his brain. He’s going under in a cloud of embers. Bits of conversation drift around him. They’re as untouchable as the pretend wife waiting at home for him.

Struggling to gain focus, he drags his intuition up from where it lies dormant and cooling. Coco is leading the forensic discovery today, a small relief. The tech zooms in too far and K gets a flash of scrapes along bone. Man-made alterations.

“Go back. Closer. Closer. That. What’s that?” It’s time he’s spoken since being recalled to the precinct. The three organics eye in him surprise.

“Notching on the iliac crest. Fine point, like a scalpel. Looks like an emergency c-section... Cuts are clean. No sign of struggle,” Coco reports.

K thinks for a moment, mulling over the information. “He was a combat medic. Maybe he tried to save her but just couldn't.”

His words cause the others to debate. They do it with little regard of what he is.

“He didn’t seem like the saving type.” Nandez sneers.

“He took the time to bury her. A sentimental skinjob…” Coco muses, but freezes, stricken “Sorry, K,” he adds.

K shrugs off the apology. He has long since been pushed past any feelings over any slights that come his way. It had been a necessary thing in order to survive here.

“Didn’t seem like the daddy type either. So where’s the kid? You scan the whole field?” Joshi says, knowing very well that replicants are sterile.

“Just dirt and worms. No other bodies.” Nandez’s response is immediate.

“Maybe he ate it.” Coco says, more serious than he should be.

Something flares, white hot, in K’s chest. He has never had a proclivity to anger. The vicious tone to his words surprises even him. “Or maybe he loved her. Maybe he took care of the kid like it was his, at least for a while.”

The silence is deafening. Three pairs of incredulous eyes stare at him. Then Joshi speaks, cutting through the silence punctuated only by K’s harsh breathing. She sounds like she’s talking to a very small child. “But your kind doesn’t love.”

“Oh, he definitely ate it,” Nandez follows up, barely able to get the words out before he starts laughing. Coco joins him.

K bows his head, thoroughly chastised. He only just keeps from curling in on himself.

His madam sighs. “Finish up here, boys. K, with me.”

Unsure of what to expect, he follows the woman to the elevator. He presses himself into the corner during the ride up to her office, unease biting at his bones. The confined space has only been a breeding ground for trouble. Having learned a few hard lessons, he takes the stairs these days unless he is with Joshi.

The lieutenant leads him through the bullpen once they get off the elevator. Nobody pays them any attention. Eyes automatically advert from his madam. When they get to her office, she leaves him to close the door behind them. Upon turning to face her, he finds that she has already seated herself behind her desk and is in the midst of pouring herself a drink.

K waits, face turned submissively down at the floor. He doesn’t fidget.

“The world’s built on a wall that separates kind. Tell either side there’s no wall and you’ve bought a war or a slaughter. Your kind is incapable of love. That’s a trait only given to humans. So whatever notion you have in your head about the skinjob and the woman, you leave that behind.” Her tone is lecturing. It leaves no room for argument, not that he would even dare dream of it. Whatever his madam says to him is the law that he must obey.

“Yes, Madam.”

“What isn’t possible can’t be.”

“Yes, Madam,” he says again.

With a sigh, she sits back in her chair. Her eyes trace over his body, appraising. His breath catches in his throat before he forces his nervous system to relax. The only sign of his discomfort is the clenching of his hand at his side.

Lieutenant Joshi’s mouth pinches. Her face takes on a harried look. With a decisive thunk, she sets the glass tumbler down on her desk. It has been emptied for the first of what is likely to be many times.

“Go home. Get your head on straight. I don’t need you wanting retirement.”

“Yes, Madam,” K agrees.

Any relief he feels as being allowed to leave is cut short when she stops him. “Hey.”

He pauses, letting that be the acknowledgment that he’s heard her. The officer waits like the obedient dog he was made to be.

“You’re getting on fine without it.”

He feels his eyebrow twitch upwards in question. “What’s that, Madam?”

“Love.”

───※ ·❆· ※───

It’s late. The sun sat below the sprawling expanse of buildings hours ago, leaving K to sit in the dark room with only his thoughts and his DiJi for company. While he looks out the window at the other apartment building across the street, at the wall of lives stored in little boxes, he feels more hopeless than usual. The mark on his forearm feels like a slap in the face.

What use is a miracle if it only serves to remind him of his failures? It is a monument to what he destroyed without even knowing what it was he was about to rip apart.

He stands up from the purple chair and takes a few stumbling steps over to the built-in table to pour himself another too-full glass of whiskey. The bottle he had opened after getting off work tonight is already more than half gone. K doesn’t know why he’s even bothering to pour it into a glass other than to occupy his hands. He might as well drink straight from the bottle for efficiency.

With the glass in hand, liquid nearly sloshing over the edges, he goes to where his coat his hanging by the door. He swallows down another mouthful of alcohol while he reaches into one of the pockets. He takes out the small knife he uses for extracting eyes on retirement cases. K figures he should have just given you the blade and let you take his instead.

“K, what are you doing?” Joi asks, tone colored with apprehension.

She is lingering by the window, nervously shifting her nonexistent weight. The replicant ignores her. He’s been doing that a lot lately. Something has changed in him.

Crossing the room again, he takes a seat on the couch. K sets his glass on the side table. Stray drops of whiskey escape over the lip of it at the careless motion. They soak into the paper of his book, his most prized possession. It doesn’t matter. Joshi already soiled it months ago with her own glass, not dissimilar to how she has with him.

Tightening his grip around the knife, he looks down contemplatively at his right forearm. He is not wearing a long sleeved shirt this evening. Maybe he should have been.

Joi starts to plead with him the instant she realizes what he’s about to do. He manages to block her voice out and sinks the blade into his skin, just below the soulmark. The metal works its way through flesh and meat until the fine tip of it scrapes against his radius. It burns as he drags it sideways, up and to the left. Blood wells up from the wound and starts dripping freely onto his pant leg. It soaks into the material.

K has decided that he is undeserving of the fragment of soul he was given at inception. The mark must be removed. Perhaps with it no longer on his body, its twin will appear on someone else. You can have a better soulmate, and he will just be another serial number. Unremarkable in every way.

Delicate hands flicker and clip through his, grasping futilely at the knife. Joi has thrown herself to her knees in front of him and is trying to stop him. Projected tears are falling from her eyes in shimmering droplets. He follows the steady flow of them to her face and realizes that he is scaring her. In her distraught expression, he can only see your agonized face as you sob over the replicant he put a bullet into just days before. Her hands are yours in the way that they attempt to pull at his, to put a stop to the damage he’s inflicting. The comparison stops him cold. He can’t do this to Joi. Even if their relationship together is an elaborate game of pretend, he can’t make someone else feel the way he made you feel.

Smothering the emotions inside of him like a flawed replicant straight from the artificial womb, he wiggles the knife back and forth to free it from his body. He sets the blade aside on the coffee table and retreats to the bathroom. Joi is unable to follow him. She is stuck to the hardline as if on a leash. He never got her anniversary present.

Away from Joi’s worried eyes, he washes the injury in the cramped bathroom sink. Water spills out over the sides and splashes onto the floor in swirls of pale pink on the tile. It makes its way lazily to the drain in the middle of the room. He will scrub the traces of his blood out of the grout later, when he has had a moment to distance himself from everything he shouldn’t be feeling.

Feeling unsteady, K finds the platelet jelly and sets to gluing the self-inflicted wound shut.

If he pinches the sides of it together harder than what is necessary, that’s only for him to know. The bite of pain is enough to ground him in reality. It clears away some of the drunken fog.

Closer to baseline than he was, K rejoins his distressed “wife” in the main room. She rushes at him and he draws her against him as much as a living being can do with a hologram.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry,” he soothes while she sobs nonexistent tears against his chest.

The replicant can’t help but wish that she were someone else. He wonders if his role and that of Gradus had been reversed, would you have tried to protect him? What would it be like to have someone care enough to try?

───※ ·❆· ※───

After that night where he had made an earnest attempt to remove his soulmark, he shuts himself off from Joi. He barely responds to her these days. He can hardly stomach interacting with anyone at all. Still, he does not turn off the DiJi. She is left to do wander around the room and do whatever her algorithm wishes. There is a strange sort of comfort in not feeling completely alone, even if the company isn’t actually there. He isn’t real in any meaningful way either.

His evenings become routine in their spiral. He sits, he smokes, he drinks, and he very rarely sleeps in the hours before his alarm chimes. You haunt the moments of rest he is able to get. He hears your voice in the throats of a thousand others. He sees your anguished face with every blink of his eyes.

K wishes he knew even just your name. He has nothing tangible of that day in 405. Perhaps it was just a dream, a terrible nightmare that has bled into the waking world.

He has to stop eating the synthetic meat he gets for his dinners. The artificial bloodiness of it transports him back to the moment he saw your soulmark covered with the gore caused by his mistake. He should have overridden instinct. He should have done something, anything, differently.

K nearly stops eating all together. His body is slowly wasting away, eating at his muscles. He’s taken to wearing more layers to offset the loss. No one comments at the change.

───※ ·❆· ※───

If only so you can put him down, he tries to find you. The opportunity for him to dig for information comes when he’s put on a case with Nandez. The detective leaves K alone promptly at the end of second shift. The replicant is not sad to see him go. Even at the best of times, Nandez is at his throat despite not having the authority to demand anything from him. K sincerely hopes that the man never gets a promotion.

With Nandez gone, K pulls up the property records for the apartment building he found you at and starts searching. There is nothing substantial, certainly nothing for an additional occupant in the unit rented by John Gradus. No co-signer, no lease agreement, no roommate paperwork. It’s a dead end.

Frustrated, he gets out of his chair and paces. K knows full he can’t risk diving too deep into the systems. Doing so might draw attention to his extracurricular activities. His madam would want answers, and not the ones he is willing to provide. She can’t know of your existence. Joshi was very clear about the boundaries between kind. Without question, he would find a way to retire himself if given the order to harm you.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Squinting his eyes against the feeble sunlight managing to stream into his window, he registers that Joi is looking at him. Her face carries the same serious expression that it has for the past few weeks. He feels a distant pang of guilt at being the cause of it.

She’s projected herself to be laying beside him on the thin mattress. In the dreamlike quality of the light, she looks almost tangible like this. Touchable. These small moments are why he never bothered with blinds or curtains.

“Tell me about your soulmate,” she says. He realizes that she’s emulated his mark into her hologram skin.

“There’s not much to tell.” His voice is thick with sleep.

“Tell me anyway.”

At that, he closes his eyes and summons his memory of you. With each detail he recounts aloud about your appearance, Joi alters herself. She replicates your accent, your hair, your eye color. When he opens his eyes, he finds himself looking at a pale imitation. It’s almost closer to a mockery than anything else. The morning light can’t make it real. Nothing could.

Tenderly, his DiJi reaches out and tries to press her fake mark against his in the way he’d always hoped his soulmate would when they found each other. He lets her, numb. It doesn’t feel like anything more than the faint static tingle of her projection. She clips through him.

“A special boy needs a name, a real name.” she prompts, mulling the thought over.

“Don’t,” he interrupts, softly. He doesn’t want Joi to name him. She’s not what he really wants. If anyone were to give him a name, it should be you.

With a flash of hurt on her face, she pulls away. The attempt at a loving game of pretend like they used to play is over. There is not likely to be another one.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Carefully, he tears out the title page of his book. K does not have any other paper. This will have to do. With the same marker the replicant used in his spinner to label the bag containing Gradus’s eye, he writes on the alcohol-warped page.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

Officer K folds the paper and tucks it into his badge holder for safekeeping. He has a premonition that this day will end with him staring into the lens of a camera like the barrel of a gun while one of the precinct’s baseline administers hammers him with questions asked forcefully enough they might as well be physical blows.

Pushing through the crowd on the stairs, he doesn’t register the turmoil around him. He breaks free once he’s out the front door. The walk to the garage seems to pass in the blink in the eye and feels like only heartbeats pass before he’s in the work-provided spinner and on the way to the apartment building he’d been to a lifetime ago.

He puts the spinner down curbside out in front of a struggling noodle place. K doesn’t want to be parked too close to his objective. If someone comes sniffing around after him for going off-map, he doesn’t want it to be immediately obvious where he’s going.

As they had been the last time he’d been here, the streets are empty. They’re marked with obvious signs of nightlife. It all but confirms what he had suspected when doing the flyover. Graffiti and broken class litter the sidewalks in front of the row of businesses shuttered for the daytime hours. The neon signs are off and the blinds closed.

The apartment building looks the same as it had last time. Despite his own world being shaken to the very foundations, the structure he is entering looks unstricken by revelation. Retracing his footsteps, he ascends to the fourth four and finds the unit. The doormat he’d not bothered to acknowledge before is still out front.

With his pulse pounding in his ears, he raises his hand and knocks. He waits for the telltale sign of life behind the barrier. Nothing. Concern prickles at his mind, and he knocks again only to get no response. For just a moment, he thinks about just sliding the paper under the door but on a whim, he tries the knob. It turns easily in his grasp. It was left unlocked.

“Hello?” K calls out as he steps across the threshold.

Silence greets him in return.

From what the officer can discern upon casting a searching look at his surroundings, little has changed. The furniture is where it had been on the day of his visit. He is not sure if any of the personal effects have been disturbed. They had not been near the top of his priority list at the time.

A loud ringing noise shatters the peace and he startles, nearly hitting his elbow on the wall. It’s his phone. His madam must have checked on his tracker code and realized that he isn’t anywhere a good boy might be found under normal circumstances. He lets it ring through unanswered. His countdown has started.

Reluctantly, he continues his investigation and looks at the place where he had dropped Gradus. The blood stain he’d left behind is a mere, blush colored mark on the carpet. Someone, probably you, had tried to scrub away the evidence. The basket of yarn that had contained the gun has been righted and moved to a place between the couch and the blind-covered window.

Showing some level of restraint, he resists the urge to wander into the bedrooms. There are two of them. A glance through the doorways reveals that each has a bed. You and the ‘8 must not sleep in the same room. Instead of trying to puzzle out which might contain your possessions, he moves into the kitchen.

There is moisture in the sink. Someone has been here recently. The apartment had not been abandoned in his absence.

The water in the basin reminds him that Gradus had asked you to bring tea to them. Could it be your usual chore? The thought sparks an idea, and he pulls his badge from his pocket and extracts the folded piece of paper. He leaves it on the counter as his phone rings for a second time. Ignoring the repetitive trill, he picks up a pen from the coffee table and returns to the kitchen to unfold the page he’d torn from the book.

Again, his phone goes off, barely a pause between the attempts at reaching him. The timer is running out moment by moment.

Underneath the words he wrote at his apartment, K presses the nib of the pen against the paper and takes a breath. In careful writing, he adds to them.

Do you feel that there's a part of you that's missing?

What's it like to hold the hand of someone you love?

Immediately, he wants to erase the words. With the feeling that he’s making another mistake when it comes to you, K refolds the sheet of paper and tucks it partially under the kettle resting on the counter. He wishes that he knew your name so that he could write it on the paper. Even without it, it’s clear enough who the message is for. Gradus hadn’t been the one with who shared his soulmark.

With an air of finality to it, the device in his pocket rings a fourth time. It’s his cue to leave. Spurred into haste, he puts the pen back where he’d found it and takes a final glance around, still curious about which decorative choices were yours.

He leaves the apartment, making sure to close the door securely behind him. The replicant all but sprints down the stairs in the effort to create distance between himself and the apartment unit. He narrowly manages to keep his pace limited to a brisk walk on the way back to the noodle restaurant. Just as he’s reaching for the lock on his spinner’s door, he hears a low roar rapidly approaching.

Looking up, he sees a police issued vehicle pull into a stop. It begins its decent as a voice projects over the loudspeaker. “Officer K D6-3.7. We’re taking you in on failure to report.”

K puts his hands up and automatically lowers himself to his knees. Acutely, he’s aware of what will happen if he doesn’t perfectly comply. LAPD beat cops are trigger-happy organics and ready to spray and pray at anything that so much as breathes wrong in their direction. He has never respected them, never been given cause to in all his dealings with them.

A cop gets out, leaving another behind the wheel, as soon as the spinner lands. In short order, K finds himself handcuffed and made a passenger in his own provided spinner. The organic makes a stab at ruffling his nerves on the way back to the precinct.

“Lieutenant’s real mad at you for taking off like that.”

K offers nothing in response.

“What the fuck were you doing all the way out here, skinner?”

He shrugs in his restraints, chooses how to interpret the question. “Noodles.”

The officer whistles, pitchy and uneven. “Oooh, she’s going to string you up.”

K is aware. He knew the cost for his apology when he set out today. He had also decided it was worth the fallout.

───※ ·❆· ※───

The stool that Officer K is sitting on is uncomfortable—a hard, impersonal thing meant to be hosed off as needed. It’s the same as the rest of this room bathed in the sterile light of humming florescent bar. Underneath the copper burn of blood is an antiseptic tang. The baseline testing room is everything but a slaughterhouse floor in name. He’d opened his eyes for the very first time in a room like this.

Ringing fills his ears followed by the whir and click of the wall-mounted camera in front of him. A disembodied voice reads off his serial number and informs him that the test has begun.

Responses leave the replicant’s throat through as though someone else is speaking through him. He’s calm, retreated so far into himself that any residual fire inside of him has been snuffed out. He feels cold. The joints in his fingers ache with the sensation. He doesn’t dare to flex them or to rub at his chafed wrists.

The cops that had been sent to fetch him had removed the handcuffs as soon as he’d been delivered to the testing room. One of them in particular had found great amusement in hauling him through the precinct by the narrow chain like a dog catcher with an animal on the end of their pole.

Finally, the pounding against the walls of his mind stops. The interrogation is over. The camera powers down and the examiner sighs, hard, almost disappointed.

“You’re free to go, Officer. Your lieutenant will see you in her office.”

K rises, stiff, eyes unseeing. He barely registers the activity of the precinct around him as he traverses the hallway and climbs the stairs in clear avoidance of the elevator once again. He feels trapped enough in his own head without the physical captivity of being in a little box.

Low murmurs roll against him akin to the waves against the seawall when he crosses the bullpen and knocks on Joshi’s door after reaching the floor housing her office. She calls him in immediately. Her tone is like an angry wasp. It provides a sting that jolts everything back into sharp relief.

She barely waits until he closes the door behind himself. “The hell is with you?”

Years of experience have taught him to let his madam work through her anger without input from him. K waits, still and patient, in front of her desk.

“You take off without informing me, you ignore my calls, and then what? We pick you up fucking around in the street outside of some shitty restaurant? What was so important about it that you had to go out there?”

“Apologies, Madam,” he says. Repentance drips from his voice like honey from the comb.

Joshi waits, looking expectant. Her expression shifts to frustration as no more words come. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say to me? Tell me why you were out there.”

It’s a direct order. The instinct to obey pulls at him. He gives in without a fight. “I was following up on the second retirement case. Civic’ NK687725. It was a surprise, Madam. I had hoped it would be a welcome one.”

Like magic, the severely set lines in Joshi’s face soften. She is becoming convinced that he’d meant his… willfulness as a gift, as a credit to her and her management.

“Did you find anything?”

“There was no one there,” he pauses, twists the truth in his own mind, “Hadn’t been for a while. It’s probable I scared them off and they went underground.”

Who is to say what “a while” means? Time is relative.

Joshi lifts a hand and beckons him closer, around the corner of the desk. Eager to avoid more trouble, he instantly follows her direction. She rotates her chair to face him when he comes to a stop within touching distance. He has learned through trial and error to predict exactly where she wants him based on her mannerisms and tone. It has never bode well for him to be wrong.

“Good dog,” the lieutenant says, lightly kicks him in the shin. “Just let me know before you decide to be proactive again.”

“I will, Madam.” He’s glad that she has decided to be lenient today.

“Get on out of here. I don’t need the distraction.”

“Goodbye, Madam.” It’s polite and he keeps his pace measured as he leaves. He doesn’t want to seem too eager. It would send the wrong message.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Weeks pass K by without any outward indication that you’ve received the paper he had left behind at your residence. He has made a resigned peace with the idea that your paths may never cross again when he arrives back to his apartment following a day kept late at work doing overtime, again, for Nandez. Following routine and nearly swaying on his feet, he puts his hand on the scanner for the door lock. He opens it just enough to slide through and is greeted in the entryway by Joi for the first time a while. Panic is displayed on her face. Taken aback, he’s about to question her when she speaks first.

“You have a visitor. I didn’t think you would want me to say no,” she whispers.

Frowning, he mulls over the list of potential visitors and only comes up with one idea of who it might be. But, he’d just seen Joshi at the precinct before leaving for the day. She had given him no indication that she would be paying him a visit tonight. In fact, his madam had had him sit down on the other side of her desk to share a drink with her.

It had kept him occupied for the better part of the hour while she got intoxicated enough to insist that he give her a kiss before he leave. She’d failed to push things further by not ordering him to his knees before her or manipulating his hands onto her body. K thinks that she’s grown bored of him, at least for the moment. The thought makes him feel relieved.

Joi touches him on the shoulder, putting an end to his thinking. “Good luck.”

Anticipating, despite the unlikeliness of it, to see his madam, he passes by the DiJi into the main room. K stops in his tracks, stricken dumb. He’d have sooner expected Coco spread out on his couch in nothing but his clear, silicone labcoat and an artificial rose in his mouth than to be staring at you. Somehow, you don’t look as out of place as you should among his sparse possessions.

“How did you find me?” the replicant asks.

“You said your identification number the day you showed up. KD6-3.7.”

It’s strange a strange thing, hearing his “name” come out of your mouth. He doesn’t supply the nickname he’s been given during his time as a blade runner. He’s already pacing on the knife’s edge. This evening could tip him in any direction without forcing any further familiarity.

“You got the note.”

“Yes.” Your tone is matter-of-fact. “You wanted to know if I felt like a part of me is missing.”

He is left waiting for a follow-up that doesn't come. The thought hangs there, uncontinued. In the quiet of the room, K shrugs off his jacket and goes to hang it on the hook by the front door. He unholsters his gun and puts it on a nearby shelf. No matter how things go, he will not be using it on you.

Before he faces you again, K approaches the controls for the hardline crossing the ceiling. When he casts a look at Joi with his finger hovering over the power button, she looks at peace. She gives him an encouraging shooing motion of her hand. He turns her off for the first time in months. You and K will not have any outside distraction.

“He lived, by the way.”

K feels a tightness loosen in his chest. “I’m glad.”

“Why? You could have easily made the shot fatal, why didn’t you?”

“Somebody cares about him. He would have been missed.”

“And that matters to you?” You don’t sound judgmental to his ears, only curious.

“Yes. I’m sorry I had to do it.” He swallows hard, voice breaking as he continues. “I didn’t choose this.”

The replicant knows that he is only what he was made to be, nothing more, nothing less. Nature had dictated his obedience. Nurture had molded him into being what the Los Angeles Police’s retirement division had had in mind when he was purchased for their use.

Under the weight of your gaze, he begins to self-soothe by clasping his hands together in front of him and rubbing one thumb over the other. He finds himself relieved from the burden when you shift your attention to your surroundings. He watches, fascinated, as you begin to explore.

Your fingers trail over the box where he stores his cigarettes and the lighter he’d found in the pocket of one of his previous retirement jobs. Moving onward, you pick up his book and flip briefly through the alcohol warped pages. He sees the recognition dart across your features when you find the place where the torn out page had once resided. The care in which you set the volume back down on the table surprises him. His madam had never displayed that level of consideration. Neither had Joi with the projected clone of it.

“These don’t look like yours,” you say. In your hands are Sapper Morton’s glasses, held as if they might break apart in your grasp with so much as a wrong exhale.

“They’re not.”

“Whose are they, then?”

“Sapper Morton. He was a retirement case,” K pauses, hesitates, then quietly adds, “I didn’t want him to be forgotten.”

“Why?” you ask, rolling the word in your mouth like a pearl.

The question makes his skin itch. He stills as though he had just taken a seat for his baseline. The only betraying movement is the continued motion of his thumb atop the other.

“Why?” you repeat, softer this time. There’s something close to tenderness in your voice and that makes him afraid.

“He was more than a serial number.” K admits, feeling the answer clawing its way out of him. “I… they all were.”

“Are you?”

“No.” His response is immediate. Firm.

“Why not?”

Unable to answer, he looks away. Shame laps at him with an overeager tongue. There is a divide between the older models and him. In some ways, Morton was right. The ‘9s are happy scraping the shit because it’s all they have been taught to know.

He’s aware of you setting the glasses back in their resting place on the shelf, but it still surprises him when you cross the small amount of space separating the two of you to stand in front of him. You’re so close to him that he can feel the heat of your body. It makes him want to burn in your fire.

“I do feel like there’s something missing. It’s like there’s an empty space next to me that should be filled by someone, but that someone never comes. It’s the part of the reason I came here. I… wanted to talk to you knowing what we are to each other,” you tell him.

K nods. Words catch in his throat, tumble over one another. In the end, he is unable to utter any of them.

“Will you show it to me?” you ask with a gesture to his covered arm. “I want to be sure.”

With a tremor threatening to shake his body, he slips his fingers under the edge of his shirt sleeve and pulls it up to his elbow. His soulmark is laid bare before your eyes. The wound that he had left in his own skin when he had tried to carve out the design has faded to a raised, pale line.

“That wasn’t there before,” you murmur, taking his forearm in your hands. Your pointer finger traces over the scar.

His breath catches at your touch. Overwhelmed, he has to close his eyelids against the moisture welling up in his eyes. He opens them again when the pressure of your hands leaves and sees you taking off your own coat to toss it over the back of his chair. The replicant barely has a moment of respite before your left hand resumes its position cupping the underbelly of his forearm. You keep him steady as you raise your right arm and nestle it alongside his to place the soulmarks side by side.

K’s eyes hadn’t been deceived back then. They are perfectly identical.

It’s more than he can handle. He curls into himself, instinctively seeking the fetal position. His chin is against his shoulder, face turned away from you. He’s not sure if he’s burning up or drowning.

“Hey… hey.”

Suddenly, your arms are around him. K feels himself being guided in until he’s all but cradled against you as you ease the both of you to floor. He finds himself pressing his face against your neck as you rub a soothing hand up and down his back. For each moment that passes, the replicant grows increasingly more worried that he’s overstaying his welcome, but you don’t push him away. Instead, you gently rock him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding choked even to his own ears.

“I’m sorry too. I misjudged you. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still pissed, but it wasn’t… I have an understanding of why you did what you did.”

Forcing himself to put some distance between your bodies, K finally pulls away. He doesn’t want to risk being reprimanded for taking too much. Your hands fall into your lap in the void he leaves behind.

There is a part of him that keeps expecting to discover that this is a vivid dream. Will he wake up and be staring at the water-damaged ceiling instead of your face? The hard floor under his knees, the chill of it creeping through the fabric and trying to find a home against his skin, seems to signal otherwise.

“Please don’t apologize. What I did was unforgivable.”

“John’s not mad at you, you know?” The words come as a surprise. He searches your eyes for a joke only to see sincerity reflected back at him. “He said you probably extended his life a few years by taking his eye and turning it in. Nobody’s gonna come looking for a dead man.”

“He’s not on our radar anymore. His file has been greyed out,” he says, getting to his feet.

Automatically, he reaches down to offer you his hand. It’s a mirror of your last interaction. He can tell by your expression that you are reliving the same memory as he. Still, you once again take his hand without hesitation. You hold it for just a moment before letting go. He doesn't think he imagined the reluctance.

“I don’t want to take up too much of your time, Officer. I don’t want to intrude,” you say, turning to pick up your coat from where you had left it.

“Please. Stay,” he bursts out. The feeling of imminent loss batters at the walls of his chest, “unless…”

“Okay.”

He blinks, not expecting the ease in which you had agreed. He’s left cycling through various scripts in the effort to find something to say. Latching onto a familiar interaction with Joi, he asks, “Do you want coffee?”

“Sure, I’d take some.”

K finds himself with you in his narrow kitchen. He heats the water while you take down two mugs and locate the instant coffee grounds after some direction from him. It’s domestic in a way that he was never able to have with Joi. With her, he didn’t need to worry about knocking elbows together or pressing her into the cabinetry while trying to reach for a pot holder.

Once the hot water is ready and split between the two mugs and stirred together, the two of you take seats on the couch. Between sips, conversation flows, a trickle at first and then a flood. You talk for hours, long after your mugs are drained and sat aside.

Following the natural progression of all things, the words begin to slow as tiredness sets in. Pauses between sentences lengthen like shadows. At seeing your eyes between to flutter shut, K rouses himself out of his own comfortable stupor.

“I’ll take the couch if you want to sleep in my bed tonight,” the replicant offers. He’s relaxed, at ease in a way he’s not sure he’s ever been. You’ve changed him.

The effort that it takes for you to keep your eyelids open as you think over his stab at hospitality only endears to you him further. Finally, you shrug and smother a yawn. “I’ll take you up on that. I don’t think I need to be behind the wheel like this.”

While you pull out your phone and send a message to your roommate to let him know your plans, K gets up and crosses the room to fold down the bed. He opens a nearby drawer and pulls out the pillow and blanket to put on the mattress. With a helpless twinge sigh, he surveys the setup. It’s not the lap of luxury, he knows, but he hopes it will be sufficient.

“All yours.”

“Thank you, K.” The light press of your fingers against his soulmark warms him almost as much as the use of his nickname. You had slipped into using it when he had admitted his preference for it over his job title or serial number in at some point in the previous hours.

He nods, a shy dip of his head and lets you slide under the blankets. After fetching his jacket off the hook to use as a blanket, he turns off the lights and lays down on the couch. Sleep comes to him almost immediately. It’s dreamless.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Morning comes to him with the shrill chiming of his alarm. Fumbling for his handheld, K silences it and lays still for a moment, staring up at the ceiling. The replicant fell asleep on the couch again. He knows that he has been doing that more often than he should. Too much alcohol and flipping through the pages of his book time and time again on the hunt for any new meaning that he can gleam from the words he knows by heart have contributed to this being a regular occurrence.

With a stiff back, he sits up and swings his legs to place his feet on the floor. He freezes right on the cusp of standing up. There is a body tucked into his bed and it’s not Joshi. Yesterday evening hadn’t been a whiskey soaked dream brought on by too much wishful thinking. It had been real.

K knows he needs to get ready to go to the precinct and pushes himself through his morning routine accordingly no matter how much he would prefer to wait at your side to resume the domesticity the two of you had begun to forge. By the time he’s out of the shower and dressed, you’ve gotten up and put the bed back in its stored away position. The bedding is neatly folded and set on a shelf with the pillow.

With his hair still damp, he observes you for a moment from the kitchen. You’re tracing the faded letters and numbers on the back of his jacket with a finger, clearly trying to decipher the characters.

“N7H00105,” he supplies, sparing your eyes.

Amusement causes the corners of his mouth to rise into a smile as you turn to him with an incredulous look. “How did you…? It’s so faded.”

“It was easier to read when I acquired it.”

“Another one of your job finds?” you ask, offering him the jacket when he approaches.

“Yes.”

While he’s pulling the comforting weight of the garment over his shoulders, he tracks you with his eyes as you step into your shoes and tie the laces. You haven’t put your coat on yet, leaving your arms bare. There is a moment of silence, the two of you regarding one another. He does not want to be the first one to make the gesture to leave and, it seems, neither do you.

Your teeth are worrying your bottom lip. He wonders what you’re thinking about, but in the clear light of day, he finds himself unable to ask. The sun has burned away some of the ease of last night.

Finally, you speak. “If you had the option, would you leave all of this behind?”

He blinks, uncomprehending. “What?”

“Your job. Your life here… Would you leave it behind?”

“I… I don’t have anything else.” His words are uncertain, shaky.

“What if I’m offering you something else?”

“My kind doesn’t run.”

“It’s not running, K. It’s living.”

Rattled by the conviction in your voice, he sits down on the couch. His chest feels tight as barely defined images of things he’d hardly dared to dream of race through his mind. The enormity of what you’re suggesting is all but unimaginable. He has been loyal to his madam’s cause since the day he was incepted. There could be no deeper betrayal than slipping free of his tether.

The sensation of your hand on his shoulder jolts him back into the present moment. He meets your concerned eyes for a heartbeat before he has to look away.

“You don’t have to decide right now. You can think on it.”

“Saturday. I’ll be ready on Saturday,” he chokes out. His heart is pounding in his throat. He knows he cannot risk sitting through another baseline in the wake of this. He will fail.

“You’re sure? You won’t be able to come back here.”

“Yes.” Recklessly—impulsively—he has made up his mind.

───※ ·❆· ※───

The Saturday of his departure dawns like any other. The sunlight peering into the apartment’s only window would make K’s morning wholly unremarkable in its routine if his surroundings hadn’t been wiped clean of any personal possessions but a select few items that he is leaving behind for his madam to repossess. His entire world had fit into one furtively purchased duffel bag.

His nerves are alight with restlessness as he waits for you to arrive. The replicant had spent a few fitful hours laying on his mattress before rising ahead of the sun to ensure his readiness for the life ahead. As part of his preparations, he finally purchased Joi’s anniversary present. An emanator. He had transferred her to it after yesterday’s shift at the precinct. She had been joyous, nearly overflowing with excitement for him when he had explained the situation to her. He had cautiously let himself share his own tentative optimism.

At the DiJi’s suggestion, he had snapped the emanator’s small antenna after deleting her save file from the main console. The risk of being tracked or leaving behind damning information was too great to allow for cloud backup. Despite his own trepidation, Joi had insisted the risk of her being able to die like a real girl was worth K’s freedom.

A firm knock against the door alerts the Nexus 9 of your arrival. With haste, he moves through the entryway to open the door for you. Both of you wait until it’s securely closed before you greet each other.

“Good morning,” you tell him.

K is just opening his mouth to respond in kind when you surprise him with a hug. The replicant wraps his arms around you, careful to not apply too much pressure. It’s a novel thing, getting to hold someone like this. Reluctantly, he lets his hold on you loosen after a short moment. He knows there is work to still be done. A final step in the plan.

Without you needing to ask him, he gestures to the table in front of the window. The supplies for the task ahead are already laid out on the surface. He strips off his shirt and sits backwards in the chair as best as he can while avoiding the armrests. K closes his eyes and tries to relax.

“I almost thought you might not come back,” he admits.

He hears the snap of disposable gloves against your wrists followed by the sound of your voice. “You’re my soulmate. The mark on your arm says I’m going to keep coming back for you.”

“Not everyone likes their soulmate,” K says quietly.

There’s the sound of a packet being torn open. He experiences the sensation of a disinfecting wipe passing over the area at the base of his neck. It’s cold against his skin. You focus most of the attention on the column of his spine, right in the center of his middle trapezius.

“True, but I realized the other night that, despite everything, I do like you. Congratulations, you now have me digging a tracking chip out of your back.” Your voice is colored with fondness. It makes him want to smile. How rare. He had kept his positive emotions hidden under cloth as though they were something precious to sequester out of sight.

Hissing against the sting, the tip of K’s eye extraction knife punctures his skin. The sensation of blood trickling from the wound begins shortly after he hears you set the knife on the table and pick up the tweezers. There’s a pinch, a strange pulling sensation, and then he opens his eyes just in time to see you drop the small device on the table alongside the bloodied blade. The tweezers clatter against the laminated surface and your gloved hand snatches up the platelet jelly.

“That was in deep. They nailed you between the vertebrae. John’s was right under the skin.”

“Wallace learned from the tail-end Tyrell models. Mostly what not to do.”

He hears you hum, interested. Packaging crinkles behind his head and he’s aware of you pressing a gauze pad against the sealed wound. Your touch is so gentle as to make him believe you think he is something worth care, that he might even be special.

“Hand me a bit of tape, please?”

Obligingly, he tears off a strip and passes it to you. His bare fingers brush against your gloved ones as you take it from him. You secure the tape in place and pat him on the shoulder. “You’re all done.”

The skin feels tender beneath the bandage. But it is as though his collar has been cut. He puts his shirt back on and layers his jacket over it while you peel the gloves off. To avoid leaving more identifying forensic evidence behind that would point to you as being the accomplice, you flip them inside out and tuck them into a pocket for later disposal.

At your searching look, K nods. He is ready. The replicant picks up his bag and, together, you make your way to the front door. He pauses on the threshold, door open. Your fingers find his and give them a squeeze before he adjusts the angle and interlinks them together. Like this, he can feel your pulse beat in time with his. He feels close to human.

With one final look at the apartment that has been his cell for the past few years, he gives it a silent goodbye and closes the door for the final time. He is free.

───※ ·❆· ※───

On Monday, when Joshi arrives with two organic officers as backup, she finds the apartment stripped of any personal effects. She picks up his discarded phone off the coffee table where he had laid it between his firearm and his badge. The woman throws it against the wall so hard it shatters. Pieces of plastic rain down onto the tile. He hadn’t even left her a note.

If she ever finds him, she is going to put a bullet in him with the gun he left behind. Still, there is a part of her that is grudgingly proud of him for finally biting her hand, taking it off right at the wrist. Her replicant was a lot of things—obedient, kind—but never a coward. He better have a good life while he can. She’s going to place a purchase order for his replacement the moment she gets behind her desk.

Do not repost, copy, or reproduce my work to other sites or in other media formats. Do not use it for anything to do with AI. Thank you.

#blade runner 2049 #br2049 #blade runner 2049 (2017)#officer k #officer k x reader #x reader #blade runner 2049 fanfic #officer k fanfic #ryan gosling fanfiction #ryan gosling x reader #.my fanfics #.my work #.my posts

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flusteredmoonn · 5 months

Text

haunted; regulus black

summary: "c'mon, c'mon, don't leave me like this," in which he doesn't have the heart to tell her of his imminent departure.

tags: (SFW), angsty, one sided angst, war angst, mentions of war, mentions of murder, post hogwarts years, slight canon divergence, fast paced, implied slytherin!reader, she/her pronouns, third person y/n.

words: 600+

speak now tracklist. request.

hurriedly, he ventured down the stairs of the safe house, swallowing thickly when he reached the bottom. he clutched the strap of his worn book bag as he moved throughout the house. making it to the entryway, he threw the bag down on a side table aggressively before reaching for the ends of his sleeves and adjusting his cufflinks.

he knew what was coming, he knew what was expected of him. the dark lord had graced him with a second opportunity to prove his capability and furthermore, his loyalty to him. it was no secret that he had failed his assigned task during his sixth year at hogwarts. a failure which was held over his head at any given moment, particularly from his manic aunt.

hearing his descent, she made her way through the house, meeting him in the entry hall.

"regulus?' her voice was light as she queried her partner, watching as he seemed increasingly frantic, readying himself for something.

"yes, my dear," he did not look in her direction, instead diverting his attention to the contents of his satchel, making sure everything was in order.

"what ever are you doing? you seem in an awful rush, are you going somewhere?" her question was innocent, and still his heart shattered, daring himself to send a look in her direction.

upon seeing her, his face dropped. once pinched expression relaxing, his shoulders dropped their tension. he turned his body to face her,

"oh," he finally hesitated, registering her inquiry, "i've been summoned at work, needed urgently for something confidential that has arisen," he clarified with a tight lipped smile before resuming correcting his appearance.

"when will you be back?" she continued to question, causing regulus to inwardly sigh.

"i'm not sure," he was quick to speak, leaving his back and manoeuvring around the girl, as if in search of something. she took the hint as tension thickly grew around them, that he did not wish to elaborate.

from a distance, she watched regulus pace all throughout the house, nervously checking the grandfather clock at the end of the hall to make sure he wasn't late.

worry still swirled through the girl's mind, brows drawing closer together as she watched her love spiral. she knew something was wrong. she had done for a while. but whenever she toyed with the resistance of the subject, the boy did nothing but deflect.

eventually, the boy concluded that he had acquired everything he needed before readying himself to leave once more. however, this time, his expression was solemn rather than the frantic one it held prior.

regretfully looking at the grandfather clock once more, the hands of the clockface told him that he needed to leave.

he called the girl's name, watching as she emerged from an adjoining room, clearly having hovered.

"i fear it is time i need to go," regulus' voice was above a whisper, moving forward stiffly, as he embraced her. breathing in a shaky breath, he added, "i'm not sure if, when i'll be back," he hid a cough amongst his words.

"that's okay, i'll wait for you," she replicated his actions, wrapping her arms tightly around him, as she normally did when he had to depart.

his heart broke silently at her words. he knew he wouldn't be back, it was a mission he wouldn't return from. he had known the second he saw the faces of the other death eaters. he couldn't tell her, even though he usually did, despite confidentiality. he wouldn't.

he would hate to be the barer of her despair. and he couldn't make her upset. not now.

so he held her tighter, before affirming that he had to leave. and he didn't look back before apparating, he couldn't.

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whumpshaped · 7 months

Note

HUNTER BECOMES HUNTER FOR THE BINGO

i didnt mean to lump so many of these together but i had a Vision and i couldnt figure out how to Not lump them together- also it got super long i am so sorry

masterlist bingo card

tw vampire whumper, vampire whumpee, mind control, death, murder, a whole massacre really, stalking, loss, grief, minor burns, conditioning, manipulation, threats, memory loss

As the days passed, Beck found it harder and harder to ignore the memories. Helle had done a wonderful job at making him remember, even when he wanted nothing more than to forget. All that conditioning, manipulation, paranoia, gaslighting– it was all coming back, and it all made him fear them again. It made him see how rotten to the core they really were, no matter how desperately he tried to stay ignorant.

And he was stuck with them. Stuck with a monster who was more than happy to exploit all his fears and desires, his wishes and his vulnerability. They allowed him multiple more chances to practise his magic, entirely confident that he wouldn't be able to do it; and they were right. It was a wretched fucking situation to be in. Helle was giving him more and more reasons to want to run, while simultaneously blocking one exit after the other.

He was a rat trapped in an impossible maze, and the floor was getting hotter by the second — no matter how fast he tried to run, no matter how many times he thought he saw a way out, the only thing real in his life were the burns on his little rat paws.

He wanted the easy bliss of memory loss. That was the only thing that could've made this all bearable. He wouldn't flinch from Helle brushing against him if he didn't remember all the times he'd cried for them not to. He wouldn't question their sweet smiles and honeyed words if he didn't remember all the times they'd hidden traps and lies.

He tried to pretend he was still oblivious. He remembered what it felt like to be under the vampire's spell. He remembered the unconditional trust, the love, the adoration. He could replicate it. He could make it a reality again, if he tried hard enough. He could manufacture those same feelings, possibly even hold onto the last remnants of his rose-tinted glasses. He just had to try harder.

Helle was on cloud nine; had been for the past week. Everything was going splendidly! Beck was slowly remembering his life from before, and while he was getting more and more anxious in a way that might've otherwise been a cause for concern, now that they knew he was a runt, it was merely entertaining. Beck wasn't going to run off, nor was he about to commit some atrocities against them. No, he was just going to sit there and take whatever they decided to put him through, like a good boy.

The thought made them shudder with pure excitement. This was everything. Everything they'd wished for after their siblings had left. Everything they'd wished could've gone right was now going right. Beck was the perfect thrall and the perfect sired, he was their prized possession, their pampered little lapdog, their most important project for the next several decades, if not centuries. The first vampire they'd make so obsessed with them that he wouldn't ever want to leave.

That was where Lady Marie had miscalculated, they thought. She'd tried to use fear as the primary motivator. They weren't going to be so stupid. They were going to use something far more compelling.

Of course, being the perfect candidate he was, Beck was already working hard to make their job infinitely easier. He was practically deluding himself into loving them, they barely had to say a word. Even with his memories returning, he seemed to be trying his damnedest to push them aside and stay good. What more could they wish for, really?

Helle stopped in their tracks, and the enthralled human they had with them followed suit. As exciting as all the planning was, and as untouchable as they'd felt in recent days, they had to stay present sometimes. Especially when they got the distinct feeling that they were being watched.

They turned around, squinting at the empty road and the bushes and trees on either side. They couldn't smell any humans other than the one they'd brought here... nor any vampires, really.

Maybe they were wrong. Who would come to their mansion anyway? No one had attempted to kill them since that poor fucker Beck had tried to hire, and the last attempt before that had been decades ago. Still... They had just properly kidnapped him. If his family was anything like him, they might actually try to get him back.

Helle shrugged and turned back towards their house, throwing the doors open theatrically and announcing they were home.

He never fucking heeded any warnings, did he? And he never ever considered that he wasn't invincible, that bad things could happen to him, that maybe his mother was right to worry.

Joey's heart was pounding loudly in his chest as he lay — hopefully — hidden by an overgrown barberry bush, waiting for the vampire to continue walking. Fuck. Fuck. Why weren't they going? Did they spot him? Did all the things he had rubbed into his clothes to cover his scent fail? Please no. Please, he just wanted to see his brother. He couldn't die like this.

He held his breath for as long as he could, squeezing his eyes shut in utter terror. The night was quiet and chilly, and he tried his best not to shiver lest he rustle any leaves and give his position away. It felt like an eternity before he heard footsteps again — ones that were slowly fading.

Never in his life had he exhaled so slowly and carefully before. He couldn't even imagine what the vampire would've done to him, had they figured out he was there. Would he have been turned into a thrall? Or simply killed? Or scared halfway to death, then sent away to bring word of just how much of a terrifying monster they were?

It didn't matter. They'd left. He was safe.

He cautiously crawled out from under the bush, unable to resist a closer look at the mansion. In a perfect world, the vampire would've been away for just a few minutes longer, allowing Joey time to peek inside. But of course, the world wasn't perfect, and he couldn't be lucky in everything.

He flinched at every little sound, expecting the front door to open and the vampire to find him just a few feet away from the walls, lying in the grass like an idiot. The thought nearly made him flee at the last second, but he persevered, eventually arriving to a spot right under one of the huge windows.

Oh, how wonderful it would be to break those damn windows during the day, and let the stupid bloodsucker burn.

Joey took a few steadying breaths, then began slowly rising to his feet. Just a peek. All he needed was a peek inside. Just one glance at his brother, so he'd know he was alive.

He almost ducked back down when he spotted the vampire from before. Thankfully, they had their back turned to him, granting him just a few seconds to at least look around what seemed like a huge living room. Should vampires even have living rooms? A question for another day.

The setting was perfect for some stalking, really. With the lights on inside and the darkness outside, Joey didn't have to try very hard to pick out even little details. The vampire was holding the thrall by the waist, beckoning to someone else. Fuck, were there more of them? Taking out one vampire was difficult enough as it was, but a whole den...?

He shouldn't panic. At least he would have valuable information to bring back for the hunters, right? Thank god he decided to go on this rogue mission!

But all manner of conscious thought went out the window as soon as the other vampire arrived.

That couldn't be right. Was he hallucinating? Were the sleepless nights finally getting to him? That couldn't be right.

Joey felt like he was going to pass out. Why...? There was no reason– Why did they turn Beck into a vampire? Was this real? Was this actually real? Beck should've been kept as a thrall!

Well, he shouldn't have been held captive at all. But being a thrall would've been reversible, it would've been something– something he could fix! But this...?

He watched with wide eyes as his brother hesitantly approached the human, looking awfully distraught and apologetic. Of course. Beck would've never hurt anyone if he could help it. God, this must've been... this must've been...

Joey froze when Beck glanced towards the window. For the briefest moment, he thought it wouldn't end badly — that was his brother, his best friend, the person he would've sacrificed so much for. Surely, Beck would be happy to see that he came to rescue him, right?

But the fantasy was shattered when the other vampire turned and followed his gaze, their curious red eyes settling right on him. An intruder. The human they'd failed to notice just a few minutes prior.

He ran without thinking.

He knew this was the end of the line for him if the vampire caught him, and he also knew that there was no way he could outrun a monster like that. All he could count on was Beck somehow holding them back, or distracting them, or– or–

He didn't know. He just ran, as fast as he could, hoping, praying he would live to tell the tale.

Joey only stopped when it felt like his lungs would explode otherwise, collapsing on the sidewalk from utter exhaustion. He waved off several people who'd tried to help, assuring everyone that he just needed a moment to get himself together.

"I s-saw a vampire," he choked out. "I– I'll b-be fine, I just... I just got scared."

"Where?"

"Is the vampire close?"

"Are we in danger?"

Joey shook his head. "Several streets away. I ran a lot."

He didn't start fully processing the events until he got home. Tears of helplessness and sorrow were streaming down his face, washing away some of the dirt that had stuck to it.

Honestly? He could've lived with Beck becoming a vampire. It wasn't a good situation, not by any means, but Beck was his brother, and he was prepared to love him through whatever nonsense he'd got tangled up in.

The thing that absolutely ripped his heart to shreds was the fact that there was no recognition in his eyes when he'd looked at him. The two of them looked so alike, there was no way to deny them being brothers... and yet, Beck just looked startled and confused. Like he was nothing but a stranger.

"Don't!" Beck cried desperately, grabbing Helle by the hand before they could've gone after the stranger. "Please, don't, you've already kidnapped someone tonight! Please, let him go!"

"Do you have any idea who that was?"

He paused, slowly letting go of Helle's coat when he realised they weren't going to hunt him down. "I... n-not really." Now that they mentioned it, the guy did look familiar in a way. Nothing he could pin down, though. He already hadn't been good with remembering faces before dying, and death certainly hadn't helped. "But it doesn't matter, I just don't want– I don't want more innocents getting hurt. Please."

Helle considered him for a second. "Do you really have no idea?" they asked again, gentler this time. It was beginning to make Beck feel quite stupid. Was that person important? Someone who had been close to him in his life?

The brother Helle had spoken of?

No, Helle had said he'd left behind a twin brother. There was no way he could forget–

Beck frowned. He... had no idea what he looked like. How could he recognise his twin brother, if he had no recollection of his own face, and no reflection to check?

"Who was it?" He sounded timid, as though he was afraid of the answer; and in a way, he really was. Did he even want to know? Or did he want to simply ignore all of this emotional turmoil?

The decision was made for him when Helle waved him off. "I will tell you later. Or the next time he shows up. I have a feeling he will not be alone."

"I have to go with them!" Joey demanded, and his mother sighed.

"Listen... As much as I want to go as well, I think it'd be counter-productive. If we tell the hunters not to hurt him, then they won't! We don't need to be there to enforce it, or... or I don't think..."

"But you don't know! They're hunters! They want to kill vampires, that's what they do, they don't care who Beck used to be! Especially since he didn't even recognise me!"

"Joey, if he doesn't recognise you–" Her voice broke, and she abruptly turned away with a hand over her mouth. She was trying to hold back tears, and Joey tried to remind himself that he needed to dial it back. It was a difficult situation for everyone involved.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, and his mother shook her head.

"No, it's... It's understandable. You want to protect Beck. I do, too."

"I know."

"I think..." She took a deep breath, wiping away a tear that threatened to betray just how emotionally exhausted she was. "I think if Beck doesn't recognise us, then we can't really do anything to help. I can't drag home an unwilling vampire. Neither can you. I don't even know if..."

"If we should," he finished quietly. His mother nodded.

The implications hung in the air between them, unspoken yet still so loud. What was the alternative? Let Beck live his new vampire life? Never talk to him again? The hunters wouldn't like that. Unless they figured out a way to make Beck remember, a way to show everyone that he was still the same awkward guy deep down, and not a dangerous monster... there was no way he would avoid a stake to the heart.

"I have to go, mom. If I do, maybe– maybe he'll realise who I am, and..."

She dragged both hands down her face, visibly frustrated with the whole thing. They both wished it could've been easier. "I'm scared," she admitted after a pause. "I'm scared of losing him again. I'm scared of losing you. I'm scared of being killed by the vampire who took him. I'm scared of seeing those hunters hurt him... I'm scared."

"You don't have to come. I can go alone–"

"Again?" Joey stayed quiet. Clearly, his mom hadn't yet forgiven him his little outing. "It doesn't matter what I say, does it? You'll go either way."

He didn't see a reason to lie or pretend. "Yeah. I have to be there. I know he'll be scared of the hunters, he needs at least one... semi-familiar face."

His mother nodded. "We'll go. We'll bring him home."

Helle wasn't the least bit surprised when they woke up the sound of glass shattering. It was the middle of the day, and they were pretty sure they could hear the hunters tearing down the curtains downstairs.

Great.

"Go into every room!" someone shouted.

Oh dear. They were going to trash the whole place.

Beck barged in just a second later, slamming the door shut after himself. He looked terrified, and for good reason; if he had been found alone, he would've had no chance of surviving against a large group of trained humans.

Were they trained? They sounded trained.

"What's going on?" he whimpered, reminding them of their younger self. Their first hunter encounter. Oh, they had been scared too.

"We have visitors," Helle replied with a soft smile. "Your family must have worked very hard to find such a big group."

"M-my family?"

"Who else?" They walked over and patted his cheek. "They want their darling boy back."

"I don't want to– I don't want them to be here!" he blurted out. "I want them to go! What if their hunters hurt me? What if they hurt you? This is going to be a massacre again, I don't want this, I don't want any of this!"

"They're upstairs!" came the voice from closer than before, followed by the sounds of quick footsteps on the carpeted stairs. Beck was sobbing by now, and Helle realised they hated it. They didn't want anyone else to make Beck cry. Or scared. Or distressed.

"Stay here," they ordered gently. "You shall be safe and protected so long as you do not leave my bedroom. Understood?"

"A-and you? M-Master, you can't–"

"Beck, listen to me. Do you understand?"

In the midst of all that chaos, the sound of hunters kicking down doors and breaking windows, he finally nodded. They couldn't resist giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before they shoved him towards the back of the room, then walked out into the hallway.

Beck was shaking uncontrollably. His mind was so consumed with panic that for a moment he even forgot he was a vampire, attempting to pull the curtains aside to peek out– He abandoned that plan very quickly when his fingers got scorched, letting out a cry of pain.

Stupid. He was so stupid. Stupid, weak, useless, possibly about to be staked within the next five minutes. Maybe Helle had already been staked! What were they thinking?

He couldn't pick out too many specific sounds from the hall, and it made him anxious. He heard screams, and cries, and... and sounds he couldn't even describe. He smelled blood, a lot of it, and it scared him, and all he wanted to do was hide under the bed and never come out.

But Helle had said his family was out there. Was it their blood? Was Helle about to murder his family? Would he even recognise their corpses? He suddenly remembered the stranger from a few days ago. Would he be among the dead? He looked so hopeful that night, in the window. Almost relieved, for a split second, before Helle noticed him. Helle never ended up telling him who that was.

"Beck!" someone shouted desperately, and he felt an overwhelming urge to answer, to run out of the bedroom and look for the source of the voice. "Beck, please, we need to go!"

Go where?

Home, a little voice whispered. You could go home.

But he was home.

In the end, it wasn't the strangers' calls that lured him out. It was a pained hiss from Helle, one he would've recognised anywhere, finally prompting him to fling the door open and rush outside no matter the cost. Helle was all that he had, and they were risking their life to keep him safe. There was no way he was going to keep cowering in the corner of their bedroom.

The scene in front of him was something out of a horror movie. All he saw was blood everywhere, painting the floor and the walls bright red. There were glass shards, limbs, and guts scattered about, the mutilated bodies of several people dressed in protective hunting gear, there was sunlight pouring inside from broken windows, silver weapons stuck between wooden floorboards or uselessly lying several feet away from anyone who could've used them.

None of that mattered. His eyes went to Helle immediately, and he dashed between them and a half-dead hunter who was just about to pull the trigger on her crossbow.

Several people screamed his name at the same time, but it was mere background noise compared to the sharp pain that exploded in his chest. He didn't look down. He didn't dare look down. He looked at Helle instead, drinking in the image of them being okay and alive, almost giddy at the thought of having protected them.

"She a-almost hit you," he stammered between two wheezing breaths, as an answer to the question he saw in Helle's wide eyes.

What the fuck are you doing outside?

"No!" Joey screamed, abandoning all precautions and running over to his brother. He tried not to think about the bodies he had to step over, or the sound his shoes made as his feet landed in puddles of blood.

It couldn't be. It couldn't be. It couldn't be.

"Beck!" He tired to pull him away, only to immediately be grabbed and thrown across the hall. He heard his mother's scream before he hit the ground with an agonised cry and a dull thump, and he knew just from the way he landed on his arm that it had to be broken. Still, he tried to get up right away, desperate to help Beck.

"Joey!" His mother ran over to help him up, wincing when she saw his arm. "Joey, you can't–"

"Is he okay?" he demanded. "Is he alive? Is he fucking alive?" He could see the vampire on their knees next to the body, and he felt his blood boil. How dare the fucking bloodsucker pretend they cared about his brother? When they were the one who turned him, the one who put him in danger, the one who– who had possibly gotten him killed? "Get away from him, you fucking monster!" he yelled, but he didn't even get a reaction.

"Joey," his mother tried again, her voice shaky and urgent. "Please, they'll kill you–"

"So let them," he choked out. "Let them. If Beck's dead, then I don't even care. But I need to know." He yanked his good arm out of her mother's hold and tried to approach the vampire again, but she ran ahead, blocking his path with outstretched arms.

"Is he alive?" she called, way less hostile than Joey had been. "Please, we just– we just want our family back!"

"You almost got your family killed," the vampire replied coldly, and Joey could've wept from relief. Almost. The stupid hunter missed. Beck was alive, he was alive, there was a chance–

A chance for what?

He stared at the bodies in front of him, slowly processing what this all meant. They were all dead. The vampire had killed seven hunters by themself, and now they were trapped in here with them, almost completely defenceless, and with a broken arm in his case. And the vampire was angry.

"We just wanted to get him back," his mother went on, and she sounded so heartbroken and scared, he couldn't imagine anyone wanting to raise a hand at her. And the vampire didn't, not yet anyway. They stayed in the shadows with Beck, never even looking at the two of them.

"How sweet," they said sarcastically.

"You wouldn't fucking know the first thing about it, would you?" Joey snapped. "No, you kidnap and murder for fun, you tear apart families, you– you're a fucking demon!"

"Stop," Beck begged weakly, and the entire mansion seemed to fall silent at his request.

Now that the stupid piece of wood was out of his chest and Helle was holding his hand gently, the situation felt less dire, but he couldn't handle the anxiety of listening to others yell at them. Were these people really his family? The ones causing all this destruction and fear, all this death?

"Why would you try to protect them?" the man — his brother — asked. Joel, was it? Joey. "We almost– almost got them, and... and you stood between..."

"I had to protect them," he said like it was obvious, and Helle squeezed his hand a little.

"You are so stupid," they whispered. "I told you to stay in the room." Although they were scolding him, Beck felt like the tone was somehow simultaneously loving. Not quite grateful, but... close.

"Don't you want to come home?" Joey tried again, and he could hear the woman — his mother — sobbing. His chest ached for reasons beyond the stake that was shot through it, and he wished he could've just said yes and gone with them. But they didn't feel like the family from his fragmented memories, nor did he want to make Helle angry with him.

"I don't think I should," he forced out eventually. Helle squeezed his hand again. Good answer.

"Beck–"

"He gave you an answer," Helle cut in before his mother could've said anything more. "Do not assume my patience lasts forever."

"Go home," Beck asked, the urgency evident in his voice. He didn't want more bloodshed. He didn't want his family to be killed, even if they'd made an attempt on Helle's life. Even if they'd scared him half to death and one of their hunters almost finished the job. "Please. I'm sorry I can't go with you."

"Of course you can," his mother breathed. "Beck, we miss you so unbearably much. We love you."

"I love you too. I think. I, I know I do, it's just... it's so hard to remember..."

"We can help you remember, sweetheart."

Beck shook his head. "N-no, mom, I– I need to stay. I want to stay."

I can't survive out there. Who will feed me? Who will protect me?

"Will you visit?" Joey asked brokenly.

He glanced at Helle, and he felt a sudden rush of terror. He had no idea what it was, but something about their expression told him that nothing good would come from it.

Would they kill his family just to keep him to themself?

He didn't want to find out.

"No," he said softly. "I'm sorry."

"How tragic," Helle remarked without any emotion behind it. "I do believe that is the end of this discussion, then."

Joey stepped forward, his grief making him bolder than what would've been smart. "You can't do this! You can't keep him from his family–"

"If you take another step," Helle began slowly, "it will be your last. Do you want your mother burying two sons?"

Beck closed his eyes, hoping Joey would make the right choice.

Please. Please. Just leave. Just leave me already. Forget me, and let me forget.

"Let's go home, Joey," he heard his mother say as calmly as she could.

"Mom..."

"Our door is always open to him. But we can't force him."

Beck sniffled, and this time he was the one squeezing Helle's hand. They gently brushed a thumb over his skin, silently reassuring him. He was making the right choice for his family, even if they were being so difficult about it.

So why did it make him want to cry so much?

"You really just expect us t-to leave without you?" Joey choked out.

"Okay, I think I have been more than patient." Helle stood up from next to him, and Beck turned towards his family in a panic.

"Go!" he yelled. "Go, please, just go! Mom, do something, take..." He trailed off as he saw his brother's eyes become distant and hollow. Why? Why couldn't he just leave? Why couldn't he leave when he was told to, why did it have to go like this?

"Joey?" His mother gently shook him by the shoulder, worried out of her mind. "Joey!"

"It will wear off," Helle said nonchalantly. "Joey, be good and go with your mother."

She flinched when Joey turned to face her, his expression way too blank for someone who had been so heated a moment ago. "Are we going?" he asked almost impatiently. So eager to obey the command.

Beck couldn't even say goodbye to him.

"We are," she conceded. "Goodbye, Beck. You know where to find us, if... if you ever change your mind. I love you. We love you."

"Goodbye, mom. I love you too." He watched as she took Joey by the hand, as though she expected him to suddenly forget how to walk properly because of the enthrallment, and led him back down the stairs. "Goodbye, Joey," he whispered.

His tears didn't start in earnest until he heard the front door open and close behind them.

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