YUYUYUYUMI-? here, i write without a care for the sublime star.
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⋆ ✶ DISCLAIMER: non-native eng speaker, 99% of the time this blog is where i indulge n unleash my creative crazy unhinged side by letting myself experiment n play w/ english n the art of literature creation: a special experimentation sandbox typa lab where i do my half-baked universes with the clear condition "perfection is bs." my very own playroom free of ridiculous perfection and over-editing—i like to write whatever so whatever would be pure nonsense here! i'd prob write here more often than on my main〜
! mainly one-shots, drabbles, thoughts, daydreams ⋆ finished/incompleted works goes here ⋆ active writing practices, studies, exercises, and experimental projects influenced by whatever current interest n obsession consuming my soul. so WATCH OUT FOR: spontaneous changes of writing styles, incoherent nonsensical sentences, grammar errors, wannabe-poet and so on. and last but not least sporadic updates!
# will explore more genres in the future but as of now my works dabble around dark fiction; yandere, dark psychological, horror.
🪕 longfic/serial blog: @qhordosmos / letter box: @yuanvei
more important stuffs . under the cut.
language is an outlet for the soul. humans are impeccably interesting. i often find myself deeply fascinated n drawn to the dark aspects of the human mind, soul, and psyche. i don't need to explain much, my works will speak for itself. i write about yanderes, including but not limited to enhypen, &team. mostly dark fiction, n horror sort of.
๑ despite using the 'x reader' tag, i don't write self-insert mcs—it's only to gain wide exposure for my works and nothing else. all my mcs are a character of their own with their own respective descriptions [physically and mentally] as it was intended for a novel. after all, this is a space where i do writing exercises which will be refurbish for my future manga projects.
๑ i don't do part twos, unless i have ideas or simply in the mood for it. no absolute guarantees, tho. i do this for fun.
๑ i only write oneshots here, therefore no tagging whatsoever.
🎙️ literally just rambling writing nonsense here!! it's not meant to be coherent- been writing this for so long, i just rlly wanna WANNA write and express my writing so no editing whatsoever. i mean well, thissss blog is for that very purpose. so!! i forgot how to post in tumblr-
DISCLAIMER: yandere, bad grammar bad english tyvm
# did an experimental oneshot study abouttt, the scent of oranges, dusk hour, screeching chair, tilting, leaning, tiles, fluorescent. : simple prose, mixed (???), lagging behind, the concept of time jsjsjsjsj !! a very patient yandere?? sunoo's sortttt of hazel eyes is the inspo. also chairs. also the rule 34 song lolz
IT MIGHT SOUND WEIRD, BIZARRE AND MAYBE EVEN QUITE PERVERSE BUT IF PEOPLE WERE TO START ASKING HIM WHAT DOES HE WANT TO BE, THEN HIS ANSWER WOULD BE:
A chair, a chair.
Sunoo could already imagine the multitude of reactions spreading over their faces, and he'd understand. He knew very well himself that such thoughts and desires are downright peculiar. You might even wonder what was going on in his head, but if you gave him the benefit of doubt, he'd express that he likely had a good reasons for them. He remembers how he voiced out such string of words one time when he was a young foolish kid, in front of the entire classroom when the topic of the day was about what you would like to be when you're older, a strong, big adult.
What is your ambition?
“A chair.”
Brows knitted tightly, head tilted, and ears receiving small whispers from mouths.
There are many ways to define ambition. But if someone were to define Sunoo, or if you would ask him how he’d define himself in one sentence then he would simply reply that he's not the ambitious type you might encounter on the busy vibrant streets of Seoul where you could see various people illustrated in a variety of colors, adorning themselves with pride and vigor—there was nothing out there that interests him that much for him to exhaust all his energy.
To simplify it, there was simply nothing worth that much for him to pursue. For him, there was nothing worth enough to rush for. Physical materials of the physical world, people are simply limited to the rush of what they can experience with all four senses. Ready to flow with whatever they can grab and make sense of.
But Sunoo doesn’t judge them. How is he, any different, from them? A mere mortal. He, too, find the joy in the imagery of mortals expending their passage of time and reaping as much as they could, grasping at its straws.
Their agendas for the day jotted on their legs, the language of the skies as it peppered blotched greys on its cheek of purplish pinks, or what type of chairs attracts their own people was enough of an ambition to get him going. The type of chairs people rested themselves in for as long as they need be.
Chairs and people. A composition in the middle of his intertwined fingers mimicking a camera.
But that wouldn't be an ambition, as per the official term from Oxford Dictionary—there had to be a spark. So, another word from the dictionary is a better, fitting term for him; average.
An average human. Of how he indulged himself with the topic of how many numerous types of chairs there are. Leathery cushions, hard wooden ones, plastics, egg chairs, and so on. He encountered a comprehensive list of the types of chairs when he thumbed through a magazine while on a salon, getting a good and nice trim from his usual ragged look.
There was not much to do with his appearance. Just a little fix on his disheveled fringe, put on a nice shirt and pants that complements his desired palette for the day will do. But you don't even need to decorate a chair when its purpose is decided from the very beginning. When people have purposes, it is what drives them in this fast-paced blue world. It is what makes them desirable, admirable. And with them, chairs follow along.
A status, a testament.
They all accommodate the people that were better suited to them. People bought chairs for that very reason, after all. To bring comfort and coziness, and also a manifestation of their status. Different cultures have varying interpretations of what chair could mean to them, though. But to him, they all mean one thing.
He only had one, a bland-looking, hard and cold dining chair back by the window in his house with a round table accompanying it. Just one. He had bought it as a second-hand product from an app after a long day of doom scrolling. Three furnitures sat in this distant space; a bed, a table, and a chair—suited to what he just needs to survive. The image of his old wooden chair reminds him of the lingering sensation from the salon's tilting chair hugging his body, welcoming him to relax and drift to slumber. But his brain remain alert, he had no luxury to let himself drift into slumber as this place was not an appropriate setting for that.
It was not the same, but it was comfortable, but it was not home. This one, he looked down, the single chair in front of him, was at home— it didn't feel comfortable at all, but he had no complaints, as it fitted him just right.
He didn't even need a TV, as the outside world was a whole stage play. Looking out the window, on his old geezer chair; gazing at the busy, busy streets, busy people, and even children had things to do. But sitting on it for too long had his spine aching and throbbing, trying to lean leisurely only brings forth more pain. He had considered to buy another one but discarded it with an afterthought that, he already had a bed for this purpose. Why would he need another chair for? What for?
Plus, where would he even place it? Each corner in this apartment was devoid of any color or any furniture. Ah, It came to him that he actually had a house, a bigger one at that, though not suitable to him since well, it was too big for a single person like him. A property passed down to him by his late grandmother, where she in her last will, on her deathbed—with the greatest wish that he'd be able to find someone, a young girl—to be with, to fill the house with joy and laughter.
Such words were no alien to Sunoo, yet the very last time his grandma uttered it to him. He couldn't help but be amused within. He doesn't blame her, but she was all too well deluded with her times.
In this day and age, such a dream was a luxury. Grandma was right, Sunoo admits to himself, but only for those with purpose can even dream of it, a grander character that befits a grand dream. When he stepped into the house for the first time, through that door, was enough for him to visualise a perfect young man belonging to the physical world, it’s only appropriate to sell this house to one deserving of it. One could only imagine how this perfect dwelling would be soon decorated with a family.
He had no need to decorate this house, nor his own that he’s currently living in. A bed, a table and a chair, and a few books and magazines about chairs neatly stacked on top of another on the floor. Such is a simple life.
Only chairs seems to catch his interests than girls do. Weird, he knows. At one point he even questioned his sexual orientation. Googled a description of himself being so deeply fascinated and drawn to chairs. A slight amusement tugged the corners of his lips upwards, the idea and the concept itself was interesting to say the least. He could spend all day reading about them, how many types there are, who creates them, if it was for the sake of furniture or sculpture. He had read so many, he could almost be termed as a “human encyclopedia”.
Daydream struck him. Maybe one day he would be interviewed on the street, and that would be his best chance to flaunt off his knowledge. Perhaps the topic would be of what types of chairs would be in his top ten rankings. Man, that would be a tremendously difficult topic to even ponder about, he thought.
Sunoo fears that he might waste the interviewer's time, fiddle around and probably break down. But it's just the way he is, he needs time. He can't help it. The need to pace around, rush around, and get on the same speed as the rest, it wasn't him, it is simply not him. It is not the way he functions and operates. He'll stay behind, just like how he always do, even when it means lacking and lagging behind everyone. He recalls how his peers would grimace at such words, that you should always be at the very front, at the very top, the pinnacle, the peak, the frontline.
To rush against time and trends.
They had a point. But to him, it might sound terrible but he thinks there's a good thing to the word audience, and being behind—being on the sidelines meant he could have access to every possible angle to life there is. Ambitious people, he thought to himself, are the R's types. Reckless, risky, responsible. But they're the ones people who also look up to. Because what are to happen in this world when there's no role model, a drive to push us forward? Right, they embody those type of chairs that exudes leadership, power, and confidence.
Some people probably needs it, but Sunoo thinks that he doesn't need one.
He doesn't find the motivation in people, he just finds it entertaining to watch. His chair, he finds it more better to sit on. He doesn't have to search urgently for the next chair, he's fine with what he has now.
The boy shook his head upon fleeting with deeper thoughts once more, this tends to happen more than usual. He could spend all day, falling deeper and deeper into a black hole of why's and what's—that he almost forgot what was the main topic in the first place.
Right, chairs and rankings.
Sunoo fished out a pen from his bookbag, flattening his little notebook together with the latest magazine he bought from the store down the street. His fingers meticulously hovered around the sections of chairs, and after a deep debates swirling in his head, he returned to jot them down on his notebook in a numbered list. Placing the name of chairs which he thinks are the best and the prettiest.
It is profoundly difficult as many chairs had different categories under them; aesthetic, functionality, practicality. How it slides across the floor with a particular volume, one that must be pleasing to the ears and not that ear-wrenching screech. To think of all four categories and find that one chair that tops everything would take him months if not days. There are too many, and there's probably more that he hasn't come to know of yet.
One particular chair claws deep, at the back of his hand. Its grip, ever too searing. It refuses to fleet away like a bypassing bad weather. He looks around. This particular location was unique at best, new to the city with its peculiar and eccentric design. Each portion inside the cafe has their own set of chairs and tables. As expected, everyone has their own favourite chairs.
You.
There was one that held his attention for so long, he did not dare to sit on it for it holds such a regal quality and it certainly just wasn't suited for a person like him. It would probably top over the rest based on aesthetic. With it’s heavy, deep saccharine red. A velvet dessert. The way the gold lining burns under each glint, brushing its waist subtly with the rays. A delicacy to the beholder. He wishes to behold the details beyond the surface level yet it was hindered by this occupant from morning to dawn, latching almost, in his words—”a mismatched, unbelonging element” which disgraces the regal quality of the chair.
An alienish element. Like a horribly produced AI prompt; pasted on a background unsuited to your overall look. One that painfully stick inbetween in the midst of his venture for gold. When he finally does so, the gold was crooked, unsymmetrical to the eye, snapping close to the back of his ears. There was no harmony to the composition of you and the chair.
Sure, he could always search a picture of it online but seeing it with his own two eyes is better than some image behind a display screen, and it was a limited edition at that. You don’t always see it.
You've unverbally made it known that this chair was yours, Unlike the chair you were on, you were a disaster. Neck crooked. Hunched back. Screen eating away your eyesight. Keys rattling for god knows how long. With stacks of papers, pamphlets scattered outrageously on the table. Why don't you pay a bit of manners and wear yourself the same as this precious piece? But he halted his thoughts before it rattled on, why was he getting pent up for no reason? Amused. He grabs a cool sip. What was to be surprised for? You were just like those R’s.
You're like a curse to such masterpiece. He had start wishing at some point that you'd just go away, a speck of irritation in his line of perspective. But it's not like he's going to go away when this is his favorite cafe, it's a hassle, really. The need to sit in that chair was enormous, inching closer to a behemoth of a desire yet you're always conveniently snuggled in it whenever he arrives. He decided to stay for awhile, waiting in patience for you to leave but then he doesn't have the entire day to sit in this cafe as well, as he had a night shift at the local grocery store and a few other part-time jobs that occupied some days of his week.
At some point, he begin to memorize the schedule of your arrival.
The first time, he’d arrive five minutes early.
Then ten.
Twenty.
Forty.
Two hours early.
However, you were always on there. An apparition confined to the grounds, he thought, to the point he’d started to wonder if you even have a life outside that chair. Curses slipped out of his mouth, desperate.
He despises how you often order the same beverage.
Like if you're just sitting there the entire day, might as well order some food? You were nowhere soaked in vibrance as you did in the first day he sees you. Your collar, like a crumpled paper, it pains him to see it. It doesn't look good for a corporate worker to look so sluggish and unprofessional, what if for some reason, you encounter one of your clients and displayed such a scene? Those lips, why do you keep lapping your tongue on it? Don't you know that only worsens your chapped lips?
Elated was an understatement. The fox brighten with deep tints, sinking deeper into the velvet’s warmth. His expectation did not disappoint him. It was akin to a throne, framing his figure like a well studded crown.
It irritates him.
You irritate him.
But suddenly, to his surprise, one day, that very one day he didn’t expected it be the day, you were nowhere to be found. Like a ghostbuster achieving success, his heart and legs leaped in sync, he found himself on the chair before his mind could processed it.
But for some reason, shallowness engulfed the wholeness of what was used to be. To admit it was to undo the soil he had nurtured himself in. Those thousand autumns he had spent believing that the passage of life is merely to be an audience of it, not a participant.
Yet just as the seething glare he threw across you flows by with it. It serves to be evidence as with each bell the door receives, the foot remains indifferent.
A thousand steps begins with one single step.
Sunoo’s eyes drifted across the line on the book, his ears met the exasperation and annoyance emitted from the long line of people beyond him. Only to be met with yours. A planned solo vacation trip to the outskirts. It was at the very bottom of his expectations to see you en route to his destination. and in a particularly even sadder state; once again smashing the keys, rambling about how the machine whatsoever is malfunctioning. The impatience heavy in the air pierced through you in the form of a sweat running down your temples. How you ever seemed so relieved when things finally worked, when things finally smoothed out and now he’s in front of you for the first time.
His pupil expanded briefly as it lazed towards the subtle, peeking form of the chair you sat on. It was more inexplicably horrendous this time unlike back in the cafe. But your posture was sublime, straight and full on etiquette. It almost looks likes it was where you belong, yet his eyes twitches. Something was wrong. Like you were strung in a black spider's nest, that's how he would term it with.
Funny. He’d seen you countless of times but from your side, it was the first.
Ah, the way of life. A brief moment. You didn’t even look his way just as you always did back then. Ever so infected with the rush of the crowd, yet so deeply sucked in to what’s in front of you. How ironic.
Sunoo returns to his routine in his favourite cafe.
The ghosts of your presence latched stubbornly on the design. It had spread inside much like a disease. Infecting the composition of what his knowledge and eye for design—insists it to be. As much as he refuse to admit it, to a particular feeling he couldn't describe well, it was wholly weird to have the chair empty for the next day and so on, and to see it be occupied by someone else, a different person each day. A tapestry of identities molded into the chair. Someone very well suited to that chair had also appeared some days later, just like how he had imagine it to be. But somehow, the corners doesn't fit as better as it did before.
Maybe he had gotten bored and need a breath of fresh air. It has to be that right? Cramped up in the same spot for how long after all that inner ordeals he had with you must've taken a toll on him, somehow. Looking beyond the street where he could put himself in your perspective. How do you see the world? He wonders. What ambition do you have that you had to look that way for the days you've been here? What are you so in rush for with those madness you put your fingers through as it type away the keyboard?
He does not care. He chose not to care. He couldn’t care any less for it.
Gripping the straps of his backpack, he lifted his head up for his eyes to fall upon a certain spot. He stopped by a furniture shop a day later, with a lingering curiosity and desire. Behind the glass windows, his eyes pierced through the bold layers of grandiose and elegance, a familiar sight. Somehow, it landed a subtle pounding into his heart. Blood rushed towards his neck and up to his cheek, heating his supple skin into a temperature he couldn't put right into his mouth.
You were gone again.
Someone look similar as you. . No, it was you. But you are filled with vibrance as opposed to the last time he sees you. And each time, it colored your expressions even brighter than the last.
Sunoo has lost count of the amount of times he had passed the furniture shop, in front of the entrance of the furniture shop once more. Maybe he’s here for the chairs. Who knows. But you were nowhere to be seen. Replaced by another different face. Again.
You came and disappear just as the seasons goes by.
The natural state of life yet it kept him on his toes.
Watching as life passes by in a fleeting manner was an entertainment of his yet. .
Restless. He shifted in evident uncomfortableness, unable to focus his perspective on the latest magazine edition, chairs upon chairs and yet he couldn’t bring himself to concentrate on it. This is stupid, he thought. Uneasiness. A sensation completely alien to his nervous system. Maybe he just needed a fizzy drink. Yup, that’s what he most definitely needed at this time.
A sigh spilled from his lips as he pulled the glass door open, grabbing not one but two just in case.
He fidgets, searching into his wallet as the cashier continues to scan. Those hands. He paused. Eyes peeking up. You. Still the same form of relentless rushing as if someone is always behind you, keeping you on your toes. Your eyes grazing the screen of your watch.
It was surely an entertainment at first.
You juggled jobs as if you feared life would slip past your fingers, if you ever so blink, if you ever so halted your movements—as if you’d wither at any moment.
An agonizing question compels him to ask it at your face, “What are you so in a rush for?”
But why bother? It is foolish to ask for an answer he knows very well. The same answer he had always heard from everyone’s mouth. One word, replicated and printed over and over again until it grew into a colossal mountain. The pinnacle where everyone tries to climb up to till they exhaust themself down to their last breathe. However, he was curious, for your answer. To hear how it sounded from your tongue. Yet all the sounds you uttered was of how the store’s closing soon. How you seem so exasperated. Out of breathe.
Soon.
Now.
Hurry.
It begin to unravel a knot inside him he couldn’t make out of. Or rather twisted. Whatever. Whatever it is. It made him choke up. A regular customer is all he is. Foolish, he thought of himself. What was he even doing late at night, planning to eat ramen by the window, when he should’ve been sleeping past ten. Yet the ramen was taking too long. Too long. It took so much of his time.
Too long? He narrows his eyes at the bitter taste on his tongue as he chews.
Thinking about it only made him uneasy.
There was nothing natural or organic to this ticking urgency.
A sense of urgency surged up through his veins. What? Urgency? That kind of vocabulary tastes so strange, peculiar. What was there to be urgent for? It’s starting too hurt.
Another day, another time.
His knuckles white, clawing deep on the armrest. His feet fidgets around, crooked, twisting. The ache of merely watching begins to bore him. This need to match his footsteps with yours. To match his time with yours. So at least for once, you would raise your head and with utmost attention,—on him.
The speed that everyone was trying to catch up to, was it finally crawling behind him? Crawling on his neck, morphing into long fingers, slipping into his mouth and down his esophagus—trying to clogged his lungs till he can't breath.
Sunoo’s eyes widened.
You were nowhere to be found once more, a mismatched pattern from your regular schedule. Yet a common pattern from how you live. And before he knew it, his feet—frantically, heavily, in hasty manner, dragged itself to the train station. His ears captured random bursts of curses, yelling at him to watch where he’s walking to, or how rude he was for bumping against them. It didn’t matter. The path you often take to go to work turns into his view into a tunnel. Beyond the end, you were there.
The chair in his apartment stood still, cold in the middle of the room. Here, his lungs ache, and his legs trembles. Yet it persists to inch closer, and nowhere slower.
One more step forward to you and one more step further from the chair he rested himself in for quite some time.
A foolish thought bounced off his head, manifesting towards his piercing pupils which glints under the saccharine rays of the dawn. A marmalade glow bathing his skin in golden glory.
“Breaking news!”
Sunoo turns the volume up to the news channel which reverberated throughout his house like an echoing chamber.
The chair creaks as he pulls it back, seating himself down for breakfast. With the remote still on his hand, he lazily gazes up to a particular news catching his interest.
The screen displayed a profile of a young girl of sixteen, reported missing by her family a month ago and there hasn't been any progress in the case until a tip-off came, which led them to the given location a few hours ago. By the Han river, they found her shoes by the bridge, and her phone, and after an extensive search, they found her belongings floating and deep. Its unfortunate to hear it, really. There has been numerous missing cases over the years, and he doesn't think that they're ending very soon.
"What a pity."
A sigh spills out of Sunoo's lips as he places down the remote by the table, letting his shoulder loose as his eyes fell on the searing dish before him. He should take note to avoid such gloomy morning crime news early in the morning as it only does nothing but dampens his mood, taking away the little joy that was suppose to be relish on.
Right, he should learn to be grateful.
“Late at night, when one should have been at home. Such is the way of people right now, hopping on to the next cash grab they can take a hold of, right?”
The edge of his lips curved up, followed by his fox morphing into crescents.
Stretching out his palms on your head, patting it with such toxic affection.
"I guess they eventually stopped looking after you, pretty."
"But it's okay, you have me."
Like he expected, the chair only begs for you.
"What'd you think? I paid a heavy sum for it, shouldn't you atleast show a bit of appreciation, hm?"
To fill in this weird emptiness inside him, he bought that chair. It latches on his head like a pest. Maybe, just maybe, that he had took such a great likening towards that damn chair. The day he placed that chair adjacent to his, forming a very lovely image of harmony was the day he realised how it much needed a companion for itself.
It was then that he wanted the same for himself. He knew, from that day onwards, that you had to be on it. With him, dining together, chatting with each other—by sunrise, by dawn, by the moonlight.
Harmony.
Sketches of chairs in columns and rows, all separated and categorized in their own in perfection. But he had only notice how it looks the prettiest when paired with another. A cohesive, harmonious union. A pair. And when he looks at his old wooden chair, it was only now that he knew that it wasn't ugly.
"Right now you're mine, all mine."
His throat floated off a melodious, intoxicating hum to your ear. Stroking, twirling your hairlocks around his digits like a puppet being strewn about by her puppeteer.
He proposes a rather silly idea to dance around, a waltz, he added with an afterthought. With a hand looped around your waist, imbuing a motion of warmth that circulates a pit in your tummy. And his other hand, intertwined with yours, up it goes as the waltz begun. He spun you around, like a princess meeting her prince charming.
What a joke.
He was right all along. A chair truly brings in a sense of belonging, status, a display of privilege. You've printed an overwhelming presence to that chair to the point he can't see you apart from it. An overwhelming familiarity that once gone—a hollow void is all that is left.
2025, ONESHOT — 5K WC. GENRE — yandere! jake, squid game! universe. WARNING — profanity, death, suggestive, force kissing turn dubcon uhhh, implied smut at the end.
NOTE wrote this since january bc of that cute guard scene in squid game lolol. jungwon is my muse and rlly wanna make this about him but for the first time jake rlly does fit the vibe here, so here's my first jakey oneshot :> not reallyyy proofread tho since this is my second blog to let go of my perfectionist habits so expect some grammar errors 🫠 ... still hope u enjoy it ♡
Every single color has its purpose and function.
Blue gives you the oceanic peace. White, an embodiment of innocence and purity. Purple, the symbol of royalty. Yellow, the glory of summer sun. Yet they don't actually exist, we only gave meaning to a bunch of fragmented lights.
Like how we framed traffic lights as the way to maintain order. Red, green, yellow—three distinct lights. Nothing too hard to obey, however no matter how much you enforce a rule, a very simple one at that—some people are bound to defy it. Why?
Because colors don't mean the same for each and one of us. There's no universal meaning to it. Red alerts people, warns them from a potential danger, but for some, it arouses their entire being. It tempts them, like a red cloth dangling before a bull bursting with flames.
And that's what Jake had always been and will always be, which explains why he ended up in this game of death.
In the vast expanse of the outside world, you could encounter countless of faces but he abhorred such tedious task. Lines contorting into what they call expressions. But here you only got two; red and green. He doesn't recognize faces, he sees colors, finding himself reacting to them more intensely, whisked away by it's whims and sways as if it was his calling.
Red was all he had soaked himself in.
However just like every other thing, boredom is bound to follow. Sharp edges now painfully, painfully dull—until a particular person carves it back to it's glory; you.
"Red light!"
Morphing his empty well of eyes with the reflection of your subtle cowering frame. You who were trying your best to put up a strong front. A bright green gym shirt like a flickering traffic light. Your smooth fluff fringe resting above your lashes, terribly failing from concealing the grim reality unveiling itself before your eyes. You stood so bright. Painfully green. A different shade of green, he added with an afterthought.
"Green light!"
Jake observes you clinging to life amidst the exploding fleshes and heads—their blood decorating your pale white face and down your green attire. Oh dear, poor you. Who could've known? Who could've guess?
Those little steps you took—Jake finds it funny how it reminds him of a heart monitor; if you rushed without a care, you'd be dead, and if you stand still for too long, you'd be dead either.
But you were doing pretty well, too well, actually.
Bullets rained one after another.
Drilled into each head—emitting the sound of pure satisfaction.
Jake hums along with melodic rhythm of the children's song, hitting the fallen players with exceeding precision. Yet once in awhile, you were there in his line of sight, begging his eyes to drift to you, and somehow he caught himself spilling the words—go, go, faster, faster,—as his pupil steals a glance from the ticking clock.
You were so small, smaller yet you were still here while all the players with bigger, stronger, and athletic stature had fallen to his hands. He starts to think it'd be a pity to see you dead after surpassing all of them. But you pushed yourself against the heavy wall of air—leaping over the red line—dropping on your knees, gasping for oxygen that has been drained out from your lungs.
The first game is over. And there are still plenty of players—shook to their core after the reality they've been thrown at just a few minutes ago. Their chest heaved up and down in relief. But who knows what awaits them later?
As Jake finishes up, placing his weapon back in the case. Yet he halted, taking one more look at you from the distance. This game—he wonders how long it will take till they get caught? It excites him. Even the players themselves, he anticipates it over what they could bring into the table. Last time one player played a pathetic role of a savior and he even got a bunch of others to side with him, with scripts rolling out of his tongue titled righteousness—he says. It was a sight to witness. Although they pretty much ended up dead after, a futile effort indeed though commended.
Boom! Boom! Boom—off with their heads rolling on the ground! It would make a very good material for a bowling ball. They brought a very compelling twist into this game.
Long after that, barely enough players bring in anything new on the table. Not a daredevil in sight.
But then you came. You were perfect. One might say you're no rare sight; a timid, feeble, fragile young lady. There was more like you, carrying the same image yet there was a glint in your eyes that begs to be unraveled. Countless players had the same goal; money, and why do they need money? That's where a vast array of reasons arise. You need money, but what do you need it for?
To pay your debt? Or to get your debt inexplicably higher? Greed, greed, people never change! Only death awaits. That was what sealed the deal for him, and he was not in the mood to see you get served up on a platter yet. For sure, how long you pique his interest decides how long you live. Because it would be a pity, pity indeed—to have you split open before you he could see your potential. He doesn't want to get your organs harvested yet, to see your limbs cut apart, and organs beating on a platter.
Just a weed in a sea of weeds. Still, it's not the type of face he'd expect to fall into a well of buried money. He didn't expect you'd be the type of face to bury yourself in a graveyard and that is why it compels him to uncover the deepest depths beneath this layer of your skin.
Maybe, you hid something even more interesting things.
It was a gamble, then! Nothing new for the pink guards, really. Just like the bright greens, the pink ones also had their own little game—carving another layer of masochism of playtime. Because sanity is thrown out of the door the moment you step into this madness.
"The second game for today is—Dalgona." The speaker's voice reverberated throughout the innocent childhood wallpaper of the playroom. "Players are required to carve out the shape. ."
A facade so intoxicating it brings a wave of nostalgia. Wishes and promises. Everyone starts to feel, a little too comfortable with the atmosphere. Who could've guess a simple sugar cookie could decide the entire course of your life? Each player settles into their position, and like a little game played by the universes he supposes, he was assigned to be your guard.
Curious he was, to see what shape you've chosen. Is luck still clinging by your side?
Twisting the cover, the shape revealed itself—an umbrella.
Ah, how pitiful—the glimmer of little hope left in your eyes morphs into fear, you've done so well shielding yourself from the rain, but now it is the pathway to your pernicious death.
"The game starts now."
Beep, beep.
The red neon digit ticks down—parallel to the players’ eyes flickering with dread.
He watches intently behind the mask; your hand trembles, yet the death grip on the needle expresses your determination to live. You pierced the honeycomb, carving the edges, slowly and surely. He wonders how it will feel in his hand, should it feel warm—he'll definitely bring it to his cheek to revel in it. But oh, your little expressions accompanied with deep inhales and slow exhales, a little sigh over here and there. The sight of a bead of sweat trailing down your chin from your temple.
A sudden bang brings forth a jolt to your frame.
The first kill.
It is now evident, the face of death inching closer.
And then two.
One more.
And like smashed piano keys—it rambled on, screeching against everyone’s ears, screaming at them to focus, focus, focus!
You struggled, though, struggling immensely from picking up the needle from the soil with your clammy hands. It wasn't faring any better to your ears as how the speaker began to announce the following deaths, and soon after, the players who successfully passed the game.
A sticky feeling latched, crawled across your spine; it was the image of a tiny ball dwarfed by this playroom, and that was you. Whisked away by the whims of fate, and now you're all alone with your eyes shot wide open—accompanied by a little fly feasting on your corpse.
You cried out a no. A desperate, desperate refusal to such a pathetic death.
The fear of your head blown off by the weapon dangling before you. The grip the triangle guard had around it made you gulped down. You slapped yourself, cussing in-between. Time is truly an illusion. But amidst between life and death, you weren't so sure, but—there was another inexplicable weight. Sure, it was death knocking on your door that was pushing you through your limits—but, something else has you on edge. You look up, just a bit, at the triangle mask glued on you. Call it whatever, intuition as they call it—but something's telling you whoever is behind that mask has misplaced his attention—not on the dalgona, but you.
The language of his body was palpable, despite being covered with a thick layer of pink jacket. The tilt of his head, unlike the rigid stance of the other guards, made you uneasy. It's akin to nails screeching against your ears, spikes of nails sticking up and high from the ground. But you had no luxury to pay attention to it right now.
Focus!
You've look at him for the first time. Have you finally caught on? But you didn't just look, no, you gazed into him. Jake swore you made him felt like you've seen his real face that it scratches his heart a little. Just a little. He couldn't help but laugh if that ever happens. He almost felt like a tiny desire to help you there but he knows it's no use when everything is recorded by the mini camera attached to his chest.
So small, so fragile.
Almost, almost.
You just have to win this game, and maybe, just maybe he'll be able to help you soon.
"Player 139, success."
You sucked in a huge lump of air into your throbbing lungs. You've felt alive once more, each breath reminding you that you more alive than ever. While the man before you stood still, watching you as another guard escorted you out. The timer ticks down with one last digit, ending with a zero—and then he finishes up all the players behind him. Each bullet mimicking the thump of a heart—he could hear it, the pattern of his very own, as you've clawed your way into it—clenching his blood into a state of frenzy.
It soon became a little game in his head.
A game of luck and fate, he supposed. How long can you live? How far can you push your luck? Like a bet, like a gamble, like hordes of horses sprinting down the lane of victory. He guessed he’d never be able to leave his addiction in whatever form of betting, and now that form is your life.
The next game are soon approaching. You've done so well surviving on your own, but now, will you be able to share this luck with others in the next game? Or—will your luck get sucked out by the rest?
Jake stood at the entrance with a rigid stance, clasping his weapon—guarding the place as he usually does but his eyes followed your fidgety hands—as you form tight-knit friendships with other players. Too close, he thought, but he knows it's necessary for the next game.
Yet his jaw clenches—hard. It hits him that the last time this ever happened was long, long time ago—when he had lost a great sum of cash before his very eyes.
A loss.
Jake was looking for that perfect time to introduce himself to you but that perfect chance never seems to come around, that is, until just a few hours later when the lights are out—one player notoriously known for running her mouth with no care—were screaming at him for not providing her with basic human rights to the restroom, it wasn't particularly allowed by nighttime for some reasons and he completely intended to ignore the ruckus inside, until you appeared behind her, begging to be let into the restroom as well.
He couldn't just let this precious chance flee away.
It occured to him as his eyes cling to your frame, guiding you and the other player to the rest room—other guards had quite a wild fetish, necrophilia, that is. But insane as he might be, a dead flesh doesn't tickle his interest. However, strangely enough, your hair that you often let down are now tied up in a messy bun, giving him the sight of your neck—riles him up, just a little bit.
You were so close he could catch a whiff of your scent.
So, close, yet so far.
His ears caught ln the running water from behind the restroom.
Should he take the chance now? There wasn't a guarantee you might survive the next game as it goes against your biological nature, but who knows, you might.
It's a gamble, though.
Everything is.. a gamble, in hell.
You and your new friend somehow took an enormous time than needed inside the restroom, he immediately knew what's up but what's the fun in that? Here you are, your voices behind—panicking, dripping with white lies to cover up whatever the two of you were planning but time's up, he pushed in through—catching the scene just as he expected.
Your little friend was nowhere to be seen, and the tap water was left running endlessly down the sink. A pathetic, pointless cover-up.
"I s-swear, it's not me." You gasped—stuttering, raising your hands up instinctively to defend yourself, your eyes following the whims of the gun in his hand. Too cute, you were an exact opposite of what you try to portray in the game field.
Jake's eyes followed the trail up the ceiling—an evidence painfully sticking; a vent pulled open. There's only one answer for this; cheating—and what happens to players who cheat? For a game that promises equality to its players, it's only fair for the cheaters to be eliminated. The barrel clicks, raising it to your eye level now imbued with great dread.
You were swirling in desperation, descending into madness, blabbering as you dropped on your knees—praying for your life. That this wasn't it, this wasn't how you were supposed to meet your end. He thought the same, too, sympathetically.
"You badly wanted to live, huh?" The robotic voice adds to the vehemence to your rampant soul, you nodded—fueled with the enormous desire to live.
Despite the debt you've accrued towards the years, you are still left with hope that you'd be able to settle it all one day, no matter what. But why is it that you're burying yourself in debt again?
Haven't you learned your lesson?
"What can you offer me?"
Cheshire grin graces Jake's lips with the sight of your glossy eyes cutting through confusion. He repeats the same question once more, but a little different this time and strides closer to you with slow steps. You didn't budge one bit, he likes that.
But he needs to see more—pressing your chin up with his thumb, tilting his head ever so playfully.
"Why should I let you live? Tell me why, then I just might, spare your life." Says the guard, "Amuse me."
Amuse? How? You were no joker yourself, even at the times you had to appease someone's wrath—you'd always find yourself failing at it. Comedy was not your forte. Your breathing grew heavy, a weight pressed against your lungs, pressured by the guard's loose frame that was stiff, composed a while ago.
Leaning against the tiled wall, a behaviour unlike any other. Despite being covered up from head to toe, it was as if he was baring himself raw and exposed to you. You could taste his body language on the tip of your tongue—amidst the saltiness of your tears—its intensity beyond sanity.
The fluorescent light flickers in a timed interval, offering a deafening sound that ricochets off the restroom's walls. Your little friend sure is taking her precious time to maneuver around the route, not knowing the real deal is happening here.
You were filled with dread, unable to find answers, stuttering here and there—tight lipped. Panic eyes dart around for answers, for the key to your escape. Until, a distant clattering reverberated from the distance, like platters being ransacked—directly from the vent.
The guard looks up, and you swore you heard the pitch of a sinister tune behind those robotic voice. "Uh, oh."
You gulped down with the arrival of your new friend. Her face mirrored yours—pale and grim—and soon on her knees.
"I want to live."
You blurted out with desperation before she could defend herself—emphasizing each word—catching the guard's attention.
Jake didn't expect this side of you, but he was not at all disappointed—more like thrilled.
And that was all it took.
You clutched your trembling left arm, your hands icy cold as you exited the restroom—accompanied by another triangle pink guard. The door to the lobby opens up, and that was the moment when your shoulders flinched—at the sound of a gunshot beyond the hallway.
Now you're truly, in debt, for good.
Jake's pink suit takes on darker hues, blotted unevenly across his chest and a bit on his mask as he stood there as the circle guards carried the corpse away.
Too amused by the outcome, he'd have to admit. He didn't know you were capable of such trickery, hiding a desperate monster behind those depths of your eyes. He'd begun to wonder how far he can push you towards your edge, to the last bit of your sanity just like his.
"I'll let you live but with one condition."
And that is to bring your best play into this game. The image of your bloodshot eyes widening in inches was a sight to witness. Especially the way your face are decorated with your new friend’s blood.
You were hanging on a piece of thread while walking on eggshells. Whatever you choose, you’d die either way. But you persisted. The next game commenced; the classic tug of war. Yet you survive again, in a game dominated by males. He was almost sure you'd plummet to your eventual death but somehow, someway—that piece of luck seems to cling to your side quite stubbornly. And he wanted to have a part of it, just a bit, or even more—just like the greedy creature he had always been—insatiable, the hunger for more.
As you climbed down the stairs, he could see it—the way your eyes searched for approval, for reassurance that you've amused him well. You were so good, so obedient that he felt like he wanted to sugarcoat his words for you.
If you behave nice and sweet—maybe you’d be alive a little longer. Be obedient as you can, he's just trying to help you, that's all, he promised! Pinky promise? It's just really a very, very fair deal. Envision it—you won't get your head blown off dramatically if you obey him, it's all for your own good.
You nodded, he grinned.
“Good girl.”
He hushes for you to lean closer, and he says it, the golden rule: they.
They?
They're always watching, therefore you should keep yourself interesting as long as you can. Do whatever you think is interesting. Think of it as a comedy play, your goal is to make your audience laugh, right? Easy peasy! If you do it right, then they’ll be kind enough to keep you a little longer. After all, interesting things once a day keeps the dull moments away!
But wait! He caught your arm in his gloved hand—whatever you do, just don't get caught. And my, my! You did not disappoint. Jake felt so proud that he mentored you, fuck, he breathes out. A once pristine fork now soaked in metallic stench, but whose? Your choice of target was truly compelling, how you reached up to that point of decision was a marvel to him.
An old lady and her son.
Oh my god—he was never a believer to whatever deities are up there but you're surely, surely fucked up more than he is. He’d only spoken one word—kill, but alas you've earned it. He could taste the horror on their face from the pool of blood—it screeches as the pink guards placed the corpses on their respective gift boxes.
Then a word arises, planting doubts, feeding worry, and then panic, and as a result you get a crowd of uncivilized humans banging against the cage. And funny it was, all it took was one shot to calm them down. Hush, hush—quiet down.
The old good script came along; equality.
Equality? How hilarious! No matter how many times they went through the script, it's still baffling to see how the sea of faces calms down after that word—almost as if it was a promise. No, and it was a pity. Sure, getting good at the game decides how far you will go but that's not the final rule.
Boredom! Boredom! Do you even sit down for so long for a movie so inexplicably tedious, so boring? No, right? We don't root for a character that brings no interesting story on the table. First, we sigh. Second, we complain. Third, we criticize it. Lastly, we stand up—never again to pick it up. A play with no audience is basically nonexistent. No singer would sing without an audience. Nor an actor without someone to watch.
Does it mean our worth solely depends on how long we keep someone's interest in us? How fucking funny! The world is a comedy play indeed! And you did just that, piquing his interest for so long that he wanted to see more.
More.
Jake knew very well that he shouldn't be doing this. But resisting feels too futile—when he's now right at your bunk bed, at night when all the players have tucked themselves into bed—lulling themselves to sleep before one more game tomorrow.
His feet had dragged him by your side before he could even think twice. Though, he can now—with one step away. But he knows he can't, because one red light does nothing but arouses his desire to go against it.
Tempting.
Getting caught feels so toxic; he thought as he inches closer, his gloved hands brushing past your leg. You caught on so quickly with a tiny squirm, a subtle frown gracing between your eyebrows—he finds it amusing how it deepens with each closer stride his finger took—until you did notice.
The margins of your pupil withered by his presence, sharp edges of a triangle reflected on it. Thick leather covering his hand—now on your mouth at a swift speed. His big frame towering over yours, and you whipped your head to find everyone else deep in slumber.
"Relax," He chides in a pitchy melody. "Just thought you needed a little reminder that you aren't safe yet, from me."
The mask dives in, a dangerous proximity—where he suddenly brushes his free hand on his mask. You gulped down, a curiosity inkling closer.
"Close your eyes." You caught a glimpse of his red lips, "And don't look."
And it crushed against yours—it felt all too vivid and intense. Wet tongue swirling and knotting together. Colliding like stars melting into each other. Your face flushed upon remembering that you were doing this in a place where privacy is nonexistent.
An act of voyeurism.
What would they think of you—a player colluding with one of the guards? Would they think of you as someone conspiring to ruin the game as someone had suggested in the beginning? But it's so cruel, almost too harsh—the way his teeth sunk into your lip, a subtle desperation hiding in-between—as he commands you to return your utmost concentration to him.
You tried your best to suppress your growing desire to moan, the shuffling of the bed, and how your legs tense around from looping around his hips, and all the more—your eyes from parting, for he had warned you that if his face was to be seen—nothing would end well.
And so, you close your eyes harder—fighting against this monstrosity of a desire to see his face, curiosity so insatiable. Would his face be as delish as his lips? Mouthwatering as his tongue? Or as gripping as his hands on your waist. To know that his face would mark your doom brings a sinful thrill, a pernicious temptation.
But maybe, you were a little stubborn. Though, you shut it tight before he could notice. Or maybe, he did notice. You only caught a slight skin, a warm tone near his eyes.
Did he notice? Of course he did. You were never too good in following the rules anyway, he expected that much from you, and that was what he also terribly liked about you—a twist to this repetitive routine in his life. You always defy his expectations, each one better than the last. Perhaps this is what they call a plot twist.
And you were doing too good, too good—he’d afraid. Good thing, no one caught the sinful game you two were in—and was that a good thing? By his definition, no—people will never stop until they're caught. It only intensifies from then on, the stake rising higher and higher.
We're all, after all, an insatiable animals beneath this human flesh. And it comes back everytime the florescent light shuts off, dripping ink obscuring every sense of moral compass. This so-called society can fuck off. We are all too obvious, flickering like a bunch of traffic lights—encrypting a Morse code, praying for someone to notice us, save us.
These signals. We're so obvious but at the same we aren't.
And that's why he wondered why you sent him a signal to meet in the restroom. His question, though, was immediately answered the moment he stepped in.
Perhaps, Jake didn't see to it that far but maybe he did, for curiosity overtakes—of what kind of a cornered animal you would be. Because the saying always goes like this; a cornered animal are the most dangerous of them all.
A swift dash—and it clicks right at his head, and all Jake could muster was a devilish grin—ah, what is this? Are you tired of catching up to his whims now? His gun firmly clasped in your clammy hands, more than glad to help you—planting it just right on his forehead. An image flashed in his head right at that moment, you looked way too familiar—as if you were the notorious player who joined the game twice, dreaming to put an end to this cruel, cruel game. The only difference was that he was with a formidable team and you—alone.
“C'mon, do it." He mimics the doll's rhythm from the beginning, "Will you do it or will you not?”
He sang on like a serpent slithering against your ears. A temptation, or a dare wrapping itself around your neck, urging you, begging you to choose. If you kill him now, only God knows what’ll happen to you after but oh the laughter—it bursted out with the thought of them who were watching, of how their eyes would bulge out on the ground witnessing the scene of a feeble girl overpowering a guard, a male one at that—all by herself.
But you look so damn pretty, so fucking pretty looking all this determined with courage and rage.
Yet his thought process was cut short with a strong grip on his hood—yanking his body on the ground before he could react—and now you are on top of him, taking control and holding him hostage. And all he could say is what the fuck? Just what are you planning inside your pretty little head?
“Take off your mask.”
“That isn't part of our deal.” The triangle mask did no little to cover his body language, “You know I could easily overpower you—”
“Not with a gun to your head.”
“Are you sure you can—” A loud bang causes him to groan, you shot his arm, that is. A very light graze but enough to cause a deep wound. It tainted his pink jacket into a deeper shade—crimson. Right, you are not joking at all. Fuck, you're right—he looks down chuckling. You left him with no choice and so he complied, funny enough—you stopped him right before he could pull down his black mask. You put on his mask back but just enough for his nose and lips bare for you to see.
What exactly are you planning to do? He doesn't know but what you did next was never one of the things he anticipated. It took his breath away, literally—you sucking his lips in—huh? A kiss. It's a fucking kiss, he chanted on in his head, his eyes wide opened as you kept going on. Jake wanted to be the hunter but today it doesn't seem to appear that way. Overpowered with a gun on his head, and a girl one at that—on top of him
The fuck? Is he being assaulted in broad daylight? Shit. For the first time, Jake was dumbfounded by your peculiar actions. Just now, you were trying to murder him and now you're kissing him like he's a free piece of meat?
Your face—he observes intently as you molded his lips into your own; tightly shut, heated cheeks, loose fringe sticking on your forehead due to your sweat, or was it his? He's no virgin nor this was his first kiss. But why is his heart thumping like a goddamn virgin, then? Was it the fact that your lips were sloppy? Rough? Desperate? Needy? It was painfully obvious that was your very first time sucking someone’s lips.
You were painfully, painfully bad at it—evident by the leaking metallic taste on his lower lip. Abusive. But the throbbing pain tasted delicious, igniting something inside his body. Jake’s starting to think that he's a masochistic for relishing in this pain.
More, more, more!
You pulled away.
He groans, aching for more.
“Is it interesting enough?”
Those words caught him off guard, and apart from the fact that you look utterly breathtaking with your red swollen lips, he couldn't properly form a proper sentence with how you're firmly on him—straddling his hip.
"W-what do you mean?" He couldn't believe it that he just stuttered. Did that tongue of yours truly twisted his brain and mouth into an incoherent mess?
"Them." You gulped down.
And that was all it took for him to lose control. A snicker, turns to a chuckle, and then laughter reverberating against the tiles—forming an eerie echo.
Dear heavens, you've taken it on another level, way, way too much for him to resist anymore.
“You know you truly got me.”
With one blink, you found yourself in a pitch black room—dimly lit by a faint round light from the corner. Your back buried on the soft couch, catching you in his strong arms. No time wasted—his lips dive into yours, sucking and nibbling on every depth of your flesh like it was his meal to devour. His eyes commands you, a slave to his spell. Supple, thick skin trapped in-between his long digits..
Sheer excitement rushes in his body as he zips his pink jacket down, slowly but surely, teasing you just enough by stopping a few inches more. His triangle mask obscuring his identity all time finally follows with a whisk of his gloved hands—revealing a pair of intoxicating eyes, adorned with a roof of pretty lashes. His fluffy fringes covered bits of his eyes.
"Do you see me now?"
His true voice speaks for itself, no longer covered by the monotone robotic filter—but bare and raw. The timbre of his voice—too velvet for your ears. He felt human for the first time.
He places his chin on his black gloved hand, leaving only his eyes for you to see. Piercing gaze clinging into your soul as if telling you to run away with him right now, like a hopeless fairy tale. The only difference was this place are no castles for princesses.
Jake put his mask back on, but this time it was not the same—nowhere near the traces of the triangle shape, instead it held a black color, sculpture-like. As if the mask was intended specially for its owner, hugging the corners and depth of his visage. It was as if the mask owned him, not otherwise.
And you were right.
Unlike his predecessors, Jake isn’t that keen in going down the route of the friendly, amiable approach they often took—the role of being a friend to your targets. Make no mistakes, he doesn't bore a single drop of guilt. But in his eyes, it was more of an old cheap trick implemented by each and one of them, yet it never grew stale to the eyes of the VIPs. He couldn't blame them though, after all—the sunken eyes upon realising the weight of betrayal was all too fucking satisfying.
However Jake wanted to try something new; he preferred a different palette, different theme—a more direct approach—a hostile, dominant one where he could play the devil and his target—the sinner. Whatever suited his play style for the day, he'd do very well at it, and he’ll make sure of it.
And you happened to be one of his very long list of targets, he’d teach you and guide you along the ropes but dear heavens! You learned way, way too fast that he couldn't resist taking you for himself. You know, a little treat after all the hard work he’d done all these years. A hundred games—he had hosted hundreds of games for his VIPs and he took an inexplicable pride in them. Each time, the faces they morphed into behind those masks was a pleasure.
However this time, he wanted so bad to be the only one to witness all the things you could do. The only spectator to your play. All the things that play inside that little head of yours.
Jake had always wanted to go fast, but now he wants to go slow. Take his sweet, sweet time to uncover the depths of you. He wanted to see your expressions—the time it took to form those creases and lines.
A brush of his finger against your hair brings tingles to your neck, raising goosebumps across your body, a sensation that clouds your judgement. His body language remains playful, hovering his triangle mask on your face instead.
"I can bring you with me." He says, a light feathery hush at the last word. "All you have to do is say yes."
“Are you testing me?”
Jake leans forward, whispering to your ear. “No one's watching anymore. It's only us now.” He pulls away, "What do you think? The next game is far beyond your luck already, and it seems like I don't feel like pushing through this gamble anymore."
Your hand feels like a separate entity when it inches closer to his mask, digits curling to take the mask off—a growing desire to see those breathtaking eyes again.
But he stops you, gripping your wrist—not too strong, just enough. “Curious?”
You gulped down, nodding.
"If you take it off, there's no returning back." Said he, tint with nonchalance but with a lingering warning. Once you satisfy your curiosity to see the face of this voice, there's no returning back—but what does he exactly mean by that?
You repeated the word. "Are you killing me?"
The boy chuckles. "Silly, why would I? What I meant was—" He draws closer to your ear, but just enough for him to show you a little below his eyes. "Once you take this mask off; the you before me will no longer exist.”
His face may be very well hidden but his body language was all too animated, as if he's wearing his heart on his sleeve unlike his persona as a triangle guard.
It inches closer, this hand of yours—aching, itching to touch, to see, and you did—one whisk down and the image of a young boy emerges. Nothing you'd imagine but definitely did not regret. However you'd do very well to keep it mind; pretty faces aren't always angels.
However the day you submitted yourself to him was the day you've let yourself go. What else was there to be shame about? And God, you caught him off guard again. Eyes wide, hands hasty, bodies collide, fleshes bare—sparking with every contact.
Intoxicating. Madness. Addiction.
It's true what they say, some people never truly change—instead they worsen over time. Bit by bit, until there's no point of return.
