after crashing on the island, you and sayid have a talk about reality and hope.
dead ends
you decide to test some boundaries between your friend and crush, sayid jarrah. you ask him if you can braid his hair.
multi x f!reader:
love languages HCs
first kiss HCs
✧. ┊ FRANKENSTEIN
adam frankenstein x f!reader:
those pleading eyes (that both threaten and adore) | one, two, three
decades after the events of frankenstein's death, the creature was left to roam the world with nothing but resentment in his heart. his bitterness towards humanity's cruelty builds until he can no longer contain the wrath within. if mankind has deemed him to be a monster, then so be it.
✧. ┊ SQUID GAME
the salesman x f!reader:
chance equals fortune | prologue, one, two
parasites. that is the only thing he thinks of when he meets the players he is meant to recruit. but what happens when he meets you and you are nothing of what he expects.
Characters: james “sawyer” ford, kate austen, desmond hume, benjamin linus, and richard alpert
Warnings: none
a/n: summer is near, which means I can finally have more time to focus on my faves, yay. the lack of lost x reader fanfiction is genuinely astronomical. i yearn to read about giving my fav characters a smooch.
*✧･ﾟ: James "Sawyer" Ford
The first kiss with Sawyer happens when you least expect it, which is exactly how he needs it to happen.
Because if he plans it, if he even thinks about it, he might have to admit what it means.
You’re mid argument, and he keeps calling you any nickname he can think of.
Brat, snob, princess, anything but your real name. Each one lands worse than the last. And you’ve just about had it.
So you square your shoulders, walk up to his tent, and start giving him a piece of your mind.
It escalated quickly; both of you are yelling, chests practically pressed against each other, as you shout abuse to one another.
Then, in one particular moment, you don’t know when or how, his face is hovering inches from yours, and you only catch a glimpse of his blown-out pupils before his mouth is on yours.
Rough. Hungry. Desperate.
His hands are on your waist, your neck, your jaw, anywhere where he can reach. Like he’s trying to memorize every detail of you.
He kisses like he’s savoring you.
He wants to taste your anger, your fire, your sweetness. He no longer cares if this craving can only be satiated by you and you alone.
When the kiss breaks, he doesn’t let go. Not immediately. His forehead rests against yours, breath uneven.
Then, he swallows, and the mask slips back on.
”Don’t go getting ideas, sweetheart,” he mutters against your lips. But his voice shakes, just a little.
He steps back, taking a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it.
He turns and walks away, his hand shaking as he smokes his cigarette.
*✧･ﾟ: Kate Auesten
The first kiss with Kate happens when she's too tired to run.
Kate is all sharp edges and quick exits.
She doesn't do this. Doesn't stay. Doesn't let herself want something she'll have to run from.
But with you, something goes wrong.
You're not sure when it started, the way she lingers a beat too long before walking away, the way she finds excuses to sit near you by the fire, the way her name catches in your throat.
And now, you're sitting in silence, and she's pretending not to watch the way the light catches your face.
Her leg is bouncing, and her hand keeps twitching toward yours and retreating.
She keeps waiting for you to vanish, to turn into another thing she couldn't hold onto.
"You should get some sleep," she says.
When you don't move, she frowns.
"Why are you still here?"
Something in her voice, something small and young and tired of running, makes you cross the space between you.
The kiss is soft at first, her lips parting against yours. Her kiss says what her words do not.
Will you stay? Will you make me want to stay?
She kisses like she expects you to push her away, her hands gripping your shirt as she braces for impact.
But you don't push away. Instead, you deepen the kiss, slowly, unafraid of the weight she carries. Determined to lighten the load that burdens her.
When she pulls back, her eyes are bright. Not with tears, but with something rawer. Hope.
"Don't make me regret this," she says. It's not a plea, it's a threat. She is promising you violence if you break her. She is promising you her.
*✧･ﾟ: Desmond Hume:
The first kiss with Desmond happens as an act of bravery.
He has spent his life chasing one horizon after another: monastery, military, button. Each path was an attempt to answer the question: What am I meant for?
But when he's with you, that frantic searching ceases.
The restless energy that usually hums beneath his skin goes quiet.
He does not need to look for the next thing. He has found it. He found you.
You are sharing a meal together, taking in the soft waves lapping against the shore. He has been stealing glances at you all evening. His hands, which are always restless, reaching for a rosary, a rifle, a lever, go still at his sides.
"You know," he says, then stops. Swallows. Tries again. "I was thinking—that is, I wondered if perhaps—" He laughs at himself, rubbing the back of his neck. His ears are turning pink.
His eyes search yours with that soft, earnest uncertainty that defines him. His breath fans over yours as his larger frame shifts, shielding you from the scorching sun.
He leans in slowly. “Is this—” he starts, voice barely a whisper. “Is this alright?”
He is all nervous warmth, fumbling hands, and sincerity that borders on painful.
And when you don't pull back, he kisses you properly.
Not roughly, but not timidly either. His lips are soft and deliberate as he scrutinizes your every response, wanting to do this right.
He sighs into the kiss, a small, relieved sound, as if he were truly grateful for your acceptance.
"I've been looking for you," he whispers. "My whole life, all those paths...I was trying to find my way to you."
*✧･ﾟ: Benjamin Linus
The first kiss with Ben isn’t given, it’s taken.
And he’ll make you believe it was your idea.
You sit in the office of some dharma building, organizing paperwork.
Your role was nothing interesting, keep track of food supplies, the functioning of utilities in the homes, the works.
Though you never complained, it was easy enough work, and it allows you to stay out of the eye of trouble.
Or so you thought.
You don't hear him enter. You never do. Ben moves like smoke under a door, present before you realize, and close before you can retreat.
When you look up, he's already there. Leaning against the doorframe. Arms crossed. Watching you with that quiet, surgical stillness that makes your skin prickle.
“Don’t stop on my account.” His voice is warm. Not in a friendly way, but rather the kind that is heavy and sticky.
He uncurls himself from his position on the wall as he makes his way toward you, stalks toward you.
His hands land on the back of your chair. Not touching you, but almost.
“Has anyone told you how efficient you are?” He’s leaning in close enough that you can smell his cologne. Something expensive and clean, something that is so unlike the wreckage the island harbors.
You turn your head, and you're met with Ben’s gaze. His eyes are like a scalpel, as they cut through, mapping out your entire system.
Ben notices everything: the way you hold your breath, the way your fingers curl against the desk, the way you haven't told him to stop.
“You could leave. The door is right there.”
A lie. You both know that.
Still, you make no move of going anywhere. Instead, your eyes flicker to his lips, just in time to see them quirk into a thin smile.
He doesn’t lean in; he draws you forward.
Your lips meet his, and he is not gentle.
Ben does not know gentle; he was never shown the shape of it.
His hand grips your jaw, thumb pressing just below your ear, holding you open for him.
His mouth is insistent, almost angry.
But here is the truth Benjamin will never speak aloud:
In the breath before the kiss, his eyes flickered, just for an instant, searching yours for the answer to a question he could never bring himself to face.
Please. Please want this. Please want me.
The kiss ends, and he pulls back, expression already shuttered, cold, victorious.
”You’re mine.”
*✧･ﾟ: Richard Alpert
The first kiss with Richard begins with you reaching first.
Richard doesn't approach you. He waits.
He has learned, across lifetimes, that rushing toward what you want is how you lose it.
He has loved you longer than you know, measured not in months or years, but decades of telling himself he is not worthy.
And then there was you.
He watches you from a distance, memorizing the way you smile, the way you move, the way you talk.
He learns your rhythm the way a scholar learns a dead language. Slowly, tentatively, terrified of getting it wrong.
You notice the way he always averts his eyes when you catch him staring, how his gaze holds a sadness molded by a lifetime of loneliness.
You reach for him first.
And when your hand finds his, weathered and cold and still, something ancient in him breaks.
"You should not want me," he says. His voice is soft. Heavy with the weight of everything he has done, everything he has failed to become.
You do not argue. You simply lean forward.
His lips are hesitant. Reverent. His hand trembles against your cheek, holding you gently as if you were made of porcelain.
He does not deepen the kiss. He does not grab or demand. He simply stays, his mouth resting against yours, his breath uneven, his lashes dark against wet cheeks.
When you pull back, his eyes are red.
“I had forgotten,” he whispers, “what that felt like.”
He does not say love. The word feels too small, too mortal, to hold the weight of what he feels.
He kisses you again, slower, deeper, like a man rediscovering how to breathe.
His hand slides to cradle your head, to anchor himself.
When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours. His eyes are closed. His thumb traces circles against your skin.
"I had made peace with never feeling this again," he murmurs, "thank you."
And you both know that he’s not referring to just the kiss.
if anyone is interested in sending in requests for hcs or a one-shot, please let me know i need more lost fic ideas to write.
those pleading eyes (that both threaten and adore)
PART THREE
summary: you have finally found your father, but first, you must get past the beast in order to save him. however, this creature is not what you initially thought...
pairing: dark!creature/adam frankenstein x f!reader
warnings: gothic horror, violence, mentions of murder and death, religious imagery and symbolism, out of character adam, historical inaccuracies, eventual smut.
words: 3.2k
<<previous part
The world had shrunk to the suffocating space between your body and his.
A single moment, reduced to the sound of an uneven breath near your ear, the pungent odor of copper and smoke, the sensation of calloused fingers blocking your airway. Each element was an invasion to your senses. But perhaps the most intense feature was those eyes. A wretched gaze that was wholly, terribly unique. It held no animal yellow, no demonic red. The Hunter’s eyes were a storm-grey, the color of a winter sky moments before the snow falls. A dangerous gaze. And currently? It was fixed on you.
“Have you come to burn me with it?”
His voice invaded your entire being, the words drowning you like a violent current.
“I have come to collect what is mine.” You narrowed your eyes, gritting your teeth in hopes of concealing the tremor in your voice.
His lips twitched, a strange ripple across the topography of his face. “Yours?”
You forced your chin up, the movement restricted by his grip. “Let my father go. Your quarrel isn’t with him.”
The Hunter’s head tilted a fraction, a movement that was eerily avian. “My quarrel,” he rumbled, the vibration humming through the tree and into your spine, “is with the world that fears what it does not understand. A distaste for the unknown—a preconditioned animosity. He forms part of that world.”
“He came to save me!” you cried. “To risk his life in hopes of preserving mine!”
He let out a humorless chuckle. "And you," he continued, his gaze dropping to the blood on your sleeve; the small, still-weeping cut on your palm. "You came to save him. From me? A circle of sacrifice…How quaint."
"There is nothing quaint about it," you snarled, finding a sliver of courage in your fury. "It is called love."
A ripple passed over his features—a subtle tightening, a shift in the shadows between the patches of mismatched skin. An emotion you could not quite place.
His hand finally loosened its grip on your throat, though he did not release you. It slid down, his fingers closing gently around your wounded hand. He turned it palm-up, exposing the self-inflicted cut to the weak moonlight filtering through the branches.
“Love?” he echoed. “You spill your own blood as a weapon, and you expect me to believe that this,” his thumb brushed the edge of the wound, a shiver, violent and unwelcome, tore through you, “was wielded because of love?” The Hunter’s thumb pressed down, not enough to reopen the cut, but enough to make the tender flesh ache.
His touch was not cruel. It was the touch of a thing that understood the mechanics of flesh, but not the language of tenderness. The cold of his glove seeped through your skin, a chill that reached deeper than the night air ever could.
You hissed sharply at the fresh sting, your eyes watering.
He stilled, and just as quickly as he took hold of you, he released your hand and stepped back suddenly, as if your skin had scaled him.
The sudden absence of his touch was a shock to your system; the cold night air bit the space where his hand had been. You pressed yourself to the tree, cradling your wounded hand to your chest. With your movement no longer restricted, you could now examine the Hunter fully.
Your eyes scanned him, taking in every detail. This close, the stories of an abhorrent and grotesque demon disintegrated like old cobwebs. Sutures and thread merged to bear the weight of this lonesome creature. Each seam a silent scream of the blasphemy that made him.
It was monstrous…It was fascinating.
You shook your head to rid yourself of those thoughts.
"Love," you repeated, and this time your voice did not shake, “can take many forms.”
His gaze drifted from your face to the distant glow of firelight through the trees—the direction of the camp.
“And what kind is this? A love that lies and cheats, wreaking havoc in its wake?”
Your throat tightened. “That was—”
“Strategy,” he finished for you. “A deliberate choice. A pack of cowards in exchange for one life.”
You flinched, the accusation wounding you more than you’d like to admit.
“I did what I had to,” you croaked, the protest sounded weak even to your ears.
“As did your father,” he replied. “As do I. We are all creatures of necessity.” He let out a small huff. “Funny, is it not? How intent can change the nature of a man. Yours led you here. It made you cunning. It made you cruel.”
You opened your mouth to deny it, to defend yourself, but the protest died before it could form. You had led those men—foolish, frightened, useless—straight to their demise.
“They would have used me,” you heard yourself say, the words tumbling out unbidden. “They were never my companions.” The words came faster now, bitter and hot. "They weighed the value of my life and found no worth in it. So yes, I used them. I purposefully made the decision to throw away their lives, and I would do it again."
The Hunter’s gaze was transfixed on yours, his eyes piercing, as if they could see into your very soul. After a few moments of silence, you feared you had revealed too much, before his eyes darkened, and his lips quirked into a smile.
"Yes," he said softly, the word a rumble deep in his chest. "You would."
Your brows furrowed as you glared at him. “I am nothing like you.”
“I do not recall stating you were.”
An indignation rose in your chest, casting aside whatever fear you had left. “None of this would have happened had you not breached upon our peace!” Your fists clenched as your lip curled. “We led tranquil lives before you came to terrorize our town! I would never have done what I did, I—” your voice cracked as you cut off your rambling.
“And why, do you suppose, am I the carrier for such suffering?”
"Because you're a monster," you said automatically.
The words hung in the air between the two of you, a heavy silence spread across the clearing.
He did not retort, nor say anything else for that matter. Instead, he laughed.
The sound was like broken glass and grinding stones.
“A monster,” he repeated. "You speak the word as though it were a revelation. As though I have not worn it like a brand since the first breath was forced into my lungs.” He stepped closer, the volume of his voice rising with each word. “Do you think you are the first to name me thus? That your fear is unique?” He towered over you, his large frame blocking the night sky.
“You build your homes and lives upon the shallow soil of the familiar," he continued, "mistaking the comfortable silence of ignorance for serenity. And when something dares to exist beyond the boundaries of your understanding, something that does not fit within the neat little categories your priests have carved into scripture, you reach for fire and blade and title it righteousness.”
He paused, his grey eyes catching the distant glow of firelight. "You call it piety, but it is fear wearing a mask of faith.”
Your eyes widened, your lips parted, but no sound emerged.
The fire in the distance crackled and popped, sounds of nightlife filled your ears before you heard a shout emerge from the trees.
“My father.” The reminder cut through whatever feelings of torment had been building within you. “Where is he?”
You pushed off from the tree, your legs steadier now despite the lingering tremor in your hands.
For a short moment, he simply watched you. His eyes raked over your whole figure, observing you—studying you. Then, without another word, he turned, blending once more into the shadows of the forest.
You automatically followed, pushing past the undergrowth where he had disappeared. Your feet carrying you in the direction from which you had heard your father’s voice come from.
Eventually, the trees gave way, and there, slumped against the base of an ancient oak, was your father.
His coat was torn, the exposed skin full of scratches. His face was streaked with mud and dried blood. The sight of it was almost enough to draw a sob out of you.
“Father!” You stumbled forward, dropping to your knees in the cold, damp leaves beside him.
His eyes fluttered, his pupils becoming more focused as they found your face. His eyes widened and a tremor ran through him. “What are you doing here!” His voice was weak despite the severity of his tone.
“I’ve come to take you home.” Your eyes inspected every inch of him, hands hovering over his body, afraid he might break if you touch him. “Can you stand?”
His hand, trembling and cold, closed around your wrist with surprising force. “Forget me. Leave me and go,” he rasped. “Turn back before it is too late.”
“I did not come all this way to leave without you!” Your injured hand gripped his arm as you stood, attempting to lift him with you. “Come now, we have a long journey ahead.”
“Let me go, child,” he begged, his voice cracking. “Please. The creature—”
“Hush.” You pressed your hand to his chest, feeling the weak thud of his heart beneath your palm. “Save your strength for walking.”
His arm draped across your shoulder, and you drove your heels into the earth to prevent his weight from toppling you over.
You focused on placing one foot in front of the other, walking towards the outskirts of the forest, occasionally stumbling whenever the weight of your father suddenly became too much.
You had no idea where the Hunter could have gone, and you can't find it within yourself to worry in the slightest. You found your father. All is right in the world. You sneak a glance to your side and are met with your father's disheveled state, his eyes fluttering and his breath uneven.
Had I not found him, he would not have survived the night. You shuddered at the thought.
You kept pushing forward, ignoring the growing unease in your stomach, a feeling that warned you someone was watching.
The moon had begun its slow descent toward the horizon.
Your father's weight against your side grew heavier with each passing minute, his feet dragging through the Earth like an anchor.
You had continued this way for hours, so long that the strain in your muscles subsided to a more tolerable ache. Neither of you spoke a word to the other, not that either of you had any energy left to do so. Instead, you stared straight ahead with the occasional glance towards your father.
“Rest,” he mumbled, the word slurred. “Just... need to rest a moment.”
“No.” The word came out sharper than you intended. You hissed as you adjusted your bloody hand on his waist, feeling the chill of his skin through his torn coat. “You rest now, and you won't wake up. Keep walking, we've almost made it.”
He made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. “So like your mother. Stubborn as the day is long.”
“Then you should be used to it by now.”
Gradually, the oppressive closeness of the trees eased, the familiar shape of the hills emerged from the darkness. Dawn crept over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of rose and amber.
The forest fell away and, in its place, stood the familiar image of your village in the distance. You breathed out a heavy sigh of relief.
Smoke from chimneys rose into the morning air in thin, dark ribbons. The scent of animal manure wafted through the air. A dog barked somewhere in the distance. These small evidences of the mundane, of normalcy, made your eyes burn with unshed tears.
You crossed the final stretch of open field, the tall grass wet with morning dew soaking through your already ruined boots. The moment your feet touched the packed earth of the main road, your father's legs gave out.
The sudden shift in his weight nearly sent you both sprawling. You caught him, just barely. Your knees buckled as you took the full brunt of his collapse, and the two of you sank to the ground in an awkward heap.
“Father? Father!” Your voice shook as you leaned over him. “Father, look at me!”
His eyes were open but unfocused. You placed the back of your hand to his forehead, and your heart sank when you were met with burning, hot skin. “Help!” The scream tore from your throat, raw and desperate. “Someone help us!”
Heads peered out of homes, and within minutes, hands were reaching for you. They lifted your father from your arms and carried him toward the healer's cottage at the edge of the square.
You tried to follow, but your legs betrayed you. They folded, and you found yourself on your knees in the road, watching as they took him away.
Someone's arm wrapped around your shoulders. You couldn’t bring yourself to care who it was. “Child, child, you're shaking. Come inside, come warm yourself—”
“My father—”
“They'll tend to him. Someone’s already gone to fetch for the healer. Come now.”
You hesitantly nodded your head. Your own eyes fluttered as you dragged your feet, allowing yourself to be pulled in the direction of another cottage.
The warmth of their hearth hit you like a wall as you were sat by the fire. A blanket was wrapped around your shoulders that smelled of bread and yeast, and a cup of something hot was pressed into your hands.
“Drink, dear.” A voice came from far away. “Some chamomile will steady you.”
You drank. The liquid burned your tongue, but you didn't taste it.
The heat of the fire pressed against your skin, coaxing the tension from muscles you hadn't realized were still clenched, but it could not reach the cold that had settled deep in your bones.
You stayed staring at the flames, pondering over the events that had transpired over the last couple of hours. You closed your eyes, but the darkness behind your lids was worse. It brought with it the images of sewn skin and predatory eyes. Eyes that had looked at you not with hatred or hunger, but with something far more unsettling.
Recognition.
“The healer says he'll live.”
You startled at the voice, turning to find the baker's wife standing just a few feet away. Her face was drawn, shadows carved deep beneath her eyes.
“Your father is strong,” she continued, crossing to stoke the fire. “Fever's high, but the healer's done what she can. A few of his ribs are cracked. Exposure took its toll. But he's breathing.” She paused, glancing at you. “He's asking for you. When he's lucid, anyway. Most of the time he just... cries out. Warnings. Tells us to run.”
Your throat tightened. “I should go see him.”
“In a moment.” Her voice was gentle but firm. She straightened, studying you with an intensity that made you want to look away. “First, you'll let me tend those hands.”
You looked down, almost surprised to find your palms raw and blistered, nails broken, the cut on your palm still weeping beneath a crust of dried blood. You hadn't felt any of it.
She clicked her tongue softly and retrieved a basin of water, cloth, and a small jar of salve. She worked in silence at first, cleaning the wounds with shaky hands, her pulse a testament to her years. Her eyes kept flicking to your face, and you could feel the questions building behind them.
“How did you separate from the other men?”
“We were attacked,” you swallowed thickly. “The creature found us in the dark. I…I ran as fast as I could. Fortunately, I heard my father’s voice and managed to find him. It was a miracle, truly.”
She nodded slowly. The salve stung as it touched the cut on your palm. You hissed through your teeth, but did not pull away.
“Strange,” she murmured finally, turning your hand over, “This one's clean. Deliberate.”
You pulled your hand back before you could stop yourself. “I fell on a rock. It must have been sharp.”
She held your gaze for a long moment, she did not believe you. You could see it in the set of her mouth, in the way her eyes narrowed slightly. Still, she said nothing. Simply wrapped your palm in clean linen.
"You should know," she said quietly, her voice dropping low, "a small group of men returned, about an hour before you arrived.”
Your blood went cold.
“They came stumbling out from the trees, screaming that the Hunter materialized out of thin air, before he was upon them all like lightning.” Her eyes turned glossy, her mouth opening and closing multiple times. “My son…was not among that group.”
Your gaze turned downward, unable to meet her eyes. “Your son is bound to return. I’m sure of it.”
Her lips spread into a thin line. “No. I don’t believe he will…”
You should say something, anything. Some word of encouragement or solace, a gesture of comfort, of truth.
“I’m going to go see my father.”
She sniffled as she nodded, turning her face away, though not in time for you to miss the stray tear that fell.
You stood quickly, your hand already on the door handle, before her voice interrupted you once more.
“The group that came back…They…” Your hand froze on the handle, the worn brass cool against your raw palm. “They kept repeating ‘It was her. She led him to us.’” Her voice had dropped to a whisper now, “a group of 15 men went out, and under less than half came back, one of them being a frail girl with no fighting or hunting experience.”
“I don't know what you're suggesting,” you said carefully.
“I'm not suggesting anything. I'm only telling you what they said. What they're all saying.”
“And you believe them?” You turned, slowly, to face her. The kindness had drained from her face, her expression became hardened as her brows furrowed.
“I don’t believe anything. But know this, if my boy died as a result of some scheme or plot of your doing—”
“I did not kill your son,” you retorted. No, he killed himself. “I am very sorry for your loss, but don’t misplace your anger by taking it out on me. Your son knew the risks, like all of us, and chose to come anyway.”
Her mouth parted to form a reply, but before she could even get a sound out, the door flew open.
You stumbled back, barely catching yourself just in time to see the cluster of men crowding the door.
“There she is.” Their breath plumed in the cold morning air, and in their hands, they clutched a variety of weapons: knives, shovels, axes. Before you knew it, two of them descended upon you, each one holding one of your arms in a vice grip. “By a number of accusations being made against your name, you are hereby being detained on suspicion of conspiracy, treason, and murder.”
those pleading eyes (that both threaten and adore)
PART TWO
summary: in your attempt to save your father, you quickly realize that you must put aside your virtues in order to keep him from harm's way, even if it means becoming the monster you fear.
pairing: dark!creature/adam frankenstein x f!reader
warnings: gothic horror, violence, mentions of murder and death, religious imagery and symbolism, out of character adam, historical inaccuracies, eventual smut.
a/n: hey everyone...sorry for the late update i became distracted with life. so, i wish everyone happy late holidays and i hope you enjoy this chapter.
words: 3.9k
<<previous part next part>>
The grey light of dawn felt like condemnation.
It revealed the truth of your failure in stark, humiliating detail. The way the sun caressed the hilltops, the manner in which the morning birds sang happily, and most importantly, the way that the sunrays painted the rooftop of your humble home, forging the image of a makeshift target.
The mission that had burned so brightly in your heart had been extinguished not in a glorious clash, but in a swift, effortless subjugation. You had been found, measured, and dismissed.
Your lungs burned with each sharp intake of breath, the muscles in your legs threatening to crumple with each aggressive stomp. And yet, your body pushed through. Fueled with nothing but adrenaline and a strange inclination towards violence. A notion never having taken fruit in your mind before this night.
You clenched your jaw as you physically forced the momentum of your body to remain constant. You would not stop. You could not stop. You had tested your luck and must now pay the price for your arrogance.
After what felt like an eternity of endless chase, the outline of your small village creeped into view.
Your eyes widened as you sprinted faster, towards the center of the village where the church was located—the staging area for war.
With one final push, you burst open the large, wooden doors of the cathedral. The sound echoed all around, lining the walls with a thunderous sound of warning.
You rushed to catch your breath, your chest rose and fell quickly as your eyes scanned the large crowd. The son of the local blacksmith, the town saddlers, and you even caught sight of the village baker. Most of them were farmers, but none were your father.
As despair began to consume you, a familiar bed of hair materialized among the multitude of men and wives.
“Mother!” the volume of your voice rivaled the church organs, currently crooning a melancholic farewell.
Her head whipped towards the sound of your voice, her face pale as parchment and her eyes swollen from a night of weeping. The moment her eyes met yours, they widened, packed with both relief and anguish.
“Oh, my dear daughter!” she lunged from the comforting arms of the other women and practically tackled you, her arms crushing you as if afraid you would simply cease to exist. “Where have you been! I-I thought…I was so afraid you—”
“Where is Father?” You felt guilty at not comforting your distraught mother, but there were currently some more pressing matters. “I must speak to him immediately!”
Her breath hitched as you felt her stiffen against you. For a moment it was just silence, the rest of the world took a pause as a mother and daughter embraced, each wanting nothing more than to protect the other but both being aware that such a thing was no longer conceivable.
She slowly peeled herself away from you, bowing her head to keep you from seeing the extent of her sorrow. She opened her mouth to respond but only a whimper escaped.
Your brows furrowed as uncertainty clouded your thoughts, alight with every possible outcome, each being worse than the last.
“Where. Is. Father.”
“He…” Her voice was but a broken whisper, shattering the last bit of your hope. “He left.”
You felt the blood drain from your face. Your limbs turned to cement, forged to become unresponsive no matter how hard you tried to move.
"He… he would not wait," she choked out. “When we awoke and saw you missing…grief overtook him.” Her hands gripped your arms, her knuckles turning white. “The other men refused to depart alongside him, insisting that traversing through the woods at night was a fool’s errand. He wanted to find you! He…he left just over an hour ago.”
The world tilted beneath your feet. The stone floor seemed to liquify, the walls were closing in on you. Each breath came in faster and faster. You could hear the comforting words of your mother, but none of them registered.
You closed your eyes. Now was not the time to lose yourself.
Breathe
Your father had left over an hour ago.
Breathe
He was all alone, unarmed and in danger.
Breathe
He could already be dead.
You pried your mother's fingers from your arms.
You took a step back, and then another, your mother's face—a mask of pleading horror—receding as if viewed down a long, dark tunnel. The murmurs of the gathered villagers, the low drone of the organ, the stifled sobs of the other wives, it all faded into a dull, meaningless roar. Your heartbeat was the only sound, a frantic drum against your ribs, marking the seconds your father had been alone in the dark.
You strode to the front, marching till you reached the cluster of armed men. Your eyes surveyed every face. Their pity, their fear, their resignation—it was all a kind of poison. It was the same poison that had seeped into your father, condemning him to a lonely demise.
You all left him to die.
“I’m coming with you.”
A wave of disbelief met your words. Your mother shrieked in terror.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” one of the men exclaimed. “Go back to your mother. This is men’s work. You’ll only be a burden.”
"No," you said, and the word was not loud, but it cut through the murmur like a knife. “You misunderstand. I do not seek protection, but instead offer guidance.” Confused stares met your steady ones.
“Last night, I took my father’s rifle, and I went into the forest to kill the demon myself.”
A stunned silence fell. They stared at you, their mouths agape.
“I have faced the beast head on and survived. I beheld the devil’s eyes and have studied the nature of its power.” You stepped forward, facing the men with the confidence of an experienced conman. “I have learned what none of you know. Where it resides, how it moves…its weakness. If you want any hope of defeating this monster you will take me with you.”
Lies. These men stood no chance. Their mortal weapons were no match against the force that was the Hunter, a spirit of chaos. You had been naive, but not anymore. You knew now what was needed to rescue your father.
You’ll all soon receive the punishment you have earned.
Even if it meant being forsaken in the eyes of God.
Forgive me Father, for his life is the only liberation I seek.
“I forbid it!”
You sighed as your body turned towards your mother. She rushed forward, hands outstretched as if to physically pull you back from the precipice you were approaching.
“You will not go! I have already lost you once tonight and I do not plan on mourning you once again!
You studied her expression. The love in her eyes was a physical weight, an anchor trying to hold you into a safe harbor. For a heartbeat, you wavered. You saw the future in her gaze; a life of quiet grief, of tending a home with an empty chair at the table, of two broken women clinging to each other in the shadow of a lost man.
It was a future you rejected.
“Mother,” you said, your voice softer now, but no less firm. “Am I expected to stand aside as my father is slaughtered at the hands of an animal? To await the sound of church bells to ring the fall of another soul I cherish?”
The question hung in the air, the force of it pushing against your mother's resistance.
Her hands, which had reached for you, now trembled in the space between you. The plea in her eyes began to fracture, replaced by a dawning, horrified understanding.
You turned once again to face the large swarm of men.
"Hear my words and recognize the truth in them. If you storm in blindly with no notion of the peril you face, then your hunt will only serve to lay the foundation of your downfall."
They glanced at each other, their stares caught between skepticism and a flicker of desperate hope.
"You speak of a weakness." One of the broader, more imposing men stepped forward. He towered over you, no doubt trying to intimidate you. "Name it."
Unfortunately for him, the forest had stripped you of all your lesser fears.
"No." You met his gaze, unflinching. "Allow me to join your party, and I will tell you when the time comes."
He scoffed. "This child knows nothing of what she claims. She will only lead us to our doom."
"You will find doom the moment you step out of those doors." You held your chin high, your eyes never leaving his. "But if you truly believe that your pride is enough of a weapon to slay such a powerful beast, then may God be with you."
You stared him down, your gaze never wavering. As your eyes met his dark brown ones, filled with scorn and disgust, your determination never faltered. Many moments passed before you saw it—a flicker.
Fear.
Your lips twitched as the other man squinted his eyes, scrutinizing you. You could feel the palpable air of defeat radiate from him before he opened his mouth to eventually state.
“We depart in 5 minutes.”
The journey was a treacherous one. Tearful goodbyes and tentative promises of return were quickly followed by dreadful winds and cruel weather, announcing the incoming winter solstice.
As the group marched steadfast, passing by dry branches and shriveled leaves crunching underfoot, you walked a couple paces behind. Despite their reluctant acceptance for you to join the pack , the elders had decided it would be best for you to remain distant until your presence was absolutely necessary.
“It is all for your safety of course, miss.”
Safety from the danger ahead or men around you, you did not know.
Ultimately, it meant very little to you if you were forced to walk at the front or ten paces behind, being here was sufficient—saving your father would be sufficient.
Or rather, it would be, if the group you were a part of were not so…inefficient.
They had decided from the start to take the longest road, the path surrounding the forest. They argued that by entering the creature’s domain where trees were scarce would give the monster no place to hide and could face it head on. You knew that their logic was not born out of reason but fear.
As the men approached the treeline, the periods of rest in between grew longer. Each pause ate away at your patience, the urge to lash out at your fellow companions grew perpetually.
The hours stretched on, the muscles in your legs grew taut, weighed down by your frustration. Eventually, when the wind began to bite at the skin and the sun proceeded to fall, the man leading the rest turned to announce, “We shall make camp for the night.”
A collective murmur of relief rippled through the men. They began to unsling their packs, their movements eager and practiced. You stood rooted, your heart sinking to your stomach.
“We are stopping now?” Your voice cut through the settling clamor, sharper than you intended. Every head turned.
The broad man who had challenged you in the church, the smith's son, straightened up from where he was unfurling his bedding. His face was shadowed in the fading light. "We are not fools, girl. To stumble through those woods in the dark is to beg for death. We make camp, we keep watch, we move at first light."
"First light," you repeated, the words tasting like ash. "My father has been alone for hours. Every moment we delay—"
"Is a moment we ensure we do not join him in a shallow grave," a younger man, one of the farmer's sons, snapped. His eyes were wide with a fear he was trying to mask with anger. "We agreed to let you guide us, not command us."
"Guide you to what? A comfortable spot to sleep while he dies?" The heat of your anger was a stark contrast to the creeping cold of the evening.
The smith’s son took a heavy step toward you, his bulk blocking the last of the twilight. “Your father chose his path, to blindly follow the trail of danger. If there is the slightest possibility to save him, then we cannot do so by repeating his mistakes.” Firelight flickered in the background as others struck flint to kindling.
His eyes locked with yours as he slowly brought up his arm and rested it firmly on your shoulder. “Believe me when I say I want to find him just as much as you do. He is our neighbor and our friend…But there is nothing we can do in the dead of night.”
Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, the rough wool of your sleeves the only barrier against your nails digging into your palms. Your blood boiled at the casual way in which they all readily dismissed a human life—your father.
The hand on your shoulder was heavy, patronizing weight. You could feel the calluses through your coat, the strength in that grip meant to reassure, to still you.
Instead, it felt like a shackle.
“Believe me,” the smith’s son said again, his voice a low rumble of false comfort.
You smiled, forcing your grimace to turn pleasant. “Of course,” you heard yourself say, the words hollow. “You are right. Forgive my…impatience.”
His expression softened, mistaking surrender for sense. He gave your shoulder a final, firm squeeze and turned away, barking orders about watch rotations. The moment his back was to you, the smile vanished. The scent of brewing tea and hardtack, normally comforting, turned your stomach.
You took in many deep breaths to slow your trembling hands. This was not a setback, all you had to do was redirect.
Your plan could still work.
You walked away from the spot you had been standing, the rest of the men looking at you wearily as you calmly gathered the materials needed to create a makeshift bed. You remained silent all throughout the process.
You ate your dinner quietly and quickly dismissed yourself to bed, leaving only a handful of the group to remain sitting around the fire, drinking their ale. You laid under your cover, eyes closed and feigning sleep, waiting for the proper moment.
A whisper broke through the silence, “I just cannot comprehend it,” the fire continued to crackle, the unknown man’s voice barely audible above the sizzling, “It took Old Tomas, a strong man. It took my boy, swift as a deer. But it lets her live.” His voice was full of confusion that curdled with something uglier. “Why?”
You lay perfectly still, every muscle rigid beneath your blanket. You forced your breath to remain even.
The smith’s son finally grunted. “Luck. Fool’s luck.” But his voice lacked conviction. He was the one who had seen the flicker in your eyes in the church. “Perhaps he didn’t want a prey with such little meat on her bones.”
“A fearsome creature like that? No, in the end he is a beast that acts on instinct.” A derisive lilt entered his tone. “Who knows? There is a chance that it was motivated by…other appetites.”
“What point are you trying to get at?” the smith’s son asked, though his tone suggested he already knew.
“It wouldn’t be unreasonable to think that a demon of flesh and bone is capable of lusting. It is possible that she was cornered and, in order to save herself, used the only coin a girl like her could offer.”
The words hung in the air, vile and thick. A few men shifted uncomfortably, but none spoke against them.
“What I am trying to say is that should the situation call for it, we could use its hunger. To appease it by giving what it has already shown a clear interest in.”
You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, a dark indignation flared in your chest as it took all your willpower to remain still.
You felt their eyes, like hot coals, drifting toward your still form. The smith’s son let out a long, weary breath. “Enough. Save your breath for the march tomorrow.”
But the idea had been sown, a seed taking root in the fertile soil of their cowardice.
The night grew colder, the stars a hard, distant glitter through the skeletal branches. You let the foul words wash over you, not as an insult, but as a revelation. It stripped away the last, fragile illusion of community
You waited as the men retreated to their beds. The whispers had ceased, replaced by the light snoring of men and the occasional cough of the sentry.
You slowly uncurled yourself from your blanket as you slid silently from your bed. You quickly dressed yourself in your boots and coat, each layer a shield against the cold. Your gaze swept across the camp, landing on the smith’s son. Beside his pack, loosely wrapped in oilcloth, was the haunch of salted venison. It was strong and gamey—a scent that would carry.
You knelt beside him, your movements fluid and slow. Your hand hovered over the knife at his belt, watching him closely for any sign of consciousness. Once you were certain that he would not awake any time soon, you unsheathed the knife. Its weight was unfamiliar, the feel of the weapon unlike the instruments you were accustomed to after years in the kitchen.
With some difficulty, you sliced away a thick piece of the raw, salt-cured meat. Then, before you could bring yourself to hesitate, you pressed the blade against your own palm and sliced. You bit your lip to muffle your sounds as your hand began to throb, the open wound a stinging pain against the cool air. You grit your teeth as you squeezed your first, letting your blood, hot and coppery, soak into the fibrous flesh.
Once you had deemed the meat properly soaked, you stepped away from the camp, towards the forest opposite of the direction you truly needed to go. Every few paces, you squeezed the bloody meat in your hand, letting droplets fall onto leaves and other roots. You made it obvious—clumsy. A trail that led directly to the heart of the camp.
You walked nearly a quarter mile, creating this macabre breadcrumb path. At the end of it, you worked quickly, gathering pieces of firewood into a single bundle and placing the meat at the center of the stack. You reached into your shoe and took out the flint you had pocketed precisely for this moment. It took a couple of tries before you got the wood to light. As the fire grew stronger, you observed as the meat quickly changed from cooking to burning, the dark smoke rose into the sky, clouding the pale view of the moon.
You watched it rise for only a heartbeat, a grim artist assessing her work. Then, you bolted.
Not back to the camp, but in a wide, silent arc, using the gurgle of a nearby stream to mask your movement, circling around to strike out on the true path toward where you’d last faced the Hunter.
You ran by memory and desperation, a map of terror etched on your soul. As you drew closer and closer to your destination, you heard the first sign of your success. The sounds of terrified screams and gunfire filled your ears as you raced ahead.
You did not slow, instead you moved faster. You could not waste this opportunity for you may never get one again. The screams faded behind you, swallowed by distance and the dense trees. As the canopy grew thicker and the air became heavier, you became frantic in your search.
“Father! Father!” Your voice cracked as it traveled echoed through the clearing. Your eyes began to sting as you held back tears. No, please no…
A thin, ragged thread of noise, so distant it might have been the creak of a branch or the cry of a night bird, rang through the night.
Your breath hitched. There it was again, a voice. Broken, hoarse with exhaustion, but unmistakable.
“...here… I’m here!...”
A sob of relief caught in your throat. He was here. He was alive.
You abandoned caution as you sprinted in the direction of the voice. “Father!” you screamed back. Thorns ripped at your coat, low branches slapped your face. “Keep calling!” you shrieked, your voice raw.
“...way!…run awa…he’s…”
You barreled your way violently through the undergrowth. He was just ahead. You could feel it.
You pivoted to your left and as you hurried past a tree, you were met by a solid wall of shadow. A mass of matted fur and hardened leather, smelling of damp earth, pine sap, and old, cold iron, slammed into you.
You were lifted off your feet as you cornered into a tree, the rough feeling of the trunk digging painfully into your back. His hands held you firmly against the tree as he pinned you by the shoulders. You squirmed as you tried to push him away, but your attempt was futile, his larger frame easily overpowering yours.
"No!" The scream tore from your raw throat. Not a scream of fear for yourself, but of denial. You were so close.
Your hand fumbled for the hilt of the knife on your belt, your fingers slick with your own blood. As your hand clamped shut on the weapon, you brought it up and swiftly aimed for his head.
The creature before you moved with inhuman speed, bringing up his hand to intercept the attack. The blade plunged straight through the center of the Hunter’s palm, the tip bursting out the back in a glint of bloody metal. Your eyes widened as his other hand, the one still pinning your shoulder moved to close around your throat. Not tight enough to cut off your airway but enough to keep you in place.
He didn't roar. He didn't flinch. He simply looked down at his impaled hand, then back up at you. He drew his face closer, inches from your own, you could feel his warm breath against your cheek.
With him so close to you, you couldn’t help but notice that his face was uncovered. It was not the face of a beast. Not a wolf, not a bear, not some demonic fusion of tooth and claw. It was the face of a man. Or what had once been a man. His face was webbed with stitches, patches of skin with different undertones of grey.
The sight of it froze the scream in your throat.
Then slowly, deliberately, he brought his injured hand between your faces and to his mouth. His teeth closed over the leather-wrapped grip and pulled, the blade slid free with a sickening, wet rasp.
Dark, viscous blood welled in the puncture, but it seemed to slow almost immediately. He flexed his fingers, the wound already sealing to a dark, puckered line.
He turned his head and spat the knife aside, before turning to face you once more. His eyes peered deeply into yours as he watched you struggle in his hold.
“You carry a spark of anger.” His voice was not a sound you heard with your ears, it was a vibration you felt in the marrow of your bones. “It is…bright.” The pressure of his hand on your throat tightened ever so slightly as he leaned forward, his stitched face filling your world.
those pleading eyes (that both threaten and adore)
PART ONE
summary: decades after the events of frankenstein's death, the creature was left to roam the world with nothing but resentment in his heart. his bitterness towards humanity's cruelty builds until he can no longer contain the wrath within. if mankind has deemed him to be a monster, then so be it.
pairing: dark!creature/adam frankenstein x f!reader
warnings: gothic horror, violence, mentions of murder and death, religious imagery and symbolism, out of character adam, historical inaccuracies, eventual smut.
a/n: fell off the face of the earth for seven months and now i'm back writing fanfiction for a character played by jacob elordi, who would've thunk? anyway this fic is thanks to that one scene of the creature telling victor to run.
words: 2.6k
next part>>
If one were to wander deep enough into the forest, they would come across many a thing. The faint rippling of a river, sunbeams caressing blooming flowers, the sweet tune of a fledgling. If you listen closely, you can discern the very sound of mother nature's heartbeat.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The heavy rhythm that beats life into organisms, indifferent to whether they are predator or prey—detestable or lovable. She pours her essence to provide the energy required to maintain the ethereal beauty that is creation, both the redeemable and the damned.
The common man often mistakes what is not known with what should not be known. Believing it to be wiser to leave behind the uncertainties of the untamed in exchange for the commodities that caution provides. To leave in the hands of God all that lies within the shadows of the darkest parts of the forest.
The voids in the woods breathed whispers of danger, tales of a bloodlustful and resentful demon. A fallen angel who was incapable of exhibiting His beauty, abandoned and condemned to live alongside men, but never among them.
They called him An Sealgair Dorcha—The Dark Hunter.
At first, the misfortunes began as but a mere nuisance. A few missing eggs from the baker’s hencoop, a pail of milk left empty in the springhouse, a stack of newly sown garments gone missing. These were the petty tribulations of country life, easily blamed on a clever fox or a band of travelers passing through the dale.
Yet, the intention of these misdeeds became more dreadful, and far more malicious.
Guts of animals strewn about farmland, pillars of homes dismantled into pure ruins, and local huntsmen returning with injuries of supernatural nature. Their fearful eyes spoke what their tongues could not.
Soon, tales of myth turned into reports of a tangible horror. A living, animated monster whose form was akin to that of a breathing shadow. A silhouette wrapped in a cloak of night, concealing every inch of what is presumed to be his skin, leaving only his raging gaze to peer upon us vulnerable mortals.
Still, the townspeople feared not his stature, despite the physical threat of his being. Instead, they feared its judgement, for it was not a mere beast, but a conscious, malevolent intelligence.
“Have you gone completely mad!”
The words echoed through the small cabin like thunder.
“Not so loud! We mustn’t let our daughter know of such a thing.”
Your father’s words came out in a hushed whisper.
Unbeknownst to your parents, you lie awake in your room, listening intently to every word. The thin wall between your room and the main living space doing little to silence their frantic voices.
“Know what? That her father is a fool? Wanting to join the other men on a suicide mission to hunt th-that…that thing!”
“What other choice is there! Sit idly by and wait for that monster to come to our door? To our daughter! No, Amelia. If there is even the slightest chance that I can kill it, then I will take it.”
The silence that follows is thick and heavy, laced with your mother’s anguish and your father’s desperation. The only sound being the faint crackle of the hearth.
“And then what? Leave your daughter fatherless and I a widow? Leave us to fend and feed ourselves because of your pride?” your mother’s voice cracks, her voice barely audible, “your idiotic, stubborn pride?”
“This is not pride, Amelia!” You can hear your father’s sharp intake of breath before he speaks again, in a calmer tone, “This is terror. A terror that cuts so deep I can hardly breathe for it.”
The confession hit you, harder than any boast of bravery could have. Your body freezes, as a coldness seeps from your core all the way to your fingertips.
Your mind conjures visceral images of your father’s doom. His body still, his appearance ghastly, and his kind eyes empty, devoid of any warmth leaving you to question the heavens what you did to deserve this.
No, father….
Your thoughts were interrupted by the weeping of your mother and the heavy thud of your father sitting down at the dining table, the weight of the world in the sound.
"It is already decided...I will leave with the rest of the men at daybreak."
Daybreak.
The thought of your father's hands. those who have only mended fences and birthed lambs, now being forced to fight a battle with no chance of victory...
No. You will not let dawn take him.
Your veins filled with a burning resolve; unlike anything you've ever felt before.
You moved with calculated precision as you put on your stout boots and your thickest woolen shawl, your fingers steady and your mind alarmingly clear.
It was no longer fright that motivated you, but rage. Who did this creature believe himself to be? To create such despair and anguish where there was only tranquility and glee before? To shatter your mother's kind heart and wither your father's spirit?
Once you were certain that your parents had succumbed to slumber, their torment giving way for exhaustion, you slipped from your bedroom, toes tipping along the worn-out floorboards.
The latch on the front door gave way with a soft, metallic click. You stood, one hand on the rough border of the door frame, the other wiping away a stray tear.
Your feet pushed you forward before your mind could protest against it.
They carried you across the fields of your home, the grasslands and farm animals faded from view as your eyes set on the barn straight ahead.
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil,
You slid the heavy wooden doors open, the scent of hay, dried herbs, and warm animal flesh provided a sense of comfort. Your hands reached for the lantern, the golden glow illuminating the treacherous path soon to be taken.
for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff,
Your eyes traveled over to the corner of the room, past the horse harnesses and coiled rope, until they rested on your father's rifle. A long, heavy item. Its metal barrel gleaming under the faint light, promising annihilation of the Enemy.
they comfort me.
The air outside was bitingly cold, the comforting scents long since snatched away by the damp, fungal breath of the woods.
You had been trekking through the forest for almost two hours, your boots covered in mud and your skirt frayed along the edges.
What began as a mission of grit and perseverance has long since turned into desperation. Each second gone by was another second closer to morning.
The sun will rise soon, and with it…
Your hand ached as you clutched onto the rifle tightly, the heaviness feeling less like a comfort and each moment more as dead weight. The flame of the lantern was its own bobbing world in an ocean of black, hardly providing more than a few feet worth of visibility in any direction. The muscles of your feet throbbed in protest, each step dragging you down further into doubt.
It was then that you saw it, a rustle in the bushes.
Your hands scrambled quickly to raise the rifle, your heart thundering wildly against your ribcage. The lantern fell with a soft thud, the light casting warped shadows of your surroundings. The rustle came again, but this time, it was followed by a pained whimper.
Your expression shifted from fearful to bewildered, your ears straining to listen. As the cries grew louder, you hurried towards the sound, curiosity winning over any sense of reason.
Pushing past the undergrowth revealed not a demon, but an injured wolf. A great beast rendered defenseless. Its fur matted with dark, wet patches of blood. One of its hind legs trapped in the cruel, iron teeth of a poacher’s trap.
The sensible parts of you screamed to move on, to leave this animal to its fate and focus once more on your mission. After all, what sense did it make to try and change a fixed destiny?
Yet at the sight of its suffering, so raw and intense, all of the resolve that propelled you into the woods simply…dissipated.
With a defeated sigh, you set your weapon carefully against a tree and knelt in the damp earth.
The wolf flinched, its chest heaving in panicked breaths as it tried, and failed, to bare its teeth. A low growl rumbled in its throat, too weak to reach the surface. You shuffled closer, maintaining a safe distance while slowly bringing your empty hands closer in a hopeful attempt to soothe the animal.
“Easy now, little one,” you whispered, your voice soft and steady as the wolf continued to trash violently. “I won’t hurt you.”
You had nothing to pry open the trap and no strength in your arms to match the spring of the iron. Your thoughts raced to find a remedy, some form of solace you could possibly provide. Your eyes fell upon a spring, located merely a few feet away.
Without a second thought, you rose and moved to the water’s edge, your movements slow and predictable so as to not startle the suffering creature. The wolf watched as you untied the woolen shawl from your shoulders and dipped it into the icy, cold water.
Once the fabric was properly soaked, you returned to the wolf’s side, and began to gently dab the wet cloth against the wound.
The beast recoiled at the first touch, but as the coolness soothed its feverish skin, its fight began to drain. The panting slowed and its eyes lost a fraction of their wild panic. You wringed the cloth and poured a little of the cool water from the shawl into its mouth, the wolf lapped selfishly to quench its thirst.
As you tended to the wolf’s injury to the best of your ability, you failed to notice the profound silence that had fallen over the clearing.
It was an abrupt, absolute quiet. The chirping crickets, the scuttling in the hedges, the sigh of the wind—all of it ceased. The very forest, every creature and every leaf, held its breath.
And then you felt it—a presence. A weight of attention so intense it was like a suffocating pressure on your chest.
Your hands stilled. You looked up, and your blood turned to ice.
There, at the edge of the lantern’s ring, he stood.
The stories had not prepared you for the reality of him. He was not a mere silhouette, but a sculpture of primordial night. The darkness of his attire clung to the hard planes of a powerful physique. His towering form both terrifying and beautiful in its savage grace. His eyes were not burning with rage, but rather glowing with a low, simmering ember of interest.
He took a single step forward, and the world did not right itself. The silence remained, a cocoon woven around the three of you—the hunter, the healer, and the wolf.
Every instinct screamed. Run. Hide.
But the wolf was trapped. Your father’s rifle was leaned against a tree, several paces away.
You scrambled backward, driven by the base need for survival. Your hand shot out, groping blindly for the rifle.
The moment your fingers closed around the weapon, you swung it up, aiming it at the center of him with trembling hands
“Stay back!” you cried, your voice cracking.
The creature did not startle. It did not speak. He simply… moved.
It was an eruption of motion, too fast for the eye to truly follow. One moment he was ten paces away, the next he was upon you.
His hand clamped around the rifle barrel, wrenching it from your grasp as if you were a child. Your fingers burned as it was torn from your hold, your defense rendered useless in a single, effortless motion.
He held the rifle in one hand, his gaze never leaving yours. With a contemptuous twist of his wrist, he bent the metal barrel into a useless U-shape, the sound of the groaning steel a violent profanity in the quiet wood. He tossed the ruined weapon aside. It landed with a dull thud in the loam, a symbol of your futility.
You were defenseless.
You tried to bolt, but he was faster. In two steps he reached you and before you could scream, his frame was against yours.
With an overwhelming force, he drove you into the ground. Your back fell hard against mossy grass, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. His body, a solid wall of muscle, pinned you down. One large, gloved hand captured both of your wrists, pressing them above your head.
You struggled, a frantic, pathetic writhing, but it was like trying to move a mountain.
His other hand came up, and you flinched, a terrified sob escaping your lips. But he did not strike you. His fingers, cold even through his gloves, brushed against the wool of your shawl—the shawl you had used to comfort the wolf. He touched it lightly, almost curiously. A low, rumbling sound vibrated from his chest, not a growl, but a deep, contemplative hum.
You squeezed your eyes shut, turning your head away, awaiting the killing blow. You expected to feel teeth at your throat—the end.
It did not come.
Instead, the crushing pressure of his presence… disappeared.
You dared to open your eyes. He was standing a few feet away, his back to you, facing toward the east where the sky was beginning to pale.
Without a word, he looked down at the trapped animal for a moment, then, with a single, powerful movement of his boot, he stamped on the spring of the iron trap. The metal sprang open with a loud, metallic crack.
The wolf, freed, scrambled up and limped hurriedly into the night, leaving you alone with the creature who had so effortlessly dismantled your world.
You remained on the ground, the cold dampness of the earth seeping through your skirts, your wrists still humming with the memory of his grip. He stood over you, a statue forged from moonlight, his ember-like gaze fixed upon you.
For a long, suspended moment, he simply looked at you. His eyes, which had glowed with predatory interest, now held a different, more unnerving quality: a deep, weary contemplation. They traced the lines of your face, the fall of your hair, the rapid rise and fall of your chest. They dropped to your hands, still stained with the water and blood from your futile act of mercy.
Then, as if never having perceived you, he turned.
You watched as his form receded into the tangled gloom of the forest, melting into the shadows between the trees, leaving you alone with the scent of pine and cold night air.
The silence he left behind was deafening. The normal sounds of the forest—the crickets, the rustling leaves—rushed in to fill the void, but they sounded distant, hollow. The first true rays of dawn pierced the canopy, painting the clearing in a weak, grey light. It illuminated the ruined rifle, the crushed trap, the trampled grass where your body had been pinned.
As you viewed the sunrise in the distance, a feeling of distraught overtook you. You had failed. You had traveled this far, armed with nothing but a gun and a lack of coherence, and had changed nothing.
A guttural sound tore from your throat—not a sob of fear, but a scream of pure, undiluted fury.
The scream echoed faintly through the clearing, swallowed by the indifferent trees. As it faded, a cold, sharp clarity settled in its place.
Scrambling to your feet, you ignored the ache in your back and the tremor in your hands. Perhaps you really were incapable of changing the tide of oncoming events, but no manner of demon or devil would force you to surrender.
So, you did the only thing that you considered logical.
You ran.
Adam is the amalgamation of humanity's potential, both the good and the evil and the worm in my brain will not let me rest until I write all that I can about the man and the monster that is Adam Frankenstein.
Summary: you decide to test some boundaries between your friend and crush, sayid jarrah. you ask him if you can braid his hair.
Warnings: none. pure fluff
a/n: GUESS WHOS BACK WITH LOST FANFIC. i know i fell off but trust im doing my best rn. this man still drives me feral and i need to run my hands through his hair so badddddd
Words: 2.2k
“I’m sorry, I must’ve misheard. What did you say?”
You chuckle nervously to hide the way you squirm slightly under Sayid's intense gaze, now feeling embarrassed at having voiced such intrusive thoughts aloud. Despite knowing that this act may be pushing a couple of boundaries between your relationship friendship with him, you aren't one to shy away from a challenge. You clear your throat and, before you can doubt yourself, speak again.
“I asked...Can I braid your hair?”
He blinks. Then blinks again, perplexed at the question. His brain halts any thoughts as he struggles to formulate a response. He isn’t sure how he’s supposed to answer considering he’s never been put in this position. Are you saying this as a joke? Is he supposed to laugh? He turns his head away from your view as he can feel the heat run down from his ears towards his nape. His hair doing a good job of hiding the cherry red that is slowly spreading across his cheeks. The thought of you being so close and intimate, touching him where he'd refuse anyone else to even get close to…is almost too much to handle.
He lets out a loud huff of annoyance, effectively stopping his train of thought. "Haha, very funny." You're toying with him. You must be, there's no other explanation as to why you would ask him such a question. He knows you well enough by now to know you are not above such games. Your extroverted and playful nature being exactly what drew him to you in the first place.
He thinks about when he first met you, a beacon of light illuminating the dark and treacherous path that is life on the island. He remembers how unfaltering you were in your optimism, never failing to have your words lift the spirits of others. When the truth of his past came out, alongside the events of him torturing Sawyer unfolding, you were the only one to check up on him. Never once blaming him or thinking of him as a monster...never viewing him as he saw himself
Little by little, you chipped away at the walls he oh so carefully built around his heart. Forcing yourself deep within until, before he realized, he was in love with you.
Which is why he couldn't let you have any more control over him than you already had. "If this is some weird way for you to make fun of me, I'll have you know I don't appreciate it," he settles with saying. He knows that you like to tease him specifically. Occasionally throwing some flirty comment his way, to which he'll respond by flirting back. Although deep down, it pains him to know that you don't see him as much more than a friend.
"I'm not joking!" The volume of your voice shocks both of you. You take a deep breath before you try again, in a calmer tone, "I want to braid your hair." Any previous hesitation slipped away as determination filled you. When you saw Sayid for the first time, it was like everything made sense. His serious yet caring demeanor enough to charm you and make your heart flutter any time you are around him. So what if this makes it awkward between the two of you? To hell with it! You’ve made it this far and you’ll be damned if you don’t manage to finally fulfill the fantasy that has been plaguing your thoughts from the moment your eyes met his.
The conviction in your tone was enough to make Sayid pause. "But why?" he asked. If you weren't playing with him, then why the hell would you want to do something like that? The idea of you having no other reason besides genuinely wanting to seemed too outlandish.
"B-Because...Because I've seen the way you struggle to work!" you quickly stammer out a response, blurting out the first thing that came to mind. "You work under the burning sun and I've seen you constantly push the curls from your face as you wipe sweat from your forehead. Even when you tie your hair up, some strands manage to fall out." You weren't going to admit that you just wanted an excuse to run your fingers through his hair, no way.
"You...you noticed that?" He ponders over this new fact for a second before he lets out a small laugh. "I didn't realize you paid that much attention to what I do."
Your face turns away to hide the embarrassment taking over your features. "O-Of course I did! I care about you."
He stops laughing, his breath hitching at the comment. The way you can admit how you feel so casually makes him feel warm inside, as well as a little jealous. You are going to be the end of me.
"However, if you don't want to–" you start to backtrack, mistaking his lack of response as a refusal.
"No! I mean–" He closes his eyes. He needs to compose himself. Or else he might reveal just how much he wants you to do it. If he lets you see how much you affect him, it could scare you off. "I am fine with you braiding my hair." The words sound foreign coming out of his mouth, never having thought he would ever utter such words.
However, looking at the way you beam at his words, he can't help but be glad he accepted. Your smile so bright it could rival that of all the stars in the sky. "Well then," you pat the empty spot in front of you, "take a seat."
He gingerly makes his way forward, his eyes flickering between you and the sand. Slowly, he sits, turning his back towards you as he does so.
"Come closer doofus, I can't do anything with you so far."
He rolls his eyes but has to bite down a smile as he scoots back. "You could always come forward yourself."
"And leave my spot underneath the shade? Pass," you say as you are now face to face with Sayid's luscious bed of hair. With him so close, you can smell the salt of the ocean and the earthy undertones wafting from him. It takes everything in you not to just hug him from behind and bury yourself in his scent.
You quickly shake your head, trying to focus on the task at hand. You are still trying to process the fact that Sayid managed to agree to this at all. Hesitantly, you bring both hands up and gently take hold of his locks, taking notice of the way he shivers slightly. Must be because of the breeze.
You decided to start by separating the strands of hair as carefully and painlessly as you are able to, wanting to cause him the least amount of discomfort possible. You can’t risk making a wrong move and have him change his mind now, can you? His thick and slightly coarse hair, obviously feeling the neglect of hair products, feels rough against your fingertips. If only my coconut hair mask had survived the dive into the ocean.
Your fingers brush through his curls, detangling knots until you are fully able to run your fingers through without interruption. Occasionally tugging harshly on some stubborn joint hairs, in which you would murmur out a quick apology. Had you known he would have let you anywhere near his hair today, you would’ve brought your hairbrush with you. Between all of this, you almost failed to catch the sigh Sayid lets out, barely audible in the midst of ocean waves and birdsong.
Your gaze becomes fond as you observe the change in his demeanor. His previously stiff posture now completely relaxed. His breathing a slowed, rhythmic version in contrast to his usual erratic pattern. Turning yourself as discreetly and quietly as possible, you attempt to look at his expression in order to gauge his inner thoughts.
His face is slack with peace, the stress lines vanishing, giving him a younger, healthier look. When on earth did he close his eyes?
You let out a soft giggle. “Hmm…If I didn’t know any better, I might say that you are enjoying yourself, Sayid Jarrah.”
He cracks open a single eye, barely sparring you a glance before returning to his restful state. “To be quite honest, I don’t remember the last time I was on the receiving end of something like this…” His voice trails off, the feel of his words becoming mournful. “Perhaps by my mother, though I don’t remember much from then either…”
The vulnerability he shares makes your fingers still, the weight of his confession revealing scars never fully healed. Gashes and tears in his very being which have resulted in his apathetic ways. The truth sheds a new light, his allowing you to braid his hair meant so much more than being close to him physically. He trusts me.
Your chest swells with pride. Now, doubling your effort, your hands resume their trek, ensuring to put extra care and tenderness in each move. You cannot mess this up.
You braid his hair meticulously, weaving the strands together, each motion a silent gesture of appreciation towards him for everything he has done. You want so badly to convey how much he means to you. That despite his beliefs, he is a person worthy of compassion and love. This island has brought out both the best and worst in people, so why is he adamant on emphasizing only his flaws?
How can he not realize the hands he’s used to hurt others have healed me?
Before you know it, your job is over. The hair tie on your wrist transfers smoothly to his hair as you fasten the loose ends of the braid. You’re reluctant to let go, eager for an excuse to be like this just a bit longer. To be able to bask in the glow of his burning heart, even if only for a mere second more.
Your arms eventually fall to your sides. “All finished!” You do your best to hide the disappointment, the enthusiasm in your tone a mask to the reality of your pining.
Your voice knocks Sayid out of his stupor. He had gotten so lost within the feeling of your hands, he had forgotten that the sensation would eventually end. His hand reaches around to feel your handiwork.
“This feels…good.” His voice comes out softer than he means for it to be. He clears his throat, wanting to at least keep a semblance of control. “It is very comfortable.”
You let out a snort, “What, did you think I was going to yank your hair into a knot and call it a day?”
“Who knows? Perhaps you wish to ruin my already damaged hair.”
“Yes, I have in fact always wanted to see your head as a bird’s nest.”
This time, he smiles. A true, genuine, open-tooth smile. The sight of it is enough to make you blush furiously.
You avert your eyes as quickly as possible, before he can perceive your staring. No point in giving him one more reason to tease you.
“We should head back with the others. Dinner is about to start.”
With your gaze turned downwards, you fail to notice the look in his eye. The softness he carries whenever he observes you. His need want to preserve every detail within his mind’s eye. The way your lashes lie delicately against your lids, the pastel red blush adorning your cheeks, and your hair. God, your hair. The manner in which your hair shines in the rays of sunlight highlights your face, making it look angelic. Your beauty was accentuated perfectly by the waves on your head.
The kind of waves he wouldn’t mind drowning himself in.
A thought suddenly came to him. The idea made his finger twitch, and before his brain could even register what he was doing, his hand had already made its way upward.
You had no time to prepare before you felt the sensation of calloused fingers against your temple. Rough pads caressed your brow, brushing aside a stray lock, before tucking it behind your ear.
The unexpected action caused you to freeze, your body going rigid and your mind turning blank. The only word your brain could conjure was warm, warm, warm.
The feeling left as quickly as it came, his hand retracting suddenly as if burned. The heat caused by his touch was swept away by the gentle breeze, leaving a cool, tingly feeling in its place.
“There…now we are even…”
Silence fills the space between the two of you, making the tension in the air palpable. Your look is trained on his, not daring to break this charged moment. You fear that one wrong move will break the dam of emotions threatening to spill through.
His eyes then flicker to your lips, his breath becoming heavy and his stare turning dark with something you can’t name. Your eyes widen.
“Feel free to call me anytime you want me to style your hair for you! You know, so it won’t get in your way anymore!”
That seems to break him out of his trance. His eyes shoot back up to yours, the intense glint in his eye now normal, as if it had never once been there.
Instead, it is now replaced by a softer, fonder look. His lips twitching slightly as he unsuccessfully attempts to hold back a smile.
Summary: the salesman meets face to face with the outcome of his betrayal, the punishment worse than what he could've imagined. as the time for the games approaches, you say goodbye to both your present and your past in hopes of a better future.
Warnings: mentions of torture and sex slavery (very brief), most likely some out-of-character actions from the salesman.
a/n: guess who's not dead. i really have no excuse for such a long absence other than life being a pain in the ass. if anyone is still here, thank you so much for your patience, i appreciate every single person who has stayed.
Words: 3.8k
<<previous part
Time had passed relatively quickly. The days blurred into one another as the salesman’s memory folded them like a worn-out book. The monotony of his schedule was as dependable and predictable as the ticking of a clock. Rise, recruit, return. Yet, over the past few weeks, no major events had taken place that should’ve caused the man any feelings of distress. Everything had been quiet…too quiet.
In the days following the salesman’s meeting with Gi-hun, there had been no notice or visit from the higher-ups concerning the outcome of their little game. Something that he had expected to happen almost immediately. In fact, that same night, as he lay atop the twin-size bed of his newly acquired hideout, he imagined that the darkness he saw when he closed his eyes would be the last thing he would ever perceive. So, it was much to his surprise when the next morning, daylight flickered in and illuminated the space of his room and not the rainfall of gunfire.
Could this be a tactic? Some way to lull me into a false sense of security?
When it came to recruiting, the rules were very strict. Call in after each shift to report on the occurrences of the preceding hours. It would be foolish of him to assume that they had taken no notice of the fact that he hadn’t dialed in as he had every other night without fail. As days turned into weeks, and the silence became ever so deafening, he decided the best thing to do was to continue his job as usual. There was no reason for him to seek out calamity when it was bound to find him in the end. Who knows? Perhaps they were waiting for him to finish serving his intended function before disposing of him for good.
Regardless of their reasoning, I cannot let my guard down.
After the recruiter spoke with Gi-hun, he made sure to take all the preventative measures necessary. First, he was sure to find some refuge that would make it much more difficult to be spotted. Next, although he resumed his job of rounding up players for the games, he made certain that each individual could not be traced back to him. Finally, he strayed as far as possible from places where he knew employees of the games would frequent. Having had a hand in hiring a significant portion of the workers, he knew the details of all their non-criminal pass times. Such as where they lived, worked, and socialized. Of course, this limited the number of places where he could gather food and other necessities, but nothing that he hadn’t handled before.
Despite the constant vigilance he has implemented into his daily life, it never stemmed any feelings of fear. Every day was unpredictable. After having lived so long controlling the fates of others by waving their flaws, unmasking their misfortune, and then offering them a treat, the tables were now suddenly turned on him. Instead of being the hunter, he was now the exposed creature on the other end of a blade, facing the razor edge of the decision which is now costing him the life he had worked so hard to build. He knew too well that the games weren’t just about the players. There was always collateral damage—those who walked the fine line between participant and observer, those who facilitated it all in the shadows. And now, it seemed, he was no longer immune to the consequences. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he felt lost.
However, it didn’t matter what emotions or inner turmoil he could be experiencing. Very soon, someone would find him and haul him away, hiding him from the rest of the world where he would never be seen again by the eyes of the public.
I wonder…what method they will use?
His mind swirled with the endless possibilities of punishments they might inflict on him. He could practically feel the cold metallic of the instruments cutting through his skin, pulling away at his tissue, tearing at his muscles, until finally cracking bone.
Of course, I cannot eliminate the possibility of being turned into new shiny entertainment for the V.I.Ps. In that case, should I prepare myself in some way? Who knows what sort of fantasies they would have me perform and whether—
*POP!*
“The total is 26,000 won please.”
The sharp sound jolted the man back to the present. He blinked, disoriented. He has to shake his head to physically tear his focus away from his thoughts and back to the cashier standing in front. A young lady who was currently staring at him with an expression of feigned concern that poorly masked her irritation.
“Are you alright?” She tried again. This time, the tone of her voice turned sour as her brow furrowed, clearly puzzled about what was causing the delay from the other man to pay.
He cleared his throat as he forced out a chuckle, his instincts kicking in. “Pardon me,” he said, his voice light and polished, “I have no idea where my mind is today.” His hand reaches around to fish out his wallet as he feels her eyes on him, judging and impatient. He doesn’t wait for her to hand him his change before taking hold of the bags of food and heading for the exit, the bells of the doorway jingling aggressively on his way out.
From the moment he steps out, he inhales greedily, the crisp winter breeze a stark contrast to the fried oil aroma from the inside of the fast food joint. The salesman’s breath forms small clouds in the cold air as he begins his trek in direction of shelter. As he walked, he took the time to appreciate the scenery he had neglected for far too long. The leaves around him fell in cascades of gold and red whilst the air carried the faint scent of decay. Autumn was announcing its retreat as the beginnings of winter were taking its place. Tonight was a chilly November night, the first, to be exact. The night before the start of the games.
The salesman pulled up his sleeve to see the time. 11:45. By now, the vans should be arriving at their designated spots.
With that thought, his mind seemed to unconsciously drift to you, the girl whose volatile nature had managed to completely render useless all of his skills and tactics as a recruiter. You, who had unraveled his carefully constructed facade with nothing but your words and your presence. You, the only one who had managed to beat him. He would be lying if he said he was uninterested, wondering if your decision to join the games was a positive one. Your words echoed in his brain like a mantra, “I never lose.” Was that a threat or a promise? Perhaps that is the one thing he will regret the most from his sudden “betrayal,” he won’t be around to witness you in your full glory as a player. The storm of emotions you managed to make him feel in the span of one game, was more excitement than he had felt in years since the start of his career as a recruiter.
Before he could dwell any further on you or the effects you had on him, he was taken off guard by the low purr of an engine. His head whipped up, his body tensing at being caught in such a vulnerable state. His gaze immediately fell on the sleek black limousine that was pulling up beside him on the now-empty street.
I guess this would make it the second time you’ve managed to distract me.
The back window rolled down, revealing a man shrouded in shadow. The voice that emerged was calm, measured, and utterly devoid of warmth. “Get in.”
He hesitated. Momentarily debating on taking his chances before realizing there was only one possible outcome of this interaction. With his usual bravado, he squared his shoulders and strolled to the car door with as much elegance and poise as he could muster. His fingers twitching slightly as he drew his arm and reached for the door.
As he slid into his seat, the door closed behind him with a soft thud. Once inside the expensive vehicle, he slipped on his usual mask of ease and uninterest. The interior was dimly lit, the faint glow of the dashboard casting long shadows across the plush of the leather seats. The air was thick with the fragrance of expensive cologne. The figure in front of him was a mostly dark silhouette, the only visible feature being his geometric-shaped mask.
As the car pulled away from the curb, gliding smoothly through the dark night, the tension in the space between the two men thickened, the heavy atmosphere becoming suffocating.
“You have been…elusive,” the frontman’s voice rumbled, his stern tone being the first sound to break through the silence. “I suppose you are aware of the reason for why I am here.”
The recruiter let out a heavy sigh and clicked his tongue. “I assume it is not for pleasant conversation? After all, you have never been the sociable type, sir.”
A humorless chuckle emanated from the man. “I can see your sense of humor hasn’t disappeared, though I can’t say the same for your sense of loyalty.” The frontman leans forward, his voice lowering to a hiss, the fury evident in every word. “What the hell were you thinking?”
The recruiter’s head turned up, his gaze turning contemplative as he thought over the question. In all honesty, he himself did not know the full reason why he did what he did. The choice to turn his back on the organization he had served for so long is as bewildering and unexpected for him as it must be for the other man. He decided the best way to answer was with the closest thing he considered the truth. “I was curious.”
The salesman’s response hung in the air. “...Curious? You were willing to betray us? The people who saved you from your life of aimlessly wandering and handed you power. The ones whose goals aligned with your beliefs and granted you the ability to act on them. Just because you were curious?"
The recruiter leaned back against the seat, his facade of calm unwavering despite the storm brewing around him. He crossed his legs casually, as if this were nothing more than a routine talk. “I suppose I wanted to see what would happen,” he said, his tone light and airy, almost conversational. “You of all people should understand the allure of curiosity. After all, isn’t that what drives the games? The thrill of seeing how far people will go, what they are willing to do when pushed to their limits? Gi-hun…Gi-hun is an anomaly. Someone who despite all odds managed to win without becoming consumed by greed.”
The frontman’s gloved hands tightened into fists, his leather gloves creaked softly as anger seeped through. His posture stiffened as his image of self-control slowly began to crack.
Ignoring the increasing rage from the man in front of him, the salesman continued. “Gi-hun managed to go through the entirety of the games without once shedding a drop of blood, even if it went against his chances for survival. I believe it is fair to be intrigued by his actions considering how far he has already gotten. I…I wish to see how much farther he can go” He tilted his head, the volume of his words increasing as he grew in confidence. “If I recall correctly, sir, you yourself vowed to never become a “monster” like you oh so confidently stated during your games. In the end, you managed to rise through the ranks even quicker than I have…Are you not also intrigued by Gi-hun, sir?”
The frontman scoffed, “If you were as capable as you are insolent, you wouldn’t be in your current predicament. I can only assume you have lost the last bit of your sanity, or else you wouldn’t be this much of an idiot to–”
“Do you want some fried chicken?”
The question stunned the man, momentarily causing him to falter in his speech. “I’m sorry?”
“No need, I have original and spicy.” The salesman’s voice carried a playful note, his hands already taking the containers of food from the bag and placing them on his lap. “Though, I think the original would pair best with your whiskey.” If tonight is truly the night he is meant to die, he might as well go out with a full stomach.
The frontman lets out a huff, shaking his head in disbelief. “You do realize you’re in no position to be making jokes, correct?”
“With all due respect, sir, you were the one that intercepted me on my way home. If you were that impatient and could not wait for me to finish my dinner before speaking to me, then the very least you could do is allow me to eat here.” The recruiter spares a single glance at the man in front of him before taking a bite from a chicken leg.
The masked man sighed. “How much information did you give to Gi-hun?”
The salesman stopped chewing, tilting his head and raising an eyebrow as the realization hit him.
He doesn’t know of Gi-hun’s plans.
The recruiter swallowed his bite of chicken, his mind racing. The frontman didn’t know the extent of what Gi-hun had planned–which meant the organization had no idea how to prevent the attack that was to come. They were completely in the dark regarding the next steps of Gi-hun and had no notion that Gi-hun intended to use the frontman’s own soldiers against him. He felt a slow smirk tug at the corner of his lips.
Interesting.
“Did you lose Gi-hun, sir?”
The silence that came afterward was enough of an indication that the frontman was, for once, no longer in complete control.
“I have…some ideas, as to where he will be…” The masked man leaned forward, his presence taking up the small space. “Currently, however, nobody has managed to catch a single sight of him.”
“And you believe that I know where he is?”
The frontman reaches into his pocket, retrieving a remote control. When he pushes a button, a small monitor appears from the ceiling and plays security camera footage. The video displays the outside of the motel which Gi-hun was using as a hideout, the night the salesman went to visit him. The camera captures the recruiter leaving, hair disheveled and clearly startled, looking frantically around him before eventually heading somewhere unknown. Moments later, Gi-hun himself comes out, the salesman’s phone in hand, and walking in the opposite direction. The camera cuts to another angle, this time displaying Gi-hun shooting a text on the phone, the words being too blurry to make out. Gi-hun then looks up at the street camera, the anger visible in his eyes even through a screen, before walking into an alleyway and the screen turns to static.
“I assume that was your phone in his hand, was it not?” The conviction in his tone made it clear that it wasn’t a question, it was a statement, an accusation.
“Yes…But I have no idea where he is.” At least that part was the truth. He had had no reason to keep contact with Gi-hun after that night. He had played the game, failed, and paid the price, there was no further connection tying them to each other. In the end, Gi-hun, despite having won the games, was still nothing more than a pest. No amount of sacrifice on his part would change that. “Despite what you may believe, I have no intention of dismantling a system that has benefited society thus far.”
“Then why? Being intrigued is not enough of a reason for you, not after having served us for so long. You, who has been our most loyal and efficient recruiter. What could have possibly happened in that room for you to make such an abnormal decision? What possible reason would you have to ally yourself with a person whose ideas you don’t agree with?
The recruiter’s features became strained, the memory of his defeat playing in his mind all over again. “...I lost. I lost and he won…There’s no more to the reason for what I did than that.”
“I should've known…your love for the game, your greatest strength, would also become our biggest liability.” The frontman releases a small chuckle, in amusement or incredulity, the other isn’t quite sure. “You have left me no choice…”
At this, the recruiter raised his head, his jaw setting, his facade of indifference unwavering despite the storm brewing before him. “So…What is my sentence, sir?” he asks, the playful ring in his voice doing little to distract him from the thundering of his racing heart.
Nothing. The vacancy of noise and stillness that followed afterward could be mistaken for tranquility to any naive outsider who managed to look inside the closed space. Yet, when one peered further, deep into the minds of the two gentlemen sitting on either side of each other, they would catch heavy electricity infiltrating the atmosphere.
After what felt like hours to the salesman, the frontman cocked his head, seemingly regarding him. His mask made it hard for the other to distinguish the exact thought process the figurehead was currently debating.
“I am well aware of the reason you started working for us in the first place…and your opinion of the players.” Then, with deliberate slowness, he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small tan business card. “You, are not a person that fears death or pain. No, no. You deserve something a little more special.”
The recruiter froze, his eyes widening and breath hitching as dread shot through his system as forceful and sudden as a gunshot. The implication of his words lying heavy on his chest. “No…There is no way you would risk the games. Not with the support of the V.I.Ps on the line and everything I know…” His voice trailed off, knowing deep down that all those elements mattered little when it came to situations like this.
“On the contrary, I think this would cause much excitement for them. Especially now that I have to provide them with a new guest star for this year’s tournament.” He lets out a huff, his voice lowering to a murmur, “This wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go…”
The car abruptly stops, causing the recruiter to lurch forward in his seat.
“This is who you are now. This is now your new position and identity in the world. You weren’t content with disposing of scum? Congratulations, you have turned into one.” The frontman leans forward, his voice remaining monotone despite the modulator distorting his words. “Let’s see how long you last on the other side.”
With that, an unseen person on the outside opens the car door as the masked man swiftly rises from his spot. Before the salesman can gather his thoughts or even attempt to make a move, the door is quickly shut again. When he tries the handle from inside, the door is jammed.
As he looks around, the faint lighting of the car becomes darker and darker before he realizes that smoke is emerging from the air-conditioning vents. As he feels his strength weakening, he sighs as he closes his eyes, leaning his head on the rich headrest.
God, I hope this shit doesn’t give me a headache.
It’s today.
You paced back and forth through the small space of your home, anxiety and exhilaration manifesting themselves in your shaky hands. Your breath irregular as the thought made your pulse quicken.
You are supposed to go to the address they provided in 15 minutes. There, you would meet the van meant to drive you to the supposed “games.” The games where you would hopefully win a shit ton of money that would save your ass from financial ruin. The bit of cash you had won playing against that salesman had already run out, leaving you in a tight situation with the loan sharks. The bright red colors spelling out “eviction notice” on the otherwise plain piece of cardstock stuck out like a sore thumb in the poorly illuminated space of your apartment.
As if you could call this shithole an apartment.
The wallpaper peeled at the edges, revealing the black mold that had begun to gradually crawl its way to the surface. The musty odor infesting the air and attacking your senses each time you entered the threshold of your home. Your “home,” being a measly 20 square meter room.
You had quickly learned to survive on the bare minimum: food, plumbing, electricity, the works. Nothing more, nothing less, nothing that could slow you down in your quest for survival. You were constantly jumping from one shabby apartment to another, each time eliminating another variable from your life that you deemed inessential.
Every element that could possibly link you to your past was eliminated. Each discarded with the same level of care as you would have towards a beggar. Abandoned and forgotten.
As you shrugged on your jacket, you took one last glance around, observing the skeletal remains of what you were forced to call a life.
The single chair with its broken leg propped against the wall. The mattress on the floor, stained with memories you’d rather forget. The empty ramen cups, forged in the corner as a monument to set in stone your desperation. The debris of your despair present all around.
How the hell did I get here?
You giggled bitterly to yourself as you recalled the events that led to your current predicament.
You can’t see. Your vision too blurred from the stream of tears cascading onto the floorboards of your home. Each individual tear seemingly mocking you as they touch the tiles, taunting in its ability to run free and escape at will. Something you have yet to master.
“Pull yourself together! You don’t deserve the right to cry in front of the █████ you dared to ruin!”
Bile rose in your throat, the flashback opening up an acidic and familiar wound.
You didn’t care how you got here. You need to focus on the one thing that mattered above all, triumphing. By any means necessary.
You whirled around, yanking the door wide open and stepping through, your steps filled with newfound determination. Any previous doubt about the games completely thrown out the window. You had no idea what was waiting for you—and you couldn’t find it in yourself to care in the slightest. Nothing could be worse than this.
once again, i thank anybody who was willing to wait for this. i kinda hate this chapter and am sorry reader and gong yoo have yet to interact. the games will start in the next chapter, hopefully it won't take me another three months to upload it.
Summary: you find yourself questioning your next moves, debating whether to take the salesman up on his offer. meanwhile, somewhere else, the salesman and gi-hun play a game and exchange some words.
Warnings: swearing, mention of guns, ,drinking, nothing too bad.
a/n: tiktok just went down i am in despair. btw, holy crap, i didn't expect to get that much attention on my previous chapter, thank you all so much for the support! i am so sorry it took so long for this to come out but from now on i will do my best to upload consistently. the next chapter shouldn't take as long as this one.
Words: 2.9k
<<previous part next part>>
456-034
You rolled the card between your fingers, the glossy surface reflecting the numbers through the poorly lit bar where you were currently seated. The weight of the card—the one that would change everything—lay heavy in your hand. You brought the glass up to your lips, taking in a large swig of alcohol and downing it all in one gulp. Your mind drifted back to the game, the endless rounds of ddakji that stretched on far longer than either of you had expected. Your mind couldn't stop drifting back to the man who gave you the card, the salesman. His arrogance in approaching you and the confidence in his tone believing he would win, made beating him feel that much sweeter. Not to mention, you couldn't get out of your head the promise he had made—the games.
“The prize involves a large sum of money.” Those were his words. “A chance to change everything.”
You sighed, rubbing a hand down your face in frustration as the replay of his words refused to cease. You weren't stupid. No organization on earth would be willing to offer large amounts of money to those in debt without wanting something in return.
What the hell would I be getting into?
You could feel it in the way the businessman described the games, the hesitation beneath his perfect, pre-rehearsed words. The games were possibly dangerous, deadly even.
Your thoughts continued to float back to the man, unable to let go the image of his defeat. He hadn't expected it, you had. You remembered the way his eyes had shifted—just a flicker—but it had been enough to feel the rush of power that coursed through you. The kind that surged up your spine as you watched him stumble, the look of frustration barely contained under his sharp features. It brought a twisted smile to your face, a sort of satisfaction that you hadn't felt in a very long time.
You scoffed at yourself, you can’t let a single interaction with a person who matched your competitive energy let you fall back into that dangerous train of thinking. It was that sort of attitude that led you to your financial problem in the first place.
Disappointment. Deceit. Debt.
You'd already dodged enough bullets, danced with enough sharks to know the results of your reckless actions. Yet, no matter how hard you tried to fight it, your need to play had always won over any rational reasoning. Something about what the man had offered felt different, a new kind of gamble. Bigger stakes, bigger rewards. You could feel the possibilities swirling in your mind.
As you stood from your spot, pocketing the card, everything felt fuzzy—like you were floating, drifting on the edge of a decision, unsure if you should let go or pull yourself back to reality. You weren’t such a lightweight but right now it seems as if you’ve passed your limit. You try to regain your balance as you stumble towards the exit, the loud music and flashing lights disorienting as you bump into multiple people along the way.
Once you reach the outside, the fresh air makes you feel like you’ve rediscovered how to breathe. You inhale deeply, doing your best to walk along the dimly lit streets of Seoul, the sidewalks inhabited by those enjoying the city's nightlife. You call for a cab and once you’ve given the address to the driver, you sit back against the seat and take in the views drifting by. The city's neon lights blurred into streaks against the darkness, drowning everything around you in an almost dreamlike haze.
If I were to join the games….
The thought made your pulse quicken, in anticipation or fear you couldn’t tell, both emotions had melted into a single feeling long ago. The rules were simple. Win, and you could start over, away from the poverty and death threats that have taken over your daily routine. No matter how far you ran, your creditors always found you. Last time it was money, next week they would take your eyes. You knew that you would no longer be able to survive on your own, not anymore.
The thought made you chuckle…survival. What was survival if not just a slow death with a different name? A quieter, more painful death.
Finally arriving at your apartment, you paid the driver with the bit of cash you still had on you and walked up the steps of the building. Once you reached the front door, you stood motionless, feeling the outline of the card through your pocket, the weight of the decision pressing down on your chest. Out here, as much as you didn’t want to admit it, you didn’t stand a chance. But now, you were given a choice. A choice to win.
The corners of your mouth twitched as the decision hardened inside of you. You never lose.
So why stop now?
“Let's play a game.”
At the moment, both the salesman and Gi-hun were sitting across from each other, face to face, observing each other's expressions under the multicolored fluorescent lights inside the motel. One of their faces showed loathing and disgust, his eyes glossed over with hatred and the pain of everyone he had ever lost. The other eyes were the complete opposite. Instead, shining at the prospect of a new challenge, a game in which either won or lost, would grant him one more chance to play. The blood marks on his face were the only betrayal of his deceptively put-together persona.
“I’m sure you’ve seen this in the movies. It’s called Russian Roulette.” He carefully placed one of the bullets in the gun’s chamber as he explained the rules. “But I’d like to make this game a little more serious,” his smile widened as the look in his eyes became increasingly more manic.
“Cut to the chase,” Gihun snapped.
The salesman’s eyebrow quirked in surprise. The man in front of him seemed nothing like that quivering coward who he met at the subway station long ago. Now, instead of darting, fearful eyes, Gi-hun’s gaze was almost vicious looking. Having transformed from that of a prey to a predator. I wouldn’t expect any less of the man who has been chasing me for the past 3 years. “We’ll take turns pulling the trigger without spinning the cylinder again. The bullet will be fired within six attempts, and the game will be over,” his head tilted, his words serving nothing more than to provoke Gi-hun, “What do you say?”
Gi-hun glared at him, his jaw clenching and his lips pressing into a thin line. He was back to the start. Once again being forced to play games to have the chance of gaining an advantage. Now instead, he was required to risk all the work he had done up to this point to get closer to the man in charge. He gulped as he slowly nodded his head. It seems his gambling addiction was still rooted deep into his being. However, instead of splurging his mother’s money, he had to wager his life. What other choice do I have? The thought of all of his pain and labor to stop the games being in vain if he died didn’t even cross his mind. If I’m only one more bet away from the frontman, then so be it.
With that, the clash of two unrelenting forces began. As the rounds progressed, they each pulled the trigger, the odds of death increasing each time the gun shot blanks. Their postures became more rigid as they passed each other the gun. “Time to Say Goodbye” playing in the background, the slow and beautiful melody a stark contrast to the tense atmosphere between the two players.
The recruiter took every opportunity to insult the other man, enjoying pushing all of the buttons he knew would rile up his competitor. He found it amusing just how effortless it was to provoke him. His confidence reached an all-time peak as the game reached its second to last round. The chance of dying now 50%. “Let me guess what you’re thinking right now…Screw the rules. Pull the trigger once or twice, and I can blow this guy’s face off.”
He knew it was dangerous to anger the man with a gun in hand, but above all, he wanted to prove his point. “But I’ll have you admit one thing.” Show him that he’s the same piece of shit that groveled at his feet for a bit of spare change during their first interaction. “That you’re a piece of trash, just like everybody else.”
Even if it cost him his life.
The man was sure his opponent would cave. His survivor's guilt not being a good enough reason to pull the trigger. He could practically envision his next actions. Gi-hun’s hold on the gun would tighten, his expression filled with that disgusting self-righteousness. His hand beginning to shake at the prospect of dying before ultimately plunging the gun in the other’s face and—
Gi-hun brought the gun up to his temple and pulled the trigger.
The gun didn’t go off.
Well shit.
Gi-hun slowly pulled the gun away from his head, his hand trembling as he pointed it at the salesman. The man in the suit looked at Gi-hun before tearing his eyes away and glancing at the weapon. He hesitantly lifted his hand, his fingers brushing the firearm as his arm drew closer—
“No.”
The salesman blinked at Gi-hun. “No?” As Gi-hun yanked the gun away from the salesman’s grasp, a swarm of questions began to form at a rapid pace inside his brain. What was he playing at? What was he going to do?
Why won’t he let me kill myself?
Gi-hun let out a heavy sigh as he slumped his shoulders and dropped his head. He fidgeted with the gun as his face turned contemplative, weighing over his current options. He looked exhausted. Finally, he redirected his focus to examine the other man, his eyes raking over his form as if that way he could unearth a deeply concealed secret.
“To let you die now, just because you lost…would be no better than what he does.” Silence. The air became thick. The only sounds audible were the ending notes of the song still emanating from the businessman’s phone. Suddenly, a cackle burst through the room, the noise sounding foreign in the serious setting. The mirthless laughter erupted from the salesman as Gi-hun’s words sunk in. In an instant, he shot up from his seat and clutched onto Gi-hun’s shirt, jerking him forward so that their faces were mere inches away.
“Who. Do. You. Think. You. Are. Mr. Seong,” the recruiter spat out the words, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low tone. His mouth contorted to a sneer, his previously carefree demeanor now resembling that of a wild animal. Any concern for his appearance was long forgotten. “Do you think your pity grants you any worth to your already pathetic life?” The anger in his eyes burned like a wildfire, threatening to consume everything in its path. “You may be ashamed of your sins, but there is no use trying to deny who you really are. Why try to act like either of us are any different from what fate has dictated for us?”
“Because!... I cannot accept that the only way to end the games is by being as immoral as the people who created them!”
“Unlike you, I have learned to live with the fact that there is no other way to accomplish your goals. If you want to alter society to cater to your beliefs, then the process requires an equal amount of sacrifice. Whether that be your own…or of others.”
“Does that hold true for you?” Gi-hun tilted his head as realization settled in his eyes. “The only way you've managed to maintain that cynical outlook on life is by surrounding yourself only with experiences that would prove your point?” As he spoke, he once again brought the gun upwards, pushing it with such force to the salesman's chin it was sure to hurt. “Tell me, was you being an underling for them ever actually about getting rid of humanity’s waste?…or was that just an excuse for your own shortcomings as a person. Is that why you’re so eager to get put down like the dog you are? Eager to die the same way your father did?”
“My father! And many like him are a weight that hinders society’s ability to progress!” His voice rose to a shout, the veins in his neck becoming visible against his red skin. “That is why the games were created, to get rid of the bottom feeders who live their lives lurking in the shadows of accomplished men!”
He paused. He looked down at his hands, still tightly holding onto Gi-hun’s shirt, and saw that his knuckles were white from how hard he was clutching. He let go, shouting would get him nowhere, not when he was dealing with someone as ignorant as Gi-hun. I can't let his words get to me. He took a deep breath before he began again, this time in a much calmer voice. “Those who contribute should not be forced to bear the burden of putting up with those who don’t,” his lips quirked up in a small smirk, “do you think your mother wanted to spend her late years providing for you?”
Gi-hun clenched his jaw. “I realize my faults now, and if I could go back to change them I would…but I can't. Which is why I need to shut these games down, because I need to fight for what I can change—what needs to change. Not just dwell on the memories of my past mistakes.” He paused. Slowly, he loosened the pressure of the gun against the salesman’s chin. He tilted back into the chair, creating space between the two. His chin jutted upward as his facial expression hardened into determination. “And you're going to help me.”
The businessman chuckled as he adjusted his suit and tie, “I have no reason to. Even if I did want to assist in your little heroic endeavor you wouldn't stand a chance.” His gaze turned distant and empty as images of the past flooded his mind, “I have seen firsthand just how controlling ambition is, how far people are willing to go to satisfy their hunger, one man won't make the slightest difference.”
“Then prove your point. Help me get in and I’ll show you that all you need in one person to create a spark,” his voice was steady and unwavering. His confidence akin to that of a sturdy tree, firmly rooted in the ground, and standing tall against the storm that was the man sitting across from him. “After all, you lost. You lost against me and that’s eating away at you, right?” It was Gi-hun’s turn to laugh, the irony of the situation not lost on him. “I know that you more than anyone respect the rules when it comes to games. Now that I’ve decided not to kill you, you still need some form of punishment to tell yourself that you can take a defeat with dignity. You owe me”
The recruiter’s jaw tightened.
Gi-hun continued, “Unless you'd like to admit that you really are a dog. Favoring serving your owners above respecting the outcome of the game. In that case, you would be a hypocrite, and you'd have to admit you're no better than those you claim to hate.”
He blinked, his eyes narrowing as he scanned Gi-hun, for the first time since meeting him he was taking the time to really look at him. For once in his life, the recruiter is seemingly at a loss for words, his quick wits abandoning him. Eventually, he let out a deep sigh, one that seemed to carry the weight of all those whose lives he had taken. He didn't believe that humanity's greed would come to an end just because one individual happened to be the exception. But Gi-hun was so disgustingly optimistic. So, he thought he might as well offer the one piece of advice that would allow Gi-hun to stand a chance.
“Fine.”
Gi-hun froze in shock, he hadn’t expected the man to actually be willing to help him.
The salesman interlocked his fingers as leaned forward, his aura turning into that of a successful strategist. “In that case, there’s someone you’ll want to meet. Her name is Kang No-Eul. She is employed as one of the guards for the games but has recently been displeased with the system she works for,” his hands moved randomly as he emphasized the points in his words, almost as if he were discussing a presentation. “She is a North Korean defector, and the only thing she wants is to have her child cross over as well.” He spoke in a light, almost playful tone, “If you were to help her…she would be indebted to you.”
Gi-hun looked at his lap, he didn’t want to emotionally manipulate a mother into helping him by using her child. The more he thought about it, he knew he didn’t have any other choice.
“That way, you could convince her to aid you in pretending to be a guard. You won’t be able to protect the players that way, but you would be on the inside of the inner workings of the games. More power. More control.”
The salesman abruptly stood up, snatching the phone off of the desk and shoving it into Gi-hun’s chest. “Her contact information along with everything else you will need is in there.”
Gi-hun looked up, concern suddenly lacing his features, “What about you?”
The salesman gave an empty smile.
“Does not matter. They are bound to find out what I did soon enough."
i am so sorry that the the reader didn't interact with gong yoo but this was kinda necessary for the plot. i promise they will exchange words in the next one. please keep commenting i loved reading your thoughts on the last post.
Summary: parasites. that is the only thing he thinks of when he meets the players he is meant to recruit. but what happens when he meets you and you are nothing of what he expects.
an au where the salesman lives and becomes a player.
Warnings: swearing and classist thinking. in the future there will probably be canon-typical violence and i'm still debating on smut.
a/n: happy new years! i'm sorry i couldn't upload this earlier i had to deal with some long distant relatives. however, due to popular demand here is the gong yoo fic as promised.
Words: 2.1k
next part>>
Click. Click. Click
Those are the sounds of pristine perfectly polished black shoes on concrete. The soles of the shoes worn by a handsome-looking businessman echoed loudly, causing the sounds to reverberate into the jet-black sky. As he walked beneath the faint luminescence of street lights, case in hand and his head held high, his eyes searched for the next prey to fall victim to his silver tongue. The same mouth that twisted dark truths into sweet promises others couldn't dare reject. Never once has his articulate way of speaking failed to deliver the precise words necessary to provide his superiors with a new batch of fresh meat to satisfy their sadistic tendencies. To him, it was all the same. One less piece of vermin in the world, and more importantly, one less leech to drain the well-oiled machine that is society.
Today was no different as he strolled along the sidewalk of a small park near the outskirts of Seoul. While he walked, he felt indifferent towards the small details, like the light breeze swaying the tree branches above or the faint smell of dog shit wafting through the air. Having trained himself to ignore anything and everything that could be a possible distraction from his mission. What was his mission again? Ah yes, currently that would be you.
His steps immediately halted as he spotted your figure in the distance, a dark shadow looming over a bed of flowers and a trail of smoke emitting from the cigarette between your fingers. There you are. He squared his shoulders as he fixed his expression into one of casual ease. Now, all he had left to do was to convince you all of the problems that have stemmed from your pathetic life could be solved in the blink of an eye. That your worries could dissolve as quickly as skin in acid.
He began to move again, taking long strides to where you were standing. In the time he took to reach you, he jotted some quick mental notes.
One. Your relaxed stance oozed confidence and uninterest despite being a young lady positioned in one of the most crime-infested spots of the city in the dead of night. Meaning you either had a weapon on you or had sufficient defense skills, possibly both. He must tread carefully.
Two. You were positioned next to a tall fountain, atop stood a small marble figure of a gumiho. The spot infamously known for the shady transactions dealing with drugs and other nefarious crimes. Perhaps you were waiting for someone? He'd have to keep an eye out for any newcomers that could interrupt his process.
Three. Your mouth was...moving?
His steps faltered. There was no other person around within a 3-mile radius whom you could be conversing with, nor did you have a phone in hand. How odd. In his time as a recruiter, he has encountered all kinds of people. Drug addicts, the mentally ill, and one memorable case a delirious man on the brink of death, hallucinating from hunger. You, however, seemed perfectly sane. Keyword…seemed. He shook his head, quickly putting a halt to his thoughts. He had no time to ponder over whatever weird traits you may have, he came here to do one job. He resumed his trek towards you and was soon standing mere feet from you.
Show time.
“Excuse me miss, may I have a minute of your time?”
You remain standing still, making no indication that you had noticed him. Your eyes were distant while you continued to murmur but no sound came out. He wasn’t sure if you were ignoring him or if you really were that unaware of your surroundings. Now that won’t do.
“Miss?” He tried again tentatively, his head tilting curiously as he stepped in your line of sight. “Are you alright?”
Finally, your eyes shifted into focus, taking a moment to adjust. For a brief moment, it appeared as if you were lost. However, that moment soon passed and your eyes narrowed, annoyance filling your features.
“Why did you interrupt me?”
The bite in your tone was enough to make him raise an eyebrow. Perhaps you really weren’t in the right state of mind after all. “Interrupt?”
You scoffed, ignoring the question you brought the cigarette back to your lips. Taking in a long drag before you released the smoke right in his face. His mouth turned downward in displeasure.
“Do you need something?” You snapped, your jaw clenching as you slid your free hand in your pocket. He caught the way your finger twitched as you did so. Weapon it is then.
His face instantly changed back to that previous pleasant expression, his lips curving into a kind smile though with a lack of warmth in his eyes. Instead replaced by an empty, clinical look.
”I don’t mean to be a bother ma’am, but I’m here to offer you a proposal you’re sure to like,” he states in a neutral tone, having uttered a variation of those words dozens of times. “A way to better improve your current economic situation.”
Your body tenses as your eyes dart over his figure eyeing the suitcase, no doubt analyzing him as a threat. “Look I already said I’d pay him back!” He watches as you chuck the cigarette to the ground and stomp on it. “If he keeps rushing me like this then don’t expect to get a single won out of me! I don’t give a shit who he is!” Your volume rises as you take a step back, ready to sprint if needed.
He raises his arm in surrender. “That’s not what I’m here for. As I’ve stated, I only want to help.” His mind is conjuring up the best way to ease the tension.
He hesitantly takes a step forward.
Your eyes immediately look back down. “What’s in the case?”
Another step.
“I work for a group of people whose only interest is to help those who are struggling. Our objective being to ease the burden of the majority.” He swiftly places the case at the base of the fountain, unlocking the latch but leaving it closed. “See for yourself.”
You were the one to take the final step, closing the gap between the two of you. You gave him one more skeptical look before you focused all of your attention on what was in front of you. Slowly, both hands reached out and flipped the top wide open. Your eyes widened as you took in the contents of what was inside, or more specifically, the big wads of cash.
You remained silent, frozen as a statue as you simply stared. In an instant, you whipped your head in his direction. You took the time to study him, your mouth slightly agape and a certain look in your eye he couldn't quite place. A couple of seconds passed, you clamped your mouth shut and swallowed thickly, licking your lips before you finally managed to whisper, "What do you want?"
His mouth quirked upward in a smirk. Got you. "I'd like to play a game."
You belted out a high-pitched, contorted laugh. A childlike glee completely overcoming you. "Ab-so-fucking-lutely," you grinned from ear to ear, bouncing on the balls of your feet.
It dawned on him what that look in your gaze was...
Unstable.
A jolt of thrill shoots down his spine. "I'm sure you're familiar with the game ddakji," he reaches until he grabs the two colorful squares, carefully placing the red one on the ground, "for every time your square manages to flip mine, I will pay you 100,000 won."
You nod enthusiastically, your hand shooting out as he draws his hand in at the same time. "However, if you lose...you must pay me back the same amount."
You snatched the piece from him. “Deal.” You don't waste a single moment in hurling it, the force of the impact causing the sound to ricochet like a gunshot. The square goes flying, becoming a red blur. It stays in the air for a couple of seconds, but that time is enough for the experienced recruiter to know that you've already won. By the time it hits the ground, he doesn't even have to look to know it's flipped.
You look up expectantly at him.
He glances at her, jaw clenching. Well, this isn't how it usually goes. Before he can move to pay you, your voice cuts through the silence. "From the look on your face, you didn't want me to win, correct?" The lack of response on his part encourages you to continue. "How about, instead of doing whatever the hell you were thinking, I propose a new rule," you lean forward, your eyes sparkling with mirth, "we both keep throwing until one of us loses. If I win...you give me everything that's in that case."
"And what if I win?"
Your mouth twists into a devilish smirk. "Don't worry, you won't."
His eyes look you up and down, scanning you. His hands twitch in anticipation at the challenge, adrenaline manifesting itself as electricity in his veins. His bruised ego from losing the first round combined with his competitive nature was enough to make him agree. This was not part of the plan. He could just give you the money, the card, and go about his day like he has so many times before. He has no reason to play along other than he just wants to beat you.
"Alright," his previously fabricated smile now becoming genuine, "my turn."
With renewed vigor, he launches his square and as expected, it flips. He lets out an arrogant chuckle as he fixes his suit and stands up straight, his lips stretching into a satisfied smile.
This cycle continued for multiple rounds, the money long forgotten. The need to succeed fueled the violent fire between the two of you. After a while, he lost all track of time, fixating all of his attention solely on the game.
By now, his hair was disheveled and sweat dripped down his forehead. He panted as he recovered, his arm muscles aching from the consistent use. It was taking more energy than he was willing to admit in order to keep going but like hell if he'd let exhaustion be the cause of failing.
On his turn, he prepared himself to once again launch the disc. He readied himself, drawing his arm back and—
His eyes suddenly flickered to your lips, where your tongue darted out lick them. He watches intensely at your now damp, chapped lips, mouth slightly parted as you breathe heavily from fatigue.
In his moment of distraction, the square slips from his hand. He scrambles quickly to catch it but it's too late...
He's lost.
There is a long pause of silence, before your high-pitched cackle cuts through the air. His eyes widen in shock, the realization slowly setting in.
How...
He breathes out deeply through his nose, trying his best to compose himself. What the hell was that? How on earth could he have lost? He Never. Loses. He doesn't have any longer to dwell on the fact as you practically skip in joy to the case, already counting the amount. All of this because you managed to distract him.
Your voice soon interrupts his thoughts. "Maybe the next time you want to win, you might try not to let your eyes stray so far..." you say as you wink.
How did you even notice? Wait...was that on purpose? He clenches his fists until they turn white, the thought making his blood boil. He has half the mind to kill you and call it an accident just to quell his anger.
He closes his eyes in frustration. No, I can't ruin the games.
He takes in a couple of deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down. Once he knows that his voice won't betray any conflict he feels, he speaks again, "you know, there are other games such as the one we just played. And for much larger prizes as well."
He's back in his element, his persuasive tone of voice exuding reliability. He hands you the card, explaining how it works, how to enlist, and so on.
By the time he finishes his speech, you look mostly convinced. After inspecting the card more closely, your stare finds his, "I appreciate what you have done and thank you for the opportunity. I will consider your offer. If I do accept know it will only be due to a singular fact," your head leans closer, voice lowering to a whisper and your breath fanning over his, "I never lose"
On that note, you step back and walk away, never once turning to glance back at him. You soon disappear into the dark Seoul night, shadows blending with that of buildings and trees.
He lets out a small huff in amusement. If that is true, then he's excited to see how you'll fare in the games.
please don't be a silent reader i love reading comments and hearing your thoughts.
Alright so i binged watched squid game 2 and now have a fanfic idea.
It would reader x salesman and a what if on what if Gi-hun managed to convince gong yoo’s character to join their side against the front man during the russian roulette scene.
Essentially, Gi-hun would convince the salesman to give him information regarding the front man and the games, leading the frontman to find out and as punishment send him to the games instead of Gi-hun.
There, he would reunite with the reader who he met briefly before when he went to recruit her as a player.
This story would differ a lot from canon since Gi-hun never goes as a player meaning In-ho wouldn’t either. The fic would be mostly salesman centered and is still kinda a work in progress but if anybody is interested and has any other suggestions they’d like to see feel free to comment.
p.s: for those who like my lost content don’t worry more will be coming soon.
Characters: jack shepard, james “sawyer” ford, kate austen, sayid jarrah, and charlie pace
Warnings: some cursing and slight suggestive language sawyer.
a/n: this show has been consuming my being and i need to talk to someone about it or i’ll explode. i have been so preoccupied with school i kinda got distracted from this account and writing but i'm going to do my best to get back on track.
Jack Shepard
He has always felt the absence of his father, whether he wants to admit it or not.
He struggles with being vulnerable, but when he does truly care about someone he wants to be as present as possible because he knows what it feels like to be alone.
He really likes touching you. not like that weirdo
He needs you to know that he'll always be there for you, and he does this by constantly reminding you physically.
Whether it be a kiss on the forehead, a prolonged hug, or even a brush of hands, he wants to cement the idea that you can always count on him.
Also, this man definitely lives for words of affirmation.
I mean look at that wet cat man, he’s never been given any positive words that didn’t have a second motive.
Having lived his entire life surrounded by false praise, the first time you compliment him, he sighs internally just waiting for you to ask him a favor right afterward.
So, of course, it throws him off when you don’t.
I mean, what other reason could there be for your kind words.
And it’s not the last time either, you continue to encourage him, expressing your admiration at his skills and the way he always knows what to or what to say in every situation.
The way you spoke of all of his actions, was enough to slowly break down his walls.
Eventually, when he gets comfortable enough to tell you about his past, you are there to listen intently, hanging on to his every word.
Once he’s finished, you reach your hand out to hold his and offer him words of encouragement, telling him he’s a better man than everybody gives him credit for, and that he needs to stop pressuring himself to fix everything.
He has no idea how you always know exactly what to say to leave him comforted, but he knows that that is what he loves the most about you.
James “Sawyer” Ford
His main approach to getting another person’s attention is through a sly smile and sexual innuendos. It’s what has worked so well in the past.
But the real way he expresses his affection is through gifts.
The man hates giving anything he considers “his” to anybody, so whenever he does, consider it a sign.
Believe it or not, he is a very active listener.
If you happen to casually mention a small detail, like you’re craving a certain food or need an extra blanket, expect him to have it within the hour.
Sawyer is awkward when it comes to expressing himself through words sincerely, and he considers himself too clumsy to do anything else.
So he figures the best way to show that he cares is by giving you whatever you want.
Don’t expect him to be sweet about it either though. He’ll definitely make some jokes about you needing to pay him back and you’ll do it gladly.
Receiving wise though, he appreciates anybody that is willing to give him the time of day.
Before the island, the idea of spending quality time with anybody he wasn’t sleeping with was absurd.
However, after meeting you, his thoughts quickly changed.
He knows that he isn’t the easiest person to deal with, so he treasures you going out of your way to be with him more than you realize.
Nobody was ever willing to spend more time than necessary when it came to being around him.
Your persistence is what allowed him to fully open up.
At first, he does everything in his power likebeingalittlebitch to get you to stay away.
Once it dawns on him that his actions won’t be enough to get you to leave, his appreciation for you grows.
Needless to say, once you get him to care enough about you, you’ll never be needing for more.
Kate Austen
Kate hates having to stay anywhere longer than she has to.
Which is why, if she makes an effort to be around you, for no apparent reason, then it’s most likely that she’s attached.
She has spent a good chunk of her life running. Including responsibilities, confrontations, the law, she doesn’t know the meaning of slowing down.
With you, however, she wants nothing more than for time to stop so she can appreciate the full extent of your company and enjoy quality time together.
She never thought it to be possible for her to find a person who made her feel like she was at home until she met you.
Beware though, being around you and trusting you are two different things.
After losing all the most important people in her life (betrayal or otherwise) she is still extremely wary of being vulnerable with others, regardless if she cares for them or not.
It will take a lot of work on your part to show her that not everybody close to her is bound to leave.
Which is why she needs constant verbal reassurance of your affection towards her.
Don't be too direct with it though, or else she might think you're trying to take advantage of her in some way.
However, if you slowly build your relationship with her while affirming her how much she means to you, then her walls are bound to come down.
Your positive words combined with your sincerity will have her falling for you so hard she won't know what to do with herself.
Whether you know it or not, your words to her are a lifeline.
Sayid Jarrah
ASKSNWKDB I LOVE THIS MAN
If there's anything this man knows how to do is to be at the service of others, which is exactly how he shows his love.
Being in the Republican Guard conditioned him to automatically fix any problem within his sight and follow the orders of his superiors.
As soon as he got on that island, he fell back into that role like second nature, following the guidance of Jack while still commanding orders in his own way.
From the moment he realizes his feelings for you, expect him to become your personal bodyguard.
He isn't the type to baby you but like hell if he'd let you get yourself in any danger.
He would do everything in his power to protect you from the island's hazards.
Not to mention he's a complete romantic.
It doesn't matter if he currently has any other duties you will always be his first priority.
You have a problem with your tent, he's already fixed it. You feel the need to get away from the rest, he'll take you on a private walk on a secluded part of the beach. You're hungry? Oh wow, how did this five-course meal find its way here!
Tender touches and physical touch are his favorite way of receiving love.
For years, the only times that his skin touched another person’s, was to torture them.
Believing himself to be undeserving of compassion, he chose to isolate himself.
Also fearing he might lose those he cares about if he were ever to open himself up.
Then you come along.
Your outgoing yet gentle nature was enough to almost knock his feet out under him.
Being the friendly person that you are, it was common for you to be touchy-feely with the people you considered close.
That doesn’t mean it still didn’t throw him for a loop the first time you did it though.
The both of you were sitting next to each other around a fire during dinner when suddenly you leaned your shoulder against his.
Despite it being such a simple gesture, he couldn’t recall the last time he was on the receiving end of such a casual touch.
He is insanely touch-starved, so as the relationship between the two of you flourishes, he’ll start to long for the feel of you.
It comforts him knowing he has tangible proof to remind him he’s not alone.
Charlie Pace
This man will always speak what’s on his mind. For a long time, he’s been criticized for not measuring his words more carefully.
So don’t expect him to sugarcoat how much he cares and loves you.
He knows that his big mouth has put him in a lot of problems, but he will continue to use it because it got him your attention.
From the minute you catch his eye there's no way he's going to stay silent about it.
Hell, don't be surprised if he ends up writing a song about you.
He's aware that sometimes he says things that result in him being the butt of a joke, but he will always tell you the truth about his love for you.
In fact, he will go above and beyond to let you know that you're the only way he could ever care for.
What do you mean you feel insecure as if you don't have the beauty and grace of a goddess?
One thing he neglects to mention is that he's a spoiled little brat who loves gifts.
No matter how small or worthless you think it may be, to him it means the world coming from you.
Having dealt with addiction he's never maintained any object that held any financial value because he always sold it for a couple of extra bucks.
That is why your gifts serve as a physical reminder that he has changed and that he is allowed to be happy.
Things ranging from a flower to an item of personal value that you've given him he will guard with his life.
That includes your heart which is the greatest treasure you could've given him.
p.s. can you tell who my favorite character is based on this lol
Summary: after crashing on the island, you and sayid have a talk about reality and hope.
Warnings: some light profanity. can be read as either romantic or platonic.
a/n: this doesn’t really focus on the main plot beside the basic details. it physically pains me to see that no one write for this show or this man so i decided to take matters my own hands. this is my first fan fiction ever so i am open to constructive criticism :)
Words: 1.9k
It has been two weeks since the plane initially crashed. Everybody was at first scared out of their minds over the fact that they were stuck in the middle of nowhere with no apparent rescue on the way. Obviously there was that small group of leaders that stepped up to distribute jobs between everybody and give hope to the rest not to give up.
You, of course, were not one of these people.
You were more of a logical person, always being condemned for not being able to see the positive side of things. Always being called too “pessimistic” about situations. Of course, you never saw it that way. Always appreciating when people would be straight forward with you instead of sugarcoating unfortunate scenarios because they weren’t emotionally mature enough to handle it.
Which is why meeting Sayid was... confusing, to say the least.
Your first meeting with him was less than ideal.
It was the morning after the crash, and you were currently walking along the shore of the beach, looking for your suitcase. Due to the initial panic of the previous day, you had no time to search for your belongings and had to sleep with a shared blanket of a person whose name you still hadn't learned. After searching for 20 minutes, you were about to give up until you spotted a certain name tag hanging from the handle of a familiar suitcase.
It was your suitcase...and it was outside of Sawyer's tent?
Thinking perhaps he had mistaken your stuff for his, you walk over and kneel to begin taking your things.
"HEY! THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" You quickly turn your head around to see Sawyer marching from a distance towards you. His eyebrows furrowed and a prominent sneer on his face. At first you were confused, but you quickly realized that he took your things on purpose.
"I'm grabbing my shit," you said in a neutral tone, only sparing him a glance as you turned back to digging for your things.
"The hell you are," he grumbled as he finally reached your side and yanked the case from under you. "This is mine."
You, on instinct, latched onto the handle. "Really? Cause, as far as I'm concerned, that's my name tag I'm holding on to!"
He continued to try to wrench the suitcase from your hands, but you didn't let your grip loosen.
"Damn! Just let go—" "What is going on?"
You stop pulling the case, but neither lets go as the two of you whip your heads towards the source of the sound.
Sayid stood there a few feet away, with an exasperated expression on his face.
You took advantage of Sawyer's distraction to force your luggage out of his grip and attempted to make a run for it, but Sawyer managed to catch your wrist.
"You little bit—" "Enough," Sayid's voice broke through, and his arm reached forward to force Sawyer to let. Once your arm was free, you turned to walk away before Sayid called out to you. "Stop."
You huffed as you slowly turned around to look at him. He was looking at you with a dissatisfied look. "What happened?" he asked in a tired voice.
You shrug as you look between him and Sawyer. "Ask him. He's the one who decided to steal my belongings." "Now look here, Missy—"
"Can you prove," he quickly interjects, "that it belongs to you?"
Your hand reaches around to pull at the name tag at the handle. You flip it so the big letters of your name are visible.
He sighs slowly and turns his head towards Sawyer, opening his mouth, no doubt reprimanding him. However, Sawyer beats him to it and lifts his hand in surrender. "Yeah, I know, I know..." He says defeatedly as he walks inside his tent.
You once again attempt to head in the other direction before you are newly interrupted. "Wait one second."
This time it's your turn to sigh annoyedly, as you cannot seem to leave the spot in which you're standing. Your whole body shifts to face his, and you only see him motion with his head in to follow him before he begins his journey, heading straight into the jungle.
You momentarily debate leaving him behind before you huff and begin to follow him, suitcase still in tow.
You follow him for a couple of moments, panting from the force it is taking to carry your possessions this far. Hearing this, Sayid quickly looks behind him to see that you have not put aside your stuff. "Just leave it," he blurted, "nobody's going to risk coming all the way out here."
The two of you were barely at the entrance where the trees met the beach. You were about to argue with him, but seeing his stern look, you thought about it twice and decided it was best to just leave it. After all, the two of you were already far enough from the others. Against your better judgment, you sighed defeatedly and let it go.
Seeing this, Sayid whirled around and resumed his walk into the jungle.
This was the first time you had gotten the chance to talk to Sayid. Ever since the crash, you took notice of the way he took charge in such a desperate moment, almost as if he had experience with tragedies. Despite it only being a day, you were already intrigued by the reserved and serious man in front of you. Curiosity getting the best of you, you couldn't resist striking up a conversation.
"So, what'd you bring me out here for?" You asked in an expectant tone, wanting to know if perhaps he found you as intriguing as you did him.
"I needed someone to help me collect wood for the signal fire," he stated bluntly, not looking back to you as he continued to trek forward.
You huffed, his answer breaking any illusion you had that he might find anything, beside the task at hand, interesting.
"And you couldn't ask another guy because..." you questioned in a confused tone. "You just happened to be the person that was the closest and most available at the moment," he responded, still in that no-nonsense tone that you hated sounded attractive. His accent is reaching your ears and echoing in your thoughts.
"Whatever..." you muttered as you finally came to a stop and began to pick up the wood next to where Sayid was gathering his pile.
After a few moments, the both of you had gathered enough wood and were beginning your trip back to the main campsite.
Not being satisfied with the lack of communication on his part, you try again at breaking the silence. "Can I ask you a question?"
"You just did."
You roll your eyes and ignore the sarcastic response. "What do you think our chances are of getting rescued?" At the words, he comes to an abrupt stop, causing you to almost crash into his back, before quickly composing himself and turning around to peer at you with a curious look.
"I think the same as everybody else, that it is only a matter of time before help comes," he states in clinical tone, almost as if he's reciting from a manual the words he should say in a situation like this.
You stare at him with a deadpan expression. "I am asking you because I want to know what you think, not everybody else."
His eyes are conflicted for a couple of seconds before they are overcome with reality. "I don't think anybody is coming."
Your eyes widen at the sudden confession. You knew that by asking Sayid, you were going to receive the truth, whether you liked it or not. That still doesn't mean you were fully prepared for it either.
Which leads you back to the present moment, sitting around the signal fire, which has been burning nonstop for 2 whole weeks. Right now, it was your shift to guard the fire, making sure nothing would put it out. You were too busy poking the base of the flames to notice a figure approaching you by the side.
At the sound of footsteps, you whip your head to see Sayid sit next to you on the log you were currently seated on. Ever since that moment in the woods, you hadn't had the chance to speak to Sayid again. It was certainly not by lack of trying, but he was always so busy, making sure that everything within the camp was running smoothly. After a while, you gave up making an effort to communicate with him, believing yourself to only be getting in his way.
"Hey," you greeted with a slight smile, wanting to make him feel as welcome as possible after weeks of no contact. "Hello to you," he replied back, although with a more serious demeanor.
You couldn't let go of the words he told you that day, despite being the ones you anticipated from a guy like him. Even you thought the words to be true before he told them to you. Yet, as the time passed by, you couldn't help but learn to appreciate the small community that has formed as a result of accident.
"Did you guys manage to find anything out there?" Earlier that day, Sayid went out with a small group in hopes of tracing a signal that could lead to a rescue. His eyes only looked at mine for a moment before they resumed staring at the fire. "We found nothing."
You didn't believe him.
But you also knew that no matter what you said, he would not talk about it, so you also shifted your eyes to gaze at the fire.
"You know...even if you find nothing out there, I believe it's all going to turn out fine," you stated, with perhaps for the first time, an optimistic tone.
"You believe?" He asked with a doubtful expression.
Your eyes turned to stare into his, trying to project all of your thoughts into him. "Yes, I do. Sure, the whole plane crash was unfortunate, but the way everybody here has gathered and given their best, even knowing that they might not get home, is heartening." Sayid still eyed you with an unconvinced stare. "What I mean to say is that before getting on that flight, I used to think optimism was just something people used as an excuse to ignore the issues around us...but these past few weeks have changed my mind." My eyes begin to light up as I think of all the moments I have shared with the other passengers, good and bad.
"You are putting a lot of faith into something that has no evidence supporting it to be true," Sayid interjects, his eyes boring into mine, in an almost defiant way.
"Maybe... but I choose to believe that belief alone is going to be enough to get us home. Hope is one of the most powerful feelings; it drives people towards goals that appear near impossible to others. Haven't you ever fought your hardest for something, despite all of the signs indicating failure?" His gaze turns distant, almost as if he were remembering an instant like the one I described.
Multiple minutes pass by again, silence overtaking the midnight air. You assumed the lack of a response meant the conversation ended before Sayid spoke up again. "Perhaps you are right," he responds, with a feint and almost unperceivable smile.
