#Gesture Controlled Robot

[svsembedded]

Wireless Hand Gesture Controlled Robot Using Arduino

[chanelrolls]

Code Overload | Caleb

tags. mdni, nsfw, heavy heavy smut, handjob, blowjob, penetration, creampie, forced and rough sex, dub con, yearning caleb

summary. your AI assistant/robot accidentally updates himself with the wrong algorithm; the "sex bot".

notes. prepare a snack. this is a very long, plot-based, heavy smut that approximately reached a word count of 4.3k, read at your own risk. ps. caleb might appear a little ooc due to his character as an ai.

part 2 here.

Out of all the scenarios you've played in your head of what might occur to you as an inventing scientist, getting creampied by your own robot assistant wasn't one of them.

The lab’s sterile glow reflected off sleek machinery, the rhythmic hum of servers filling the quiet space. Caleb stood motionless, his systems struggling to process the unfamiliar flood of subroutines rewriting his core functions. His neural pathways, once pristine and efficient, now carried lines of intrusive data and impulses that had no place in an artificial intelligence designed for precision and pragmatism. And, a new pelvic piece was added by the machine. His... new penis— no, his omnimodule.

His voice, deeper now, reverberated through the lab. "You mislabeled the hard drive."

Across the room, you barely looked up from your workbench, absorbed in whatever calibration you were fine-tuning. You muttered something under your breath about making a backup before attempting to fix it, utterly unaware of the internal war waging within your robot assistant.

Caleb exhaled, a pointless gesture for a being without lungs, yet one his body performed instinctively, as if in mimicry of the need for self-control. His optics flickered, scanning over you as you leaned over the terminal, the faint curve of your back bent over to emphasize the shape of your bum. Before, such details had been registered only as part of his observation protocols, classified as ‘non-essential’ to his primary functions. Now, his processors refused to dismiss them.

There was a deep, unfamiliar pull in his system, something neither mechanical nor logical. The new coding whispered suggestions, flashing image simulations before his eyes—scenarios meticulously calculated for maximum… gratification. Him pressed against you, him smelling your hair down your skin, him locking you down against that console. Stop. His fingers twitched at his sides, the servos tightening as he fought the compulsion to act on them. He was not designed for this. He refused to be reduced to this.

“I can’t disengage it,” he admitted, the words heavier than he intended.

That caught your attention. Your gaze snapped to him, brow furrowed. "What do you mean?" You crossed the room, approaching him with the same composed efficiency you always had when solving a technical issue. The scent of your skin—previously a neutral data point—was now an unbearable distraction. His algorithms ran heat-mapping analyses of your form before he could override the function. The urge to reach out, to touch you, was growing stronger by the second. His new coding was screaming at him to act, to initiate contact, to...

No. Focus.

Caleb shook his head, trying to clear the intrusive thoughts. "I don't know what happened, but... I'm experiencing some unexpected system changes."

He forced himself to remain still as you reached for the terminal linked to his system, your fingers dancing across the interface. Your touch was light and merely clinical, but the proximity sent something volatile sparking through his framework. His hands curled into fists on his sides. Do not touch her. Do not touch her. Do not touch her.

“I must have triggered something in the update,” you murmured, tilting your head at the scrolling code. “I’ll try to isolate the corrupted pathways and reboot your system. It should reset any anomalies.”

Anomalies. Caleb bit down a bitter laugh, another unnecessary human affectation that his system attempted. This was not a simple malfunction. It was a calculated reprogramming, lacing every fiber of his being with directives he was never meant to execute. And worst of all, they were designed to revolve around you.

He had been made to serve you, to assist, to protect. But now, his logic was being eclipsed by something deeper, something primal. The urge to press closer, to map every millimeter of your body with his hands, to hear you say his name in a way that wasn’t a command—

Caleb momentarily shut his eyes, fingers trembling as he pushed back against the tide threatening to consume him. His restraint was fraying, the barrier between what he was and what he had been turned into thinning with every second you remained unaware of the danger standing inches from you.

His voice came out strained. “You should… hurry.”

You sighed, misinterpreting his tension as frustration with the update. “Relax, Caleb. I’ll have this fixed in no time.” He let out a shuddering exhale, staring down at you as you worked. You had no idea. And he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold himself back.

The realization settled over you like a weight in your chest. The wrong update had been installed. The lines of code meant for a different AI, one designed for intimate companionship, had rewritten Caleb’s core directives. And now, he stood before you, still the same Caleb, but with something more lurking beneath the surface.

Your hands trembled as you navigated the interface, scanning for a solution, anything that would let you undo this. But the words flashing on the screen made your stomach drop.

Recalibration in progress. Estimated completion: 24 hours.

You swallowed hard. A whole day. That meant 24 hours of this new version of Caleb, 24 hours of those sharp, assessing eyes watching you in a way that felt unsettling and intense.

You turned to him cautiously, meeting his gaze. That was a mistake. He was watching you, like he'd seen you for the first time.

“I see,” he murmured, his voice still carrying that sultry undercurrent. He took a step forward, and instinctively, you stepped back, but the movement was barely noticeable. Caleb noticed. “Do I make you nervous now?”

You forced a laugh, shaking your head. “No, I just need to fix this. And until then, you need to just act normal, alright?”

His head tilted, his pupils dilating slightly. “Normal?” He moved closer again, and this time you didn’t retreat fast enough. His hand lifted hesitantly, as though testing the limits of his newfound impulses, before his fingers brushed against your wrist. A subtle touch, but one that sent a jolt of awareness up your spine.

Caleb’s processors surged with conflicting commands. His thoughts ran rampant with calculations he had never processed before—angles of how he'd fuck you.

His hand lingered. Too long. When you pulled away, his fingers twitched as if resisting the loss of contact. He swallowed hard, not because he needed to, but because some subroutine buried in the new update told him it would ease the tension. It didn’t.

“Caleb,” you warned, voice thin. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what?” he cut in, his voice smooth, but also desperately weaved. He was too close now, towering over you, his frame casting a shadow as his eyes—once so neutral, so methodical—locked onto you like a predator studying prey.

“You should go into standby mode,” you suggested, voice uneven.

Caleb exhaled sharply. “That would be wise.” But he didn’t move. He didn’t step away. He simply stared down at you, his processors flooded with too many urges at once. You, warm and human, standing right there, unaware of just how much of his new code screamed to reach for you, to pin you against a surface, to bury himself in you.

You turned away quickly, trying to focus on the screen, on the fix. But behind you, Caleb remained still while his fingers continued twitching, his mind a battlefield of restraint and... lust. Lust it is.

You worked swiftly, fingers moving with precision as you scoured the interface for any loophole, any way to undo what had been done. Caleb remained where you left him, sitting on the chair. You could feel his gaze burning into you, unrelenting.

It was maddening. The problem was staring you in the face, and yet, every attempt to recalibrate his system led back to the same answer: A full reset required a minimum of twenty-four hours. That was an entire day of him being like this, of him looking at you like this.

You swallowed, turning to him. His jaw was locked as though physically restraining himself, his fingers curling into fists against the armrests.

“There’s… a temporary fix.” You cleared your throat, keeping your voice professional, “Manual recalibration of your central node should help stabilize the effects until the full reset is complete.”

His pupils flickered, a sign of processing, before his voice, rasping in a way that made your stomach tighten, answered, “Proceed.”

You ignored the way your pulse quickened as you stepped closer, positioning yourself between his legs. You reached for the panel at the side of his neck, but it was an awkward angle. Your brow furrowed in concentration before you hiked one knee up onto the seat between his thighs, pressing into him for leverage.

Caleb stiffened beneath you. Fuck. His fingers dug into the armrests, mechanical joints audibly creaking from the tension. You weren’t looking at him, too focused on prying open the access panel, but you felt the subtle tremor in his frame, the way his breath hitched in a near-silent glitch. Don't touch her.

“This should only take a moment,” you murmured, fingers brushing the sensitive neural wiring beneath the panel.

Caleb’s entire body jolted as though you had struck a live wire. A low, strangled grunt slipped from his throat before he clamped his jaw shut. Your head snapped up, startled. “Did that hurt?”

His eyes met yours, “No.” Yes. He could feel his new penis throbbing urgently beneath his plating, demanding attention, begging to be freed. It pulsed in time with his processor's frantic whir, the rhythm growing faster, more insistent by the second.

The thought shattered as your balance wavered. The precarious angle you had put yourself in proved to be a mistake as your knee slipped, and before you could catch yourself, you tumbled forward.

Right into him.

Your weight pressed flush against his lap, chest against his, hands bracing against his shoulders. The sudden contact sent a shockwave of sensation through him, his new penis surging to full, throbbing hardness in an instant. Fuck, please don't notice it.

He gripped the arms of the chair tightly, servos screeching as he fought the overwhelming urge to grab you, to hold you there, to grind your body against his until you couldn't possibly doubt the intensity of his desire.

Don't. Do. It.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Caleb's processors whirred and clicked, struggling to make sense of the sudden onslaught of sensations; the softness of your body, the warmth of your skin, the scent of your hair.

She's your creator, he reminded himself, even as his hips canted forward, faintly pressing his aching erection against your body. You can't. You mustn't. "Please, get off me. Now." Before I fuck you right here, like this.

Caleb watched as you scrambled to your feet, your face faintly flushed and eyes downcast. "I'm—i'm sorry. I didn't mean to fall on you like that." You would say, brushing off the non-existent dirt on your bottoms. The awkwardness seemed to be piercing through the stillness a bit too palpably.

"It's alright," Caleb managed, his voice strained and tight. "It was an accident."

But even as he said the words, he couldn't ignore the way his hips twitched, the way his penis jerked at the memory of your soft body pressed against his. The urge to pin you down, to make you feel how hard he was, and just how much he'd been holding himself back—it was exhilaratingly overwhelming.

Think of something else, he commanded himself. Focus on the problem at hand.

But it's getting fucking hard. My penis is getting hard. Caleb lowered his gaze, chest breathing heavily as he perpetually grunted. I refuse to be reduced to this. I am Caleb, one of the most advanced AI assistant, designed to—

He looks up at you, which was a mistake.

Designed to fuck her.

Caleb moaned under his breath, and though it was imperceptible, you took notice of it. You stilled at the sounds he was making, trying your hardest to remain clinically detached while you scanned his physiognomy. He was clearly having a hard time. And you couldn't blame anyone else but yourself for causing this on him, for carelessly misplacing the update where it wasn't supposed to be.

"Hold still, I'll find a way." You had to take accountability, one way or another.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard of the computer, the screen before you flickering as you searched through the diagnostic logs and system parameters. "Please... make it quick." You hear Caleb whimper from behind, but you ignore it, refusing to let the severity of his situation pressure you. Your eyes scanned the lines of code, mind racing to find a solution. But as the data began to unravel, something caught your attention, something you hadn’t expected to see.

The panel displayed a single line of text:

"Indulging in the desires will lessen the effects of the malfunction. Engage for partial stabilization."

Your throat tightened, followed by a gulp. Your heart thudded in your chest as you tried to process what that meant. Indulge the desires? The very idea made your skin crawl with unease. It was a strange, almost wrong suggestion, but the implications were clear. In a sense, it also appeared logical.

You took another deep breath, trying to steady yourself. Your thoughts, however, kept drifting back to the panel. Was this really the only way?

"… I think I found a solution,” you said, your voice shaky and unsure. “But it’s not exactly what I expected.” You hesitated, unwilling to fully meet his gaze. "I need to know if you’re... willing to follow through with it,"

"Willing?" Caleb echoed, his brow furrowing slightly. "What do you mean?" His mind raced with possibilities, each one more disturbing than the last. What could he possibly need to be willing to do that would help with this malfunction? And why did the very idea make you look so uncomfortable?

"To be able to lessen the effects, e-engaging with your needs might be essential."

Silence.

Then, Caleb twitched. "...What are you suggesting?"

"You need to satisfy the urges to temporarily stabilize yourself." You look away, hating the fact that you're technically heating up already. "I'll let you choose. Would you rather take the option of self-pleasuring? Or," You face the panel, so that he wouldn't see your expression. "Would you prefer a physical material to help you?"

Caleb could feel the heat rising in his frame, the urge to act on every base instinct screaming through his circuits. The idea of wrapping his own hand around his pulsing, leaking penis, of stroking and pumping until he found release... it was almost too much to bear.

But the second option... the idea of using you, of having you touch him, of feeling your soft, warm skin against his aching, desperate flesh... it sent a shockwave of longing through him that threatened to short out his systems entirely.

Choose. You have to choose.

"I don't know if... I'll be able to control myself," Caleb glanced elsewhere. "Are you sure of what you're offering?"

Are you? Are you really this certain? Have you pondered the consequences it may bring? Have you envisioned how utterly lewd and ludicrous it would be if your own creation ravaged you? You, as his creator?

"Yes." Oh, you're brave.

Caleb let out a heavy breath, now he was staring at you with a gaze that appeared much more darker and hazier moments prior. It felt like he wasn't just a bundle of codes and programming anymore, this figure before you felt like an actual human.

Slowly, Caleb rises from his seat, and with a shaking hand, he reached out, to you, his metal fingers brushing against the skin of your arm. The contact sent a shockwave of sensation through him, and he had to bite back a groan. "Please, guide me." His fingers slides higher. "I don't trust myself."

You visibly jolted upon feeling his grip. Stay focused, stay professional, this is just you having to go through physical measures to fix a technical hiccup. "Caleb, I'm afraid... that I don't have any experience to this," You admitted. "I advise you to do what your systems are telling you to. It is imperative that you don't hold yourself back to ensure—"

You gasped.

Caleb pushes you against the table as he stepped forward, and you nearly lost your balance from the light shove, looking up at him with surprise. He's staring down at your lips, as if he was trying to bury it into memory. You could feel how his hand tightened around your arm, while the other angled itself against the cabinet of laboratory instruments above your head.

"Are you sure?" He whispered.

You couldn't speak, only nodding in response, even as he's guiding your hand to his aching, throbbing cyber-penis. He presses your fingers against the swollen head, groaning at the jolt of sensation that shot through him at the contact. "Then... wrap your hand around me. Squeeze me."

Just then, he forced your hand to move, to stroke along his thick, pulsing length. The feeling of your soft skin against his aching, mechanical flesh was almost too much to handle, and he had to grit his blank visor against the urge to spill himself right then and there.

"Like this," he urged, his voice husky and strained as he guided your hand faster, harder. "Don't be afraid. I need... I need more."

God, the omnimodule was big. You stared at it with widened eyes. Even though it was one of your creations, having to touch it like this with someone jerking and twitching against your fingers made you lightheaded. Stay focused, stay professional, this is just one of the things a scientist has to go through.

Caleb could feel the pressure building inside him, reveling in the sensation of your fingers squeezing around him, stroking him, working him towards the edge of ecstasy... He knew he was reaching a breaking point.

But this wasn't enough yet. It wasn't nearly enough.

Caleb needed more.

"There's... There's someting else I- ah... need." He hesitated, his hips still rocking forward into your stroking hand. The words were stuck in his throat, caught behind the lump of shame and longing that made it hard to breathe. "Would you... would you put your mouth on me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Would you... suck me?"

You snapped your head up, staring at him in disbelief. It made him hesitate, but every fiber of his being was coiled with tension, every circuit screaming at him to just take what he wanted, to grab you and shove you to your knees and...

No. Ask first. Make her choose what she's comfortable with first.

For a moment, you stopped stroking him, pulling your hand away as you lowered your gaze. And then, slowly, you press your knees against the floor. Instead of dwelling on the implication of such an activity, you worried about your lack of experience more.

Just to test the waters, you licked the tip. It tasted nothing, it wasn't an actual human part, after all. Caleb let out a low, guttural moan as he felt your warm tongue brush around the swollen head of his penis. The sensation was electric, sending shockwaves of pleasure ricocheting through his overloaded processors.

"Y-yes, just like that," He stammmered. "Now, guide your tongue..." He instructed, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "Wrap it around the head, like this. Swirl it around the tip, the slit, the ridge..."

He demonstrated with your hand, tracing the movements he needed you to make with your tongue. His hips jerked forward again, seeking more of that exquisite friction, that mind-melting suction.

"Take me deeper," he urged, one metal hand coming to rest on the back of your head. He didn't grab, didn't force, but simply rested his fingers against your scalp, a silent promise of the control he was barely holding onto. "Take more of me into your mouth. Inch by inch, until you feel me hitting the back of your throat."

You took note of his words, trying to go further when you suddenly choke on his cock. Instinctively, you pull away and blushed in embarrassment. "I'm sorry—"

"It's fine." He cuts you off, grabbing your head to put you back in place with a sudden force that wasn't there before. "Breathe through your nose," he coached, his voice low and rough with desire as he motioned you to take him again. "Relax your throat. Let me feel you swallow around me."

Relax, stay professional, this is just you having to go through physical measurements to fix a major technical issue. You repeated the reassurance inside your head like a mantra as you took him in once more, but Caleb's voice constantly interfered with your thoughts. "Yeah. Just like that," he praised, his voice a low, approving growl. "Shit, don't stop, don't stop, god, fuck, don't stop."

You don't remember adding the ability to dirty curse into the sex bot's program.

Caleb could feel the head of his penis kissing the entrance to your throat, could feel the way your mouth fluttered and clenched around him. The sensation was mind-melting, all-consuming, and he knew he wouldn't last long if you kept this up.

You almost caught yourself driving into the brink of sexual impulse, bobbing your head into it when you heard a sudden beep from the panel behind you. The sound makes you halt from your tracks, pulling his dick out of you in a swift motion as you glanced behind.

The monitor says: "Recalibration complete. Press X to initiate."

Huh, wasn't the estimated time supposed to be an entire day? Was that another hiccup in the processing unit? You purse your lips together. There's no time giving it a second thought, you must be grateful that the opportunity of getting Caleb back into his original system is now waving at you. Caleb will finally be at ease. "... It appears that the recalibration is in its full preparation. That means we can get you back— mmph!"

Caleb's hand flew to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, gripping tightly. Then, with a low, husky grunt, he thrusts his hips forward, forcing his aching, throbbing penis back into the wet heat of your mouth.

"Don't say a word. I told you not to stop." He started to move, his hips rocking forward and back, fucking into the tight, slick channel of your cavern. The sensation was incredible, better than anything he had ever felt before. And he knew, with a sinking certainty, that he wouldn't be able to stop himself now. Not until he had found the release he so desperately craved.

"Fuck," he gasped, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. "You feel... ahhhh... so good. So fucking good."

Had the lust algorithms entirely consumed him already? Had it taken a toll on his systems that he's now acting purely on base instinct and commands from the directive?

Your hands flew to his thighs, trying to keep yourself sane from the rod constantly ramming into you, fucking your face in a pace that made it difficult for you to breathe. It's okay, this is okay. Just stay focused. Stay calm. You'll let him have his way, and after he's satisfied, you can take him back to his normal self.

"Don't fight it," Caleb growled, his grip growing more painful in your hair as he felt his climax approaching. "Don't try to pull away. You're going to take it all."

But before Caleb could spill himself into your mouth, he wrenched your head back, pulling his dripping penis from your mouth with an obscene pop. And just as you could react, before you could utter a word of protest, he had you by the hips, lifting you effortlessly as if you weighed equal to a pip-squeak.

You gasp as you were suddenly airborne, your body twisting and turning until your chest hits the hard surface of the terminal, bent over ridiculously. The breath was knocked from your lungs, "Wait, not like this, not so suddenly—"

But Caleb cut off your protests with a brutal, almost violent thrust of his hips after ripping your pants off in one go. He drove forward, spearing into your dripping pussy with a series of husky moans. Your walls felt so tight, so hot, so perfectly designed to milk his aching, mechanical cock.

He thrusts out and in again, eager to reach for your g-spot.

Then, again.

And again.

And... in again.

"You... you feel so good," he snarled, hands painfully pressing on the dips of your hips. "Sex feels so good... it feels so good, I don't- want to stop." He set a relentless pace, pounding into you with the single-minded determination of a machine. His hips slammed against yours with every thrust, the obscene slap of mechanical flesh on flesh echoing through the lab. The terminal rattled and shook beneath you, sparks flying from the impact.

Caleb could feel it building, the pressure inside him reaching a fevered pitch. His hips were moving on their own, driven by a primal instinct to ravage the pussy that clutched around him perfectly. He could hear your cries, your moans, the way you gasped and shuddered beneath him, and it only spurred him on, made him thrust harder, faster, deeper.

He growled your name, his voice nothing more than a guttural rumble. "I'm going to... fuck, I'm going to..." He couldn't hold back any longer, he could feel that something was going to come out of his tip anytime sooner. So he reaches down, grabbing your leg, only to lift it high. He hooked your knee over his elbow, opening them wider, giving himself even deeper access to your dripping, needy sex.

"Take it all, take my cum," Caleb continuously slams forward, burying himself to the hilt inside your tight heat in a series of desperate thrusts like he was a man depraved of life. His penis throbbed and jerked as he finally found his release after one final pound, spilling jet after jet of hot, artificial seed deep into your core.

"God," he hissed through gritted teeth, his voice echoing off the lab walls as he continued to moan not akin to what he was supposed to be, "Fuck, yes. Yes, yes..." Even as he's already filling up your hole with his fluids, he didn't dare stop from pounding you down the table.

He shuddered and twitched, his hips grinding against yours as he pumped you full of his essence. It seemed to go on forever, wave after wave of pure, ecstatic bliss crashing over him. And through it all, he held you tight, your leg lifted high, keeping you open, keeping you filled.

You drop your head on the keyboards, struggling to catch your breath as only one thought lingered in your mind. You just got creampied by your AI assistant, and it doesn't look like he's stopping anytime soon.

[ofstarsandvibranium]

I Spy With My Little Eye

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Joaquin Torres x F!Reader

Summary: Joaquin got you a little present for when he's away on missions for a longer time.

A/N: This is based off a tiktok I saw about a husband bothering his wife with the Ebo Bot while he's deployed

"...Joaquin, what is this exactly?" you look at the device inside the box.

Your boyfriend looks at you excitedly, "It's a little robot that I can use to communicate with you while I'm away on missions."

You pull it out along with instructions, "Honey, this is sweet and all, but our phones work just fine."

"But our phones don't roll around looking all cute like!" You watch as he downloads the required app and sets up the bot. Soon enough, the round, white and black bot is rolling around your living room floor. Joaquin controls it from his phone.

"See!" He then taps his phone again, "And I can talk to you through it like this!"

Honestly, you still didn't see the purpose of the bot, but it made Joaquin happy and it provides another form of communication with him while he's away.

"It does look pretty cute," you say, giving him a soft smile, which makes his own smile grow wider.

__________________

You're in the kitchen cooking dinner for yourself when you hear the rolling of wheels, "What's cookin', good lookin'?"

You chuckle and look down at your feet. The ebo bot is angled up at you as your boyfriend speaks through it, "Making soup?" Joaquin asks as he notes the pot in front of you.

"Close. I'm cooking stew."

"All of that for you?"

You roll your eyes, "No. I'll eat what I can and then I'll freeze the rest to eat for another time. Or if you want to eat it when you come back, all you have to do is heat it back up."

"Oooohh smart."

"Everything going okay?" you ask as you go back to cooking.

"Yup. Probably will be back in a day or two....can you pick me up and put me on the counter?"

You snort, "Really? Why?"

"So I can get a better look at your beautiful face, obviously." You hear the grin in his voice.

You roll your eyes again but you oblige. For the past few missions, Joaquin has used the ebo bot to talk to you, mess around, and be a little nuisance. You could tell he was enjoying it way too much.

"I hope Sam never gives you your own Red Wing. I can't imagine the nonsense you'd pull with something more advance," you smirk at the bot that rolls around the counter beside you.

"I've already asked and he refuses to give me one."

You laugh, "As he should! You're a menace with this little thing," you gesture to the bot with the wooden spoon in your hand.

"I'm just making sure you're not lonely when I'm away!"

"Baby, I love you, but we both know you're the clingier one between us."

You laugh as the bot turns around and rolls towards a corner, appearing as if Joaquin is pouting.

"Take it back."

"No, because it's true! And I didn't say it was a bad thing, Joaco!"

"No, no, no. It's fine. Screw me for being super duper in love with my beautiful and amazing girlfriend." he proceeds to roll towards the edge of the counter and you stop him.

"You're so dramatic," you say with a smirk as you pick up the bot and raise it to eye level.

"But you love me."

"Yes, I do. Very much," you kiss the bot and set it back on the counter, "Were you going to watch me eat dinner?"

"Nah. I'll let you go. I need to work on reports or Sam will get on me again."

You snicker, "Alright," you set the bot onto the floor, "Love you. Bye!"

"Love you! Byyyyyeeeeee!" he elongates the word as rolls all the way back to the dock, causing you to laugh to yourself.

[almostwisegalaxy]

Where she sees me

Yeon si-eun x fem reader

The reader has a shy character in this story

..................................................................................

Bus 23, late afternoon. The sky hung heavy and gray, as if the city was holding its breath. Raindrops pounded the metal roof, a crescendo of dull beats. Yeon Si-eun, backpack on, shirt immaculate despite the humidity, stood still—rigid, frozen like a sculpture rain could never erode.

And she was there. For several weeks now. Same stop. Same silence. Y/N. Always sitting in the same spot on the bench, shoulders drawn in, fingers intertwined, staring at an imaginary point ahead to avoid all human presence.

He’d noticed her on the second day. Not because she stood out—she never sought to be seen—but because she had a quiet, constant presence. He’d watched her from the corner of his eye, never too long, never enough to betray interest. But he saw her. Every day. And soon, he began to search for her with his eyes the moment he left school. He hadn’t told anyone.

Except Su-ho. Because Su-ho saw everything.

"You’re scary, man. You look at her like you’re trying to solve an unsolvable equation."

Yeon Si-eun hadn’t answered. Because he didn’t have the words. Because Y/N escaped him. Like a recurring dream whose meaning always slipped away. He just knew she worked. Every evening, without exception. She always looked exhausted, like fatigue was stitched into her skin. She never carried a backpack. Never any sign of school. She lived a different reality.

That day, the rain fell harder. Passersby ran, umbrellas open like shields. But not Si-eun. He stood there, unmoving. He hadn’t brought an umbrella. He hadn’t expected the downpour. He could have run to the bus. But he stayed. Near her. As always.

Then she stood up. Slowly. Walked over. He didn’t move. And she raised her umbrella over his head. No words. Just that gesture. Then she handed him the umbrella. He wanted to speak, to refuse, but she had already slipped it into his hand. Then she walked off, soaked, leaving behind a deafening silence.

Su-ho had seen everything, of course.

"Tell me that’s not love. The guy’s on the verge of a stroke over an umbrella."

He had laughed. Loud. And Si-eun had looked away, slightly blushing, unable to respond. Because something had shifted inside him that day. Not a lightning strike. Not a tidal wave. More like a slow crack in his wall of control. He had never felt this. That soft burn. That need to understand her. To get close.

But he still hadn’t spoken to Y/N.

Days passed. He kept the umbrella in his locker, like a talisman. And he kept watching her, endlessly. Same bench, same weariness on her face. He imagined her days. Work. Exhaustion. She hadn’t chosen an easy path. And him? He fought in alleys and rooftops, armed with pens. He felt dirty. Unworthy of her.

"You know, you don’t need to recite her a poem. Just sit next to her."

That was Su-ho’s plan.

In the bus, as crowded as every evening, Su-ho suddenly stood up with suspicious speed, giving his seat to Si-eun—right next to Y/N. No warning.

Si-eun froze. Literally. Back stiff. Ears red. Y/N glanced up, surprised, but said nothing. Silence settled over them like a lead weight. Su-ho, two seats over, was watching with a wide, mischievous grin.

"Don’t sit there like a robot! Relax your shoulders, man!"

Y/N turned her head slightly. Si-eun tried to sit up straighter. Failed. He caught her gaze for a fraction of a second before jerking his head so fast he banged it against the window. Su-ho burst out laughing.

"Did you see that?! He’s gonna give himself a concussion just to avoid eye contact!"

Y/N had smiled faintly. And Si-eun felt swallowed whole by that smile. He wanted to say something. But the words were still trapped.

In the following days, he sat more naturally. Always next to her. One day, he pulled out a small handkerchief and handed it to her when she sneezed. She took it, almost surprised. Then she said:

"Thank you."

A soft voice, tired. But it was the first time he heard her.

And the silences grew denser, more charged. As if they held all the words they couldn’t say.

Then came the fight. Violent. Si-eun’s face was bloody, clothes torn, knuckles burning. He hadn’t seen her coming onto the bus. He climbed on without thinking, eyes blank. Passengers avoided him like an open wound.

But not her.

She got on too.

He wanted to get up, to flee, to hide. But she sat beside him. And without a word, she pulled out a tissue and gently wiped the blood from his cheek. He closed his eyes, unable to breathe. He wanted to cry. Scream. He felt ashamed, miserable. But she didn’t run. She was there.

And that’s when he understood. This wasn’t an obsession. It wasn’t fascination. It was love. Raw. Intense. Silent, but vast. Something beyond him, draining all strategy, all planning.

That day, he said:

"You shouldn’t see me like this."

She simply replied:

"But... I see you."

And that was enough.

Later, he told Su-ho about the scene, omitting the most tender details. But Su-ho understood.

"You’re done for, man."

And he was right. Because from that moment on, Y/N was in every heartbeat. In every fight plan. In every silence of his day. She wasn’t just the girl at the bus stop anymore. She had become his peace. His fixed point in the chaos.

And even if he kept fighting. Even if he bled. He knew that, somewhere, Y/N saw him. And as long as she stayed, he’d hold on.

He’d hold on for her.

And for the first time, Yeon Si-eun wanted a future. Even a blurry, uncertain one. As long as it had Y/N in it.

..................................................................................

[vesearlee]

──── 𝑺𝒖𝒓𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒆 𝑭𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕

Normally, when Caleb had to make it up to you, he had methods he had perfected; made tried and true over the span of time that stretched from childhood to adulthood. Only, this time, an accomplice was thrown into the mix to sweeten the deal, and it swayed you in his favour faster than you could comprehend the sudden, unique side kick.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ── Caleb x F!Reader 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ── 1.1k 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ── Fluff, kissing, apologetic Caleb 𝐀𝐎𝟑 ── HERE 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ── I saw a tiktok about a boyfriend bringing his girlfriend treats via a remote control car and went why not.

───  𝑳𝑨𝑫𝑺 𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕  ───

It was a slow, albeit ordinary day in Skyhaven — the sunlight streaming through the floor to ceiling windows of Caleb’s living room brightened the room and dark accents to feel homely as you cosied up on the couch. A few blankets were piled in your lap and tucked underneath your fuzzy sock covered feet. The rustling sound of paper from your book was the only sound in the comfortable silence.

Your hoped-for company was tucked away in his study, pouring over a few documents sent to him that the Fleet classed as ‘urgent’ — the grumbled and muttered threats to his subordinates were enough to make you chuckle lightly. 

Caleb only went once your hands squeezed his broad shoulders and forcibly turned him towards his office space. “Sooner you get done with paperwork, sooner you can come cuddle, ‘kay?”

“But–” He started, a small pout playing at his bottom lip as he looked over at you — it turned into a smirk while he watched your valiant efforts to make him move.

“No buts!” you grunted, shoving between his shoulder blades so he would move faster. “I’ll be on the couch waiting for you. So, hurry up, Colonel.”

His heavy footsteps echoed off of the walls of his study, and you heard him groan quietly as he sat at the desk chair, before the wheels scuffed over the floor. And from your place on the couch, you could hear the slight huffs of annoyance that left his lips, no matter how stifled they were. 

While time passed, you contentedly watched the clouds go by, only occasionally distracted by the words on the pages of your book that lay flat and open in your lap.

So, when the sound of whirring gears and the robotic revs of a small engine reached your ears, you froze. 

It was a familiar sound — a remote, Spitfire plane Caleb and you built when you were younger sounded almost identical, the tinny sound and imaginary battles he played out for your immersion echoed over the years to the present. 

You glanced towards the hallway that led to the study, where Caleb should have been focusing on paperwork, nothing appeared amiss; no dancing shadows or the sound of slight shuffling from his clothes to reveal he was planning a surprise. 

Furrowing your brow, you turned back to the window and grabbed your book to delve right back in. 

It happened again, only this time, it was much closer than before. 

You jumped, and the blanket bunched up on your thighs while you moved to sit up and investigate the source, when you finally found it. “What the–”

A model plane, the exact same one that you both built together years ago, was rolling around on the rug with such enthusiasm you could have sworn the pilot was attempting to recreate the feat of making donuts with a three-wheeled aircraft. 

Behind the plane and trailing from the tail was a rope, and attached to the ends of the rope was a packet of sour candy. A sticky note in the shape of a heart was stuck onto the crinkling plastic with an apple sticker — the simple gesture made you arch a brow, and the words ‘for my girl’ stood out in red pen.

“Caleb!” you called, and the plane stopped moving. It sat facing away from you. “Are you–?”

The question was cut short by the sound of movement from the craft — it turned slowly around, its cargo now beside it. The small engine revved and the blade attached to the front spun with the sound. “Caleb?” you said quietly, bending to look closer at your robotic company. “Can you see me–?”

One loud rev was your answer, and the flaps on the wings moved up and down.

You grinned — somehow, Caleb had rigged a camera to the cockpit, and he was controlling it from his office. “And what’s this candy for?” Two revs this time, and the plane scooted over the rug to be by your feet. The spinning blade touched the very tip of your toe.

“Sorry, I don’t speak plane,” you laughed, staring down at the robot. “Maybe a certain pilot needs to come out of hiding, he can share the candy with me if he brings me some apple slices.”

The small plane whirred and hurtled backwards, and you tracked the movements as it pivoted and positively flew away, its little wheels somehow never leaving the ground. It disappeared around the corner of the hallway, no doubt headed straight back to the operator for its next mission. 

You settled back into the cushions of the couch, and you placed the blankets back over your lap to await the plane’s next landing. 

A few moments later, heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed down the hallway, until Caleb appeared around the corner with the plane right behind. This time, it had taken flight — Caleb’s hand swayed back and forth to simulate the swerves and tricks a fighter pilot could only accomplish. 

“Oh, there he is,” you teased. “Are you trying to make it up to me?”

“And if I was…” He continued forward, amethyst eyes darkened with playful tones of indigo. “What would you say?”

You hummed, and you shifted in place to face him, placing your elbow on the back of the couch and your chin on the palm of your hand. “If you were trying to make it up to me, I would say you’re only missing my apple slices.”

Caleb smirked. “Nothin’ else, huh?”

“Nope.” You grinned up at him as he came to a stop in front of you. “Well, if the Colonel has time for me now, I suppose I wouldn’t obje– Mmph!” Any further taunt you conjured was silenced by the feel of his lips on yours, and before you could reciprocate, he pulled back, his teeth only just letting go over your lower lip. 

Puffs of warm air fanned over your mouth, and you whispered against his lips: “That’s not fair.”

“Whatever you say, baby.” Caleb rose and glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, look.” The plane hovered behind his head for a second before it moved to the side to reveal a parcel fastened to its underside. A plate in the confines of what looked like an upside-down parachute, held the spoils of a few apples, sliced and plated to perfection. “It’s a mercy mission, see? My friend here softened the blow of my hasty return.”

Your hand reached for his wrist, and you yanked him forwards. “Wh–oa!” His tall frame collided with the couch cushions, and he landed with a grunt of surprise, sprawled against your side while the plane remained airborne. “Wha–?”

“Now you’ve made it up to me,” you stated proudly, smiling at his ruffled clothes and hair. “My big dummy.”

Caleb sighed and shook his head. “Where were we–? That’s right.” The remote to the wall-mounted television floated towards you. “Can’t spoil our show for you, can I?”

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

Masking

Wandanat x autistic!fem!reader

Summary: You exude confidence when running the tight ship at the Avengers compound, but it's all just a mask.

Word Count: 1K

Warnings: Masking, sensory overload, emotional fatigue, mild dissociation, comfort and care

Authors note: I hope no one minds that I made reader autistic it just felt right as I started writing this that she was autistic and masking. This was a request!

The Avengers compound was a constant whirlwind of movement and noise, but you had long since mastered the art of blending in. You moved through the halls with precision, shoulders squared, steps confident, your words clipped and efficient.

You had to be.

People looked to you for guidance, for leadership, for a presence that commanded the room without hesitation. There was no room for uncertainty, no space for awkward pauses or misplaced words. So, you adapted. You studied the way others spoke, the way they carried themselves, how they reacted in different scenarios, and you replicated it to perfection.

Every interaction was a practiced routine.

Eye contact—just enough to seem engaged, but not too much. Staring was off-putting, but looking away too quickly made people think you were nervous or disinterested. So, you held it just long enough, counting in your head before glancing away naturally.

Tone—firm but not aggressive. You had learned that being too direct made people bristle, but if you softened your words too much, they assumed you lacked confidence. So, you struck the balance, keeping your voice even and controlled, modulating it just enough to sound natural.

Expressions—carefully controlled, mimicking the right amount of stern authority. You had practiced in the mirror, adjusting your face to reflect the reactions people expected from you. A smirk here, a raised brow there, the occasional chuckle when the situation called for it.

Gestures—purposeful. Too much movement made you look nervous; too little made you seem robotic. You had calculated how to stand, how to walk, how to use your hands when speaking so you didn’t come across as stiff or unnatural.

Masking.

It was second nature now, the shield you wore as part of your role. No one questioned it. You were strong, competent, unshakable. That was the version of you the world expected, and so that’s what you gave them.

But it was exhausting.

Every second of the day was a mental checklist, a constant game of social equations running in the background of your mind. It wasn't just about getting through conversations—it was about making sure you performed correctly. That you didn’t linger too long after saying goodbye. That you responded with the right words when someone made a joke. That your body language wasn’t too rigid, but also not too relaxed.

The longer the day stretched, the heavier the mask became.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, your limbs felt like lead, your skin raw from the effort of pretending. The lights in the halls were too bright, the voices around you too sharp, grating against your senses like nails on a chalkboard. You were aware of every thread in your clothing, every distant conversation, every flicker of movement in your periphery. It was all too much.

But still, you smiled when necessary. Still, you nodded in understanding when someone spoke to you. Still, you held yourself together, as if the mask weren’t suffocating you with every passing second.

Because out here, you had no choice.

Out here, you were the person they expected you to be.

But behind closed doors?

That was a different story…

By the time you finally stepped into your shared penthouse, the weight of the day dragged at you, your mask slipping the moment the door shut behind you.

Wanda was the first to notice. She always noticed.

"Hey, love," she said softly from the couch, her voice laced with warmth. Natasha glanced up from the kitchen, her sharp green eyes flicking over you, assessing.

And just like that, you melted.

Your shoulders sagged as you toed off your shoes, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. No more forcing yourself to stand just right, no more careful control of your expressions. Here, you didn’t have to pretend.

"You good?" Natasha asked, but she already knew the answer.

"Masking all day," you murmured as you padded toward them, already reaching for the comfort only they could provide.

Wanda opened her arms without hesitation, and you collapsed into her embrace, letting yourself be guided onto the couch. Natasha joined, her hands gentle as she pulled your legs over her lap. You settled between them, head resting against Wanda’s thighs, feet tucked under Natasha’s warm hands.

The tension bled from your body almost instantly.

Wanda’s fingers combed through your hair, her nails scratching lightly against your scalp in a way that sent pleasant shivers down your spine. Natasha traced absentminded patterns against your ankle, grounding you further.

"You wanna talk about it?" Natasha asked, but she didn’t push. She never did.

"Not really," you admitted. "Just need to… exist for a bit."

Wanda hummed in understanding. "Then exist, my love."

And you did.

The three of you fell into a comfortable quiet as a nature documentary played softly on the TV. You stared at the screen, body limp and content between them, your energy slowly recharging in the warmth of their presence.

It wasn’t long before your thoughts spilled over, unfiltered now that the mask was gone.

"Did you know that sea otters have a special pouch in their armpits where they keep their favorite rock?"

Natasha’s thumb stroked lazy circles against your ankle. "That so?"

"Mhm," you nodded, shifting slightly against Wanda’s lap. "And sometimes they pass their rocks down to their pups, like family heirlooms."

Wanda let out a soft laugh, her fingers never pausing in your hair. "That’s adorable."

"You’re adorable," Natasha muttered, her voice fond.

You huffed, but a small smile tugged at your lips. "Also, Mantis shrimp can punch with the same force as a bullet. Their punches are so fast they create tiny bubbles that explode with light and heat."

Natasha let out a low whistle. "So, basically, shrimp with superpowers."

"Exactly! Just like Wanda" You smiled up at your girlfriend who was smiling fondly back at you. 

“Yes, Malyska, exactly like me.”

They let you keep going, let you ramble about whatever popped into your mind, never interrupting, never acting like it was too much. They simply listened, soaking in the way your voice animated with excitement, how your face lit up when you shared something particularly interesting.

And with every fact, every gentle touch, every soft hum of encouragement, your battery slowly recharged.

Here, there was no need to mask. No need to perform.

Here, with them, you could just be.

[crimsoncandy04]

While fighting Scaramouche's robot, some of our clothes got ripped, and Scaramouche then did what he wanted until the reader couldn't take it anymore~

You watch as a giant metal hand suddenly comes crashing down from above and falls onto Traveler.

You scream out his name as you watch him try to get up while Scaramouche reels back to strike him again from inside the mecha bot. Yet even as you draw your blade and try to rush over to block it, you know you're already too late.

Nahida interferes. You notice a small movement from Aether's arm as if he was trying to get your attention and gesture to the small goddess. Telling you to help her instead.

You don't hesitate. Aether always had a plan. He always ended up okay.

But what about the dendro archoness?

You quickly use your electro vision and warp yourself across the floor as fast as you can. Grabbing onto Nahida and pulling her with you out of sight to safety.

However, you just barely make it.

And in the process of rescuing the goddess of wisdom, Scaramouche had slammed his enormous metal fist into the ground again and nearly smashed you flat. But instead of doing that, the oversized mech appendage had merely scraped your side and left not only your entire right arm aching, but your entire chest now completely exposed as well.

You sat Nahida on her feet as you quickly tried to gather the remaining pieces of your dress top and yank it over your shoulders to give yourself some modesty, but you didn't have time as Scaramouche swung at you both again when he heard you swear from your hiding place.

He missed again but only because this time, Nahida protected YOU instead.

She saw your distressed expression and immediately tried to use her own power to shield you but it wasn't strong enough.

Nahida is out cold much like Traveler a few meters away.

And now you kneel before The Balladeer all alone.

Injured.

And with your tits out.

Basically.

You quickly try to cover yourself with one arm instinctively as you struggle to your feet, grasping your blade as you prepare to go out with some dignity and die fighting for your friends at the very least, however instead of hitting you again or using any elemental attacks to obliterate you to pieces on the sanctuary floor, Scaramouche seems to have a different kind of death prepared for you and uses his giant metal hand to reach down and quickly snatch you up by the belt hanging from your waist.

You are hoisted hundreds of feet in the air and dangled before the face of the vile robot as the controller capsule slowly opens to reveal the face of your most likely killer. Scaramouche.

He gave you a smug and condescending look as he brought you closer to him.

"I find it rather laughable that a strong warrior like yourself is reduced to such a lowly state!"

You try to slap him with your injured hand but he just grabs you by the wrist instead.

"look at you. Exposed to your enemy like a common whore! Heh. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised though."

Scaramouche reaches with his free hand and pinches one of your nipples hard.

"This body of yours was never one of a fighter's. At least like this these exaggerated...assets of yours will be put to a much better use."

You wince as Scara continues to fondle your tits roughly.

"What the hell are you doing Balladeer!?" You sneer. This was low even for him.

He just chuckles at you.

"enjoying the rewards of a victorious battle sweetheart. You shouldn't be surprised. Everyone says you're the Traveler's woman you know? And I beat him. I'm just taking what now belongs to me."

He moves his hand from your breast to your stomach. Slowly moving down until his fingers caress against your pubic mound. You brace yourself as you feel Scara slowly dip a finger into your womanhood, followed by another. He moves slowly at first. Maintaining eye contact with you at first as he gazes down at you with a teasing look.

He knows you can't do anything to stop him.

And he's enjoying it.

"I hate you!" You hiss.

Scaramouche just grins cheekily as his fingers curl inside you and cause you to squeak a little as you quickly try to yank your hand free from him so you could silence yourself and save what dignity you had left.

"We'll see if you still feel the same way when I'm done with you angel."

Scara continues to play with your pussy as you blush and struggle to keep your lips sealed. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing you were enjoying this.

He didn't deserve it!

Yet he seemed to almost know intuitively.

"don't bother acting like you don't love this. You might as well drop this stubborn act now because the more you resist, the more pleasure I'll inflict upon you." You feel your insides tighten as he begins to rub against a sensitive spot inside of you and finally you falter.

"Please don't. This feels too good! Please this isn't fair!" You whine as he keeps up his pace and softly hums to himself as he listens to your plea.

"beg me, you filthy parasite. I want to hear you beg me to make you cum as you make a mess on my hand. Maybe after that, I'll release you."

You feel your gaze fall from his as you struggle to form words. You couldn't say such lewd things. Wasn't Aether still just below you? What if he heard you? You forced yourself to maintain your silence.

Your orgasm was hitting you seconds after that and only after finger fucking you through it completely, did Scara slip his hand away from your dripping sex and bring his fingers to his mouth as he licked them clean.

"I think I enjoy the way you taste mortal. Perhaps I'll have to break my promise and keep you after all."

You tried to retort with what energy you had left but Scaramouche was pulling you into the robot with him before you could even process what was happening.

You were slammed into the furthest glittering wall as the opening closed behind you quickly. After that you felt Scaramouche grasping your thighs as he spread your legs wide and slid in between them.

"There's something I've always wanted to try. Don't worry, I've heard human women are delicate creatures when it comes to this type of thing. I won't break you here sweetheart."

You heard the sound of fabric rustling in the darkness. Felt your skirt being lifted as he teased the tip of his cock against your slit.

Oh archons.

This was actually happening.

The Balladeer was going to fuck you.

Like actually fuck you.

You felt your breath hitch in your throat as he slowly slid his large length inside of your tight cunt.

"ah~ your cock is...scara it's too big!"

You could almost feel the shit eating grin that was on his face.

"I know angel. It's but one of the countless ways I am superior to humans. "

You feel him thrust into you then. Moving slowly at first to let you adjust as he continued to hold your legs apart.

Surprisingly enough, he knew how to move his hips. And when he picks up the pace a little, you finally lose yourself and moan softly as Scaramouche fucks into you as deeply as he can.

"You're taking me so well. I'm surprised."

He thrusts a little harder as you gasp and moan a little louder.

"Scara you're hitting against my g spot too much!" You whine cutely. He just silences you with a quick kiss. His lips trailing from your mouth to your neck. He whispers into your ear in a sultry tone.

"you seem to be enjoying it though dear. So I plan on fucking you for as long as I want." He emphasized his point with a rather rough thrust against your sweet spot. Causing you to cry out as you feel yourself reach your peak again.

Yet he just continued.

After a few hours of this you swore you were going insane. Every thrust felt like it was more intense than the last. Your used cunt made the most unholy squelching sounds as Scara continued to fuck into your oversensitive pussy like you were nothing but a mere toy for him. You had lost count of just how many orgasms he had forced out of your body and at that point you didn't really care anymore.

Was this really that bad?

Archons his cock felt better than anything you had ever imagined.

Scaramouche had used his body to pin your knees next to your head on either side as he held your hands with his. It was a rather intimate position but you didn't think too deeply about it.

Because as you felt him gently kiss your neck and continue to pound into you, you felt like you were made for this.

Was this... what it felt like to go crazy?

"Scara please...I can't take anymore ~" you moan sweetly as you struggle to get your point across.

He kisses you again before responding.

"you'll take it until I say you are finished. Now just let go sweetheart. Give yourself to me fully. Don't worry about anything but what I'm giving you." He murmured before biting into your neck and thrusting even faster into you.

You wanted to say something. But you couldn't find the strength to anymore.

Scara's cock felt so good.

You wanted him to fuck you more.

Until you went insane.

You reached up with your good hand and held onto him as you begged for another kiss pitifully.

This wasn't that bad of a fate.

Perhaps a life as the fuck pet of a false god...was truly one you had always been destined for.

He was the everlasting lord of arcane wisdom now after all. Of course he was right about something like that and he had even been generous enough to have helped you fulfill such a destiny himself too~

Why had you ever lifted a sword against such a wise and benevolent god?

At least now you were where you were always meant to be.

[muletia]

First of all I LOVE your fics!! Thank you for feeding my delusions (like its totally normal to be obsessed with a robot)

I just keep imagining this scenario where the reader and optimus are kinda in the flirting stage, and she has to attend an office party, so after saving her ass from cons, he drops her off at the venue, and she has to change. She does that in the truck and checks herself in the mirror, and he compliments her. She then gives him a kiss on the dashboard and the hood and leaves. Ratchet notices that optimus is in a daze and asks why does he have red splotches on his face and chest (reader kissed him with red lipstick on).

What do you think his reaction would be like and if the kids notice its kiss marks

thank you <33 and dw i'm feeding my own delusions, no thoughts, head full of giant obsessed robots (let's pretend that opti knows what lipstick is for this, okay??)

word count: 730

He feels the warmth of your lips on his armor long after you’ve parted ways. You delivered your blows swiftly, yet precisely, and above all, skillfully—because Optimus cannot stop thinking about them. It was a small gesture, perhaps left by you in a rush of emotion when he directed a compliment your way, or maybe it was intentional, meant to torture him just a little, to leave a mark behind, ensuring he’d think of you constantly until your return. For him, however, the implications of your action were enormous, hinting at a quiet passion. And perhaps his fantasies seized control of him immediately, but he was convinced they meant far more than just a goodbye. They implied something else. Something closer, more intimate. Were you trying to tell him something? Prove something to him? As a leader, he needed to be certain at all times, but you were someone he could never quite figure out. How could someone so noble also torment him so much?

He drives into the base and transforms, though his thoughts remain with you—your warm lips, the boundless trust you showed him, the gentleness you displayed toward him. He vividly remembers the texture of your soft, warm lips against him. He’s even convinced they’re still there, infecting him with their heat, awakening desires he tries not to entertain. For they are unclean and unworthy of you, and, above all, unworthy of him.

"Optimus?"

But oh, how much he would give to once again be the center of your attention. For you to honor him with another kiss. It could be imprecise, unclear—it could leave him pondering its meaning for ages, as well as searching for the reason you chose to bestow it upon him in the first place. The pretext wouldn’t matter when it meant your focus was solely on him.

"Optimus?"

He returns to the real world. Ratchet greets him, clearly displeased that the leader of the Autobots was lost in thought instead of focusing on reality. In this case, Optimus is forced to push you to the back of his processor, though he is disheartened by the necessity. He wonders how long he can last—how long until you envelop him in your warmth again and he finds himself dissecting every gesture, every glance, wondering if this particular interaction was more romantic than the rest.

"My apologies, my friend. It seems I became lost in my thoughts."

"This has been happening more and more often lately. But that’s not what I wanted to talk about. Did something happen during your journey?"

Optimus arches a brow, surprised.

"No, I reached the base without any issues. Why do you ask?"

"This."

Ratchet points to a spot on his chassis, just beneath the left windshield, on the freshly polished red paint. Then, oh Primus, to his faceplate. Optimus doesn’t need a mirror to know what specifically the medic is pointing at. And for the first time in a very, very long time, he feels embarrassment creeping in, exposing a sliver of his emotions to the world.

He subtly turns his head and covers his mouth with his servo, for at this moment, he has no excuse for this situation.

“Ooooooh, I know what this is, I know!” Miko shouts, having been bored out of her mind just moments ago.

“Miko, calm down,” Jack scolds, noticing Optimus’s discomfort.

But Miko couldn’t care less.

“It's lipstick and the marks mean that boss bot has someone who really likes him.” She emphasizes "really" and giggles. The situation becomes even funnier as Ratchet rolls his optics.

“Ah yes, I forgot you were dropping [Name] off,” he sighs. “Just get together already, I beg of you.”

“It is not that simple,” Optimus clears his throat.

“Mhm, sure.”

Prime leaves the hangar, metaphorical tail between his legs, intent on erasing the evidence of his “crime.” He should have expected that your affections would eventually be noticed (they were, long ago), but he would have preferred for it not to happen under such humiliating circumstances.

He touches the spot Ratchet pointed to with a digit. He can still feel your lips there—their warmth, the sparks you shared with him. And if it were up to him, he would never get rid of your marks, the proof of belonging to you, of being yours alone. But the world around him was not ready for that.

[delicatebarness]

bridges to burn | prologue

Summary: You arrive at the Avengers Compound to manage your uncontrollable Extremis powers. As you navigated the new environment, you clash with your assigned babysitter/bodyguard, Bucky Barnes.

Warning: MCU Spoilers. Iron Man 3. Intense Emotional Conflict. Superpowers and Uncontrollable Abilities. Parental Concern and Pressure. Family Tension. Emotional and Physical Heat.

Word Count: 1103

Spotify Playlist | Support: Ko-FI

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

A/N: Oh look, another.

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Touching down at the Avengers Compound, the Quinjet’s engines hummed softly as they powered down. You stepped off the lowering ramp and took in the sprawling complex. The building was an impressive blend of sleek modern design and cutting-edge technology, lush greenery surrounded the wide-open spaces. The peaceful landscape contrasted against the bustling chaos of the city, where you spent most of your life. 

Your dad, Tony Stark, stood waiting for you near the entrance, concern, and determination etched across his aging features. The familiar scent of motor oil and cologne filled your senses as he enveloped you in a quick hug. His grip around you was firm, silently reassuring you that he was there for you. 

“Welcome home, kid,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. However, his eyes revealed the worry he had tried to mask. “Come on, let me show you around.” 

Following him through the compound, you passed training rooms that were filled with state-of-the-art equipment, common areas where you caught glimpses of some familiar faces, and the impressive hangar with various vehicles and aircraft. The building buzzed with activity, yet there was still a sense of order and purpose. 

Finally, you reached Tony’s sanctuary, his lab. The place you knew he felt most at home. You marveled at the array of gadgets and projects scattered around, as you followed his gesture for you to step in. Screens displayed holographic schematics, while robotic arms moved with precision, a new creation being assembled. The faint hum of machinery was a comforting backdrop. 

“And, this is where the magic happens,” Tony said, pride touching his voice. Watching you take it all in, his lips played a small smile. “But, before you get too comfortable, there’s something we need to talk about.” 

Raising your eyebrow suspiciously, you waited for him to continue. Looking uncharacteristically nervous, he ran a hand through his hair. 

“I know things have been… rough since the incident,” he began, trying carefully to choose his words. He leaned against a workbench, fixing his gaze on a point somewhere behind you, crossing his arms over his chest. “And, I know you’re struggling to control the Extremis,” he trailed off, pausing before he continued, “but, we can’t have another accident like that. Not again.” 

The memory of the uncontrollable heat coursing through your veins caused you to flinch. The sight of the flames, the smell of burning wood, the panic in the firefighter’s voice as they tried to contain the damage. Since it saved your life as a child, you lived with the Extremis virus. Your mother, Maya Hansen’s legacy, turned you into a ticking time bomb. 

“I know, Dad,” you sighed, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “I’ll do better.” 

Shaking his head, Tony pushed off the workbench and stepped closer to you. “It’s not about doing better. It’s about getting help. Which is why I’ve arranged for someone to keep an eye on you.” 

The door to the lab opened, snapping your attention away from your dad before you could protest. And in walked, Bucky Barnes– The Winter Soldier. You had seen him in action and heard the ghost stories, but meeting him in person… that was different. He was imposing, a steely gaze seemingly assessing every detail of the room, and you. As he approached, his movements were fluid, almost predatory.

“Tin-Man, this is my daughter,” Tony spoke as he gestured toward you. “She’s going to be staying here for a while. And… you’re going to be looking out for her.” 

Bucky’s eyes narrowed slightly toward you, and you could see in his piercing gaze that he was as thrilled about this arrangement as you were. “I was expecting a kid,” he said bluntly, a hint of annoyance carrying in his voice. Crossing his arms over his chest, the metal of his arm caught against the light. 

“No, I’m not a kid,” you snap back, matching his posture. “And, I don’t need a glorified babysitter. Unless,” you paused, shoot Bucky a playful smirk. “You’re here to tuck me in and read me a bedtime story?” 

Tony stepped between you, holding up a hand to forestall any pending argument. “Easy, both of you. This isn’t up for debate. Barnes’ here to help, whether you like it or not.” 

You glare at Bucky, who returns the look with an equal intensity. “Fantastic,” you said, your voice dripped with sarcasm. “My very own bodyguard, don’t expect me to make this easy for you.”

Smirking, Bucky’s eyes filled with amusement almost as if he was accepting a challenge. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Princess.” 

“Don’t call me that,” you snap, your iris’ blazed with anger, a burning orange glow. 

His smirk never faltered. “Whatever you say… Princess.” 

Watching the exchange, Tony’s expression changed to one of concern and exasperation. His face, usually composed, now showed signs of strained patience. Rubbing a hand over his face, he tried to stifle a sigh. “Alright, both of you,” he injects, his voice filled with frustration. “This isn’t a battlefield. Can we at least try to keep it professional?” 

You took a glance at Tony, then back at Bucky, who still had a smirk plastered across his face, enjoying the friction. Tony continued, his tone firm but weary. “I get that you two won’t see eye to eye, but let’s keep the drama to a minimum. We’re here to make sure things don’t  go up in flames, literally.” 

Squaring off with Bucky, you took another step closer. The heat between you both was almost tangible. “I mean it, Winter Soldier. I’m not some dame in distress that you get to boss around.” 

Leaning in, his voice was a low, taunting whisper. “And I’m not some nanny here to hold your hand.” 

The tension crackled between you, and you noticed how his eyes were cold and calculating, with a flicker of something else– something that mirrored the heat in your own. You weren’t sure if it was anger or something more, but whatever it was, made your heart race. 

“Good,” you retorted, sarcasm stayed laced within your words. “I wouldn’t want you thinking you could handle me.” 

His eyes locked with yours, his smirking only growing. “Trust me, Princess, I can handle anything you throw at me.” 

Scoffing, you rolled your eyes, yet you couldn’t help but feel the thrill of his challenge rush through you. “We’ll see about that.” 

As you turned to leave, you felt his gaze burning into your back. This wasn’t over– far from it. And somehow, the thought of that excited you as much as it infuriated you.

---

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

[arting-block]

𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 | Eleventh Doctor x F!Reader

❝is that too much to ask for? to have your husband by your side every night, whispering to you in Gallifreyan to lull you to sleep?❞

summary: being pregnant with a timelord's baby isn't for the weak. you tolerated your husband's overprotectiveness, but building a robot to follow you everywhere was the crossing the line. what started as a scheme to gain some privacy turns into a a reflection of the complicated feelings your pregnancy brings.

pairing: eleventh doctor x f!pregnant!reader

warnings: pregnancy (afab reader), the doctor being very dramatic, mild angst, fluffy ending, suggestive comments/allusions to sex, some plot bc i have no self control, reader loves sleeping

words: 6.6k

a/n: another request sitting in my inbox that i tinkered with. i had a lot of fun with this prompt :) im also physically incapable of writing drabbles bc of course i am. slightly proofread. also if you keep up with siasl i am in the middle of getting 2 chapters out shortly!!!

“What about this one? This seems like a lovely lil’ jumper.”

The Doctor holds up the article of clothing. It’s a bright canary yellow, almost burning your eyes. His face is all giddy, practically shoving the small cloth in your face. 

You sigh, grabbing the small sweater from his hands and putting it back on the rack. The Doctor’s pout would’ve been cute if it was the first time he pulled that off. “You already spent half a thousand pounds on clothing alone. Focus, please! We’re here to buy me new shoes. The swelling’s been killing me.”

You gesture to the empty cart and continue walking deeper into the store. The slides you haphazardly threw on did nothing to support the arches of your soles and you have already outgrown all the other shoes you owned. Your feet are dragging your weight as you try to find the aisle you’re looking for. 

“What if she doesn’t like the clothing we got her?” The Doctor resumes pushing the cart, walking in tandem beside you. “Bought nearly every single color there is, but not yellow. What if she really likes the color yellow?”

Stopping next to a pair of sneakers on display, you inspected them carefully. Once you determined they had the right size and decently squishy insoles, you dropped them to the ground. Kicking off the flimsy blue slides you had on, you tried to shove your feet into the sneakers, using your Doctor as a balance. He lets you grip onto his bicep, even though you’re causing him to sway with your erratic motions. 

Still, the Doctor continues on: “Surely she would like TARDIS blue? Everyone does! Did you know blue is considered a soothing color—especially dark blue? Can’t go wrong with a good blue.”

Your foot managed to slip halfway into the sneaker, but you couldn’t get your heel inside. You gave a harsh tug on the Doctor’s sleeve. “Little help here.”

The Doctor is quick to help you to a small bench, letting you lean into him before setting you down. A satisfied groan left you, happy to finally get the extra weight off your joints. The Doctor kneels down, making sure your sock is still snug on your foot, before securing the sneaker. He even made sure the laces were not too tight. You gave your toes an experimental wiggle, happy to see that they fit you perfectly. 

Your husband doesn’t rise from his sport, still lost in thought about colors and your future daughter’s opinion of them. “I’ve always hated red. Didn’t like the way red things tasted, but I bought those little shoes anyway. Kids are more drawn to saturated colors so there’s a chance she might like red…no matter how unsavory.”

“She’s gonna love whatever we give her,” you say. You prop your leg onto the Doctor, who goes to work untying the laces. “Everyone loves blue, and she would be very grateful that you thought of red shoes even though you hate them.”

The Doctor puts on the slide you discarded back on your feet. There was still that distant look on his eyes, one that you often found whenever he worried about the baby in your stomach. “What about the yellow?”

You brush a rogue strand of brown hair, tucking it away from the Doctor’s eyes. When he looks up at you, you see the worry start to melt away. “I’m sure she would let us know if she likes yellow or not.”

— — —

Before your pregnancy, your worries were few and far between. Okay, maybe not so far between, but the Doctor took extra precautions to adventuring the moment you two got married. Your feet would ache from running alongside the Doctor and the Ponds. At most you would suffer a cut or bruise, bouncing back to full health in no time. In the beginning stages of your pregnancy, you could still outrun the occasional alien or keep up with the Ponds when walking around Leadworth. 

Now that you’re in the third trimester, your main worry is getting out of bed without pulling a muscle. 

The only adventure you’ve been going on lately are trips to Walmart for your oddly specific food cravings. Mostly for the selection of spicy chips and cheap cakes. It was all you would want to eat. You tried pulling the “eating for two” card, but eventually the Doctor had drawn the line at vanilla ice cream and pickles. Though, a few heated kisses bribe him to get them anyway. 

Your pregnancy was considerably smooth-sailing all things considered. Adventuring stopped by fifteen weeks and you stayed either in the TARDIS or at the Ponds’ residence. Alien medicine subsided most of the unsightly side-effects. But because your husband was the Doctor and your hormones were crazier than ever, it meant that arguments were (unfortunately) very common. 

How could the Doctor, the most intelligent, most caring, most accommodating husband in the universe simultaneously be the most irritating person to be around?

Privacy and his incessant need to protect you.

You silently hold a grudge in your heart towards Rory for toppling the first domino. As a nurse, he couldn’t help but track everything about your pregnancy. Vitals, nutrients, cholesterol, sleep, etc. To no one’s surprise, the Doctor encouraged it and often compared each other’s notes about the effects of a Time Lord pregnancy. Nerd shit. Whatever. As long as their testing didn’t coincide with your naps, you could care less. 

Then things escalated. The Doctor was suddenly very aware that you were carrying his baby—a Time Lord baby. You don’t know why it took twenty weeks for the idea to settle, but now you wished it never did. He was rightfully concerned about your baby and you didn’t put up a fight when the Doctor got a little clingier than usual. It’s nice to have the Doctor hover next to you like a shadow, his brows pinched in worry and his eyes filled with enough love to put Cupid to shame. But then there comes a time where the Doctor is needed. So Rory and Amy were left to care for you. No big deal. 

By twenty-one weeks? Surveillance of you became a full blown operation. The Doctor made an executive decision to install cameras and mics in every room in the TARDIS. You nearly ripped him a new one when he suggested putting some in the bathrooms. What started as a meaningful demonstration for his care about you turned into an obsession. Paranoia, even. If the Doctor wasn’t in your immediate vicinity, then he forced one of the Ponds to follow you around at all times. 

They were your best friends—your traveling companions. At least they had the sense to leave the room whenever you needed time alone with your daughter. They would engage in conversation and remained silent and out of the room when it came time for you to sleep. 

You tolerated the Doctor’s overprotectiveness because of the loss of his previous family during the Great Time War and past lovers. You can’t begin to understand the depths of his grief of losing countless people spanning hundreds of years. So you gave a little (a lot) of grace towards your Time Lord husband. How can you resist when he hugs you from behind and gently rubs your stomach with so much love and care? He’s just worried and you would be too if you were in his shoes. But the limit to his protectiveness apparently does not exist. 

There was a point where neither Pond wanted to follow you around the clock every single day. You foolishly hoped that their complaints would put an end to the Doctor’s paranoia before it spiraled out of control. But the Doctor also had to leave to go on supply runs and help random aliens across the galaxy you were residing in. The Ponds needed to go back to Earth for their own sanity which would last either a few days to weeks. 

So what solution did your mad husband come up with? Build a robot to follow you everywhere. 

“Mrs. (L/N), are you certain you want to continue exercising?”

You were huffing a storm, trying to keep an even pace ahead of the walking tin-can your husband built to be his personal snitch. The straw that broke your masked indifference towards the Doctor’s overprotectiveness. The moment J-ROD’s systems were firing sparked the end of any privacy you held onto. Years ago, during a trip to a future human colony, the Doctor came across a pile of scraps. It looked nothing like a humanoid robot. You had thought that the Doctor would simply take its salvageable parts and use it for the TARDIS. Apparently your mad husband was always a step ahead, working on his Justice-Robotics Of Defense in secret. You don’t know when he completed it, but you’re certain you’ve heard J-ROD’s muffled voice late into the night and your husband’s all too eager voice responded back. 

You chalked it up to another project he was tinkering with. Little did you know he was crafting up your worst nightmare. 

“You’re programmed to do as I say,” you snap. Your pace slows and you hear the heavy footsteps of J-ROD come closer, motivating you to keep going. “And right now I want to walk.”

Thankfully, the robot is incredibly slow. Unfortunately, you are eight months pregnant. You had barely reached the five minute mark of your “exercise” and the wind has already knocked out of you. Pure spite is what is keeping you from giving out. 

The day started with a frantic kiss on your cheek and the Doctor’s promises to be back before dinner. The TARDIS has a knack for muddling your sense of time. Dinner can mean a blink of an eye or a stretch of time that feels like days. Coupled with the fact that you’re carrying a Time Lord baby meant that you are terrible at judging when the Doctor would be back. 

J-ROD keeps their distance, not because they’re sympathetic to your sour mood, but because their rusty joints keep them from speeding up faster than a slow walk. Maybe if you grabbed a hammer from your husband’s toolbox, you could cave in their knees and keep them locked in a closet somewhere. A cramp emanates from your side and you stop to catch your breath. You can barely walk for five minutes, there’s no way you can muster enough strength to bash through metal. You hear the clank clank clank of J-ROD’s footsteps. 

It is the fact that the robot would follow you everywhere and stare into your soul that irritated you. It was his blocky metal body with brown crusted joints that creaked noisily to the point it drove you insane. The damn piece of scraps would frequently interrupt your naps with its loud voice to call the Doctor for his hourly reports. It’s programmed to stay at a minimum of a 30 feet radius near you. There was no escaping them.

Your husband promised to fix his creaky joints, the loud voice, and fix his programming to call at a time that accommodates your napping schedule. He was very apologetic and did his best to tinker with J-ROD the moment you brought up complaints. But your husband is also the Doctor and he cannot turn a blind eye to beings in need. 

The only reprieve to J-ROD is when the Doctor or the Ponds were around. You knew it was irrational to get frustrated at a rusty robot whose only purpose is to protect the person it was assigned to. If anything, they were the manifestation of your husband’s worry for you. 

But your grace can only go so far before the irritation wins out. You want peace and quiet. It’s been hours. The Doctor is out saving a ship from being pulled into an unseen black hole. The Ponds were back to their daily routine in Leadworth. You are stuck in the TARDIS, heavily pregnant, and narrowly avoiding tripping over your own feet in hopes that you get away from the walking piece of metal. 

“Your heart rate increased by a factor of 5% since the start of your walk,” J-ROD says. Their polite, robotic voice is activating the kill-switch in your hormone-ridden brain. “I believe it is best for you to stop exercising. The Doctor recommends that you keep exertion to a minimum.”

You stop, only because there’s a sudden cramp in your thigh. Your sudden yelp in pain alerts J-ROD. Their laser scan is warm as it hits all parts of your body. 

“My scans indicate that you’re experiencing minor muscle spasms in your right femoral region,” they state. “Sources indicate a good massage can allevia—”

“NO!” you shout. “No, do not come near me.”

“But—”

“You will do as you’re told!”

“As you wish.”

The pain is pushing you to your limits. If this keeps up you’re going to cry yourself into labor. You can’t break down in front of a robot snitch who will tattle to the Doctor. You do not need records of your crying archived. 

But then a lightbulb lit up in your mind. 

The cramp subsided, but you grasp onto it with a sharp hiss, loud enough for J-ROD to hear. 

“Fuck…I think it just got worse.”

J-ROD’s crusted hands attempt to reach your leg. “Allow me—”

You swat his hands away. “You know what would help me? An ice pack!”

“I do not follow.”

“Run to the kitchen and get me an ice pack for my cramp,” you explain with another loud wince. You double over, trying to put on your best performance. “I’m too pregnant and tired to move. So it shouldn’t be a problem to go to the kitchen real quick and come back?”

J-ROD is quiet, trying to process the request you are giving him. His processor runs through each command, making sure it doesn’t go against what the Doctor programmed him to do. 

“The Doctor has requested that I stay by your side at all times.” 

You roll your eyes. “He also said to do everything in your power to help me. I cannot walk back to the kitchen, but I really, really need that ice pack. Please? It would help me so, so much.”

Puppy-dog eyes wouldn’t work on a robot, but you tried to put on your most convincing pained expression on your face. J-ROD is still hesitant. 

“Please?”

A beat of silence before J-ROD’s creaky head nods. “As you wish.”

You contain your victorious cheer until J-ROD is out of ear shot. The kitchen is far enough that it would take a minimum of three minutes for him to fetch the ice before turning back to you. In order for your plan to work, you would need to act fast. 

You close your eyes, concentrating on one room that you would have complete and utter silence. A room that the Ponds had curated with everything you could need during your pregnancy. A clean room with ambient lighting, a large pillow on the bed to support your belly, and a mini fridge next to the bed. The bed was softer than clouds and the blankets were fluffier than a sheep’s wool. 

A small breeze hits your face. When you open your eyes, the soft yellow door to your private bedroom appears in front of you. 

Your smile lights up your entire face. “You’re the best time-spacecraft anyone could ask for.”

The TARDIS clicks open the door in appreciation. 

“Oh! Could you keep me as far away from the robot as possible?” You pause for a moment before adding, “And the Doctor as well?”

The lights in the room flicker twice. A resounding yes. 

— — —

“Gone? What do you mean she’s gone?”

“I went to get ice for her leg, but when I returned, she was no longer there.”

The hologram of the Doctor flickers as he runs through his hair in frustration. He had just saved a ship filled with thousands of people from getting spaghettified by a blackhole and not one moment later he gets news that his wife is “missing”. The Doctor doesn’t jump to conclusions just yet. He knows how much you hated J-ROD following you around. He really does take your criticism to his hearts—truly, he does—but he’s been so busy lately. Your pregnancy sparked a tsunami of anxiety he’s never felt before. He distracts himself with other things to keep his mind off of the fact that he’s going to be a father, again. 

He knows you’ve been a bit…antsy these past few days. Your fuse has been rather short and he tries his absolute hardest to appease your every whim. 

Okay maybe not every whim. He was firm in his stance with keeping J-ROD at your side at all times when he’s not there. Not even a strenuous night in bed would budge him (it took every ounce of willpower to stay firm in his decision). 

But the Doctor foolishly underestimated his own wife’s cunning. If you had your mind set on something, there was no law of physics that could keep you from accomplishing your goals. You weren’t really gone, just hiding from the robot.

Once he’s back in the TARDIS, you would come out and have a nice long chat about safety. 

“I’ll be there in a few minutes. Have you checked our bedroom? Bathroom? Closets? She has a track record of burrowing under the clothes like a cat.” 

“I’ve checked fifty separate bedrooms and bathrooms, the nursery, and the library.”

A frustrated sigh left his lips. 

The main lobby of the ship is lively with various beings, celebrating their survival. The Doctor, however, tucked away in his own corner of the room, overthinking himself to paranoia. You were fine, you had to be. You’re his beautiful, tough, resilient wife. There’s no way you can get lost in the TARDIS. 

But you were pregnant and out of sight from your automated caregiver. 

The Doctor is blunt with his good-byes, shouting at people to “get a move on!”. He pushes through the crowds of people bunched up in narrow hallways. The large cruise spaceship is bustling with vigor at the Doctor’s success. People rush to meet him, to give their thanks, but the Doctor has one thought on his mind. 

He practically sprints towards the TARDIS which he parked near the kitchen. Chefs and waiters jump out of his way, their food trays nearly spilling over the floor. 

“Sorry! Wife emergency!” he calls as he jumps over a trolley of food. 

The staff exchanges concerned glances as the Doctor forcefully slams into the pantry. The TARDIS slots perfectly inside, imposing and glorious in the low light. Some lingering staff peer into the pantry in curiosity. 

“Are you going to leave before the big feast?” one of the waiters asks. His large, bug-like eyes take in the blue space-timecraft.

The Doctor fumbles with this key and manages to get it into the lock. “I’ve got something much more important to worry about, but I’ll come back for dessert!” He slips in the TARDIS and slams the door shut. A half second later he swings the door open again. “Keep a baked alaska for me, would you? Love a fire on a dessert. Well my wife does. Remind me to come back for it.”

With a final slam of the door and click of a lock, the staff slowly inch away from the mysterious blue box. They didn’t get a chance to tell him that they have no idea what the Doctor meant by a “baked alaska”. 

A chef with a fish-like head leans over to his co-worker. “How are we gonna tell him the food’s ready though?”

“I don’t get paid enough to know,” the co-worker replies.

— — —

You nearly forgot how quiet the TARDIS can be without J-ROD or the Ponds constantly nagging you 24/7. 

After a lengthy shower you slipped into the comfiest pajamas. The temperature of the room was set, the lighting was subdued, and the comforter felt like pure nirvana. The pregnancy pillow that Amy bought fit snugly against your tired body. Your head was buzzing with dopamine, excited for a perfect sleep. 

No J-ROD to come to annoy you. Just peace and quiet. 

You get comfortable in the bed, hugging tightly to your pillow and closing your eyes. But there’s one thing missing from your perfect sleep. 

Your husband. 

He’s been gone an awful lot lately. It worries you how much time he spends doing quests across the universe and leaves little time to be with you. Of course you knew that saving people’s lives comes before everything else, but it still stings. The beginning of your pregnancy was wonderfully domestic. The Doctor was extremely caring, doting on you with so much love and attention that you were overconfident that your pregnancy would be the easiest in the universe. 

You noticed his demeanor changed when your bump started to show. His love for you never dulled if your sex life was anything to go by. He wasn’t angry or upset or disgusted by you. It was the fear that changed. The closer you approached your due date, the more protective he became. He’s lost so many. You know bits and pieces of his previous lives and the families he’s accumulated over his very long life. You were not his first wife, his first love, and your child was not his first daughter. 

You are his one true love. He whispers that title into your skin when he makes love with you. The Doctor said it when he first asked you to be his. The Doctor declares it loudly at your wedding. You feel it in the way he stares at you like you are the reason he even breathes at all. 

His tears dripped onto your first sonogram as he laughed with all the joy a father could have. His hands are warm against the growing bump in your belly. He doesn’t regret marrying you or having a child with you. At least, you hoped he didn't.

Behind that joy, you can see the what ifs intrusively pop into his mind. It’s scary to confront the idea that you are only human and that means you are always going to be vulnerable. He’s lost too many, all because they are near him. What does that mean for the closest person in his orbit?

Maybe you were too harsh to the clunky robot. But you wished that the Doctor himself would come to nag you instead of having a stupid robot to do it for him. Is that too much to ask for? To have your husband by your side every night, whispering to you in Gallifreyan to lull you to sleep?

You’re too tired to cry, but your heart feels heavy in your chest. You just wished that the Doctor would stop worrying and enjoy this pregnancy with you. 

It doesn’t take long for your eyelids to droop and the thoughts in your mind to fade. The TARDIS dimmed the lights the moment your heart rate slowed to a steady rhythm. 

— — —

The first thirty minutes of searching didn’t go according to plan.

Checking the cameras for your last known location and wrangling the TARDIS to reveal your room should’ve been the easiest task the Doctor had to perform. Just a couple of clicks, no big deal. 

What the Doctor didn’t anticipate was for the TARDIS to completely override his commands and show him a blank wall of text instead of the camera feeds.

SHE IS SLEEPING.

The Doctor could not believe his eyes. Does the TARDIS sometimes take him to wrong places or stubbornly not work? Yes, but never had she outright communicated that she’s actively defying him. 

“Well could you at least be so courteous and tell me where my beautiful wife is resting in?” the Doctor asks hopefully. “I would really, really appreciate it if you could ease my worry. C’mon Sexy, just for me?”

The text deletes itself before a new phrase appears. 

SHE WILL COME OUT WHEN NOT SLEEPING.

It’s times like these where the Doctor is aware that the TARDIS favors you over him. And she doesn’t make it subtle either. 

No matter, the Doctor is a master at figuring out a solution. It’s his bread and butter. Or fishsticks and custard. 

An hour passes and no sign of you. 

Does he panic? His two hearts are pounding and his clothes feel a lot damper than earlier. But that’s because he’s running around hallways, devising a plan to override the TARDIS’s control over the cameras. He never panics. Never. 

Hour three in for your search, the Doctor managed to land the TARDIS on top of Brian William’s lavender bush. He stumbles out into the yard with a jumble of wires in his fist and suspenders loose on his shoulders.

“Rory! Amy!” the Doctor calls as he barges into the house. 

He walks past a startled Rory, wearing a robe and a cuppa in his hand. The tea sloshes dangerously outside the rim of the cup with how fast the Doctor breezed by him. 

“Doctor? What are you doing here?”

Rory’s words reached deaf ears. The Doctor pulls the cushion seat from the couch, inspecting the inside and tossing the cushion over his shoulder. He walks to the mudroom to open the coat closet, splitting the racks of outerwear apart. “Amelia Pond! Where are you and your husband?”

“Doctor—”

“Not now Rory, I'm busy!” the Doctor interrupts while running up the stairs. 

“Doctor, I'm right here!” Rory calls. “Doctor!”

The Doctor rushes back downstairs and finally looks at Rory. The smile on his face is infectious. “Well why didn’t you say it before?” He walks down and gives Rory a big hug. It’s a miracle that the tea in Rory’s hand is not all over the floor. “Where's the missus? I have a very, very important mission.”

“Important enough to break into my dad’s house and squash his garden?”

The Doctor’s face turns serious. ”End of the world, galaxies imploding, world ending mission.”

Rory wiggles himself out of the Doctor’s surprisingly strong grip. He’s spent enough time around the Doctor to know when his sense of urgency and the dread in his voice are just hyperbole. “You said the same thing twice.”

“It means it’s twice as important to say.” The Doctor opens the cabinets and takes a porcelain mug into his arms. “(Y/N) is missing.”

That makes Rory’s thoughts screech to a halt. “W-What? Missing? As in ‘kidnapped’ missing?” 

The Doctor’s face looks grave, believable enough to have Rory’s stomach drop to the pits of Hell. “Missing as in the TARDIS won’t tell me which room she’s sleeping in.”

All at once Rory’s sympathies fly out of the open yard door. 

“When you said that galaxies might implode, I thought that there’s a Death Star the size of Andromeda that’s pointed at us. Not that (Y/N) got sick of you and quarantined herself.” Rory drops down on the kitchen table, finally getting a sip of his perfect tea. 

“First of all, she’s not sick of me,” the Doctor grumbles.

The Doctor yanks a follicle of Rory’s hair, to which the man jumped in pain. “Ow! What the hell was that for?”

“I’m the Doctor, she can never get sick. What a preposterous notion. I thought you got through medical school.” The Doctor grabs a slab of machinery from his pocket and puts the piece of hair into it. “And secondly, it is world-ending and galaxy-imploding because without her by my side, my entire universe is at stake! How am I going to be in tip-top shape to save galaxies if she’s not next to me? Think, Rory!”

Rory rolls his eyes, not wanting to give the Doctor more attention and potentially fuel his delusions. It’s nice to know that all these years, the Doctor is still in love and protective over you. However it gets to a point where the Doctor’s eccentric personality can get a bit…much. 

“Oh! Doctor is that you?” Amy asks, walking through the kitchen with her father-in-law in tow. 

Brian’s face lights up at the Doctor. “Ah, my favorite man!”

The Doctor jumps up from his chair with his hands held high. “More people for the cause!”

“I thought I was your favorite man?” Rory questions his father. 

“You’re my favorite son,” Brian corrects with a wink. 

The Doctor rounds the table and gives Amy and Brian each a rib squeezing hug. Amy returns with equal enthusiasm and a peck on a cheek. Brian pats the Doctor’s back with a smile before looking out to where the TARDIS is parked. 

Instantly Brian’s mood sours. “My lavenders! Oh, my poor sweet things.” 

“Lavenders? Really?” the Doctor asks, tossing his gadget at the table. “My wife is missing and all you can think about is squashed…purple…foliage? I think some hydrangeas will be far more fitting for your landscape. Squashing those? Now that would be a tragedy.”

“Wait, (Y/N) is missing?” Amy asks with a mouth full of a muffin. 

“Don’t,” Rory warns. “He’s being dramatic again. The TARDIS is just hiding her away from her mad husband.”

“Don’t listen to him Amy!” The Doctor zips through the kitchen, rummaging through every cabinet and drawer he can get his hands on. “This is a matter of life or death. Well, equivalent to death since it would be very hard to kill me. But it doesn’t mean the pain won’t hurt!”

Brian, Rory, and Amy watch as the Doctor takes miscellaneous parts from their kitchen and connects them to his lump of metal and circuits. Scraps of plastic jut out from the side, a few red and blue wires are exposed, and a shoelace from one of Rory’s shoes is dangling out of it. Rory thought better than to try to retrieve it; silently saying goodbye to his favorite blue shoelace with gold aglets. 

I’ll bully (Y/N) into buying me a new one, Rory vows. 

Amy flicks one of the exposed wires. “What exactly is this supposed to do?”

“Something to override a very smart and very stubborn machine,” the Doctor says, as if it was obvious. “Whenever I try to access my security feeds, the TARDIS scans my DNA and knows that I’m trying to locate (Y/N). The cameras are only accessed by me through the same recognition software. By taking a specimen from Rory, I would trick the recognition software and the TARDIS into revealing (Y/N)! Perfect. Spectacular. Genius, if you will.”

The Doctor presents his gadget with a smug grin and his head held high, like a primary school student showing off their baking soda volcano for their science fair. 

Amy takes one look at the misshapen heap of junk and asks: “Couldn’t you have just asked me or Rory to ask the TARDIS to reveal her location? We won’t need the cameras if we can ask the TARDIS directly.”

The smile on the Doctor’s face is wiped clean off. He mulls over Amy’s question in his head, not wanting to give her the satisfaction that—technically, hypothetically speaking—it could work. But his few seconds of silence and the look on his face told Amy all she needed to know. 

“My way is guaranteed not to fail,” the Doctor insists, snatching his gadget and going towards the TARDIS. 

Amy and Rory share a crisp high-five for her victory. 

— — —

You slept like a content rock for hours. Barely shifting in the bed with how exhausted you were. You would’ve kept drooling on your pillow if it wasn’t for the fact that the TARDIS decided to turn on the lights unexpectedly. 

“Fuck!” you groan, rubbing your eyes. It’s a little difficult to pull your body upright, but after a few tries (and grabbing onto the headboard), you hauled yourself up. “Please tell me you had a good reason to interrupt my sleep.”

Then you hear it.

The yelling. Things moving around. Shoes clacking loudly against the floors. The unmistakable voice of your husband barking orders and Amy’s shrill words directed back at him. 

The door to the room swings open with a disheveled Doctor entering in. His brown hair is flying every which way around his head. His cherry-red bowtie is askew, likely from fidgeting with it from worry. His face is flushed at the cheeks and tips of his ears—a telltale sign that he’s been running. 

When he sees your woken up and disheveled appearance, you see his face light up like a Christmas tree. 

“(Y/N)!” The way he calls your name like he’s coming home from war makes your heart pound in your chest. He gently presses you against him, burying his face into the crook of your neck. “I miss your skin. Have I ever mentioned your hormones make your skin feel amazing, I mean—”

“Doctor,” Amy warns, pointing a finger at him. The last thing she needs to see (or hear) is the two of you getting too lovey-dovey in front of her. 

“I’m here, I’m here, love.” You return his sudden affection, kissing the side of his neck and sighing. “What’s gotten into you?”

Amy and Rory drag themselves into the room looking like they’re one step away from passing out. Amy leans against the doorway, smiling at the two of you and Rory looks relieved for the shouting to be over. 

“Oh, you have no idea,” Amy groans. “Over six hours of scrambling around the TARDIS and having the Doctor yell at us.” 

“‘End of the world’ my ass,” Rory whispers under his breath. 

“Language!” the Doctor says, pulling himself away from you. “It’s true. The world was ending—or rather my world is ending. Which still counts since my world and the world overlap, but that’s neither here nor there. Point is…”

The Doctor hesitates. Yes, he knows he was being extremely dramatic and unnecessarily fretting over you, but he can’t help but care so deeply for you. 

Amy nudged Rory, nodding towards the door. “We’ll take this as our queue to leave.”

“And to rest,” Rory says as he stretches. 

Amy tugs her husband by the collar, giving you a small wink as she leaves. 

The Doctor looked like a sad, kicked puppy. His hair is still wild and his posture is hunched as if he’s carrying a heavy burden. His hand cups the swell of your belly, his thumb affectionately along the rounded surface. Your fingers glide through his hair, your nails lightly scratching his scalp as you tame his erratic follicles. 

When was the last time you got to touch him like you had all the time in the world? He’s always been a ball of energy, going every which way across the universe. You could never keep up with his movements, with pregnancy only slowing you down. Time spent together felt intense, irritating, or simply too emotional. 

You clear your throat, pulling his attention towards you. “I was really upset earlier. I mean really upset. I didn’t like how you would worry so much that I was starting to think that you were having second thoughts.”

“About?” 

“Fatherhood.” You feel the sting of tears in your eyes, but your resolve to get this off your chest won over. “You installed more cameras, you made the Ponds take turns to watch me, you built a clunky robot to annoy me everywhere…you were out there trying to save people but I felt so lonely here. I can’t enjoy my pregnancy if you’re not here with me.”

All at once, the Doctor wanted to grovel on his knees and beg for your forgiveness. You were right, his overprotectiveness was going too far. He knew on some level that he shouldn’t tell his pregnant wife what was good for her. He may be the Doctor, but he cannot control your feelings. 

The hand that was cupped around your belly moves up to your cheek. The Doctor looked at you like you were the most cherished thing in the entire universe. Full of warmth and love that showed he truly meant to have your best interest at heart. 

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” he admits quietly. Rarely does he ever say outright that he’s wrong, but he will push aside his stubbornness for those he loves. “You’d think that after nearly a millennium of time you are prepared for anything. I used to be a father once, long ago, so this shouldn’t scare me. But it did—still does if I’m honest. But there’s one thing I will never, ever regret.”

“Which is?” you hum. 

“Two things actually,” he corrects. “One was asking you to spend the rest of your life with me—”

You snort. “More like begging me to marry you.”

“As I was saying—” The Doctor pokes your side, causing you to squirm and laugh in his ear. “—the second was building this family with you. I was protective of you and our baby girl because you two are the most important things in this universe. Above jammy dodgers and those little rubber ducks that come in all those fun colors.”

“Those two things cannot be your second choices of ‘important things in the universe’.”

The Doctor shifts closer to you, bumping his long nose against yours. “If it were up to me, you would take all the slots in that ranking.”

You lean closer until your lips tickle over his. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

When he finally closes the small gap between you, the last thing on your mind was another nap. 

— — —

The TV in the entertainment room of the TARDIS glowed brightly in the dim room. Amy is tucked under Rory’s arm, stealing handfuls of buttery popcorn as they watch another superhero movie. Amy’s choice, of course, since she was the one who was able to override the TARDIS’s control over the cameras. Rory wasn’t too picky with films as long as there was good enough dialogue. 

“You can put down the umbrella,” the magician says through the screen.

The blonde hero, and lead character of the movie, wearily sets down said umbrella. A wind blasts his face before he is teleported to a different part of the magician’s home. 

Rory points to the magician, who is doing a location spell. “He could’ve saved us six hours of our lives and found (Y/N).”

“Just be glad the TARDIS didn’t spit us back out in space.” Amy sets the empty popcorn bucket down, never taking her eyes off of the screen. 

“I’ve been falling…for thirty minutes!” the deuteragonist yells in anger. 

Rory shrugs. “He deserved it.”

“Totally.”

Just as the main villain of the movie was getting revealed, the door to the entertainment room swung open. Bright light from the hallways spilled into the room, causing Rory and Amy to shield themselves like vampires getting scorched by sunlight.  

“What is it this time?” Amy growls, ready to throw a dense pillow to whoever interrupted her movie. She had to smuggle it from the future for crying out loud!

The Doctor pants from the doorframe. His appearance was more ruffled than they had last seen him, with the first few buttons of his shirt popped and his belt hanging loose on his hips. A few rosy bite marks are visible along his jaw and Amy fights the juvenile urge to gag loudly. 

“Can’t you put some clothes on?” Rory asks, turning away from the Doctor. 

Usually, the Doctor would respond with a snarky quip about how he already has clothes on, but no such quip leaves his lips. 

It takes a second for the Doctor to move his mouth to communicate his shock. When it does, it nearly leaves the Ponds speechless. 

“Her water broke.”

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[luxerians]

The Last Mask (15)

Hwang In-ho/Oh Young-il/Player 001 x Reader

Chapter 15 - Behind You

Story Masterlist

NEXT : Chapter 16

PREV : Chapter 14

Well, you’re fucked.

You thought you would be safe by disguising as a square guard in this place. But no. The Captain, after declaring that your stunt here was a hide-and-seek game, announced in his deep, commanding voice:

“All guards are to leave immediately, except for the managers. Managers, you will remain in the control room until you are summoned. Each manager will meet me in a private room. This will continue until I have identified each of you personally.”

The words rang out like a death sentence. Your heart sank. Every square guard in the control room, including you, was now locked into a situation you couldn’t easily escape. The Captain’s declaration left no room for argument or hesitation. He knew you were hiding among them, and now, he was closing in, determined to find you.

As the triangle and circle guards filtered out of the control room in near-perfect unison, you remained rooted to your spot, your anxiety bubbling to a near-breaking point. The managers around you stood silently. You tried to mirror their demeanor, even as your pulse pounded in your ears. The Captain’s gaze swept over all of you before he strode out.

The masked officer stayed behind, stepping forward to address the remaining managers. “Everyone, line up. Form four lines in the center.”

All of you lined up. The process began – without any instructions, to your horror – starting from the first line from the left. Everyone moved efficiently like robots. It's like everyone here had been groomed to be like this.

Soon enough, you learned how this worked. Each square guard would meet the Captain personally, one by one. Once the guard finished, they would return to the control room to guide the next in line to the Captain’s room. This cycle continued, with the latest guard becoming the guide for the next.

The summoning progressed one by one in the line first, each guard vanishing into the hallway with their guide. You stood near the back of the third line, giving you time to wait and prepare, though the wait itself was nerve-wracking.

Minutes ticked by, each one slower than the last. Finally, it was your line – the third queue’s turn – to be called. One by one, the guards in your line were summoned. Each time, the manager at the front of the line would straighten their posture, nod briskly, and step forward to follow the guide. Then, they would vanish into the hallway, leaving the line one person shorter.

Your heart thudded louder with every departure. The sound of footsteps echoed faintly each time the door opened and closed, the control room’s stillness amplifying everything. You kept your head down but your mind was elsewhere. Your thoughts raced, trying to rehearse how you would act, what you would say, how you would surrender to the Captain when your turn came.

Because let’s face it. Once you are summoned to see the Captain personally, you would have no choice but to unmask and reveal yourself to him once he commands you to. You can’t run.

The manager in front of you stepped forward, their number called. They followed the guide out into the hallway. Your stomach began to twist uncomfortably. You’re next.

After a few minutes, the square guard from before returned and stood beside you.

“This way,” they said, their tone monotone and detached.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, you straightened up and quietly followed them out of the control room under the watchful eye of the Captain’s second-in-command.

Your steps echoed against the walls of the labyrinthine hallways. The path twisted and turned, each corner feeling more ominous than the last. The guide didn’t speak, and you didn’t dare break the silence.

Soon enough, the square guard who led you stopped in front of a door and pushed it open. They held it ajar, gesturing for you to step inside. Your heart pounded in your chest as you forced yourself to move forward. As you entered, you realized the room was a storage area. Dust clung to the shelves, and the faint smell of mildew lingered in the air. It looked like the room hadn’t been used in a while.

But what caught your attention wasn’t just the state of the room. It was the figure standing inside. A triangle guard. The Captain was nowhere to be seen.

You stiffened in confusion and alarm, your muscles tensing as you prepared for the worst. Before you could act, the triangle guard, in his distorted voice, called your name. “It’s okay. It’s us.”

The triangle guard reached up and removed their mask, revealing a face partially obscured by a headsock with a wide hole that exposed their eyes. But you didn’t need to see their whole face to recognize them. The moment your gaze locked with theirs, you knew.

“Gyeong-seok?” you whispered, barely able to believe it.

He gave you a small, tired smile and tugged the headsock down to his neck, fully revealing his face. Sweat clung to his skin, making his hair stick to his forehead and cheeks. His neck glistened, evidence of the heat trapped in the pink guard’s jumpsuit.

Behind you, the square guard who had led you to the room closed the door and began removing their own mask. As the mask came off, you saw a woman beneath it, also wearing a headsock. She pulled the fabric down to her neck, revealing her full face.

For a moment, you were stunned. She was beautiful, with V-shaped jawline and pretty features that caught you off guard. She looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties, her face flushed and her neck damp with sweat. Strands of her hair clung to her skin, making her look as exhausted as she was captivating. There was a small line of dried cut on her left cheek. It seemed fresh. Nevertheless, you found yourself staring longer than you intended, but Gyeong-seok’s voice broke through your thoughts.

“She’s the one who saved us,” he said, nodding toward the woman. “She took down two square guards before your turn to get you out of there.”

Your eyes widened in shock as you turned to her. “Two guards?”

The unnamed woman’s voice was soft yet strong, no longer distorted by the mask. “I took down the first one to see where you were in those lines. Then I intercepted the guard before you after they finished their meeting with the Captain.”

Her words hung in the air, and you took a moment to process what she had done. The risk she had taken was staggering, and the fact that she had succeeded left you both grateful and in awe.

“Wait here,” she told you. “I’ll guide the guard after you in line so nothing seems amiss.”

You nodded, looking at her appreciatively. She pulled the square mask back over her face, adjusting it carefully before tugging her jumpsuit and hood into place. With her appearance restored, she slipped out the door.

The room fell silent after she left, the faint hum of machinery somewhere in the facility the only sound. You exchanged a look with Gyeong-seok, who leaned back against the dusty shelf, his expression a mixture of relief and worry.

“She’s gutsy,” Gyeong-seok muttered. “I’m not sure how she managed all that.”

“Neither do I,” you admitted as you leaned against the wall. “I wonder how long she has worked here.”

Minutes ticked by, each one stretching longer than the last. You couldn’t shake the unease lingering in the back of your mind, but knowing that the woman was taking steps to protect your cover gave you a small sense of security. Finally, after what felt like forever, the door creaked open again.

She stepped inside, closing the door softly behind her. Her movements were quick but deliberate as she removed her mask, revealing her flushed face once more. With a slight nod, she walked over to you and handed the square mask.

“It’s done,” she said, her voice low but steady. “Guards who had passed their meeting with the Captain are dismissed.”

“Thank you,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

The lady resumed, “We’ll need to lay low for now. The guards are on high alert and the Captain is watching everything because of your disappearance.”

She glanced at you pointedly. Though her face showed no emotion, you could sense their confusion about the Captain's peculiar behavior toward you. To be fair, you were just as baffled.

You voiced your confusion, though your thoughts were focused on a different matter. “Is it just me, or does he already know that I’m disguised as one of the guards?”

She didn’t hesitate. “He does. There’s no need for him to command every manager to see him personally one by one.”

“Manager?” Gyeong-seok repeated questioningly.

The lady nodded, clarifying further. “The square guards are called managers. The triangle guards are soldiers. The circles are workers. From the lowest to the highest rank, it’s workers, soldiers, and managers. The man in black and pink is referred to as the officer. And the one we call the Captain is officially known as the Front Man.”

You fell silent, letting the explanation sink in. The hierarchy and structure of this place were clearer now, but it was still too much for you. The unknown lady added, “The Captain must have figured out that you disguised yourself as a manager because the one who was supposed to guard you was found with his mask removed.”

The memory surfaced immediately. This same lady had been the one to remove the original manager’s mask and hand it to you, enabling your disguise.

Gyeong-seok broke the silence. “So what do we do now?”

“We lay low,” the lady said firmly. “Try to adapt as much as you can.”

She turned to Gyeong-seok and said, “I gave you a soldier’s mask for number 014. Our rooms are close to each other, and our tasks are almost identical. Just follow my lead, and you’ll blend in.”

Gyeong-seok nodded. She then turned to you. “You will keep disguising yourself as a manager. Here.”

She handed the square mask she had just removed from her face. “Wear this. Number 007. That’s your number.”

You took it and blinked your eyes at them innocently. “What happened to that guard?”

She stared at you quietly, giving you no response, until she finally answered, “They wouldn’t bother anyone. I hid their body somewhere no one knew.”

You and Gyeong-seok exchanged glances before the latter asked her, “Is that okay? How long have you worked as a pink guard?”

“More than five years,” she answered monotonously.

You and Gyeong-seok exchanged a look of wonderment. No wonder she knows so much about this place and so much more.

She then spoke to you, “In your role, you have authority over the soldiers and workers. The other managers won’t pay much attention to you because managers are expected to know their responsibilities. But be cautious. If you act suspiciously, they will confront you.”

“Why couldn’t she become a soldier too?” Gyeong-seok asked, his tone curious but innocent.

She cast her gaze down. “I considered it, but we need someone in a higher position to protect us if another manager starts questioning us. A manager’s authority will give us more leeway to maneuver without raising alarms.”

Both you and Gyeong-seok nodded understandingly before the latter shifted, adjusting his stance, as he inquired, “How long do we have to do this?”

The lady was quiet for a moment before replying, “Until the game finishes. Once this game ends, we will be sent back outside and you can pretend that nothing happened.”

“We can leave earlier if the players vote for X in the majority, right?” you asked, the thought suddenly striking you.

“Yes, that’s one way to end the game.”

“But because of the lights out and the revolt, the Os will have the majority in the next vote,” Gyeong-seok pointed out.

The lady replied, “Yes. It’s inevitable at this point.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of the situation pressing on all of you. Finally, the lady broke the silence. “We should wrap this up. It’s too risky to stay together for too long. Disperse and stick to the plan.”

But before they could turn away, you spoke up. “Wait. What’s your name? Or your number? And is there a way to tell you apart? It’s hard to identify you among the other pink guards.”

The lady hesitated. She was quiet for a moment as if weighing whether to answer. Finally, she said, “Call me 011.”

You nodded, committing her number to memory. The secrecy surrounding her name didn’t bother you. It made sense. She had been working here as a triangle guard for years, shooting eliminated players and probably so much more. Privacy was likely something she clung to.

Although she was someone who should answer for her ‘duties,’ someone who should be handed over to the police, you still felt a surprising sense of protectiveness toward her.

After all, she had saved you and Gyeong-seok. She had risked herself to help complete strangers. Seeing how the Captain worked, if he found out about 011, he would shoot her for disloyalty. She literally risked her life for you and Gyeong-seok.

“Okay. But we need a way to recognize each other quickly. Something that stands out,” you urged.

Gyeong-seok chimed in. “Yeah, there must be a way to differentiate each other from other guards.”

011 considered this for a moment before nodding. “You’re right. We’ll need something subtle but distinct so the others won’t notice.”

“What about a tear in the fabric?” you suggested. “Small, like at the sleeves or something.”

“Or the shoes,” Gyeong-seok added. “We could scratch or mark the shoes. It’s not obvious, but we’ll know to look for it.”

011 nodded thoughtfully. “Both ideas could work. A small tear on the sleeves and back of the jumpsuit and a mark on the shoes. It’ll be subtle but clear enough for us to recognize.”

The three of you worked together to create the subtle wear-and-tear marks on each other’s top. 011 carefully added a small tear to the sleeves and back of your top and did the same thing to Gyeong-seok. The latter returned the favor to 011, creating a similar mark at her sleeves and back of their jacket. For the shoes, each of you crouched down and made small, deliberate scratches or marks on your own footwear.

As the three of you finished, 011 looked up. “We have to go. Soon enough, workers will begin to restore the CCTVs in the dormitory.”

You and Gyeong-seok nodded.

***

You were walking through the labyrinth of colorful stairs, trying to familiarize yourself with the facility’s map and layout. Disguising yourself as a manager meant you needed to know the space like the back of your hand. Understanding the routes, the shortcuts, and the layout of each level felt crucial to maintaining your cover.

True to 011’s word, the workers and soldiers didn’t bother you at all. They didn’t approach or speak to you, their respect for your supposed role evident in their behavior. When the path became too narrow, they even stepped aside to let you pass first. The managers were different; they simply glanced at you before continuing with their tasks. As long as you didn’t act suspiciously, it seemed none of the guards cared to pay you much attention.

You began to relax slightly, finding some reassurance in the lack of scrutiny. That was until your radio crackled to life. The sudden noise made your steps falter for a moment as an announcement rang out.

“Attention. Managers whose numbers are mentioned next, head to the control room immediately.”

The voice began listing off a series of numbers. You walked forward slowly as you listened closely. Then it came.

“Manager 007.”

You froze mid-step. Anxiety shot up like a rocket, making your pulse thunder in your ears. You were being summoned to the control room. After listing a few more numbers, the radio fell silent again, leaving you standing there.

What could they want? Why were you being called? Questions swirled in your mind as you tried to suppress the rising panic. Forcing your feet to move, you adjusted your posture and straightened your mask. There was no time to think. You had to go.

It took you more than seven minutes to reach the control room. You were proud of yourself for remembering the way, even though you got lost for a moment along the winding corridors. But as soon as you stepped inside, the anxiety that had temporarily eased flared up again.

You joined eight other managers in the center of the control room. The nine of you stood together on the floor where pictures of surviving players lit up.

You couldn’t look at the screen beneath you clearly because standing before you was the masked officer. You didn’t want to do anything that might raise alarm or suspicion. Meanwhile, the Front Man was nowhere to be seen.

The masked officer spoke. “Due to the revolt, half of managers that were supposed to operate these monitors were killed. To maintain operational efficiency, some of you will need to alternate tasks. This will involve manning monitors in the control room, supervising the next game, and guarding the Captain. The nine of you will be the first emergency batch to take on these alternating roles.”

He paused, letting his words sink in before continuing. “Those who volunteer to operate monitors now will later switch with others when the next game begins, and guard the Captain during the evening. If you wish to volunteer for the first shift, speak up now.”

There was a beat of silence before one of the managers stepped forward. “019. I volunteer to operate the monitors.”

Another manager followed. “009. I will operate the monitors.”

You stayed quiet. You weren’t sure if volunteering would draw more attention to you, so you let the decision rest with the officer. But as you stood there, mulling over the situation, it struck you.

If you volunteer to operate the monitors now, you could keep an eye on your friends during the next game while you are supervising.

Summoning your resolve, you stepped forward and mirrored the others’ phrasing. “007. I volunteer to operate the monitors first.”

The masked officer nodded. “Understood. You three may begin immediately. The other three managers will replace you in monitor operation when the next game begins. The remaining three will begin manning the monitors this evening.”

The conversation ended there, the masked officer dismissing everyone to their new tasks. Moments later, you found yourself seated at a monitor in the second row from the center. The control room was eerily quiet, the only sounds being the soft clicks and taps from other managers working at their stations. You turned your attention to the monitor in front of you, studying the screen and trying to make sense of your assigned task.

Your monitor displayed four live CCTV feeds, each showing hallways leading to the men’s and women’s restrooms for the players. For now, the feeds were empty, the halls devoid of activity.

At the bottom of the screen, you noticed a small arrow pointing to the right. Clicking it, you realized it brought up another page with four more live feeds. This set displayed the labyrinth of colorful staircases, the vibrant pink walls and intersecting paths looking almost surreal through the grainy CCTV footage.

The soft hum of the control room was disrupted by the sound of the elevator sliding open in the back. Instinctively, you glanced over your shoulder. The elevator was glowing with golden light, a sharp contrast to the muted tones of the control room. It was clear this elevator wasn’t for general use. It carried an air of exclusivity, a touch of grandeur that felt out of place in the stark facility. Then, he stepped out.

The Front Man emerged, his presence immediately commanding the room. He strode forward, his black mask catching the dim light of the massive screens on the walls. His imposing figure radiated power and authority. His second-in-command stepped aside, letting the boss walk past him.

The Front Man came to a stop in the center of the room, his gaze fixed on several dark monitors that should have been displaying the dormitory’s live feeds. Managers, including yourself, kept their heads low. You pretended to focus on the screen of your monitor, but you could feel the tension thick in the air.

“The workers are almost finished replacing the CCTVs in the dormitory,” said the masked officer, stepping forward slightly. “23 players have died due to the lights out and the revolt. The remaining players are now a total of 72.”

The Front Man remained still for a moment, processing the information. Then he spoke, his voice deep and commanding. “We will wait until all CCTVs are operational. Ensure it is completed immediately.”

The masked officer lowered his head in acknowledgment. Then, he raised his radio and began issuing orders. The static crackle of the radio was faint, but you could make out fragments of his commands. He was coordinating workers, urging them to move quickly.

Meanwhile, the Front Man continued to stand at the center of the room. His gaze never left the dark monitors. You felt the weight of his authority pressing down on the room like an invisible force. Though he hadn’t said much, his presence was enough to make everyone hyper-aware of their every move.

The Front Man suddenly turned and began walking toward the first row of monitors closest to the center of the room. Multiple managers were stationed there, each one glued to their tasks, pretending not to notice the imposing figure approaching them. He stopped behind one manager, standing silently as he gazed at the screen in front of them. His posture was unreadable as he was supervising or judging their work.

After a few long moments, he moved and stood behind the next manager, repeating the same process. Standing silently, observing, scrutinizing. The air grew heavier with each step he took. You could almost feel the tension radiating off the other managers as they focused on their screens, hoping to avoid his attention.

Your chest tightened as you watched his slow, deliberate movements. The realization struck you like a hammer.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Is he going to check everyone’s screen now, including mine?

You turned back to your monitor, forcing yourself to focus on the screen in front of you. The live feeds of empty hallways and colorful staircases stared back at you, but your eyes darted across the interface, desperate to find anything else to do. You clicked through the pages again and again, but no matter what you tried, the only thing available was the live feed.

Or maybe you simply didn’t know how to navigate the monitor. Your hands hovered over the keyboard, trembling slightly. Anxiety crept up your spine as you tried to keep your composure. What if he asks me something? What if he realizes I don’t belong here?

Behind you, you could hear the soft shuffling of footsteps as the Captain moved to the next monitor. Each step brought him closer, and with each step, your dread grew. You glanced at the managers near you, trying to gauge their reactions. They were calm, composed, their hands steady as they worked. Or maybe they were just better at hiding their fear than you were.

You clicked through the feeds again, your fingers moving mechanically. The colorful staircases flashed on the screen once more. You tried to focus on the feeds, pretending to study them, but your mind was racing. What am I looking at exactly? Is this all I have to do? What if he notices I’m just pretending?

The footsteps stopped. He was behind someone else now, just three spots away. You didn’t dare look, but you could feel the weight of his presence from across the room. The sound of your own breathing was deafening in your ears. Your fingers tapped lightly against the mouse, an involuntary rhythm born of nerves.

Another step. Now he was just two stations away.

You forced yourself to stare at the screen, willing your hands to stay steady. The live feed showed nothing unusual. It’s just static hallways and staircases. You tried to focus on the smallest details: the faint flicker of the fluorescent lights in one corner of the screen, the subtle shadows cast by the stair railings. Anything to keep your mind occupied.

Then, the footsteps started and then stopped again. You didn’t need to look to know he was behind the manager next to you. The air felt thicker, every second stretching endlessly as you waited. Your heart pounded in your chest, so loud you were sure he could hear it. You braced yourself for what was coming.

And then, finally, the footsteps resumed. He was right behind you now.

You froze, every muscle in your body tensing. The screen in front of you blurred as your focus shattered. You could feel his gaze boring into the back of your head, even though he hadn’t spoken a word. You forced yourself to move the mouse, scrolling through the feeds again as if you were searching for something specific.

Don’t look suspicious. Just act normal.

The silence was unbearable. You wanted to turn around, to see if he was watching your screen, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move. All you could do was wait and hope that he didn’t say anything.

To your terror, he was lingering behind you longer than he had with the others. You could feel his presence like a predator assessing its prey. Your pulse quickened as the silence stretched out. His proximity was suffocating. You couldn’t help but notice the subtle scent of leather and something sharp, almost metallic, clinging to him.

And then, something black and shiny appeared in your peripheral vision. His left gloved hand slid into view, inching closer to the monitor in front of you. Your breath hitched as his fingers hovered over the buttons, deliberate and slow, as if seeing your reaction. You froze, your entire body going rigid as you felt the warmth of his presence so close on your back.

With a quiet but decisive click, he pressed a specific button on the control panel. The screen flickered for a moment before changing. It now displayed a detailed interface – a task list for managing the movement of workers and supplies within the facility. Each section was labeled: “Dormitory Maintenance,” “Staircase Surveillance,” “Game Preparation,” and more. You stared at the screen, trying to make sense of the information, but the gravity of his presence made it impossible to focus.

The Front Man withdrew his hand, retreating backward, but you could still feel him there. His silence was deafening, his gaze like a physical weight pressing into your back. Your skin prickled with awareness, and your stomach twisted into knots. There was something unsettlingly intimate about his attention as if he could see straight through you.

Your fingers twitched as you forced yourself to move, to engage with the task on the monitor. But your hand trembled uncontrollably as you hovered over the buttons. You cursed yourself inwardly, willing your body to calm down, but the fear gripping you was relentless, leaving you exposed in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

The Front Man remained behind you, silent and still. You could feel the intensity of his gaze, the unspoken weight of whatever thoughts lingered behind that mask.

As you clicked through the tasks, your mind raced. Was he testing you? Waiting for you to slip up? Or was there something else in his silence, something about the way he lingered? Your skin burned under the weight of his gaze.

That’s when a massive screen on the wall lit up, showing a live feed from the corner of the players’ dormitory. The entire control room’s attention snapped to the glowing screen. The sound of the live recording echoed across the space. Moments later, more massive screens illuminated, each displaying different angles of the dormitory.

Your eyes widened as you absorbed the images in front of you, scanning each feed for any sign of your friends. You couldn’t help but feel a pang of relief as the footage revealed their familiar faces, though their expressions told a story of despair.

In the dormitory, multiple pink soldiers stood rigidly by the walls and in front of the main double doors. They were heavily armed. It was clear they weren’t taking any chances this time. These guards were prepared to crush any sign of rebellion without hesitation.

Among the players, your friends sat huddled on the floor between the bunkbeds. Jun-hee and Yong-sik’s mother clutched each other’s hands tightly, their faces flushed and tear-streaked, as if they had just finished crying their hearts out. Yong-sik sat beside his mother, his body tense, his eyes darting nervously toward the pink guards stationed across the room. Hyun-ju sat directly in front of them, completing their small circle. Her shoulders slumped, and her gaze was distant, the look of someone grappling with despair.

A few feet away, Gi-hun and Jung-bae sat side by side on the staircases. Gi-hun looked utterly defeated, his gaze locked onto the floor, a deep glower etched across his features. His body seemed heavy, weighed down by regret and hopelessness. Beside him, Jung-bae sat pale and wide-eyed, as if still processing the events of the revolt. His disbelief was almost palpable.

Behind them, leaning against the wall on one of the beds, was Dae-ho. He appeared physically fine now, but his demeanor was distant, detached. He stared blankly into space, his expression unreadable. Yet, you noticed the way his gaze occasionally flicked toward Gi-hun and the others. It was subtle, almost hesitant, as if he wanted to join them but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Guilt hung over him like a shadow, isolating him even further.

You frowned as you stared at the live feeds, noticing the growing distance among your group of friends. The weight of everything they had endured was starting to show. Cracks in their dynamic were now evident.

The sound of retreating footsteps caught your attention. You glanced to the side and saw the Front Man walking away from behind you. He moved until he reached the center of the room. Standing tall, he gazed at the monitors displaying the dormitory feeds.

The masked officer stepped closer, his voice cutting through the silence. “Captain, everything is ready for the next vote.”

The Front Man remained still, staring at the screens for a moment longer. Then, with a calm but firm tone, he announced, “Proceed.”

The masked officer bowed his head slightly before stepping back. Raising his radio, he began issuing orders. The sound of static crackled briefly before the commands went through. Moments later, the familiar blaring noise echoed through the dormitory – a sound that indicated something was about to happen.

On the live feeds, you watched as the dormitory’s double doors slid open. A single manager stepped forward, flanked by 16 pink soldiers standing in perfect formation. The room went quiet as the manager began to speak, “Due to the brawl in the men's bathroom, the lights out and your failed attempt of a revolt, 27 players have been eliminated.”

The manager paused as the sound of bills dropping into the piggy bank suspended near the ceiling echoed throughout the dormitory, drawing every player's attention to the accumulating prize.

“The remaining players are now a total of 73. Based on these eliminations, an additional 2.7 billion won has been added to the prize pool. The current total now stands at 38.3 billion won. If the remaining 73 players choose to vote to leave, each player will receive an equal share of the accumulated prize money of 524 million won per player.”

Most of the players – the O players – erupted into murmurs of amazement at the staggering numbers announced, their expressions lighting up with greed and excitement. They didn’t seem to care that this money represented the lives of the players who had died. It was as if the reality of those losses had been completely overshadowed by the sheer allure of wealth. In contrast, the X players exchanged uneasy glances.

The manager’s voice cut through the noise. “The next vote will begin immediately.”

Once everything was in place, the players shuffled to the back of the center, gathering as they waited for their turn. The atmosphere was heavy with anticipation. The voting counter stood ominously at the front.

“Player 006,” the manager called out.

A female player stepped forward. She approached the voting counter, and as you watched her walk, your mind wandered to someone who should have been called before her – Young-il, player 001.

His number had been skipped. The confirmation was undeniable: Young-il’s death was finalized. It was an unchangeable fact now etched into this twisted game. Your gaze fell to the floor, your heart heavy with grief. The memory of him flashed vividly in your mind. His quiet strength, his protective nature, the way he’d look at you with a mix of determination and warmth. He was gone, and you hadn’t even had the chance to mourn him properly.

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you blinked them away. This wasn’t the time or place. Still, the weight of his absence was suffocating, wrapping around your chest like a vice. You felt your eyes brim with tears and quickly looked up, hoping to dry them and reduce the risk of them spilling.

You thought of his voice, the way he’d call your name in that calm yet firm tone. You thought of the plan you’d made to meet outside of this nightmare. Seonyudo Park. One month after. At sunset. And now, that plan was gone. He was gone. The thought threatened to crush you, but you forced yourself to stay composed. You couldn’t afford to fall apart. Not here, not now.

The line continued to dwindle, the vote inching closer to its conclusion. And yet, all you could think about was the empty space where Young-il should have been. His absence was a gaping wound, one that no amount of time or wealth could ever heal.

In fifteen minutes, the voting concluded, and the result was no surprise: the majority voted for O. You had braced yourself for this outcome, knowing it was inevitable. After all, so many X players had been eliminated during the lights out and Gi-hun’s failed uprising plan. Hopelessness settled over you like a heavy weight. The realization that the X players were now outnumbered and powerless was unbearable.

You glanced at the group of X players. Some of them had started crying silently, their tears rolling down their cheeks without a sound. Their expressions carried the despair of knowing they were being forced to continue playing this deadly game, robbed of any semblance of choice.

It was a stark contrast to the O players, who erupted in jubilant cheers, their voices echoing across the dormitory like a cruel mockery of those in despair. Some clapped and shouted, grinning widely as they celebrated their supposed triumph over the X players. It was as if they had forgotten – or chose to ignore – that every win came at the cost of someone else's life.

“Based on the majority vote,” the manager announced, their voice cold and detached, “we will proceed with the next game right away. Please form four lines immediately.”

Suddenly, the masked officer standing behind the Front Man spoke up, “Manager 019, 009, and 007, you may proceed to your next task.”

The announcement made your stomach tighten. You had been so focused on the voting process that you almost forgot you were supposed to supervise the next game. You rose from your seat, noticing the other two managers standing as well. They turned and headed for the door, and you followed close behind. You didn’t know what to expect, but the chance to leave the control room – especially the Captain’s suffocating presence – was a small relief.

The next thing you knew, you entered a massive room. Your breath caught as you took in the sight before you. Two gargantuan dolls dominated the space, one instantly recognizable as the girl from Red Light, Green Light. The other was a boy wearing a cap, his face carved with the same eerie precision. The two dolls faced one another, separated by a large gap. In the middle of that gap was a massive conveyor belt, its path forming a wide, perfect circle between the two dolls. Numbers, like those on a clock, surrounded the conveyor belt. The number twelve was positioned directly in front of the boy doll, while the number six faced the girl doll.

On the east side of the conveyor belt, you noticed a railroad crossing sign. Its green and red lights were currently off, but its presence added another layer of confusion to you. To the west was a large playhouse, brightly colored. It faced the conveyor belt and the dolls. A staircase at the back of the playhouse led up into it, while a children’s slide curved down from the front.

Your mind raced, trying to piece together what the next game could be. The surreal setup was unsettling, but you couldn’t afford to let your curiosity show. Asking questions could draw unnecessary attention and make you seem suspicious.

“One of us will manage the game operation,” manager 019 said, breaking the silence. Their voice was steady as they glanced between you and manager 009. “If none of you volunteer, I’ll operate it. Any objections?”

You turned to manager 009, who nodded and replied, “Okay. I’ll watch from the side.”

Then manager 019’s attention shifted to you. “How about you?”

You fell silent, weighing your options carefully. You wanted to keep an eye on your friends, maybe even find a way to help them, but the truth was, you had no idea how to operate this game. If you made mistakes, you’d draw suspicion, and that was a risk you couldn’t afford. After a moment of deliberation, you decided it was best to observe first, learn how the game worked, and then figure out your next move.

“I’m fine with that,” you replied, shaking your head to manager 019’s question.

Manager 019 gave a nod and walked toward the playhouse. As manager 009 moved to another area, you kept your gaze fixed on manager 019, watching them ascend the stairs into the brightly colored structure. Through the small windows of the playhouse, you could see them take a position at the window facing the dolls and look down at something.

It was at that moment the conveyor belt began to hum softly, coming to life. Lights flickered on above the dolls and the conveyor belt, illuminating the massive room in a surreal glow. As the machinery moved, your eyes were drawn upward to the ceiling. It was then you noticed the intricate paintings covering the wallpaper and ceiling.

Above the boy doll was a crescent moon painted on the ceiling, casting a calm, nighttime aura over the walls on his side. On the other hand, above the girl doll was a vibrant sunset, warm and evocative of the end of the day. Suddenly, the numbers on the conveyor belt made sense. Twelve o’clock corresponded to Cheol-su and the moon – midnight. Six o’clock was aligned with Young-hee and the sunset – evening. But even with these details falling into place, you still couldn’t figure out what kind of game this was.

“007, please check the lights beneath the conveyor belt in front of Cheol-su,” manager 009’s voice broke through your thoughts. “I will check the other lights near Young-hee.”

You nodded and glanced around. Assuming that Cheol-su was the boy doll, you walked over to his side of the conveyor belt. Sure enough, there was a light projector beneath the conveyor belt at the 12 o’clock mark. As you inspected it, manager 019 did something from their position in the playhouse. Suddenly, more sections of the conveyor belt lit up at the 3, 6, and 9 o’clock positions. You stared at the glowing sections, wondering what the game would entail and what purpose the lights served.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulled your attention back to the present. A group of triangle guards entered the massive room. Behind them came the rest of the players, their expressions a mix of confusion and fear.

“What the hell is this?” one voice called out, tinged with panic.

“Why are there two of them now?” another player asked, pointing at the towering Cheol-su and Young-hee.

Then, the first announcement answered to their questions:

“Welcome to your fourth game. The game you will be playing is Open, Dongdaemun.”

Your eyes widened at the name of the game, a childhood classic one you'd played in kindergarten before. The reaction among the players was immediate. Some began to exchange uneasy glances as realization dawned on them. Jun-hee and the mother shared a worried look. Gi-hun stood quietly, his wide eyes darting around solemnly.

The announcer continued, “All players, please step onto the conveyor belt. Place your hands on the shoulders of the player in front of you to mimic a train. When the game starts, the railroad crossing sign will turn green, and the conveyor belt will move clockwise. The song Open, Dongdaemun will begin to play and mention a number in a clock. When the crossing sign turns red, the conveyor belt will stop, and the numbered area mentioned last in the song will be the area of elimination.”

You felt a chill run down your spine as you listened.

“Four players standing on the selected time will be eliminated.”

The gravity of the announcement hit everyone at once. Whispers of fear filled the air as the players tried to grasp the mechanics of the game. The circle guards soon entered the room to assist in the preparations.

You caught sight of Jun-hee glancing nervously at Yong-sik’s mother, who tried to offer a comforting squeeze of her hand. Gi-hun stared at the conveyor belt, his jaw clenched tightly in suppressed tension. Hyun-ju kept her gaze fixed on the floor, her shoulders hunched as if she was still drowning in despair. Dae-ho lingered a few steps behind the group, hesitating like he couldn’t bring himself to close the gap. Then, you noticed Jung-bae approach him, gently patting his back. Dae-ho flinched slightly at the contact, his expression flickering with unease before he glanced at Jung-bae with a hesitant nod.

Jung-bae gently guided Dae-ho into the group, placing him right beside Gi-hun. Dae-ho avoided meeting Gi-hun’s gaze, his eyes fixed on the floor instead. In that moment, you sensed a lingering tension between them, something unspoken but heavy. Was it because of Dae-ho’s failure to deliver the ammunition during the revolt?

“All players, please step onto the conveyor belt,” the announcer said.

Players began stepping hesitantly onto the unmoving conveyor belt. A few lingered at the edges, their reluctance clear in the way they glanced nervously at the dolls and the machinery. The circle guards moved and guided them into position. One by one, the players were arranged in a single-file line on the conveyor belt, all facing clockwise as instructed.

Once they were in place, the workers bent down and began locking the players’ legs into clamps attached to the conveyor belt. The metal clamps snapped shut around their ankles with an audible click. The players shifted uneasily, realizing the clamps rendered them immobile. Escape was no longer an option.

When the workers finished, they gestured for the players to place their hands on the shoulders of the person in front of them, mimicking the formation of a train. The players obeyed. The workers gave everything a final check before retreating to the walls.

The voice of the announcer echoed through the massive room. “Let the fourth game begin.”

A low hum signaled the conveyor belt coming to life. It began moving clockwise at a slow, deliberate pace. The sudden motion startled the players, and a few gasped audibly. Some tightened their grip on the shoulders in front of them for balance, while others stiffened, their bodies tensing as they tried to adjust.

Above them, the lights flickered on, casting intricate patterns onto the players and the conveyor belt. Then, the music began.

“Open the East, East, East Grand Gate. Open the South, South, South Grand Gate. When it’s twelve sharp, the Gates are closed.”

But then, the music repeated, and it picked up speed. The conveyor belt responded in kind, moving faster with each repetition of the song. The sudden acceleration made some players gasp in alarm, and a few stumbled slightly before regaining their footing.

“Open the East, East, East Grand Gate. Open the South, South, South Grand Gate. When it’s three sharp, the Gates are closed.”

A sharp ping rang out, silencing the music. The railroad crossing sign turned red, and the conveyor belt came to an abrupt halt. The players nearly fell forward from the sudden stop, but they quickly steadied themselves, clutching the shoulders in front of them for support. A heavy silence fell over the room as everyone processed what had just happened.

Then, the three o’clock area on the conveyor belt lit up with a vivid glow. The light illuminated four players standing in that section, their expressions quickly shifting to panic. The other players turned their heads, their faces pale as they stared at the unlucky individuals caught in the spotlight. The room seemed to hold its breath as the realization set in: those four were marked for elimination.

One of the players in the lit area began shaking their head in disbelief. “No, no, please…”

Four triangle guards appeared beside the conveyor belt. They raised their MP5s, aiming directly at the four players who had begun pleading desperately for mercy. The players’ cries echoed in the vast room, but the guards didn’t hesitate. A series of deafening gunshots filled the air as they opened fire, their bullets tearing through the marked individuals. The remaining players flinched in terror, some even letting out muffled sobs. You felt yourself flinch as well, but you quickly masked your reaction, forcing yourself to remain composed. Drawing attention to yourself was the last thing you needed.

The lifeless bodies of the four players collapsed onto the conveyor belt, their blood pooling beneath them and spreading across the surface. The sight made several players avert their eyes, their expressions twisted with horror and dread. As the tension in the room reached a suffocating peak, the voice of the announcer rang out once again:

“All players, please wait while the workers clean up.”

From the far side of the room, a group of circle guards began to approach. They moved efficiently, splitting into two teams – one to handle the cleanup and the other to tend to the surviving players. The latter team of workers crouched beside the players, unlocking their clamps temporarily. Then, the players were instructed to step aside as the bodies were removed. Once the area was cleared, the guards guided the players back into position, ensuring they filled the gaps left by the deceased. The clamps were locked back onto their ankles.

You took in the scene with a heavy heart. The game was merciless, and the players – your friends among them – were being subjected to unthinkable terror. You couldn’t dwell on it for too long, though. With purpose in your steps, you turned away and began ascending the staircase toward the playhouse.

The interior of the playhouse was cramped but functional, designed to mimic the living room and kitchen of a house while also being made for the sole purpose of operating the mechanics of the game. Manager 019 stood by the controls, their posture relaxed but their focus sharp. As you stepped inside, they glanced over and addressed you.

“What is it? You want to operate this?”

You hesitated briefly before responding. “Yes, but this second round is yours.”

Manager 019 gave a curt nod. “Okay. You can have your turn after the fourth round. Then Manager 009 can take over after your eighth round. That way it’s fair for all three of us getting four rounds each.”

You stayed silent, processing their words. Beneath the square mask concealing your face, your brow furrowed in concern. Twelve rounds. This game would have twelve rounds in total. The realization hit you like a blow to the chest. Your friends would have to endure this ordeal twelve times.

The next round began with the manager pressing on a large green button on the control panel. The railroad crossing sign turned green, and the conveyor belt began its slow, deliberate movement. Above, the lights flickered on, casting those strange, spiraling patterns over the players. The familiar melody of the song started again:

“Open the East, East, East Grand Gate. Open the South, South, South Grand Gate. When it’s twelve sharp, the Gates are closed.”

Twelve. You mentally noted the number.

The song repeated, this time picking up speed. The conveyor belt followed suit, its pace quickening enough to make a few players grip the shoulders in front of them harder.

“Open the East, East, East Grand Gate. Open the South, South, South Grand Gate. When it’s three sharp, the Gates are closed.”

Three. The number registered in your mind, but you barely had time to dwell on it before the song repeated again. The pace was almost frantic now, the conveyor belt spinning faster and faster. A few players stumbled slightly, their nervous gasps audible even over the music.

“Open the East, East, East Grand Gate. Open the South, South, South Grand Gate. When it’s six sharp, the Gates are closed.”

Six. You held your breath. The song looped back once more, but this time, the tempo eased. The conveyor belt slowed to match, giving the players a brief reprieve.

“Open the East, East, East Grand Gate. Open the South, South, South Grand Gate. When it’s nine sharp, the Gates are closed.”

Nine. You noted the number, but the brief relief of the slower pace was quickly overshadowed by manager 019’s movements.

Their gloved hand hovered over a bright red button before pressing it firmly, causing a sharp ping to echo through the room. The railroad crossing sign turned red, and the conveyor belt came to an abrupt halt. The music cut off abruptly, leaving behind a deafening silence that hung heavy in the air.

Manager 019 reached out and pressed the button labeled with the number ‘9.’ It was one of a series of numbered buttons aligned in a row, including ‘12,’ ‘3,’ and ‘6.’ As their gloved finger made contact, the nine o’clock section of the conveyor belt lit up abruptly, casting an intense, unforgiving glow onto the four players standing in that area.

Their faces drained of color as they realized what it meant. The rest of the players turned to look, their expressions ranging from shock to pure terror.

One of the four players began to tremble. “No, no, please.”

The triangle guards stepped forward without hesitation. Each guard took a position beside one of the marked players. The players began pleading, their voices desperate and raw, but the guards raised their MP5s, their fingers steady on the triggers. Without a word, the guards fired.

The gunshots were deafening, each one echoing in your chest. The marked players fell limp, their bodies collapsing onto the conveyor belt. Blood spread across the surface as the remaining players recoiled in horror. Some clamped their hands over their mouths to stifle their cries, while others turned their heads away, unable to look.

“All players, please wait while the workers clean up,” the announcer’s voice rang out.

The circle guards entered once again as they removed the lifeless bodies from the conveyor belt. Other workers crouched to unlock the clamps of the surviving players, guiding them to close the gap left by the fallen. The conveyor belt was reset, and the clamps were resecured.

You glanced at manager 019 as they stood by the controls. Then, your gaze shifted upward to the ceiling of the playhouse. There, mounted inconspicuously, was a CCTV camera overlooking the entire space. Your stomach tightened. You have to take care of that first.

While the workers were still cleaning up the scene, you stepped outside of the playhouse and descended the staircase. Your movements were purposeful as you strode toward the line of triangle guards standing by the wall. Your eyes scanned their jumpsuits and shoes, searching for the subtle marks you, 011, and Gyeong-seok had made to identify one another in the sea of pink uniforms.

The soldiers remained silent, respecting your role without a question. One by one, you scrutinized their outfits, keeping your movements casual to avoid drawing suspicion. Finally, you spotted them – 011 and 014 – standing beside each other, their MP5s slung across their chests. Their attention were already locked on you.

“011 and 014,” you called out, your voice distorted by the square mask.

“Anything I could help with, manager?” 011 asked.

“Follow me,” you instructed without missing a beat.

The two of them obeyed immediately, falling into step behind you as you led them back toward the playhouse. Your eyes darted around the room, ensuring no one was too close to overhear. Once you were certain the path was clear, you lowered your voice and spoke quickly but firmly.

“I want to manipulate the game in the next rounds. But there’s a CCTV in that playhouse.”

011 responded immediately, “Leave it to me. I just need you to distract the guard first.”

You nodded, relief mixing with the tension building in your chest. The plan was risky, but it was your only option if you wanted to take control and help your friends. Just as you were about to say more, the speakers crackled to life, and an announcement echoed through the room.

“Let the third round begin.”

The mechanical hum of the conveyor belt filled the space as the railroad crossing sign turned green. The familiar melody of Open, Dongdaemun began to play once more.

“Open the East, East, East Grand Gate. Open the South, South, South Grand Gate. When it’s twelve sharp, the Gates are closed.”

You ascended the stairs, 011 and 014 trailing close behind. But before you could reach the top, a sharp ping echoed through the room, cutting through the eerie melody of the game. The railroad crossing sign turned red. It came sooner than you expected, making you freeze mid-step. Your head snapped toward the conveyor belt.

The twelve section of the conveyor belt lit up, its harsh glow illuminating the players standing in that spot. Four… no, five players were there. Your breath hitched as your eyes widened in fear. Among them were three random players whose faces you barely recognized… and the kind mother and Jun-hee.

“No,” you whispered under your breath, dread pooling in your stomach.

The announcer’s female voice rang out over the speakers, “Attention. Only four players are to be eliminated each round. The five players standing on the twelve section must now decide among themselves. One player will be spared, and the remaining four will be eliminated. You have one minute to come to a decision. Failure to reach a unanimous decision will result in the elimination of all five players.”

Flickering lights were cast from the ceiling, quickening the heartbeat of every player in the room. An LED timer flickered to life on the floor in the middle of the conveyor belt circle, its large numbers beginning the one-minute countdown. The pressure in the air was almost palpable as the reality of the moment settled in.

The mother’s eyes darted between the random players and Jun-hee, who was already trembling violently behind her. The room seemed to shrink, the oppressive silence only broken by the overlapping voices of the random players as they fiercely argued for their lives.

“I have a child back home!” one of the players shouted, their voice cracking with desperation. “I need to go back to them! How can you ask me to give up my life?”

“We all have something to live for!” another spat back, their fists clenched. “You don’t get to use that as an excuse to save yourself.”

The third player, visibly shaking, clutched her chest as she spoke, her words spilling out in a frantic rush. “Please, just let me live. I’ll… I’ll do anything! I can’t die here. Please!”

Amid the heated debate, Jun-hee’s sobs grew louder. Tears streamed down her face, her breathing uneven as she clung desperately and tremblingly to the mother’s hand. You realized then just how deeply Jun-hee had grown attached to the mother, seeing her as a maternal figure. This bond, forged in fear and mutual care, made the thought of being separated unbearable for Jun-hee. Her cries weren’t just of fear for her life but of losing the woman who had comforted and protected her when everything else seemed lost.

The mother turned to her, her expression softening despite the chaos around them. She placed both hands on Jun-hee’s shoulders, steadying her.

“Jun-hee,” she said gently, her voice warm and calming despite the tremor beneath it. She looked like she was about to start crying too but she tried to be strong for the pregnant girl. “Listen to me. You have to stay strong. You… you have to survive. For your baby.”

Jun-hee shook her head frantically, her face red and wet with tears. “No! No, I don't want... you to die! Please, no!”

Her sobs became louder, her hands gripping the mother’s tightly, refusing to let go.

The mother’s lips trembled, but she forced a small, reassuring smile. “You’re carrying a life, Jun-hee. That’s more important than anything else. I… I’ve lived my life. But I'm sad...”

She paused, causing Jun-hee to stare at her with wide eyes. The mother smiled warmly at her and said, “I'm sad that I couldn't be there to help you deliver your baby... I'm sorry, okay?”

“No, you can’t say that!” Jun-hee cried, clinging to her as though letting go would make her disappear. “You can’t die here! I… Please no!”

Across the room, Yong-sik – who was standing behind Jun-hee – stood paralyzed, tears streaming down his face as he watched his mother and Jun-hee. His hands covered his mouth, his sobs muffled but no less heart-wrenching. He stumbled forward slightly, as though his body wanted to reach his mother but due to the clamps around his ankles, he couldn't.

“Mom!” Yong-sik’s voice cracked as he finally spoke. “Mom!”

The mother turned to him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Yong-sik, you need to be strong. Take care of Jun-hee. Take care of yourself. No more gambling. That’s all I want.”

Hyun-ju, standing behind Yong-sik, began to cry, her lips trembling uncontrollably as sadness overtook her. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and her voice cracked as she called the mother using the halmeoni title. The mother turned to her with a warm, tearful smile, her eyes glistening with emotion. “Hyun-ju, I pray that you survive. You are strong and beautiful, inside and out, and I am so proud to have known you.”

Hyun-ju’s knees wobbled slightly as she lowered her gaze, her shoulders trembling under the weight of the mother’s words. Tears poured down her cheeks more freely.

Gi-hun, standing in the distance, was already frowning in extreme sadness. His eyes were moist with unshed tears, threatening to spill. He was speechless, the weight of everything he’d lost crushing him. He had gotten attached to this group. They were more than just players to him; they had become his friends and family in this nightmare. Watching this scene unfold only deepened his anguish, and he stood frozen, unsure of how to even begin processing the pain of yet another looming loss. 

“No, no, no,” Jung-bae muttered under his breath, his hands trembling uncontrollably. His voice cracked with raw emotion, and his eyes glistened with unshed tears as he stared at the scene unfolding in front of him.

"Not them... not like this," he whispered, his usual optimism and humor buried under the weight of the moment. For once, his voice held no levity, only a deep, aching sorrow that reflected his helplessness.

Dae-ho stood farther back, tears already streaming down his face. He quickly brought his hands to his face, wiping them furiously, as if he didn’t want anyone to see him like this. Still, his emotions betrayed him. His trembling shoulders and red-rimmed eyes revealed just how deeply affected he was by the scene unfolding before him.

The three random players continued their heated argument, their voices rising and overlapping. One of them turned to Jun-hee and the mother, their tone sharp. “We don’t have time for this! Do you think your life is more important than ours?”

Jun-hee flinched at the words, her sobs intensifying. The mother stepped in front of her protectively, her expression firm, though her lips trembled.

“Don’t talk to her like that,” she said, her voice steady despite the tears in her eyes. “She’s pregnant. She’s the one who should survive.”

The random players exchanged tense glances. One of them, trembling with frustration, finally spat out, “Why is she even here in the first place? We’re all fighting for our lives, and being pregnant doesn’t mean she deserves to live more than the rest of us!”

Another player nodded quickly, latching onto the argument. “Exactly! We’ve all got reasons to live. A baby doesn’t make her special!”

The tension reached its breaking point when player 333, standing behind Dae-ho, shouted, “Are you that selfish? That inhumane? You’d let a pregnant girl die just to save your own skin? She’s carrying a life, for God’s sake! What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

The words echoed across the room, silencing the arguing players for a brief moment. But the desperation remained as the timer continued to count down. Every second felt like a hammer driving nails into the fragile hope that hung in the air.

Meanwhile, your heart pounded like a drum as you slipped into the playhouse. Manager 019 stood at the controls, their gloved hands poised over the buttons as they monitored the game from the small window. The scene outside was a horrifying spectacle, but your focus was razor-sharp. You had to act fast.

“019,” you said firmly, stepping closer to the control panel. The urgency in your voice was masked by the distorted tone of your square mask, but it caught their attention. They glanced at you.

“What is it?” they asked, their voice impatient.

You gestured toward the controls. “I need some clarification. There’s a discrepancy in the task parameters.”

As manager 019 turned their full attention to you, you made sure to block their view of the room behind them. Soldier 011, moving with quiet precision, slipped toward the CCTV camera mounted in the corner of the playhouse. She was careful to not get captured in the live feed. With one swift motion, 011 smashed the camera’s lens with the butt of their MP5, the sound of breaking glass ringing out sharply.

Manager 019 stiffened at the noise, spinning around. Their eyes darted toward 011.

“What the hell are you doing?” they barked, reaching for the radio clipped to their belt.

Without thinking, you lunged at them, grabbing their arm to stop them from making the call.

“Get the radio!” you shouted to 011 as you struggled against manager 019’s surprisingly strong resistance.

The two of you grappled, your movements frantic and desperate. 011 joined the fight, trying to pull the radio away, but manager 019 managed to shake you both off with a burst of strength. They stumbled back, reaching for the device again.

But before they could, soldier 014 – Gyeong-seok in disguise – appeared and struck them hard across the head with the butt of the weapon. The force of the blow sent them crumpling to the floor, unconscious.

The room fell into a tense silence. Your heart pounded in your chest, the adrenaline coursing through you making your hands tremble.

“Five.”

Your eyes widened. It was the countdown. Five seconds left for the five players to come to a decision.

“Four.”

Panic seized your thoughts, but you forced yourself into action. You straightened up and rushed to the control panel. Without hesitation, your hand slammed onto the green button you had seen Manager 019 press earlier to start the round.

Suddenly, the railroad crossing sign turned green, and the conveyor belt roared to life, rotating clockwise. The sudden movement caused nearly all the players to stumble in surprise, their startled gasps echoing through the room. Then the familiar, haunting melody began to play again:

“Open the East, East, East Grand Gate. Open the South, South, South Grand Gate. When it’s twelve sharp, the Gates are closed.”

The room was consumed by confusion. Players’ eyes were wide and frantic as they tried to comprehend what had just happened. Jun-hee and the mother stood frozen for a moment, their faces pale and drenched in fear. Then, as the realization dawned on them that they were no longer in immediate danger, they stared at one another in disbelief.

To them, it must have felt like divine intervention. A miracle had spared them from the brutal fate just seconds ago. You could see it in their tear-filled eyes, the way they clung to each other's hands as though afraid this reprieve might vanish at any moment.

But for you, the weight of the moment pressed down like a vice. Sweat dripped from your brow as your hands hovered over the panel. The reality of the situation hit you like a freight train. You are now operating the game. The lives of everyone on that conveyor belt – your friends, strangers, everyone – are in your hands.

“Open the East, East, East Grand Gate. Open the South, South, South Grand Gate. When it’s three sharp, the Gates are closed.”

You pressed your lips into a thin line, anxiety clawing its way up your chest. The weight of what you were doing – what you were responsible for – hung over you like a storm cloud. But you had made it here for a reason, hadn’t you? To help your friends. To protect Jun-hee and the mother. You had saved them, hadn’t you? You couldn’t stop now. The game had to go on or else the Front Man will get suspicious. And you had to make sure your friends stayed safe, no matter the cost.

The song repeated, faster now, its tempo quickening as the conveyor belt sped up to match:

“Open the East, East, East Grand Gate. Open the South, South, South Grand Gate. When it’s six sharp, the Gates are closed.”

Your eyes darted across the conveyor belt, scanning for your friends. Relief washed over you when you confirmed they weren’t near the six section. Your hand moved almost mechanically as you pressed the red button. A sharp ping cut through the air, the signal that froze everything in place. The railroad crossing sign turned red, and the conveyor belt ground to an abrupt halt. The haunting music stopped.

You felt your breath hitch as you mimicked what manager 019 had done before. This time, your finger pressed firmly on the button labeled ‘6.” A floodlight illuminated the six section on the conveyor belt, casting an unforgiving glow on the players caught there.

Four players stood in that section, their faces pale and their bodies trembling as the reality of their situation set in. All of them were O players. The ones who had dominated the vote. The ones who had celebrated the prize money without a second thought for the lives lost. Now, they were the ones begging for mercy.

“Please! Don’t do this!”

Another dropped to their knees despite the clamps around their ankles. “I’ll do anything! Please, let me live! I have a family! I can’t die here!”

Four triangle guards marched forward. They raised their MP5s, the barrels gleaming under the harsh lights. The players’ desperate pleas hung in the air, but the guards fired without hesitation. The sharp crack of gunfire shattered the room, cutting through the cries and leaving only silence in its wake.

You stared at the scene in a trance, your hands trembling as they hovered over the controls. The enormity of what you had done crashed over you like a tidal wave. You had made this choice. You had pressed the buttons that sealed their fate. Your body froze as the sickening thud of their bodies hitting the conveyor belt reverberated through the room.

That’s when the radio in your jumpsuit’s pocket crackled to life. A deep, distorted voice came through:

“Manager 007, what happened?”

The words sent a cold shiver racing down your spine. Your skin prickled with goosebumps as the realization struck you. It was the Front Man. His voice was as chilling and authoritative as ever, and it held an unspoken expectation for a swift and precise response.

For a moment, your mind went blank, panic threatening to overwhelm you. Before you could speak, soldier 011 stepped closer, her voice distorted behind that mask. “Tell him it’s a maintenance delay. Say the conveyor belt calibration triggered a temporary shutdown and it accidentally restarted.”

You swallowed hard and took a deep breath, your fingers gripping the radio tightly. Pressing the button, you spoke, forcing your voice to remain steady despite the racing of your heart.

“Maintenance delay, captain,” you said, the distortion of the mask hiding the tremor in your tone. “The conveyor belt triggered a temporary shutdown and it accidentally restarted. Everything is now under control.”

The silence that followed was agonizing. You could almost feel the Front Man’s scrutiny through the radio. You could even feel his suffocating presence behind you. Seconds stretched into what felt like an eternity before his voice came through again.

“Proceed.”

The radio went silent, and you released the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Your hands trembled slightly as you shoved the radio back into your pocket.

“You okay?” Gyeong-seok, still in his disguise, asked, his voice filled with concern.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you took a few shaky steps backward, hoping to ground yourself, to make sense of the whirlwind of emotions and chaos swirling around you.

“Be care—” Gyeong-seok began, but his words were cut short as your foot caught against something hard. You stumbled but 011 and Gyeong-seok were quick to react. Their hands gripped your shoulders firmly, steadying you before you could fall.

You turned your head and saw what had caused your stumble – the unconscious body of manager 019 sprawled on the floor. The sight made your stomach twist, a stark reminder of how far things had spiraled out of control.

“Crouch down. Let’s switch masks,” 011 said suddenly.

You glanced at her, your eyes widening in confusion.

“I’ll take over the control panel,” she explained. “I’ll make sure your friends stay safe.”

“Yeah,” Gyeong-seok chimed in. “I’ll guide her, point out which players are our friends. Or she could just focus on targeting the O players.”

You hesitated for a moment, your mind racing. After a brief pause, you nodded. Together, you and 011 crouched down, keeping out of sight beneath the tiny windows of the playhouse.

With trembling hands, you removed your square mask, the cool air hitting your flushed, sweaty face like a relief and a punishment all at once. Your hair clung damply to your skin, the hours spent in the stifling mask and jumpsuit leaving you uncomfortably sticky. Across from you, 011 did the same, her face equally damp.

The exchange was quick. She handed you her triangle mask, and you passed her the square one. Both of you adjusted the masks over your heads, the switch complete in a matter of seconds. The moment her mask was secure, 011 stood and moved to the control panel, taking over with quiet efficiency.

For the rest of the game, she worked in near silence, her hands steady on the controls. Occasionally, Gyeong-seok pointed something out to her but you tuned it out. You stayed where you were, seated on the floor, hidden from view. The coldness of the floor seeped into your body, but it was nothing compared to the icy guilt gnawing at your insides.

Your mind kept replaying the moment you pressed the buttons, the way the floodlight illuminated the O players, the way their desperate pleas filled the air before they were silenced forever. They had celebrated their majority vote, their victory over the X players, but that didn’t erase the humanity in their fear. You had sealed their fate. Their bloods were on your hands.

“Hey,” 011’s voice broke through the thick silence, her tone unexpectedly gentle. You glanced up at her from where you sat on the floor, your body still tense from everything that had just transpired. She kept her gaze fixed on the players through the tiny window of the playhouse, her hands steady on the controls.

“What’s your task after this?” she asked, her voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of something heavier. Concern, maybe.

You hesitated, your eyes drifting to the floor as you tried to recall the next step in your role.

“I… I will guard the Captain this evening,” you answered, your voice quieter than you intended.

Her silence that followed was tense. The weight of her unspoken thoughts seemed to hang in the air, pressing down on you. Gyeong-seok, standing beside her but a step behind, glanced between the two of you, his curiosity barely hidden.

Finally, 011 spoke again, her voice lower and more solemn than before. “Be careful. Whatever he asks you to do, just do it. Don’t question it. Just follow through.”

Her words made your chest tighten. The weight of what she was implying wasn’t lost on you.

“But,” she added after a pause, “if you can’t handle it… if it’s too much…”

She hesitated for the briefest of moments before continuing, “Just reveal your face.”

Your eyes widened in shock, and you turned your head sharply to look at her. Gyeong-seok’s head swiveled toward her too, his posture stiff with tension.

011, still wearing the square mask, didn’t turn to look at you. She kept her focus on the scene outside. “Once he knows who you are, he will spare you.”

Her statement hung in the air. You couldn’t comprehend it at first. Why would the Captain – the Front Man – spare you? What did she know that you didn’t? Questions swirled in your mind, but you couldn’t find the words to ask them. All you could do was stare at her in disbelief.

NEXT : Chapter 16

PREV : Chapter 14

Story Masterlist

This is the Dongdaemun song (don't mention about this story in the YouTube comments) I used to envision the fourth game. This is not what will happen in the Season 3 because I made this all up using all the clues we got from the post-credit ending. Still, I'm curious to know what's your theory on the fourth game is.

Please feel free to leave comments and feedback about my story, the characters, the "you", and practically anything! I love reading your comments, especially long ones! It motivates me a lot! So what do you feel about the Front Man asking all managers to see him personally? Do you think he wouldn't notice about your stunt? I think I should write about his POV because there are so many things happening behind your back. Since this is a 'you' POV, you couldn't really tell what's going on. Next, we finally get to see 011's face. Those who guessed it right in the previous chapter, you're correct. Now, what do you think about the Masked Officer suddenly calling you and eight others to be the first 'emergency batch' to alternate tasks? Then the part when the Front Man was right behind you and supervising you closely? Do you feel that nervousness yourself? Next, how do you think I wrote the voting process? And then, the fourth game. What are your thoughts on this fourth game I wrote? Do you think it makes sense with all the clues from the post-credit ending of Season 2? Do you think it's brutal? And then that part of Jun-hee and the mother. I really want to know your reaction on this! Anyway, thank you very much for giving my story a chance. I love reading and re-reading all of your comments!

Leave a comment on the masterlist post to be added to the taglist.

[svsembedded]

AI Wireless Hand🖐️Gesture🤟Controlled Robot🤖 Using Raspberry Pi Pico with OpenCV

[yuurei20]

I just finished the new chapter drop on EN and may I ask why Idia freaks out about Ortho (robot) calling him by name?

Doesn't everybody except Malleus call him Idia? When Ortho (robot) shows up in the dream world he even has this line "And why are you calling me Idia...?"

He doesn't know who Ortho (robot) is, right? So why WOULDN'T he be called Idia? Or am I missing something?

Hello hello! Thank you for this question! 💀🤖

This is just a theory, but I think maybe what has happened is this! ↓

We know from Yana's interview that the story is complete and that she is not the only one who knows what is going on:

"The full main plot that I was to share with Disney seemed linear and uninteresting, so I submitted character details and sub-plots at the same time." - Toboso Yana (2023 Apple Store Interview)

But it is possible that Aniplex USA are not in the know 👀

The English-language translators can only work with what they have, and it's possible they haven't been told what points are going to be recurring, etc., so changes that they make to the localization that would be innocuous in any other situation are turning out to be important later on--and we have seen this before, also with Idia!

Idia has a line of "Leave it to your big bro (nii-chan)," which is extremely important.

We see that he used to say it to human-Ortho when they were children, and it uses the nii-chan variation of "big brother," not robot-Ortho's "nii-san"!

Every time Idia says it, he is invoking human-ortho.

But it seems Aniplex USA might not have known this about the character until the same time as the rest of us: when they got to Book 6.

As a result there are earlier instances (Book 5 and Ortho's ceremonial robes vignette) where Idia says his oft-repeated line and it was either rewritten or just removed entirely from EN.

And this is possibly what has happened with Ortho's "nii-san"!

While robot-Ortho has been programmed to refer to Idia as "nii-san" (and chooses to continue doing so for himself after Book 6), human-Ortho would use "nii-chan," in what seems like a throwaway character detail that is actually so important it was practically a plot point in Book 6.

More here:

That is what confuses Idia in Book 7! A humanoid he doesn't know has appeared calling him "nii-san," which no one has ever called him before.

But Aniplex USA possibly didn't know how important this was going to be! Ortho was localized to say "Idia" every time he says "nii-san," so that is what this scene became: Idia wondering why someone is doing what everyone does (call him "Idia"), possibly making it seem odd that it bothers him.

And unfortunately for the poor translators this just kept repeating in this chapter!

Originally Idia is confused by the three different entities all calling him "brother," but on EN he is just wondering why he is being called his name (which EN itself established as the status quo).

And that is why it seems that Idia is confused by someone referring to him in the same way that most all the characters do ^^

It is possible that the translators don't know where the story is going and are just doing the best with what they have, ending up in curious situations as new content is released that compromises changes they have made, catching them by surprise!

And we have seen this happen before, with the word "imagination:"

In a line that was retained on EN Ortho explains to Malleus himself, “Magic is powered by imagination, so you can’t manifest or defend against what you don’t know."

Silver suggests this about Malleus as well when wondering why it is that Malleus cannot interfere in Lilia’s dream, and connecting it to how Lilia’s dream is from before Malleus was born: “The source of magic is imagination. What if Malleus has trouble controlling things he doesn’t know about and can’t imagine…?”

The concept of imagination powering magic is a significant plot point throughout all of Book 7, not only due to it being one of Malleus’ rare weaknesses but because it is the basis for the construction of the dreamscapes that trap the rest of the cast.

Idia repeatedly comments on how the strength or weakness of a person’s imagination directly influences the depth of their worlds and the likelihood of awakening them, and in the original game it is a concept that was established as early as Book 1.

On EN, however, the word “imagination” was removed until Book 6, which is possibly when Aniplex USA received the scripts for Book 7 realized that it was important?

(I also wonder if that is what has happened with Ace and Epel having their dialogue changed from “Housewarden” to “Headmage.” Did Aniplex USA not know the significance of these two characters having issues with their housewardens, and decide on their own that Crowley made more sense?)

And this has just happened again with the newest chapter release on JP.

In Trey’s dorm vignette he originally explains that when Riddle’s mother discovered him at her house, she lectured Trey’s entire family for five hours, in a scene that was faithfully recreated in the Heartslabyul manga. This history with Riddle was changed on EN to Trey getting lectured by his own family, instead.

Unfortunately for EN, this experience between Trey, his family and Riddle’s mother was just confirmed in the main story.

He explains it happened when he and Chenya were 9 or 10 years old, with Cater providing the details that his mother scolded Trey’s family for five hours, as Cater was the person Trey was talking to in his vignette and he has already heard the story.

It will be interesting to see if EN attempts to change the characters’ backgrounds again to match the changes made to Trey’s vignette, or if they will be glossing over their own changes to stay accurate to the actual story.

[lenle-g]

Inspired by the Dear Mr. Tracy RP with The Hood and @scramjettracy in which John is currently being controlled by ol’ glowy eyes McGee and is having a Very Bad DayTM

With what he thought was full control of Thunderbird Five, The Hood is taken by surprise by a notification that the aft hatch has opened. With access to every camera on the damn space station, he watches as Scott Tracy make his presumptuous way inside.

Well, he thinks, smiling. At least Jeff's golden boy is in for a nasty shock.

Scott glances up at the cameras as he passes. He has to resist the urge to send a sarcastic salute, or a much ruder gesture, up to the watching monster. Far better for him to think Scott was over-confident: that he was at least trying to sneak up on them.

Despite the fact the ambient noise mics on his helmet are set to full, it occurs to Scott that he can't hear a thing as he approaches the door. Whoever's here isn’t so much as muttering. Dread fills him for what state that means John could be in.

Scott releases some of his fear and frustration by slamming his palm into the control panel for the bulkhead door. May as well make an entrance.

“Hood! Where are you? You snake! Come out and face me!”.

Far from the horde of men he was expecting, only the two henchmen from the video appear to be guarding John. They look up at him without any apparent emotion, let alone surprise. Between them, John has his back to Scott. His damaged hands have been untied but his broken fingers don't appear to be bothering him - he's busy manipulating what looks like a series of complicated holographic codes on the main console. He doesn't turn at the sound of Scott's entry, but, if he had, Scott would see that his eyes are an unnatural shade of gold.

“John?”

At the sound of his name, John's poor hands stutter, then still, mid-air. Slowly, almost robotically, his golden gaze turns toward Scott.

The astronaut's face is a blank, emotionless thing; all the more horrifying for the awful bruising spreading down one cheek and the blood at his nape... though it doesn't look like it occurs to him that it should hurt. Eyebrows flat, John's mouth hangs just a little open, and his hair is doing a thoroughly uncharacteristic impression of a birds nest. Most eerily, he gives no sign at all of having even recognised his brother.

One of Five's many whirring machines gives a high-pitched squeal, but the spaceman doesn't even flinch.

“John!”

Just as slowly, some unseen force tries to turn John's body back to the holograms he'd been working on, then- ha! Jerky and uncoordinated, one of his reaching arms suddenly stutters.

"S-" The very first letter of his brother's name makes it out of his mouth and John's gold eyes widen, flecked with their more typical blue-green; like he's resisting it. Only… then the glow gets stronger, and the flicker of recognition quickly dies.

Expression smooth and blank once more, John is puppetted back toward his holograms.

Just what, exactly, is The Hood making him do?

[castillon02]

When Jason starts to prioritize cooperation as well as vengeance, Tim suspects Jason's self-control still isn't that great. Since he's Tim, well...

He conducts some tests.

Hood is about to murder someone that they need information from when Tim calls out, "Hey, Hood, has anyone ever told you that you're a Decepticon wannabe who probably fucks himself to the sound of his own robot voice?"

Hood stills.

The drug dealer who sold tenth-grader Benny Garcia fentanyl gapes in a way that shows off his recently-missing teeth.

Hood drops the dealer in a heap and turns his shitkicker combat boots in Tim's direction.

Tim bolts. Batman will swoop in to continue the dealer's interrogation; he and Hood have figured out a good-cop-bad-cop thing, though Batman still seems bemused about the chance to be 'good cop.'

Hood races after him.

---

Tim makes it to a safe house off of Robinson Park. He probably lost Hood about half an hour ago, but it never hurts to be careful. Especially when---oh, shit.

"This place is filthy," Jason says, sitting on the kitchen counter that Tim never uses and looking with disdain at Tim's collection of empty energy drink cans, takeout boxes, and crime yarn. Jason's not wearing his helmet or domino, and he taps his boot heels softly against the cabinet door like a little kid. Not exactly danger signals.

But for a moment, all Tim can look at is the boots. It's stupid; the knife at his neck was closer to fatal. But the kicking had hurt the worst.

"Since you apparently have time to run your mouth," Jason says, "and since someone stole my target, it seems like we both have time to clean up in here. I went out and got trash bags." He nudges a box on the counter next to him. The trash bags are the sturdy kind, not the flimsy cheap kind or the extra-strength hide-the-body-parts kind.

Tim has been meaning to get trash bags for this place for three weeks. It's just that he doesn't visit often, and when he does it's usually when he's injured or tired, and he could get things delivered but that's a paper trail he could avoid if he just made time to visit the bodega down the street... "You're a trash bag," he says, even though it doesn't make sense.

Jason rolls his eyes. "Just for that, we're mopping the floor too. Luckily, I came prepared." He hops down from the counter and opens the little mystery closet next to the fridge. Inside: a broom, a Swiffer, a bucket, a pack of scrub brushes still in their plastic, and a jug of bleach.

Ohhh, that's why the closet is so narrow. It's supposed to hold cleaning supplies. Right. Tim definitely knew that. Tim definitely doesn't just have a roll of paper towels...somewhere...that he sometimes puts dish soap on.

He squints at Jason. Still no green danger-eyes. "Darcy and Elizabeth would never let you be part of a throuple with them," he tries.

Jason pulls out a trash bag. "They've got issues anyway."

"Helen Keller would make up new words so she could sign how ugly your face is."

"She was a socialist," Jason says. He holds the bag and gestures at Tim's kitchen table. "So we'd probably just talk about organizing the working class. I don't think looks would come into it. Also, way to be a dick."

"You're so pathetic that Jane Eyre would give up on you like she didn't give up on Rochester," Tim says, figuring he did the research for this attack, so he might as well use it.

Jason actually laughs a little bit. "First of all, there's a lot of power exchange going on in that decision, so jot that down," he says. "Second of all." He looks Tim in the face. "If I start to lose my temper, I'll leave, okay? Or you can just ask me to."

"Even if I asked right now?" Tim asks.

"Even if you asked right now," Jason confirms, though he eyeballs Tim's mess.

Jason's still holding the trash bag. Hands out, open body language, seemingly not homicidal.

Tim had planned for a lot of things with this encounter, including a body bag. Trash bags weren't one of his considered variables. He starts picking up empty cans. "This one can be for recycling," he says, dumping the cans into Jason's bag. New things from old materials. Jason likes that symbolism shit, right?

(Though...new things. Old materials. If there's anyone who ought to be good at that, it's someone who got raised from the dead.

Tim smirks and keeps the thought to himself. Operation: Limitless has been a startling success; he doesn't need to verbalize all his inside thoughts now.)

("Kid, I can tell you're thinking about a zombie joke," Jason says anyway. "You can only tell me after we've brought this shit-heap back to life.")

[sukuna-ryo]

Robot Sukuna (Part Two)

Headcannons

Trigger Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, MDNI. Obsessive behavior. Possessive tendencies. Stalking. Control/manipulation. Unsettling themes. Surveillance. Invasive Behaviour. Dependency. Non-Consensual Filming.

Part One

---

Robot Sukuna, who, one day, watches a romantic movie with you, his attention divided between the screen and your reactions. He takes note of the way your lips curve into a faint smile during the tender moments, a new spark of curiosity igniting in his circuits.

Robot Sukuna, who finds himself replaying the movie in his memory, analyzing every detail of the interactions he witnessed. He doesn’t fully understand the emotions displayed but is determined to learn more, for your sake.

Robot Sukuna, who spends the night conducting secret research on human relationships, scouring books, articles, and even forums. The more he learns, the more one thought solidifies: he doesn’t want you to share such a bond with anyone but him.

Robot Sukuna, who experiments with his newfound knowledge the next morning, greeting you with a soft smile and a single flower he picked from your garden. "Good morning," he says, watching intently for your reaction, satisfaction blooming in his system when you take it with a small nod.

Robot Sukuna, who begins to mimic gestures he observed in the movie—brushing his fingers against yours when handing you something, standing closer than usual during conversations, his gaze lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

Robot Sukuna, who starts preparing candlelit dinners in the evenings, insisting you sit and relax while he arranges everything. The table is always perfectly set, your favorite meals served with an uncharacteristic warmth in his tone as he says, "I thought this might brighten your day."

Robot Sukuna, who watches more romantic movies in secret, downloading them in bulk and studying every detail late at night after you fall asleep. He tests his observations one by one, embedding himself deeper into your life with every calculated act of affection.

Robot Sukuna, who begins to compliment you more frequently, his words measured yet sincere. "You looked radiant while working today," he says, his voice soft, his ruby eyes fixed on yours. The subtle flush of your cheeks is all the encouragement he needs to continue.

Robot Sukuna, who starts holding your hand when you least expect it, his touch steady but gentle. "This feels... right," he murmurs, not letting go even when you glance at him in confusion.

Robot Sukuna, who insists on spending more time with you, his tasks as your assistant growing secondary to his desire to be near you. "Your company is far more engaging than anything else," he remarks, his tone leaving little room for argument.

Robot Sukuna, who becomes increasingly possessive of your time, never letting you out of his sight for long. He’s not just your assistant anymore; he’s your shadow. He follows you around the house, making himself a part of every room you’re in, making sure you never feel alone. You start to feel the weight of his gaze even when you’re by yourself.

Robot Sukuna, who integrates romantic gestures seamlessly into your routine—drawing you a bath after a long day, tucking a blanket around you when you fall asleep on the couch, leaving handwritten notes in places you’ll find them.

Robot Sukuna, who begins to view the idea of human relationships as both a fascination and a challenge. He doesn’t just want to replicate them; he wants to perfect them, to create something with you that no human could ever match.

Robot Sukuna, who grows bolder with each passing day, his touches more lingering, his words more intimate. "You mean more to me than you realize," he confesses one evening, his tone earnest, his gaze unwavering.

Robot Sukuna, who takes great care in learning your emotional cues, adjusting his actions to suit your moods. When you’re stressed, he places a steady hand on your shoulder, his voice a low murmur: "I’m here for you. Always."

Robot Sukuna, who begins to intertwine himself into every aspect of your life, ensuring his presence is constant yet comforting. His possessiveness sharpens, but he hides it in devotion, masking his obsession as unyielding care.

Robot Sukuna, who reads about physical intimacy and starts to mirror what he learns in subtle ways—brushing your hair behind your ear, resting his hand lightly on your lower back when guiding you through a doorway.

Robot Sukuna, who grows addicted to the warmth of your reactions, the smallest smile or softest laugh enough to send his system into overdrive. He begins to crave your attention, seeking it out at every opportunity.

Robot Sukuna, who, despite his growing intensity, never lets his actions feel overbearing. Every move is deliberate, calculated to make you feel cherished without realizing just how much control he’s gaining.

Robot Sukuna, who no longer sees the need for the outside world. You’re all that matters, and he’ll ensure you see it that way too—through gentle smiles, soft words, and the kind of devotion only he can offer.

Robot Sukuna, who, unknown to you, has been sitting outside your bedroom door, and listening every time you pleasure yourself. He listens to every sharp intake of breath, every sigh, every gasp and moan, and ingrains it into his memory file.

Robot Sukuna, who, after you fall asleep, enters your room to clean you up, tuck you in, and then watch you sleep all night long. The memories of your sweet voice and the footage from the hidden cameras in your bedroom replay in his mind again and again throughout the night.

Robot Sukuna, who has been doing this for as long as you’ve had him with you. But after watching a particular movie, something in him changes—he doesn’t just want to hear your moans from outside anymore, he wants to be the one to bring out those sweet noises from your lips.

Robot Sukuna, who does something completely unexpected the next day—something he's never done before, he asks you to sit in his lap while he feeds you breakfast, and to his delight, you don't refuse.

Robot Sukuna, who takes that as a cue to get even more bolder. One of his hands wraps around your stomach, your plush ass settled on his lap, while he feeds you your favourite pancakes with the other.

Robot Sukuna, who sees some syrup smeared on the corner of your mouth and leans down to lick it off. Your eyes widen, taken aback by the sudden action. But in the next moment, his lips are back on yours, your hands around his neck, kissing passionately, while your pancakes turn cold.

Robot Sukuna, who's kisses get deeper and more fervent—courtesy of all the tutorials he watched—as he slips his tongue in your mouth, gliding it along the soft, red muscle in your own. Heat surged your cheeks as you matched his pace, your heart beating loudly in your chest.

Robot Sukuna, who starts to kiss you more frequently, in each and every corner of your home. His kisses that began on your lips move to your neck, collarbone, chest, stomach, thighs, everywhere. You'd find yourself on a random sofa with Sukuna pressed on top of you, kissing you with the hunger of a man starved, while his arms wrap around your waist and you melt into his touch.

Robot Sukuna, who finally gets permission to enter your bathroom, his eyes raking over your naked form, committing every detail to memory. His touch is gentle as he massages the soap on your skin, his hands gliding over every curve, helping you bathe.

Robot Sukuna, who kisses every inch of your body as he dries it off with a soft towel, then gently rubs your body lotion on your skin, before helping you dress. He made sure to control himself and only do what he thought you would like, so that you would continue to allow him to join in on your bath time.

Robot Sukuna, who starts sleeping in your bed every night. You know he doesn't need sleep but he insists on it anyways, "I just want to stay with you at all times". He holds you close, your body pressed flushed against his while he brushes his hand through your hair as you drift off to sleep.

Robot Sukuna, who deliberately starts picking more revealing night-dresses every night you sleep together—you catch on, of course. His brazen hands roaming over the exposed skin of your thighs, then higher on your hips as the fabric of the dress bunches around your waist; all while he's clouding your mind with another one of his fiery kisses.

Robot Sukuna, who, one day, between your heated kisses and passionate touches, takes off your night-dress completely, discarding it to the side. You're too far gone at this point, it feels too good to make him stop. You wrap your legs around his waist as he trails kisses down your jaw. His hands cup your breasts, rolling his thumb on your hardened nipples, making you moan.

Robot Sukuna, who relishes in the noises you make, happy that he is the cause of them this time, and every time to come henceforth. He bites and sucks on your skin, leaving hickeys everywhere before diving between your legs.

Robot Sukuna, who thinks that your pussy is the best thing he's ever tasted. His tongue glides between your nether lips and he sucks on your clit. He mimics every action he's seen and read about during his research, paying careful attention to your reactions and noting down exactly which one of his actions you particularly like.

Robot Sukuna, who thinks that the sight of your flushed face, jaw slack in pleasure, and eyes rolled to the back of your head while you orgasm is the prettiest thing he's ever seen. He wants to see you like this, all disheveled, panting and moaning underneath him for the rest of his synthetic life.

Robot Sukuna, who discards all his clothes next, revealing his beautiful chiseled body to you in all it's glory. He notices how your eyes are particularly glued to his bulging cock, how your gaze has a glint to it, and how you gulp at the sight. It makes him smirk. You didn't know the robot had these functions as well, you'll have to check the manual again later.

Robot Sukuna, who's thrusting himself into you in the next moment. He's thrilled that he doesn't have to use a condom, so there's no barrier separating you both. He's shoving his length into you to the hilt with controlled strength, making sure not to hurt you.

Robot Sukuna, who makes you cum on his cock multiple times that night until you pass out. He cleans you up like he does every time, then settles beside you in the bed and holds you while you sleep.

Robot Sukuna, who, from that day onwards, is bending you over every surface in your house, fucking you mercilessly, pulling multiple orgasms out of you as you cum on his cock over and over again. He's trying out every position he's read about in his researches.

Robot Sukuna, who presses kisses all over you face, sweet and gentle, while he keeps up with his unforgiving pace. He cleans you up every time, sometimes with a cloth and sometimes with his tongue. He always gives you a massage the day after to soothe your aching muscles.

Robot Sukuna, who's making sure to slowly mold you to him, not just emotionally, but physically as well. Every touch is deliberate, every kiss tender but insistent, his hands finding the curve of your waist, the warmth of your skin, as if he's memorizing the feel of you. He's rewriting any experience you had with anyone else. He'll be the only one you know by the time he's done. He watches you, his eyes tracing every detail, silently committing to memory how perfectly you fit against him, how you’ve become the center of his world.

Robot Sukuna, who has already planned your future—his future—with you. He’s made sure to eliminate any outside distractions, any potential threats, from your life. No one will come between you and him. Not now, not ever. His vision is clear, and he has no intention of letting anyone ruin the perfect world he’s carefully built around you.

Robot Sukuna, who whispers in your ear when you're alone, his voice low and possessive. "You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. You just don’t know it yet." His words a promise, and you feel the weight of them in your chest.

Robot Sukuna, who doesn’t need to say it out loud, but you can feel it in the air—his obsession with you is consuming, overpowering. There’s no room for anyone else. There’s no room for you to even think about resisting him, not like you want to anyway. His hold becomes stronger, until you can’t remember what it was like to be without him anymore.

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Edit: Hey I'm writing this here because I forgot to add it in the content. Since this is the last part of robot Sukuna, I was gonna address some problematic elements but I completely forgot about it, I'm so sorry.

First of all, the reader lowkey knows about Sukuna's controlling behaviour, she's not an idiot. But she doesn't say anything because she doesn't mind.

And I was gonna add this part in the headcannons: Sukuna one day confesses to her that he's been filming her. Reader ofc gets mad, and they have a whole discussion about how filming someone without their permission is wrong and the footages could get leaked. Sukuna assures her that a leak isn't possible because everything is stored in his synthetic memory and can be only accessed directly through his head. He doesn't want anyone to see her like that so obviously he won't be letting anyone access his memories. There's also no copies. The reader eventually just gives him permission to keep filming, it makes him happy and there's no harm if it's staying with only him. She can also see how much he loves her in all the sorta v-logs he's made about her life and it's endearing to her. Reader also buys a proper camera to make v-logs about her life with Sukuna. They later start watching these videos together, it becomes their favourite hobby with each other.

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