Apr 19
Sun-kissed
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Sun-kissed
I CANT GET THAT ONE BALDI SONG OUT MY HEAD
I LISTENED TO IT FOR A LAUGH BUT ITS GENUINELY SO CATCHY AND NOW ITS STUCK IN MY HEAD
BITCH!RUNNING THROUGH THE HALLS SLOW DOWN SHOUTING NOISES THAT SOUND LIKE FUCK YOU BALDI!BITCH!
Im yours 😣
.・。.・゜✭・
If rebirth exists, then I will find and love you in another life, and then in the next, and then in the next... This vicious circle will never be closed <3
We will belong to each other until our very last breath. You will be mine everywhere.
Be sure of that.
Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me.
- Claimed by guard 82 -
The metallic smell of disinfectant lingered in the air, haunting the facility's sterile corridors. To Guard 82, it smelled of order, of control. He patrolled his section with a disciplined, almost robotic gait. His black uniform contrasted sharply with the pale walls. Behind the masked faces and the featureless black spaces hid a mind that was far from empty. It was a labyrinth of single focus, a single, all-consuming desire.
He didn't fully understand it, but he was drawn to it. It was like an obsession, a ravenous hunger. He couldn't live a day, or a night, without them. Without them.
His patrols had become a ritual. Every corner was checked, every shadow scrutinized. The rhythmic creak of his boots on the linoleum floor was the only sound, a lonely heartbeat in the suffocating silence. And then, in the midst of that monotonous perfection, he saw you.
You were simply mopping the floor. A mundane, mundane task. But your movements—the slight curve of your back as you kneeled, the soft sway of your hips as you mopped with long, even strokes—were enough to make him pause. It was pointless to look at everyone, but he continued anyway.
"Number 140."
His voice, distorted by his mask, came out as a low growl. It wasn't a question, but an assertion. He approached you. His boots no longer rumbled softly, but a deliberate, intimidating presence. You flinched, the mop frozen in your grasp for a moment.
“Yes” you said and
You looked up, eyes wide and slightly frightened, meeting his unwavering black mask. Fear was a familiar sight, a part of this world. But within you, it was different. It was a spark that ignited something long suppressed within him.
"Who gave you permission to speak?"
The question hung between you, sharp and terrifyingly possessive. It was a game, a twisted dynamic that defined his existence. And you, Number 140, had just stepped into his complex and dangerous dance.
He stopped a few steps away from you. His presence was suffocating. He observed you, scrutinizing every detail: the slight tremor in your hands gripping the mop, your almost imperceptible breathing. He should have strictly adhered to the rules, maintained a suffocating calm. But in that moment, all he saw was you: a maverick in a well-ordered world.
His days were filled with dreary games, looks of despair, and crucial moments of defeat. But his nights, and the quiet moments in between, were filled with thoughts of you. He had seen you before, of course. You were just a participant, just a number. But something about you shifted his focus, forever changing the landscape of his barren existence.
He found himself seeking out your sector, lingering there longer than he should have. Throughout frugal meals and enforced breaks, he observed you from afar. You were quiet, unassuming, never drawing attention to yourself. And that in itself drew him in. You were a secret, a whispering voice amid the deafening roar of despair.
Now, standing before you, the intimacy was overwhelming. He could smell your surprisingly powerful scent, a mixture of sweat and disinfectant. He could see the tiny particles of dust dancing in the bright fluorescent light and catch the faint blush on your cheeks.
"I— I wasn't going to tell you!" you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper.
He tilted his head slightly. It might have been curiosity, or perhaps an implicit threat. "Remain silent unless requested by security."
His words were cold and emotionless, yet carried a force strong enough to raise goosebumps. This wasn't just about following the rules. It was about his rules. His unspoken boundaries, his claimed territory.
He fixed his gaze on your face and took a step closer. He noticed how you averted your gaze, unable to meet his without even blinking. It was a weakness he craved, a weakness he wanted to exploit.
"You're number 140," he said softly. "A participant. A pawn."
He paused for a moment, letting his words sink in. You were just a number, a disposable asset in this cruel, epic game. But to him, you were more than that. You were the exception.
"But," he continued, his tone subtly shifting, a dangerous hint of something hidden. "You're my exception."
He reaches out, his gloved hand inches from your cheek. You freeze, your breath hitching. An invisible energy pulsates through the air, a silent game of power and desire. He hasn't touched you yet. He's savoring the wait, the excruciating agony of endurance.
"140, do you understand?" he asks, his voice faintly menacing.
You can only nod. Your eyes widen, filled with a strange passion that's a mix of fear and awe. You don't understand why this masked guard, this symbol of your oppression, is looking at you like this. But you feel it. A tug. A dangerous current beginning to pull you in.
He notices your nod, a silent acknowledgment of his power satisfied. He lowers his hand, his touch leaving a faint warmth on your skin. Deep in his heart, he knows he can't let you go. Not now. Never.
He turns and walks away down the hallway. But before he turned the corner and disappeared, he glanced back, his masked gaze fixed on you.
"Clean the floor," he ordered, his voice once again inhuman and menacing. "And never speak again unless spoken to."
The sound of his boots faded, and you left only the echoes of his words and the unsettling reality that your existence here had become far more complicated. You were Number 140, a participant in death. But to Guard 82, you had become something else. Something he wanted to protect, something he would protect with a ferocity more terrifying than any game.
The next few days felt like a strange torture. Every guard you encountered felt like a potential threat, but none more terrifying than Guard 82. His presence haunted you like a shadow, a tingling sensation at the back of your neck. You bowed your head, your movements precise, and remained silent. You understood his unspoken rules, rules that transcend all others: you belong to him.
Of course you saw them. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of his imposing silhouette in a black uniform. He never approached you directly, not in front of others. His gaze was a subtle reminder that he was always watching. You noticed him staring at you during the game, his masked face expressionless, but you felt the intensity of his gaze. When you ate together, he stood aside, his posture relaxed but his focus unwavering. You learned to ignore your pounding heart and the nervous trembling of your hands.
One night, during a terrifying game of "Red Light, Green Light," chaos erupted. One of the participants made a desperate escape. The guards moved swiftly and relentlessly. You watched the chase unfold with a sickening urge to your stomach, but your eyes inevitably lingered on Guard 82. He's a force of nature, his movements efficient and lethal. He doesn't seem to strain, but he's always in the right place, anticipating his next move. He chases down the runner, his movements swift and decisive. And in that moment, even in the midst of the terror of the game, a strange... sense of security flickers through you. A perverse security. He's in charge. He has everything under control. And for reasons you won't understand, his control extends to you too.
That night, during a short break, you were alone in bed. As usual, you could hear the faint whispers and anxious sighs. As you were lost in thought, recounting the day's events, you heard a faint rustling coming from the vent above your bed. Your breath stopped. You knew that sound. It sounded so artificial, so familiar.
You looked up, your heart pounding. A black-gloved hand appeared from the vent, followed by the masked face of Security Guard 82. He was incredibly agile, managing to squeeze his large body through the narrow gap. He silently collapsed to the floor beside your bed, his presence echoing throughout the small room.
"Number 140, you seem restless," he said, his low, murmuring voice barely breaking the silence. He didn't bother to ask if you were okay or what you were thinking. He simply stated the facts, as if reading your mind.
You clutched the thin blanket tightly, averting his gaze. "I... I'm fine, security."
He chuckled, his voice cold and unemotional. "Are you okay? You're shaking like a leaf in a storm." He reached out and traced your jawline with his gloved fingers. This time he didn't hesitate. His touch was gentle, yet possessive. "You're scared," he said. "I'm glad."
His words sent chills down your spine, but it wasn't just fear. There was something else. A terrifying curiosity. A strange fascination with a man who held so much power yet still attracted you.
"But," he continued, stroking your lower lip with his thumb. "You don't need to be afraid of me."
There was a suffocating possessiveness in his voice. You looked up, finally meeting his masked gaze. Even through the dark visor, you could sense his intensity, his unwavering focus.
"I'm... not," you lied. The voice was barely audible. And strangely, somewhere in your mind, you knew it. The fear he evoked was masked by a different kind of fear: fear of what he might do if you tried to resist, if you tried to escape his attention.
He leaned in further, his masked face inches from yours. You could feel the warmth, the quiet strength, emanating from him. "You're mine, 140," he whispered. His words seared through your soul like red-hot iron. "You're mine, and I will protect what's mine."
He didn't kiss you. Not then. The mask was a barrier, a symbol of his anonymity and isolation. But his touch, the low boom of his voice, his possessiveness over you, was more intimate, more captivating than any kiss. He was a wolf knocking at your door, but he was also a shepherd.and for you, 140, were his precious possession.
He was silent for a moment, but his presence was palpable in the small space. He spoke little, but his gaze carried a silent promise, a dark vow. Then, with the same eerie agility, he disappeared back into the vent, leaving you alone. The scent of his presence was a vivid reminder of your unique and terrible fate. You were both a player and a prisoner in the Squid Game, bound by an unfathomable, dark, obsessive love for a man whose true identity was hidden behind a mask, but whose attachment to you was unmistakable.