❀ mashed. twenty. she/her. bisexual. graphic designer in training. watercolor painter. author. cringe. abhorrent sleep schedule. google docs enthusiast. if you find my other blogs no you didn't :p ❀
inbox + messages are always open!
ヾ𓈒⁀➷ MASTERLISTS:
❀ cho hyun-ju (squid games)
ヾ𓈒⁀➷ RECENT WORKS:
❀ in her absence, i have found another / eventual cho hyun-ju x f!reader
in which you and hyun-ju both grieve for your respective partners who died on the same day. with time, you come to realize that you don't have to share your grief alone.
❀ some truths and some lies / cho hyun-ju x f!reader
chapter two of death is a face i won't forget
❀ don't turn your back (2) / cho hyun-ju x f!reader
For six years, you and Se-mi had built a life together. You carved a life with her, shared endless intimate moments, and promised to be together until the end. On May 16, 2021, Se-mi dies in a fatal car accident. For the next four years, you grieve her and the future you promised her.
On her death anniversary, you meet another woman in grieving at the same cemetery. Hyun-ju lost her girlfriend, Young-mi, on the same day you lost Se-mi.
You and Hyun-ju share comfort over your loss. Even as you grow closer, the two of you will never love the same again.
PAIRING: se-mi x f!reader / hyun-ju x young-mi / cho hyun-ju x f!reader
GENRE: romance, angst, alcohol abuse
WORD COUNT: 4.4k
WARNINGS: character death, grieving, brief mention of suicidal ideation, eventual happy ending
NOTES: this came to me in a dream and i wrote it all out in my head but was too tired to actually write it down. took forever for me to get back into writing but i'm here now, yaay
It was hard to tell when your grief went from all consuming to a quiet simmer. The exact moment was a misty and undefined line, but when you realized the change, it didn't dull the hurt. It merely made you aware of how deeply your love for Se-mi was.
Four years since the car crash. It was a routine errand to go to the post office to send your family overseas a car package of all their favorite Korean snacks and beauty products. Your younger cousins begging for the latest toners and lip tints, your parents wanting to try the new strawberry corn puffs they've seen on TV, your friends wanting fashion magazines with exclusive photo shoots of their idols. You take their eager requests and collect items over the months until you have a hefty cardboard box of goodies to send back. Se-mi always comes with you. It's a non-negotiable she implemented early in your relationship; she would always accompany you because any time with you is valuable. She carries your nearly 1 kg package to the post office even if you're more than capable.
She was always hovering over you, not close to make it seem possessive or overbearing, but enough to where you feel her calm presence even if she's out of direct sight. A hand on your shoulder, your pinkies interlocked, or her foot nudging yours. She waits beside you. It's unbelievably boring and you reassure her countless times that she doesn't have to waste her time doing boring errands. But she insists vehemently that she comes every time.
"We could be standing outside in the summer heat for three hours and I would never regret it," she told you once, her thumb ghosting over your locked hands. "You make it worth it. Always."
She has an uncanny ability to read your mind, to predict your thoughts before you can. She hands you a snack five minutes into waiting in line because she knew you hadn't eaten all afternoon. Wordlessly, she shifts the weight of the package onto her hip and quickly procures a small bag of chips from her purse. It's a small act of selflessness that you'd come to take for granted. Another show of love from Se-mi that you would later tear into you.
The drive back from the post office was supposed to be only fifteen minutes. Se-mi had a habit of driving one-handed so her right hand was available to hold. You'd long since given up on scolding her since she would be so stubborn on making you hold her hand. "It helps me concentrate," she would say. You would grumble out a response along the lines of: "Bullshit, Se-mi." But in hindsight, it was better if Se-mi was driving happily than having her pout, giving you puppy eyes in between stop lights.
What would've been an afternoon filled with small acts of love that's been perfected for nearly six years had cut short so suddenly it almost felt reality-breaking. A wake-up call from the real world that you'd only been living in delusion; that a world with Se-mi was filled with safety and the concept of pain was entirely absent. Only when she died did you remember that the world was indifferent to the love the two of you had. You'd been living on borrowed time, unknowingly went through the day thinking that you still had time with Se-mi.
You didn't tell her I love you when you got into the car because you would say it when you got home.
You moved your expensive dinner date to next Saturday because you wanted to spend the evening watching movies.
Your last kiss together was the one you shared that morning. A small peck followed by a series of nips Se-mi gave to wake you up. She started at the apples of your cheeks, moving down to your lips and making a path towards your temple. It tickled you, making you stir from your sleep. She conditioned your brain to recognize the pattern of kisses as a sign to get ready for the day.
You thought you had more time.
You were absentmindedly watching buildings go by when the impact occurred. Se-mi didn't see that a teenage boy would run a red light and slam into her side of the car because she was focused on her lane. You didn't anticipate seeing Se-mi, pressed against the airbag with blood all over her face, already dead by the time the paramedics arrived. Her face was still. Her eyes wide and mouth slightly parted like she was just about to form your name.
You felt her hand go cold. Your fingers were still interlocked. You wanted to be near Se-mi every chance you got because you love her so much.
Love, not loved, because four years could never erase her presence from your psyche.
You were angry for a long time. At yourself, at the world, at every little thing that reminded you of Se-mi. Being married made you safe, it wiped away the need to bite back at every inconvenience. You tore down every picture of Se-mi in a rage because you hated feeling so broken whenever you passed by them. Phone calls from your parents went unanswered for weeks at a time. You buried yourself in work to distract from the haunting ghost of your wife at home. You screamed into pillows until your throat went tight, screaming at the unfairness of the world to take the one person who made life worth living. Your fingers would dig into your palm until the indents of your nails formed bruises. You would sit in the middle of your room because the bed was too empty to sleep in. The room was colder than you remembered because you'd gotten so used to having another person beside you.
That anger was slow to cool. Somewhere along the way the screaming into pillows turned to lung-crushing sobs. Sadness replaced your fiery rampage. You moved a lot slower, your legs would drag on the floor and your chest would feel so heavy that your breathing was constantly shallow.
Slowly, your brain figured out that apathy was the only way to move forward. You still felt grief, but you'd given up on showing it. Your eyes were void of tears, your lungs too bruised to form another sob. Se-mi ripped all the joy you had; every moment, in the back of your mind, you've always thought that everything would be better if Se-mi was still around. Had it been any other person to die, Se-mi would take the grief you held and turn it to something memorable. Her hand would wipe away tears, her voice gentle as she reminds you that death is another part of life. It's better to remember the love you have than not have the person at all.
Of course, your voice of reason and wisdom had to be the one to pass that day.
If it was you who had died, Se-mi could pick herself up eventually. She was strong, better than you when it came to processing difficult hardships. She would be sad, yes, but she wouldn't live the rest of her life as a husk of her former self.
Husk is such an understatement to how you feel. You feel gutted. Every part that makes you you suddenly and horrifyingly absent. Happiness means holding hands in the grocery store as you pick out what to eat for dinner. Success means proudly showing your new paycheck to Se-mi as she gives you a proud and knowing smile. Sadness means having your wife hold you in her arms as you sob relentlessly into her chest, knowing that your emotions will die down eventually. What you're experiencing isn't merely grief, but also the loss of your will to live. What's to stop you from dying tomorrow? What reason do you have to live now that your one and only is gone?
You don't linger on those thoughts. Your parents will be heartbroken if they woke up to another death in the family. That barely-supported reason keeps you from tipping your body off the nearest bridge.
You feel entirely numb to the idea of your own passing. You'd thought that committing suicide entails a whirlwind of emotions, a series of emotional phases that makes you see death as the only option to quell the pain.
You feel nothing. The anger and sadness are gone and all you have left is the physical sensation of being alive. Your heart beats, your lungs expand, your stomach gets hungry—all things that make you alive, but you're missing the part of you that wants to be alive. You don't want to die because your parents would get sad, not because you're afraid of dying. You're not eager for death to come early, but you wouldn't feel sad about it.
On May 16th, like clockwork, you make the trek to Se-mi's grave. The hour commute is grueling on your grieving body. You hated seeing couples board the train with their hands interlaced in such a casual way that your vision darkens. Your neck aches from staring at your feet, the flowers you bought grasped tightly in your hands the entire ride. No one casts their attention your way. You hope that you're invisible enough to not be perceived in the slightest.
The march uphill to the plot of land that held the bodies of the Kil family was grueling. Your legs, weak from disuse, burned like hellfire. A part of you hates coming back. There are days where you curse yourself from loving someone so much that life feels incomplete without them. You took the biggest gamble of your fucking life and are suffering from the humiliating loss. It would be so much easier if you just hated Se-mi; if Se-mi was a piece of shit human being, maybe then you wouldn't put yourself through an hour and a half commute just to see a stone with her name engraved; maybe if you didn't pour all of your heart and soul into her, the world would start spinning again.
You collapsed on your knees, heaving and sweating through your dark blouse and linen pants. You're the picture of defeat. Head hung low in submission to a cruel god of fate, wielding an offering of wilting flowers to appease them. To appease Se-mi for being stuck in the same cycle of anger, sadness, and apathy for the last four years. You're weak. Se-mi didn't love you for that. She loved the version of you that carried on through life's hardest moments with the courage to get up and try harder. You're not the woman she fell in love with. You're an intimation, a miserable failure.
Se-mi wouldn't care. You know she wouldn't.
"Every version of you is something to love." She wrote those vows with tears staining the paper and a smile so bright it hurt to see. You know she would find this dark, miserable version of you something precious. Of course she would.
You can never hate Se-mi. You hate how easily you taint her memory. You hate how weak your will to carry on is.
The stone of her grave, flat, polished, unmoving, bears her name like a talisman; you stand petrified and bewitched like a haunting presence, invading her place of rest. You want to crawl back down the hill and walk home. You want to dig your fingers and claw out the dirt to see her one last time. You want to kiss her. You want her back.
"Hi."
Syllables break like glass against your throat, a simple word tearing you apart fiber by fiber.
"I-I got your favorite."
Silence. Wind slicing the air, crinkling the plastic film around the flowers, the grass flowing with its movements. Se-mi's voice doesn't materialize. It never does. You place your bundle of hydrangeas, pink roses, and sunflowers into the vase. A similar recreation of the bouquet you threw at the crowd of guests at your wedding. The edges of the rose are tinted brown and the petals are starting to fall because you bought them days ago. You knew that you couldn't gather enough strength to buy fresh flowers. That would require you to get up early to head to the florist, energy that you can't afford to waste.
"I miss you."
Your tears blur your vision, smearing her name across the stone.
"I'll never stop loving you."
A promise that's been sworn through blood and bone. As sure as the sun rising in the east, as the moon cycles through its phases. You swear the same words every year since you met her. You said it during your vows. You say it every single night before bed, even as she playfully teases you that you didn't have to say it all the time. You press it into her skin as you made love over and over again. You breathe it, unsaid, into her space with every day that passed, from the morning to the night, until the very last moment.
You don't say anything. You rehearse the words you want to say on the commute to the graveyard, but always stopping short when you tell her that you love her. Every single time.
You cry like you do every year. Closing your eyes, you let your thoughts carry through the wind, hoping, praying, wishing that the wind carries your unsaid words to her. With nothing to hold, you let the unbridled love, wild and untamed without your soulmate, sit heavy in your chest next to your heart. The murky spring air can't help the biting cold you feel all over. The breeze is gentle, but it's not the soft caress of your lover. Everything is different without her. You can't live in the same world as before. Se-mi changed you. Her death transformed you.
You let it happen without a fight.
Hours pass with you sitting in front of her gravestone, silently crying. Your legs are folded beneath you, feeling numb and weak. The only reason why you part is because of the stabbing pain of your empty stomach. The sound too loud and embarrassing to ignore, you stand on wobbly legs. Your mind retreats, the fog of disassociation keeping you upright.
It's a habit to stare at your feet as you move through the world. A few steps downhill and you spot something in your path. Something unassuming. A sprinkle of color in the grayscale landscape of the graveyard.
A sunflower, similar to the ones in Se-mi's case. You pick it up gingerly, rolling the stem gently between your fingertips. The flower—unlike the ones in Se-mi's vase—doesn't show signs of decay. Its petals are bright and the stem is sturdy.
Years from now, you think back to this unusual moment. Holding a symbol of vitality and happiness whilst stuck in your darkest moment. The gods above must've been amused by this irony. The strings of fate twists, the wind changes its tune, a habit of looking down suddenly broken.
Your head lifts and turns to the left.
There, just a few rows away, another figure of grief. Draped in delicate fabrics, her short hair billowing in the wind, her eyes staring intensely at the gravestone in front of her. Her posture is tense and her jaw is tight from clenching. You notice, distinctly, that the grave is sans flowers in their vase.
A compulsion rings through your body. Empathy, you think, brings to the stranger who had come to a grave without an offering. Your legs, numb and unsteady, walk in measured steps. You walk the altered path of fate; a string pulling tighter and tighter as you approach the woman in mourning.
She doesn't notice you coming, or perhaps she's ignoring you. When you're an arm-length away—your body eclipsing the sun—does she finally turn to acknowledge you.
It's only when her tired eyes reach yours that you realize you approached this stranger without an ounce of knowing what you're going to say.
She gazes at the bright yellow flower in your hand.
"Sorry, I-I didn't want to intrude." You hold the sunflower out, your hand trembling uncontrollably. "I just—I didn't—I wanted to give you this."
The woman's brows furrow.
"I noticed—I mean I just assumed you didn't bring flowers so I brought you one."
Her mouth opens and closes. She does it again, unsure of how to respond. A few seconds and then: "You brought me a flower?"
The darker, comforting lull of her voice makes you stand straighter. Shame prickles your spine. Fuck, you only offered one flower. You must look cheap. Or worse, she thinks you're pitying her. Maybe she thinks you're here to shame her for not bringing a flower for her loved one.
You stutter out an explanation: "I saw you from up there—" you point to Se-mi's grave, "—and I didn't mean anything. I mean I did, I thought you would want it. If you don't—"
"No, no. I'm grateful," she says, taking the stem of the flower into her own hands. She rolls the stem in her fingertips, inspecting the flower. "Thank you. You didn't need to."
"I wanted to," you insist.
She peers up at you through her lashes. She gives you a smile. Soft and sincere.
You bow deeply and turn away, walking downhill without turning back.
For the first time in four years, you weren't crying on your way back home.
— — —
Grief shackles you to your bed. You spend your time hunched over a computer screen, ignoring the signs of depression even as it leaves aches along your body. You're unkempt. You can't keep your eyes open during the day. At night you find yourself scrolling hopelessly through your photos, reliving the pain of loss over and over. Se-mi's face is perfectly preserved, but even the digital renditions of her face doesn't scrub away the visceral image of her dying in front of you. In your dreams you would hear her death rattle. Sometimes it's a croak. Other times it's a sickening choking sound. In the worst of your night terrors, she speaks your name in a raspy plea. She asks for help. She squeezes your fingers.
"I'm scared." Her bloodied lips form the words, but her voice is wrong somehow. "Why me?"
You can't bring yourself to answer. You never do.
— — —
Months pass without relief.
Your co-workers try not to mention the obvious decline of your appearance.
You go through the motions. You live out your days on a schedule. Every task feels daunting. Chores pile up. To-do lists scatter your dining table. You're exhausted. You can't sleep. You can't keep yourself awake. You're alone and you're starting to think there's no hope for you.
— — —
You keep waking up hungover. It's far too easy to buy a pack of beer and drink it all in one sitting. You play music—your wedding music of course—because you can't let yourself enjoy anything anymore. What's the point of trying to be happy? Being happy without Se-mi feels wrong. It's a betrayal you're not ready to cross.
You drink until you heave into the toilet. You sink into your unwashed sheets with a sob. The weekends are reserved for self destruction before you crawl back to work.
Being drunk allows the tension in your body to lessen at least. You get through the week knowing that you can black out for two days. It's not sustainable. Se-mi would shake her head disapprovingly.
But Se-mi isn't here. You're the one alive to feel the loss of a marriage without divorce.
— — —
You tore the entire house upside down.
Pillows, blankets, clothes, boxes—
Everything and anything is thrown over your shoulder. You manically rip through each room of your house to find the one object that's irreplaceable.
Your wedding ring.
She put that ring on your shaking finger. Se-mi held that hand as she whisked you away to the reception.
She always kissed it on your anniversary; she waited for your eyes to flutter open before planting a soft, gentle kiss on your ring and placing it on your finger. You would do the same with an equally bashful smile.
You lost your fucking wedding ring. The one and only gift that you cherished from your wife. You can replace your wedding dress, Se-mi clothes, hell even her photo album with all of the backed up pictures on your computer. But never your ring.
In the grand scheme of things, the ring isn't anything special. It's a rock on a metal band. There's millions like it around the world. Except this ring was custom-made. Se-mi wanted a ring that showed her commitment to you, so she apprenticed a jeweler for months before making a set of rings.
All because you got shitfaced at a bar. You lost the one thing that ties you and Se-mi together.
Se-mi is buried with the other half. Losing your ring means you've gone too far. It means you spat at the memories that carved it. Her dedication meant nothing to you, because otherwise you wouldn't have lost it in the first place.
A scream tears through you. Painful, gut-wrenching, primal screams that shake the curtains and tremble the walls.
You fell asleep, dry heaving with the might of a dying animal taking its last breath. You didn't deserve to sleep in her bed.
— — —
Summer dragged you through humid weather and beer-induced hangovers. Fall brought chilly evenings and nightmares that never ended. Winter made you retreat in Se-mi's old sweaters that you don't wash; her scent no longer lingering in the worn fabrics anyways.
Spring meant renewal and rebirth. It means warmer days; fruity drinks that were once seasonal are now available; your co-workers inviting you to hang out at the beach every week despite your worsening mood. Above all, spring means heartbreak and remembrance. Spring includes the month of May, which includes the 16th day of the month, which includes another yearly trip to the cemetery.
Usually you spent the night of the 15th tossing and turning in your bed, anxious to the point to nausea. You still tossed. The blankets coiled around your restless legs, the sheets grew damp with sweat. But you managed to keep your eyes closed for at least six hours, which is more than what you can ask for on the most daunting day of the year.
First stop was the florist owned by a sweet old lady who knew you on a first name basis. She never asks what the flowers are for. You know she knows. You're dressed in black and come by once a year looking more like death with each visit. She smiles warmly, regardless of the mood you're in. She hands you the change, murmurs well wishes under her breath, stopping herself from saying more. You appreciate the small instance of normalcy. In this shop, you don't feel suffocated. You're not expected to upkeep pleasantries.
Something in your gut told you to stop by the convenience store before making it on the train. You browse absentmindedly, wanting to get a snack for the road until your eyes snag on a bag of chips. It stops you in your tracks.
It's just a bag of honey chips, repackaged to have the face of Cinnamoroll smack dab in the center.
Se-mi, despite being compatible in every way, had a long-standing hatred for the character. "I hate its beady little eyes. Evil son of a bitch." You would buy Cinnamoroll key chains, boba drinks, and any other trinket just to get a rise out of her. Slowly, you grew to love the evil son of a bitch.
You tentatively take the bag, thumb ghosting over the silhouette of the chubby dog. Se-mi would've thrown a fit if she saw you buy this. There is a pep to your step as you walk towards the cashier with the hope that maybe—just maybe—Se-mi would be riled enough to haunt you for buying it.
— — —
The commute passed faster than last year. You occupied yourself doing a to-do list on a small notepad. Simple phrases, things to get done, groceries to buy, texts you need to send. The sentences get longer. Suddenly you're not writing tasks, but your thoughts in the current moment.
I don't want to run errands.
Your handwriting is less polished, a clear indicator of your lack of energy. You keep your pen steady in your hand despite it.
I'm weak.
Passengers fill the train. Kids giggling between themselves. Teens on their way to class. This is the earliest you've commuted since her funeral.
I wish you were here with me.
The world closes in. Only you, the bag of chips, your bouquet, and your notepad exist in this liminal space. Somewhere between reality and the melancholy inside your head. Your hand takes a life of its own, writing down your thoughts as they appear. Your therapist would've applauded your efforts at processing your emotions, but it feels less like processing and more like releasing a dam of pent up emotions. It feels violent to write down your feelings so hurriedly in a public space, thirty minutes away from your stop.
Some days feel worse than others. It's too early to tell. I could barely sleep.
An older woman sits besides you. The train feels compact. You're surrounded on all sides with nowhere to hide. Your emotions spill like the tears pouring down your face. You write everything down before you can't. The notepad stops feeling like a diary and more of a letter, addressed to your ghost of a lover.
I hate that you died and I didn't. Is it wrong to wish that? You would've smacked my hand for thinking that. You always knew what to say.
I thought I knew how to put my feelings into words. I was better than you for that. Remember when you would refuse to tell me what made you upset? You always said you "didn't know". I couldn't imagine not knowing how to speak your mind. It would frustrate me to no end. We would argue over stupid shit because I didn't know why it was so hard for you to be vulnerable with me. I understand you. Now I do. I'm sorry it took me five years. You had to die for me to get it.
Why did you have to die for me to understand?
The train rolls to a stop. Your stop.
You sniff hard, wiping your eyes harshly before taking your leave.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚ PLEASE LIKE, COMMENT, AND REBLOG ❤︎
ADDITIONAL NOTES: i will be writing more for this story btw, i wouldn't leave you hanging like that. university, life, and everything that came with it took the energy out of me. on the bright side, i want to write more this year! hopefully i have the balls to see it thru.
I really don't understand how "without getting kudos or comments a fanfiction author is going to assume that people who clicked their fic didn't like it" became a controversial take.
I don't know why some people think an author should imagine, or guess that people who click their fic enjoyed it it when nobody is telling them that.
If you're re-reading a fic constantly, or leaving it up in your tab so that it re-loads every day for a hundred days the author is not going to know that unless you tell them. They'd love to hear it. It would make their day.
And if you don't tell them you liked their fic, there's no reason for them to assume you did.
Writers on AO3 when they see the hit counter on their fic go up and get an email that someone left kudos or a comment: Yay! People like my story! This made my day!
Writers on AO3 when they see the hit counter on their fic go up but the number of kudos/bookmarks/subscriptions/comments doesn't change: Oh. People are reading my story, but I guess they didn't like it.
Writers on Tumblr when they see notifications on their story: Yay! People are liking my story! Oh, somebody left a nice comment! Oh, they even reblogged it! That was so sweet of them!
Writers on Tumblr when they see 0 notes on their story: Nobody read it.
Also, just for fun, here are the stats for my fanfic with the most hits:
Almost half of the comments are my replies, so there are actually 27 individual comments. And almost 27,000 hits. So, basically a 1:10,000 ratio.
Do you still think writers are being unreasonable?
While 27 comments may not be much when someone gets them gradually, it's a lot to read through to make sure you're not contributing to unintentional spam.
If I receive multiple emails of comments on something I write, there is an actual zero percent chance of me being upset by it. Literally would make my day, week, month. Love your authors! Comments do not have to be detailed analysis - something as simple as “<3” conveys so much. (In fact, the very first comment I got on AO3 was “<3” and I treasure it.)
If you are accidentally part of a spam avalanche talking about how much you like my stories, know that I am only not answering because I have died of joy.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ summary: “I prefer my name, actually, but I know that’s a lot of syllables for you.” One of his eyebrows kicks up. But a corner of his mouth does, too, like it can’t help itself.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ pairing: billy hargrove x f!reader
⊹ ࣪ ˖ wc: 9.9k+
⊹ ࣪ ˖ warnings: they lowkey hate each other so snark and lots of it, mentions of misogyny and violence
⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes: so, fair warning, eddie kinda took over the first half of this chapter but needed to introduce some damn normality. hope you enjoy this behemoth. hope to have next part out sooner. sound if you're enjoying this so far!
read on ao3. ⊹ series masterlist.
You’re still pissed off when you get home.
Cracked pavement turns to gravel as you manoeuvre your car back into Forest Hills, trying to avoid shrieking kids kicking around a flat football despite the twilight hours. You scrubbed your hands raw in the cracked sink at the back of the shop, but a stubborn ribbon of grease under your thumbnail remains. You only notice it when you cut the engine and reach for your discarded bag. Another hit of irrational anger pulses through you at the sight.
Fucking prick, you think for the hundredth time, remembering Billy Hargrove’s sneering, amused face as you slam the car door with enough force to rattle the windows. A few heads veer in your direction, then away again. No one here has much time for other people's misery.
Forest Hills buzzes with its usual Saturday evening din: TV sets blaring through thin walls, a toddler screeching somewhere in the distance, bursts of laughter and conversation from a group of middle-aged men seated around a busted-up picnic table three trailers down from yours, kids entertaining themselves with mud and broken toys.
Your trailer sits in the middle of the lot, a bit more patched up than most because you could never let something broken be without trying to fix it. Faded tape is visible on the windowsills from where you parked, catching the dying light as you approach. The porch light flickers on as if sensing your early arrival, but the blinds inside are mostly drawn today. Another late shift at the diner means your mom won’t be back at least until midnight; until then, the trailer is all yours. It’s the type of freedom any person your age would typically adore, but all you can think about is how tired you are. How much more exhausted you’ll be when school resumes on Monday, when you’ll be balancing senior year with work, bills, and college applications.
You’re halfway up the rickety steps, key in hand, when you hear it.
“Whoa,” a voice calls out from behind you in a disbelieving drawl, “whatever did the poor door do to you?”
There’s no need to turn around to know who it is. There’s a particular way Eddie Munson’s voice carries in the air you could recognise in your sleep. His voice is as familiar to you as your mother’s is. Nestled somewhere quiet and safe, familiar and yours.
You glance over your shoulder.
He’s perched on the cinderblock near your stairs like he’s been there a while, long legs splayed, elbows on his knees, an imitation of a gargoyle. There’s a paper bag between his scuffed boots and two bottles of Cokes, long since warmed by the sweltering August evening. His Hellfire shirt looks soft and faded from too many washes, the sleeves crinkled and shoved up to his elbows, his many rings catching the porch light when he lifts the bottle in a lazy salute. His wild, dark hair frames his face, soft curls frizzing in the humid air as he offers you a crooked grin.
You can’t believe you’ve been so wrapped up in your thoughts that you didn’t notice him sooner.
Eddie stands, the bolt hanging around his throat catching the porch light, small and silver against the worn cotton—just an insignificant piece of junk to anyone but you. A lifetime ago, a boy crashed his bike outside your brand-new trailer, and you, annoyed by his loud wailing, went out and fixed it for him. It took you the whole afternoon, after which you presented the boy with messy hair and snot all over his face with a single spare bolt, for luck. By the next day, Eddie had put it on a leather string and declared you friends for life. You’ve never once seen him without the necklace since that day, same as his guitar pick.
Present-day Eddie, older but no less a troublemaker, grins up at you, dimples denting his cheeks. “Ooh. You look pissed. It’s a good thing I brought snacks.”
Snorting, you slot the key into the lock, leaning your shoulder against the door, “Do I?”
“Yeah, you’re wearing the face. It’s a rather particular and very frightening expression for when someone pisses you off enough to make you want to fight God.”
“Well, at least God doesn’t question my abilities.”
“Ah,” Eddie says, drawing out the sound, realisation sparking, “So it was a man. Colour me shocked, sweetheart. Truly blindsided by this twist.”
There’s something to be said about your shared bond over the years, because to this day, he’s the only man aside from Frank you can tolerate calling you sweetheart. Perhaps because you know Eddie says it with a genuine, uncomplicated sort of affection and not some twisted attempt to belittle you.
You shoulder the door shut again and instead sink onto the top step, your boots scarping the still-warm stone as you stretch out. You plant your boots on the step below you, resting your forearms on your knees, mirroring his earlier posture.
“What are you doing here, Ed?” you ask tiredly, even though you already know the answer. Eddie is around here more often than he’s not.
He nudges the brown paper bag with his boot, making it rustle. “Peace offerings. Celebration.” In typical, grandiose Eddie fashion, he squats down in front of you on the steps, grinning from ear to ear. “Last weekend of freedom before senior year starts, so we’re drinking Coke to the sleepless nights ahead.”
The word senior drops like a guillotine over your head, making your stomach do a strange little loop. Monday is less than two days away. New timetable awaits. A fresh future is almost within arm's reach, provided you can get there.
Instead, you reach for the Coke bottle extended in your direction. The glass is warm but still slick with condensation, the label peeling slightly at the edges. You pop the cap off with a practised hand, taking a long, greedy swallow. The heat and exhaustion of the day fold around you all at once. The fizz stings your tongue when it hits your mouth, tickling up your nose.
“You get off early?” Eddie wonders curiously. “It’s not even eight yet. I was prepared to camp for another hour at least.”
You huff a laugh, the fizz still thick in your throat. “Frank went home sick. Told me I can finish the last job and lock up early as a thanks.” Your head tips backwards, coming to rest against your front door. Strips of blue and orange sky fill your weary eyes over jutting rooflines. “Wasn’t really in the mood to stick around.”
Something in your demeanour has long since tipped him off, except this time the heaviness in your words, the slump of your shoulders, makes Eddie’s easy grin edge into concern.
“Okay, now I’m really curious,” he says, squinting. “Because you? Not in the mood to hang around the garage? That place is your temple. What heathen dared to defile the sacred grounds?”
You rub your palm over the back of your neck, feeling the dried sweat tacky under your fingers. It’s ridiculous how you’re still wound tight about this. Hargrove is hardly the first asshole to roll up with his shiny car and shitty opinions and cause you grief. It's been the norm as long as you’ve worked for Frank. But something about this instance has wormed under your skin.
“New guy,” you begin, not bothering to mask your ire, “Some hotshot from California. Came in with a ‘79 Camora and an attitude problem.”
Eddie’s brows shoot up. “Oh, that guy.”
You blink, focusing back on him. “You know him?”
“Haven’t had the pleasure,” he responds, making a face indicating he doesn’t think it’ll be very pleasurable when it does happen. “But I saw the car cruising through town earlier. Not very subtle, unlike me, of course. There’s also chatter that new people have moved in just outside the trailer park. Cherry Lane. Figured anyone driving a car like that has to be an asshole.”
You make a face, lifting the bottle to your lips. “Spot on.”
“Lemme guess.” Eddie rearranges his face, dropping his voice an octave lower and half-closing one eye, cigarette pantomimed at his lips. “‘Where’s the real mechanic, sweetheart?’”
You snort, your lips twitching around the bottle. “Stop,” you choke out. “That’s—”
“Too accurate?”
“He called me princess instead.” You can’t help but make a face as soon as the words leave you.
Eddie gasps, hand flying to his chest. “Do you have a body in the trunk we need to dispose of, or are we saving him for scientific study?”
“No,” you admit with a sigh. “I fixed his belt.”
“You fixed his… belt,” Eddie repeats, tasting the innuendo, mentally weighing if he’s going to go there. He glances up at you through his lashes, and you can see the joke brewing behind his dark eyes. The lines of his face soften into something genuine. “You okay?”
And there it is, the very thing that makes you want to hug him close and hit him at the same time: the way he sees through the armour and the anger faster than most people see you at all.
You peer down at your stained hands instead of him, at the grease still nestled in the cracks of your palms. You pick at them with your nail.
“It’s just—” Air explodes from your lips in a frustrated sound. “He did the whole song and dance, you know? The doubt, the staring, asking me if I’m sure I fixed it right. Like I’m some stupid girl playing dress up in my overalls, and somehow no one notices for years until he walks in.”
Eddie winces in sympathy. “And yet,” he begins carefully, “you did not, in fact, insert a ratchet into his eye socket. Which is a crying shame.”
“I thought about it.”
Eddie stands with a laugh, jogging up several steps until he’s beside you, dropping his weight beside you unceremoniously. “See, this is character growth.” He nudges your shoulder with his. “Old you would have slashed his tyres.”
“Old me didn’t know how much those tyres cost,” you point out dryly. “Now I know, and I couldn’t do that to the car. He doesn’t deserve that car,” you add, the injustice of it all prickling your chest again. “Ungrateful ass. I mean, who talks shit to the mechanic and then asks her to fix the problem? He’s lucky I didn’t cut his brakes instead.”
Eddie tilts his head towards the sky, tapping his chin twice. “Say no more,” he says solemnly. “I understand now. He’s beautiful, isn’t he?”
Your mouth pops open before your brain can stop it. “I didn’t say—”
“You didn’t have to. I know you.”
Eddie wiggles his eyebrows. You take another swing of your Coke instead of gracing his assumption with an answer. The glass taps your teeth, which makes you scowl. Eddie sits quietly beside you for a beat—a rarity he seems to only indulge in your presence—before rising back to his feet, offering his hand.
“C’mon. I brought you something.”
“You brought me pretzels.”
“Ah, but in addition to this gourmet feast…” He bounds down the stairs in gangly motion, almost tripping on the last step when he bends to retrieve the paper bag. “Come on.”
“Eddie.” Your protest comes out half-hearted. Truth is, you’re used to being dragged in his wake. You’ve spent most of your life being dragged in his wake and vice versa.
He doesn’t bother waiting for you to stand, twisting the doorknob and shouldering into your trailer with the familiarity of someone who’s done this a hundred times in the past. The stale, lukewarm air from inside the trailer washes over you in a gust: faint cigarette smoke, cheap laundry detergent, something vaguely reminiscent of engine oil and Mom’s cheap floral perfume clinging to the curtains.
“Make yourself at home, I guess,” you mutter as you follow him in, kicking the door closed behind you.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he croons, flipping the light switch as he breezes inside.
The living room is a tiny, cluttered space—too much life crammed into a space too small to hold it all. A ratty blanket rests draped over a sagging couch, and the TV remote balances on top of a precarious stack of TV Guide and Popular Mechanics. Your toolbox is half open under the window where light is best most days, guts of a disembowelled radio laid out in a careful row on an old, dirty towel below. A pair of Mom’s worn heels lies kicked off by the door from her shift this morning.
On the far wall, next to the shelf with the crappy turntable and a pile of mismatched records, the oscillating fan whirls in a slow, sad arc, doing almost nothing for the temperature inside.
“You’re such a mess,” Eddie says fondly, stepping over a tangle of wires. Last time he wasn’t careful, you didn’t speak with him for three days. A stretch he later described as the worst three days of my life. “An absolute menace to clear walkways.”
“This is coming from a guy whose bedroom floor is ninety percent cassette tapes and dirty socks.”
“Excuse you. That’s artistic chaos,” he corrects, heading straight for the shelf. “A lifestyle choice, really.”
You dump the pretzel bag on the table, alongside your empty Coke bottle, flopping down on the lumpy couch, stretching one arm along the back. It creaks under your weight, familiar and forgiving. From this angle, you can see Eddie’s back as he flips through the records with practised ease, lips moving silently as he reads them.
“Okay,” he says, dragging the word out, “what’s the mood, oh great one?”
“Something loud,” you reply. “Something that’ll get that asshole’s voice out of my skull.”
Eddie snorts, immediately shoving two records his fingertips were hovering over back. “So, exorcism by the way of volume. Got it.” His touch tiptoes for another minute before settling on a familiar red cover. He slides it out, glancing over his shoulder with a wicked grin. “Perfect.”
“Oh no,” you say immediately. “What are you—”
He turns the album so you can see the cover. Billy Idol stares out from the sleeve, all bleached hair and a downwards stare into the unknown.
Rebel Yell.
You groan. “You’re kidding.”
“Absolutely not.” He’s already pulling out the record from its sleeve with more care than he uses for anything else in his chaotic life, lowering it onto the turntable. “You got harassed by some dime-store James Dean, we’re deploying the nuclear option.”
“That’s insane logic, even for you,” you say, but corners of your lips twitch despite yourself.
Eddie reaches for the turntable arm, moving it with a little flourish, and the needle drops with a soft thunk onto the spinning vinyl. Static washes over the crammed space of your living room, preceded by a few crackles, and then, finally, the opening riffs tear through the tiny speakers.
You feel it in your chest at once; music lives there first, in your bones and heart, in your thoughts. Whatever tension still coils your shoulder blades loosens a fraction.
Eddie spins on his heel, already bobbing his head long to the guitar riffs, clutching the Coke bottle like a microphone. He strides to the middle of the room and plants his legs wide, shoulders rolling back, hips starting to move in some bastardised version between a rockstar and a drunk uncle at a barbecue.
“This one,” he announces over the music, pitching his voice and pointing at you with the neck of the bottle, “goes out to the lady of the shop and terror of every Californian pretty boy out there.”
You cover your face to smother your incredulous laughter, which only eggs him on further. The verse kicks in. Eddie leans into it like there’s an actual spotlight on him, eyes closed and hair wild.
“Last night a little dancer came dancin’ to my door—” he sings loudly, pointing at the front door as if the imaginary girl is right there. He swivels to you on dancer, eyes opening long enough to flick over your legs curled up under you on the couch. He smirks when your gaze narrows in response.
You’re already shaking your head. “Nope.”
He pointedly ignores you, barrelling on, strumming an imaginary guitar. “She said, ‘Come on, baby, I’ve got a license for love’—”
“Pretty sure my license expired!”
“—and if it expires, pray help from above,” he continues, throwing his head back theatrically on above. “See, this is why you need me. I’m the most fun person in your life.”
You flip him off, and he responds by doing the same with both hands. The chorus hits, and Eddie goes all out, yelling the lyrics more than singing them.
“In the midnight hour, she cried more, more, more—”
On each more he strides closer, jabbing the Coke bottle towards you like a makeshift mic. On the third one, he’s right in front of you, knee pressing against the couch cushion by your thigh, leaning over you with a grin that’s half joking, half something else.
He tips the bottle towards you. “C’mon,” he goads. “Sam needs his Frodo.”
You roll your eyes, but the beat is thumping in your ears, the guitar is in your blood thanks to Eddie, and there’s a special kind of rebellion in saying yes to little things when big ones feel so impossibly out of your reach. You grab the neck of the bottle with him and lean in as you stand, sharing the mic, shouting the last more in his face.
Your voices crash together, messy and far too loud. You both dissolve into laughter at the same time, jumping around, hair loose, and sweat gathering in the creases of your skin as your noses nearly bump.
Right now, the world shrinks down to the space between you. Eddie’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs, lashes dark against his cheeks. You can see the dimple that only shows up on his left cheek, a tiny faded scar by his hairline he got when he fell off his bike years ago, back when you first met.
You’re close enough to see the threadbare fuzz on his collar, smell Coke and cigarettes and whatever cheap soap he steals from his uncle’s bathroom as you dance around, shaking your heads wildly.
The song finally fades off, and Eddie rocks back, dropping into a dramatic bow so deep his hair swings forward in one, frizzy tangle.
“Thank you, Hawkins, you beauty,” he declares dramatically.
You shove his shoulder, and he laughs, falling beside you on the couch, breathless. Sweat shines on his forehead, sticking loose strands of hair around the crown of his head. He hooks a thumb under your bolt, rolling it between his index finger and thumb. It glints in the dim light.
“You know why I failed senior year, right?”
The shift is slight, but you feel it drop between you like a rock. Music seems to fade despite how loud Eddie put it on, encasing you in new tension.
“Because your homework kept getting mysteriously lost and you didn’t sit a single exam since it didn’t involve any ‘dragons’.”
You can’t help but do air quotes around dragons because he kept insisting on it for a month when you needled him for answers.
“That’s the official story,” he says, humming, fiddling with the bolt. “Unofficially, I’m pretty sure I’m cursed.” He cuts you a quick sideways look. “Or, you know, destined to stalk these halls forever. Become the infamous Ghost of Hawkins High.”
You study his profile while he speaks. The way he says it is light enough—he’s laughing, because Eddie always is—but there’s something underneath it. Somewhere deep and private where your own fear of being stuck lives, each word manages to find home.
“You’re not cursed,” you say with such finality in your voice, he risks another nervy glance at you, shoulders curving downwards. “You’re just…” You wave a hand, searching for a word that won’t give the wrong impression. “Selective.”
Eddie’s mouth curves, a small o forming. “Selective. I like that. Makes it sound all intentional.” He raps his knuckles against his damp temple. “I only absorb knowledge about important things. Dragons, for example. And engine oil, by osmosis, from you.”
Your eyes narrow, your finger shooting out to stab him in the cheek. “You did flunk on purpose,” you accuse, twisting your finger. “Didn’t you?”
Eddie’s eyes bulge. “What? How did you get flunked on purpose from my heartfelt speech meant to bond us?”
“You totally did.” You poke his cheek again, despite him trying to swat you away. “You absolutely tanked something. Trig? English Lit? So you could be in my year.”
“Wow,” he says, playing at offence. “Talk about a narcissistic reading of these tragic events in my life, your majesty.”
“That’s not a no,” you sing-song, matching his earlier tone.
Eddie splutters, shoving you, but there’s such gentleness in the way his hand curves around your shoulder. “Oh my God, first of all, rude. Second, you give me way too much credit here. You think I could orchestrate something this complex? I can barely orchestrate a trip to the grocery store without forgetting why I’m there.”
“And that’s still not a no.”
He throws his hands in the air, laughing. “Why would I want to repeat senior year?” he demands despairingly. “Who wants to be stuck in that fluorescent-lit hellscape for another twelve months? What kind of masochist—”
“You,” you cut in knowingly.
“—okay, yes, me—”
“Someone who didn’t want to graduate without his best friend,” you add, quieter, and there it is, blunt and in the open between you.
Eddie falls quiet beside you. Where his voice once was, there’s now Billy Idol. The fan creaks faintly over the music as it makes another laborious turn. Eddie peers down at his hands, at the bolt pitched between his fingers. The metal has a little groove in it now from how frequently he fusses with it.
“Yeah, well,” he says, softer, almost shy, “that part might have been, you know, a factor.”
Something warm twists inside your chest, making you ache. “You’re such an idiot.”
There’s no heat in your words. Eddie shrugs, mouth tilting upwards when he peeks at you over his hair. “What, you thought I was gonna let you do the victory lap solo? Graduate and leave this glittering metropolis all by your lonesome, abandon me to the wolves and the freshman band kids? Please. I’m clingier than that, sweetheart.”
Your expression softens. “Terrifying.”
“Also,” he adds, “someone has to keep an eye on you. Make sure you don’t get into a fistfight with the new guy in the parking lot on day one.”
You can’t help but laugh, rubbing your brow with your thumb. “Noted.”
He bumps his knee gently against yours. “Hey. For what it’s worth? If he gives you any shit at school, you tell me. I’ll… dunno. Write an aggressively mediocre song about him. And when I’m famous, I’ll tell everyone there was this Camaro asshole back in school who inspired it. Eternal shame.”
The image he conjures inside your mind is so ridiculous you can’t help but laugh softly, a warmth inside your breast spreading.
“I can handle him, Ed,” you reassure him, bumping his knee with yours. “Handled him today just fine.”
“I know you can,” Eddie says without hesitation, the bolt slipping from his fingers and falling back against his chest. “You always do.” He looks at you, squarely in the eyes, all the play-acting gone for a moment. “Doesn’t mean you have to do it all alone.”
He’s not talking about one rotten egg coming to the shop, and you both know it. Heaviness collects inside your ribcage, smothering the brief joy you felt dancing and singing with him. Swallowing, you ignore the sudden tightness in your throat.
“I hate it,” you admit abruptly, words half choked out. “That I’m still… surprised, I guess. That it still gets to me. That every time some jackass walks and looks right through me and asks for the man in charge I still get this—” You make a wild gesture around your chest. “—whatever the hell this is. Like I’m twelve again, and the men are laughing at me when I ask to help around the shop. I wanted to learn, and they said I’m pretending to be a boy.”
“Hey,” he says, gently, and his hand comes down on your wrist, warm and careful, slight tingle from his rings shooting up your nerves. His thumb rubs a little line over tender skin. “You’re not pretending.”
“I know,” you say, and you do, most days. The only problem is that knowing doesn’t always sink all the way down like it should. “It’s just—some days it’s easier to forget. Then somebody like Hargrove walks in, and it’s like… of course you don’t belong here, what were you thinking, go back to the front desk and smile pretty.”
Eddie’s fingers tighten around your wrist, just enough force to feel the calluses on the pad of his thumb. “Well, I call bullshit. You belong anywhere you damn well decide,” he insists vehemently. “Garage. Front row at a Metallica concert. NASA, even.”
An incredulous huff escapes you. “NASA?”
“Why not?” He shrugs with one shoulder. “Rockets are just a different kind of machine, right?”
“That’s not how rockets work.”
“Eh, close enough,” he presses without missing a beat. “My point is, this is what you do.” He taps his fingertips across the back of your hand. “You walk into rooms full of shitheads who don’t want you there and still fix their broken shit. And yeah, sometimes those morons don’t catch on how good they have it. That’s on them, though. Not on you.”
Those words blanket you, a cocoon of warmth so potent your throat closes up despite your best attempt to keep your expression schooled. He’s always believed in you, just like your mom, so despite the eternal critic in your ear, his words manage to cut through the noise. You watch his hand and how it rests around your wrist, rings flashing when he moves, dull silver and brass, but all Eddie. He’s always been more comfortable touching you than you are acknowledging you like it; shoulder bumps and nudges, an arm thrown around you at the movies, his head ending up in your lap halfway through a late-night TV rerun.
He squeezes your wrist once, giving you more comfort than he could ever fully understand, then lets go, folding back into his sloppy sprawl beside you.
He props his chin in his hand. “So. Senior year.”
“Don’t remind me.”
Your groan is exaggerated, but there’s relief in threading back towards safer waters, normal teenager topics.
“We’ll survive, Mr Frodo,” he intones gravely. “We have a kickass plan.”
“Do we?” you ask skeptically, confusion evident on the planes of your face.
“Of course.” He ticks off on his fingers one by one. “Step one: avoid Principle at all costs.”
“Obviously.”
Another finger pops up. “Step two: you pass your classes with flying colours, get showered with scholarships from all the fancy schools, build a spaceship in your spare time, leave us all behind.”
“Wait a sec—”
“And most importantly, step three,” he barrels on, ignoring you, “I, a humble second-time senior, finally scrape together enough extra credit to get the hell out of here with you.”
“You’re gonna pass this time?” you tease, leaning in conspirationally.
Eddie clutches at his chest, head falling back against the couch. “You wound me. I’ll have you know I’ve been doing my summer reading.”
“Coming books don’t count as summer reading, last I checked.”
“Tell that to Watchmen, heathen.”
You chuckle despite yourself, curling your legs under yourself.
His head tilts in your direction, scrutinising you over his fingers. “What about you?” he wonders. “Do you have, like… an actual plan? Outside of this place, I mean.”
The vast collection of college brochures under your mattress springs to mind, corners all bent from how many times you’ve taken them out and put them away again. Going over them again and again, allowing yourself to dream. Of the engineering programs circled in red, the acceptance rates scrawled in margins, the pile organised by how impossible each school is. Your thoughts drift towards the closet where you keep the crinkled wads of money from each paycheck stuffed away, for the hope that those crinkled bills will one day pay for your way out.
“Maybe,” you admit slowly.
“‘Maybe,’ she says,” Eddie huffs with a roll of his eyes, pointing at you. “Woman of mystery.”
“You’ll find out when you fail senior year again,” you shoot back teasingly. “I’ll be sure to send you a postcard from wherever.”
He covers his face with both hands, his muffled groan louder than the music. “You’re so cruel.”
“You love it, really.”
“Unfortunately,” he mutters, the word so quiet you almost don’t catch it.
The record winds down, guitars and drums easing off. The needle bumps gently in the run-out groove, crackling.
Eddie is up on his feet before you can move, crossing the room in several strides, lifting the arm and setting it back at the start. The opening riff kicks in again. You realise, as he does this, that he timed the whole thing so your conversation about you leaving didn’t end with the room going quiet. He always does this, in his own little ways. Patches the lonely silence so it doesn’t swallow either of you. Just two trailer park kids in an indifferent world.
He comes back and drops down next to you again, this time a fraction closer. Your knees touch now, solid and warm.
“So,” he begins deliberately, as the verse starts up again, and there’s mischief back in his voice. “About this California guy. What’s his name? If he’s going to be your new nemesis this year I need to know what to call him in my notes.”
You hesitate for half a beat, then sigh. “Billy Hargrove.”
“Billy Hargrove,” he repeats like he’s introducing a wrestler. “I can see it so perfectly. Big hair? Tight jeans?”
Your head swivels in his direction. “How did you—”
“California,” Eddie says knowingly, nodding his head sagely, as if that alone explains it all. “They look like surfers or serial killers. Sometimes both.”
A snort spills from between your lips, sharp and unattractive, but Eddie only grins, tongue tracing over his teeth in private victory.
“You know what they say about guys like that, right?” Eddie leans in closer, like sharing a secret, eyes bulging slightly.
Ignoring his theatrics, you hedge, “That he’s juvie bound?”
“Well, yeah, obviously,” he concedes with a slight chin dip. “But also: peak in high school. You, on the other hand…” He gestures at you, up and down, like he’s unveiling something big on The Price is Right. “Peak wherever and whenever the hell you want.”
“That’s so cheesy, Ed.”
“It’s true,” he counters.
The second chorus sounds through the speakers again. This time, Eddie doesn’t stand up to dance or do a show. He just sings along under his breath, less of a performance and more of a habit from countless times you’ve looped Rebel Yell together, lips forming the words without needing the volume.
“In the midnight hour, she cried more, more, more…”
On the last more, he peers at you from the corner of his eye, like he can’t help himself. As if he’s dedicating it on purpose while pretending he isn’t.
You feel it, uncomfortable and sweet, the same way it always does when things almost tilt into a place you’re not sure how to name. You’re not ready to go there. A part of you is not sure you ever will be, not in the way he deserves.
So instead, you reach for the pretzel bag and aim one at his face. He catches it with his mouth without looking away from you, chews it, swallows, then beams, with a few crumbs still on his lower lip.
“I’m a genius. I should take this talent on the road.”
“I’ll miss you terribly,” you tell him dryly. “Every time I open my cupboard and see fewer pretzels.”
His hand slaps back over his heart, gripping till the cotton crinkles. “You would miss me for more than my pretzel-catching skills.”
“Would I?”
“Um, obviously,” he replies, a definitive note there. “Because who else is gonna come over here on a Saturday night, fill you with carbonated sugar water, and remind you that you are, in fact, terrifyingly competent and not, as certain California imports might suggest, a helpless princess?”
You want to argue, but realise you can’t.
“Fine. I would miss you. A little.”
“A little,” Eddie sniffs. “But fine, I’ll take it. Because I’m so kind-hearted.”
He leans back again, sliding lower on the couch until his head rests against the cushion right next to your shoulder. His hair brushes your arm, a tumble of wild curls, still warm from your earlier dancing. Without thinking, you reach up and slick a strand away from your face.
He goes very still for half a moment at the touch, then relaxes into it. Like this—you, together—is the most natural thing in the world.
And maybe it is, you think, relaxing into him. For you two, it’s always been this: a messy tangle of limbs and jokes and music and late nights. It’s the only thing in your life that feels like it’s been there longer than the weight of getting out, than the sting of being left behind once already.
You wake up with Rebel Yell still stuck in your head.
It’s your song—yours and Eddie’s, a lot lighter than his regular repertoire and yet so infectious you both know the lyrics by heart. This happens every time you do a session together. A night where you get to forget the reality of your crappy life and just have fun together. On Saturday, it was direly needed.
You get out of bed with a groan, your toes wriggling on the old carpet. Still clad in your worn t-shirt and shorts, you pad to the bathroom, then the kitchen, putting on the kettle as you go. Your mom’s keys lay on the counter, so you pull out a mug for her. Coffee, two sugars. The clatter of the mug on the laminate echoes too loudly in your thin-walled kitchen. The park around you is waking up with an energetic buzz in the air. Scent of burnt toast, cheap coffee, and tobacco smoke wafts through the cracked kitchen window. September again, and you slept like shit.
Every time you closed your eyes last night, you saw blue eyes. Cutting across you, lazy and sharp, the way he called you princess, then had to stand there and watch you fix his stupid car anyway. You still feel the phantom weight of his burning gaze at the back of your nape, the way it prickled when you bent over the hood, hot and assessing, even as he pretended to be bored with the whole thing.
Asshole.
You stir your mom’s coffee like you can drown the memory of his smirking face in it. The spoon clinks aggressively against the ceramic, scattering your thoughts. Out of the tiny square window above the sink, Eddie’s trailer catches your eye; the sagging porch, the empty lawn chair Wayne often sits on with a beer after a shift, the shabby curtains Eddie never closes right, leaving them perpetually crooked.
His van isn’t there.
You absently check the time on the shitty microwave clock. It blinks a tired 7:02 in sickly green, and you know there’s a good chance it might be wrong—power outage from last week your mom mentioned in passing springs to mind—but your gut says it’s close enough based on the light. Eddie probably went ahead to beat the traffic, which is hilarious every time he uses that excuse, because there isn’t any traffic in Hawkins. Not unless every tractor in a ten-mile radius decides to take a field trip all at once.
You scribble a quick note on the back of an old envelope for your mom—going to school, coffee is ready, love you—and leave it on the table next to the salt and pepper.
Stepping outside, the September air hits you all at once, sinking past your thin flannel. It’s going to be another hot, sunny day, but a part of you senses a shift in the air. Not properly cold just yet, but the air is full of promise. The sky is a flat sheet of murky cloud for now, the kind to make power lines appear like pencil lines scratched across a blank page. Forest Hills smells like it does every morning: wet earth, gasoline and someone’s stale cigarette smoke.
Your car awaits where you left her last night, a faded, boxy thing that Frank likes calling a “shitbox” with an affectionate sort of contempt. But you know better. The paint might be sunburnt and peeling, sure, the body a patchwork of old dents, but she runs smooth. You make it your mission to keep her that way; it’s practically a point of pride to you. As long as she starts every morning and doesn’t leave you stranded on Route 13, you don’t give a damn what anyone thinks of her.
You slide into the driver's seat, the cracked vinyl groaning under your weight, and turn the key. The engine coughs once, spluttering, then settles into a clean, even idle you built with your own hands. For a breath, you sit there, fingers curling around the rim of the wheel, your eyes closing.
A quiet part of you can’t help but wonder if Billy Hargrove took his car elsewhere after you embarrassed him on Saturday. Some older man, some “real mechanic” out of town just so he wouldn’t have to come back and see you again.
An angry hiss leaves your lips, and you roll your eyes, rubbing the heel of your palm across your forehead. Enough already. You had the last laugh by making him look stupid. It’s enough.
You slam the gearstick into reverse like it personally offended you and pull out.
Hawkins High looks exactly like it did back in June when you last saw it.
The massive block of brick squats at the end of the cracked asphalt like a genuine eyesore. Banners still cling to the chain-link fence: GO TIGERS in peeling orange font, HOME OF THE STATE CHAMPIONS! even though that was three years ago, but, you suppose, it’s too much effort to take it down now.
Despite it being the first day back, the parking lot is already filling up—rows of Chevys and Fords and rust-bucket beaters like yours. And, of course, the occasional nicer car all but screaming my daddy is rich. It’s a chaotic but familiar blend of engines revving, someone’s boom box spilling some popular synth-pop track through the open window, a group of sophomores giggling and chatting animatedly because one of them acquired a new perm.
You roll in towards the back as you’ve done for your entire high school career. You’re not the front-row kind of girl. You like the quieter edges, the places where people forget to look. It’s so much easier to observe everything from there.
You’re halfway to your usual spot, eyes eagerly scanning for Eddie’s van, when you hear it.
Low at first, drowned under the noise. Then the sound rips through like a knife, overbearing and cocky, throaty in a way that’s trying far too hard. It’s a roar that doesn’t match the speed limit or the appropriate noise level, especially not at Hawkins. Everything about this engine noise screams look at me.
You don’t have to look up to know. Your hands clench the wheel, your pulse leaping with annoyance.
“Oh, gimme me a break,” you mutter spitefully.
The Camaro swings into the lot like an overly aggressive shark cutting into a school of small fish. It’s the same, gorgeous navy blue from the shop, buffed and gleaming to perfection in the morning light. He takes the corner tighter than he needs to, tyres squealing just enough to make the cheerleaders cluster near the entrance squeal too, half-scared and half-impressed.
Of course he parks front and centre.
He slots neatly into a spot he probably plans to claim as his indefinitely, nose out, all show. When the engine cuts out, the silence it leaves behind is almost as loud.
He steps out like he’s been waiting for this moment his whole life.
Billy Hargrove is all tanned skin, denim and careless aggression. Tight jeans, white tank under an open jacket, chain glinting around the tight tendons of his throat. He rakes a hand through his curls—too long for Hawkin’s boys, sun-streaked in a way that says California, not Indiana—and you swear for a moment the entire lot holds its breath.
Then the reactions roll across the area like a tidal wave. Girls smoking by the smoking area elbow their friend, like moths to a flame. Some jock pauses mid-story, eyeing the car like a territorial dog. A handful of junior boys are openly staring. The air shifts, all at once, like someone dropped a stone in a still lake. You feel Hawkins High rearranging itself around a new centre of gravity in real time.
You hate it.
Not because he doesn’t warrant attention—objectively, he’s handsome, in that dangerous, cigarette ad type of way—but because of how painfully predictable it is. The whole performance. The roles are already settling in: the mysterious new guy, girls who want him, guys who want to fight him, the teachers who will write him off in the first week.
And beneath all that, there’s a private little fact that makes you want to grin: you know exactly how his car runs now. You know what you fixed. You know how long it took.
And you know damn well it bothers him that you know.
You finally cut the engine, parked near the treeline. It’s hardly a glamorous position, but it means you don’t risk some idiot door-dinging your baby, and you can leave fast if you need to.
Students stream past towards the building, some jogging excitedly towards their friends, some dragging their feet like they’re being led to an execution. You catch sight of Eddie’s van near the band room side entrance, a familiar white box with his hand-painted Corroded Coffin logo flaking off the back doors. There’s no sign of him, but you’re not worried. He’ll find you before the first period, or he’ll try to spook you at your locker later.
You throw your bag over your shoulder. It digs into the muscle there, heavy with textbooks, the metal buckle cold against your collarbone.
You lock the car, out of habit more than any real necessity, and start towards the school.
You don’t look at him. You don’t. It lasts for maybe ten steps.
Something in you—curiosity, self-destructive streak, both—pulls your gaze towards the front of the lot again. Just a glance, you tell yourself. Recon, as Eddie would put it. Know thy enemy and all that.
He’s lighting a cigarette.
One hip hitched against the Camaro, shoulders relaxed in a way that’s all deliberate. He cups the lighter from the wind, flame flaring against the protective curl of his hand. The gesture makes the chain around his wrist glint. His eyes are half-lidded, his mouth soft around the filter, ready for the pleasure of the first drag.
Two girls drift by, deliberately slowing their gait. One of them tosses her hair—the kind of fluffed, sprayed thing that takes serious commitment each morning—and says something you can’t hear from this distance. He doesn’t really look at her, but he does this lazy smirk thing with one side of his mouth, exhaling smoke through his nose, which is apparently enough to make them both giggle.
Heat flares somewhere beneath your ribs, sudden and prickly.
You’re halfway between your car and the safer anonymity of the side entrance when your engine ticks. It’s a tiny sound, metal pinging as it cools. A completely normal thing you’ve heard a thousand times. But Billy’s head angles in your direction like he’s heard it too.
Shit.
He sweeps across the lot, over the moving bodies, and snags on the square shape of your car like it’s a magnet. Then cuts upwards, and you feel—
Blue finds you.
It pins you, sharp and assessing under the thick fringe of his lashes. There’s a beat where the rest of the parking lot blurs, dulls around the edges, like someone turned the saturation down on everything not in your line of sight.
You make yourself walk, because if you hesitate, you lose, and you decided yesterday you’re not losing this. Not to him. You flick your eyes away, adjust your grip on your bag like you didn’t even notice him. You make it exactly three more steps before you hear the gravel crunch.
“Hey, princess.”
You close your eyes briefly. Feel your molars grinding into dust. So this is how it’s going to be. You should have known he wouldn’t leave you alone, not after your confrontation.
You turn, plastering a bored sneer on your face.
He’s closer than you expected. He must’ve pushed off the car the second he decided to bother you. Strides eating the distance between you like it’s nothing, cigarette balanced between his fingers, smoke trailing back over his shoulder like a veil.
Up close, he’s far worse.
Your memory of the shop was good, you realise, aghast. Accurate to the last detail. Yet there’s something different about him in daylight. He’s broader than you thought, wide shoulders making the denim jacket sit snug across his back. The bruised-purple shadows under his cutting eyes look more like eyeliner today, making the blue stand out unnaturally.
“Don’t call me that,” you say instinctively.
He huffs out a laugh through his nose, tipping his head like he’s considering it. “Right, right, you prefer ‘mechanic’, right?” He gives the word a certain edge, like it could be an insult if he pushes it.
Your chin juts out. “I prefer my name, actually, but I know that’s a lot of syllables for you.”
One of his eyebrows kicks up. But a corner of his mouth does, too, like it can’t help itself. He raises his cigarette, taking a long drag, watching you through the grey-blue smoke.
He flicks his attention over your shoulder, taking in the car behind you. “So this is what a mechanic drives.”
You feel the urge to step sideways, to physically block him from seeing your car, like he’s some kind of threat to her feelings. You don’t move despite how tightly your fingers strangle the strap of your bag. “Careful,” you warn lowly. “She’s sensitive.”
“That so?” He takes another drag, exhales slowly, throat muscles working as smoke drifts around you. “Looks like it would fall apart if I blew smoke near it.”
And there it is. The beginning of the joke you already suspected was coming—the dig at your ride, how poor you are, your trailer park lot.
Only—
He trails off with a thoughtful sound.
Billy’s eyes narrow, losing the lazy, performative squint they had a moment ago. His attention sharpens and shifts, no longer on the sorry state of the faded paint or the rust, but listening. You know that look. It’s the same one you get when you’re trying to diagnose a problem by sound alone.
His gaze slides sideways, towards the front of the car. You imagine he’s replaying how it sounded when you cut the engine. The idle, tick, purr of the fan.
The corner of his mouth flattens.
“Actually,” he begins slowly, “sounds better than you’d expect.”
You fold your arms, fighting to keep your smugness to yourself. “That’s because it is better than you’d expect.”
His attention slides back to you, over the defensive curve of your crossed arms, the smudge of grease on your jacket forearm your cheap soap couldn’t get out. “You did that?”
“Who else?” You jerk your chin at the car. “Pretty sure my fairy godmother doesn’t know how to change a timing belt.”
He snorts, tongue teasing over his bared teeth. Perfectly straight because of course they are. “Timing belt, huh.”
It’s impossible to miss the way he says it, like he’s testing to see if you’ll flinch. If you actually know what you’re talking about, or if you’re just repeating words you heard in a commercial.
You’ve heard that exact tone from plenty of guys before. You’ve learned how to step around it, dance on top of it, then shove it back down their throats. With pleasure no less.
“Yeah.” You shrug. “Swapped it last month. Re-tensioned it myself. She was squealing like a pig in a slaughterhouse before. Now? Now she purrs.”
Billy takes one last drag, then flicks the butt to the ground and grinds it out with the ball of his boot.
“Well.” He blows the last of the smoke out the side of his mouth. “Could’ve fooled me, looking at it.”
“Yeah, that’s the point.” You shift your bag higher on your shoulder, transferring your weight from one leg to another. “You think I want anyone in this town to know I’m driving something that actually runs?”
That earns you a real laugh. Not the forced, showy kind he gave the girls by his car—a rough, surprised sound that seems to get dragged out of his chest against his will. It’s gone almost as soon as it sounds, but you feel weirdly victorious.
He rakes over you again, from your scuffed boots to your jean jacket and stains. There’s a question there now, under the evaluation. Something like: where did you come from?
“Forest Hills, right?” he asks like he’s confirming a suspicion.
You mock gasp. “Don’t tell me. You can smell the poverty on me?”
“Relax. I live right next to the park. Trailer are hard to miss.”
Right. You knew that. You saw his Camaro nose-in near the park entrance last night when Eddie left, a shortcut to get him home rather than go around the whole set of plots.
“Thought someone like you is too pretty for our side of the track.” It comes out more honest than you meant it to, edged with something that might be resentment, might be… something else.
There’s a flicker at that—a shutter behind those blue eyes. Then the mask slides back into place, well-worn arrogance.
“Don’t let the hair fool you, princess,” he drawls, each word cutting. “Trash comes in all sorts of packaging.”
You shift your weight again, suddenly becoming aware of the student traffic eddying around you. People are starting to notice now. Not just the new guy, but the way the new guy has peeled away from his prime parking lot throne to walk over and talk to the freak girl from the trailer park with grease under her nails.
You catch hushed snippets as they pass.
“—that the girl from the garage?”
“—heard she works on cars, like, for real—”
“—is he into her?—”
The back of your neck prickles. You hate being watched when you’re not in control of the show.
“So.” You slant your head, forcing a smirk. “You track me all the way across the lot just to insult my car, Hargrove? Gonna be late for your ‘I’m new, please love me’ orientation speech.”
He shakes his head with a snide little smile. “They don’t make pretty boys do those where I’m from.”
“Oh, my mistake.” You widen your eyes in mock horror. “Do they just hand you a fan club and a parking spot up front instead?”
His jaw works. It’s tiny, a micro-movement, but you spot it. “Jealous?”
“Of what? The parking spot or the fan club?”
“Either.”
You step towards him.
It surprises you, a little, that you’re the one who closes the distance between you. But you’re tired, and restless, and Eddie’s stupid faux-microphone performance is still echoing in your ears. You’re tired of feeling like you’re three steps behind this guy when you technically met him first, when you’re the one who made sure his precious Camaro doesn’t fall apart on his way to school.
You stop close enough to see the flecks of darker blue near the centre of his irises. Close enough to smell the soap under the smoke. Close enough that if either of you leaned just a fraction—
“You know what I learned,” you say quietly, “working at the shop all these years?”
He’s not backing off; he’s not even surprised you’re getting in his face. If anything, he looks ravenous. “Enlighten me.”
“The louder something is, the more broken it usually is underneath.” You let your gaze flick pointedly towards the gleaming Camaro, then back to him, doing a similar sweep. “The same is true for cars and people.”
His eyes flash, brief and threatening, something like real anger spiking like an electric shock between you. His body goes still in a way that means movement is coming. You half-prepare yourself for it, for the worst version—a shove, a snarl, some handed-down violence you’ve seen plenty of men use growing up.
Instead, he surprises you by laughing.
It’s not a pleasant sound. It’s not the accidental one from earlier, either. It’s tight, jagged and a little hollow, but it’s laughter.
“Cute,” he drawls. “You came up with that all by yourself, or does your boss feed you lines between oil changes, princess?”
A hot mass twists inside your gut, crawling upwards. Billy’s gaze drifts, for a split second, over your face. Your eyes, your mouth, the little scar you forget until someone stares at it too long. You practically feel him filing each detail away. Something glimmers under the surface, a thing you have no name for. Twisted up and smouldering between you, a taut line moments before you drop a match in gasoline.
Then he looks away, bored. Like nothing just transpired.
“Besides, I didn’t want you to get a big head about fixing my car. Might start changing me more.”
Huffing, you force out, “Please. You could barely handle my hourly rate as it is.”
That earns you a flash of teeth. “You overcharged me.”
“I saved your ass from blowing a gasket on the highway,” you insist hotly. “That was a discount, sweetheart.”
The nickname slips out before you can bite it back.
“Oh?” His voice drops, an openly amused purr. “We doing pet names now?”
You feel heat crawl up your neck. “Don’t get overexcited, Hargrove. I call everyone sweetheart when they’re being an idiot.”
“Guess I’ll have to work hard to keep earning it, then.”
The ease of the line doesn’t quite match the way his throat moves around those words. He scratches his jaw, still boring holes into your face.
“Hey!” a voice calls.
You both turn.
Eddie jogs across the lot towards you, curls caught in the breeze, denim vest flapping around his Hellfire Club shirt. His hand is lifted in an exuberant wave. The battered bolt on the leather cord around his neck flashes once, catching the light.
“Morning, my favourite mechanic!” he yells, waving as he closes the distance. “You ditching me for the first pretty boy you find, huh? I’m wounded.”
Your stomach does a stupid little swoop, but for a different reason this time. Relief. Anchour. The sight of Eddie is a homecoming, always.
You don’t miss the way Billy’s eyes narrow, just a hair, as they track Eddie closing the distance. Evaluating, categorising him. Threat or joke, or both.
Eddie skids to a stop a couple of feet away, breath puffing from his lungs. He smells like coffee and cheap deodorant and the faint musk of weed clinging to his denim.
“Well, well, well,” Eddie begins, planting his hands on his hips and giving Billy an over-the-top once-over. “If it isn’t Mr Camaro himself. You break anything this time, or you just here to bask in her awesomeness?” He jerks his thumb at you.
You roll your eyes. “Ed.”
“What?” He grins, toothy and genuine. “Just establishing the pecking order. Guy shows up with a fancy muscle car, thinks he’s hot shit. People need to know who really keeps this joint running.” He taps his temple, then points at you. “Brains and brawn, baby.”
Billy’s gaze flicks between the two of you. There’s a brief, ugly flare of something territorial there, and you’re not even sure who it’s about.
“Didn’t realise you had a guard dog,” Billy says flatly, a certain dismissiveness in the way he says guard dog.
You bristle, but before you can open your mouth, Eddie throws his arm around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Who, me? Nah, man. I’m more like—” He pauses, searching for whatever term pleases him. “Like the narrator. The guy in the back is going ‘ooh’ when something dramatic happens.”
He squeezes your shoulder, brief and affectionate. You feel the weight of him beside you, solid and familiar. There’s no precarious drop with Eddie. Just warmth.
He glances sideways, eyes glinting knowingly. “So, uh.” He gestures vaguely between you and Billy. “You two have fun trading insults or whatever, but we’re gonna be late to homeroom at this rate, and Miss O’Donnell already hates my guts, so—”
“You make it too easy,” you say.
His hand lands on top of your head, causing you to squirm. “Cruel.”
Billy watches the entire exchange with deadly calm, tracking each movement and word, then focuses back on your face. “You always let him talk for you?”
Smiling sweetly, you say, “Only when I’m busy deciding if someone’s worth the breath it’ll take to tell them to fuck off.”
Billy’s mouth curves. “And verdict?”
“Jury’s still out,” you reply breezily. “Try not to run anyone over with your ego in the meantime.”
The bell shrieks then, high and shrill, cutting off any response from Billy. There’s a collective sound of groans from the student body around you.
“And that’s our cue,” Eddie declares, tapping your arm.
Involuntarily, your focus slips back to Billy, who peers at you with something like calculation. “See you around, mechanic.”
The way he says it, this time, is different.
Less mocking and more… a promise. Or a threat.
You square your shoulders. “Not if I see you first.”
It’s childish, but it makes his smile widen, slow and wolfish. He edges back, dragging his stare over you one last time, committing something to memory, then turns away, heading back towards his front-and-centre throne.
Eddie hums Rebel Yell under his breath, obnoxiously loud. You elbow him, following him wordlessly towards the building.
There’s no need to look for Billy. The lot, the school, the whole of Hawkins is already tilting, just a fraction, around a new axis. You hate it. But in a dark, honest part of yourself, you’re also looking forward to seeing what happens when something finally tilts back.
an: thank you everyone who read part 1 and showed this little project support! any feedback or thoughts 💭? let me know! I would love to chat :)
*crawls out of university trenches to write about hyun ju*
im really leaning into the whole reader is john wick thing. except reader has a heightened sense of empathy and feels torn between loving the power and fear that comes with being the deadliest assassin in the world vs a life of comfort and safety without guilt biting into her conscience everyday. is baba yaga just a persona to cover up her vulnerability or is it an intrinsic part of herself that she cannot break away from?
hyun-ju gives reader the opportunity to see what it's like to live for yourself and fulfill the part of her that wants to nurture and protect, rather than destroy and kill. though hyun-ju has only seen the surface of what reader is capable of. she sees one of the very few people who see's reader first and not baba yaga. can hyun-ju still love you if she's seen the full scope of what you've done? what happens if reader is called to her old life again?
you and se-mi were together for 6 years, married for 2. se-mi dies in a car crash and for 4 years you lived with the absence of her love.
on her death anniversary, you meet Hyun-ju, who is grieving the loss of her girlfriend, young-mi, who coincidentally died the same day as se-mi. you and hyun-ju find comfort in each other.
or in other words:
"if she never died, would you leave her for me?"
"you know i wouldn't. i loved her more than anything."
super angsty, bittersweet ending, their hearts are too full of love for their dead partners but somehow they make it work
nowhere near finished, but thought it would be nice to share what's on my mind.
currently writing up chapter 3 of death is a face i wont forget, a brat tamer hyun-ju fic, AND drafting my hitman!reader series
❝ a dull ache forms at the base of your skull. a sensation that unfurls into your chest, a hollow feeling that you loathe. an anamnesis of a time long forgotten by you. ❞
PAIRING: cho hyun-ju x f!reader
GENRE: romance, modern fantasy au
WORD COUNT: 10.5K
WARNINGS: GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF FATAL SELF HARM, immortal reader, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, depictions of violence, manipulation, angst, thanos' really bad spanish nicknames
NOTES: this chapter shows a character encouraging reader to prove her immortality by fatally injuring herself. please scroll past if it triggers you.
✩ PREVIOUS CHAPTER | | NEXT CHAPTER | | SERIES MASTERLIST ✩
CHAPTER TWO: some truths and some lies;
Sergeant Cho doesn't turn her head to make sure you and Thanos are following her. She brushes past everyone else through the Checkpoint Station and expects you to follow, keeping up the fast pace she sets herself with. Thanos keeps a guiding hand at your back, ushering you through the crowd of mystical beings.
The Station is a large room with dozens of archways along all four walls. Tall, glowing portals that reach from floor to ceiling. If anything, the Station is just a domed roof that's connected to a myriad of blue clouds that form each portal. Beings come and go from them, never sparing more than a passing glance at you before returning to business as usual.
"Keep your hands on me, okay?" Thanos mutters in your ear. "I don't want you eating shit when we cross."
You scoff. "I only fell because you pushed me, asshole."
You grip onto his elbow anyways.
Sergeant Cho walks through one of the many portals and Thanos approaches close behind. You brace yourself, tightening your grip on Thanos before entering. The ground disappears beneath your feet as you try to walk on air. The energy of the portal coils around you, almost comforting you. A bright light envelops your vision before the world re-materializes around you.
Your foot catches on a rock, nearly tipping you off balance. Thanos tugs you along, walking briskly towards his superior.
The portal led you to an empty, innocuous street.
Cho stands between two buildings in a cramped alleyway, her fingers gliding along the wall. She draws an invisible key—a different pattern than the one Thanos drew—and another portal appears.
You jump through two more portals after that. Each one leading to a different spot in South Korea, places that are unfamiliar to you.
You managed to land on your feet without stumbling when you entered Yangdong.
At least, you think so.
Clouds blanket over the moon, covering whatever is in front of you in complete darkness. No street lamps to guide any pathways either. You would say Yangdong is unremarkable just for the simple reason that you can't even see it. You're not even sure if you're even in the village at all.
"I take it you know where to go, Private?" Cho asks, almost rhetorically. You can barely make out her outline, only the bright glow of her irises could be seen clearly.
"U-Uh, yes," Thanos affirms with a stiff nod of his head, "yes I do, Sergeant."
"Then lead."
She stands to the side, waiting for the two of you to pass in front of her.
Thanos links his arm with yours, even though you're no longer going through portals. You think it's more for his comfort than yours. Cho waits three seconds before walking, her footsteps feather-light. Her polished leather shoes should've echoed on the stone road like yours, but it doesn't. Thanos doesn't either. They're specters beside you. No conversation or breeze muffles the sound of your footsteps echoing through the dark road. You never felt more embarrassed.
"Sooo," you start, glancing up at Thanos, wanting to break the uneasy silence. "How did you learn about this…feral witch?"
Thanos cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses. "I lost a bet to one of my coworkers. As punishment I had to come here without a weapon and spend the night. She's one of the only non-spirits living here. Helped me survive the night with my skin intact."
"And that was punishment how?" you ask. It's not like he's afraid of the dark or of other mythic creatures that lurk in woods. Now that you think about it, he's usually the one protecting you from things that go bump in the night.
"Yangdong village is one of the most active spiritual gateways in the Korean peninsula," Cho explains, butting into your conversation. "There are a lot of restless souls here. One or two ghosts wouldn't cause problems, but there are nearly five hundred spirits in the village and surrounding forests. They're mostly dormant, however if they sense reapers on their property, they can become agitated."
You give Thanos a questioning glance. "Don't tell me you pissed off a whole battalion of ghosts."
"I didn't! They were already pissed!" Thanos insists with a dramatic huff. "Doesn't matter anyways. We're here for the crazy lady in the hut."
"Did you piss her off too?"
Thanos' eyes squint at you. "You think so highly of me, huh?" He unlinks his arm just to sling it over your shoulders. His familiar weight makes you falter in your step. "All I can say about that witch is that she would talk and talk until your ears fell off. She poked and prodded me as if I was some lab rat. I only tolerated her because I needed shelter for the night. If anything she was the one to piss me off."
You shake your head incredulously.
The darkness is something familiar too, another primal fear that was shaken out of you after nearly a century of living. You hold no fear in your heart when you move through unseeable darkness, the kind of dark that strains your eyes and looks back at you.
In the distance, you see something break through the abyss. A soft glow of a lantern, flickering its light in the middle of your vision. Instead of a warm orange flame, however, the fire burns a hot blue.
"Low activity tonight," Cho notes. "We shouldn't have to worry too much about unwanted visitors."
Thanos dips his head towards your ear to explain. "The lantern detects traces of demonic energy within the vicinity. Blue means there's minimal residual energy. Then purple, then red, orange, and finally yellow being high amounts of energy."
You nod, following along. "Ah, I see."
You don't have too many memories of demons. They're few and far between, little altercations that you slip away from quickly. You know when you're outmatched and you don't try to prove otherwise.
Past the lantern you see the shape of a house, not a hut like Thanos described. It still blends in the darkness. Along the walls of the building are distinct yellow papers with swirls of red ink on them—talisman. Bits of tapestry, cloth, and amulets dangle off of the roof.
The closer you approach, the more the house takes on a ominous appearance. The floorboards of the porch creek beneath your heavy footsteps. A heavy, earthy musk hits your nose—so pungent you can taste it at the back of your throat.
Thanos looks equally as put off by the smell, his nose scrunched and his face tight with disgust. His senses are much more sensitive than yours. It's part of the reason he is able to hunt you down quickly. You smell off according to him. A scent so discernible that he could pick up miles away.
If you're already suffocated by the smell, he's probably drowning in it.
Thanos retrieves a handkerchief from his pocket to cover his nose and mouth before knocking hard against the front door. Amulets that were nailed to the wood shake and rattle.
You hear the faint sounds of a displeasure mumbling and padded footsteps. Things sliding on the floor, glass knocking down on wood, before the sound of a creaky lock turning. Warm light from inside spills out, illuminating the front porch. You wince at the change in brightness, your eyes straining to readjust.
A woman dressed in colorful robes stood hunched and weathered, clearly not expecting visitors at this late hour. Her beady eyes and arched brows make her look permanently annoyed at whatever she's looking at.
"I should curse you for waking me up!" she growls. Her gaze narrows at Thanos. "Have you come back to disturb the peace in these woods? I should—"
Thanos' groan is muffled by his handkerchief. "Curse me, I know, I know! I heard it a million times. You don't have to remind me."
Cho clears her voice. "Pardon the intrusion Seon-nyeo. We have some business to discuss, that's all."
Seon-nyeo's expression instantly brightens at her. Her eyes still look menacing, but her mouth is no longer at a scowl. "Oh, Ms. Cho! I didn't see you there." She readjusts her robe to subtly emphasize her chest, a coy smile playing on her face. "You came to see me?"
"Actually I came to see you," Thanos interjects, blocking Seon-nyeo's view. "My boss just wanted to tag along. I have someone that might spark your interest."
Thanos pulls you next to him, finally guiding Seon-nyeo's gaze to you.
You offer a wave, your mouth slant with a hesitant smile. "Good evening ma'am. Sorry for waking you up."
Seon-nyeo doesn't respond, her brows dipping in confusion as she looks at you.
Without warning, her hand grabs your chin, tilting your face towards the light. She inspects your face, forcing your head left and right, up and down. She stares at your eyes the most. You don't try to hide your evident fear. "So you're the one the gods warn about," she murmurs cryptically. A glimmer of intrigue shining dangerously in her eyes. Her long nails bite into your worn skin, threatening to draw blood. "Interesting. Yes, of course you're welcome here."
She lets go of your chin and you stumble back, trying to put as much distance from her as possible. Seon-nyeo beckons you inside with a wave of her hand, a creepy smile on her face.
You rub your sore jaw. "Maybe she is crazy after all."
Thanos grunts in annoyance. "I don't know why you doubt me."
— — —
The smell is a thousand times worse inside.
You think it's the bubbling pot that's roasting in the corner of the room over a pink flame. It should be a fire hazard, but you assume the scrawl of magic around the floor and walls serve as containment for the fire.
The hundreds of burning incense could also be the reason why you're breathing out your mouth. Distantly, you recall that smell is weakest out of all your senses. Give a few minutes and your nose should adjust accordingly.
Each inhale through your nose burns. Maybe you're okay with Thanos' promotion. Anything would be better than this.
Sergeant Cho is the poster-child of politeness and composure. Her face is neutral, seemingly unaffected by the thick haze of scent permeating the air. She sits across from the table Seon-nyeo offered. She reads through her mandated checklist—the list of souls she has and has yet to reap.
Thanos sits next to you, his mouth and nose still covered. He's preoccupied with reading the poetry written along the wall. Most of the ink has faded with only a few lines still visible.
Though this frame should die and die,
Though I die a hundred times,
My bleached bones all turn to dust, my soul exist or not,
What can change the undivided heart that glows with faith towards my lord?
A dull ache forms at the base of your skull. A sensation that unfurls into your chest, a hollow feeling that you loathe. An anamnesis of a time long forgotten by you.
Sometime in your long, arduous past, you've encountered this poem—or perhaps something vaguely similar. You don't know when or how. All you have is a persistent echo of nostalgia; a tender wound that you keep picking at unconsciously.
Thanos nudges you with his elbow, tilting his head towards the writing. "Sounds like something you would say."
You hum dully, tracing the letters of the poem with forlorn eyes. Your words are hollow. "Do I sound that depressing when I speak?"
Thanos gives a half-hearted shrug. "You sound like a crypt keeper more than a depressed teenager."
You shove your finger into his side, delighting in Thanos' shrill gasp. His body jerks at your unprovoked touch and his face twists into an annoyed glare.
Seon-nyeo appears back in the room with a tray of piping hot tea. The fresh aroma is a small reprieve of the other mingling smells. She places a sloshing cup in front of you, filled to the brim and nearly spilling all over your vintage clothes.
You mutter a thank you before taking a sip. It's steeped to perfection. You didn't realize how thirsty you were from the alcohol—combined overall lack of any food and water intake on a daily basis. You tilt your head back and down the cup in one go, soothing your parched throat.
Seon-nyeo smiles in approval. "A lover of tea I assume?"
"Just dehydrated," you say with a satisfied sigh.
When Seon-nyeo pours another cup, you down it just as quickly.
You hear a faint click of a pen and you glance at the woman in front of you. Cho writes something in her small notebook of hers.
Thanos doesn't touch his cup, eyeing it suspiciously. "What's in it?"
"A special blend from my garden," Seon-nyeo replies with an eerie grin. She bends down on the table, her robe slipping off of her shoulders as she places Cho her cup. "Oolong and chrysanthemum. A popular choice for a lot of the spirits here. Though they prefer alcohol over tea."
"Ghosts got good taste." Thanos takes a sip of his tea, his face scrunching up a bit. He shakes his head with his mouth pressed to a line. "Never mind, I take it back."
Cho bows her head, a gentle smile on her face. "Thank you."
Seon-nyeo's bashfulness comes across as sly. "Anything for the reapers that keep this village safe." She turns to look down on you, her toothy smile on full display. "I don't get many visitors. It's always nice to have some company."
You swallow nervously, fighting the urge to dart across the room and out the door. You learn the hard way to not be too noticeable to others. You blend into nothing, unassuming and ordinary to most people that pass you by. It's safe, it's comfortable. It keeps danger away and your memories woven together for a bit longer.
It unnerves you to be perceived so thoroughly. To be at the center of more than one person's attention. You're aware of Sergeant Cho's gaze. Thanos too, but he always keeps you in his sights.
The witch settles down next to you, her hand is cold against the warmth of your hands. Her colorful robes billow around her like a cloud.
She turns your hand, inspecting your palm lines with a trace of her long fingernail. Your other hand is seized by her as well, inspected with just as much scrutiny. She hums in thought. "You had a long journey to get here. The gods foretold your arrival to me. Their voices were relentless, eager for me to seek you. Now that you're in my presence, the voices turn quiet."
The wind picks up outside, the breeze carrying through the open windows grazing your back.
Seon-nyeo's eyes close. "Do you hear them now? Their whispers? Their warnings?"
"I just hear the wind," you say.
She chuckles low, her hands still holding yours. "It's more than the wind. It's the blood pumping in your body. You dig deep enough and you'll hear them."
You turn slightly to Thanos, who only gives you an encouraging thumbs up. You roll your eyes in response.
"What did the gods say about me?" you ask.
"The only thing the gods love more than booze are riddles." Seon-nyeo drops your hands so she could rub her temples. Irritation lines her face. "They mutter and wail to me in words I don't understand. A promise that went undone, a great tragedy that unfolded thereafter. It's all they could talk about. Of course they never elaborated because I'm just a mere messenger."
She looks at you expectantly.
You give a shake of your head. "Sorry, doesn't ring a bell."
Seon-nyeo grumbles like you're purposefully hiding whatever answers she was looking for.
"I mean it," you insist. "I got amnesia. It's kinda why we're here in the first place." Your words tumble out of your mouth, hopeful and desperate. Nearly a century of pain culminating in one moment. " I was hoping you could…fix it."
The wind picks up slightly. It rustles the pages in Sergeant Cho's open notebook. Thanos shivers slightly at the temperature change.
Seon-nyeo looks around the room, sensing something that you can't see. When her gaze settles back on you, she almost looks understanding.
Her voice drops to a low drawl. "You hold pain in your heart. Your memories are lost to you, I fear indefinitely."
"Is there any way to get them back?" you ask hopefully.
She kisses her teeth in thought, tilting your head around—gentler than before.
"You're tense," she concludes. "Practically unraveling at the seams."
You shiver—not from her observation but from the cold nipping your skin, permeating through your clothes. The wind howls. It swirls the humble room in a flurry.
It builds.
Your nose no longer smells heavy, oily musk, but the damp petrichor of an oncoming storm.
The old walls moan and creak.
The poetry hanging on the walls whip about in sharp angles.
The bright fuchsia flames that dance in the corner of the room are snuff out with a single blow.
Sounds whistle in your ear, just for a moment. Goosebumps erupt on your skin, your heart thunders in your ear—
Then…silence.
Winds wind down to a soft breeze. The fire roars up again and the headache-inducing smell returns tenfold.
Cho and Thanos look just as confused, their hands poised at their hip, ready to retrieve their scythes.
There's a certain energy in the air. Static that dances along the hairs at the back of your neck, as if to confirm that the wind was no mere coincidence.
Seon-nyeo's attention snaps to the two Reapers, eye narrowing. "I need privacy with her. You'll disrupt my readings."
"Is it truly necessary?" Sergeant Cho asks. "I would prefer if I could document—"
"I think your presence is disruptive, Sergeant," Seon-nyeo criticizes with a slight snarl of her teeth. You're surprised she's capable of being anything but smitten around Cho. "The gods have spoken, Reaper. You are to wait outside with your colleague until I sort whatever is going on with your friend. Besides, I have a feeling my client won't be honest around authority. Am I correct?"
You can practically feel Cho's judgment lashing at you. On one hand, you're grateful that the gods—if it was really them—could sense your unease. On the other hand, Seon-nyeo practically gave Cho confirmation that you've not been truthful to her up to this point.
Fuck.
You gave Seon-nyeo a stiff, barely perceptible nod.
"Both of you—" Seon-nyeo points threateningly at Thanos and Cho, like a curse was going to shoot out of her nail. "Out!"
Cho's eyes brighten a touch when she looks at you. She gathers her coat, her folders, and her notebook into one hand before standing. "As you wish."
Thanos rises with her. He waits until Cho is already at the front door before putting a comforting hand on your shoulder. He shakes you gently, his chartreuse phosphorescent eyes warm and hypnotizing at the close distance.
"Give a shout if you need me," he says firmly.
You wonder if all he sees is a frail woman who needs to be looked after. A helpless human with no strength of her own.
"I can take care of myself y'know."
He lets you go, putting his hands into his pants pockets. "Whatever, I wasn't going to help anyways. Go fight her on your own, chica."
You poke his back when he turns to leave. He gives you a glare, his eyes gleam dangerously in the low light.
"Go hangout with your scary boss, pendejo."
"What the fuck does that mean?" Thanos says, already one foot outside.
You wave him off. "I'll tell you when I get my memories back."
— — —
"Who are you, really?"
You bristle in your spot on the floor. "I don't know." It comes automatically, still painful each time you say it.
"Let me rephrase that," Seon-nyeo says, still setting up her table. She flicks two candles aflame—a deep red fire illuminating her face—with a snap of her fingers and sets a decorative knife down. "Are you human?"
You set your chin down on your knee, entranced by the small flame. "You don't think I'm a reaper?"
She snorts like you told an unfunny joke. "You can fool those blind bats outside, but you can't fool an old shaman who lives with ghosts. Spend enough time with them and you learn how to see things that should be well hidden."
A large yellow fan, a bowl with clear liquid, a few talismans, and lastly a few fruits in another bowl. She organizes them clearly, nudging them into place until everything is perfect.
"Souls, for example," she continues, "are mostly reserved for living beings who dwell on the physical plane. When a living being stands next to a soulless reaper, the difference becomes obvious. Well…obvious to me, not to them."
"Thanos told me about that. Reapers don't see souls, do they?" you ask. "That's why they need glasses. It's a popular myth that Reapers are blind, when in actuality, they need glasses to see the souls that they reap."
Seon-nyeo scoffs. "Sounds like they're just too lazy to learn." She makes a come hither motion with her finger. "Get closer. I need to see you properly."
You did as you were told. You scoot closer to the low table until the wood touches your stomach.
The shaman—not a witch as she corrects—looks unsettling in the red light of her candles. Only the lower parts of her face are shone, the shadows of her face carving a sly, monstrous look.
"You didn't answer my question, you know."
Something in your chest hardens. A seedling of doubt, an uncertainty you can't quite shake.
"I think I am," you say honestly. "I'm immortal, so I don't know how that changes things."
Seon-nyeo stills, her hands hovering over the table mid-action. "You're immortal?" she repeats back.
You nod.
"Immortal how?" she asks. "Immortal as in you can't age?"
You raise a brow. "Is there another version I'm unaware of?"
"There are two types of immortality one can possess." Seon-nyeo raises her pointer finger. "The first type are those who can halt the aging process. They aren't immune to sickness or fatal wounds, but that doesn't mean they're easy to kill. The easiest and most common iteration of immortality."
She raises another finger. "The second type is reincarnation. It's very rare that a soul returns to the Earth naturally more than once. A few rouge witches have artificially transferred their souls to new vessels, though the process is extremely messy and taboo in many covens."
"Are they safe from dying altogether?" you ask.
Seon-nyeo shakes her head. "Many things can go wrong during the transfer. Even if the ritual is complete, their bodies aren't indestructible." She leans over the table, her chin resting on her palm. "I'm assuming you have the first type? You look pretty young by the looks of it. I gained it late into my life, but I look good for two hundred don't I?"
"I wouldn't have guessed," you chuckle nervously. "Well, it's true I don't age, I also can't…die."
Seon-nyeo frowns. "You have to be mistaken."
"I'm not," you challenge.
The decorated knife clatters in front of you, retrieved from the sleeve of Seon-nyeo's sleeve. The gem-encrusted handle gleaming in the sparse light, the rubies around the hilt darkening to the color of fresh blood.
Seon-nyeo gestures to the blade expectantly, daring you. "Go on. Prove it."
You take the knife, bouncing it a few times in your hands to feel its heft. You catch your reflection in the polished blade, your uncanny green eyes staring back.
There are countless times you've tried taking your own life. Each one was as unsuccessful as the last. None of those memories brought relief, not for a moment. Each death was agonizing. The recovery after just as brutal, if not a thousand times worse.
"Slit your throat," she clarifies with a sharp tone. Almost like she's trying to scare you. "Shouldn't be a problem, right?"
"It's going to be messy," you say in a tight voice. You really don't want to, even though the fear of death has long since eroded from you. You can still feel pain.
"Take off your clothes if you're so worried then." She leans closer, her voice dripping with glee. "You want to cure your amnesia, don't you?"
The world halts and your chest squeezes hard.
Of course.
You would kill yourself a million times over to get rid of it. You would skin yourself. Incinerate the flesh off of your bones until you are left as an unrecognizable husk.
Your amnesia dictates your every waking moment. It haunts you. It's a biting shadow that you can never hide away from.
Of course you want to get rid of it. Anything to get some semblance of control over your life.
You don't blink when the blade makes contact with your throat. The dull blade requires force to pierce your skin. Blood dribbles down your neck, not enough to be fatal. Not yet at least.
With a grimace you force the blade down. It fucking hurts like no other, the pain so much worse when you're the one doing it. Every part of your body is screaming for you to stop.
Seon-nyeo falters, looking startled at what you're about to do.
She didn't think you would actually commit to it.
You make contact with muscle. Blood shoots out, thick and heavy in your throat. You choke on it, gagging on the suffocating taste of metal.
Seon-nyeo steps back. Unsure if she should keep watching or turn away.
Her mouth opens, a word of protest rising from her throat—
"Wait, stop—"
You don't wait. You don't stop. You keep her stare, your hand shaking.
With every ounce of strength you can muster, you let the blade rip into your throat. You can't scream. Not when your blood chokes every noise down. The heavy knife falls from your hand, clattering on wood . You hunch over the table, halfway to passing out. You don't though and it means you have to sit with the pain until it's over.
The warmth of your blood flows down your shirt, staining your skin, dripping down in steady streams until it pools under you. Cold air whips at you open wound, exacerbating the pain. You make a choked sound, coughing up the never ending supply of blood.
Ninety-seven years and the feeling of death never dulled. You've only gotten better at tolerating it.
Slowly, you feel the skin start to stitch together.
You press the wound with your fingers, trying to place the muscle and skin together so the healing would progress faster. The blood makes it hard for your fingers to stay in place so you press harder against your windpipe.
Your breathing turns shallow. Blood and mucus prevent air from coming in.
The bleeding stops. The skin pulls together until it's taut against your throat. Muscles twitch into place, the pain ebbing away as you put yourself together fiber by fiber.
You retch out the excess blood pooling in your mouth. Not caring if it stains the dark wood of the table in front of you. You hack and cough until your throat is raw, trying to get every remnant of metal off your tongue.
"There," you croak. Your newly patched throat itches, the sensation arguably more awful than the pain. "How's that for immortality?"
Seon-nyeo's mouth parts, her eyes widening. She scrambles to where you sit, her hands tilting your head back, baring your throat to her.
She wipes the mess of blood that lingers, revealing the pristine skin underneath. She watches the muscles contract with your breathing, feeling the pulse of your heart with the pad of her finger. She doesn't believe it. She can't.
Seon-nyeo retracts her hand like you've burned her. "I didn't—that shouldn't—" She stumbles over her words, looking at you like you're wrong. Her long finger points at you, accusing you. She hisses low: "Impossible."
"There's something wrong with me," you whimper. It hurts to speak. Every word feels like sandpaper. Everything hurts. Not just your throat. Your body screams for relief. "Help me, Seon-nyeo. I can't keep doing this. I can't live like this—please."
"Stop, just stop!" She brings a hand to her temple, massaging the skin. Her eyes close, her brows furrow. "You shouldn't…you're not supposed to do that. "
She paces back and forth, her hand threading through her wild hair, trying to make sense of what she just saw.
You heave over the table, scratching in the middle of your throat. You can feel the welts developing on your skin from your vigorous rubbing. It's another side effect from your immortality—debilitating skin irritation after you heal. You can't stop scratching even if you wanted to.
Seon-nyeo turns to you, equal parts frightened and frustrated.
"You're going to tell me everything." She walks up to you, pushing her nail into the middle of your chest.
"I would if I could," you huff in annoyance. You gesture to your head. "Amnesia and all that."
"So you don't know how you got like—" she mimics your waving gesture towards your whole body. "—that? Nothing?"
"Can you help or not?" you snap, already regretting coming to this place.
She rolls her eyes. "I can't help if I don't know what I'm dealing with. Of course the gods are no help—fickle and rude as they are." She sighs, grabbing a stray bottle on the floor. "Tell me everything—anything you have memories of. Important stuff obviously, I don't want to hear any stupid anecdotes of your life story."
"Well, it's not going to be much, I can guarantee it."
— — —
The makgeolli that Seon-nyeo poured for you tastes much better than whatever alcohol Thanos stole earlier in the night. Your continually healing body gives you a slight boost in metabolism, meaning alcoholic beverages don't have much effect on you. It takes a fair amount to hit a buzz, even more so to actually get drunk.
Apparently losing a few pints of blood slows your bodily functions. Your face is warm and you're not as tense as you were before.
The skin around your neck throbs—more so from your itching than the pain from splitting it open. Your frenzied clawing subsided, much to you and your skin's relief. You were a few swipes away from ripping another wound.
"That's all of it," you say with a toast of your cup. You down the liquid, washing away the last bits of metal with it. The burn of the alcohol warms you.
Seon-nyeo hasn't touched her cup since you started talking. You watch every emotion silently cross her face. Confusion. Mild interest. Suspicion. Frustration. She doesn't interrupt you or offer comforting words whenever you touch on the more…unsavory aspects of your life. She takes it all in, letting the silence stretch between you.
She rubs her temples in irritation, reciting what you told her. "For ninety-seven years you've been traveling the world, dying every which way you possibly could, but you have no memory of any of it."
"Sort of," you say, swirling your cup in the air. "Like I said, things can just blurt out. Or flashes of memories come back. For example, I don't remember learning about reapers, but I knew when I met Thanos. It's like—" You groan in frustration, trying to complete your thought.
"Instinct?" Seon-nyeo asks.
You snap your finger at her. "Yes! That's the word."
She rolls her eyes, continuing: "You figure out that your amnesia gets worse whenever you're injured, but even if you don't die, you still can't retain new information. You're perpetually clueless."
"Correct."
"That shouldn't be possible." Seon-nyeo lets out a groan, burying her head in her hands. "No one just gets true immortality like that."
True immortality.
You can finally put a name to your suffering. Has a nice ring to it. You would appreciate it if your never-ending life didn't jade you. You can't enjoy it. There's no joy in isolation, broken bones, or attempted death lingering at every turn.
"Just to clarify," Seon-nyeo mutters, finally taking a sip of her wine, "are sure you're ninety-seven years old? Or do you only remember your life from that point?"
Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth. Dread squeezes your chest. "Why do you ask?"
Seon-nyeo folded her hands on the table. She hesitates and it makes the dread heavier. "Stories of immortality take form all over the world. I thought they were just that, stories."
"What does that have to do with my age?"
Seon-nyeo sighs. "You might be older than you think."
"How much are we talking about?" you say with an uneasy chuckle. "A century or two off?"
She almost doesn't say anything. She can see how terrified you are.
You're certain of your age. More than certain. It's an irrefutable fact…
Right?
"The stories that depict true immortality," she mutters, almost pitifully, "were written thousands of years ago. They came from a time that's been lost to us, when gods still roamed the Earth and magic was still abundant to humans."
A cold chill takes over you.
It seizes you.
Locks you in place, freezing your heart, tightening your throat—
"Maybe I'm the exception," you say.
"How do you know? Every time you talk about something from your past, it's always followed by ‘I can't be sure’." Seon-nyeo gives you a look. "What's more likely? Your amnesia conveniently lets you remember that you're ninety-seven, or you were mistaken?"
Most humans don't even make it to ninety-seven—hell, some don't see themselves past a few decades. You've barely grappled with the idea of spending the rest of your own life indefinitely healing from an injury you don't remember sustaining.
A hundred years of existence is already so daunting.
You cannot imagine living ten times that amount and then some.
You shake your head vigorously with a laugh that strains your throat. "No. No, that—that can't be true."
"Did your reaper friend talk to you about this?" Seon-nyeo asks.
You can't remember.
"I-I don't—" You're overwhelmed. You want the world to swallow you whole and never spit you back out. "Maybe? He—no, no he did, I think. He tried to help but nothing came up."
"I don't think you realize just how improbable and downright fictitious this whole ordeal is," Seon-nyeo says. "The beings that could have witnessed truly immortal humans have all but ceased to exist. Long-living faes and spirits have come and gone. Even the gods have retreated back to the heavens." She lets out a heavy sigh. "No one has ever gotten close to replicating the regenerative immortality that you possess. Hell, I'm still having trouble wrapping my head around it, and I've witnessed it. Are you sure you’re not just some god in disguise?And angel perhaps"
“I may have a hard time remembering things, but I remember my life then," you insist. "I remember my parents. The house I grew up in, the books I've read, the fire that killed them—I have those memories."
"Are they your parents?" Seon-nyeo shoots back. "Think about—really think."
You do. With all your effort you recall those distant images of your parents.
Your mother's laughter. Your father's rumbling voice.
It comes with waves of guilt. You’d love and cherish them always, but it always hurts to remember them. To remember what your life could've been. Normal. Bearable. Loving.
"How old were they?" Seon-nyeo asks.
The prompt throws you in a loop.
Your voice trembles. "I don't know. It wasn't something that I cared about."
"Describe them to me."
You feel sick. The rice wine sits in your stomach like acid.
Two figures, misty and amorphous, are all you can envision.
Sweat collects at the nape of your neck. You try to recall the length of your mother's hair. The exact shade of her skin. Was she taller than you? Did her teeth crowd her mouth or was it even?
Your father was no different. Did his hair have sparse white patches? Was he the type to roll his sleeves and dirty his shoes? Was he an immigrant? Was your mother too?
A throbbing pain forms in your temples. A horrifying realization that you don't know what your parents look like rips you apart.
The only thing that kept you together was the certainty of your age and the love of your parents. The only memories you had that lasted each decade.
Was it all made up?
It couldn't be.
You squeeze your eyes, trying to find something—anything of comfort so you don't fall apart.
You remember telling Thanos about how your parents are the only clear memories you have. You smiled then. With teeth stained with the blood from your ninety meter fall and bones half-healed.
They have to be real. They have to. You have to have one comfort in your fucked up life.
Right?
You think back as far as you could go. Before the fire that knocked your world from its axis.
Feelings are what you remember clearly. Safety, warmth, and care. All things that parents ought to provide.
A blurry field. A murky shape of a house with aged wooden walls and old furniture. Your father playing a soft melody on his guitar, his smooth voice lulling you. Your mother is on the porch alongside you, singing along to his lyrics in perfect sync. Her counter melody with some spoons from the kitchen hitting her knees and hands.
There would come a time where the night is high
The moon would pull the water
And the bird would sing it's mating call
Your father—still faceless in your hazy recollection—would close his eyes, his fingers strumming chords that he's played a million times over.
I follow that sweet song, the hundred miles back to you
Honey, I would walk
Honey, I would walk
Both of them shoot each other a knowing, loving smile.
Til my feet grows tired and my skull starts to ache
Til the bugs eat my skin and my eyes burn with tears
A sense of longing and history sewn in between their lyrics. A darker undertone of their past and they seldom tell you about it. They were separated once, long before you came into the picture. Your father would illustrate those pains and the love he had for your mother with a soulful melody on a beaten guitar.
Honey, I would walk all five thousand miles
And few thousand more
Just to see you smile
Your father strums harder, losing himself into the song. Your mother would sense the change in rhythm, picking up her pace.
I passed by the railroads where God sent his messenger
I passed by the tree where you and me wed under the setting sun
Tennessee to Vermont, the ol' scent of your hair guiding me
Tall man at the Lizzie Inn, told were you would be
Picked you in my arms, Lord's light shining down the street
Their gaze settles on you, their energy infecting you. You clap along to the familiar beat of the song. Your foot tapping the creaky floorboard of the steps, the humid air seeping through your cotton dress.
Honey, I walked so far
Honey, I bleed too much
Honey, I would do it all again
All the turns that made me weak
Honey, I would do it again
Even if it took a thousand years to get back to you
Your mother and father belt out the last words with all the air in their lungs.
Ninety-seven years later, their song of triumph never faded from you.
"I-I…I can't do this." You're crying hot, burning tears. Angry tears. Anguished tears. You're numb. You're shaking with a chill that won't go away. "I love them. I did—I really did. I don't remember their face, but they were real—"
Another sob steals whatever long-winded explanation you wanted to say.
Seon-nyeo appears beside you, her hands gripping your shoulders. "I need you to breathe. Calm yourself."
"It's-It's all your fault," you mutter weakly between hiccups. "I'm crying because of you."
She digs her sharp nails into your shoulders. "I'm trying to help you, dammit. You're mad, I get that."
The tears keep flowing down your face. You feel small and childish.
"I knew them." You curl into yourself, wishing to dissolve into nothing. You would give anything just to be with your parents again. "I can't—" Another sob that tears your throat. "—make that up, right? I know they loved me. I know they cared. I saw them die."
"I know."
"I can't—I can't keep doing this," you cry, your words cracked and frayed.
"I know," Seon-nyeo says again, softer this time. Her grip eases. "I don't think I can get those memories back, but I could try to give you a chance to remember things again."
You cry harder, trying to keep that warmth you missed in your mind for as long as you could.
— — —
Seon-nyeo presses her cold, bony fingers into your scalp with gentle pressure, closing her eyes as she feels energy flowing beneath your skin. You sit motionless as her fingers move along your head. She hums disapprovingly. "There's something here. A foreign energy residing in the flesh of your skull."
"Like a spirit?"
"Like a curse." Seon-nyeo grabs the bloody knife on the table. "This has been drying for over thirty minutes. What do you see?"
You give the knife a passive glance. "Looks normal to me."
"It should've dried by now, but it's still wet to the touch. See?" Seon-nyeo dabs her finger along the edge of the blade collecting a drop of your blood. She then mumbles a phrase that sounds distinctly not Korean. Older, perhaps, with distinct tonal sounds. The blood on the knife that was once idle started to reanimate, curdling and bubbling. You watch the blood darken before turning to steam. "Normally, blood wouldn't react to an energy purifying spell. The curse…it's been eating your brain, but over time it might've poisoned the rest of your body."
You're so emotionally drained that you can't form a suitable reaction. To you, a curse on your brain is just another bump in the road. Another sick twist of fate that leaves you bruised and scabbed. "Can you fix it?"
Seon-nyeo scrunches her face slightly. "This is old magic and it's probably been inside, festering for decades. I don't think you would get your memories back. Whatever memories you held onto would be pulled away as well. It's the magical equivalent of burning weeds in a garden. It's inevitable that I would damage the healthy tissue."
"Just do it anyway."
"It's going to hurt," she warns. "I'll have to open your skull and keep you still enough for me to purify the curse. Unless you could go to the nearest hospital and administer anesthesia—"
"I can keep still," you say. "I can tolerate as much pain as I need to. Trust me, I've had worse than having my skull crushed."
She nods hesitantly. "If it's what you wish…"
— — —
It took a total of twenty minutes to purify the curse that was eating your brain. It was a parasite with a mind of its own, wriggling deeper into the recesses of your brain. Seon-nyeo had to grab a metal chopstick to pry apart your flesh until she could hit the curse with a counter-curse so powerful it left you in a state of shock. It wasn't the magic or the metal chopstick mashing your brain that hurt, it was you forcibly opening the gaping wound open with your hands that made you scream in agony.
The magical wards along the walls muffled the sounds of your cursing. Your arms would shake, trying to hold yourself taut while Seon-nyeo purified you. Your regenerative body was actively fighting against you; your blood rushing to your head, your bones fighting against your fingers that are slick with your own blood. A few times you had to pull back your skull open because the wound closed too tightly for Seon-nyeo to see inside your head properly. When the worst had passed and the parasite gone, every ounce of energy left your body.
Seon-nyeo would later tell you that you were so still and sickly that she was fully convinced you had died. The only sign of life you gave was the slow, methodical beat of your heart.
— — —
Consciousness slams back into you the moment you feel your body get forcibly shaken. A sharp ringing fills your ears as your vision readjusts. You're on the floor, your skin sticky and the room stinking of copper. Thanos is kneeling on the floor with you, grasping onto your shoulders, yelling your name over and over. Cho stands above him with a displeased look on her face. Seon-nyeo stands next to her, whispering in Cho's ear, her entire torso covered with a deep red stain.
"Are you okay? Can you talk?" Thanos asks, his voice finally morphing into words instead of unintelligible sounds.
You groan, your head feeling like a block of lead. Bits and pieces come back to you. One by one, uninterrupted, your own thoughts solidifying in a way that feels permanent.
Drinking beer at the edge of the steep cliff with Thanos at your side. The Checkpoint station filled with magical beings that felt too surreal to be true. Sergeant Cho's menacing stare. Slitting your throat with a decorative knife. The parasite and the pain it took to get rid of it.
"It feels…different now," you mutter. Your temple is strained with a splitting headache. "It hurts all over."
Thanos' gloves are cold against your flushed skin. He tilts your head every which way before settling on your eyes. "Do you remember anything?"
"Everything from tonight is so…clear? It's hard to explain." You sit up with a wince. Your entire head is sticky to the touch with drying blood. The clothes that Thanos got you are ruined with dark stains. Yet the newfound feeling of a clear mind overrides any discomfort. "The fog that was in my head. It's—It's gone!"
"The amnesia is cured, but you would still have trouble recalling past memories," Seon-nyeo says. She looks pale, still shaken from the gore and all her energy getting sapped with spell after spell. "In a month's time I would like to have another visit from you to check your progress."
"Will do," you say.
Cho clears her throat. "I'm glad we got everything sorted. However, we still need to head back to HQ."
Thanos hauls you up to your feet, keeping you steady as you sway. He wasn't disturbed by the blood, but rather the way it was hard for you to take a step without shaking profusely. Parts of your brain have yet to fully heal, but the throbbing headache quickly dulls. Your vision sharpens. A chilling sense of continuity of your thoughts sobers you from the alcohol and the spine-tingling thrill of near death. A certainty that your thoughts won't fall between your fingers like sand prickles your skin along your arms and neck. A sense that the past is no longer some abstract entity but it will soon be something tangible to hold onto. The future won't be so uncertain now that you can have a reference to look back upon. You're one step closer to being somewhat normal.
"A moment," Seon-nyeo says. Cho and Thanos linger by your side, unwilling to keep you out of their gaze. However, Seon-nyeo makes it clear that she wants to talk to you alone. "I have something private to discuss. Just a few minutes, I promise."
Cho passes her gaze from you to the shaman with a sigh. "No more than two minutes."
Thanos gives your wrist a tight squeeze, his gloved fingers lingering at the pulse of your wrist before departing with his boss.
"Is something wrong?" you ask once the two reapers are out of ear shot.
"It took you less than thirty seconds for your neck wound to close," Seon-nyeo notes. "Do you know how long it took for your brain to reform itself after I mashed it to bits?"
You give a shrug. "Ten or so minutes? Head injuries heal the slowest."
"Five seconds." She doesn't look fascinated or excited by the fact. A sense of dread and unease takes her; she continues after a pause. "I assume the curse was impeding your healing abilities. You could be nigh indestructible, though you're pointedly not immune to magical attacks. I suggest you use your fresh brain to tap into any dormant magic you could have."
"You think I'm magical?" The prospect of being more than just immortal excites you.
"An immortal being is by definition magical," she says. "You have a cinematic record, which is a type of soul that only humans possess. My old mentor once theorized that truly immortal humans are the most efficient machines; if an immortal human could rapidly regenerate and indefinitely exist without the presence of a god to sustain them, then it means that the human is sustained through other means. It takes a lot of energy for a simple human to live just a single day. Have there been times where you went without food?"
"Many times." Your stomach involuntarily cramps at the thought. "It felt like I was rotting from the inside out, but I would still look the same." You may not have a specific example in mind, but the words come out with certainty.
"So what is sustaining you?" She points to the middle of your chest, her sharp nail digging into the fabric of your shirt. "Is it your soul? Was something inscribed in you? An amulet trapped in your flesh? Something keeps you operating past the point of death. Magic, obviously. But what type of magic? What spell binds you? Who bound you to perpetual existence? All of these questions have been theoretical up until now…" Seon-nyeo retreats back, clenching both of her fists tightly. "There must be a reason why it has stayed that way until now. Every instance of a truly immortal human were hoaxes or stories made up by creative minds. You…I don't even want to believe it."
"You sound like I'm some abomination."
Seon-nyeo shakes her head. "You're not. It's…it's just that magical unknowns are dangerous. The gods in my ear act favorably towards you and it worries me."
"Isn't that a good thing? Don't you work for them?"
"They act selfishly and viscously. They give me freedom and power. In turn I protect the land they thrive on. They're fickle. They fight and bicker with each other. They're violent storms that control every living being on this corner of the globe. They hope to gain favor with you so that you're indebted to them; contractually bound to do their bidding."
The air is still as you pick apart her words. "They led me here, didn't they?"
"Some people are sensitive to their call, even if they're across oceans."
You pull your lip between your teeth, tugging the dry skin. There's so many loose connections that it was hard to pinpoint their significance. It's not like you're powerful by any means. All you've done up until now was stumble through life with as much grace as a drunken orc fresh out of battle. The Korean folk gods might've seen something in you, but what?
"You said before that I had a cinematic record, right?" you ask.
Seon-nyeo nods.
You continue: "I could ask Thanos to reap it. Maybe we can get answers that way."
"Death scythes can only extract a soul once the body dies," Seon-nyeo explains. "Otherwise the soul stays tangled and unreadable as it's rooted to living flesh. So unless you can find a way to die, Thanos cannot reap your soul. On the bright side, any memory you did have—even if lost to your brain—is imprinted on your soul."
"But I would have to reap my own soul to see it." Just as you said that, another thought crosses your mind like a bolt of lightning. "Unless…of course…someone else has kept the record."
"Meaning?"
"Reapers record everything they see, right? I may not have died, but maybe old friends have. My parents most definitely."
Seon-nyeo seems to understand what you're getting at. "You're thinking of indirectly tracing your own history by proxy of other dead people. That sounds incredibly tedious and horribly boring."
"My other option is to ask your gods for answers, but I have a feeling they won't do it without a price."
"The prospect of an unbreakable toy is appealing to many," she says bluntly.
"Can't I just come clean and show them that I'm immortal?"
"And risk them trying to destroy you in every possible way?" Seon-nyeo counters. "A reaper's sole purpose is to extract human souls and preserve the balance of life and death in hopes they can forgive the debt of taking their own lives. At best they would think you’re making it up, at worst they will dissect you."
“What if they’ll help me?”
Seon-nyeo gives you a pointed look. “Do you want to take a risk like that? Take it from someone who has the unfortunate opportunity of seeing them regularly. They’re rule-bound by nature. Thanos and other lower-tier reapers hold a lot less loyalty to their books. Cho? She wouldn’t blink at turning you in to the higher-ups.”
You huff. "I just got my brain healed, there's no way I would throw it away like that."
"If you plan on infiltrating, Cho would keep you in her sights and would hand out harsh punishments if she or other reapers catch you stepping out of line. My advice would be to stay as ignorant and invisible as possible."
You give Seon-nyeo a toothy smile. "Worried I might get hurt?"
"I'm deeply curious of how you would pull it off," she corrects with an equally toothy grin. "Hate to say it, but I'm invested in your journey." Seon-nyeo digs into her robe, pulling a dainty silver ring. "Your reaper disguise is shit by the way. Cho might've been fooled, but other reapers with greater detection skills could see through it."
"I know that," you mutter shamefully.
She mutters something into the ring. It glows faintly, only for a few seconds, before the magic settles into the metal. "Here, put this on, and take out those god awful contacts. They make my skin crawl."
You mutter a curse under your breath before taking out your glasses, the contacts coming out with little grace as you prodded your eyes, pinching the flimsy plastic before tossing them in Seon-nyeo's awaiting hand. She makes a face at the slimy contacts, exchanging the ring before going to throw the contacts away. The ring fits your thumb perfectly. A small gem, no bigger than a grain of rice, was embedded in the metal, sparkling a bright green. Seon-nyeo walks back with a small mirror in her hands.
"A much better disguise if you ask me," she says proudly, holding up the decorated mirror.
You stared at your reflection, awestruck. Your once normal, human eyes are now a distinct—almost luminescent—chartreuse. The saturated color looks uncanny, yet it looked far more natural than the stolen contacts. "It looks so real."
"It’s simple glamour, though the effects are temporary," she says, pointing to the gem in the middle of the ring. "This shows the amount of mana I embedded inside the ring. I'd give it a month before the color starts to change to a piss-yellow, which works because I need to check how well the counter-curse worked."
You grasp her hand, an honest smile gracing your face. "Thank you, seriously. For the wine, the curse-breaking, all of it." Tears prick your eyes, your words tumbling out of your mouth without a filter. "My life is different now. Everything's clearer now. You've given me a blessing I didn't think I deserve."
Seon-nyeo's eyes widened, both touched and a little embarrassed by your kindness. "I only did all that out of obligation, not because I'm generous. Come back when your ring is almost empty—are you seriously crying?"
"No," you say with twin streams going down your cheeks.
— — —
Thanos notices your new eye color immediately. His eyebrows furrowed and his lips tug into a straight line. "Something's off."
You shrug innocently. "Same as I've always been, I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yeah, you definitely look worse, chica." That earns him a harsh jab to his ribs.
Cho sighs, bringing your attention to her. "This visit took longer than expected. My shift started over thirty minutes ago." Her intense gaze makes Thanos stand straighter. "I expect a full report of this visit the moment we make it back, it shouldn't take more than an hour." Her eyes settle onto you. "And you will have to report to the higher ups. A simple verbal recount of your time in South Korea. We'll decide what to do with you."
You nod. "I understand."
Sergeant Cho's presence made the walk back through the forest a tad awkward and foreboding. Thanos didn't bother to make small talk, instead he simply crowded your personal space with each step. It was obvious he had so many questions to ask you, but he couldn't express himself honestly with his boss walking a few paces ahead. You expected to circle back to the Checkpoint station, but Cho only walks just near the glowing lantern just a few meters away from Seon-nyeo's house. She holds her hand out, closing her eyes before a spark of light emanates from the ground. The light cuts through the ground at multiple points, drawing distinct, geometric patterns encased in a large circle. Once the magic circle filled with patterns and shapes is done manifesting, a portal manifests, similar to the Checkpoints.
Thanos leans close to your ear. "A reaper of high standing can make their own portals back to HQ. You have to take special classes before the higher-ups can register you though."
"You two head first," Cho says, stepping to the side.
Thanos guides you to the portal on the floor. "The landing can get a bit rough. Hold onto me."
You held Thanos' bicep before stepping onto the portal. The sensation was the same as the previous times you crossed the Checkpoints; a bit disorienting and warm, before the sensation of gravity pulls you. The ground rushes to meet you and you only had a few seconds to brace for the fall. Your feet slam into polished granite flooring, your nerves shaking with the absorbed impact. Thanos winces before quickly pulling you away from the glowing portal above you. On cue, Cho gracefully falls to the ground as if the wind carried her like a leaf. No sound was made as her feet made contact with the stone floors. Not a hair out of place. Her paper-filled folders and notebook held tightly in the crook of her arm.
The lobby of HQ was a dark take on neo-renaissance style; large grand staircases cut from marble and obsidian and dark red velvet carpets, tall arched windows with sharp flourishes, all of which was accented by ambient, orange lighting. Much like the Checkpoint Station, the lobby was littered with reapers going to and fro the myriad of elevators lining the wall and the grand entrance. Cho materialized the portal smack-dab in the middle of the chaos, though the reapers part around your group.
Without a word, she walks towards one of the black elevators which part automatically. The lift was spacious enough for at least twenty people to fit, but only you, Thanos, and Cho were occupying it. Cho presses the 2nd and 5th floor before the doors closed. A classical piano piece played softly as wait. Once the 2nd floor appeared, Thanos knew it was his time to depart.
"I'll come find you," you reassure him.
Thanos gives you a half-hearted chuckle. "That's if you make it out of 5th floor alive. I'll light a vigil for you if I don't hear from you by the end of the night."
He waves you goodbye as the door closes, leaving you alone with Sergeant Cho.
Soft piano music cannot chip away the cold awkwardness. You keep your eyes glued to the gilded floor. Seconds between floors drag on and on. When the 5th floor finally dinged and the doors opened, you let out a small sigh of relief.
Cho led you through a maze of darkened hallways with numbered doors that were painted by pure shadows. If it wasn't for the golden knobs affixed to each door, you would've thought the voids were open rooms magically devoid of any and all light. You noticed that your shoes no longer made noise as you made contact with the floor, you had a sneaking suspicion that the ring had something to do with it.
"I thought Seon-nyeo managed to kill you, y'know."
It took a moment to register that Cho was talking to you. "O-Oh. Imagine that."
"And you didn't get any memories back?" Cho glances at you, her gaze indifferent.
You shake your head. "I'm as clueless as the day Thanos found me. I'm lucky to even have any memories at all."
"Magic-induced amnesia is hardly unheard of. Luckily it wasn't a decaying curse or else we would have to keep you under the supervision of the forensics department."
You nearly corrected her, but luckily you kept your mouth tight. Seon-nyeo must've lied to Cho. You'd have to remember to thank her later (a spark of joy emanated from your chest at the thought that you can actually remember things now). "I'm lucky to be alive at all with all the incense suffocating me."
Cho let out an airy chuckle at your remark. "I'm sure Choi shares the same sentiment."
After a few minutes, Cho led you to a dark oak door, embellished with gold and magic. The doors themselves towered above you and looked too heavy for either of you to push or pull. You don't need X-ray vision to know there's danger beyond the door. Faintly, you catch a thrum of low voices on the other end, the shuffling of papers, and the clink of metal on wood.
Cho lifts her blood-red gloved hand and gives a sturdy knock. Just one, loud enough to echo horribly off of the wood. Voices cease. Motion stops beyond the door. The twin doors simultaneously open.
You're not afraid. It's hard to feel anything other than thrill and giddy at the possibility of being one-step closer to knowing about your past. Your heartbeat is a drum, your legs march into unknown territory surrounded by unfamiliar faces with sparkling green lights for eyes. You stand at attention, breathing calmly through your nose, the epitome of serenity and innocence.
You will get your memories back, reaper society be damned.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚ PLEASE LIKE, COMMENT, AND REBLOG ❤︎
ADDITIONAL NOTES: thank you for the support on my first chapter of this series! you guys seriously blew me away. my outline for this series is 17 chapters you guys better hype me up to keep me motivated to finish 😵💫 (jkjk)
8.8k words. seon-nyeo going from unhinged bog witch to deep thinking magical historian and theorist. thanos trying not to blow cover as sergeant cho looks at the both of you like misbehaving children. you injuring yourself horribly to heal yourself. yea.
this sunday around 10PM PDT (date subject to change as i am helping family)
idk why thanos using spanish nicknames seems right, but it does. is it a bit cringe? yes, but i think its funny. im 5k words in and im not even close to finished.
also , i have a pinterest with moodboards for this fic and my hitman!reader two shot if you guys are interested <3
also also, here are my (unfinished) drawings of hyun-ju in her reaper outfit cuz why not :)
❝ every movement hurts. when you arch your back, the stitches pulse in sync with your cunt. you don’t know if you’re moaning from pain or pleasure—everything blurs into a sensation that makes you feel alive. ❞
PAIRING: cho hyun-ju x f!reader
GENRE: romance, fix-it fic, smut
WORD COUNT: 8.5K
WARNINGS: slight squid game spoilers! SMUT, p in v sex, hyun-ju has a penis, AFAB reader, reader has scars and injuries, descriptions of needles and wound stitching, vaginal fingering, reader has masochistic tendencies, reader is a bit feral and hyun-ju tries tame her, injury play (mild), blood kink, sex with feelings, bathroom sex, orgasm via penetration, creampie, happy ending :')
NOTES: this chapter took longer than expect whoops. no beta we die like virgins. anyways, here's the long awaited bathroom sex scene.
✩ CHAPTER ONE | | CHO HYUN-JU MASTERLIST
The alarm is sudden, screeching in your ears like an emergency siren.
The guards come filing into the maze quickly after the timer runs out. They appear like ghosts from secret passageways, guns in their hands aimed ahead of them.
You and Hyun-ju part away from each other with your hands up just as two guards block the entrance of the hallway with their guns raised. The rest of the guards scatter to fill the maze, gunshots already firing.
You're aware of the mismatched number that you're wearing. Your heart pounds, blood dripping down your side is slow rivulets.
“Exchanging vests in the middle of the game is against the rules,” a circle guard says, their gun raised to your head.
You exchange a side-ways glance at Hyun-ju, your stomach twisting into knots. A harsh I told you so sits heavy on your tongue, but you keep it to yourself. There’s no point in arguing now. At least the other three had a chance to escape. Hopefully they did.
If you die here, at least you died protecting those who deserved to live. You're no longer a glorified lapdog to an overachieving Russian crime boss. No contracts. No debt. No more back stabbing and blood feuds that have nothing to do with you.
At least your last kiss is with someone you care about. You hope that Hyun-ju feels the same sentiment.
A radio beeps. A monotone voice rings through. “Do not execute Players 120 and 249. Return them to the dormitory.”
Your heart stalls in your chest. Hyun-ju looks just as perplexed as you.
Without objection, the guards lower their weapons.
That simple, huh? you thought bitterly.
“Follow us,” one of the guards says, before turning on their heels.
You walk slowly from one of the hidden doors that the guards came from. The hallway splits open to a white passageway that leads back to the colorful stairs that connect to every room in this place. You focus all of your energy into putting one foot in front of the other. The muscle cramps combined with the stab wound make it hard to do so, however.
All of the exertion you put your body through catches up to you. Blood seeps through your side in steady streams. Your vision blurs with each limp up the stairs. You’re simultaneously hot and cold all over, your body feeling numb, your eyes closing for a second too long—
You would’ve tripped down the stairs if it weren’t for Hyun-ju staying close beside you. Her arms were quick to catch you, pulling you upright. Pain erupts from your side, hissing through your teeth at the sensation.
You let out a ragged exhale. “Everything hurts, fuck.”
“We need to keep going,” a guard says in their steady, monotone voice.
“She’s lost a lot of blood!” she barks at the masked guards. “She needs medical attention, can’t you see that?”
One of the guards with a circle on its mask walks up to the two of you. They crouch down to move your hand out of the way to inspect the damage. After a few moments, they retrieve the walkie-talkie from their belt.
“Player 249 received a stab wound to the abdomen, should we administer treatment?” the guard asks.
The radio beeps before a voice comes through from the other end. “Does she require hospitalization?”
“If you give me some alcohol, needle, thread, and gauze, I can do it myself,” you groan. “Won’t take too long.”
“She says she can do it herself with given medical equipment,” the guard relays. “Do we proceed?”
The person on the other end doesn’t respond immediately.
Hyun-ju takes off her vest and keeps pressure against your side. It’s hard to keep your eyes open.
Seconds ticked by before the radio beeps again.
“Give her the supplies she needs. Take them to the bathrooms, away from other players.”
— — —
The bathrooms are empty as the two of you walk in.
The medical kit the guards give you looks a bit more sophisticated than a simple first-aid kit. It comes with full bottles of various anti-septic solutions, rolls of gauze, needles, and various medical instruments. Forceps, scalpel, scissors—basically enough to perform minor surgery on you if need be.
A sticky note is attached to the top. In neat Chinese characters written in red ink you read:
To my favorite killer and Player. I spent a lot of money on you and would hate to see it go to waste.
At the very bottom of the note is a stamped insignia of a peony blossom with delicate flourish surrounding it like a halo.
You click your tongue in disapproval.
“Who’s it from?” Hyun-ju asks, peering over your shoulder, reading the handwriting.
“Old connection from China,” you reply with a clipped tone.
The woman who wrote the note—and likely vetted for the two of you to live—is the only person you would consider to be a demon among men. Heartless. Cruel. Cunning. A woman who had no trouble killing her own parents to accelerate her claim of inheritance. She held power between her ruby-encrusted nails and harbored homicide in her heart. The only two reasons she would've kept you alive is to win any bets she may have placed on you and to have you repay her later. Whatever that might entail.
The note doesn’t just serve as a saving grace for your troubles, it’s also the hardest confirmation that the games aren’t just a means to exterminate the poor and to feed the blood lust of the guards.
You were bet on like the race horse—and by the looks of it, on winning the games.
“Why would they be here?”
“Think about it,” you say, limping further into the bathroom until you reach the furthest sink. “Why would anyone go through the trouble of rigging this whole thing up?"
Hyun-ju shrugs. "To kill people, I suppose."
"Let me rephrase that. Why would you play hide and seek, mingle, or ddakji?” you ask.
Hyun-ju pauses mid-stride, an uneasy feeling settling in her chest. “For entertainment.”
You snap your finger in approval. “For entertainment. That’s what we are to them, and apparently to my old friend from China.”
You spit the word friend like it’s acid.
The underworld stretches far, embeds itself into every facet of society—especially the part of society where the richest and most elite people gather. These people are sub-human. No warmth, or trust, or safety could be found there—nothing to sustain any friendly relationship. You've spent the better part of ten years serving those very people, catering to their blood lust, helping them secure their power with the end of your blade and the barrel of your gun. They may shelter you, give you luxurious gifts, and take you under their wing, but they hold a tight leash on you, shackling and suffocating like you were just a dog.
You hope to get rid of their influence once in for all. To stop bathing in blood and breaking every bone in your body just to survive. You want to live your life. To carry out your childhood dreams of living in a nice house, going to bed with a full stomach, and never having a weapon wherever you go. Living in ignorance of all the horrors of the world. Safe. Happy. Loved.
When you left New York, hope blossomed in your chest. Finally, you would live without a collar held tight around your throat.
All of that seems too naive to dream about in retrospect. You should've known how deep the crime world had seeped into your bones.
Your old boss wanted to keep you by your side, even after you repaid any debt to him. Viggo Tarasov didn't want to give you any freedoms outside of work. It meant giving you pennies of real world currency so that you had to rely on him for food, for shelter, for clothes—all so that you felt dependent on him. It never truly worked. The both of you knew that you were the reason he had any sort of power to begin with. He may be your boss, but you lacked any true loyalty towards him. He feared you for that.
You may have walked out of New York with the blood of a hundred men flowing through the streets, but you left without any real sense of what to do next. It became clear to you just how reckless and foolish you really were.
Your apartment was seized and any money you managed to scrape up was taken. All that was left was a ticket to Incheon you kept in a personal safe at the Continental hotel—the only place that was a haven from violence.
You arrived in South Korea with nothing. In your daze and desperation, a man with a briefcase, charming smile, and two colored squares asked you to play ddakji.
In the end, you won ₩300,000. Barely enough to cover any living expenses in a foreign country.
You agreed to join the games, even though you knew that no one would go around giving money without a price.
"Let's just get this over with," you say bitterly.
You toss the med kit into the sink before peeling away the first layer of clothing. As you pull your arms up, you felt the tear in your body throb, the skin threatening to split further. You grit your teeth, forcing yourself to continue.
Whatever straight-faced composure Hyun-ju told herself to keep was thrown out the window the moment you started to undress. With a wince, you discarded the green jacket and stained t-shirt to the side, not bothering to see where they landed.
Hyun-ju is deeply aware of how serious the situation is.
You were stabbed—thankfully not fatal—but you were still heavily injured. You could barely stand upright.
But she couldn’t stop herself from eyeing you down. Your sweaty skin was illuminated under the harsh glow of the bathroom lights. You heaved in deep breaths, emphasizing your bra-covered chest as you did so. Her eyes traveled down the length of your body, seeing all of the bruises, cuts, and scars that were there.
Each mark along the canvas of your skin had a story behind it. Someone did that to you and you killed them for it. Hyun-ju can practically visualize the mountain of people you laid to rest. It's hard to grapple with someone as ruthless of a killer as you could be so...human. She'd always imagined such people to be cold-hearted and devoid of emotion. The movies painted hitmen as villainous creatures with no sense of humanity left within. She realized now that the movies weren't entirely truthful.
Hyun-ju has seen that ruthless side of you. The way your eyes darken and all hesitation leave your body the moment your knife meets flesh.
She's also seen you cry as you hold a newborn in your hands. Broken, shakable, so out of your element and overcome with emotion that you silently wept.
It's hard to grapple with the dichotomy of you. A seasoned killer with a body count that exceeds most soldiers out in deployment and a woman who can look so feeble and wrecked when the people she cares about are in danger.
Finally, Hyun-ju sees the mess of blood along your side and the wound that caused it.
It’s deep. The layers of muscle split open with a pool of blood resting inside. Hyun-ju is no stranger to battle wounds, but it didn’t mean she was desensitized to them. She winces at the sight. Her nose slightly scrunched and her mouth pressed into a hard line.
“At least the bleeding stopped,” you mutter harshly, unzipping the medical kit. “Not too deep I hope?”
Hyun-ju bends slightly to get a better look. “I wouldn't call it shallow."
"I stopped the blade from completely going in. He wasn't very strong," you chuckle.
"There's a lot of blood. Are you going to pass out on me?”
You gave her a shake of your head, uncapping the bottle of isopropyl alcohol. You dump a bit directly on the wound, letting out a string of curses as you did so. Hyun-ju takes the bottle from your hand and shakes her head.
“If you’re going to do this, at least be a bit strategic with cleaning,” she says, taking a small cloth and soaking it with the alcohol. “Sit up on the sink so I can get a better look.”
You did as you were told, though the stiffness in your arms made it difficult to do so without saying fuck repeatedly. You sit awkwardly at the edge of the sink, trying not to cave your body inward to minimize the pain.
There's been many times where you found yourself in a less than ideal setting in order to treat wounds. A back-alley doctor would have you sitting on a stained chair with an IKEA lamp overhead and a rustic tray with packaged surgical supplies thrown haphazardly.
If anything, sitting uncomfortably on a sink in a clean bathroom is a much better setup than what you're accustomed to.
Hyun-ju presses the soaked gauze firmly at your side, feeling you jolt at the contact. You let out a slew of curses in languages Hyun-ju can’t decipher. With as much care as she could, Hyun-ju cleans the wound, wiping away the dried bits of blood around the area. You watch her brows dip in focus as her hand passes over the wound again and again.
You inhale sharply through your nose. “I can do this myself, y'know.”
“I don’t trust that you can do this yourself,” she says, pulling the cloth away to retrieve gloves and suture supplies. “Do you even have medical training?”
The beat of silence was enough of an answer. “Do you?”
Hyun-ju throws the dirty gauze into the sink before she snaps the gloves to her hands. She opens the package for the threaded needle, replying: “My mother was a nurse. I went into medical school, but during my mandatory military service I pivoted careers."
While you tend to close wounds with your bare hands gripping a straight-edge needle, Hyun-ju uses forceps, tweezers, and a curved needle—much like those back-alley doctors you would frequent. Her hands are precise as she places each stitch starting from the center. She goes deep into the wound where the fat and muscle meet. Your teeth press firmly as the needle makes it first pass.
"Was it hard? To switch careers like that?" you ask with a wince.
Hyun-ju shakes her head. "I think I knew deep down that medical school wasn't for me. I had a lot of conflicting feelings about my identity back then and it affected my performance at school. When I went into the military, I hoped it would…fix me. Turns out being around a bunch of misogynistic men twenty-four seven is really bad for your dysphoria."
"Oh, I'm…sorry you had to deal with that."
"It's fine, really." Hyun-ju lets out a weathered sigh, pausing her work. There's a distant look on her face. "Sometimes I catch myself missing my old life. On one hand, I was miserable, but at least I had people to lean back on. I had a good job, I had friends, and I still had my parents' support. I'd always wondered how different my life would've been if I had kept all of those things when I came out. I think about what my life would've been like if I never had my gender dysphoria at all. I hated myself for a long time because of it. A part of me still does."
You're quiet for a moment. It wasn't part of your training to learn to be empathetic. How to comfort someone when they've given you complex trauma or how to say the right things to ease the tension.
Some of the things she said you couldn't really comprehend. You've never been to school. You've always been on your own, even at a young age, so you don't know what it's like to have support. Medical school and military service were almost abstract in nature. Civilian things that you never had the chance to concern yourself with.
But you know what it's like to hate parts of yourself. To wish for things to be different.
"They're missing out on having a good person in their lives," you say. "Don't waste your energy on stupid people who let their ignorance cloud their perception of you. I know my opinion doesn't mean much, but you're easily the most interesting person I've met."
Hyun-ju's face is tinged pink, a bit surprised at your words. "Interesting?" she repeats.
You shrug. "Well, I thought you were beautiful when I first saw you," you correct, to which Hyun-ju's face flushed brighter. "Then you took charge during the rebellion. I never really got the chance to be good. I was conditioned since I was young to be ruthless and I learned to have no regard for human life, not even my own. I've done terrible, terrible things. I thought I was incapable of change. But you gave me the opportunity to be selfless. I realized I still have a bit of charity left in me to be fighting a losing battle for others. You changed a bit of how I saw myself."
The bathroom is silent, your words hanging in the air as Hyun-ju processed what you said.
Her eyes turned a bit glassy, her eyes narrowing a bit as if she didn't believe you. "You think so…highly of me."
Without a beat, you affirm: "I do."
"You thought I was beautiful?" Hyun-ju asks, quieter.
"I'll always find you beautiful," you say without hesitation. "Especially now."
Hyun-ju breaks out in a smile. It never fails to make your heart falter in its pace.
She picks up where she left off—finishing the first round of stitches before working on suturing the top layers of your skin. You watched her work, trying your hardest to remain still.
With the last stitch in place, you let out a sigh of relief. The skin already itches and pulls taut whenever you move. The adrenaline in your system dwindles down, making the pain more apparent.
You hum in approval. “Looks better than how I do it. One time I had to light the bottom of a fork and cauterize the wound so I could keep fighting.”
“A fork?” she asks in disbelief. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I closed a bullet hole with a hot kettle once,” you say, pointing to a circular scar on your hip with a jagged edge. “A doctor had to dig out the bullet afterwards. Healing that was a bitch.”
Hyun-ju scoffs. “So what you’re telling me is that if I hadn’t taken over, you wouldn't know how to close the wound properly?”
You lean back against the mirror, raising your hands in mock surrender. “All I’m saying is that I survived this long with my half-baked medical skills. But thank you anyways. Hurts a lot less when you do it.”
“I wonder why,” she muses, yanking the gloves off her hands and putting away all the supplies. Hyun-ju stands to her full height, her bare hand reaching to cup your injured face. “Are you still dizzy?”
You lean into her touch. The sink isn’t comfortable by any means, the porcelain digs into your ass and your legs are tense to keep yourself from falling. It’s still worth it because your legs are parted just enough for Hyun-ju to stand between them.
You wonder how she sees you now. Dirty, blood stained skin, black and blue from all the injuries. Completely unappealing by anyone’s standards.
Hyun-ju holds your face like it’s the last time she ever will. She looks at you like you’re everything to her.
“If I say yes, would you give me a kiss?” you ask softly.
Hyun-ju rolls her eyes with a small smile on her face. "You don't have to be dizzy for me to kiss you."
Hyun-ju presses closer, her hips just barely grazing yours. Your head tilts back until it hits the mirror behind you.
The obnoxiously pink and green bathroom is eclipsed by Hyun-ju. All you see is her. Her beautiful face, her concerned gaze, the soft outline of her lips. The splattering of blood across her face, contrasting her pale skin.
She leans in close until your lips mold against hers. The kiss is much different than before. Slow, gentle, unhurried. Like you have all the time in the world with her. Your body comes alive at her touch, entirely weak off of the care that seeps out of her. Your lips tingle with how light she kisses you.
When she pulls away, you let out a soft whine at the loss of contact.
“I would do anything you ask,” she says against your lips, delighted at how easily you melt beneath her.
Hyun-ju should've known you would exploit her willingness to appease you the moment the opportunity strikes.
“Anything?” you ask coyly.
You kiss her again, hungry and firm. You feel Hyun-ju’s body react, shivering against your body, pressing into you until there’s no space left.
The stitches at your side still throb hot and painful, but if anything it sends a sick thrill through your body. You burn with desire, building hot in your core with each second that passed. It pumps through your body, fueling your actions. You shift your hips forward, teetering at the edge of the sink, wrapping your legs around Hyun-ju’s hips to anchor yourself.
Hyun-ju’s lips part from yours, groaning at the feeling of your warm core against the half-hard bulge in her pants.
Before transitioning, Hyun-ju would have no problem getting hard and matching her partner's pace during sex. After a few years into hormone replacement therapy however, maintaining erections became a lot more difficult. It would take her a good ten minutes to even get hard enough to pleasure herself.
The first domino to fall—the first ember to the fire in her core—was having you fight earnestly and covered in blood as proof of your devotion to protect her.
Seeing you spread out in front of her now, blood still smeared across your skin, sparked her arousal like never before. Her cock quickly hardens between her legs at a rate she never thought possible.
“The guards…” she mutters, her hands are gripping your waist, keeping you from moving against her. Her eyes drift to the door at the other end of the bathroom.
Your lips find the hollow of her throat, kissing tenderly. Hyun-ju’s eyes fluttered closed, her hands gripping tighter. You feel the vibration of her moans beneath your lips, encouraging you to keep going. You nip her playfully before letting your tongue glide along the exposed skin, collecting all the sweat and blood with a pleased hum. Hyun-ju shudders, tilting her head back to give you more access.
You trace a path from the middle of her throat to the base of her jaw, sucking the delicate skin. Hyun-ju’s hips involuntarily stutter against your hot cunt, her cock aching, straining beneath the cotton of her underwear and the fabric of her loose pants.
“We can be quick,” you murmur into her ear, continuing your assault on her neck until every inch of it is covered in red splotches.
Hyun-ju moves again when you suck particularly hard at her pulse point. The bulge between her legs grew harder with each kiss. She feels the blunt edge of your teeth graze her skin, a subtle threat to keep going—a reminder that you're not at all tamed in the slightest.
The only reason your teeth don't tear into her is because you want her. You find her inciting. Worthy to mark, to claim, to moan her name out when her cock brushes against your clit.
“You’re injured,” she counters weakly. It sounds as if she’s trying to convince herself to stop before things get too real. Before all critical thought leaves her completely and she fills her mind with you.
You lean back to grip the edge of the sink with both hands, steadying yourself. A teasing smile graces your face as you grind against Hyun-ju, watching the control slip away from her.
Her cock strains against her pants, rubbing hard against your needy core. The grip she has on your hips is bordering on painful, but it only fans the flames of your arousal. The pain bites. It burns. It makes your cunt slick in your underwear with each pass against her tent. Hyun-ju bites her lower lip to keep herself from moaning too loudly.
“Don’t you want to make me feel better?” Your legs tighten around her, dragging your hips from the base of her cock to the tip in slow, precise movements.
Hyun-ju is breathing hard now, her face flushed, all rational thought dwindling with each roll of your body. "I do—fuck I want to—"
Her words catch behind a loud groan. Her hips match yours, giving you more friction.
"I want you Hyun-ju." It doesn't sound sweet or adoring. You say it like your feelings hurt to speak aloud. A primal urge that you can't help but act on. "I only want you. Only you."
She leans forward, capturing your lips once again. You aren't neat when you kiss and Hyun-ju realizes she doesn't want to be either.
Your lips ache at the contact, parting automatically when you feel Hyun-ju bite your lower lip. You feel her tongue soothe the skin before entering your mouth. The kiss is nothing short of messy and desperate. You don't give her control easily and she's grateful. She finds herself wanting to fight for your submission. She wants you to realize that she's more than capable of taking you on.
One of your hands leaves the edge of the sink, finding the bottom of Hyun-ju’s shirt. Your fingers graze at the skin beneath the cotton before pressing more firmly. Hyun-ju shivers at the contact but doesn’t break her kiss. The muscles of her abdomen flex as you travel further, her sweat gliding beneath your fingers until you reach Hyun-ju’s sports bra.
You mold your hand against her, feeling the weight of her breast. Hyun-ju breaks your kiss, shoving her face into neck as she moans. Your thumb brushes over her clothed nipple, feeling it harden beneath your touch. Hyun-ju pants in your ear, her cock twitching against you.
You massage her soft breast, coveting the sounds that come out of Hyun-ju with each roll of your hand.
You jolt when you feel Hyun-ju’s lips against your neck. A sweet, delicate kiss before Hyun-ju’s teeth sink into your skin—hard. The contrast of the pain sobers you. It clears your mind and makes you aware of how badly you need her. You gasp loudly, your cunt throbbing painfully at the harsh feeling. She licks the mark she gives you, tasting the salt of your sweat—the slight metallic twang from the blood of another player—before moving on to another patch of skin.
It gets harder to muffle your noises. Your hand leaves her shirt in favor of threading your fingers through her hair. Pulling her close, encouraging her to keep marking you.
Every movement hurts. When you arch your back, the stitches pulse in sync with your cunt. You don’t know if you’re moaning from pain or pleasure—everything blurs into a sensation that makes you feel alive.
“I—fuck—I need you, Hyun-ju,” you pant helplessly. “I want you—please—”
Hyun-ju is quick to muffle your needy voice with a harsh kiss. “Keep quiet for me, yeah? Let me take care of you.”
She reaches behind you to unclasp your bra before setting her sight downward.
You kick off your shoes just as Hyun-ju finds the waistband of your pants and underwear. She yanks them off of your body in one motion, revealing you to her wholly.
There isn’t a part of your body that isn’t marked with an injury of some kind. Faint scars and scabs scattering across your skin like constellations. You haven’t properly showered in days. Blood is still smeared across your entire face.
Yet Hyun-ju looks like ready to devour you. Her desire for you is palpable, evident in the way her breathing gets heavier, like it’s taking all of her strength to not break you right then and there. You’re spread out for her, cunt glistening and clenching around nothing—all for her and her alone.
“Fuck,” she breathes, completely and utterly wrecked.
You're left out of breath, eyes glassy and mouth parted.
Her fingers make tentative contact with your entrance, gathering the slick that has accumulated. A low moan escapes you as your legs spread wider, enticing her—tempting her.
Hyun-ju’s jaw is clenched tight, muscles in her jaw straining as your cunt squeezes her finger. She slowly inches her way deeper until she’s buried to the hilt. Your warmth envelops her finger, pulsing, before she's pulling back.
You’re so wound tight that any touch from her sends your body a wave of pleasure. It mixes with the terrible shocks of the stitches, melting any restraint you had left. Your spine tingles with each torturously slow drag of her finger. Arousal drips from your entrance and onto her hand. You bite hard on your lip to keep yourself from making too much noise, but it barely helps. Your hips buck into the pace she gives you, feeling hot all over.
Usually it’s you that takes reign when it comes to sex. You’re the one setting the pace. You’re the one on top, taking control in every aspect of the deed.
In the crime underworld, sex isn’t just an act—it’s leverage. It’s a favor. A test to see how easily you break. Assassins don’t make good fuck buddies because you second guess if their affection is genuine or just a ploy to get you exposed.
Hyun-ju is so apparently not like your past partners that for the first time, sex doesn't leave you with a sense of dread. She meets you where you're at. Her aggressive show of affection doesn't come across as threatening. It's a sign of devotion.
You feel wanted. Not because of whatever power you hold or the favors you can do, but because she just wants you. All of it. Even the monstrous parts that you can never break away from.
She adds another finger just as she finds that spot inside you that makes you jolt.
Your head hits the mirror harshly, your hand clasping over your mouth as you whine. Your body tenses up, trying to keep yourself balanced on the edge of the sink.
You’re trembling. Aching for more.
Hyun-ju can’t get enough of it. The sight of her fingers glistening as they drag out of you, catching the light. The way she’s in control of your pleasure and you give it to her with moans of her name. The pace she’s set for you is barely enough to scratch the itch that you have and it’s clear with the way your hips try to pick up speed.
The sound of your wet cunt fucking into her fingers makes her head spin.
“You’re sensitive,” Hyun-ju muses. “I wonder if you can last long like this.”
A sharp whine slips between your fingers. You pressed your palm harder against your mouth, trying to muffle any sounds that spill when Hyun-ju hits that spot. It gets harder and harder to remember that there are guards outside that could open the door to the bathrooms at any moment.
"I never—felt like this before," you say between gasps, slipping out from your hand. A little quiet, a bit scared to say out loud. "You feel so good."
Hyun-ju lets out a moan at that, like she's the one coming undone. Her fingers pick up speed, the sound of it echoing off the tiles of the bathroom. Your body responds in kind, tensing and shuddering with each punctual assault of your cunt.
Her fingers angle just right with enough pressure to make your mouth drop open. Hyun-ju is quick to muffle any noise with another kiss. Her tongue slides along yours, her fingers working you steadily, drawing out your pleasure until you're left a whining mess beneath her.
You grab onto her, rocking your hips, feeling so tense that you might burst every muscle in your body. You're so impossibly close. You tighten your hold onto Hyun-ju, burying your face into her hickey-marked neck, ready to release—
You let out a loud moan, the sound echoing off the colored tiles of the bathroom. "Fuck!"
Hyun-ju stops moving and you're left reeling. The fire that was burning bright and hot loses its momentum, dwindling until there's a sharp ache left behind. The stillness hits you like a slap on the face.
"Why the fuck did you stop?" you growl. "I was so clo—"
Hyun-ju grabs your face, her fingers digging into your skin, your jaw that's bruised and tender caught in her vice-like hold. You let out a pitiful whimper at the dull pain, gripping her wrist tightly.
"Keep quiet," she hisses, her face inches away from yours. She looks frustrated, ready to crush your jaw in her grip if you don't cooperate. "You don't want the guards to come in, do you?"
You're so pent up that you might cum just from Hyun-ju's authoritative tone. The cold air hits your open cunt, you're left heaving, angry with how empty you are.
Hyun-ju's heart falters at the sight of your withering glare, the hard grip you have on her wrist. She keeps you in her grasp, waiting, watching you grow impatient, unable to speak.
It's a dangerous game she's playing; intentionally waiting you out, prolonging your suffering. There's nothing soft or pliant about you now. Your mood was quick to change and your demeanor sharpened in a blink of an eye. In the back of Hyun-ju's mind, she wonders if that rage will turn on her. Does it take effort for you to not tear into her skin right then and there? Is she safe with you in her hands?
She kisses you, a lingering press of her lips against your chapped ones, like she knows exactly what to do to soothe your erratic mind. Your grip automatically relaxes, her hands moving to cupping your face gently. She holds you like that until your breathing evens out and you're no longer huffing like an angry bull.
Your eyes burn with leftover emotion, your fingers itching to take control. "I want you."
"We need to work on your manners," Hyun-ju mutters disapprovingly. "I know you can be nice."
You fume, feeling too much and not enough all at once. You're angry. You're scared. You're wanting something more than just sex, but you don't have a name for what you feel. It's new and it terrifies you.
You're at her mercy and you hate it.
You love it.
It scares you.
You trust her more than anything.
You want her to keep her trapped beneath you, taking her pleasure by your nails and teeth.
You crave that softness and the safety of her alone.
It's hard to not feel overwhelmed. To not bare your teeth when things don't go your way. You're so used to feeling uneasy, waiting for someone to pull the rug beneath your feet to make you off kilter.
You've trained your mind and body to react to the most subtle of threats. You know how to take control of dangerous negotiations. You know how to handle any weapon you can get your hands on.
"Tell me what you need," she says. Hyun-ju holds you closer, tilting her hips against yours. You tremble in her hold, already on the brink of coming undone. "I'll give it to you."
She pulls and pushes you out of your comfort zone, unknowingly spiraling your mind. This care is new to you. It burns you. It leaves you wondering how anyone is afraid of you with how easily you cave into her.
It's hard to let go of that control.
But you can try. For her. You can learn how to love Hyun-ju in the way she deserves.
"You, Hyun-ju," you rasp, longing to feel her again. Chasing her warmth with your hands on her chest, holding her, keeping yourself stable. "I need you. I'll be quiet, I promise. Just please…"
"Please what?" she whispers softly.
Hyun-ju sees the restraint, the effort it takes to not ruin her.
"Please fuck me," you say, swallowing down your pride and your shame, focusing on her. "Fuck me and I'll be yours."
It's the fuse that sets off the bomb. The right combination of words that gets Hyun-ju to pull you off of the sink so she could press you against the wall.
The freezing tiles nip at your bare back, but the sheer fire of your arousal keeps you from shivering. There's no more waiting. No teasing words or leftover anger. No guilt or shame. Just the want of each other. The need to invade the other's space, to feel each other in the most intimate way you know how.
Hyun-ju uses one hand to shove her pants and underwear down, just enough to free herself. The flush head of her cock brushes up against your clit and you bite down your lip to stifle a moan. You feel the press of her cock at your entrance, her pre-cum mixing with your own slick.
The sensation of her stretching you open is devastating.
Your breathing stutters as she presses further, her own sounds of pleasure ringing in your ears. You hand finds Hyun-ju's hair, gathering the silky strands in your fist.
"So fucking tight," Hyun-ju gasps, feeling you pull her deeper. She sinks inch by inch, your body respond in kind. You arch into her, moaning softly. "Relax for me."
"I'm trying," you whine, burying your face into the crook of her neck, inhaling the smell of her. Blood, her skin, her hair, her sweat. "You feel so good, so fucking good."
Her fingers digging into the bare flesh of your hip is the only warning you get before Hyun-ju bottoms out in one motion.
You make a sound that's primal, outside of your control, softly echoing off the walls. Your chest is flush against her, suffocating and all-encompassing.
It's sinful the way Hyun-ju looks completely undone by the sight of you. Her lower lip raw from the kissing, her face flushed with arousal.
The need for her claws inside of you.
The first thrust she gives you hurts more than you anticipated. The stretch of her cock agitates the wound at your side, but she hits that spot inside of you that makes the pain burn differently. It wrings out another sound out of you—broken and ruined.
Hyun-ju mistakes the sound as a sign for her to be gentle. She eases out carefully, meeting your hips in shallow thrusts. You can tell Hyun-ju is holding back, not wanting to cause you any discomfort.
It's not enough.
"Faster," you plea, breathless, desperation bleeding from your tone.
Hyun-ju shakes her head. "You're still hurt."
"I can take it," you insist, leaving open-mouth kisses along her jaw. Hyun-ju shudders, her hips still keeping that slow, steady rhythm. "I'll tell you if it's too much."
Hyun-ju slots her lips against yours before pushing deeper, a little faster than before. You gasp into her mouth, the pain slowly ebbing away until you're left with an ache that bleeds into pleasure. Her mouth slides off of yours, only to leave a trail of nips along your marked neck.
The tension in your body builds. It rises and rises, anticipation bursting in every crevice of your tired body. Her cock was made for you with how thoroughly she fills your aching cunt.
"Faster, Hyun-ju."
This time she listens, her hips rutting faster. Her cock slides out more, pressing into your body with harsher thrusts.
"Harder."
She lets out a choked moan into your neck, giving into your commands. Your body, all bruised and marked, eagerly takes her. The ache in your body tenses your muscles, leaving you breathless. Her cock hits you with military precision, perfectly fitting inside of you each time she bottoms out.
"You're taking me so good," she pants, losing herself in you. The sound of her fucking into your wet cunt is music to her ears. "I couldn't stop thinking about how hot you looked, covered in blood. I wanted to pull you into a room and fuck you until the timer ran out."
Your cunt tightens around Hyun-ju at the confession, her hips unconsciously moving faster.
You bury your head into her shoulder, moaning into the fabric of her jacket, the tension in your body winding tighter and tighter. Each thrust in sync with the involuntary noises coming out of you. It sounds foreign in your ears—all pitched and whiny and so unlike you.
"I wouldn't let them kill you," you gasp without thought. "I would hunt down every fucking player left in these games if it meant you would be safe. I only want you, more than anything."
Hyun-ju moans like your words left her wrecked. Her assault against your hips is erratic. You take each hit and you lose yourself in her.
She's everything you wanted.
"Just like that—" you moan, deep and guttural, "—you don't know what you're doing to me."
Her cock is so deep inside you that it knocks any air from your lungs. It makes your mind fuzzy. You can't tell where she ends and you begin.
"Tell me," she demands, hot and desperate, yearning for your praise above all else.
You shift through the pleasure, gathering whatever erratic thoughts lingering in your head into a coherent sentence. "I would tear through New York City all over again, just to have you come inside of me."
Hyun-ju stutters a moan, your words going straight to her cock, burning a fire in it's path.
"You changed me, Hyun-ju." The words fall out of your mouth without thought, each filled with unshakable adoration. You say it like it's devotion, like a hymn to a god. "I want to bring myself to my knees and have you cum repeatedly until you can't speak."
"More," she hisses, feeling her release draw closer.
"I want to memorize every part of your body better than my own. I'll deny myself pleasure if only to bring about yours."
It's becoming too much for her. Your body pressed against her, your tight cunt wrapping around her like a vice. "Please." The sound of your name on her tongue is warped with ecstasy.
You draw your lips close to her ear, wanting her to listen to every word without fail. "No one will ever capture my mind the way you do. No one will ever get me this wet. No one could ever make me feel like this—only you Hyun-ju."
The confession leaves her reeling. She lets out a broken sound, torn between a pleasure moan and a sob into your skin. Her movements are relentless, her only thought is to wreck you so thoroughly that you'll feel an echo of her after she's done with you. The idea that this untamable, dangerous woman is willing to give into her leaves Hyun-ju feeling weightless.
Drunk off the power over you. Knowing that her feelings burn just as intensely as yours
It's not quite love. Not yet at least.
You don't know how to feel softly, so you give Hyun-ju the closest thing you have. It's a deadly kind of devotion. Possessive, a touch wild, bordering on obsessive. The type of love that can leave marks on her soul, that will haunt her if she leaves.
Maybe you'll learn to love gently, without leaving scars with your nails and marks with your teeth.
Maybe you won't. Whatever the case may be, Hyun-ju accepts it. All of it. All of you.
The scraps of good in your heart and all the bad that fills your body.
You feel Hyun-ju press her forehead against you. So close yet not enough.
"You've ruined me for anyone else," Hyun-ju forces out, almost sobbing into you as the pressure keeps building. "I won't be able to cum without thinking about you."
"Please, Hyun-ju—" You can feel your climax approaching, your body teetering on the edge of an orgasm that will tear you apart. "I'm so close—fuck, fuck, fuck—"
You squeeze around her and it's enough for her to fall apart too.
The world blurs into nothing. You break and shatter into a million pieces as you cum hard on Hyun-ju's cock. Pleasure rips into every tight and aching muscle, violently undoing you in a way that makes you wonder how you could have enjoyed sex from any other person before. Your orgasm comes in powerful waves that rocks your body, thoroughly exerting all the energy left in your mangled body.
Hyun-ju fucks you through the painful pleasure in hard thrusts before her own climax following through.
Without warning, she bites down on your shoulder to keep herself muffled. You groan, arching into her, wanting more. She buries herself as deep as she could go as her own orgasm wrings out. Her blunt nails dig into the skin of your hips. Every nerve sparking—a domino effect that has her shuddering with each continual wave of sensation. Once the devastation runs its course through her body, all that's left is the warmth of your sweaty body clutching her.
Your pulse is thundering in your ears. Slowly, the world rebuilds in front of your eyes, bits and pieces of your composure coming back. Hyun-ju eases her teeth off of you and you whimper with the lingering ache it leaves behind. She kisses the mark and the skin surrounding it. Softly. Tenderly. Soothing away the pain she caused.
The tension eases out of your body. You let yourself linger in her hold, feeling her cock soften inside of you.
You want nothing more to stay like this. Keep her trapped in your hold, letting the world dissolve to nothing.
What you want to do and what you should do come at odds.
You swallow hard, suddenly aware of the time that's passed since you came inside the bathroom. "We should…"
"O-Oh, right."
You slowly untangle your legs. If you weren't embracing Hyun-ju, your shaky legs would've buckled under your own weight. She tucks herself back into her pants as you catch your breath. You lean against the sink while she finds your discarded clothes along the floor.
Without a word, Hyun-ju dresses you. A bit of shame prickles under your chest, but you're so tired that you can't find any energy to voice a protest. Hyun-ju is careful when she gets your underwear on. When she goes to clasp your bra, her arms embrace you tightly as if putting on your bra was only an excuse to get you close. You lean into her, savoring the close contact before she moves on to the other articles of clothing. She lets you use her for balance when she puts your panties on. Your t-shirt and pants go next, still exhibiting the same attentive care.
"Thank you," you murmur once you're all dressed. Reality settles into your bones, the presence of the guards outside weighing on your mind. You rub your neck awkwardly. "For everything, not just the sex."
Hyun-ju kisses your cheek. Nothing more than a sweet peck of her lips, but it somehow felt more intimate than whatever happened just moments ago. She's prying open your soul with nothing but gentleness, something that you didn't know you were starved of until you've had a taste.
"Don't worry about it," she says simply. "Let's just get out of here."
She takes the med kit into one hand and tugs you along with the other. You let her pull you along, your body barely keeping you steady. Each footstep in sync with your slowing pulse.
The bathroom feels so much larger than when you first walked in. The tiles beneath your feet seemingly stretched twice as long as before.
Hyun-ju anchors you, keeping you moving forward with her. She pushes open the door and leads you out with her head held high.
The two guards don't spare a second glance. You know they see your wrinkled clothes and Hyun-ju's marked neck. Whatever comments they might have are kept to themselves. They take the med kit and march back to the dormitory in silence.
All the other players—nearly half of what you started with in the beginning of the day—stood in two distinct groups. One group illuminated by a saturated blue and the other bathed in a warm red. Everyone turned in your direction when the two of you walked in.
You let out a staggered sigh of relief at the sight of Geum-ja, Yong-sik, and Jun-hee standing in the red group. Their haunted faces instantly brightened, tears of joy pricking their eyes seeing you alive and well.
You glance back at the other players. No one stands on the sidelines.
"Player 120," a guard announces, standing at the front of the room. "Please cast your vote."
You glance up at the large screen above the room.
Twelve votes for continuing the games.
Eleven to stop them.
You and Hyun-ju are the only players left to vote. The deciding factor for this round of voting.
Hyun-ju comes to the same realization, her eyes widening. She gives you a hand squeeze before casting her vote.
The machine beeps and the red group starts to stir with hope.
An even split. Leaving you as the tiebreaker.
"Player 249, please cast your vote."
Players try to voice their opinions—the blue side erupting in threats to kill you when they're let out. The red team begging you to put an end to their suffering once and for all.
There's no hesitation when you walk up to the machine. You slam your hand over the red button, as quick and efficient as your kills out in the maze.
You watch the tally for the red team go up—the number thirteen shining as bright as the hope blooming in your chest.
The agonized players erupt into cheer. The blue players shouting every curse they could at you.
None of them matter.
Hyun-ju is waiting for you with her arms open and the biggest smile you've seen on her face. You crush her into a hug, tears pricking your eyes.
"It's over," Hyun-ju laughs, relieved, exhausted, and ecstatic all at once. "We're going home—we're free."
The rest of your group is quick to hug you too. Geum-ja wails in happiness, Yong-sik grips onto you like you're his salvation, and Jun-hee leans her head against your shoulder, her baby nestled tightly in her arms. You cry into them, overcome with guilt, joy, and everything in between.
Hope no longer feels foolish to hold in your chest. It becomes real. A future with the people you love. A new path laid out where the sun shines brighter, the air is fresher, and every morning sparks you with life instead of dread.
The best part of it all, you won't spend it alone.
For once in your entire, miserable life, your choice to leave felt right.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚ PLEASE LIKE, COMMENT, AND REBLOG ❤︎
ADDITIONAL NOTES: hope you guys enjoyed! i plan on writing a full on story about hitman!reader and hyun-ju in the future, after i tackle my grim reaper story. feel free to flood my inbox with thoughts and maybe i'll write more ;) xoxo
❝ every movement hurts. when you arch your back, the stitches pulse in sync with your cunt. you don’t know if you’re moaning from pain or pleasure—everything blurs into a sensation that makes you feel alive. ❞
PAIRING: cho hyun-ju x f!reader
GENRE: romance, fix-it fic, smut
WORD COUNT: 8.5K
WARNINGS: slight squid game spoilers! SMUT, p in v sex, hyun-ju has a penis, AFAB reader, reader has scars and injuries, descriptions of needles and wound stitching, vaginal fingering, reader has masochistic tendencies, reader is a bit feral and hyun-ju tries tame her, injury play (mild), blood kink, sex with feelings, bathroom sex, orgasm via penetration, creampie, happy ending :')
NOTES: this chapter took longer than expect whoops. no beta we die like virgins. anyways, here's the long awaited bathroom sex scene.
✩ CHAPTER ONE | | CHO HYUN-JU MASTERLIST
The alarm is sudden, screeching in your ears like an emergency siren.
The guards come filing into the maze quickly after the timer runs out. They appear like ghosts from secret passageways, guns in their hands aimed ahead of them.
You and Hyun-ju part away from each other with your hands up just as two guards block the entrance of the hallway with their guns raised. The rest of the guards scatter to fill the maze, gunshots already firing.
You're aware of the mismatched number that you're wearing. Your heart pounds, blood dripping down your side is slow rivulets.
“Exchanging vests in the middle of the game is against the rules,” a circle guard says, their gun raised to your head.
You exchange a side-ways glance at Hyun-ju, your stomach twisting into knots. A harsh I told you so sits heavy on your tongue, but you keep it to yourself. There’s no point in arguing now. At least the other three had a chance to escape. Hopefully they did.
If you die here, at least you died protecting those who deserved to live. You're no longer a glorified lapdog to an overachieving Russian crime boss. No contracts. No debt. No more back stabbing and blood feuds that have nothing to do with you.
At least your last kiss is with someone you care about. You hope that Hyun-ju feels the same sentiment.
A radio beeps. A monotone voice rings through. “Do not execute Players 120 and 249. Return them to the dormitory.”
Your heart stalls in your chest. Hyun-ju looks just as perplexed as you.
Without objection, the guards lower their weapons.
That simple, huh? you thought bitterly.
“Follow us,” one of the guards says, before turning on their heels.
You walk slowly from one of the hidden doors that the guards came from. The hallway splits open to a white passageway that leads back to the colorful stairs that connect to every room in this place. You focus all of your energy into putting one foot in front of the other. The muscle cramps combined with the stab wound make it hard to do so, however.
All of the exertion you put your body through catches up to you. Blood seeps through your side in steady streams. Your vision blurs with each limp up the stairs. You’re simultaneously hot and cold all over, your body feeling numb, your eyes closing for a second too long—
You would’ve tripped down the stairs if it weren’t for Hyun-ju staying close beside you. Her arms were quick to catch you, pulling you upright. Pain erupts from your side, hissing through your teeth at the sensation.
You let out a ragged exhale. “Everything hurts, fuck.”
“We need to keep going,” a guard says in their steady, monotone voice.
“She’s lost a lot of blood!” she barks at the masked guards. “She needs medical attention, can’t you see that?”
One of the guards with a circle on its mask walks up to the two of you. They crouch down to move your hand out of the way to inspect the damage. After a few moments, they retrieve the walkie-talkie from their belt.
“Player 249 received a stab wound to the abdomen, should we administer treatment?” the guard asks.
The radio beeps before a voice comes through from the other end. “Does she require hospitalization?”
“If you give me some alcohol, needle, thread, and gauze, I can do it myself,” you groan. “Won’t take too long.”
“She says she can do it herself with given medical equipment,” the guard relays. “Do we proceed?”
The person on the other end doesn’t respond immediately.
Hyun-ju takes off her vest and keeps pressure against your side. It’s hard to keep your eyes open.
Seconds ticked by before the radio beeps again.
“Give her the supplies she needs. Take them to the bathrooms, away from other players.”
— — —
The bathrooms are empty as the two of you walk in.
The medical kit the guards give you looks a bit more sophisticated than a simple first-aid kit. It comes with full bottles of various anti-septic solutions, rolls of gauze, needles, and various medical instruments. Forceps, scalpel, scissors—basically enough to perform minor surgery on you if need be.
A sticky note is attached to the top. In neat Chinese characters written in red ink you read:
To my favorite killer and Player. I spent a lot of money on you and would hate to see it go to waste.
At the very bottom of the note is a stamped insignia of a peony blossom with delicate flourish surrounding it like a halo.
You click your tongue in disapproval.
“Who’s it from?” Hyun-ju asks, peering over your shoulder, reading the handwriting.
“Old connection from China,” you reply with a clipped tone.
The woman who wrote the note—and likely vetted for the two of you to live—is the only person you would consider to be a demon among men. Heartless. Cruel. Cunning. A woman who had no trouble killing her own parents to accelerate her claim of inheritance. She held power between her ruby-encrusted nails and harbored homicide in her heart. The only two reasons she would've kept you alive is to win any bets she may have placed on you and to have you repay her later. Whatever that might entail.
The note doesn’t just serve as a saving grace for your troubles, it’s also the hardest confirmation that the games aren’t just a means to exterminate the poor and to feed the blood lust of the guards.
You were bet on like the race horse—and by the looks of it, on winning the games.
“Why would they be here?”
“Think about it,” you say, limping further into the bathroom until you reach the furthest sink. “Why would anyone go through the trouble of rigging this whole thing up?"
Hyun-ju shrugs. "To kill people, I suppose."
"Let me rephrase that. Why would you play hide and seek, mingle, or ddakji?” you ask.
Hyun-ju pauses mid-stride, an uneasy feeling settling in her chest. “For entertainment.”
You snap your finger in approval. “For entertainment. That’s what we are to them, and apparently to my old friend from China.”
You spit the word friend like it’s acid.
The underworld stretches far, embeds itself into every facet of society—especially the part of society where the richest and most elite people gather. These people are sub-human. No warmth, or trust, or safety could be found there—nothing to sustain any friendly relationship. You've spent the better part of ten years serving those very people, catering to their blood lust, helping them secure their power with the end of your blade and the barrel of your gun. They may shelter you, give you luxurious gifts, and take you under their wing, but they hold a tight leash on you, shackling and suffocating like you were just a dog.
You hope to get rid of their influence once in for all. To stop bathing in blood and breaking every bone in your body just to survive. You want to live your life. To carry out your childhood dreams of living in a nice house, going to bed with a full stomach, and never having a weapon wherever you go. Living in ignorance of all the horrors of the world. Safe. Happy. Loved.
When you left New York, hope blossomed in your chest. Finally, you would live without a collar held tight around your throat.
All of that seems too naive to dream about in retrospect. You should've known how deep the crime world had seeped into your bones.
Your old boss wanted to keep you by your side, even after you repaid any debt to him. Viggo Tarasov didn't want to give you any freedoms outside of work. It meant giving you pennies of real world currency so that you had to rely on him for food, for shelter, for clothes—all so that you felt dependent on him. It never truly worked. The both of you knew that you were the reason he had any sort of power to begin with. He may be your boss, but you lacked any true loyalty towards him. He feared you for that.
You may have walked out of New York with the blood of a hundred men flowing through the streets, but you left without any real sense of what to do next. It became clear to you just how reckless and foolish you really were.
Your apartment was seized and any money you managed to scrape up was taken. All that was left was a ticket to Incheon you kept in a personal safe at the Continental hotel—the only place that was a haven from violence.
You arrived in South Korea with nothing. In your daze and desperation, a man with a briefcase, charming smile, and two colored squares asked you to play ddakji.
In the end, you won ₩300,000. Barely enough to cover any living expenses in a foreign country.
You agreed to join the games, even though you knew that no one would go around giving money without a price.
"Let's just get this over with," you say bitterly.
You toss the med kit into the sink before peeling away the first layer of clothing. As you pull your arms up, you felt the tear in your body throb, the skin threatening to split further. You grit your teeth, forcing yourself to continue.
Whatever straight-faced composure Hyun-ju told herself to keep was thrown out the window the moment you started to undress. With a wince, you discarded the green jacket and stained t-shirt to the side, not bothering to see where they landed.
Hyun-ju is deeply aware of how serious the situation is.
You were stabbed—thankfully not fatal—but you were still heavily injured. You could barely stand upright.
But she couldn’t stop herself from eyeing you down. Your sweaty skin was illuminated under the harsh glow of the bathroom lights. You heaved in deep breaths, emphasizing your bra-covered chest as you did so. Her eyes traveled down the length of your body, seeing all of the bruises, cuts, and scars that were there.
Each mark along the canvas of your skin had a story behind it. Someone did that to you and you killed them for it. Hyun-ju can practically visualize the mountain of people you laid to rest. It's hard to grapple with someone as ruthless of a killer as you could be so...human. She'd always imagined such people to be cold-hearted and devoid of emotion. The movies painted hitmen as villainous creatures with no sense of humanity left within. She realized now that the movies weren't entirely truthful.
Hyun-ju has seen that ruthless side of you. The way your eyes darken and all hesitation leave your body the moment your knife meets flesh.
She's also seen you cry as you hold a newborn in your hands. Broken, shakable, so out of your element and overcome with emotion that you silently wept.
It's hard to grapple with the dichotomy of you. A seasoned killer with a body count that exceeds most soldiers out in deployment and a woman who can look so feeble and wrecked when the people she cares about are in danger.
Finally, Hyun-ju sees the mess of blood along your side and the wound that caused it.
It’s deep. The layers of muscle split open with a pool of blood resting inside. Hyun-ju is no stranger to battle wounds, but it didn’t mean she was desensitized to them. She winces at the sight. Her nose slightly scrunched and her mouth pressed into a hard line.
“At least the bleeding stopped,” you mutter harshly, unzipping the medical kit. “Not too deep I hope?”
Hyun-ju bends slightly to get a better look. “I wouldn't call it shallow."
"I stopped the blade from completely going in. He wasn't very strong," you chuckle.
"There's a lot of blood. Are you going to pass out on me?”
You gave her a shake of your head, uncapping the bottle of isopropyl alcohol. You dump a bit directly on the wound, letting out a string of curses as you did so. Hyun-ju takes the bottle from your hand and shakes her head.
“If you’re going to do this, at least be a bit strategic with cleaning,” she says, taking a small cloth and soaking it with the alcohol. “Sit up on the sink so I can get a better look.”
You did as you were told, though the stiffness in your arms made it difficult to do so without saying fuck repeatedly. You sit awkwardly at the edge of the sink, trying not to cave your body inward to minimize the pain.
There's been many times where you found yourself in a less than ideal setting in order to treat wounds. A back-alley doctor would have you sitting on a stained chair with an IKEA lamp overhead and a rustic tray with packaged surgical supplies thrown haphazardly.
If anything, sitting uncomfortably on a sink in a clean bathroom is a much better setup than what you're accustomed to.
Hyun-ju presses the soaked gauze firmly at your side, feeling you jolt at the contact. You let out a slew of curses in languages Hyun-ju can’t decipher. With as much care as she could, Hyun-ju cleans the wound, wiping away the dried bits of blood around the area. You watch her brows dip in focus as her hand passes over the wound again and again.
You inhale sharply through your nose. “I can do this myself, y'know.”
“I don’t trust that you can do this yourself,” she says, pulling the cloth away to retrieve gloves and suture supplies. “Do you even have medical training?”
The beat of silence was enough of an answer. “Do you?”
Hyun-ju throws the dirty gauze into the sink before she snaps the gloves to her hands. She opens the package for the threaded needle, replying: “My mother was a nurse. I went into medical school, but during my mandatory military service I pivoted careers."
While you tend to close wounds with your bare hands gripping a straight-edge needle, Hyun-ju uses forceps, tweezers, and a curved needle—much like those back-alley doctors you would frequent. Her hands are precise as she places each stitch starting from the center. She goes deep into the wound where the fat and muscle meet. Your teeth press firmly as the needle makes it first pass.
"Was it hard? To switch careers like that?" you ask with a wince.
Hyun-ju shakes her head. "I think I knew deep down that medical school wasn't for me. I had a lot of conflicting feelings about my identity back then and it affected my performance at school. When I went into the military, I hoped it would…fix me. Turns out being around a bunch of misogynistic men twenty-four seven is really bad for your dysphoria."
"Oh, I'm…sorry you had to deal with that."
"It's fine, really." Hyun-ju lets out a weathered sigh, pausing her work. There's a distant look on her face. "Sometimes I catch myself missing my old life. On one hand, I was miserable, but at least I had people to lean back on. I had a good job, I had friends, and I still had my parents' support. I'd always wondered how different my life would've been if I had kept all of those things when I came out. I think about what my life would've been like if I never had my gender dysphoria at all. I hated myself for a long time because of it. A part of me still does."
You're quiet for a moment. It wasn't part of your training to learn to be empathetic. How to comfort someone when they've given you complex trauma or how to say the right things to ease the tension.
Some of the things she said you couldn't really comprehend. You've never been to school. You've always been on your own, even at a young age, so you don't know what it's like to have support. Medical school and military service were almost abstract in nature. Civilian things that you never had the chance to concern yourself with.
But you know what it's like to hate parts of yourself. To wish for things to be different.
"They're missing out on having a good person in their lives," you say. "Don't waste your energy on stupid people who let their ignorance cloud their perception of you. I know my opinion doesn't mean much, but you're easily the most interesting person I've met."
Hyun-ju's face is tinged pink, a bit surprised at your words. "Interesting?" she repeats.
You shrug. "Well, I thought you were beautiful when I first saw you," you correct, to which Hyun-ju's face flushed brighter. "Then you took charge during the rebellion. I never really got the chance to be good. I was conditioned since I was young to be ruthless and I learned to have no regard for human life, not even my own. I've done terrible, terrible things. I thought I was incapable of change. But you gave me the opportunity to be selfless. I realized I still have a bit of charity left in me to be fighting a losing battle for others. You changed a bit of how I saw myself."
The bathroom is silent, your words hanging in the air as Hyun-ju processed what you said.
Her eyes turned a bit glassy, her eyes narrowing a bit as if she didn't believe you. "You think so…highly of me."
Without a beat, you affirm: "I do."
"You thought I was beautiful?" Hyun-ju asks, quieter.
"I'll always find you beautiful," you say without hesitation. "Especially now."
Hyun-ju breaks out in a smile. It never fails to make your heart falter in its pace.
She picks up where she left off—finishing the first round of stitches before working on suturing the top layers of your skin. You watched her work, trying your hardest to remain still.
With the last stitch in place, you let out a sigh of relief. The skin already itches and pulls taut whenever you move. The adrenaline in your system dwindles down, making the pain more apparent.
You hum in approval. “Looks better than how I do it. One time I had to light the bottom of a fork and cauterize the wound so I could keep fighting.”
“A fork?” she asks in disbelief. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I closed a bullet hole with a hot kettle once,” you say, pointing to a circular scar on your hip with a jagged edge. “A doctor had to dig out the bullet afterwards. Healing that was a bitch.”
Hyun-ju scoffs. “So what you’re telling me is that if I hadn’t taken over, you wouldn't know how to close the wound properly?”
You lean back against the mirror, raising your hands in mock surrender. “All I’m saying is that I survived this long with my half-baked medical skills. But thank you anyways. Hurts a lot less when you do it.”
“I wonder why,” she muses, yanking the gloves off her hands and putting away all the supplies. Hyun-ju stands to her full height, her bare hand reaching to cup your injured face. “Are you still dizzy?”
You lean into her touch. The sink isn’t comfortable by any means, the porcelain digs into your ass and your legs are tense to keep yourself from falling. It’s still worth it because your legs are parted just enough for Hyun-ju to stand between them.
You wonder how she sees you now. Dirty, blood stained skin, black and blue from all the injuries. Completely unappealing by anyone’s standards.
Hyun-ju holds your face like it’s the last time she ever will. She looks at you like you’re everything to her.
“If I say yes, would you give me a kiss?” you ask softly.
Hyun-ju rolls her eyes with a small smile on her face. "You don't have to be dizzy for me to kiss you."
Hyun-ju presses closer, her hips just barely grazing yours. Your head tilts back until it hits the mirror behind you.
The obnoxiously pink and green bathroom is eclipsed by Hyun-ju. All you see is her. Her beautiful face, her concerned gaze, the soft outline of her lips. The splattering of blood across her face, contrasting her pale skin.
She leans in close until your lips mold against hers. The kiss is much different than before. Slow, gentle, unhurried. Like you have all the time in the world with her. Your body comes alive at her touch, entirely weak off of the care that seeps out of her. Your lips tingle with how light she kisses you.
When she pulls away, you let out a soft whine at the loss of contact.
“I would do anything you ask,” she says against your lips, delighted at how easily you melt beneath her.
Hyun-ju should've known you would exploit her willingness to appease you the moment the opportunity strikes.
“Anything?” you ask coyly.
You kiss her again, hungry and firm. You feel Hyun-ju’s body react, shivering against your body, pressing into you until there’s no space left.
The stitches at your side still throb hot and painful, but if anything it sends a sick thrill through your body. You burn with desire, building hot in your core with each second that passed. It pumps through your body, fueling your actions. You shift your hips forward, teetering at the edge of the sink, wrapping your legs around Hyun-ju’s hips to anchor yourself.
Hyun-ju’s lips part from yours, groaning at the feeling of your warm core against the half-hard bulge in her pants.
Before transitioning, Hyun-ju would have no problem getting hard and matching her partner's pace during sex. After a few years into hormone replacement therapy however, maintaining erections became a lot more difficult. It would take her a good ten minutes to even get hard enough to pleasure herself.
The first domino to fall—the first ember to the fire in her core—was having you fight earnestly and covered in blood as proof of your devotion to protect her.
Seeing you spread out in front of her now, blood still smeared across your skin, sparked her arousal like never before. Her cock quickly hardens between her legs at a rate she never thought possible.
“The guards…” she mutters, her hands are gripping your waist, keeping you from moving against her. Her eyes drift to the door at the other end of the bathroom.
Your lips find the hollow of her throat, kissing tenderly. Hyun-ju’s eyes fluttered closed, her hands gripping tighter. You feel the vibration of her moans beneath your lips, encouraging you to keep going. You nip her playfully before letting your tongue glide along the exposed skin, collecting all the sweat and blood with a pleased hum. Hyun-ju shudders, tilting her head back to give you more access.
You trace a path from the middle of her throat to the base of her jaw, sucking the delicate skin. Hyun-ju’s hips involuntarily stutter against your hot cunt, her cock aching, straining beneath the cotton of her underwear and the fabric of her loose pants.
“We can be quick,” you murmur into her ear, continuing your assault on her neck until every inch of it is covered in red splotches.
Hyun-ju moves again when you suck particularly hard at her pulse point. The bulge between her legs grew harder with each kiss. She feels the blunt edge of your teeth graze her skin, a subtle threat to keep going—a reminder that you're not at all tamed in the slightest.
The only reason your teeth don't tear into her is because you want her. You find her inciting. Worthy to mark, to claim, to moan her name out when her cock brushes against your clit.
“You’re injured,” she counters weakly. It sounds as if she’s trying to convince herself to stop before things get too real. Before all critical thought leaves her completely and she fills her mind with you.
You lean back to grip the edge of the sink with both hands, steadying yourself. A teasing smile graces your face as you grind against Hyun-ju, watching the control slip away from her.
Her cock strains against her pants, rubbing hard against your needy core. The grip she has on your hips is bordering on painful, but it only fans the flames of your arousal. The pain bites. It burns. It makes your cunt slick in your underwear with each pass against her tent. Hyun-ju bites her lower lip to keep herself from moaning too loudly.
“Don’t you want to make me feel better?” Your legs tighten around her, dragging your hips from the base of her cock to the tip in slow, precise movements.
Hyun-ju is breathing hard now, her face flushed, all rational thought dwindling with each roll of your body. "I do—fuck I want to—"
Her words catch behind a loud groan. Her hips match yours, giving you more friction.
"I want you Hyun-ju." It doesn't sound sweet or adoring. You say it like your feelings hurt to speak aloud. A primal urge that you can't help but act on. "I only want you. Only you."
She leans forward, capturing your lips once again. You aren't neat when you kiss and Hyun-ju realizes she doesn't want to be either.
Your lips ache at the contact, parting automatically when you feel Hyun-ju bite your lower lip. You feel her tongue soothe the skin before entering your mouth. The kiss is nothing short of messy and desperate. You don't give her control easily and she's grateful. She finds herself wanting to fight for your submission. She wants you to realize that she's more than capable of taking you on.
One of your hands leaves the edge of the sink, finding the bottom of Hyun-ju’s shirt. Your fingers graze at the skin beneath the cotton before pressing more firmly. Hyun-ju shivers at the contact but doesn’t break her kiss. The muscles of her abdomen flex as you travel further, her sweat gliding beneath your fingers until you reach Hyun-ju’s sports bra.
You mold your hand against her, feeling the weight of her breast. Hyun-ju breaks your kiss, shoving her face into neck as she moans. Your thumb brushes over her clothed nipple, feeling it harden beneath your touch. Hyun-ju pants in your ear, her cock twitching against you.
You massage her soft breast, coveting the sounds that come out of Hyun-ju with each roll of your hand.
You jolt when you feel Hyun-ju’s lips against your neck. A sweet, delicate kiss before Hyun-ju’s teeth sink into your skin—hard. The contrast of the pain sobers you. It clears your mind and makes you aware of how badly you need her. You gasp loudly, your cunt throbbing painfully at the harsh feeling. She licks the mark she gives you, tasting the salt of your sweat—the slight metallic twang from the blood of another player—before moving on to another patch of skin.
It gets harder to muffle your noises. Your hand leaves her shirt in favor of threading your fingers through her hair. Pulling her close, encouraging her to keep marking you.
Every movement hurts. When you arch your back, the stitches pulse in sync with your cunt. You don’t know if you’re moaning from pain or pleasure—everything blurs into a sensation that makes you feel alive.
“I—fuck—I need you, Hyun-ju,” you pant helplessly. “I want you—please—”
Hyun-ju is quick to muffle your needy voice with a harsh kiss. “Keep quiet for me, yeah? Let me take care of you.”
She reaches behind you to unclasp your bra before setting her sight downward.
You kick off your shoes just as Hyun-ju finds the waistband of your pants and underwear. She yanks them off of your body in one motion, revealing you to her wholly.
There isn’t a part of your body that isn’t marked with an injury of some kind. Faint scars and scabs scattering across your skin like constellations. You haven’t properly showered in days. Blood is still smeared across your entire face.
Yet Hyun-ju looks like she's ready to devour you. Her desire for you is palpable, evident in the way her breathing gets heavier, like it’s taking all of her strength to not break you right then and there. You’re spread out for her, cunt glistening and clenching around nothing—all for her and her alone.
“Fuck,” she breathes, completely and utterly wrecked.
You're left out of breath, eyes glassy and mouth parted.
Her fingers make tentative contact with your entrance, gathering the slick that has accumulated. A low moan escapes you as your legs spread wider, enticing her—tempting her.
Hyun-ju’s jaw is clenched tight, muscles in her jaw straining as your cunt squeezes her finger. She slowly inches her way deeper until she’s buried to the hilt. Your warmth envelops her finger, pulsing, before she's pulling back.
You’re so wound tight that any touch from her sends your body a wave of pleasure. It mixes with the terrible shocks of the stitches, melting any restraint you had left. Your spine tingles with each torturously slow drag of her finger. Arousal drips from your entrance and onto her hand. You bite hard on your lip to keep yourself from making too much noise, but it barely helps. Your hips buck into the pace she gives you, feeling hot all over.
Usually it’s you that takes reign when it comes to sex. You’re the one setting the pace. You’re the one on top, taking control in every aspect of the deed.
In the crime underworld, sex isn’t just an act—it’s leverage. It’s a favor. A test to see how easily you break. Assassins don’t make good fuck buddies because you second guess if their affection is genuine or just a ploy to get you exposed.
Hyun-ju is so apparently not like your past partners that for the first time, sex doesn't leave you with a sense of dread. She meets you where you're at. Her aggressive show of affection doesn't come across as threatening. It's a sign of devotion.
You feel wanted. Not because of whatever power you hold or the favors you can do, but because she just wants you. All of it. Even the monstrous parts that you can never break away from.
She adds another finger just as she finds that spot inside you that makes you jolt.
Your head hits the mirror harshly, your hand clasping over your mouth as you whine. Your body tenses up, trying to keep yourself balanced on the edge of the sink.
You’re trembling. Aching for more.
Hyun-ju can’t get enough of it. The sight of her fingers glistening as they drag out of you, catching the light. The way she’s in control of your pleasure and you give it to her with moans of her name. The pace she’s set for you is barely enough to scratch the itch that you have and it’s clear with the way your hips try to pick up speed.
The sound of your wet cunt fucking into her fingers makes her head spin.
“You’re sensitive,” Hyun-ju muses. “I wonder if you can last long like this.”
A sharp whine slips between your fingers. You pressed your palm harder against your mouth, trying to muffle any sounds that spill when Hyun-ju hits that spot. It gets harder and harder to remember that there are guards outside that could open the door to the bathrooms at any moment.
"I never—felt like this before," you say between gasps, slipping out from your hand. A little quiet, a bit scared to say out loud. "You feel so good."
Hyun-ju lets out a moan at that, like she's the one coming undone. Her fingers pick up speed, the sound of it echoing off the tiles of the bathroom. Your body responds in kind, tensing and shuddering with each punctual assault of your cunt.
Her fingers angle just right with enough pressure to make your mouth drop open. Hyun-ju is quick to muffle any noise with another kiss. Her tongue slides along yours, her fingers working you steadily, drawing out your pleasure until you're left a whining mess beneath her.
You grab onto her, rocking your hips, feeling so tense that you might burst every muscle in your body. You're so impossibly close. You tighten your hold onto Hyun-ju, burying your face into her hickey-marked neck, ready to release—
You let out a loud moan, the sound echoing off the colored tiles of the bathroom. "Fuck!"
Hyun-ju stops moving and you're left reeling. The fire that was burning bright and hot loses its momentum, dwindling until there's a sharp ache left behind. The stillness hits you like a slap on the face.
"Why the fuck did you stop?" you growl. "I was so clo—"
Hyun-ju grabs your face, her fingers digging into your skin, your jaw that's bruised and tender caught in her vice-like hold. You let out a pitiful whimper at the dull pain, gripping her wrist tightly.
"Keep quiet," she hisses, her face inches away from yours. She looks frustrated, ready to crush your jaw in her grip if you don't cooperate. "You don't want the guards to come in, do you?"
You're so pent up that you might cum just from Hyun-ju's authoritative tone. The cold air hits your open cunt, you're left heaving, angry with how empty you are.
Hyun-ju's heart falters at the sight of your withering glare, the hard grip you have on her wrist. She keeps you in her grasp, waiting, watching you grow impatient, unable to speak.
It's a dangerous game she's playing; intentionally waiting you out, prolonging your suffering. There's nothing soft or pliant about you now. Your mood was quick to change and your demeanor sharpened in a blink of an eye. In the back of Hyun-ju's mind, she wonders if that rage will turn on her. Does it take effort for you to not tear into her skin right then and there? Is she safe with you in her hands?
She kisses you, a lingering press of her lips against your chapped ones, like she knows exactly what to do to soothe your erratic mind. Your grip automatically relaxes, her hands moving to cupping your face gently. She holds you like that until your breathing evens out and you're no longer huffing like an angry bull.
Your eyes burn with leftover emotion, your fingers itching to take control. "I want you."
"We need to work on your manners," Hyun-ju mutters disapprovingly. "I know you can be nice."
You fume, feeling too much and not enough all at once. You're angry. You're scared. You're wanting something more than just sex, but you don't have a name for what you feel. It's new and it terrifies you.
You're at her mercy and you hate it.
You love it.
It scares you.
You trust her more than anything.
You want her to keep her trapped beneath you, taking her pleasure by your nails and teeth.
You crave that softness and the safety of her alone.
It's hard to not feel overwhelmed. To not bare your teeth when things don't go your way. You're so used to feeling uneasy, waiting for someone to pull the rug beneath your feet to make you off kilter.
You've trained your mind and body to react to the most subtle of threats. You know how to take control of dangerous negotiations. You know how to handle any weapon you can get your hands on.
"Tell me what you need," she says. Hyun-ju holds you closer, tilting her hips against yours. You tremble in her hold, already on the brink of coming undone. "I'll give it to you."
She pulls and pushes you out of your comfort zone, unknowingly spiraling your mind. This care is new to you. It burns you. It leaves you wondering how anyone is afraid of you with how easily you cave into her.
It's hard to let go of that control.
But you can try. For her. You can learn how to love Hyun-ju in the way she deserves.
"You, Hyun-ju," you rasp, longing to feel her again. Chasing her warmth with your hands on her chest, holding her, keeping yourself stable. "I need you. I'll be quiet, I promise. Just please…"
"Please what?" she whispers softly.
Hyun-ju sees the restraint, the effort it takes to not ruin her.
"Please fuck me," you say, swallowing down your pride and your shame, focusing on her. "Fuck me and I'll be yours."
It's the fuse that sets off the bomb. The right combination of words that gets Hyun-ju to pull you off of the sink so she could press you against the wall.
The freezing tiles nip at your bare back, but the sheer fire of your arousal keeps you from shivering. There's no more waiting. No teasing words or leftover anger. No guilt or shame. Just the want of each other. The need to invade the other's space, to feel each other in the most intimate way you know how.
Hyun-ju uses one hand to shove her pants and underwear down, just enough to free herself. The flush head of her cock brushes up against your clit and you bite down your lip to stifle a moan. You feel the press of her cock at your entrance, her pre-cum mixing with your own slick.
The sensation of her stretching you open is devastating.
Your breathing stutters as she presses further, her own sounds of pleasure ringing in your ears. You hand finds Hyun-ju's hair, gathering the silky strands in your fist.
"So fucking tight," Hyun-ju gasps, feeling you pull her deeper. She sinks inch by inch, your body respond in kind. You arch into her, moaning softly. "Relax for me."
"I'm trying," you whine, burying your face into the crook of her neck, inhaling the smell of her. Blood, her skin, her hair, her sweat. "You feel so good, so fucking good."
Her fingers digging into the bare flesh of your hip is the only warning you get before Hyun-ju bottoms out in one motion.
You make a sound that's primal, outside of your control, softly echoing off the walls. Your chest is flush against her, suffocating and all-encompassing.
It's sinful the way Hyun-ju looks completely undone by the sight of you. Her lower lip raw from the kissing, her face flushed with arousal.
The need for her claws inside of you.
The first thrust she gives you hurts more than you anticipated. The stretch of her cock agitates the wound at your side, but she hits that spot inside of you that makes the pain burn differently. It wrings out another sound out of you—broken and ruined.
Hyun-ju mistakes the sound as a sign for her to be gentle. She eases out carefully, meeting your hips in shallow thrusts. You can tell Hyun-ju is holding back, not wanting to cause you any discomfort.
It's not enough.
"Faster," you plea, breathless, desperation bleeding from your tone.
Hyun-ju shakes her head. "You're still hurt."
"I can take it," you insist, leaving open-mouth kisses along her jaw. Hyun-ju shudders, her hips still keeping that slow, steady rhythm. "I'll tell you if it's too much."
Hyun-ju slots her lips against yours before pushing deeper, a little faster than before. You gasp into her mouth, the pain slowly ebbing away until you're left with an ache that bleeds into pleasure. Her mouth slides off of yours, only to leave a trail of nips along your marked neck.
The tension in your body builds. It rises and rises, anticipation bursting in every crevice of your tired body. Her cock was made for you with how thoroughly she fills your aching cunt.
"Faster, Hyun-ju."
This time she listens, her hips rutting faster. Her cock slides out more, pressing into your body with harsher thrusts.
"Harder."
She lets out a choked moan into your neck, giving into your commands. Your body, all bruised and marked, eagerly takes her. The ache in your body tenses your muscles, leaving you breathless. Her cock hits you with military precision, perfectly fitting inside of you each time she bottoms out.
"You're taking me so good," she pants, losing herself in you. The sound of her fucking into your wet cunt is music to her ears. "I couldn't stop thinking about how hot you looked, covered in blood. I wanted to pull you into a room and fuck you until the timer ran out."
Your cunt tightens around Hyun-ju at the confession, her hips unconsciously moving faster.
You bury your head into her shoulder, moaning into the fabric of her jacket, the tension in your body winding tighter and tighter. Each thrust in sync with the involuntary noises coming out of you. It sounds foreign in your ears—all pitched and whiny and so unlike you.
"I wouldn't let them kill you," you gasp without thought. "I would hunt down every fucking player left in these games if it meant you would be safe. I only want you, more than anything."
Hyun-ju moans like your words left her wrecked. Her assault against your hips is erratic. You take each hit and you lose yourself in her.
She's everything you wanted.
"Just like that—" you moan, deep and guttural, "—you don't know what you're doing to me."
Her cock is so deep inside you that it knocks any air from your lungs. It makes your mind fuzzy. You can't tell where she ends and you begin.
"Tell me," she demands, hot and desperate, yearning for your praise above all else.
You shift through the pleasure, gathering whatever erratic thoughts lingering in your head into a coherent sentence. "I would tear through New York City all over again, just to have you come inside of me."
Hyun-ju stutters a moan, your words going straight to her cock, burning a fire in it's path.
"You changed me, Hyun-ju." The words fall out of your mouth without thought, each filled with unshakable adoration. You say it like it's devotion, like a hymn to a god. "I want to bring myself to my knees and have you cum repeatedly until you can't speak."
"More," she hisses, feeling her release draw closer.
"I want to memorize every part of your body better than my own. I'll deny myself pleasure if only to bring about yours."
It's becoming too much for her. Your body pressed against her, your tight cunt wrapping around her like a vice. "Please." The sound of your name on her tongue is warped with ecstasy.
You draw your lips close to her ear, wanting her to listen to every word without fail. "No one will ever capture my mind the way you do. No one will ever get me this wet. No one could ever make me feel like this—only you Hyun-ju."
The confession leaves her reeling. She lets out a broken sound, torn between a pleasure moan and a sob into your skin. Her movements are relentless, her only thought is to wreck you so thoroughly that you'll feel an echo of her after she's done with you. The idea that this untamable, dangerous woman is willing to give into her leaves Hyun-ju feeling weightless.
Drunk off the power over you. Knowing that her feelings burn just as intensely as yours
It's not quite love. Not yet at least.
You don't know how to feel softly, so you give Hyun-ju the closest thing you have. It's a deadly kind of devotion. Possessive, a touch wild, bordering on obsessive. The type of love that can leave marks on her soul, that will haunt her if she leaves.
Maybe you'll learn to love gently, without leaving scars with your nails and marks with your teeth.
Maybe you won't. Whatever the case may be, Hyun-ju accepts it. All of it. All of you.
The scraps of good in your heart and all the bad that fills your body.
You feel Hyun-ju press her forehead against you. So close yet not enough.
"You've ruined me for anyone else," Hyun-ju forces out, almost sobbing into you as the pressure keeps building. "I won't be able to cum without thinking about you."
"Please, Hyun-ju—" You can feel your climax approaching, your body teetering on the edge of an orgasm that will tear you apart. "I'm so close—fuck, fuck, fuck—"
You squeeze around her and it's enough for her to fall apart too.
The world blurs into nothing. You break and shatter into a million pieces as you cum hard on Hyun-ju's cock. Pleasure rips into every tight and aching muscle, violently undoing you in a way that makes you wonder how you could have enjoyed sex from any other person before. Your orgasm comes in powerful waves that rocks your body, thoroughly exerting all the energy left in your mangled body.
Hyun-ju fucks you through the painful pleasure in hard thrusts before her own climax following through.
Without warning, she bites down on your shoulder to keep herself muffled. You groan, arching into her, wanting more. She buries herself as deep as she could go as her own orgasm wrings out. Her blunt nails dig into the skin of your hips. Every nerve sparking—a domino effect that has her shuddering with each continual wave of sensation. Once the devastation runs its course through her body, all that's left is the warmth of your sweaty body clutching her.
Your pulse is thundering in your ears. Slowly, the world rebuilds in front of your eyes, bits and pieces of your composure coming back. Hyun-ju eases her teeth off of you and you whimper with the lingering ache it leaves behind. She kisses the mark and the skin surrounding it. Softly. Tenderly. Soothing away the pain she caused.
The tension eases out of your body. You let yourself linger in her hold, feeling her cock soften inside of you.
You want nothing more to stay like this. Keep her trapped in your hold, letting the world dissolve to nothing.
What you want to do and what you should do come at odds.
You swallow hard, suddenly aware of the time that's passed since you came inside the bathroom. "We should…"
"O-Oh, right."
You slowly untangle your legs. If you weren't embracing Hyun-ju, your shaky legs would've buckled under your own weight. She tucks herself back into her pants as you catch your breath. You lean against the sink while she finds your discarded clothes along the floor.
Without a word, Hyun-ju dresses you. A bit of shame prickles under your chest, but you're so tired that you can't find any energy to voice a protest. Hyun-ju is careful when she gets your underwear on. When she goes to clasp your bra, her arms embrace you tightly as if putting on your bra was only an excuse to get you close. You lean into her, savoring the close contact before she moves on to the other articles of clothing. She lets you use her for balance when she puts your panties on. Your t-shirt and pants go next, still exhibiting the same attentive care.
"Thank you," you murmur once you're all dressed. Reality settles into your bones, the presence of the guards outside weighing on your mind. You rub your neck awkwardly. "For everything, not just the sex."
Hyun-ju kisses your cheek. Nothing more than a sweet peck of her lips, but it somehow felt more intimate than whatever happened just moments ago. She's prying open your soul with nothing but gentleness, something that you didn't know you were starved of until you've had a taste.
"Don't worry about it," she says simply. "Let's just get out of here."
She takes the med kit into one hand and tugs you along with the other. You let her pull you along, your body barely keeping you steady. Each footstep in sync with your slowing pulse.
The bathroom feels so much larger than when you first walked in. The tiles beneath your feet seemingly stretched twice as long as before.
Hyun-ju anchors you, keeping you moving forward with her. She pushes open the door and leads you out with her head held high.
The two guards don't spare a second glance. You know they see your wrinkled clothes and Hyun-ju's marked neck. Whatever comments they might have are kept to themselves. They take the med kit and march back to the dormitory in silence.
All the other players—nearly half of what you started with in the beginning of the day—stood in two distinct groups. One group illuminated by a saturated blue and the other bathed in a warm red. Everyone turned in your direction when the two of you walked in.
You let out a staggered sigh of relief at the sight of Geum-ja, Yong-sik, and Jun-hee standing in the red group. Their haunted faces instantly brightened, tears of joy pricking their eyes seeing you alive and well.
You glance back at the other players. No one stands on the sidelines.
"Player 120," a guard announces, standing at the front of the room. "Please cast your vote."
You glance up at the large screen above the room.
Twelve votes for continuing the games.
Eleven to stop them.
You and Hyun-ju are the only players left to vote. The deciding factor for this round of voting.
Hyun-ju comes to the same realization, her eyes widening. She gives you a hand squeeze before casting her vote.
The machine beeps and the red group starts to stir with hope.
An even split. Leaving you as the tiebreaker.
"Player 249, please cast your vote."
Players try to voice their opinions—the blue side erupting in threats to kill you when they're let out. The red team begging you to put an end to their suffering once and for all.
There's no hesitation when you walk up to the machine. You slam your hand over the red button, as quick and efficient as your kills out in the maze.
You watch the tally for the red team go up—the number thirteen shining as bright as the hope blooming in your chest.
The agonized players erupt into cheer. The blue players shouting every curse they could at you.
None of them matter.
Hyun-ju is waiting for you with her arms open and the biggest smile you've seen on her face. You crush her into a hug, tears pricking your eyes.
"It's over," Hyun-ju laughs, relieved, exhausted, and ecstatic all at once. "We're going home—we're free."
The rest of your group is quick to hug you too. Geum-ja wails in happiness, Yong-sik grips onto you like you're his salvation, and Jun-hee leans her head against your shoulder, her baby nestled tightly in her arms. You cry into them, overcome with guilt, joy, and everything in between.
Hope no longer feels foolish to hold in your chest. It becomes real. A future with the people you love. A new path laid out where the sun shines brighter, the air is fresher, and every morning sparks you with life instead of dread.
The best part of it all, you won't spend it alone.
For once in your entire, miserable life, your choice to leave felt right.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚ PLEASE LIKE, COMMENT, AND REBLOG ❤︎
ADDITIONAL NOTES: hope you guys enjoyed! i plan on writing a full on story about hitman!reader and hyun-ju in the future, after i tackle my grim reaper story. feel free to flood my inbox with thoughts and maybe i'll write more ;) xoxo
This fic is about two girls slowly realizing they're each other's safe place. And then wrecking each other. Lovingly.
Summary:
Hyun-ju is trying to survive. Trying to make ends meet, trying to bloom –even when the world feels like concrete and depression.
A new job in a warehouse's quiet, fluorescent-lit packaging department isn't glamorous, but it is something. A way to stay small, stay safe, and stay tucked –literally and figuratively– as she supports herself through her journey.
Then you walk in.
Sunlight in human form. All fluttery lashes, warm perfume, vibrant nail polishes, and smiles that don't know when to quit. You're soft. You're also loud. You apologize too much and laugh at your own jokes.
And Hyun-ju? She wants to be you. She wants to be with you. She's not sure which will break her first.
What she doesn't know? You might just do her the honor before she decides.
Warnings:
(implied!blonde!reader but not really mentioned beyond the second chapter)
slow burn, strangers to friends to lovers, flirty menace x silent pookie who's actually a menace too, co-worker tension, mutual pining & mutual sapphic awakening, pre-op!Hyunju, early transition, gender dysphoria & euphoria themes, smut later on, age gap (not the main focus), mentions of financial insecurity, soft-dom/switch dynamics, menstruation talk, body talk, emotional vulnerability, fluff & comfort, some crappy background characters, pre Squid Game
Author's note:
Hi!! This is my first w|w fic to post and I wrote it with my whole soul!!
Yes, the reader is bubbly and hyper fem on purpose (everything else is blank tho). Oh, and she's not necessarily short, just in comparison to Hyun-ju. Also, we don't know if Hyun-ju had top surgery. But she's on hormones and her chest's definitely doing ✨that sexy thing✨ iykyk.
(If you're a homophobe or a transphobe, I will block you.)
CHAPTER 1: SOFT SPOKEN
CHAPTER 2: CLOSE QUARTERS
CHAPTER 3: ACCIDENTS
CHAPTER 4: THE LINE BETWEEN
CHAPTER 5: SLEEPOVER
CHAPTER 6:
CHAPTER 7:
CHAPTER 8:
CHAPTER 9:
CHAPTER 10:
**new chapter every Wednesday
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AHHHH I BINGED THIS WHOLE SERIES ITS SO GOOOOD!! lol you got the dialogue down cuz i swear this was how me and my girlfriend were when she started transitioning 😭 i love this so much ❤️❤️❤️💕💕💗
NOTICE: As more and more fanfic writers are using generative AI for their works (you uncreative dweebs), I hereby swear on everything I hold dear that I have not and will NEVER use generative AI in ANY of my written work. Everything I post will be organically and creatively my own.
