#(and I hadn't had a flare last night)

[writingsbychlo]

WITHDRAWAL | theodore nott

summary; theo decides to quit smoking, but doesn't realise that his decision would affect his girlfriend, too.

word count; 3007

notes; just a cute, fluffy little piece based on something that I was tagged in about 2 months ago! unfortunately, I cannot find the original post or tagger, but if it's you, please let me know!!

If there was one thing about Theodore Nott that couldn't be denied, it was that he loved with everything he had. 

He loved his friends; he was loyal to a fault and he’d never let them down. He loved his family, he wrote over fifteen letters a week to all his aunties and cousins, and still held onto his mother’s recipe book, even to this day. 

And he loved, adored, his girlfriend with everything that he had. He’d do anything for her, crawl across hot coals if she asked, give up his magic and his money and his legacy, just to make her happy. She’d never asked as such of him, still blushed when he pulled out his wallet when they shopped and smiled brighter than the sun when he gave her a handmade card or something he’d cooked. So, to his eyes, it didn’t seem all that much when he decided to give up smoking for her. 

She hadn't asked him to, never even pulled a face when he smoked. But Theo was damn sick of trying to blow the smoke away from her when she joined him at the astronomy tower, cuddled up to his chest, because he didn’t want that poison near her. He hated watching her shiver on the colder nights, he hated waking her in the middle of the night when he got up to satiate that itch, and he hated thinking of a future where he left her too soon, running short on time, because he ruined himself.

He chucked his last box into the fireplace one impulsive morning, and thought he might go cold turkey. He’d been so moody by lunchtime that he’d almost bitten Enzo’s head off over the way he pronounced ‘tomato’. That afternoon, he’d ditched his classes and trudged through the snow to the floo connection at the Hog’s Head, and picked up enough nicotine patches from a muggle supply store to knock out a fully grown Hippogriff.

He’d torn the packaging off of one in the grimy restroom at the back of the store and slapped it onto his bicep, and almost collapsed from the relief it gave him. It wasn’t nearly as effective as picking up a packet from the newsagent’s stand he’d passed would’ve been, but as soon as his fingers had twitched to pick up a box, your face had flashed through his mind. Your face, smiling at him, your face that morning telling him how proud you were of him when he’d shared his goals in hopes of support, and it was enough to deter him from the purchase.

You were his strength, once again, as you’d always been. 

And truly, you were so proud of Theo. Changing his patches for him every evening, in time with that first one. Reading up on the muggle solutions, and making sure you were fully versed on how to help him. Keeping him busy seemed to help, when he got bored, his eyes started flicking towards the door, and the slight irritability he’d been able to keep a lid on pretty well would begin to flare up. For the most part, he’d been staying at your dorm, in an active attempt to keep away from Mattheo, who wasn’t quite ready to give up his comfortable vice just yet. 

Unfortunately, as the days went on, while Theo seemed to be handling it just fine, you were struggling. The irritability grew, even Draco’s breathing was making you want to snap pencils in half in the library, or throw Enzo off the astronomy tower if he scraped his fork on his plate one more time. You were ravenous, and nauseous, all at the same time. You wanted to eat everything but could hardly hold it down. You were dizzy, and fatigued, and your grades were going to start slipping if this continued, because it had been almost a week since you’d been able to concentrate on any thought longer than a minute, never mind a whole class. 

And now, you were lying in bed, rubbing at your eyes angrily but unable to sleep as you stared at the ceiling. Theo, for once, was sleeping soundly beside you. Since giving up smoking, his sleep patterns had been getting better, while yours were getting worse by the night. Almost a week, and you’d barely gotten nine hours of sleep put together. 

When you shuffled again, pressing yourself a little closer to Theo as you rolled onto your side, he began to surface. The arm over your midriff tightened, pulling you in until your hips were bracketed against his, and he chuckled sleepily into your neck. Burying himself in, he pressed a kiss there, and another, and another. The rough pounding of your heart settled as you clasped Theo’s hand in your own, holding them to your chest as he littered your shoulder with kisses. 

At your sigh, he rolled you over, propping himself up on his elbow and yawning. Shaking his hand free from your own, he stroked the back of a finger along your cheek, and leaned down to press a kiss to your lips. As his hand settled on the side of your neck instead, yours slipped up to cup his jaw, and you melted into the tender love he offered you in the darkest hours. 

“What’s wrong, tesoro? Why are you awake?”

“Why are you awake?” you rebuffed, fingers lifting to comb through his hair, to push it back out of his eyes as he blinked himself a little more awake.

He shrugged, “This is about the time I’d normally go for a smoke.” He murmured, and your eyes flickered to the clock. 

You knew well enough the schedule Theo used to keep while smoking. Your timetable had slowly synched to it over the time you’d been dating. He’d wake up during the night, at some point around two, and disappear for a smoke. He’d take twenty minutes, or thirty if he bumped into Mattheo, and then he’d come back to bed. 

You didn’t mind the disturbance. Not when he’d come back slightly chilled from the night air and snuggle in close to you, wrapping himself around you.

“Actually, this is the time you’d normally come back from having a smoke, and give me my midnight kisses.”

“Is that why my girl is so restless tonight? Because I owe her some kisses?” He teased, leaning down until your noses were bumping, and you could taste the mint on his breath. Normally, he tasted like smoke, not toothpaste, and the shock of his warm lips instead of cold ones made you hum. 

The languid kisses melted the time away, his hand sliding up your shirt, sitting on your ribs and squeezing softly as he lowered himself down, covering your body with his own. Theo had always been your comfort, and your happy place. Being in his arms made you feel safe, and his kisses made you feel relaxed. As he licked his way into your mouth lazily, you anticipated the hazy blur of relaxation that usually followed when he kissed you. 

But, like usual recently, it never came. Instead, when he finally pulled back, and pecked the tip of your nose, he found you frowning, instead of smiling up at him. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.” You huffed, frustrated at yourself, at your confusion and the growing irrational irritation. “It’s not the same.”

“What’s not the same, bella?”

“Your… your kisses.” Your words trailed to a whisper, knowing he wouldn't understand, and the hurt that flickered across his face made your heartbreak. 

“They’re not?”

“No. I don’t know why.” His lips curled further at the sides, and the look on his face made you want to cry. It made you hate yourself, aggressively, and if you could tear out your own heart and give it to him just to see him smile again, you would. Just another thing you’d been suffering with lately, an overwhelm of your emotions, worse than any mood swing you got when you were on your period. “It’s not you, Teddy, it’s me. You’re still my happy place, you’ve done nothing wrong. It’s me. I’m the problem.”

“You’re not a problem, bella. But we should figure it out. I don’t want to… kiss you wrong, and see that look on your face. What’s different, tell me what’s changed?” His sweet words made tears prickle at your eyes, and you sniffed sadly as you looked at him. 

“I love you so much, Theo.”

“I know, tesoro. I love you too.” His thumb smoothed over your cheek, “Tell me.”

“I don’t know!” Your snap made his eyes widen. “You’re just… different. You don’t kiss the same way, you used to get all needy when you came back from a smoke, but you don’t anymore, and you taste different! You taste like mint right now, and it just doesn’t make me feel the same way afterwards.”

Your words were jumbled and hurried, rushed out as you smoked them and his brows furrowed as he tried to decipher what you meant. Second ticked by into silent minutes as Theo’s wonderful mind ticked and whirred, thinking the problem through, and playing with the information. Then, before you could say anything else, something clicked. You could see it in his eyes, when the gears stopped turning and the thoughts stopped flowing because he’d found the answer. 

Pulling away from you, he sat up, kicking back the covers and letting in the cold air, before moving across the room and shuffling through his gym kit left in the corner. Pulling out a nicotine packet from the box inside, he shook it out, using his teeth to tear open the packet as he made his way back to the bed. Sitting yourself up, you propped yourself in the pillows as he peeled off the plastic backing, and tried to unstick his fingers from it, holding it by the corners. 

“You’ve only had your patch on for nine hours, Teddy, it’s not time to change yet.”

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head and settling in beside you on the bed, legs folded underneath himself. “This isn’t for me, bella. Take off your shirt.” 

Slipping your arm out of your shirt, you pushed it to the side, watching as Theo brushed cotton fibres off of your shoulder, before sealing the patch onto your skin. He made sure it was properly sealed down, flattening it to your skin, before feeding your arm back through the sleeve of your shirt. He smoothed the top back down your torso, pressing a cheeky kiss to your breast over your heart as he did, and sitting back on his legs to wait. 

“Give it a second, then tell me how you feel.” He whispered, the moment feeling entirely too fragile as his hand took yours, fingers linked together. He kissed along your knuckles, his eyes locked on your face, waiting. And the moment you felt it hit, you knew he saw it too. 

It was like a cool, soothing balm over a raw, aggravated wound. It felt like running cold water on a new burn or healing a painful graze with a quick Episky. “Oh, Merlin…”

“I know, tell me about it.” He mumbled, the smile on his face at victoriously solving the problem melting away as realisation set in. “Cazzo, bella, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You have a nicotine addiction, and it’s my fault. All that time you spent with me at the tower, and the smoke on me, and kissing you as soon as I finished smoking. All your moodiness these last few days—”

“Hey!”

“It’s true, baby. It all makes sense.” He rubbed a hand over his face, and squeezed your hand tighter in the other. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I quit because I didn’t want this to happen to you, I didn’t want my problems to poison you, but it’s too late.”

“Kiss me.”

“What?”

“Kiss me, Teddy.” You demand again, pulling him in, and his mouth collides with yours as he makes a subtle groan of surprise and pleasure. 

His hand gripped the headboard behind you, the other skimming down your side. As you leaned back into the pillows, you took him with you, his body falling over your own, slotting between your thighs as our hearts thudded together where his chest pressed to yours. Your hands slid over his shoulders, skimming down his back, and he moaned again as your fingernails scraped across his lower back as you tugged at his shirt. 

He sat up, letting you pull it off of him, before his arms were back, caging you in on either side as he fell back down against you. Pulling one of your legs up to sit on his hip, he dragged himself away from your mouth, trailing wet kisses down your jaw, to the pulse point on your neck and back up. 

“Merde, bella. What’s gotten into you? Not that I’m complaining.”

“You’re perfect, Theo.” You smiled, leaning up to steal more kisses from his lips that he was happy to reciprocate, “You’re perfect, your kisses are perfect. I knew it was me, not you. I was the problem.”

“A problem I gave you,” He groaned, his hips rolling against your own as you giggled breathlessly. 

“Yeah, whatever. Now we’re quitting together. That’s the promise we made, we do everything together, right?”

“Damn right, tesoro.” He growled, teeth nipping at the underside of your jaw, as he began to make his way down your body. Your fingers were loose in his hair, settling back in the pillows, eyes slipping closed as he kissed along the insides of your thighs, teasingly. Finally, your body could relax, no longer tense and buzzing, but the foggy comfort of the night made your muscles ease into the bed, your body feeling heavy, and you sighed in bliss. 

Theo mumbled something, and you let your legs fall a little further apart, but your grip on consciousness was falling further and further away as the nicotine coursed through your body, finally letting you ease into sleep you’d missed for days.

“Bella,” Theo said, his voice sharper, and you stirred, working hard to force your eyes open, but they’d only made it halfway. His hair was ruffled, eyes wide and lips swollen, but his smirk melted away from his face into a tender smile as he looked down at you. 

“Sorry, what’d you say, baby?” The words slurred out of you, and he chuckled. His fingers unhooked from the sides of your shorts, and he leaned over to kiss your forehead. “M’sorry, I’m so sleepy all of a sudden.”

“S’okay, bella. Never apologise. C’mere, let’s just cuddle.”

Tucking your body into his, you shuffled your hips back into him, and he threw his leg over yours as he held you tight to his body. “You’re hard.”

“It’ll go down, don’t worry.” He snickered, kissing the back of your head. “S’your fault anyway.”

“Sorry…” You whispered, again, sleepily. “I’ll make it up t’you t’morrow.”

“Go to sleep, amore.”

But you’d already drifted off.

It was just as you were closing your History of Magic book, that Theo announced his presence in the common room as he walked in alongside Mattheo. They were loud, and raucous, and thankfully, you were less inclined to bite their heads off for it today. 

In fact, alongside Enzo, you’d been able to catch up on all of the History homework you’d been missing out on for the last week or so, getting you back on track for at least one of your subjects. 

“Patch change time, bella!” Theo announced, making his way over to you as he untucked his shirt and began to undo the buttons down the front. Tugging the tie out of the way, he crashed down ungracefully onto the couch beside you, Mattheo nudging Draco to move up so he could sit down too. 

This had become a regular part of your routine now, and you pushed the edges of his half-unbuttoned shirt aside to reveal the patch sitting on the middle of his left pectoral. Picking at one corner, you peeled it away gently, careful not to tug on his skin as you did, and Theo watched on adoringly in silence as you took care of him. Unwrapping a new patch, you brushed off the spot, before sticking a new patch onto him and smoothing down the bandage. 

He patted it himself, before doing a couple of the buttons on his shirt back up for modesty, as though he hadn't already given half of the common room a show, before he leaned in to peck your lips. His fingers fell to the buttons of your shirt, and he began to undo them slowly. “Your turn.”

He undid just enough to reveal your shoulder, without letting anyone else catch a glimpse of anything underneath, and as he leaned down to begin peeling away the old patch, you caught Enzo’s confused expression. 

“Why are you wearing a patch?” He asked, and Theo laughed to himself quietly as he changed your old one out. 

“Because loverboy here got me addicted too, through kisses and secondary smoke.”

The others burst out laughing, unfettered by your glaring as they made kissy sounds and crude remarks, while Theo buttoned your shirt back up. Your glare turned to him as you caught sight of his smile, and he shrugged, a lopsided smile on his lips. “What can I say, bella? I’m just that good.”

“Oh, shut it,” You smacked his chest, and he took your hand, tugging you forward to cuddle you into his chest as he kissed your temple. 

“I happen to think it’s adorable that as a by-product of how you got addicted, that means you were addicted to me.”

“Mhmm.” Your eyes rolled, and he squeezed you even tighter. 

“You had me addicted to you without any substances at all, bella. Just you.”

“Alright,” You scoff, “Stop sweet-talking me.”

“Never.”

[mahalachives]

Part 1: The Meet Cute

Azriel x f!reader

Genre: fated mates, rom-com, crack humor, eventual angst, eventual smut

Summary: Azriel never expected to finally meet his mate and to be… this.

A walking disaster with a talent for tripping over air, an uncanny ability to charm even the grumpiest Illyrian, and a knack for throwing herself headfirst into situations that require his immediate intervention.

She is warmth where he is shadow, laughter where he is silence. And worst of all? She makes him smile without trying.

Azriel, Are you Okay? - Masterlist

There were worse ways to die, you supposed.

You could've been mauled by a rabid Suriel.

Or trampled by a particularly aggressive herd of Illyrians during training.

But no. Your fate was to perish from sheer mortification, sprawled across the chest of the most feared male in Velaris.

And, in all likelihood, take him down with you.

Twelve Hours Earlier...

Life in Velaris was, for the most part, peaceful. You loved it here: the bustling markets, the shimmering Sidra, the endless opportunities to get lost in one of the city's many bookstores or cafés.

You had grown up in the Night Court, an ordinary High Fae with no claim to power, no noble name. No extraordinary skill besides the ability to make friends with everyone. (And, perhaps, your uncanny ability to trip over nothing.)

That was why you worked where you did. The Velaris Botanical Archives was the perfect job. Curating and cataloging the history of rare flora, researching the best ways to preserve the Night Court's unique plant life.

You adored every part of it.

Except for the fact that the bookshelves were designed for Illyrians.

Which was how you ended up in this situation.

All you'd wanted was a book on Moonbloom flowers. A single book. But when you asked the head librarian for assistance, she'd waved you off, muttering something about "independent young fae" before disappearing.

So. That left you and your greatest foe.

A ridiculously tall bookshelf.

The logical solution? Climb.

Was it your smartest idea? No. But it wasn't the first time you'd scaled one of these shelves, and it likely wouldn't be the last.

You had nearly reached the book when...crack.

The shelf trembled beneath you.

Your stomach plunged.

"Oh, no," you breathed, right before the entire world tilted.

And then you were falling.

Present Moment.

The only upside to your current predicament was that you hadn't been crushed beneath an avalanche of books.

The downside?

You were currently draped over Azriel.

The Azriel.

The Shadowsinger. The Night Court's lethal spymaster. A legend whispered about in the darkest corners of Prythian.

And you had just fallen on top of him.

The world had gone deathly silent.

You didn't dare breathe.

Slowly, painstakingly slowly, you lifted your head.

And...oh. Mother above.

Azriel lay beneath you, sprawled against the floor like he'd been tackled from the heavens. His wings flared slightly behind him, dark as the night sky, his hands firm on your waist where he had somehow instinctively caught you.

His hazel eyes, rich and unreadable, blinked up at you in pure disbelief.

You, meanwhile, were a very mortified starfish.

"I am so sorry," you gasped, scrambling to move. In your rush to not be straddling the Night Court's most terrifying male, you made a fatal mistake.

Your foot slipped on a fallen book.

And like a damn fool, you face-planted right back onto his chest.

Azriel let out a very slow, very deep breath.

You felt the rumble of it beneath you, his self-restraint practically vibrating through his muscles.

His voice, when it finally came, was dangerously calm.

"Are you trying to kill me?"

You squeaked, immediately trying to push yourself up again, but your elbow landed on his stomach.

Azriel made a very small, very controlled noise. A sound that might have been a grunt.

"No. I mean, yes. I mean, wait, no! I just..." You sucked in a breath. "This isn't what it looks like."

Azriel arched a slow, painfully unimpressed brow. His gaze flickered to your current position: fully draped over him like an overeager blanket.

"Really?" he drawled.

You swallowed. "Okay," you admitted, "this is exactly what it looks like."

A choking noise came from somewhere nearby.

And that was when you realized you had an audience.

At the entrance of the library, standing in a semi-circle of unholy amusement, were Rhysand, Cassian, Mor, and Amren.

Cassian's entire face was rapidly turning purple as he tried and failed to hold in his laughter.

Mor gasped before cackling so hard she stumbled against Rhys.

Rhysand's lips twitched, but his violet eyes gleamed with utter delight.

And Amren? Stoic, ancient Amren?

She merely crossed her arms and muttered, "Well. This is interesting."

You wanted to die. Right there. On the spot. Just spontaneously combust into fae dust.

Azriel, to his credit, was silent. Completely unreadable. But the way his wings twitched, the way his hands were still on your waist...

You felt it then.

A shift.

A sensation that curled into your ribs, warm and terrifying.

Your eyes met his again.

And there, in the depths of those night-kissed irises...

Recognition.

The world tilted.

Your breath caught.

"Oh no," you whispered.

Azriel blinked, his expression sharpening, like something had just slotted into place. Like he felt it, too.

A single second stretched into eternity.

Then, finally, finally, Azriel exhaled.

"Oh no."

And that was the exact moment Cassian completely lost his mind.

The roar of his laughter shattered the silence. His wings flared as he doubled over, hands on his knees, absolutely howling.

Mor collapsed against Rhys, wheezing.

Rhysand sighed through his smirk, shaking his head. "Well, I suppose congratulations are in order."

Azriel was still beneath you.

Still touching you.

Still looking at you like you'd just flipped his entire existence upside down.

And you?

You did the only thing your panicked, humiliated, fate-cursed mind could think to do.

You covered your face with your hands and wailed,

"WHY IS IT ALWAYS ME?"

Note: Wrote this during an eight-hour layover. Gotta love airport inspiration! Let me know in the comments if you’d like to be tagged for future chapters! ☺️

[mercurial-chuckles]

Catharsis

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader A/N: Follow up to Mirthless Monday Thought! Sorry for subjecting you all to the moody vibes and leaving you hanging on that cliff. Hopefully, this makes you all smile. Leave me a thought if you enjoyed! Also, special thanks to @stellar-solar-flare for giving me a push by doing the 'writing weekend!' Thanks, love! Look how much it helped, Stella. We should totally do these more often. ;) Warnings: Fluff | Distress due to sustaining injuries. Nothing graphic | Non-fatal injuries | Protective Bucky | Mutual Pining | Happy Ending | Clearing up 'n' Confessions | Crying Bucky, gosh, he's so fucking sweet, I wanna smother him with love | One scorching kiss or two | Language | ~4k | Unedited | Lemme know if I'm missing anything Note: Do not Steal, Copy, or Plagiarize any part of my work! Banner credits to me. Picture credits to the internet. Divider credits to @buck-star Thank you :) Check out my other works: Masterlist

Indulge Away!

Oh.

Oh.

Kate Tucker from Middle School. The memory of punching her for bothering a boy named Blake crept into your mind vividly. Did Kate remember that? Did Blake? You hadn't thought of either in years, yet here they were, haunting the hallways of your mind with other unwarranted thoughts.

A fractured chuckle escaped your lips at the sheer randomness of your delirious thoughts.

The rustling beside you brought your focus to the squirrel, frozen mid-step, staring at you with shiny eyes. The moment you tilted your head, you groaned at the pain that shot in your back, and the poor thing bolted, leaping away.

"Sorry," you muttered hoarsely after the squirrel, wincing as the movement shot sharp pain through your body again.

You leaned your head against the tree behind you; the rough bark, though slightly uncomfortable, felt like the greatest support. You would probably feel more comfortable at the safehouse in view, maybe a quarter mile away, but in your condition, it might as well have been across the ocean.

You could see the dilapidated-looking walls of the shack. It just looked that way, and you bet it was fully equipped to last anyone for a few days.

You shifted your longing gaze from the warm confines of the safehouse and looked ahead at the evening sky. The warmth from the sun gave you some respite from the shivering chills your body felt. You've always loved sunsets, but this one felt dreadful.

The sun was still high on the horizon. You'd slumped here around morning to escape the harsh light, but now, as the shadows grew behind you and the air turned colder, you couldn't shake the fear that the night would dawn for you much earlier.

A strong gust of wind had you hugging yourself for the warmth. You had thrown away the jacket and the tracking device in the water as a diversion for the two agents trailing behind you a few hours ago. You've lost them at the creek, and they must have thought you fell into it after sustaining injuries.

That was a few hours ago. Now, as the sun traversed into the horizon, doubt crippled you.

And just like that, your mind sought solace in thoughts of Bucky like it usually did.

When he fell off that train, did he lay there in the cold, half-conscious and hopeful. Did it feel like this? Or was he blissfully unconscious until his fate was sealed?

You've hated Hydra for everything that they did, but you hated them with vengeance for what they did to the man you loved.

When you first met Bucky, you were floored by how intensely handsome he looked. But you never intended to be anything but friends despite the crush. But after a year, you irrefutably fell for him. Nobody knew about it as you didn't share it with another soul for fear of mockery.

That stupidly gorgeous, brooding, ocean-blue-eyed, perfect man deserved whatever he wished for in this world. And he didn't clearly wish for you. He made it clear time and time when he avoided you.

'Mind your business.'  That memory vividly haunted you every second since the moment he uttered those words. Your heart splintered with pain, unable to contain.

In hindsight, your taking up this mission was fueled by the aftermath of the emotions.

Now, there was a chance you would never see him or your friends.

In intellection, you shouldn't have poured your heart into your journal. What if someone read it? What if Bucky read it? Would he feel sad if you weren't around anymore? Would he feel a twinge of guilt for what he'd said to you that day?

Ugh!

Bucky did have a point, though. You should have minded your business, but the heart was a greedy bitch. Right? You were so hopelessly smitten with that man.

Your eyes followed a leaf cascading down gracefully from the tree, and it fell right on your wounded calf.

You picked it up, your fingers trembling as you examined the crimson stain it had collected from your bruise. For a moment, a morbid thought crossed your mind. Maybe you could write your thoughts in blood. Would anyone even find them?

There's so much you wanted to tell. There were so many things left undone. You wanted to tell Peter to stop being a coward and confess to his friend. You wanted to give Natasha her birthday gift and see the rare softness in her smile. You wanted to take Steve to that art gallery featuring sketches you'd secretly submitted under his name. You wanted to visit Laura and the kids, hug Pepper, and one-up Tony.

And Bucky. You wanted him to find happiness. And you also selfishly wished that he smiled at you once, just once, before…

The edges of your vision blurred, and you flailed sideways, letting your hand take the weight of the body you collapsed at the foot of the tree uncomfortably.

You should probably muster everything in you to get yourself to the safehouse, but it felt like a Herculean task. Still you tried and moved an inch, but you collapsed right there, sprawled on your back.

It was what it was.

Keep me company. You mouthed to the tree above, the trilling birds, and the squirrel that curiously kept its distance, munching on the acorn it had carried from the tree you laid beneath.

You tilted your head and felt the evening hues dance behind your teary lids before you fell asleep.

****

George Finley was intimidated by Bucky Barnes, and it had nothing to do with the fact that he was the former Winter Soldier, now Avenger. No, it was not the reputation that made George fear the man, but it all had to do with the sheer animosity directed his way by the supersoldier.

George wondered why because he had only met the Sergeant three times, including today, but each encounter had left him a bundle of nerves that almost had him take Benzodiazepines.

The second time had left him the most shaken. George had watched, dumbstruck, as Bucky crushed a metal water bottle in his bare hand. It hadn't even been his metal arm.

At the time, George had foolishly believed Bucky's excuse: "Still getting used to the strength," he'd said with a shrug to George's colleague, Tina, who shrieked in fear. Bucky looked straight at George, flexing the Vibranium arm for good measure. George hadn't given it much thought then because he hadn't realized then what had triggered the display of strength.

After today, George wasn't just intimidated--he was terrified, and for good reason. The strong grip of the Sergeant's hand from earlier, when he had hauled him out of the medbay and barked that he had 90 seconds to pack everything necessary, had been enough to leave a red, angry bruise on his wrist. The memory of being all but carried to the jet by the towering supersoldier made George's stomach churn.

George avoided the Sergeant throughout the long jet ride, staying as far away as possible. He briefly considered striking up a conversation with the pilot to ease his nerves, but quickly dismissed the idea, fearing that any movement, however innocent, could trigger the supersoldier's wrath toward him.

So, when George watched the Sergeant freeze at the sight of you lying wounded on the ground, partially covered by scattered leaves, it all became clear. George had assessed your condition upon finding you-you'd lost blood, but you still had a pulse and were stable. Yet the super soldier stood utterly motionless, as if paralyzed, and on the verge of collapse.

"Sergeant, we need to get her to the safe house." George could see nothing was registering in the supersoldier's head. He had to explicitly yell at him, "SERGEANT BARNES, SHE's OKAY… we need to get her there to treat her better."

George had seen a lot of cases in his modest experience, but he had never seen a more apt representation of 'breath being restored.' Sergeant Barnes took a startling breath, nodded helplessly, and lifted you carefully, wincing himself at your injuries, chanting, 'You're okay' under his breath.

And it became as vivid as a 3D ultrasound image to George now. That fateful day, when he and his colleague, Tina, had been talking casually, George had mentioned that he thought you were cute and wondered if you might go on a date with him. He didn't notice Bucky standing nearby until he heard Tina's shriek and turned and saw the bottle crumble in the Sergeant's hand.

Yeah, the animosity made sense after one whole year.

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes was hopelessly in love with you.

~

Somewhere while treating you, the super soldier softly grunted an apology for earlier and he had muttered, "Call me Bucky," and George internally sighed happily.

Later, as the two sat in tense silence, George clung to a sliver of hope. Maybe--just maybe--helping to take care of you would finally earn him a spot in Bucky's good books. Or, at the very least, it might get him out of Bucky's bad ones.

So far, it didn't seem likely.

The night dragged on awkwardly. The few words exchanged were clipped and terse. Bucky had mentioned that their jet had gone for backup, ferrying prisoners from a nearby Hydra camp, which meant they were stuck here for now.

They'd eaten instant noodles in silence. George had unapologetically finished his portion because he was barely surviving on a pizza that he ate last night during his shift at the Compound. Bucky barely touched his noodles, twirling the fork while sitting beside you and watching you. After he ate, Bucky pointed at the couch and said, "Sleep."

George was grateful and knew no storm could move Bucky from your side. So, he scurried away to catch up on some sleep after staying awake for almost a whole day. God, it felt like his residency days.

As he lay there, he wondered whether Bucky confessed his feelings because, as far as George and a few other guys who crushed on you knew, you were very much single.

~

George was jolted awake a few hours later by a sharp, insistent shaking. His eyes flew open to see Bucky looming over him, tensed.

"Why isn't she awake yet?" Bucky hissed lowly, and George scrambled upright. He cast a look your way and then at the tall man.

"She's fine," George croaked, rubbing the sleep away from his face and trying to sound calm. "Painkillers are working. She just needs rest."

But Bucky's piercing glare didn't waver.

Resigned, George got up and checked on you again. "She's doing better," he said after a moment, gesturing toward you. "See? Steady breathing, color's back. Temperature's normal. You can relax."

Bucky nodded curtly and moved to the kitchen, fussing over the coffee machine.

George was not lying. You were recovering much faster. He saw a cup filled with water and a rag of a cloth beside the cot. Bucky must have sat beside you all night. It must have helped bring down the fever.

"Did you sleep at all, Sergeant?" He asked curiously, but all he got was a grunt. George took that as a "no."

Leaning back against the wall beside the small aisle of the kitchen, George sighed, exhaustion settling over him after sleeping on that hard, rickety couch. Please wake up soon, he thought. If not for your sake, then for the sanity of a supersoldier.

****

You woke to the aroma of coffee. And then you heard the shuffling. The surface beneath you felt much softer than you remembered, too soft to be the cold, hard ground.

Were you dreaming?

Your hazy consciousness urged you to move your head, and as you did, you felt the unmistakable comfort of a pillow beneath it.

Oh.

Slowly, you willed your eyes to open, squinting as they adjusted to the warm light of the room.

A figure hovered nearby, and he looked oddly familiar. You blinked again, the image sharpening into focus.

Dr. Finley?

"Your hair's longer," you mumbled, or at least, you thought you did. The words came out slurred, and the effort left your throat burning.

"What?" Dr. Finley's voice sounded distant, as if muffled by a cloth, "Sorry, I didn't catch that. Relax. You've gotta have some water…take it slow."

You licked your lips. Water. Yes, you needed water.

Before you could nod, you became aware of the presence on your other side. A tall, muscular man, all too familiar scent.

Bucky.

He sat beside you, the bed dipping under his weight, a small Dixie cup of water in his hand. Seeing him made you gasp softly, from exhaustion or maybe disbelief.

This had to be a dream.

Your eyelids fluttered closed again tiredly.

But then you heard Bucky calling your name so softly. It felt too real yet unbelievable. Your eyes cracked open, the haze in your mind lifting ever so slightly.

"Drink it, please," Dr. Finley said, but it wasn't his voice you were focusing on. It was Bucky's warm, calloused hand slipping beneath your neck, cradling it as he carefully lifted you.

"Slowly," Bucky murmured, his tone softer than you'd ever heard it. His touch was warming, soothing, and worrying you all the same.

The cool water met your parched lips, and you drank greedily, welcoming the relief it brought to your dry throat.

"Good," Dr. Finley said, watching you closely as Bucky eased you back down, his movements almost unnervingly tender.

"You hurt yourself pretty badly. Lost a lot of blood, but you're okay now. Nothing some rest won't fix." Dr. Finley said.

You nodded faintly, your voice hoarse as you asked, "Did they catch the two agents? The Hydra base?"

Dr. Finley hesitated, his eyes flicking to Bucky. "Yeah, the team handled it. But you should focus on healing…"

You barely heard the rest. Your mind was spinning, questions bubbling to the surface.

Why was Bucky here? Was this Steve's doing? Memories of your last interaction with Bucky vividly flashed, 'Mind your business.' It made your body tense instinctively, and the shift didn't go unnoticed.

Both men were staring at you now, concerned.

"Hey, easy," Bucky said quickly, his brows furrowed. "Are you okay?"

You nodded curtly, though your pulse quickened under the weight of his gaze and the hand resting on your forehead and scalp. You were too exhausted to deal with this, with him. Maybe… maybe if you pretended to fall back asleep, it would all go away.

"You should rest as much as you can," Bucky said. You didn't reply. Instead, you closed your eyes again, letting the warmth of the pillow pull you into the safe, inside hell and heaven of your mind.

****

Washing away the tiredness and the dried blood felt good. Bucky had gone out of his way to set up everything for you--a chair, a bucket of warm water he'd heated himself, and a clean towel he must've found somewhere in the back room. He'd even stepped outside, giving you privacy as you awkwardly washed up.

Every time you glanced at the closed door, you could practically feel him stare at you from the other side.

The blue Henley, his worn blue Henley, sat on the chair nearby, and he apologized for not carrying your clothes when he carefully removed his shirt and sat it on the small shelf beside the shower, reachable to you. You had no idea what to say to that except nod with a barely there smile. Your mind ate away at the idea of wearing his clothes. It was such a terrible circumstance, and you really wanted this all to end.

Earlier, when you requested to wash up after waking up all sweaty as your fever came down, you were looking straight at George, asking him, but George shared a look with Bucky--who you've been trying to actively avoid looking--and hurried outside about making a call, flashing an awkward grin, mumbling, 'He's got it.'

No. You groaned internally. George didn't understand that Bucky didn't want you to be anywhere near him.

Why was Bucky even here? Why was he going out of his way to help you? Was he guilty? Did he feel bad? Was that it?

By the time you were finished and had carefully changed into the Henley that smelled like him, felt like a warm hug on a cold day, and made you even giddier, exhaustion tugged at your limbs.

Bucky appeared a moment later when you called him, moving cautiously, his eyes scanning you, checking for any signs of distress. He carried a bottle of water, twisting off the cap before handing it to you without a word.

You accepted it with a murmured thanks, sipping slowly. His eyes flickered down your body briefly before returning to meet yours. You flushed under his watchful gaze.

Neither of you filled the silence, yet it felt threateningly loud!

~

Bucky helped you ease onto the bed, his brow furrowing as he caught your wince. Your legs stung despite his gentle touch. Once settled, you sat upright, your legs carefully placed on the floor.

You glanced up at Bucky, craning your neck from where you sat. "You didn't have to… do all this," you murmured uncertainly, guilt lacing your tone, and you averted your gaze. "I mean… thank you, but… you shouldn't…"

Bucky cut you off before you could finish, shaking his head vehemently, "Don't," he rasped, his voice intense. His eyes locked onto yours, almost pleading.

"Bucky," you called out softly, and to your utter shock, he dropped to his knees in front of you, his metal hand bracing on the floor while his right hand hovered near your leg, hesitant, unsure. The sight made your breath hitch, and you instinctively leaned back, utterly shocked.

"I haven't heard you call my name for four days." Bucky rasped, clearing his throat. He stared for a few long seconds before ruefully continuing, "I've been desperate to hear it," he admitted with a humorless chuckle, the sound edged with self-deprecation.

"Wh… what?" you stammered dumbly, your mind scrambling to process his words. Why would he say that?

He smiled at you, his smile not reaching his eyes, almost sad, making your heart tug painfully.

"Don't thank me," he said hoarsely, straightening so he was at your eye level. His voice cracked as his head dipped slightly, his shoulders slumping, "Don't… don't make it sound like that. Like you're not worth."

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. Your throat tightened, the lump of unspoken emotion making it impossible.

"I'm sorry, doll," he murmured, his eyes searching yours.

When you looked confused, he cleared his throat, and his gaze shifted.

Gently, he reached out and pushed a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His touch sent instant warmth to the last of your nerves.

He licked his criminally pink lips, "Sorry for saying… you know," he gestured with a tilt of his head, silently pleading with you to understand without making him say it aloud.

A scorned heart could wound anyone, but couple it with a marching mind on painkillers; it made you say things without a damn filter.

"Mind my business?" you asked rather softly.

He exhaled a long sigh, his eyes squeezed shut as he shook his head. "I..."

You watched as his shoulders trembled. His right hand gripped the edge of the bed beside your leg, his knuckles white under the strain while the other rested against his side, the Vibranium glinting faintly in the dim light.

"I'm sorry," he choked out, his voice ragged, broken. His head dipped lower, the tremors wracking his body with every inhale. "I'm so sorry…"

"Bucky…" you whispered, your voice barely audible, your chest aching at the sight of him like this.

He looked at you then, his eyes red-rimmed, tears streaking his face, raw and vulnerable. You'd never seen him so torn. It hurt you to see such a formidable, resilient man so vulnerable before your very eyes.

"I didn't mean it," he rasped, his voice cracking. "God, I didn't mean it. I was a coward. I was scared, and I... I pushed you away because I thought I didn't deserve you. I don't deserve you." He sucked in a shuddering breath, his eyes glistening as he shook his head. "But I can't do it anymore. I can't act like you…"

There was a lot to unpack there. You didn't want to assume where the conversation was headed. Your mind was still grappling with everything he was saying.

Your hand moved on its own, gently brushing the dampness from his cheeks as you leaned forward, your heart lodged in your throat. "Bucky, it's okay…"

"NO," he hissed, his voice breaking. Tears spilled freely down his face. "No… you were this close to… I almost lost you, and I would've lost the chance to tell you how much I… how much I love you..."

"What," you let out a disbelieving laugh.

No. No. It couldn't be. But he was before you, his hand gripping yours so firmly, hovering over you so close that you could feel the heat of him, his warmth wrapped around you like a blanket.

"Make me your business," he exclaimed, his voice trembling as he grabbed your hand, firmly clutching it to his face. The stubble on his jaw felt rough against your palm, a strangely sensual sensation that sent a shiver down your spine. "Please. Make me your goddamn business. I don't care if I don't deserve it. I don't care if it's selfish. Just...let me be yours."

Your lips parted, your breath catching as his words slammed into you. His eyes searched yours desperately, pleading.

If you were in a state of better comprehension and reception, you might have called him a dork, an adorably hot one, too, because who else would say, "Make me your business"? It almost made you smile.

"Bucky…" you whispered again, your voice shaking, your free hand brushing back a strand of hair from his forehead. "I…I didn't think you…"

Tears blurred your vision, the intensity of his unfinished words leaving you breathless. You hesitantly cupped his face with both hands now, your thumbs gently wiping away the damp trails of tears on his cheeks.

Your heart ached, trying to find the words.

"Don't cry," you murmured, your own voice cracking as you leaned in closer, your forehead resting against his. "Please don't cry. I'm here. I'm right here."

His forehead dropped against yours heavily, his breath uneven and ragged as his shoulders shook with silent sobs. You held him there, your hands gentle on his face.

"I don't want you to mind your business… never, never… just make me your business… I'm not perfect, but please… just give me a chance… and I will treat you right..." he confessed, and your entire body trembled.

A happy sob broke free from your throat, shaking your head in disbelief, unable to fully comprehend.

"I would," he said, his voice fierce, his grip on your hand tightening as he surged forward just enough that you could feel his lips so close against yours. "I would. Every damn day. Please…"

It pained you to see him plead.

His confession made you euphoric, yet speechless.

You wanted to shout it, to scream that you loved him too, that you had always loved him, but the words caught in your throat.

Somewhere in the depths of your mind, this felt like a fairytale, one that you would wake up from any moment, realizing you were still lying under the tree, cursing your mind for crafting such a beautiful dream.

When you didn't say a word, his expression faltered, and he began to inch away, shoulders and jaw clenched.

"Did I... did I get it wrong? Do you not like me?" he whispered, and your heart shattered at the vulnerability in his voice.

Even if it felt so surreal, and even if it was a dream, you couldn't be the reason for his sadness. So, you shook your head, blinking away the tears that blurred your vision, and a smile formed on your lips effortlessly.

"No, Bucky... you didn't get anything wrong," you whispered, your voice breaking. "I am hopelessly in love with you. It's truly worrisome how much," you added with a soft chuckle, the sound light and shaky, your heart bursting.

He chuckled, relief washing over him as he leaned forward again, carefully cradling your jaw. "Can we have tea tomorrow? You don't have to lift a finger. I'll make it for us and get all your favorites from Deniro's, even those weird-looking cake pops," he pleaded, his eyes warm with hope. You laughed, nodding frantically, heart swelling with joy that he remembered your favorite cafe.

"Get up and sit here, please. You've been kneeling there; sure, your old knees will start aching..." You pointed gently at the spot beside you.

Bucky rolled his eyes with a playful glint dancing in them, he inched forward, bringing his body even closer to you, careful to avoid your legs, his frame engulfing yours.

"I just need to do this…" He whispered against your lips, waiting.

You leaned forward, heart pounding as the heat of his lips tickled yours.

You really had no idea what kissing Bucky Barnes would feel like. You imagined it a million times, though, but you hadn't realized how perfectly consuming it would be. Bucky kissed like it was his first-ever kiss. Maybe it was after Hydra and everything, the way he pecked slowly at first and then sighed with a groan. Then, he licked his lips, carding his fingers in your hair and pulled you even closer.

"You taste so goddamn divine," he growled, softly breaking the kiss, letting his lips suck onto your lower lip, and you moaned helplessly. The sound spurred him on, and he suckled on your lower lip, tongue, and teeth, tracing your lips.

You couldn't take it anymore. Desperately, your hands found his neck, and you pulled him, and he eagerly pushed his tongue against yours. You clenched delightfully at the way you were turned on, and a moan escaped you. Bucky frantically grabbed your back, pressing you against his chest. His undershirt didn't hide his broad muscles flexing making you even more hot and bothered. Your tits practically smushed against his broad chest, and you readily complied, reducing the space between you both even more if possible.

A shooting pain made you hiss, and Bucky pushed himself away, his eyes wide, flushed, and dazed.

"Fuck, I'm sorry, so sorry…" he whispered, placing his hands gently on your outer thighs. Your skin blazed where he touched, goosebumps trailing in its wake.

Your breathing was shallow as you gulped, one hand resting on his cheek and the other clutching his right palm.

"I'm okay. Don't apologize. You're fine, more than fine. We should probably just wait it out," you blushed, gesturing to your bandaged legs.

Bucky nodded, smiling, his darkened eyes crinkling with lightness, and you felt your heart skip a beat.

He was so bloody gorgeous. It was fucking unreal.

An exaggerated sound of someone clearing their throat broke your reverie. Dr. Finley stood at the entrance, wide-eyed, awkwardly shifting on his feet. You felt embarrassed, wondering just how much he had witnessed.

"Um... sorry to interrupt, but the jet is here... We are expected to leave," Dr. Finley said, his voice nearly at a squeaky pitch.

Bucky glared at the man.

"Thanks, Dr. Finley," you managed to say.

"Take as a doctor's note," he paused, glancing at you, "You should probably avoid any strenuous activities until you heal," he said, awkwardly shuffling on his feet before taking off.

Bucky rolled his eyes, and you choked on your breath.

"Ready to go?" Bucky asked, unbothered, with a grin on his face. You nodded. His thumb gently grasped your lower lip, pulling it away from your teeth. It made your heart frolic in sweet agony.

"Don't tempt me, please." He growled, making you gasp at the tone.

And it truly felt dreamlike that night when Bucky held you in your room at the compound, sleeping soundly like a baby. He wrapped you tightly in his arms, your legs resting on the wedge pillow he 'borrowed' from someone's room. You'd probably find out tomorrow when everyone was back.

You slept feeling perfectly whole. And you felt invigorating, like finally accomplishing something you'd suffered through for so long or shedding a heavy weight you'd been carrying for far too long.

Baring your souls and unburdening emotions to become one!

A perfect catharsis, indeed!

Well?🩷🥹

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[dawnwriterimagines]

September Morning

LOGAN HOWLETT X FEM!READER LAURA KINNEY X PLATONIC!READER

Summary: Recalling the last day he'd held you.

If you liked this would you Buy me a Coffee?

---

September.

A September morning it had been.

He remembers the sudden change of pace in the mansion, the school year was starting, students would be lining up in the halls for the start of the semester.

You had been so looking forward to returning to teaching, to your students.

Planning and setting up a curriculum, a classroom, that they'd never get to see.

It was a September morning...

Logan had kissed you that morning.

But, not in the way he should've. Not in the way he wished he had.

It was swift, a tight-lipped peck on the forehead per your bitter request. You had to practically beg him to show you a hint of romance these days, he'd been pulling himself away from you at the time. Feigning uninterest in your relationship, in you.

But, it hadn't been true.

His feelings for you could never be explained in words, 'Love' felt too simple, too modest, so he never said it. But, that had been it. He was in love, devastatingly so. Night and Day. Dreams and daydreams. Even his nightmares, spiraling images of mayhem that would silence with your presence. Every thought, every moment, every breath seemed to be dedicated just to you.

And it made the future a terror in his mind.

He's lived decades, over a century, through wars, torture, plagues and lovers. Nothing in his life ever lasted, especially nothing good.

Though this was his longest relationship, and you shared a healing factor that contributed to you living since the 1890s while appearing as a woman in her late 20s. Naturally, he looked forward to many more years with you, decades and decades of breathless love, a hundred lifetimes.

But, Logan was a disease. A plague on anything good that came his way. One day, he'd always come to destroy the beautiful things he loved so much.

And he didn't want that to be you.

So, thinking it was the best thing for you, for the both of them in the long run, he slowly, agonizingly stretched the bonds of your relationship. He stopped kissing you unless you asked, stopped touching you unless you begged, stopped eating with you at breakfast, stopped embracing you, indulging you, loving you in the way you needed. He stopped everything, but slowly, so slowly.

Logan couldn't help himself, he wanted it all to last. But, it couldn't.

When he caught himself slipping, staring at you a little too long, kissing you a bit too fiercely, he'd curse himself. Dig his claws into his skin, piercing the flesh and tearing a scream from his lungs.

It was to protect you.

His feelings couldn't get in the way of you being safe from him. From the bad luck that followed him up from hell, that clung to his form and wrapped around anything to close.

It was a September morning when he was confronted by you.

"Logan," you took his wrist as he tried to part from you. "What's wrong?" you wondered, sadly.

He doesn't turn to face you, keeping his eye on the bedroom door, leaving you, he had to leave. If he stayed any longer... "Don't do this again, nothing's wrong."

"Of course, there is," you pulled at his hand, trying to pull him back. Back to you. "There's been something wrong for a long while, just tell me. Tell me and we can figure it out."

"Tell you what?" Logan coldly glanced back at you. "Haven't I told you enough?"

"You haven't told me anything," you frowned, staring right back. "This, whatever you're doing, isn't saying anything. I don't want you to walk away. I need you to talk to me."

He rips his wrist from your grip, forcefully, turning fully to face you, nostrils flaring but it doesn't faze you. You've handled the wolverine's temper before, hell your relationship used to be malicious before it became romantic. "Then you must be deaf," he says. "I think I've been more than clear. Any person with sense would've gotten it by now. Or maybe you're not as smart as I thought."

"Don't do that," Jaw tensing, your eyes narrow at your lover. "Don't be a child. Just say it. Tell me how you feel instead of pushing me away to make it easier on yourself."

"If you don't know by now," he spoke, he took a breath as he struggled to say much else. "I haven't been showing you clearly."

At that, you quiet a bit. Eyes flickering around his face for the truth, face falling, hurt evident in your expression, his heart hurts at the look, but he masks his agony as best as he knows.

Logan was physically stiffening up, fists clenched up, jaw clicking, he wasn't ready to confront this with you. He never even wanted it to end, he thought it'd be easier. So, he doesn't say anything, fighting with himself, expression twisting with his rampant thoughts.

"Logan," your painful expression nearly breaks him. You open your mouth, but your words come out in a stuttered whisper before falling quiet again. You're lost, confused.

"I don't understand. I...I thought we'd...found each other. Didn't we? Find each other," you murmured. "In all this pain, and grief, I found you, Logan..." the crack in your voice makes him turn away, a grimace along his face, a wince at your words.

Though you hadn't lived as long as him, you'd faced a century of hardship, decades of loneliness, death and vulnerability, you'd known no concept of safety until the X-Men. Until him.

Found through the rubble, you'd pulled each other out of, it was easy to fall in love. Promises of forever and beyond even that. Promises of together through the end of time, through the end of the world. Logan Howlett had confessed his love a thousand times over without saying a word, and you'd believed him like he held every precious ounce of trust in his hands.

You take his hand now, your eyes filling with tears as he stayed silent, your thumb running along his knuckles, he lets you. "Tell me you found me," as you cried, he takes your face in his hands, bridging the gap between you. Your first tear runs down his fingers, he wipes them away. "Tell me you love me..."

Logan Howlett speaks a truth he's regretted throughout his life afterwards, a moment that would plague his dreams for the rest of his life. "Have I ever before?" he wondered simply.

Instantly you're out of his arms, stumbling back away as if he'd burned you. Your eyes are wide, they dart away from him, your shoulders dropping as you come to the terrible conclusion, he was right. Logan had never said he'd loved you.

Logan's eyes burn, his fingers curling in on themselves and his chest hurts too much to take a breath. He wants to take it all back. Beg on his knees for forgiveness. He'd do anything. Jump through fire, fall in a pit of snakes, fight an army, snatch as many souls from hell that he needed to get back into your arms.

But, this was the plan. This was how it had to be.

Every word meant to sting, to burn and brandish you in a way that destroys your love for Logan Howlett.

Pulling himself away from this room before he can face your tears for another moment, he turns the knob to the door, opening and closing it behind him.

Stomping down the hallway, fighting every step as he could smell, hear, practically taste the sobs that tore from your throat as he leaves.

He nearly collapses as he takes the corner, his hand pressing into the side wall to steady himself. His heart in his ears, breathing harshly as his eyes redden and sting with unshed tears.

"Logan?" Scott sounds from behind him, questioning. "Everything alright?"

His rival, his friend, puts his hand on his shoulder, but it's shrugged off immediately. "Fine," Logan says without turning. Continuing down the hallway and away from him.

Scott makes a face, confused, before turning to Jean, who follows him out of their room. She notices Logan turning the next corner down to the stairs, "What's going on?"

"No idea," Scott sighs. "Just Logan being his usual self."

At the sound of a motorcycle driving away from the driveway, he glances out of the side window of the manor, frowning deeply as he watches Logan speed away.

Jean hums, amused. "Surprised?"

"Never," Scott says, before perking up as he hears your crying down the hallway. "Or maybe I am. Is that (y/n)?"

Jean's face falls, she steps out into the hall, walking slowly over to your room. Your crying louder this time, she rushes over to the room. "(Y/n)!" she knocks hurriedly, before bursting inside. Holding you instantly as you collapse to the floor, your hands covering your face, you hiccup, allowing Jean to hold you tight. "Hey, hey, what happened, what's going on?"

Scott comes up to the open doorway, confused, worried. But, he opts for giving the women their privacy, closing the door a crack, before reaching for his phone and texting Logan.

This was unlike Logan. Well, upsetting you was unlike him, not being an asshole, that was completely like him.

But, he knew how much Logan loved you, never saying so much as a tease that would indirectly upset you. Logan was smitten for years, unable to even put his feelings into words without going flustered. Something was wrong.

Angrily typing, Scott sends the text to his teammate, before perking up in surprise as a subtle beep rings out in the hall. He walks around the corner, down the hallway, and notices a phone laying on the edge of the steps, Logan's phone. He frowns. "Shit."

He sighs then, walking back around the hall. Running into Ororo, the weather goddess's brows are furrowed in worry. "What's going on with Logan? He looked upset, what happened?"

"You should see (Y/n)," Scott breathes, disappointed. Ororo's eyes widen at the news. "I've never seen them like this."

"Oh my," she frowns, before a streak of light passes by the window, nearly blinding them both.

"Jeez, what the hell," Scott turns, putting his hand up as the light gets brighter. Is that the afternoon sun?

But, it's not the sun. It's humming...like metal vibrating against the glass.

The light eases and the two mutants stare in horror. A sentinel, giant in size, it's eye peaking into the X-Manor, it's glowing red eye catching sight of the two of them immediately.

"SCOTT!" Jean screams.

He and Ororo spin around as a beam of light tears through the hallway, through the walls, through the glass. Tearing apart the building as a rush of power obliterates everything, a green blast of fiery energy coursing through the bricks.

"JEAN!" Scott bellows. "(Y/N)!"

You, with Jean in tow in your arms, flying through the chaos, dirt and scorching heat searing through your skin, having narrowly avoided the beam. Jean casting a telepathic shield as you both ram through the side wall and away from the sentinel shooting from the northside of the building. "Go, go, go!"

Ororo takes Scott's hand, the two of them lifted by the winds and hurtling out of the window as the radiating beam tears through where they were last standing.

Jean and you following, a sentinel chasing after the two of you, you glance backwards as you force gravity to propel you forwards and towards the tree line. Your swollen eyes widen in horror as the chest of a sentinel pops open, falling down to meet you and Jean. The metal tendrils bursting through and wrapping around your ankle, quickly you let go of a surprised Jean.

She screams as she falls before hurriedly catching herself, as she carefully lands on the grass below, rolling down to safety. A dirty smear of soot along her face, she looks up, watching to her terror as you're swallowed inside of a sentinel, it's tendrils wrapping around your body and pulling you inside of it's trap.

You scream as the doors slam shut, hand extending outwards. Out towards the road, out towards Logan.

Jean's hands immediately rise upwards, desperately, "No, no!" she cries, but then the inside becomes engulfed in flames, you scream in agony in the air as your prison of metal suffocates you in a sudden rush of fire. "NOOO!" Jean screams, the violent light of a burning flame fills her eyes as she sobs out in horror.

The sentinel crashes downwards toward the far tree line with you buried in its casket, Jean's telepathic pull interrupted at the sheer weight of it's fall. She rushes down, running desperately, but the northside sentinel crashes down in front of her, it's beam of light rushing down on her.

Ororo with tears in her angry eyes pulls the winds down and towards Jean, pushing her out of the way of the lethal attack. She then pulls lightning from the sky, storm clouds rolling in, rain falling from them, a sudden strike of electricity collides with the large sentinel. It jerks, it's metal shuddering and loosening, but it then turns to her, it's beam whistling through the air.

She flies up, avoiding it. Then past the sentinel, pulling lightning from the clouds, she desperately strikes at the sentinel balled up by the tree line that burns with fire with you inside. With a cry, she brings it down, splintering its shell. But then, before her eyes, the metal changes in texture, from a dented metal, to a rocky surface of stone.

Fire spills out, and she can hear your weakened vocals crying for help.

Ororo wails like a vengeful spirit, bringing down the wrath of the storm down on the shield of the sentinel. But, without warning, a large hand of a sentinel swings toward her, knocking the weather goddess out of the sky. "Ah!"

Scott rips his glasses off his face, beams of concussive force springing from them and knocking the giant robot back a few feet, it's hand coming up to block the attach. The beam wearing down on it's metal, but it comes closer and closer.

With a rageful cry, his beams become larger, nearly covering the giant being, it stumbles back, the ground rumbling with each forced step back.

Jean lifts herself up, a telepathic push shoving the sentinel over before it can restart its beam to attack Scott. "Rah!" the sentinel lands on its back, nearly blowing them all back with the force of it.

As the sentinel falls, the rest of the X-Men emerge from the manor, Hank and Charles guiding the students out of the building and towards the field, away from the chaos.

Without wasting a second, the X-Men rush down the tree line, to the sentinel that's captured you, no noise escapes the trap. Jean telepathically tears into the metal, the sentinel's regenerative body fighting against her wishes. Forcing the metal to open, a terrible heat pouring out of the cracks, no one can get close enough, your crumbling hand falling out limply.

Jean screams.

Ororo cries. "No!"

Scott curses, hands coming up and over his head, horrified. "Oh God!"

Another streak of light tears through the field, rushing up towards them all this time, a violent beam of energy destroying everything. They turn, but it's too late.

---

Logan turns his glass, watching as the liquid swishes and shifts with every move.

Sitting in a local pub in the city, he sighed heavily to himself. He can't stop thinking of your face, how you looked when he said all those things, when he gave you lives that he'd forced you to believe.

He beats his forehead with his fist, grimacing miserably, as he sat there, taking another swig of his beer. "Fucking idiot," he curses himself.

Why did he have to ruin that? Every good thing. Ruined.

Why did he have to do this to himself?

What kind of joke was his life? This one thing. He couldn't just have this one thing...

No. He remembered. He couldn't.

He took another drink, waiting for the kick. He sighs at the burn in his throat that he waits to numb his thoughts to silence.

Against his better judgement, Logan takes out his wallet, realizing he'd forgotten his phone. He opens it, eyes softening at the picture of you he kept there, pulling it out, it was folded to block him out of the picture.

He held a little smile, letting you pull him to your face so you both were smushed together for a happy little photo. He recalled the day as it being the moment he knew he wanted to spend every waking moment with you, it was also the day he realized his selfish faults for dragging you into the mess of his life. But, dammit he wanted you so bad, he wanted to keep you, to love you as you loved him, eternally.

He couldn't have that.

Logan Howlett was destined never to have that again, he had decided.

But....the thing is he could've. Right?

He thought to himself, you weren't an average woman, you were an X-Man, an immortal so it seemed. You were no normal woman that he'd lose to time or disasters.

He could have you for decades more, a century longer. A millennia if you both were lucky.

Who else could say that? Just you. Just the two of you, really.

And he's been so desperate to ruin that...for fears that may never come true.

Logan thoughtfully puts his glass down, glancing around as he thinks to himself, what an idiot he was.

He bursts from his seat, a newfound purpose in himself, a revelation that he hadn't had before. He could be happy with you, as long as he protected you, as long as he loved you, as long as he left behind that plague that followed him. Leaving it behind in that stool, tearing himself from the darkness that followed him constantly, he thought only of you.

The things he'd make up for. The moments he'd never taken with you. The days he'd cherish with you. The life you could build together.

But, first, he had to apologize. And fuck, did he have a lot to apologize for.

As Logan's leaving the pub, the news turns on, a broadcast that makes him stop at the door.

"Breaking News, Charles Xavier's school for gifted youngsters, a home for wayward mutants in upstate new york, has been attacked as of 6 p.m. tonight, so far there's been 14 casualties and counting..." as the news anchor speaks, all attention going to Logan at the news. His eyes widening at the helicopter view of the manor ripped to shreds, smoke traveling up the ruined building. A sentinel striking down on the land.

"No," he breathes. "No, no!" Logan rushes out of the pub, to his motorcycle, revving the engine and driving off.

---

Arriving at the institute, driving straight into the smoke filled land, strands of flame, burned fields and falling embers from the crumbling manor. Logan looks around, blood running cold as he runs through the field, finding the bodies of his students, bodies broken or just their limbs seared right off from the beams.

He finds Scott, his eyes staring open into the sky, this glasses broken, but his eyes don't light up with red energy as they would've. He's gone.

Then Jean. A few paces away from Scott. Blood in her hair, reaching out for her husband. Gone.

He doesn't find Ororo until he finds Hank. The both of them dead next to one another, he cradles her in his arms, leaning over her.

"(Y/n)," he gasps out, sick to his stomach. He cries out again. "(Y/n)!"

His voice echoes in the silent, crackling field. The sentinels having gone, the carnage remaining.

A creak of metal falling apart makes him turn quickly, rushing to the noise, the smoke is heavy here, embers flying to the sky.

Creaking metal splits, a sentinel he realizes, but it'd been burned through the inside out, charred.

A body falls out of the crack, hitting the grass as it crumbles.

His grief moves him first, rushing over, "Oh my god, oh my god," he repeats to himself as he runs. "(Y/N)!" Logan screams.

Dropping down in front of his lover, your skin cracked and burned to charcoal, hardened to the touch, beneath the skin, he can still see the flames that scorch beneath. And yet your eyes still find him.

He takes you in his arms, feeling as your body begins to crumble away. "No, no, no, what's happening?" he shudders as he realizes you're not healing. "No, why aren't you--why aren't you healing?" he takes your face in his hands, gentler this time than he had this morning, than he had any day. "Why aren't you healing, baby?"

He looks closely, your body's sustained blasts from explosions, beams, you've walked through flames before. What's going on?

Logan shakes his head. "Why--" he doesn't known what to do. "Come on, come on, please. You've gotta heal, darlin'. Come on."

Your heavy-lidded eyes just stare at him, you breathe subtly, hardly a breath at all.

Tears run freely down Logan's face this time. "I lied," he began quickly. "I had found you before I knew I loved you. I found you in my dreams and in my thoughts before I slept, I found you in every moment of every day, (Y/n), please," he admitted to his love. Eyes flickering around to see if her body would finally start regenerating as it always had, but you continued to crumble and crack. "Please. Please, (y/n), please," he sobbed.

A hiss of steam runs off your face, your tears sizzle away on your skin as they leave you. Your eyes closing briefly as Logan puts your forehead to his, "I love you in every moment," he hiccupped. "Of every day, of every hour," he gasps out as he feels your hand dragging up to his wrist. He takes your hand, it's fragile, cracking beneath the weight of his touch and the effort to move.

"I love you..." you speak with your last breath, sparing it for him.

"I love you," he cried, reaching down, kissing your lips.

He feels your hand crumble to dust in his hands, your legs in his lap lose weight as they follow in the same way. As your lips fall apart, he kisses your forehead, unable to open his eyes to watch as you fall away.

Logan breathes in a painful breath, heart breaking as he can't feel you in his arms any long. Squeezing the remains of you in his fists, he inhales deeply, a stutter of an agonizing sound, he cries as he finds the strength to open his eyes.

Nothing left of his lover, nothing left of you, but the embers that flies in the air, the ashes at his feet.

"Oh god," he cried, bringing himself down to the ground, fisting his hands in your ashes. He shakes violently, weeping into your remains, before sitting up and wailing into the air, a scream ripping through his lungs, tearing at his vocals.

The terrible sound could be heard miles away from the destroyed manor.

---

Years later, Logan sits at a pub. Taking another shot of whiskey.

"Another," he requests.

"No more," the bartender says to him, frowning with a look of disgust. "You know you're not welcome here."

Logan glances up, jaw tightening before sighing, fists unclenching. "Just one more and I'm outta here."

Reluctantly the bartender pours him another.

And then suddenly, a red suited merc jumps out of a portal, clumsily flipping off the pool table and spinning over towards the empty stool next to Logan.

Part 2 coming soon.

[taesanrot]

[from the start] taesan x f!reader | 4.0k words college au, classmates to lovers, making out, alc consumption ++ terrible drunk decisions lmao, angst kinda, misunderstanding, mutual pining, fear of physical touch at first, everyone is just a little confused note. sorry this took literally so long to finish, i kept changing my mind on how i wanted it to go. fun fact the original idea for this fic was based on my real life situationship. hope u guys enjoy <3

you shouldn't be here. you should be sleeping off the alcohol flowing through you in your own bed, at your place. you shouldn't be here, pressed against taesan's chest, your mouth molded against his.

up until a few hours ago, han taesan was nothing but a fleeting memory. just someone your friends brought up once in a while to watch the way your cheeks flared up in embarrassment. he was part of the past, an unfortunate moment during your freshman year in university. your friends didn't know about the guilt that ate away at you every time the boy's name crossed your mind.

the two of you had met in english, deskmates who bonded over the frustrations that came with your shitty professor and endless essays. complaining about class turned into hushed whispers while the professor wasn't looking, adding each other on socials and snapping silly pictures back and forth, walking back to the dorms together. because... why not? taesan was cute and you couldn't help but chase the feeling that came with every interaction you two shared.

you never thought it would turn into anything, until your friends pointed out the obvious: he liked you. taesan liked you. the way your hair flowed so prettily, the way you smiled at all of his stupid pictures and the way your eyebrows furrowed at the professors nasally voice.

the two of you had an undeniable connection, and it ended with the two of you sitting on his bed watching a movie together on his roommate, sungho's, tv.

flirty glances and brushing hands turned into his hands running up your arms, breath hot on your neck as you tangled your fingers in his dark hair. having him like this should've felt like heaven, but instead your chest tightened and your body tensed, to the point where taesan pulled away from you, looking into your eyes and softly asking if this was okay, if you were okay.

you should've told him the truth, you were just scared. you hadn't done this before, not with someone who you felt so deeply for. you just wanted to slow down a bit. but instead you faked a smile and just said that you remembered something your friend had asked you to do, ignoring the stab in your chest as his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. you pulled away uncomfortably quick and left without another word. that was months ago.

the last you'd heard from him was hours after you left; he'd apologized profusely, saying he'd misread things and you tried and tried to reassure him that he did nothing wrong. you wished he could read your mind so you didn't have to face the fact that you were a coward and you'd hurt him in the process.

taesan thought that night would be the last time he'd see you. he could tell something was wrong, and he'd figured that you'd never want to see him again. but for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to blame you, hate you, nothing.

...

"seriously? you're not mad.... at all?" sungho sat up in his bed, staring at his roommate in disbelief. "dude, she literally led you on and ghosted you." jaehyun chimed in, shaking his head at the younger boy. taesan shrugged and went back to tuning his guitar, covering up the sounds of his friends' scoffs with the vibrations of the strings he plucked. they thought he was hopeless, and secretly, he agreed.

...

after months of radio silence, it was safe to say that taesan was not expecting his phone to ping with a message from you.

you tried to move on from things with the music major, joking away your pain with your friends and going on dates with other guys. it worked for a few months, but eventually thoughts of han taesan caught up to you. they plagued your mind for days on end.

late at night, lying in your bed and staring at the ceiling, you wondered how things could've been different if you'd just told taesan the truth. you thought it was easier to just run away and pretend nothing happened between the two of you, that you'd be at peace if you just went back to before you knew he liked you, before you knew you liked him too. in the end, it just left you feeling empty.

you hadn’t ever met anyone like him, something you hadn’t ever admitted out loud. you couldn't go back to the way things were before, he'd left an imprint on your mind like no one else.

the thoughts you tried to smother finally came up to surface on a breezy saturday night as you were celebrating your friend, yunjin's, 21st birthday party at her apartment. after more than a few shots and the truly you split with yeri, you felt like you were on another planet. you stumbled over to the living room, falling onto the couch and leaning your head back and closing your eyes.

after a few minutes of sitting with your intoxicated state, you lazily unlocked your phone, scrolling through your instagram timeline, attention focusing in and out. that was until you came across a certain set of pictures. you squinted, reading the caption.

tae23san take my tears @psungho @myungj4e

pictured was none other than taesan, sitting on top of a car with his head tilted back to look at the sky.

sitting up slightly, you carefully scrolled through the dump of photos taesan had posted: him posing in the booth of a recording studio, he, sungho, and jaehyun in a photobooth, a candid of him playing the guitar, a mirror selfie with sungho, and a solo shot of him.

the last picture almost took your breath away; he posed with a hand ruffling his own hair as he pouted his lips.

all at once, you felt every emotion you fought so hard to drown explode in your heart. you missed him. so much. your head spun with sadness, guilt, and longing. you wanted to- no, you needed to see him.

it wasn't long before the thoughts popped in your head.

why don't i just text him?

whats the worst that could happen?

it was bad idea, a terrible idea truly. but you couldn't help yourself, you opened your contacts and found your chat with him faster than you could blink. you fumbled with the screen, trying to type out a cohesive message to the boy you so desperately wanted to see.

[1:53 a.m.]

y/n: taesnjsnnnnn

y/n: i miss you

y/n: i'm soryry

y/n: can i swee yuo? please

...

taesan was hoping to have a peaceful smoke with his friends. he, sungho, and jaehyun had spent the day working on a project for their advanced music production class, and were now sitting on the couch passing a blunt around, some rnb songs floating softly through the air.

taesan breathed in slowly, sucking in the laced smoke and exhaling it softly, humming at the warm feeling in his limbs. he felt his phone buzz in his pocket, laughing at the feeling of the vibrations against his thigh.

"this is done for." jaehyun mumbled before flicking off the ash and placing the end on the side table. taesan watched him with hooded eyes as he stood up to stretch out his limbs, making sungho and taesan giggle.

"i'm going to my room." sungho stood as well, murmuring a similar quip before meandering over to his door. "don't forget to turn off the lights, san."

taesan groaned in acknowledgement, letting his head fall back onto the couch. not really wanting to sleep, he wondered if he should watch a movie or make some food.

the boy sighed in boredom, pulling his phone out of his pocket languidly and swiping through his notifications.

his already blown out pupils grew even bigger at the sight of your name in his notifications. he'd never gotten around to deleting your number -- he figured there was no point.

his eyes focused on the words next to your name. 4 unopened messages. he rubbed his eyes slowly.

was he really that high right now? or did you really message him. taesan's gaze jumped over to the timestamp.

10 minutes ago.

he hurriedly clicked the notification, tapping his thigh with his fingers as the screen expanded to display your texts. you were clearly a bit out of it, taesan smiled at your typos. his vision seemed to laser focus on the one text you didn't misspell.

i miss you.

taesan couldn't say he didn't feel the same way. despite sungho and jaehyun's relentless nags, he thought about you more often than he'd like to admit.

somehow, he knew something was up the fateful night the two of you had hung out. that wasn't you, he just knew it. or so he told himself. he didn't want to be mad at you, he didn't want to hate you. he had hoped for this day so many times. the day you'd tell him you didn't mean it.

taesan's fingers moved across the screen slowly.

[2:08 a.m.]

han taesan: hey

han taesan: where are you?

...

from the moment you hit send, you had suddenly been more alert, thoughts racing a million miles a minute.

what do i do if he responds? is he even awake? he just posted, he has to be. god, i hope this works.

you'd taken the leap, there wasn't any going back.

you begrudgingly lifted yourself from the couch you were sitting on, looking for your friends so you could take your mind off of the messages you'd just sent.

walking over to the fridge, you grabbed a water bottle to help you sober up a bit.

eunchae and chaewon did a great job at keeping you from checking your phone every thirty seconds. you laughed at their horrific job at playing pictionary against two guys yunjin knew, anton and sohee.

your two friends were losing bad, and you smiled watching anton and chaewon bicker, anton giggled at chaewon's reddened face. you hoped you'd remember to tease her about it later.

your phone buzzed twice in your pocket and you held your breath as you fished it out and tapped the screen. face to face with taesan's messages, nearly shrieking, you quickly typed a response.

you paused for a second, calculating your next move. you really wanted to see him, praying to god that he was free and willing.

[2:09 a.m.]

y/n: yunjins place. in source complex

taesan: oh

taesan: what room

y/n: 204

taesan: im 3 floors up

taesan: in 511

y/n: can i come up

taesan: yeah of course

while you were definitely a little more sober than 15 minutes ago, you still fought to not squeal into your hand. looking around, you searched for yunjin so you could bid her goodbye.

...

mellow music still floating in the air of the living room, taesan dropped his phone in his lap. he let out a shaky sigh.

whether it was the weed or the fact that he was about to see you after what felt like forever, taesan was suddenly very nervous, wiping his hands on his pants and slowly standing from the couch.

rubbing his arms, he looked around the apartment, unsure of what to do until you got there. he assumed you'd take a bit to leave your friends apartment and make your way up to his. taesan hoped you'd make it okay; he wanted to come get you but was honestly way too fucking high to leave his apartment.

"i guess i'll go brush my teeth or something." the boy mumbled to himself, walking over to the bathroom to fix his hair and make sure he smelled okay.

...

stepping into the elevator, you looked at your reflection as the doors closed, almost forgetting to hit the button for the fifth floor in the midst of smoothing your hair down and fixing your slightly smeared eyeliner with your thumb.

closing your eyes, you lightly rubbed your temples in a sore attempt to bring yourself back to reality, and to emotionally prepare yourself.

you were seeing taesan again, finally.

you hid your blush from literally no one and smiled slightly into your hand as the elevator doors opened.

...

standing in front of the boy's door, the weight of the situation at hand truly hit you.

what exactly did you want from this?

what did you want from him?

if you ended up hurting him again you wouldn't be able to forgive yourself. huffing slightly, you brought a hand up to your neck to fiddle with your necklace and think.

your dazed yet racing thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the front door to taesan's apartment, door swinging back to reveal none other than the music major himself.

"hi" you smiled and spoke quietly.

even though he knew you were coming, the boy somehow still couldn't believe the sight in front of him. it was really you.

you looked as breathtaking as ever in his eyes, your hair a bit shorter than the last time he saw you. taesan caught himself and chuckled slightly, moving out of the way to make room for you.

"come in."

you blushed as you stepped into the apartment awkwardly, not sure what to do with yourself. the alcohol was still making your head spin, eyes adjusting slowly to the sight of taesan's living space. you slipped your shoes off quietly and followed the boy as he walked into the kitchen.

"do you want some water? or snacks? we have chips and fruit, unless sungho ate them all. i think we have some juice too...." taesan's high had clearly not worn off in the slightest, and the boy winced after realizing he rambled on about the contents of his pantry for a full 30 seconds.

you couldn't have cared less, eyes focused on how pretty his hair looked brushed down in his face. making eye contact with him, you noticed the red tint to them, giggling quietly.

"we also have -- are you even listening?" taesan smiled at your starry eyes as you shook your head and laughed.

"god y/n- okay let's just go sit down." he watched you eagerly turn around and nearly skip towards his living room couch, settling right in the middle of the sofa.

the couch cushions were soft as they rubbed slightly against the exposed skin of your legs. shivering slightly, you wished you'd worn a bit more than just a crop top and denim shorts.

your gaze traced the lines of the wood on his coffee table, thoughts lost and scattered. you were just as blown away at the sight of him as he was of you. you recalled the sight of his larger hands shoved in the pockets of his zip up, wondering what it would feel like to have them wrapped around your own.

you wriggled your socked toes to a beat only you could hear, trying to take your mind off of the nervousness flowing through your veins.

"here." you looked up quickly to see taesan standing in front of you, about an arms length away. "i brought you some water."

taesan bit his lip to keep himself from smiling at the sight of you on the sofa. he looked around awkwardly for a second, not sure where to sit -- you were in the middle of the couch and choosing either side of the sofa would leave him sitting directly next to you.

"why are you still standing? come sit." you tilted your head at him and patted the spot to your right softly, smiling up at the nervous boy.

sighing out in relief, taesan plopped down next to you and settled into the corner of the sofa. you turned slightly so you could face him as he spoke, glass of water abandoned on the coffee table.

"do you wanna watch a movie?" he asked.

"is it okay to turn on the tv this late?" you shyly responded

taesan's ears turned slightly red in embarrassment. he 100% forgot about his two other roommates sleeping soundly in their own rooms.

while they probably wouldn't mind the noise, taesan didn't want to have to explain why you of all people were in their living room at this very moment.

"if you're okay with it, we can watch something in my room, i can play it on my laptop." taesan spoke.

your cheeks burned slightly at the idea of seeing the boy's room but you hummed in agreement, standing up quickly. the sudden movement caused you to stumble a bit. taesan stood up after you, wrapping a hand around your arm in an attempt to steady you.

"are you okay?" he turned you to face him fully, hands resting lightly on your shoulders as he looked at you worriedly.

your breath hitched at the mere inches of space between the two of you. taesan's gaze left you speechless, and your eyes searched his face before landing on his lips.

for every minute that had passed since you sent that first fateful text message, the anticipation had been eating you alive. deciding you couldn't take it anymore, you pulled yourself up by the collar of the boy's hoodie and pressed your lips against his.

his mouth was plush and unmoving against yours and you let yourself close your eyes and savor the feeling for a moment before lowering yourself back onto your heels.

opening your eyes, you mentally geared yourself for the awkward conversation you feared was about to ensue. taesan, on the other hand, barely gave you a moment to breathe, chasing your lips the second they detached from his. slipping a hand behind your neck, he tilted his face down and sealed his lips over yours once again.

taesan's mind raced as he bit your bottom lip, wondering what this was going to lead to and if he'd regret it. he decided he couldn't care less when he felt you tilt your head to the side and push your tongue in his mouth.

you craned your face upward and grabbed the sides of his sweatshirt tightly, like he might disappear if you let go of him. you needed more of him.

you broke your lips from his for a split second to ask where his room was. taesan mumbled something you couldn't hear before pulling you by your shoulders. the boy's mouth didn't leave yours for a second, only pulling away to push his door open.

you opened your eyes slowly, looking up to meet the taller boy's hooded gaze. you turned around and took in the sight in front of you. taesan's bed was in the corner of the room, posters hung above a small desk. you smiled at the tangles of wires on the floor, leading to a small speaker system and bass guitar.

"gonna go turn off the lights and check the door." taesan's voice rasped. you hummed in acknowledgement and stepped forward into the room slowly.

you walked over and climbed onto the boy's bed, bringing your legs up so you could hug your knees. staring at your socked feet, your mind was completely blank. when taesan came back you were absentmindedly fixing your hair and shirt, not even noticing the boy's return.

"are you okay?" taesan asked softly.

you looked up to see his eyes on you, smiling at the way hands were politely tucked behind his back. he was nervous, hoping he didn't overstep or make you uncomfortable. taesan didn't think he could handle watching you run out his door a second time.

"okay?" you tilted your head in confusion.

"with this... being here with me." your heart panged with sadness, feeling so guilty for how you made him feel before. you wanted to make it up to him.

"i am. i want this. i promise, taesan." you watched taesan slowly process your words though his wavering high, smile forming on his face. his hands came up to push your legs down, and you scooted towards him, giggling and wrapping your legs are his standing figure.

taesan had abandoned his hoodie in the living room, now in a loose t-shirt. your hands scrunched the fabric of the graphic tee as you pulled the boy towards you again. taesan complied without a word, bending down to meet your awaiting lips. you moved your lips against his languidly, savoring each swipe of his tongue against yours.

taesan pushed your body backwards so he could climb on the bed with you. you scooted back until you were pressed against the headboard, only staying there for a second before taesan pulled you onto his lap.

his lips went to your neck, pressing soft kisses and grazing his teeth against the sensitive skin. with each kiss, bite, and swipe of his tongue against you, taesan could feel you practically melting into his lap. eyes screwed shut, your head leaned back to further expose your neck and your fingers tugged at the boy's hair.

you slightly pulled taesan's face away from you, bringing your hands to gingerly cup his face. his eyes were slightly glossed over as you placed a wet kiss on his lips.

the last traces of your sobriety were thrown out the window, both of you drunk off each other. taesan thought you looked like an angel, bringing a hand up to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. your eyes formed crescents as you smiled at the boy, and he swore he almost stopped breathing.

your hand came up to rest over his that was still cupping your face, intertwining your fingers. bringing them closer to your face, you opened taesan's and placed a featherlight kiss in the center of his palm.

"what was that for?" taesan mumbled in between giggles as he watched you continue to play with his fingers.

"thank you." your voice wavered slightly, eyes looking up to meet his nervously. you laughed at the puzzled look on his face before continuing.

"for giving me a second chance and letting me come over." you sighed shakily under taesan's gaze. "i missed you, a lot."

"probably not as much as i missed you." taesan replied softly, squeezing your hands and tilting your chin up to meet your wide eyes.

the moment that passed between the two of you was long and drawn out, you savored the feeling of weight being lifted off your chest. trapped in his eyes and tucked in his arms, you couldn't fathom missing the chance to have han taesan like this.

as the thick silence dissolved and taesan's aching lips found yours again, the two of you knew staying away from each other was ill-fated from the start.

[bonus — 10:54 AM]

blinking the sleep from your eyes, you lazily searched taesan's fridge for a water bottle. as you shut the door, a loud crash abruptly pulled you out of your sleepy daze. coming face to face with myung jaehyun, you let out a yelp of surprise.

"no fucking way." he spoke. a bowl of dry cereal lay at his feet, contents now strewn across the kitchen tiles.

ears turning red, you realized how insane you must look: your hair was untied and messily brushed down and you were wearing nothing but an old tshirt and some boxers taesan had given you.

"what happe- oh god." taesan said from behind jaehyun, having rushed over to the kitchen to check on you. it was safe to say the last thing he expected was to see you and his roommate staring open mouthed at each other. flustered, taesan opened his mouth to explain, but jaehyun interrupted him with a loud sigh.

"fuck you tae, now i owe woonhak 20 bucks."

...

taglist: @iweirdthingsblog @yjwkisser @sulkygyu @enhyven

[ckret2]

So I heard y'all are really eager to see Bill shipped with an old man. This is what you wanted, right??

(Sorry, it's still gonna be a while yet before we get to the old man y'all are looking for.)

Chapter 80 of that fic with human Bill as the Mystery Shack's increasingly casual prisoner: the government comes snooping around the shack again, scaring the crap out of everybody—including Bill, who's too nervous about getting arrested to realize he's being flirted with.

####

Bill woke late in the morning to the smell of dead fish and a subtle but insistent full-body itch. It was one of the most pleasant mornings he'd had since he died.

Sunburn, he thought. No surprise there. He dragged the false nails that had survived since the girls' sleepover across his shoulder and reveled in the way the pain was momentarily relieved and then flared back up twice as strong as before. Sunburns had always been one of his favorite human sensations, that constant pleasant background burn prickling across his skin and blazing higher any time he was touched; he hadn't realized just how much he'd been missing them while he was locked inside. He wasn't built to be out of the sunlight.

While most of him just vaguely itched, the bands of skin around his waist and upper thighs where he'd applied the anti-sunscreen were on fire. When he tossed aside his bedsheet to inspect, he was satisfied to see the difference the anti-sunscreen had made—the skin was only slightly darker and ruddier, but it was visibly leathery with tiny bumps. It was a good start. Still—they might have been more visible if the rest of him were less sunburned.

He pushed that thought from his mind. He'd sooner die again than admit that sunscreen might have been a good idea for any reason. If the lines weren't visible enough after the sunburn healed, next time he could strengthen the anti-sunscreen recipe and shoot for blisters, that might leave scars.

He dug his nails into one of the more deeply burned lines and was hit with a dizzying rush of euphoria as the burned skin screamed in pain. Oh, he could happily do that all morning. But first maybe he should get some breakfast.

He rolled off the sofa, landed on all fours on the floor, and grabbed Journal 4 from under the sofa—he'd left it there with the pages spread out so the watery fish brains he'd finger painted on each page didn't glue the book shut. He documented last night's "dream"—he'd haunted the halls like a ghost, collecting what tools he could access to start repairing the portal—then hid the journal behind the sofa in the window seat's cushion where it belonged. He still needed to find a better hiding place for it. Maybe after breakfast. 

There hadn't been a grocery run since he'd acquired his new fridge, so all he had upstairs were half a dozen condiments, a bag of tortilla chips, and enough cider to kill a horse. If he could get somebody to open the kitchen fridge, maybe he could steal the eggs, that was probably the single most nutrient-dense ingredient currently in the house; that'd keep him going between meals until grocery day...

Where were his clothes.

The t-shirt and bikini he'd worn to the beach yesterday were still flung across the sofa; but the box he'd stuffed all his other clothing in had vanished. He stared at the shelf it was supposed to be on. His hoodie. Who'd stolen his skin?

He scowled.

He folded his Pony Heist bedsheet lengthwise, folded it around his waist and rolled it down like a sarong, pulled on the t-shirt and his eyepatch, and stalked from his room.

The kids' bedroom door had been left open. No sign of Bill's clothes in there, but he found an important clue: Dipper's ever-present mountain of dirty clothing was gone. Laundry day. Soos must have mistaken Bill's box of perfectly clean clothes for dirty laundry and stolen the whole thing. Great.

While he was momentarily unsupervised in the kids' room, he flipped through Dipper's journal, annotated some of the recent pages with helpful info and added an embarrassing anecdote about Ford's research years (all in code, of course), and stole Mabel's glass pyramid and a pair of pink sunglasses that were shaped like the words "RAD DUDE" from her bedside table. He stashed the pyramid in his room on the window seat.

And then he headed downstairs, trying to mentally calculate the most impactful way to whine about his clothes having been stolen in order to make Soos feel as guilty as possible without making himself look pathetic.

"Hey Bill!" Mabel called from the living room. She held up a couple of headbands; she'd wrapped two pipe cleaners around each that stuck up like antennae. Foam stars were glued to the ends of one headband's pipe cleaners and pompom bees to the other. "I'm making deely boppers! Do you want one?"

"More than anything!" Bill claimed the one with bees and shoved it down over his tangled hair. Mabel was in here doing crafts, Dipper was watching crappy local TV—Bill couldn't get into the gift shop with them in here as witnesses. "Hey, here's something crazy: did you kids ever notice the stairs to the attic have 32 steps going up and 28 steps going down?"

Mabel and Dipper looked at each other; and then ran for the stairs. "No way!" "How's that possible?"

That would keep them occupied for a few minutes. Bill backed through the gift shop door.

Wendy looked up from her phone. "What up, dude."

"Hey, cool girl!" He spun around on his heel and trotted over to lean against her counter. "If anyone asks, you let me into the shop."

"Got it." She glanced at Bill's sarong. "Is this the return of Toga Guy?"

"Nope; laundry day."

"Oh, yeah. Washing machine's been going all morning," Wendy said. "Soos says Ford's been running around in a coat that smells like nasty lake water, so he stole it."

"And stole my box of perfectly clean clothes." Bill refused to entertain the possibility that this might be partially his own fault for making his room smell like dead fish. The smell would air out! "So I'm gonna humiliate him for it in front of his tour group."

Wendy laughed. "Don't do that, man. You know what he's like, sometimes he makes goofy mistakes." She gave him a quizzical look. "You keep your clothes in a box?"

Right, he'd been keeping Wendy teetering on the edge of thinking Bill was in an unsafe situation here. Was there any benefit to her knowing how inhumane his living conditions were? Not at the moment, when things were finally improving. "Shack's run out of guest rooms and I didn't need new clothes in the mindscape! We just shoved my clothes in a crate until we can get a spare dresser or something." Topic change! "Hey—I saw your brother beating up a fish at the lake yesterday."

"Oh yeah, you mean dinner? Marcus was so proud of his catch. He did the worst job deboning it, though. I almost got a surprise lip piercing." Wendy stuck out her tongue. "What about you guys? Soos says you fought Bigfoot or something?"

"They did. Ask the Stans for the details; while they were catching fish, I was catching rays," Bill said. "And I think I was more successful than them."

"Suntanning?" Wendy took in his blatantly sunburned appearance.

"Unless you're about to say 'oh wow, you look great!' say something different," Bill said. "Anyway, I'm a wilting houseplant! I have a sunlight deficit I'm trying to catch up on." He glanced wistfully toward the window in the door and the bright beautiful day outside. "If I didn't have to ask someone to let me in and out, I'd be out there right now."

He'd been angling for Wendy to graciously offer to help escort him outside. Instead, she said, "Oh, dude, we leave the door unlatched during the day. You can just walk through it backwards like you do from the living room."

"Wait—really?"

"Yeah, go ahead."

He gave her a skeptical look; but when he glanced through the door's window, he could see himself standing out on the porch just a few seconds in the future. All right, he wasn't complaining. "Then I'll see you later." He sauntered over and backed through the doorway.

It worked. He was outside. He stepped off the porch and spread his arms, soaking in the sunlight. Look at that—escape was really that easy the whole time. He could have just backed through a couple of doorways. A little frustrating that he was learning this after he'd found a complicated workaround that required climbing on the roof, but this would make his life easier in the future. He walked back into the doorway again.

It didn't budge. He kept trying to walk for a couple of seconds before his brain forced him to accept that there was, in fact, a door there, and it wasn't getting out of his way. Did the doorway trick only work in one direction?! How did that make sense! The doorway to the living room handled two-way traffic just fine!

"Hey!" He spun around and gave Wendy a death glare. She laughed silently. He knocked furiously. "Hey, I'll get you for this, see if I don't!" When Bill had his power back, maybe he'd make her into a gargoyle on the outside of the Fearamid while the rest of the town was nice and cozy in his throne. See how she liked being locked outside. Pyramids didn't even need gargoyles.

She just waved at him, oblivious to the danger she was courting.

He muttered, "Oh, Icy, if you weren't Raina's kid..." She was Raina's kid, though.

All right, fine, no big deal. He wasn't letting anyone think this bothered him. Eventually a tourist would come along and let him in. If the Pines caught him and got mad, he could tell them that Wendy had tricked him into getting stuck outside, and it wouldn't even be a lie. (Would they believe him, though? Mabel would. Ford definitely wouldn't. Bill thought he at least ought to earn points for nicely sitting on the porch like the obedient dog they wished he was...)

A dented beige car rolled into the parking lot; Bill perked up as three out-of-place-looking men in black suits stepped out. Well, look who was back. "Hey, nice car! Much subtler than the fedmobile you were driving yesterday."

Agent Powers almost stumbled mid-step when he noticed Bill. "Er—yes. I appreciate the recommendation."

Bill got to his feet and leaned with one hand on a post. "I see you at the beach, I see you at this tourist trap... I'm starting to think you're on vacation, agents!"

Solemnly, Powers said, "I can assure you we're not."

"Definitely not," Agent Trigger agreed.

Bill glanced past them. Agent Dale was grinning broadly and snapping photos of the Mystery Shack with a camera hanging around his neck. "Wow, this place is so much fun." He tilted his head back to get a picture of the totem pole.

Bill raised his brows.

Trigger said, "Those are investigation photos."

"Sure," Bill said.

"We're looking for the owner of the Mystery Shack," Powers said. "I don't suppose you've seen him, ma'am?"

"Not yet. I think 'Mr. Mystery' is giving a tour right now."

"I see. Thank you for your help, ma'am." He almost moved to head inside, then hesitated.

He'd been doing that a lot around Bill the last couple of days. "Something else I can help you with, agent?"

"Uh—" Powers cleared his throat and flushed faintly red high on his cheeks. "I—feel that I ought to inform you that you're... looking even more exquisite today." Trigger stared at Powers.

Bill—slouched; sunburned; barefoot; fingernails and toenails painted in four different sloppy styles; and wearing a child's bedsheet with cartoon ponies on it, a purple puma t-shirt so large the neck hole slipped down his shoulder, an eyepatch with hot pink "RAD DUDE" sunglasses on top (and faint tan lines showing where he'd been wearing his eyepatch on the other side yesterday), and bumblebee deely boppers—said, "Tell me something I don't already know!" He laughed. "Kidding—that's impossible."

Powers nodded sharply and turned away, wearing an odd look somewhere between disappointed and relieved. "Dale, you stay out here and take some readings."

Dale flashed Powers a thumbs-up and pulled out a tablet.

Powers opened the door; Bill quickly pushed off the post. "Hey! Aren't you gonna hold the door for me?" He had something that looked like a skirt on, he could exploit that social norm today.

"Er—" Powers stopped in his tracks. "Yes, of course, ma'am."

"Aren't you a gentleman!" Bill swept back inside.

Wendy laughed at his grand reentrance—but petered out as she noticed the overdressed new visitors. Bill split off from the agents to circle the shop and try to look like a normal tourist, but he mouthed toward Wendy, "Feds." Her eyes widened.

"Excuse me, miss," Powers said to Wendy. "We're looking for the proprietor. Do you know when he'll be available?"

"Uhh..." All knowledge she previously had of the shack's tour schedule fled her mind in the face of a legit government agent. She circled around the counter. "I'll... tell Soos you're here."

Powers frowned. "'Soos'?"

"Yeah, um—Jesús Ramirez? The owner?"

Trigger muttered to Powers, "I think that's the handyman."

Wendy said, "He took over the business last year."

"Apparently our intel is out of date," Powers said. "Very well. We'll wait here."

Wendy veered toward Bill on her way to the museum and hissed, "Take the register—"

"Hell no," Bill hissed back. He wasn't letting the government know he worked here if the shack was under investigation. "Where's Melody?"

"Out. She slept bad."

Hmm. Strange. "I'll distract the suits." He wanted to snoop, anyway. "Go."

Wendy gave him an exasperated look, but ducked into the museum.

Bill sidled up to the agents, who were inspecting the display of alien-in-a-tube keychains. Trigger picked one up and murmured, "Are they suspended in jello?"

"That has to be a health hazard."

"Good likeness of the real thing, though."

Bill stopped in his tracks. There weren't a lot of places in the US where a government agent could have a personal meet-and-greet with an alien corpse in a glass tank. They must have been assigned to one or two investigations in Hangar 618. Strange; he would have thought there was more than enough going on in Gravity Falls to keep their schedules filled.

He shook off his misgivings, leaned on a display cabinet near the agents, and said loudly, "So!" He tried not to grin too widely when both agents jumped. "Looks like it's just us until the next tour."

Powers' cheeks turned pink again. "It looks like it." He cleared his throat and tried to surreptitiously adjust his tie. "I... suppose I'm overdue to ask you your name?"

"Call me Goldie!" Before Powers had an opportunity to dig deeper into Bill's identity, he asked, "So what brings you by the shack, agents? I don't think you ever explained what you're investigating!"

"Yes, that would be because it's classified. That information is shared strictly on a need-to-know basis," Powers said. "But we're here to check on last week's gravitational anomalies and an odd power surge that was witnessed over the weekend." (Bill loved this chatterbox, funniest secret agent ever.)

"Oh wow. Sounds exciting," Bill said, voice just a little too flat to sound convincing but a little too forceful to sound like he didn't mean it. (Always keep 'em guessing.) "Any leads?" He doubted it.

"Not yet," Powers admitted. "We've tracked similar power surges in Gravity Falls for decades, and last year several occurred concurrently with other gravitational anomalies; but our investigation last year..." Powers exchanged a glance with Trigger. Trigger just grimaced in irritation. Powers finished, "didn't find anything conclusive. So." His voice took on an edge of frustration. "Here we are. Looking around town."

"Again," Trigger grumbled.

Bill was surprised they could even remember last summer's gravitational anomalies. He'd expected Ford had completely erased their memories of the case; but he hadn't seen exactly what term Ford had plugged into the memory gun. "D'ya expect to find anything conclusive this time? Or is this just a routine follow-up on an old case."

"More of a routine follow-up," Powers said.

"Standard procedure," Trigger added.

"Except," Powers said, "that two days ago, we also received an anonymous tip that a dangerous individual may be hiding in this very building—and that they pose an immense risk to national security."

Trigger said, "Possibly global security."

Bill learned what it felt like for a human's blood to run cold. "Huh," he said. "Interesting."

"Witnesses claim the power surge appeared to originate in this part of the woods. We think this individual might have been involved," Powers said. "But it's probably nothing you need to worry about, ma'am." (Bill must have looked more alarmed than he'd meant to.) "We receive tips like this all the time. I doubt we'll find anything interesting here. All the same—"

The gift shop door popped open and Agent Dale poked his head in. "Sirs!" He held up a beeping tablet. "I'm picking up a signal from one of our flash drives."

Powers and Trigger turned their full attention to Dale. "Which one?" Trigger asked.

"The one we lost last summer."

The agents exchanged a look.

Soos hurried through the curtain to the museum, Wendy following close behind. "Hey, dudes! Welcome to the Mystery Shack! What can I get for you, a tour? Souvenirs? Um, bribes...?"

Bill grimaced. As Wendy passed, he muttered to her, "He does not have the grace at this Stanley does."

Powers's eyes darted between Dale and Soos; and then settled on Soos. "Mr. Ramirez. I'd like to have a word with you about your business. Privately."

"O-of course! I hope you don't think we're up to anything or anything." Soos pulled aside the museum's curtain. "Just step this way. Through my magic portal to a world of wonder and whimsy!"

"If I have to," Powers said tiredly. "Trigger, Dale—you two follow that signal. I want that flash drive back."

"Yessir." They hurried out of the gift shop.

Before Powers followed Soos into the museum, he turned to Bill. "My apologies for disrupting your trip, ma'am, but I'm afraid the next tour may be... delayed." A look of panic flashed across Soos's face.

"I can come back tomorrow!" Bill waved off the apology. "Watching a small-town business owner get investigated by the feds is way more exciting! You oughta check his financial records, I bet there's all kinds of tax evasion going on here!" Soos's panic escalated to sheer terror.

To Bill's surprise, something akin to fear flashed across Powers's face as well. "You think we're—? That is—we're not that sort of federal..." He cleared his throat loudly, mumbled, "Very kind of you," and hastily retreated after Soos, cheeks red.

What the hell was that? Powers had been paying way too much attention to Bill the last couple of days. Was it possible he was playing dumb? Did he already know that Bill was the "dangerous individual" in the Mystery Shack? Was he just trying to figure out the best way to bring Bill down and drag him in—

"Man." Wendy laughed, keeping her voice low. "You really distracted him. What'd you do to the poor guy?"

Bill leaned on the counter by the cash register. "What?"

"He's head over heels for you." At Bill's blank look, Wendy said, "Wait, did you not notice?"

Bill opened his mouth. Nothing came out while he tried to reconcile Wendy's claim with the idea of his body ending up suspended in a glass tube in a secret military base. "What?"

"Did you see him?" Wendy asked. "He can't stop staring at you, every time you glance at him he gets redder, you said one nice thing to him and he completely fell apart..."

Bill mentally ran through the last two days. Ohhh. In retrospect, that did explain why Powers had offered to rub sunscreen on him. "I barely even noticed! I'm used to everyone treating me like that! At least four people fall in love with me daily," Bill said. "I turn heads and drop jaws everywhere I go. I've got a whole collection of lower jaws preserved in formaldehyde." Admittedly, not all of them had dropped naturally. A few had been coaxed.

"Most people just steal their partners' shirts, but alright. I can respect a good murder trophy collection."

"There's a fine line between a lady-killer and a serial killer," Bill said cheerfully, "and I'd know! But enough about my love life!" As much of a relief as it was to realize Powers wasn't plotting Bill's arrest, that didn't mean it couldn't change. "What did you guys do with the flash drive with the agents' secret mission?"

Wendy shrugged. "Dunno, I wasn't here."

And Bill hadn't been either. While the Stan twins had been recounting their tragic life history, Bill had been fully occupied at the Quadrangle of Qonfusion, repairing the damage Ford had done before the portal opened and trying to get his Henchmaniacs to chill out about those guys who'd died. (Seriously, none of the dead guys had even been among the Henchmaniacs' A-listers, who cared?) By the time he'd realized something interesting was happening, the agents' memories were already erased and they were heading out of town.

"Okay. Great." He backed into the living room. "If you see 'em again, slow them down."

####

Bill pounded on the guest room door and waited.

"Just a second!" Ford answered the door, his freshly laundered coat in one hand and a Bigfoot fur-covered lint roller in the other. "What is—? Bill." His expression immediately closed off. His gaze flicked up to Bill's bumblebee deely-boppers. "What are you wearing."

"High fashion, not important. What did you humans do with the flash drive you got from the eagles?"

"The what from the what?"

"Last year. Right after you got home. Government agents. Little black plastic stick full of knowledge."

"Oh, that. Fed it to the goat," Ford said. "Why."

"Because the agents put a tracking device in it, and they're tracking it right now."

Ford's brows shot up. He hurried to the guest room window; Bill peeked around him.

Agent Trigger and Agent Dale were wandering around outside, Trigger in the lead while Dale trailed behind him looking at a tablet screen and saying, "Warmer... warmer... colder... okay, now warmer again..."

"Damn." Ford rushed to the back door.

Bill grabbed him by the sweater before he could get outside. "Whoa there, cowboy. If they see you, do you have a story prepared for why the 'superior officer' who sent them packing last year is still here?"

Ford raised a finger. "I... do not." He rushed to the stairs. "Kids!"

"Grunkle Ford!" Dipper stumbled to the bottom of the stairs, sweating and breathing heavily. "Hey—" Mabel ran into him from behind, nearly knocking them both down. They grabbed the banister for support as they panted. Dipper tried again, "Hey... did you know... the number of steps on the stairs..."

"Yes yes, the half of the staircase hidden by the turn in the landing changes when you can't see it," Ford said. "Dipper, Mabel, we have an emergency. I need you to catch the goat! Now!"

####

Gompers gnawed placidly on a paper towel hanging out of the trash can. He detected the subtle bouquet of rotting bell peppers. And was that spilled orange juice? Truly delectable. He took another bite.

The back door burst open. Gompers turned to stare as Dipper and Mabel charged outside.

He bleated indignantly as they scooped him up between them. Dipper hissed, "Go, go, go!"

They hauled him inside and slammed the door.

Trigger and Dale circled around the corner of the shack. Dale said, "It should be right... huh. That's weird."

"What is it?"

"The signal from the flash drive just moved."

"Moved? Where?"

Dale walked in a small circle, trying to get the tablet to re-triangulate the flash drive's location. "Inside the shack."

Trigger frowned at the door.

####

"C'mon, Gompers," Mabel hissed, trying to drag him down the hallway with Dipper. "We've gotta get you somewhere the government guys can't see you through the window!"

Gompers bleated again. Dipper smacked a hand over his mouth.

All three froze as someone knocked on the door. Voice low, Dipper said, "We're not home. Nobody's home right now." Mabel nodded.

####

Bill lurked next to the living room door, listening to the conversation in the gift shop as Powers said, "Thank you for your time, Mr. Ramirez. Oh, and by the way—you wouldn't happen to have seen any top secret government flash drives around the place, would you?"

There was a long pause. "Why, no," Soos said carefully. "I have not."

"Then do you have an explanation for why my agents detected one in this vicinity... and it's moving?"

There was an even longer pause. "Perhaps it was... eaten. Without our knowledge," Soos said. "Mayhaps by some variety of creature."

"Hmm," Powers said. "Perhaps. Would you mind if we look around for it."

"Uhh... yes. I would mind," Soos said. "Please don't."

Powers sighed deeply. "Fine. We'll be back." The floorboards creaked as he walked toward the exit. "Trigger, Dale—let's move out."

The household didn't heave a collective sigh of relief until the gift shop door had shut.

####

(A lot of y'all have been waiting for the Bill Seduce A Government Agent plot for like a year and a half. We're finally here! Yay!

Back in April when I was starting to write this plot in earnest, I was trying to figure out a reason why the agents would turn their attention on the shack (and the Pines family) again that was more threatening than just "yeah there are more gravity anomalies, again. whatever." And @quartz-the-moth-cat solved it with one word: "Gompers." Genuinely that one suggestion pulled the whole plot together. So thank you again for that.

In the months since TBOB came out, a lotta folks have incorrectly assumed I've made changes to my plot due to TBOB or that eerily TBOB-compliant things I wrote before the book were actually written after. So I think I'm gonna start documenting what I'd already planned/written, because I'm petty and I don't want TBOB to get credit for my own ideas:

The entire Agent Powers plot arc was written before TBOB came out. Adding fish brains to J4 was a post-TBOB addition (since we now know that's how he controls books), as was the bit with the agents discussing aliens and the aside about Hanger 618. And the chatter about stealing people's lower jaws, because in the wake of TBOB I think I need Bill to crack more jokes about gore & body horror. Nothing else in this chapter was changed due to TBOB.

I'm looking forward to hearing y'all's comments!!)

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Jack I’m afraid you’ve infiltrated my thoughts because I was thinking of bruised up Price, and it turned into Nik finding out he’s obsessed with bruising John up, had no idea about it before, but after their first night together, Nik finds him leaning against the counter with his mug, still buck ass naked, and there are p e r f e c t bruises in the shape of Nik’s fingers on his hips, and John jumps when Nik slowly aligns his fingers, laying his hands there

While is mind is very much malfunctioning

When this came in, Nikki, the sound I made.

Nik likes marking what is his. And John likes being marked.

cw: consensual bruises/hickies, possessive behaviour.

Nik woke up to find a steaming mug of coffee on the bedside table. He had heard footsteps that had carried it there in the background of his subconscious, but it had been the smell - fresh ground coffee beans from Columbia - that had lured him back to the land of the living. He flexed his fingers against the cotton bed sheets and then let the stretch run the full length of his body, vertebrae and joints clicking, as he surfaced from the most restful sleep he'd had in a long time.

No John, obviously. For if there had been a John, then there would have been no coffee.

Last night had been... breathtaking. Years of yearning, of tentative steps back and forth towards an uncertain destination, of circling each other, too nervous to ruin what they already had. It had been by mere chance that Nik had broken the stalemate; a panicked kiss snatched as John exited the Black Hawk for a mission based on bad intel, even by Laswell's standards. Come back to me.

And he had. They had barely stumbled through the front door of John's flat before their hands had started burrowing beneath their clothes, teeth and fingers biting into the firm topography of flushed, eager bodies. Nik had never had sex like it. Sex where he felt like he had burrowed beneath his lover's ribcage and taken refuge in his chest, every gasp, every flex, like it had happened beneath his own skin. He had never wanted to possess, consume, protect, as strongly as he did with John.

Nik gathered John's pillow to his face and took a deep breath, searching for the smell of him deep in the cotton and goose down. It was there, but too faint. John had been awake long enough for the warmth to fade, and his scent along with it. Nik was left with no recourse but to leave the comfort of his bed in search of the source. With any luck, he could coax John back.

It was cold outside and even though John had agreed to turn the heating on, Nik grabbed his dressing gown from the back of the door and threw it on, leaving it to hang open at the front and off one shoulder as he strolled into the living room, otherwise naked. If he happened to pocket the lube on his way out, well...

The television was on, with some innocuous breakfast show host chatting about Storm Darragh on a plastic looking sofa, her too-white too-straight teeth bared in a smile that looked more like a grimace.

But no John.

Nik followed the sound of plates and running water towards the kitchen, and found what he was looking for washing up last night's dishes. The radio was on softly, a background track to the slosh of soap suds and the rattle of cutlery. Nik wasn't really paying attention to the song, because John hadn't seen fit to pull on more than a pair of boxers, leaving the rest of his magnificent body on full display. Nik's eyes dragged down the length of him, lingering just above his waistband.

Dappled across John's freckle-dusted skin, some faint, some vibrant, were blueish-black ovals in the shape of Nik's fingers. They flared over John's hip where Nik had clutched him tightly the night before. The sight of them made Nik's mouth run dry, his cock, hanging thick and heavy between his thighs, twitching against the edge of the dressing gown.

He remembered relishing the way John's body had felt in his hands, how his strong thighs had clamped down hard when Nik had pinned his wrists, how the give of the flesh over his hips, of his full, shapely backside had looked when Nik had turned him to breed him from behind. How every time John's voice had broken into a moan, Nik had held him tighter, held him down until he had come, wailing and begging. How John has felt so tight and so warm around his cock, his body the perfect, eager cock sleeve. Their first time had been just as passionate as he'd always dreamed, and it had left bruises like footsteps on John's skin.

Nik watched John with hungry eyes, lower lip rolling between his teeth. John felt his presence and Nik saw him tense a little, like a prey animal caught in a predator's ambush.

Price had risen early out of habit, leaving Nik to rest after his athletic performance the night before. The only time he ever managed longer than seven hours was after a particularly gruelling op, and even then it took several days for his mind to settle to the point his body could rest. He hadn't bothered showering, but tidied up the flat, checked some emails for anything urgent, and now he was rinsing out last night's beer glasses. He felt Nik's arrival rather than heard him, and his chin tilted down, watching Nik's reflection in the stainless steel of his toaster. He chewed the inside of his cheek when he realised Nik was naked but for his dressing gown, his thick, masculine physique flaunted with mouthwatering confidence that made Price weak.

His skin prickled under Nik's scrutiny, every nerve on tenterhooks as the memory of the night before still echoed through his body, a glorious, bone-deep ache. His body still remembered the shape of Nik's cock, and Price had admired the evidence of his hunger in the bathroom mirror as he'd brushed his teeth; a rainbow of bruises on his neck, his shoulders, his hips and thighs.

And yet, he was desperate for more. Desperate to feel Nik's hands on him again; holding him down, spreading him open. Desperate to latch onto his broad shoulders and huge biceps, to feel his full chest push down against his back, the firm peaks of his nipples contrasted with the softness of his fur. Price stared at the stream of water spilling over the mug in his hands because, other than his sight, every other sense was tuned into Nik.

Nik sipped his coffee more to stop his mouth from watering than anything else, and closed his eyes briefly, if only to focus on the light sting of scratches up his back where John's blunt nails had caught him in his desperate ecstasy. Nik remembered feeling the first graze, but his mouth had been sucking a mark into the arch of John's throat at the time. Just below the beard line so it could be hidden by John's shemagh. Only just.

John was beautiful. His skin, a patchwork of freckles, scars and uneven tan lines, overlaid a trim, muscular body that was narrow and broad in all the right places. His waist was the perfect shape, slotting into Nik's hands like John had been forged with the shape of them in mind, and his muscular back had flexed so beautifully when Nik had thrust into him. He wanted to see it again.

Nik drifted over, leaving his coffee mug on the dining room table as he drew close enough for John to feel his body heat.

"Mornin'," John murmured, the crackle in his voice from a night spent moaning and begging sent a little shiver of pleasure through Nik's core. John was ethereal, ruffled, the morning sun spilling through the kitchen window giving him a soft, warm glow at the edges. The clash of relative innocence with the traces of their debauchery made Nik want to sink his teeth in, to renew his claim on the strong, unyielding body before him.

"Good morning," Nik replied, leaning forward to place his mug on the counter. He had to lean close enough for his breath to ghost over John's skin, his chest hair to perhaps tickle his back, but he didn't touch, not yet. He closed his eyes and leaned in to John's shoulder, inhaling a long, deep hit of the bed-warm scent still lingering on his skin; faded cologne, clean sweat with deodorant, the warm musk of a man that had slept in clean sheets after being fucked into them.

"Surprised ya didn't have a lay in." Price was trying to keep his voice level, but even he could hear the tremor of anticipation, so subtle below his gravelly rasp. Oh, he wanted to be possessed again. John Price, so in command on the battlefield, wanted to be utterly dominated in his bed like he had been last night. The thought might have concerned him in the past, but ever since his romantic feelings for Nikolai had exploded into a ravenous sexual attraction, he had wanted those big hands holding him down, whether to ride his cock or fuck his hole, he hadn't cared. His only desire had been to have Nikolai over him, possessing him.

"The bed is cold without you in it," Nik murmured softly, his face tilting into the side of John's neck, the tip of his nose hovering close as he breathed him in.

Every hair on Price's arms stood on end, goosebumps rushing over his shoulders, the tremor of anticipation running through Price's core. His fingers curled against the counter at the edge of the sink, his nipples hardening, cock thickening in his boxers. Even after just one night, Price was conditioned for Nikolai's attention. He wanted nothing more than for Nik to scruff him and push him down, add more marks to establish his ownership.

Nik's lips touched John before his hands, pressing over the bruise they had marked on the back of his shoulder. He lingered there, sucking the tender flesh gently, the traces of sweat salty on his tongue. John let out a faint, low moan, his arm curling up so he could bury his fingers in Nik's hair. Nik ran his fingers over the bruising on John's hip, pressing down just enough for John to feel the rub of his calluses, John's skin dimpling under the pressure. John startled, and Nik could feel the roll of tension coil up his spine, hear the gasp of bewildered pleasure, so Nik pressed down a little harder, earning a soft, wrecked little moan.

Price's knees shook as Nik pulled him close, his chest pressing to Price's back, hair soft and enticing against his skin from shoulder blades to the base of his spine. He looked down to see that huge hand slope over his waist, encompassing it effortlessly, weathered fingers retracing the path of the bruises on his body with possessive glee. Price felt the shaft of Nik's cock settle in the clothed cleft of his arse and his bare toes curled against the tiles. Nik was so hard, searing heat so close to John's hole, the heavy weight of his sac brushing the undersides of his cheeks. Price tilted his hips up eagerly, lifting onto his tiptoes.

"You were so beautiful last night, and just as beautiful this morning, you drive me crazy..." Nik whispered into bruised skin, running his lips up the side of John's neck in slow, wet kisses. "Did you enjoy last night, detka? Did you like it when I made you spread your legs, take my cock deep?"

"Yeah, Nik... It was good, so fuckin' good," Price rasped, his breathy whisper breaking into another low moan as Nik's hand slid into his boxers to squeeze the length of his prick. Price looked down to watch Nik touch what he wanted, take what he wanted, fondling the fragile heft of his balls before stroking Price's shaft in long, lazy pulls as the other arm slanted over his chest to keep him close.

"You are ravishing, with my marks all over you, like I have claimed you as mine." Nik grazed his teeth against John's neck and felt a thrill when John's head flopped back and to the side. "Do you like them?"

"Like you lookin' at 'em," Price replied, his voice like treacle in his mouth. He rocked his hips a little into Nik's hand, rubbing back against Nik's cock, pinned as it was between his arse and Nik's belly. "Like you touchin' 'em. Wan'..." He trailed off, the intensity of his desire somewhat embarrassing.

"What do you want, John?" Nik squeezed John's glans gently, milking a few thick beads of precum that he smoothed down John's shaft. Listening to John's stuttering gasp, he shifted his hand across to squeeze one full tit, massaging the muscle against his palm as he sucked a deep, possessive kiss into John's neck.

"Hnng, wan' ya... t' make more, Nik. All over. Forever. Mark me up... please." Price's entire body hummed under Nik's hands, his cock twitching and leaking in Nik's grip. Fuck, his hand was so big. Price's prick wasn't small; respectable, perhaps slightly above average, but the way Nik's warm hand enveloped him, Price's wet, drooling cockhead pushing through the tight hollow of his fist, looked obscenely hot.

Nik pulled John away from the sink and turned him towards the centre island dividing the kitchenette from the living room, one hand sliding to his hip while the other took him by the back of his neck and pushed him down. Nik's nails dragged down John's spine, making those strong muscles flex, until his fingers hooked beneath the elastic of his boxers and pulled them down his thighs, leaving them to pool around his ankles. His arse was perfect, two full globes with tidy whirls of body hair between them that trailed down over the swell of his balls. Nik licked the tip of his thumb and smoothed it around John's puffy, pink rim, teasing it into a twitching, sensitive response. "Mm, beautiful."

Price stretched his hands over the wooden surface of the island, his hole, still sore and used from the night before, fluttered greedily under Nik's touch and Price wanted Nik to press inside, demand more. It ached so good. "C'mon, Nik... Fuck me. Please. Need ya so bad."

"Mm, detka. Ya budu tebya yebat' poka ty ne budesh' umolyat' menya ostanovit'sya," Nik whispered, gripping the base of his cock to rub the slick head around John's hole. He watched his pucker stretch and shift around it as he dipped just inside, teeth biting on his lower lip. The tortured little noises that John made sent a thrill up Nik's spine, and he reached into his pocket for the lube.

Price moaned when Nik's slick fingers teased into him, already slack enough for the sensation of being stretched to feel good, and he relaxed effortlessly. He felt filthy in the best way, hollowed out by Nik the night before, ready to be his cock sleeve again. The squelch of his fingers, the soft, approving rumble, the feel of his fingertips circling and stroking over his prostate, made Price's cock flick and leak onto the kitchen floor. It felt like his mind was melting, nothing but putty to be manipulated by Nik's hands and words, just as his body was. Mark me, take me, own me.

"Mm, John. You are so loose, so ready to be fucked."

"Oh, Nik, please, ahh, I'm gonna come."

"Then come, detka, but you will still take all of me, I will still mark you up again, inside and out."

"Oh, fuck, Nik... C'mon... Please, 'm yours, need yer, please."

Nik weighed up whether he would make John come on his fingers, gliding them in and out lazily, John's pretty hole glistening and butter soft, so hungry. But the thought of stuffing him full properly again, the way John was squirming so deliciously on the countertop, made his mind up for him.

Nik drew his hand away and slid it down the inside of John's leg, lifting it until the side of his knee and his inner thigh were resting on the counter too. Like this, his cock hung so prettily, his cheeks spread to show off that perfect hole, begging for Nik's cock as lube glistened down the back of his sac. "Ty vyglyadish' chertovski seksual'no..."

Price arched his back and cocked his hips, damp lips parted as he panted. He felt the soft hair of Nik's legs against his inner thigh and then the thick head of his cock against the taut muscle of his hole. He sheathed himself slowly, pressing forward in one thrust, stretching Price open until he was buried to the hilt. Price panted, channel flexing through the pressure of so much girth and length demanding space inside him. "Haa, ash, a ty okhrenitel'no khorosho... upravlyayesh'sya... svoi chlenom."

Nik chuckled, his hand sliding up John's spine to wrap his throat and arch him back. There was a reason Nik wanted him here. There was a long mirror in the hallway to their left, just by the front door. It was just broad enough for John to see himself take Nik's cock, see the way he looked so beautiful, marked up in surrender. Nik held John's jaw, hooked two fingers into his mouth and made him watch as Nik began to roll his hips. He slid his other palm over his thigh, thumb pushing into the swell of John's arse, teasing those bruises, pinning John to his countertop as he was fucked slow and deep.

Price's eyes widened, his nails biting into the wood beneath his hands at the overwhelming fullness, the burning stretch that was fading quickly into an ebb and flow of pleasure that made his mind go blank. He watched the thick, glistening length of Nik's cock slide into his body in the mirror, bewildered by the sight of his own body, held still, so thoroughly possessed by the beast of a man behind him; the delicious illusion of powerlessness, of willing surrender. Price wasn't used to being handled, to being so thoroughly subdued and possessed, and he was delirious with the pleasure of it.

Nik had let the dressing gown slip off, leaving him gloriously naked, his thickly muscled body with its satisfying layer of fat and dark rug of hair moved with an impossible amount of grace for a man his size. It was elegant, measured and controlled. There was no sordid slap of skin, only the glorious drag of his cock, a sweet, deep fullness and a constant pulse building in Price's hips as Nik took him apart with every thrust. "Nik, ahh... you know... Ahh, mm, the perfect spot... Fuck, oh fuck, it feels so... ahh, ahh."

"You were... made for this, John. Made for me to please. Keep watching, detka. Keep... ahh, watching me fuck your pretty hole. Look at how well you... take me." Nik kissed the back of John's neck, his back, leaned his nose and forehead against his spine as he began to grind deeper, thrusting harder.

"Oh Nik, oh Nik, ah, ah, fuh-uck..."

Nik drank John's moans down like a god consuming the prayers of the devout, but he needed to see his face. Needed to suck those full tits and possess his mouth just as he possessed his arse and cock. He ground deep once more before drawing back to guide John round to face him.

Price whined as Nik pulled out, leaving his twitching hole gaping and empty. He dropped his foot stiffly as Nik turned him and lifted his hips, sliding back onto the countertop as Nik stepped between his thighs and licked into his mouth. It was a demanding kiss and Price yielded, moaning as Nik's fingers bit into his hips, exciting and renewing those bruises, their cocks sliding together, slick with lube and precum. When one big hand snagged his hair and pulled his head back, Price surrendered his throat and spread his legs wide, wanton and exposed, keening as Nik sucked another brand into his skin.

Nik licked the sweat from the hollow of John's throat and rubbed his face into the damp hair on his chest, nuzzling his nose between his gloriously full tits as they heaved with each laboured pant. Every inch of John was a masterpiece, every scar, every freckle, made to be consumed by the devoted. John may be breathing Nik's name like a prayer, but it was Nik who worshipped at the real altar. He slid his arms beneath John's thighs, urging John towards the edge of the counter enough to guide the tip of his cock into his rim before his fingers scooped beneath the meat of his arse to lift him.

As Price slipped into Nik's arms, his body sank back down the full length of his cock, seated flush against Nik's hips in one easy glide. A low, filthy moan tore from Price's throat as Nik fucked so deep it felt like he was in Price's damn guts. "Oh, oh, fuck, Nik," Price groaned, latching onto Nik's shoulders as the two strong hands cupped beneath his arse moved his six foot two, ninety kilogram body along Nik's cock like a fuckin' fleshlight.

Nik slammed his hips into every thrust, knowing his cock was sliding over that perfect spot in John's body, as he stooped forward to kiss and bite at his chest. With each sucking bruise he left, John's voice grew louder, his pleas and groans increasingly more desperate. Wet, hard cock flopping between their bellies, neglected, but John was so close just form being fucked. Nik could feel it in his legs and hips, a rigid tension, see it in the flush of his skin and the misty distance of his eyes. He writhed in Nik's grip, body rocking itself onto Nik's cock, meeting his thrusts.

Price spread his legs wide over Nik's arms, hands at his shoulders, back bowed so Nik could bite and suck his ownership over his tits. His head fell back, his balls drawing tight, and he spilled in thick ropes over their bellies just as Nik sucked hard on one of his nipples. "Nik, Nik, Nik!"

Nik moaned, slowing his pace to long out the aftershocks of John's orgasm in that sweet spot just before overstimulation, greedily drinking in those delicious, wanton moans as Nik's cock teased his clenching channel. "The way your arse sucks on my cock... o, kak zhe ty goryach..."

Nik was so close, teetering on the brink in a heady, tingling liminal space before the fall, and he savoured the breathless moment. The sight of John's body in his arms, his head thrown back in abandon, his skin sheened in sweat. It was the flash of those blue eyes that looked at him with such unbridled adoration, so bright, so full of ecstasy, that dragged Nik's orgasm from him mercilessly. It spread like the rolling shockwaves of a nuclear warhead, cock throbbing with each thick pulse or cum as Nik held John flush to his hips, his entire body rigid as he snarled into John's chest.

Price groaned as Nik's orgasm spilled into him, Nik's cock buried to the hilt to make sure Price's body took every drop. Nik had marked him, inside and out, the throb of new bruises on his skin mixing with the warmth of Nik filling him up; it was raw, animalistic, and Price never wanted to fuck any other way.

Nik stumbled a little, settling John's rear on the edge of the countertop as he withdrew his cock, the sound of wet suction as lube and spend dripped out of John's hole was deliciously filthy. Nik peppered gentle kisses on John's jaw as he kept his legs raised and spread over his arms, making him linger in that hollowed out feeling that came after being fucked so full.

Price basked in the deep recesses of an afterglow that seemed to muffle the rest of the world out. He tilted his face to Nik's and kissed him lazily, sucking on his tongue, his lips, his body humming with warm bliss. When Nik lowered his legs, Price stumbled, held up by the strong arms that wrapped around him. "Bloody 'ell, yer've fucked me boneless..."

"That is a good thing, I hope," Nik said softly, cradling John's body to his chest, nuzzling kisses into the mess of his hair.

"Oh yeah. Can't believe we've wasted twenty years not fuckin'..."

"Not wasted. We had to allow the chemistry to reach its natural conclusion."

"Hmm." Price closed his eyes and took a deep breath of Nik's musky scent, knowing his own cowardice had held him back more than any damn chemistry, but it didn't matter. He had Nik now, and he was going to enjoy every part of him from this point on. "Feelin' a bit woolly in the 'ead, might shower, lie down."

"Of course. Come." Nik pressed a palm to John's forehead briefly, just to check, but found only the natural, post-coital warmth beneath his skin. He scooped him up anyway, much to John's amusement.

"Eh, wossis?"

"You are boneless and therefore cannot possibly walk."

"Ha, fine, fine, but if yer tell a soul, 'll nail yer bollocks to the nose of yer Heli."

"Your terms are acceptable."

Price slumped in Nik's arms with another rueful chuckle, and let himself be carried into his en suite. They shared the shower, and Price tried not to look too closely at the thrill he got when Nik washed him, those large hands working over his intimate areas possessively, over his cock and balls, between his cheeks, beneath his arms and up his back and chest; a full body massage with soap and water that left a tingling pleasure in its wake.

By the time they stumbled back to bed, Price was nursing a semi, but felt too spaced to do much about it. He curled against Nik's chest, burying his nose in his soft chest hair, and basked under the caress of strong fingers down his back.

Later, they would cook a late breakfast and head out for a walk, and Nik would touch the marks he had left through John's clothes, nuzzling the hickies on his neck through his scarf. "Mine," Nik whispered against John's throat when he pushed him against the trunk of a broad oak tree to kiss him, a hand sliding into his waistband.

"Yeah, Nik, yeah... All yours, fuck. All yours."

[wintrcaptn]

Apples And Butterflies

Joel x Reader

Summary : You caught your bf in bed with another girl two months before winter break. Now with no where to go for the next few weeks, your roommate invites you to her hometown so you don't spend the holidays alone.

But you never expected her dad to be the guy who pretended to be your date so you didn't look pathetic in front of your ex. The same guy you can't stop thinking about...Joel miller

A/N : I am writing a book but I wanted to see what yall thought of it as a Joel Miller fanfic lmao. I’ll only post a few chapters but if it’s not that great then I’ll scrap it haha

Roasted espresso, fresh pastries and a small hint of cinnamon filled the air. It wrapped around me like a warm blanket, comforting. This little whole in the wall cafe had been home to most of the students here in California.

It was a place where I spent most of my time. Either studying, reading, meeting up with my roommate for a quick pick me up.

The cafe was filled like any other day. Many faces here and there; and thats when I noticed him.

Dylan O'Hara.

Standing at the register with her. Her

The girl he swore was just a friend from class, until I walked in on them in bed just a few days into the new semester.

What a great way to start my last year in College.

I had been stuck in my dorm for the past two months since then. Crying over a guy who obviously didn't care. And the one day I finally go out by myself; of course this would happen to me.

Slowly, I backpedaled toward the door. Hoping I could escape before he sees me and—

Shit.

I hate that the register is close to the door…

Dylan turned with his arm slung around his new girlfriend, the both of them glancing around looking for a table.

Panic flared my chest as I ducked. My heart hammering, I swear I could hear it beating.

"I need to be anywhere but here." I whispered to myself, hoping to see any familiar faces or even an empty seat. "Anywhere but—"

There, an open seat by one of the large windows across the cafe. A man in a beige button up, sleeves rolled to the elbows; sat alone with coffee in one hand and a newspaper—an actual physical newspaper— in the other hand.

He wasn't the type of man you'd expect to find here of all places. Surrounded by laptops and over priced oat milk lattes.

His salt and pepper hair fell in loose waves around his face, the kind that looked unintentional but still unfairly good.

He looked like he hadn't smiled since the early 2000s.

Perfect.

I didn't have time to think it through. I made a beeline for him.

"Hi." I said breathlessly.

The man looked up slowly. His eyes, dark brown almost black shade that caught the light in quiet, startling ways. Warm at first glance but layered. Like a forest at night. Still, shadowed, impossible to fully see into. There was a weight behind them, a steadiness that made me feel seen.

I had almost forgotten what I was doing.

His gaze travelled to the chaos behind me then back to my face. Not a single word fell from his lips.

"Mind if I sit?" I asked, already halfway into the seat across from him.

He leaned back into his chair, eye brows furrowing as he crossed his arms over his chest. Giving a barely noticeable nod, while holding his gaze on me.

I set my bag onto my lap and quickly looked back at Dylan, still hasn't noticed me.

Letting out a sigh of relief I met the strangers eyes, feeling slightly embarrassed as we sat there for just a moment in silence.

Great, how am I suppose to act natural if I'm getting caught up in the silence of a complete stranger? A stranger with captivating eyes that pull you in so much you forget how to breathe.

Not once did his gaze falter. Those dark, serious eyes glued to me like he knew I was hiding something.

"You always crash strangers tables, or is today special?" He said, breaking the silence.

His voice caught me off guard. It wasn't because of how deep it was, but the slow deliberate drawl that softened the edges of every word. Southern accent I think? Maybe from Texas? I'm not sure.

It was warm and rough like whiskey on ice.

I blinked for a moment trying to come up with something; anything. "I uh—I just really like this table."

"You're a shit liar." He said, still sitting back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest.

"And you're surprisingly observant for someone reading a freakin newspaper in 2025."

He let out a faint huff.

Silence fell once again as he went back to his newspaper, completely ignoring me. Which would be fine any other day, but I knew if Dylan were to see me sitting here with this man completely lost in his little world, he'd know I'm sitting with a complete stranger.

I'd look pathetic. Lonely, desperate.

Usually I wouldn't care but I wasn't going to let this asshole think I was pathetic. He doesn't get that from me.

"So, do you usually ignore the person sitting across from you or am I just special?" I asked, nervously playing with the zipper on my purse.

The man let out a sigh and placed his newspaper back down on to the table. "I don't usually get ambushed by strangers. So yeah guess you're special."

"Wow, and here I thought chivalry was dead."

He sat up straighter in his seat, staring deeply into me as if he were trying to figure out a puzzle. It was unsettling, yet captivating to say the least. "You're hiding from someone, aren't ya?"

I swallowed hard and shrugged. "Is it that obvious?"

"You have been looking back at that guy behind you, since you sat down. And you keep playing with that damn zipper on your purse."

In that moment, I let the zipper fall out of my hand and I slowly looked up to meet his gaze. My lips pursed into a thin line.

"I'm right, aren't I?" Suddenly a small smirk formed on his lips almost as if he were amused by this.

"Are you always this friendly to people you just meet?" I asked sarcastically.

"Sure." He said lifting his coffee. "When people interrupt my morning to hide from bad decisions."

I rolled my eyes but I couldn't help the smile slowly forming. "Okay fair, but in my defense I had nowhere else to go and you were the only one with an open seat. So lucky you."

He arched a brow "you're using me."

I swallowed hard, his words stumping me for just a moment.

I was though. I was using him, or intentionally. But I couldn't deny him even if I wanted to. "You know, you also looked like the type of person who wouldn't ask me too many questions." I said. My eyes drifted to the newspaper folded neatly next to him. Curiosity got the best of me. "Yet, here we are."

He looked down at my hand, watching me drag the paper across the table and away from him. "Here we are."

"I never knew they still printed newspapers." I chuckled. "You know you could just read the news on your phone like a normal person."

Before I could finish flipping through the pages, he reached over and plucked the paper out of my hands and set it down beside him. "I don't like phones." He said simply.

I leaned forward, furrowing my eyebrows. "You don't like...phones?"

"Nope."

"Why? You think Siri might be listening? Stealing our data?" I chuckled.

He slowly looked up at me, and gave me one of those unimpressed glances. For a moment I thought he would get up and leave. But—

"Don't trust anything that needs an update every other week."

I couldn't help but let out a small laugh. Just a little bit ago, I was worried about Dylan. And now—now...

"For someone who clearly didn't want company, you're making this bearable." I said.

He glanced at me once again, eyes unreadable. "Don't push your luck."

As I was about to say something, I was immediately interrupted.

"I thought that was you."

I didn't even have to look to know it was Dylan. That familiar voice—smooth, calm, laced with guilt he'd long stopped earning. It snuck down my spine, like a cold breeze. I forced myself to look up at him, and smiled.

"Dylan."

He gave an awkward chuckle as he scratched the back of his neck. "I didn't expect to see you here. How—how're you doing?"

I opened my mouth but nothing came out. Anger and panic washed over me completely, my palms were clammy. He was doing that thing where he pretended to care, as if he had the right to ask. As if he hadn't brought the same girl he cheated on me with here, of all places.

"She's doin fine." The man across from me spoke. His gaze steady. "Ain't that right, darlin?"

I turned to him, taken aback by the way the word rolled off his tongue so naturally. Our eyes locked one each other and there it was again. That grounding calm in his dark stare. He didn't wink. Didn't smirk. Just played along. Plain and simple.

Dylan shot his gaze to the man across from me, his body stiffened for a moment. His face fell with confusion.

I swallowed hard and nodded, playing along with him. "Y-yeah, I'm fine. But do you mind? I'm kind of in the middle of something here."

Dylan glanced between us once again. "Oh uh—good. I'll let you two get back to it then."

He walked away slowly, maybe waiting for me to change my mind. To chase after him. Beg for him back like I had in the past. But I didn't.

Once he was out of sight, I finally let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

"You alright?" The man asked, pulling me back into reality.

"Y-you didn't have to do that..."I drawled out.

"I know." He said simply. He stood up and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. "Wanna get out of here?"

I'm not one who would go off with a complete stranger. Especially when I didn't even know their name. But there was something about him, something that felt safe. And I couldn't explain it even if I wanted to. I just knew I wasn't ready to say goodbye just yet.

"Yeah." I said. "I do."

Feeling Dylan's eyes on me the moment I stood up. The man pushed the door open and held it without a word until I stepped out. A small gesture, nothing flashy, but it made my chest tighten unexpectedly.

The sunlight hit us as we stepped onto the sidewalk, golden and warm, laced with that early autumn crisp. I glanced up at him. I hadn't realized just how big he was. He was tall, making me feel small but not in a fragile way. But in a he can probably pick me up and throw me over his shoulders without breaking a sweat kind of way.

His skin was sun kissed, tanned, a shade that made me think of lazy summers and late bonfires. He wasn't cut like a warrior but he was solid, with thick arms, broad shoulders and chest. He looked like he could carry an entire couch up a flight of stairs no problem. Yet soft enough to fall asleep against.

Shit...I've been staring too long.

I cleared my throat. "So...are you ever going to tell me your name or should I just continue to call you coffee guy in my head?"

He looked down at me, furrowing his brows. "Coffee guy?"

"It was either that or grumpy old man, but that felt a little dramatic." I teased.

A beat passed, then another.

And when I thought he would ignore my question all together, he caught my attention.

"Joel." He said.

"Joel." I repeated. It suited him. "Well Joel, nice to meet you. I'm Y/N."

I reached my hand out toward him and Joel hesitantly took my hand into his. The callouses rubbed against my palm, the slight squeeze of his hand shot a spark through me.

"Didn't ask, but good to know."

I let out a dry chuckle, "wow you're really committed to this broody, man of few words thing, huh?"

Joel tilted his head slightly, that unreadable expression still on his face. "Talking is overrated."

"And yet, here you are. Talking."

His lips twitched, and for a split second I swore I saw a smile on his lips.

"You're persistent."

"I get that a lot." I said.

I hadn't realized how I had my hand in his this whole time as we looked at one another until the sound of his phone ringing snapped me out of my daze.

"Thought you don't trust phones."

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked down at the screen. "I don't." He said before turning away and answering the call.

"Hey sweetheart." He said, voice low.

Maybe it was his wife? No...I don't remember seeing a ring. Maybe a girlfriend? Could explain why he is so standoffish.

"I'm already here. Just been enjoying some coffee." He said, glancing back at me then looking away.

Did he mean me? Was he enjoying my company?

"Don't worry, I'll be around. Just call me when you're ready." He said. "Ok, love you."

And with that, he slipped the phone back into his pocket before turning to me once again. His arms crossed over his chest, as he stood quietly.

I wasn't sure why I cared. He didn't owe me an explanation or anything, but the silence of who called bothered me.

"I should go." I said, as I pulled my phone out of my purse. "Thanks again for pretending to be my date."

Joel nodded, eye brows knitted closer together. "Didn't have a choice."

"Right. Well thanks anyway."

In that moment, I turned on my heels and started toward the street to my dorm. I could feel his stare lingering on me until I wasn't visible anymore. And part of me hoped he'd stop me. Tell me he's single and maybe want to see where this could go. But he never came.

God I'm so delusional.

I wasn't mad exactly just annoyed. Bothered? Maybe a little embarrassed.

Joel hadn't done anything wrong, not really. I was the one who dropped into his life like some chaotic sitcom character. And yet, when I heard him call that person on the phone; sweetheart...this feeling overcame me. I had no right to feel anything but there it was, lodged into my chest like an unwanted splinter.

My phone vibrated in my hand, a text from my roommate displayed across the screen.

'Last chance to change your mind and come to Texas with me!'

My roommate had been begging me to visit her hometown with her since we met 4 years ago. And every time, I had plans with Dylan. Visiting his family. But now...this would be the first year I would be alone for the holidays.

At first I was content with my decision to stay here. Bare the holidays alone and just binge watch shows and old movies I've seen hundreds of times...

Until now.

The idea of spending the holidays alone in this town while everyone else went home to family and friends. While Dylan had his new girlfriend meeting his family as if I never existed. It all felt heavy. Too heavy.

I bit my lip, my thumb hovering over the screen. It wouldn't hurt to go. Besides, maybe Texas might be something I need.

'Okay, I'm in.'

——————

Part two here

[k4marina]

— x. Winterfell || Heart of the Dragon

synopsis: after months of preparation, you've arrived in winterfell and are one step closer to the long night.

warnings: the word 'whore' being used like once or twice, mentions of sex, game of thrones cannon themes, swearing, mix of show cannon and book cannon, honestly idek i just wrote and called it a day

a/n: all dialogue in italics is Valyrian, this is lowkey a long one so eat up kiddies

series masterlist || next part

11.5k word count

game of thrones x modern!fem!reader

[gif found on pinterest]

I stood on the bow of the ship, gazing out to White Harbor growing in the horizon. Finally, after twenty long days of traveling we’d arrived in the North. Our armada of ships spanned every which way on the sea, carrying thousands of Unsullied, food, and Dragonglass. The dragons flew overhead us, soaring through the cold bitter air. Drogon led his two elder brothers towards land while they screeched.

The cold had set in a lot more than the last time I’d visited the North and it was most likely going to get a lot colder the closer the dead march closer. 

I wore long fur-lined black leather pants and knee high leather boots with a thick wool long sleeved tunic under a set of leather armor that added a layer of protection and warmth. Over that, I wore a double breasted black fur coat with a fitted top and lightly flared out bottom. It had a largely draped collar and wide fur cuffs at the sleeve. I wore thick leather gloves so my fingers wouldn’t freeze off and Dark Sister hung snuggly on my hip with a Dragonglass dagger on the left.

There’s light footsteps behind me and then a voice. “I came here to reclaim my family's throne and reestablish my House. Never once did I think that I would be fighting in the “Great War” against the Army of the Dead.” 

I glanced over at Daenerys, before turning back to the front. “I went to Dragonstone for a school project.” 

“Have you.. ever thought about going back?”

I watched as a wave crashed onto a jagged rock protruding out of the ocean. The water disperses on impact and leaves behind a white foam that glistened against the sunlight. “All the time. Who wouldn’t want to go back to their home– to their family and friends.” 

Daenerys goes silent at my words. Like her, I was brought to a foreign land, despite its small familiarity, and forced to either survive or be eaten by the world. Just as she’d wished for all these years to come back– to Westeros, I wished for the same thing, to go back to my Westeros.

“But I’m here now. And I have to focus on that.” 

––

We’d docked at White Harbor and prepared for the next part of the journey. Daenerys and the others would reach Winterfell by horseback in three day’s time, if nothing comes up. While they head North, I would fly to the Twins and try to find Robb Stark's crown. Hopefully, Walder Frey’s grandson, who'd managed to escape being killed, hadn't already handed over the crown to the Lannisters like he’d tried in the future. Once the crown was in my possession I would fly North and meet them before we’d arrived at Winterfell.

Somewhere between the events of Highgarden and meeting Cersei I had three dragon saddles made by the villagers on Dragonstone and the castle armorers. It was a rush job, to be honest, but important for our battle against the Night King– and to make long rides on Dragonback a little easier. The last thing we need is either one of us falling off and into the sea of the undead and leaving a dragon ready for the taking. The design itself was pretty simple and crude in comparison to previous Targaryen dragon saddles I’d seen on exhibit and online. I had done my best to find any information in the old Valyrian libraries on Dragonstone, but it had been practically a century since the last dragon had been alive so I was limited. 

The best way to describe it would be a horse saddle but bigger in size. It was made of a simple leather saddle with a strong leather buckle belt for added protection. The saddle was mostly tied down to the dragon's spikes as opposed to it being actually securely fastened. It was quick and worked, which was all that mattered right now. We could worry about making propper saddles after the Night King and Cersei were properly dealt with.

I said my farewells and mounted Viserion, who’d been laying in a field next to his brothers. The flight was short, only lasting around two hours. We stayed between the clouds being sure to be high enough to not catch anyone's attention while also low enough to see where we were. Viserion landed a little ways away from the village near the Twins and kept hidden. I crept down the riverbanks, looking for a side entrance that would lead me into the castle. I climbed up the stone foundations of the arches, finding the door quickly. I used the end of my sword to break open the iron lock, tossing it aside and pulling the door opened. A few years into the future, thieves would sneak into the Twins by a hidden passage and steal the castle's treasure and anything else that looked valuable to them. I climbed up the stairs and into the main castle, quickly noting the lack of guards. It appeared that the new Frey lord of the castle was less focused on building wealth and securing his House and more focused on what went on in between a prostitute's legs. 

From what I remembered, after the Frey’s killed and looted Robb Stark and his men of their goods, they hid it all in one of the third floor rooms, near a spiral staircase, which was the exact same place the thieves would find themselves in a few years time. I hid behind anything that I could whenever I’d heard any footsteps. Occasionally it would be a guard to two, but mostly servants just going about their day. I watched them go through a back door that led them to the upper floors. 

Servant stairs, I noted. Before anyone could notice, I shuffled up the steps, running up the stone stairs. By the time I’d reached the third floor, my lungs were crying for air. The hall was empty, two doors on the right and one on the left and a door at the other end of the hall with an open loft area in the middle of the room, overlooking the second floor. I tried the first door, slowly turning the rusted handle and peaking through. Empty bedroom. I then tried the one on the left. An empty study. I reached for the second door on the right, but stopped. Loud moans and grunts were heard on the other side of the door. I cringed at the woman's wanton moaning and the man growling out moans. 

Definitely not there.

I turned towards the door at the end of the hall, opening it to find a spiral staircase. Figuring that I was close, I quietly stepped up, finding an open archway to another door, most likely leading to what I came for. The door wasn’t locked, which worked in my favor and most likely the thieves as well. The room was filled with chests of gold and precious gems and jewelry. It was clear that it was going to take ages to get through all of this.

––

I groaned, leaning my back against a chest, exhausted. I’d been searching for hours and found nothing. Once, twice, thrice even. I’d searched top to bottom, but came up empty handed, literally. 

Maybe it wasn’t here and with the Lannisters.

I closed my eyes, trying to think back to anything. 

The Frey’s took the crown and other belongings of the Stark’s and their men. The current Frey Lord was pretty shit, spending money on lavish things and whores and–

That was it. Whores. 

“The Queen of Whores”

Her name wasn’t written anywhere, but she was Ryamn Frey’s favorite prostitute. She called herself the Queen of Whores after Lord Frey crowned her with Robb’s crown. Knowing where she’d be, and most likely the crown, I snuck back down to the third floor, putting my ear up to the door that I’d heard those sounds coming from. 

Silence. 

Quietly I pushed the door open, the pungent smell of sex and sweat hitting me in the face. Lord Frey and the woman who, by her appearance, was the Queen of Whores lay in bed, asleep. I scanned the room, clothes across the floors and furniture askew and wine at the table, but no crown. I looked over to the bed, the two sleeping away and the crown nestled into the woman's blond head. Shit. 

I tiptoed to her side of the bed, planning how to take it off of her. I stood over her, slowly reaching over, pinching the edge of the crown and painfully slowly easing it off, stopping whenever she moved or made a sound. My heart had never thumped so loudly in my chest. If she woke up then my fate would be sealed. Once it was off and in my hands I hurried out the room and down the halls, running down servants' steps and turned, coming face to face with a young servant girl. She nearly screams, but I cover her mouth with my hand, pushing her against the wall. 

“Calm down,” I kept my voice low and steady. “Don’t make a sound. I’m not here to hurt you, alright?” She quickly nods, still terrified. I brought my hand up, revealing the crown. “I’m only here to return this to its rightful owner.” 

Understanding, she calms down and I back off, reaching into my pocket, causing her to flinch. I fished out a few gold coins, handing them to her. 

“You saw nothing.” 

She looks down between the gold in her hands and then back at me, nodding her head. “I-I saw nothing.” 

Happy with her response, I left the same way I came, running away from the Twins and back to the field I’d left Viserion. I called for him and it wasn’t long until he was in front of me. 

“Fly, Viseron,” I commanded, quickly mounting him. 

He takes to the sky and flies north. I played with the crown in my hand, running my fingers over its details. The base of the crown was made of bronze, a homage to the First Men. It was decorated with nine iron spikes in the shape of long swords. They weren’t too polished or too rugged, which mirrored the Starks in some way. There were no gems or gold, just bronze and iron and ancient rune’s of the First Men around the base of the crown. 

It wasn’t the prettiest, but it still held honor and the Starks rich history. 

––

Base camp was already set up when I arrived. 

Rows and rows of tents stretched far and wide. Targaryen and Stark banners were up high and guards stood at watch, in case of any threat. 

I placed the crown in my tent in a sack and then rushed to the war tent at the center of the camp where everyone was in the middle of discussing what to do. I stood beside Missandei, letting the rest of them figure things out. 

“Have you found what you went searching for?” She asks, quietly. 

“I did. I found it on top of a whores head.” 

She looked at me, surprised. “What?”

“She called herself The Queen of Whores.” 

“So, there seems to be three queens in Westeros.” 

I snorted out a chuckle, “if the men of this country find out then Cersei and Daenerys would lose all favorability.” 

“Lord Varys,” Daenerys’ voice draws back our attention, “what have your little birds been saying?”

“King’s Landing is in distress, as is the royal court. Despite everything coming to light Cersei has still refused to send her army North as we’d expected. However, many mercenaries and swordsmen from the south are traveling North to fight with us.” 

“It’s working like you’ve said.” Jon says to me. 

“Cersei thought that she could try to solidify her reign by betraying us.” Daenerys stares at King’s Landing on the map with a mixture of annoyance and relief that nothing was going Cerei’s way.. “She’s in for a rude awakening.”

––

“That’s it?” Daenerys held the crown in her hand, running her fingers over the runes. “I thought it would be covered in gold or gemstones.” 

She hands it back to me and I place the crown back into the leather satchel, placing it at the foot of my bed. “I did too, but considering that it’s a Stark King’s crown, it makes sense for it to not be bejeweled-out and more practical. ”

“Missandei tells me you took the crown from the ‘Queen of Whores’?” 

I shake my head at the entire situation, “did she also tell you that I could hear one of her followers worshiping her through the walls? The walls that are made of stone, by the way.” 

Daenerys laughed, sitting down at the small table. “And judging by how secretive you’d been about this, I’m assuming you do not wish to tell Jon?” 

I sat down next to her and . “No. The whole reason why we’re doing this is to show we’re allies of the North which Jon already knows. And if there's one thing the North does well, it's remember. They still remember and mourn Robb and his mother and they’ll all remember that Daenerys Targaryen found and returned the Young Wolf King’s crown.” 

“And this won’t fuel them into rebelling?” 

I shrugged. “Some might, but then they’ll remember that you have three dragons and then shut up.” 

“But what if they’re gone by the end of it?” She asks, solemnly. 

“They won't.” I firmly reassured her. “As long as we’re vigilant the Night King won’t lay a hand on them. I told you before, it’s going to be tough, but we need to keep calm otherwise we’ll be way over our heads.” 

Outside the horns blared, indicating that the sun had set. “I’ll see you in the morning,” Daenerys says, standing up and leaving the tent. “Sleep well, it’s a long road ahead.” 

“You too.” I set the crown aside. “And remember to drink some tea before going to sleep.” 

––

The morning was quiet, a few hushed voices and horses galloping could be heard outside my tent. I sat in front of the small vanity in my cotton shift and robe while an array of servants worked to braid my hair in what seemed to be every which way. 

“I don’t see why my hair needs to be so complex.” I looked at the servants through the mirror, who were diligently pinning and braiding my hair. 

“You’re formally meeting a noble House, M’Lady, it’s only right that you look your best as Her Grace’s sister.” Explained the one on the left while the other two nodded eagerly. 

“It seems less like it’s for me and more for you three.” I mutter, handing the one in the middle a pin. 

“Nonsense.” The one on the right shook her head, smilinging, clearly lying. They don’t take long to finish, smiling at their masterpieces. One of them grabs a mirror, angling it so that I can see the back of my head through the mirror in front of me.

“What do you think?” She asks. 

I looked in awe at the braids, the level of complicity beyond me. “Wow, I’m at a loss for words.” 

“They’re beautiful.” Daenerys says, surprising us all. The servants rush to bow, greeting her and then leaving, giving us some privacy. She stands behind me, already dressed, smiling. 

“I have something for you.” 

She says a command and two Unsullied come in, carrying a chest. “I found this when I’d arrived at Dragonstone after I had that dream I mentioned earlier. I thought about wearing it, so I sent it to be repaired, but when you appeared I realized it best suited you.” 

She opens the chest and reveals a set of armor. It’s not too lavish, clearly old and used. It’s dark and red, but newly polished. It wasn’t until I saw the black Targaryen sigil on the chestplate did I realize who’s armor it was. 

“It’s only right,” Daenerys says. “You already have her sword, it’s only right to have her armor as well.” 

I look up to her to argue. She should wear it, not me, but Daenerys stops me. “Don’t argue with me. Think of it as a gift from your queen. If you're going to represent House Targaryen alongside me, then you need to look the part.” 

I looked at her, stunned. “I.. you’re insane, but thank you.” I smiled. “Hopefully I can do you and Visenya justice.” 

“You will,” She squeezes my arm. “I’ll let you get dressed.” 

––

I stood in front of the full length mirror, my eyes running down the armor that I wore. 

I wore a thick tunic underneath my long sleeved black turtleneck and long leather pants with greaves attached to the bottom parts of my legs and sabatons on my feet. My chestpate was a dark red with a black Targaryen sigil. The pauldrons on my shoulders flared out like dragon spikes. The gorget was sleek and sat comfortably around my neck with extra padding peeking out of the top of it. The set came with matching gauntlets, but I opted to wear the forearm guards instead and leather gloves. The faulds hung snuggly on my hips with Dark Sister at my side. It wasn't as intricate as other sets of armor, leaning more towards efficacy than aesthetics. 

I somehow found myself grateful that I was brought here. If I weren’t then Daenerys would have suffered multiple losses in almost every other battle and I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to wield Dark Sister and wear Visenya’s armor. 

I stepped out of my tent opting for an early morning walk. The Unsullied had already begun packing up, most of their tents already cleared. There were only a few tents left, but it wouldn't be long until they were cleared and we were back on the road. We only had half a day’s ride left before we’d arrive at Winterfell and then it wouldn’t be long before the Night King and his Army of the Dead came marching towards us. It could take days, or weeks, even months, no one knew the exact time but it was clear he was coming. Considering that the Night King doesn’t have Viserion, like previously, he’s going to have to find a new way to get past the wall. 

I hadn’t realized how far out I had walked away from the camp until I had stumbled across the three dragons. They looked like they’d just been fed and ready to fly. Naturally, Viserion inched closer to me wondering if I was here to have a ride. I glanced back at the other two, Rahegal laying on the floor, catching up on some missed sleep while Drogon watched me through the corner of his eye

I raised my hand to pet Viserion on his snout. He inched his head further into my palm, closing his eyes and puring. Warmth radiated off of him, which was appreciated considering the freezing temperature of the North. 

“I know, it’s fucking freezing.” 

I turned to look over at the other two. “I know you three have had your taste of danger, but this is more than that.” I doubted if the other two dragons could understand what I was saying, let alone paying me any attention, but I still continued, turning to Drogon. “What we’re facing could be the fall of humanity. Any little mistake can result in us dying.” 

Drogon’s eyes lingered on mine, seemingly understanding before he huffed and turned his face. 

––

“If we want to reach Winterfell before night then we have to move now.” Jon’s voice carried loudly over the sounds of the Unsullied and Dothraki preparing for our departure. The wagons were packed, tents put away, soldiers in formation, and our horses ready. 

“Lord Tyrion,” I greeted.

He turns around, opening his mouth to speak, but stops taking in me in my new armor. He squints his eyes but then regains his composure. 

“My Lady,” he nods. “Have you done something to your hair? Perhaps a little shorter?” 

I chuckled. “Yes, I did. I even changed the color of my hair.” 

He smiles, laughing. “I jest, but your new armor suits you well. An antique I presume?” 

“Thank you. You don’t look too bad yourself. And yes, Daenerys thought it was time to brush off the dust. ” I glanced at his attire. He wore a thick black coat, with the Queen's Hand pin on his left shoulder, over a thick textured tunic that peaked through the high collar. 

A servant walks over to us, helping me attach a thick and long red cape. I maneuvered the cape around so that it wouldn’t get in my way while we walked further down the line of soldiers.

“The things we do for warmth. I’d much rather be in a warm carriage.” 

“There’s still room if you’d like to join Varys and I,” Tyrion suggests. “But you’d do much more besides Daenerys.” 

“Thank you, I’ll join you whenever I need a break from this weather.” 

Grey Worm, who was dressed in his armor, walked over to us. “The carriage and your horse is ready. We are leaving soon.” 

“And Daenerys?”

“She is with Jon Snow waiting for you.” 

“I guess we should get going then,” I turned to Tyrion. “Safe travels.” 

“To you as well.” He and Grey Worm turned to where the carriage waited for him and I made my way to where Daenerys and Jon were. 

They were in the middle of going over the plan one last time. “We’re at the edge of Cerwyn, once passed we’ll be 40 miles away from Winterfell.” Jon explained.

“Good. The faster we get to Winterfell, the more time we’ll have preparing for the Night King.” Daenerys nods in thought. “Raise the banners and tell my men to start marching.” 

Jon nods and quickly leaves to do as he was told. Daenerys turned to me, giving me an approving look. “Just as I thought, it looks good on you.” 

“I feel like I’m cosplaying.” 

“Cosplaying?” She frowns, not understanding what I meant. “What does that word mean?”

“It means that I feel like I’m dressing up as someone else.” 

“You’re not.” She quickly reassured me. “You are yourself, and no one else. The armor you wear and the sword you wield show that you are good enough to have them, no one else but you. I chose you to stand beside me, not anyone else, remember that.” 

I nodded, letting her words sink in. “I will.” 

She smiled. “Good. Now let's get going.”

––

We rode for hours, stopping whenever it was necessary to feed ourselves and the horses. Thankfully, we’d crossed Cerwyn ahead of schedule and were only an hour away from Winterfell. The castle came into view the moment we entered the village closest to Winterfell. Wherever we went in the North, werry eyes followed us. Half the Unsullied marched in front of us while the rest of them and the Dothraki were behind us. 

Jon, Daenerys, and I rode side by side, Jon to the left of her and me on the right. Missandei and Grey Worm rode behind us close by, Qhono and one of his Dothraki lieutenants we behind them followed by the horse drawn carriage that Tyrion and Varys were seated in, protected by a mix of Unsullied and Dothraki soldiers. 

Up ahead a boy climbed up a tree to get a better view at the arrival of the foreign army. The streets were lined with suspicious and eager villagers looking at us with watchful eyes, afraid of what we could do. Some don’t even try to hide their expressions, looking at us disapprovingly, hiding their children behind them. I’m sure if they had any pearls around their necks they’d clutch them so tight that they’d snap in half.

Daenerys tries to make herself look less harmful by smiling at them. She’d even swapped her typical dark clothing to wear a thick white coat with thin burgundy stripes flowing down vertically, a silky burgundy cravat around her neck, and a matching shoulder cape attached to the back of her shoulder. Her signature chain and dragon pin wrapped around her and settled on her right shoulder. In contrast to our surroundings, she looked like a puffy snowball that the Northerners saw as a threat.

Jon glanced over to the hostile glances that were thrown at our way. “I warned you. Northerners don’t trust outsiders.” 

“Even those who’re here to help?”  I glanced at his way. 

Overhead a dragon roars and the villagers crane their necks up in fear, searching for the origin of the ungodly sound. The villagers clamor as Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion fly over them, their giant wings creating large shadows that covered parts of the village. Drogon swoops down, roaring, and the villagers huddle together, ducking. Daenerys looks up to her children, smiling as they fly closer to the castle. They swoop over the castle as Sansa Stark watches them from the walls of Winterfell.

We neared the end of the village and into a clearing between the walls of Winterfell and the village bounds. The Unsullied that were in front had already begun setting up tents and guard posts. We broke off from the rest of them and entered through the main gates and into a courtyard where a group of people stood waiting for us, watching with a blend of nervousness and guarded curiosity. I got off my horse and handed the reins off to a stable boy, but not before grabbing the crown wrapped in a piece of cloth. Jon and Daenerys did the same and the three of us stepped closer to the group awaiting us. 

Sansa stood next to her brother, Bran, in front of the group, smiling at Jon. Brienne of Tarth stands behind Sansa with Podrick Payne beside her. An older man in a black robe and Maester chains stands between the night and another older man who’s dressed in House Royce’s sigil. My gaze flickers from the others then towards Lyanna Mormont who stood next to Bran, watching us like a predator sizing up its prey, waiting for it to make the wrong move.

Jon walks up to Bran and kisses him on his head, thankful that he was alive. “Look at you,” he pulls away, holding him close. He sniffles remembering the last time he’d seen his little brother was after his fall from the tower and his coma. “You’re a man.” 

“Almost.” Bran replies, giving a slight smile to his brother. 

Jon looks at him quizzically and turns his attention to Sansa. Daenerys and I watch as he walks to her and gives her a long hug. 

“Where’s Arya?” He asks, glancing around. 

“Lurking somewhere.” She replies, like it was normal.

Jon turns to us and Daenerys stands next to him. “Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen. My sister, Sansa Stark.” 

“Thank you for inviting us into your home, Lady Stark.” Daenerys smiled at her but deep down I could tell she was weary of Sansa. “The North is as beautiful as your brother claims, as are you.” 

Sansa looks at her apprehensively, but masks it with a tight lipped smile. “Winterfell is yours Your Grace.” She ignores Daenerys’ compliment, clearly not interested in small talk and pleasantries.

Daenerys beckons me forward. “This is my sister, Y/n Vellarys.”

I give a slight nod of the head. “It’s an honor to meet you, Lady Stark.” I briefly glanced over to Daenerys. “I was visiting the Twins quite recently and I stumbled across something of great value.”

The mention of the Frey’s home caught the attention of everyone. They peered over each other's shoulders as I brought the bundle of cloth into view. Carefully I peeled back the leather and pulled out Robb Stark's crown. You could hear a pin drop while everyone watched with shocked expressions. Jon looked between Daenerys and I, equally if not more shocked than the rest. 

I held it up to Sansa making sure that my voice was loud enough for people to hear without it making it seem like I was trying to make a show of it. “Your brother's crown deserves to be here, at Winterfell. Not in the hands of the people who took him and your mother from this world. It’s only right that what rightfully belongs to you is safely in your grasp.” 

Tears brimmed her eyes as she carefully took the crown in her trembling hands. She looks between it, me, and Jon completely taken aback. There were some nights when she was held in King’s Landing hoping and praying that Robb would march down and save her from her hell, and then when he’d been killed at his own wedding she’d fall into despair thinking that the last thing he’d heard from his sister was that dreaded letter Cersei had made her write. 

“I.. I don’t know what to say.” She takes a deep breath through her nose and composes herself. Her hands clutched around the crown in her hands. “I thought they had sold it off to the Lannisters.” 

“Well it’s a good thing I got there before that.” I smiled. 

She smiles, though it’s reserved it’s still better than the one she’d given Daenerys a moment ago. “Thank you, My Lady.” 

The moments short lived, however, as Bran– or rather the Three Eyed Raven speaks urgently. “We don’t have much time. The wall has fallen. The dead march South.” 

The courtyard falls into a sudden silence. A chill runs down everyone's spines as Bran’s ominous words that everyone had been dreading. 

How could the dead march South so quickly when they don’t have Viserion?

A wave of nausea falls over me, eerily similar to the one I’d gotten in the caves below Dragonstone before I’d arrived. I could feel Dany’s eyes on me, equally disturbed by the dreaded news. 

“What? How?”

“He took down the wall with his hands.” 

–––

The great hall was set. All of, or at least most of, the Starks' sworn houses were either seated closely together or standing off to the sides of the hall. At the front of the hall, in front of the lit hearth, a table was set on the dias where Sansa, Bran, Jon, and Daenerys and I sat. Another table was set on the right for Tyrion, Varys, and Missandei.

“As soon as we heard about the Wall, I called all our Banners to retreat to Winterfell. Lord Umber,” a young boy peeks his head forwards between two grown and very large men. “When can we expect your people to arrive?” Sansa asks aloud. 

He looked between the ages of ten to twelve, a great difference from the other Lord’s who were well into adulthood. He stands up from the side of the room and walks forward clearly nervous.

“We need more horses and wagons, if it pleases my lady.” He stops and awkwardly turns to look at Jon. “And my lord.” He pauses again and turns to Daenerys. “And my queen. Sorry.” 

“You’ll have as many as we can spare. Hurry back to Last Hearth and bring your people here.” Sansa nods, approving his requests. 

I frowned while quietly listening in. The first place to fall to the Night King was Last Hearth, which meant that the young lord in front of us would die a painful death by the White Walkers. 

“No.” All eyes turned to me, some surprised I disagreed with Sansa while others looked like I’d just said ‘burn them all’ like the Mad King. “The Night King marches south. He took down the Wall that’d been standing for thousands of years with nothing but his bare hands and sheer will. It’s only a matter of time before his army reaches Last Hearth. If you go home you’ll be met with the Night King and his army and you’ll be severely outnumbered and underprepared.” 

“We can’t know that for sure.” Sansa says, a slight tinge of annoyance in her tone. “It takes two days to reach Last Hearth from Eastwatch, if Lord Umber leaves now he’ll have enough time–”

“You remember how fast they got to us, right?” I turned to Jon. “We were what, a few hundred miles away from the horde and within minutes we were surrounded by the dead, cornered onto a frozen lake.” I finally turned to Sansa, “if you want to send Lord Umber to Last Hearth, then go ahead, but you’ll be sending him to his grave. The Night King travels fast, his army faster. They’re not humans, they don’t need to rest or eat. If they’re told to march forwards– that’s exactly what they’ll do. I suggest sending a raven to Last Hearth to order the remaining men to grab their swords and leave everything behind and head to Winterfell before they join the otherside.” 

Everyone looks between Jon and Sansa and I. Sansa looks at Jon, waiting for him to take her side, but he doesn’t. Jon nods and she goes to argue against it but he speaks up before she could. 

“She’s right, we can’t afford to lose our men. Send the raven to Last Hearth.” Jon dismisses the young lord, who bow and scurries off to do as commanded. Jon then addresses the Maester, “we need to send ravens to the Night’s Watch as well. There’s no sense in manning the castles anymore. We make our stand here.”

“At once, Your Grace.” The Maester bows his head and turns back to do as commanded when Lyanna Mormont speaks up.

“‘Your Grace’,” she repeats the title with a slight mocking tone. Suddenly she stands, she looks thirteen at most, and walks forwards. “But you’re not, are you?” Jon shifts just slightly in his seat as the young lady speaks further in her disapproving tone. “You left Winterfell a King and came back a–” she stops herself, “–I’m not so sure what you are now.” 

Her blunt words cause people to mutter among themselves in agreement. “A Lord? Nothing at all?” 

“It’s not important.” Jon says, trying to move past this conversation quickly. 

“Not important?” Lyanna quickly repeats. “We named you King in the North.” People start cheering, showing the Lady of Bear Island their support. 

Jon turned to Sansa who gave him a ‘what did you expect’ look.

“King of the North!” Many northernmen repeated as a reminder to Jon. 

Jon lets out a small breath, “you did, My Lady. It was the honor of my life. I’ll always be grateful for your faith.” He stands, raising his voice as he addresses the room full of people whilst Lyanna quietly sits back in her seat. 

“But when I left Winterfell, I told you we need allies or we will die. I have brought those allies home to fight alongside us.” Sansa stares at Daenerys and I but shifts her attention when Jon continues. “I had a choice, keep my crown or protect the North. I chose the North.”

People continue to murmur again, now split amongst themselves on what side they should take in all of this. Tyrion, who’d been silently watching from the side, sees that he has an opening and stands up and walks to the center of the room. 

“If anyone survives the war to come, we’ll have Jon Snow to thank. He risked his life to show us the threat is real. Thanks to his courage, we have brought the greatest army the world have ever seen.” Jon and Dany give each other a look, grateful that Tyrion could help soothe the situation. “We have brought three full-grown dragons. I know our people haven’t been friends in the past. But we must fight together now or die.” 

“May I ask,” Sansa speaks up, turning her attention to Daenerys. “How are we meant to feed the greatest army the world has ever seen?” She sounds skeptical and smug, emphasizing the ‘greatest army’ part. “While I assured our stores would last through winter, I didn’t account for Dothraki, Unsullied, and three full-grown dragons.” She gives Daenerys a pointed look, an almost ‘gotcha’ look on her face. “What do dragons eat, anyway?”

Daenerys keeps calm, and replies equally smug. “Whatever they want.” 

Sansa’s expressions wavers, a hidden meaning behind Daenerys’ words, though there was some underlying truth to them. 

“We’ve brought plenty of food to share with everyone.” I say, changing the subject. “Additional food and supplies will be here from Dorne and Highgarden.” I looked to the lords and lady’s in front of us. “We’ve come here to defend Winterfell and fight alongside you all. Not to take your supplies and leave.” 

The crowd settles down and soon the meeting gets back on track. Jon sends out his orders and discusses further on how the Lord’s and Lady’s should proceed now that the dead come marching. Within a few days Winterfell would be under siege awaiting the Night King and his army. Which meant that in only a few days Jon’s true identity would be revealed. 

The meetings adjourned, everyone leaving to do their jobs. Sansa goes to make rounds around the castle while Jon and Daenerys leave to have a moment to themselves, leaving Bran and I. He’s facing the lit hearth, watching the flames with a blank expression on his face. 

“So you became the Three Eyed Raven,” I sat in my chair, watching him. 

“I did.” His reply lacks any emotion. “You know who I am, but I don’t know you.” He grips the wheels of his wheelchair, turning them to face me. “I’ve never seen you before.” 

A chill runs down my spine at his thousand yard stare. Almost any bit of emotion was stripped away from his words. 

I take a gamble, “because I’m not from this time. You can only see the past and present, not the future.”  

If he’s shocked, he hides it really well, keeping steady eye contact while he listens to my words. “You’ve been brought from the future. Do you know why?” 

“Haven’t the slightest clue.” 

“Why have you told me?” 

“You’re the Three Eyed Raven, you should know.” I briefly look down at my hands and then back to him. “Just like you know Jon’s real identity.”

“He should know.” He says it like it’s a fact, like it will happen, and it maybe it might. 

“I’m not saying he shouldn’t know who his parents are, I’m just worried about the fall out.” 

“To Daenerys.” 

“Partly. Mostly to the rest of Westeros. Do you know what happens when the world finds out who Jon Snow is? Chaos, war and famine.” He doesn't reply. “Once this gets out everything we’re fighting for means nothing. And the kicker? You end up on the Iron Throne.” 

This seems to garner a reaction from him. “Me? I can never be a King. I am the Three Eyed Raven.” 

“That’s my point. Which is why I need you to work with me, so we can tell Jon and only those that need to know.” 

He hesitates, “I can’t see into the future, but if what you say is the truth then I will help you. However, the truth must come out. Jon must know the truth.” 

–––

I walked around the castle grounds, trying to familiarize myself with Winterfell's layout as well as I could. The Unsullied and Dothraki were getting settled nicely and the Dragonglass Jon’s men had mined and shipped over was quickly being turned to weapons for everyone to use. I stood off to the side while watching the men move wagons of large broken chunks of Dragonglass. One of the northernmen accidentally knocks a chunk off the wagon, but before it could shatter onto the ground on impact Gendry reaches out and catches it. 

“Hey, careful, lads. We need every bit of it.” 

There’s a loud voice that gets covered up by the sound of horses, wagons, and other northerners talking that takes my attention away. I turned towards the main gates just in time to see them open and for what looked to be the Karstarks just arriving. Just as I watched their arrival, so did Tyrion, Varys, and Ser Davos who were standing off to the side. I weaved through the bustling courtyard towards them. 

“People watching, I see.” The three men give a slight bow of the head. 

“Not much for us to do it seems.” Tyrion replied. 

The four of us watched as Yohn Royce greeted the lady, who stood in between two soldiers holding banners of their house sigil. Lord Royce motions with his arm for her to follow him so he shows her to her lodging for the time being. 

Tyrion's eyes linger on the banners for a slight moment, “one of the better sigils, if I can say.” He glances back to Varys and Davos, “beats and onion anyway.” He begins to walk down a path while Davos bluntly agrees, “can’t argue with that.”

The three of us followed behind the Hand of the Queen while the people around us worked. 

“Not so long ago, the Starks and the Karstarks were slaughtering each other on the battlefields.” Ser Davos walks with his hands behind his back under his cape. “Jon Snow brought peace to their houses.” 

“And our Queen is grateful.” Tyrion replies. 

“Her gratitude is lovely, but that's not my point. The Northmen are loyal to Jon Snow, not to her. They don't know her. The Free Folk don't know her. I've been up here a while, and I'm telling you, they're stubborn as goats. You want their loyalty, you have to earn it.”

“And that’s what I’m assuming Lady Vellarys was doing.” Varys glanced towards me. 

I gave a light shrug. “If you think that a crown is what it takes to win over the North’s trust, then you’re sorely mistaken. It was just a small step in a very uphill climb.” 

Tyrion, who’d been thinking long, falls behind us, only catching up to us once we’d stood atop the castle walls. Ser Davos looks down towards the ground when he finally catches up. 

“I sense that you’re leading a proposal.” 

Davos looks on ahead as if he's watching something. “A proposal is what I'm proposing.” I stepped closer to the crenulations and looked between the gaps to where Ser Davos was looking. “On the off chance that we survive the Night King, what if the Seven Kingdoms, for once in their whole shit history, were ruled by a just woman and an honorable man?”

Tyrion steps closer to see Jon and Daenerys standing closely together talking amongst themselves and lost in their own world while the people around them set up tents and dug a huge moat around the castle. 

“They do make a handsome couple.” 

“You overestimate our influence.” Varys sighs as if he’s a parent talking about their teenage child who just doesn’t listen anymore. “Jon and Daenerys don't want to listen to lonely old men.” 

“I’m not that old,” Tyrion’s quick to defend. He looks to Varys and then Ser Davos, “Not as old as him.” 

“Perhaps she’ll listen to someone of her own age.” Three pairs of eyes turn towards me.

I look away from the two love birds down below over to the three elderly men. “What?” 

Tyrion squints, a faint smile on his lips. “You already have a plan.” 

“Are you kidding me, I’ve been planning their little wedding since Jon showed up on Dragonstone.” I turned back to Jon and Daenerys below who seemed to be walking away to another portion of the camp. “I’m just waiting for the right circumstances to bring this all up.” 

“And those being?” Varys asks. 

I shruged. “Don’t know. I’m sure I’ll figure it out.” 

The four of us stand there, looking down at the soldiers for some time when dragon screeches are heard overhead catching everyone’s attention. Rhaegal flies close to the castle and turns side to side causing Jon– who seems to be riding him for the first time– to scream. The three men watch in disbelief as Drogo and Daenerys fly past after them and away from Winterfell. 

“Those circumstances I was talking about,” I hummed, a cheeky smile on my face. “I think they’re almost here.”

I left the three men standing up on the ramparts and weaved through the courtyard. I didn’t have a set location in mind, seeing that I’d just arrived at Winterfell. The sky had gotten darker and the air colder. It wouldn't be long before night yet there was still so much work to do. Battle plans needed to be discussed, trenches and moats needed to be dug, the Dragonglass needed to be melted and forged into weapons, and we needed a way to protect the young and elderly when the dead are at our doors. Eventually, I’d found myself at a dead end after wandering around lost in thought. I go to turn back and nearly have a heart attack, coming face to face with Arya Stark. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” I place a hand on my chestplate over where my heart is. Arya stands there with an unreadable expression on her face. “You shouldn’t do that,” I chide, though there’s hardly any bite to my words and I doubt that there’s any effect on her. “You could give someone a heart attack.”

“That can happen?” She asks, a little tilt to her head.

“Yes.” Can it? “That’s why you should only sneak up on the enemy, not people who’re helping you.”

“You’re here to help?” 

I frown, “no, I’m here to smell the roses and be on my why.” If she’s feeling smug she hides it well. But given that she’s a younger sister, I’m sure she’s happy that she’s able to get a reaction out of me. 

She doesn’t reply, merely running her gaze down my armor and to the sword at my side as if sizing me up and how much of a threat I am without the dragon.

“You know how to use it?” 

Knowing where this was going I nod, “yes, but don’t ask me to spar, I’m not that good.” I can see that she’s still eyeing my sword. Feeling an opportunity, I unsheath it and held it up to her. “Do you know who it belonged to?”

She shakes her head. 

“Come on, you know it. Look at the pommel. Think back to what you’ve read about all the known Valyrian swords. I’ll give you a hint, I’m wearing her armor.” 

She frowns in concentration, analyzing the sword and racking her brain for any idea. She shifts her eyes towards the egg shaped pommel when she finally remembers, her eyes go wide and her head snaps up, and I could swear I could see a lightbulb go off over her head. “Visenya Targaryen?”

“Correct.” 

She looks both surprised and excited as she goes to look between the sword and the armor. She’d only read about Visenya’s armor and sword in old books almost as if they were fairy tales and long forgotten artifacts. 

Thinking not much of it I extended it out to her. “Try to hold it, it’ll be sharp so be careful.” 

Eagerly, she takes the sword in her hand and finds the right grip for herself, feeling the weight of the sword and its balance. She takes a step back, sword in hand and closes her eyes, taking in a breath. She stands the sword in front of her and takes in a deep breath before she does her “water dance” that Syrio Froel taught her in secret all those years ago in the Red Keep. 

Her motion is fluid, and graceful. She’s agile on her feet and she swings the sword precisely. If Syrio was still around, I’m sure he’d be proud of his dear student. People stop to watch her, sort of bemused, but not that surprised that little Arya Stark knows how to wield a sword (very well, might I add). When she finishes I clap my hands, the sound muffled by my leather gloves.

“Bravo, Lady Arya. Syrio taught you well.” 

She hands me the sword back and I place it back to its scabbard. “Did you know him?” She sounds almost hopeful that I held the same memories of the man who’d protected her when death was around the corner. Clearly after all this time, he still holds a special place in her heart. 

“No I don’t, but I know of him. I know he taught you how to “dance” while you stayed in the Red Keep.” Her expression somewhat flatters, disappointed. “I also know that he once almost beheaded Ser Davos.” I said, trying to cheer her up.

“What? Ser Davos? Jon’s advisor?” She sounds as if she doesn’t believe it. 

“Thought he was a pirate. Davos told him that he was just a smuggler, but Syrio didn’t care and tried anyway, and, as you can see– Davos escaped.”

She laughs, not like a little girl, but like someone who’s seen the world. Her eye’s land back to Dark Sister before up at me. “Do you have a dragon?”

“I do. Viserion, the eldest of the three. Would you like to see him?” 

She beams, her inner child almost shining through and I think for the first time in a very long time she’s let her guard down. “Yes.”

“We’ll do it before we have supper, sort of like a reward after a hard working day.” A comfortable silence falls between us and I can’t help but stare at the catspaw’s dagger at her side. “That dagger, it’s a nice accessory. Do you know who it belongs to?”

Arya subconsciously takes a more defensive stance. “It belonged to the assassin that was sent to kill my brother. They say that the Lannisters gave it to him.” 

“That’s somewhat true.” I glance at the dagger, “it was Littlefingers, though you already know that seeing how he’s not around. He says that he lost it in a bet to Tyrion, but that was another lie of his. Baelish orchestrated Bran’s assassination and blamed it on the Lannisters.” 

“So it belonged to Littlefinger.” 

I lightly shook my head. “No. It belonged to Aegon the Conqueror.” The revelation surprises her and her hand goes down to the dagger in instinct. 

“What?”

“Before he died the dagger was made for him and his descendants so it could be passed down from heir to heir.”

The dagger was dated back to Old Valyria, it’s rumored that Aenar Targaryen brought it over Dragonstone, though it’s unknown if it belonged to anyone before the Targaryen took possession of it. The dagger was passed down as a show of passing the Lordship to the next heir until it reached Aegon. 

Before the conquest, Aegon had his prophetic dream of the Song of Ice and Fire and called on the remaining Valyrian pyromancers to inscribe his prophecy for his future descendants. Since then the dagger and its true meaning has been passed down from monarch to monarch, until the rebellion of course.

“Daenerys wants it back.” Ayra states.

“Not her, per say, but she’ll greatly appreciate it if you’d return it to her.” 

“If you want it then it means that it’s something valuable. I want to know.” Ayra’s grip tightens on the dagger.

“I can’t. Confidential, I’m afraid.” 

“I can keep a secret.” 

“I told you, I can’t. It’s not my place.” It was the truth. No matter how much I knew, it was Daenerys who had the right to share the meaning of the dagger to anyone. “I brought you Robb’s crown, it’s only fair you give the dagger in return.” 

“Is that why you brought it? For an exchange?” 

“No.” I reply, honestly. “It belongs to your family, not someone else. Just as how that dagger belongs to Daenerys.” 

We come to a sort of stalemate, neither one backing down. Ayra may have trained with a First Sword of Braavos and later the Faceless Men and has faced death countless of times, but she was still a child who couldn’t help when she’d get curious. 

“How’s this, you give me the dagger and I’ll have a new Valyrian steel dagger made for you however you’d like it to be. And– if she says yes– I’ll share what I know of the dagger.” I wait for her answer, watching carefully. 

Arya’s well trailed face finally breaks. “Alright.” Her hands make quick work to undo the leather bindings that held the dagger to her belt. She doesn’t break eye contact as she hands the dagger over, a mutual agreement between us. 

I turn to leave, but she stops me.

“Wait.” I turn back around. “Give me your dagger.” She points to the dragonglass dagger at my side. “I was having something made for that dagger, but now that you’ve taken it I don’t have one.” 

I reached down, unclasping the dagger in its leather scabbard and handed it off to her. “It’s a little chunky. Was one of the first dragonglass daggers the smiths had made.” 

“Thanks.” She attaches the dagger to where the catspaw one had been at her side and then turns to walk away. 

––

Not too long after my brief meeting with Arya, the sun had dipped below the horizon and the moon had taken its place in the sky instead. Despite night falling over Winterfell, the people outside still worked their hardest to prepare for the oncoming doom, seeing how there’s a small (but still probable) chance that the dead would come early.

True to my word, I took Arya to see the dragons. Drogon and Rhaegal had hunkered down to rest after their riders had taken them out not too long ago. Viserion had cautiously approached us, seeking me out first to see if I was okay. It took him a while for him to not growl and blow steam out of his nostrils whenever I eased Arya towards him, but eventually he did allow a small gentle pat by her. It was nice to see her so excited with her child-like wonder, especially with knowing how difficult and traumatic her childhood had been and knowing what she’d had to endure.

Eventually, we’d turned back towards the castle, making sure that the dragons were fed, despite the North making it difficult for them to eat sufficiently. Arya had left my side without me knowing until I’d turned to my left to say goodbye to her, only to be met with nothing. I would have gone to my chambers to wait for Dany to have our dinner together, but I’d found her and Jorah walking along the halls. 

“And where are you two going?” 

They look up, Daenerys smiling when I see her and Jorah straightens his back, bowing his head. 

“We’re going to see that man that saved Jorah.” Daenerys says. 

“Sam? Where is he?” 

“In the library,” Jorah replies. He steps forwards and leads the two of us further down the hallway and to an old wooden door. Jorah opens it, the door creaking, letting us in and then shuts it behind himself. We walked through the tall bookshelves filled with borderline ancient books and scrolls to where Sam works scribbling something down in some book. Jorah nods in his direction and Daenerys clears her throat, grabbing his attention. 

“Oh!” Startled, Sam stands up and dusts his Maester’s robes. 

“So you’re the man?” Daenerys asks. 

“Um. Which man am I, Your Grace?” He asks, both confused and nervous. 

“The one who saved Ser Jorah when no one else could.” 

“They could, they just wouldn’t” Jorah adds and Sam bashfully smiles, but tries (and fails) to play it off. 

“I’ll have to make some changes in the Citadel when I take my throne.” She smiles at Sam. “A great service merits a great reward.” 

“Oh, it’s my honor to serve you. Your Grace.” He replies, bashful. 

“Well, there must be something I could give you.” 

Sam nods, thinking of something. “If it’s not too much trouble, I could use a pardon.” 

“For what crime?” I ask. 

“Um, I borrowed a few books from the Citadel.” Sam admits, almost embarrassed. Daenerys, Jorah and I smiled to ourselves as Sam continued on. “And also a sword.” 

Daenerys looks at him confused, “from the Citadel?”

He shakes his head. “From my family. It’s been in House Tarly for generations. It would’ve been mine anyway, eventually, but my father had other ideas,” Sam continued to ramble. 

“Randyll Tarly?” Daenerys asks. 

Sam nods, “you know him?” 

Jorah and Daenerys stand there, not knowing what to say. I knew that eventually, we'd have to explain it all to him, I just don’t know how. I cleared my throat, stepping in front of them to explain everything to Sam. 

“Do you know that the Lannisters tried to sack Highgarden?” He nods, unsure where I was going. “When Her Grace and I learned of the oncoming attack we rode into battle on dragonback. There we encountered the Lannister army as well as their allies. Your father and his men were there as well.” 

Sam, having an inkling to what I was going to say, braces himself. “We fought and rounded the remaining men. There, Daenerys gave them a choice; bend the knee or face the consequences of standing by a false queen. Your father and brother were given their choices. Your father made his decision. Despite serving House Targaryen for many faithful years, he decided to side with Cersei once she made him Warden of the South, and he refused to bend the knee. He’d made his decision and faced the consequences.” 

Sam tries to hold it in together. Sure, his father wasn’t the kindest or the most loving father to Sam and he may or may not have alluded to murdering him if he didn’t take the Black, but he was still his father. It’s not unfathomable that even after all of that Sam still cares for his father, remembering a time when his father didn’t look at him with hate, but with love.

He gulps, willing himself not to break in front of us. “My brother?”

“Alive. He decided to bend the knee and is now head of House Tarly. Him and his men will be here to fight against the Night King tomorrow I presume.” I reassured. 

“Well at least I’ll be allowed home again, now that my brother’s the lord.” He tries to crack a joke, but the death of his father still weighs down on him. He clears his throat, trying to keep it together. “Ahm. Thank you, Your Grace. For telling me. And m-may I?” 

Daenerys gives him a sympathetic look. “Of course.” 

Sam leaves the library quickly, tears brimming his eyes. The three of us watched as he left. The door slams shut and I let out a sigh.  Daenerys goes to walk over to a bench and takes a seat. 

“When I executed Lord Tarly I’d done it without thinking that he was a father or a husband. I only saw him as someone who’d committed treason.” 

Jorah places a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You did what you had to, Khaleesi.” 

She shakes her head, but not at what Jorah said, but at something else. She looks over to me, “why did he do it? It’s just as you said, he stood beside my family during the Rebellion, so why didn’t he do the same for me?” 

I let out a sigh, walking over to sit besides her. “Honestly, I have no clue. Truthfully, there are alot of things that don’t make sense and your guess is as good as mine.”

Eventually, we left the library for our dinner. Daenerys had decided to have her meal with me in my room. The small stone room was lit with almost every candle I could find. The hearth is lit and warms the cold room quickly. I’d thrown the dagger near the edge of the fire, letting the blade burn into a hot orangey-red hue while I poured the two of us some wine with our food.

“What is that?” She asks from across the table, but her eyes are on the dagger.” 

“It’s Aegon the Conqueror's dagger.” I reached for my cup. “After Robert usurped the throne the dagger was in Pyter Baelish’s possession. He gave the dagger to an assassin to use the dagger to try and kill Bran Stark and frame Tyrion for the murder. Of course that didn’t work, and in the end Arya Stark got her hands onto it.” 

“But now you have it.” She finishes. 

I reach down, grabbing the dragonbone and dragonglass handle, lifting the glowing dagger out of the fire. “What they didn’t know was that Aegon had his prophecy prescribed onto the dagger for his descendants.” 

Daenerys stands up and looks over my shoulder. The dagger is still glowing, but she can make out High Valyrian glyphs written over the blade. 

“Daoruni īlvi jemot anogar ēza isse iā perzot,” I read aloud. 

“From my blood comes the prince that was promised, and his will be the song of ice and fire.” She translates into Westerosi.

“Or Princess.” I correct. 

“And that’s me?” 

“The Prince whose promised is supposed to bring the world's greatest beast back to life. You brought three dragons from Rhaenery Targaryen’s time back to life.” 

“And Jon.” 

“You two share similarities,” I leave it at that, not wanting to further continue before we’ve had that conversation. I take the dagger and dunk it into a bucket of water I had ready under the table. The steel sizzles and crackles, hot steam coming up from the rapidly cooling dagger. 

“What’s that?” 

I turned to Daenerys. “What’s what?” 

She points to the side of the dragonbone handle. “They’re something there, like a mark or carving.” 

I take the dagger out of the water and turn to see what she was talking about. There was a marking, but the dark dragonbone made it difficult to see what. I reached over for a lit candle, blowing out the flame and carefully pouring the hot wax into the crevasse. I made sure not to overflow it and let the wax settle down. I ran my eyes over the engraving and laughed, turning it over for Dany to see. It was thin, but legible. 

A tiny tiny sword with two very tiny dragons around it. Dany looks between the engraving and then me. 

“It’s a wedding gift.” I said. “Given to Aenar, by Jalaenha, I imagine.” 

She smiles, “long live the Vellarys.” 

I smirked. “I can drink to that.”

–––

After dinner and a few glasses of wine, Daenerys left to retire for the night in her room. I would have done the same, seeing that I’d taken my armor off and slipped into something more comfortable and warm, but the wine I’d had had left me a bit energized. So, I found myself walking around the castle, hoping that it would tire me down so that I may be able to sleep. There were alot less people around than there were in the afternoon. Now, only a few handful worked to finish off the day's work while guards began to take their posts around the castle. A horse drawn wagon rushed past me when I saw him.

Bran sat across the courtyard and covered in furs. He stares at me, as if he’d been watching me ever since I’d stepped foot outside. I frowned, what was he doing out here? Shouldn’t he be inside eating? And then it hit me.

I curse under my breath and walk over to him. “What did you do.” 

“He needs to know,” Bran’s voice is almost monotone. “The time is now. Jon must know.” 

“I agree, but this is far more delicate than you might think it is.” I sighed and glanced around, catching a glimpse of Sam disappearing behind a door. “The crypts?” 

He doesn’t reply and I take it as a yes. I rushed over to the gates of the crypts, catching Sam leaving. 

“Did you tell him?” 

Sam looks at me surprised. “Tell him what?”

“Samwell,” I say his name more sternly. “Did you tell him?” 

He nervously swallows. “Yes.” 

I rushed past him and weaved through the long halls and staircases all the way down to where the remains were located. The room was engulfed in a low orange hue by the dimly lit candles. Jon stood in front of a statue of someone I couldn’t see. He’s motionless, just staring ahead sort of in a trance. I sucked in a breath, squaring off my shoulders as a way to mentally prepare myself and stepped forwards.

“So you know now.” 

He doesn’t turn, or reply and I doubt that he even heard me. I carefully stepped closer and cautiously placed my hand on his arm to pull him back. 

“Jon.” 

Slowly– almost zombie-like– he turns his head to me, slowly coming back to reality. He’s so emotionless it’s almost terrifying and his face expressionless, but his eyes conveyed such devastation and sadness.

“Jon? Talk to me. Don’t shut down. Don’t hold it in.” My grip on his arm tightens just enough to pull him back down to earth but not hard enough to hurt him. My eyes flickered down to his shaking hands and I gave his arm another squeeze.

“Why?” He rasps out after a moment of silence. “Why me?” His voice breaks and I can feel my stomach twist at anguish in his voice. 

“Oh, Jon”  

“Why do I always end up like this? Why am I put in positions I don’t want to be in?” He sucks in a breath. “I’d rather be a bastard than… this.” I carefully hold his arms, letting him finally let it all out.

“Why couldn’t he tell me? Did he not trust me? Would he ever tell me if he’d lived?” His face twists into anguish. “I.. I don’t know who I am anymore.” 

He falls silent, with the exception of his heavy breathing, and I tried my best to find the right words so that he doesn’t fall deeper into despair and grief.

“Jon, listen to me,” I reached over and slowly turned him to face me. “You are Jon Snow. Nine hundred ninety-eighth Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, the second man to be named King of the North after Robb in nearly three-hundred years, you united the people of Westeros with the Wildlings– something no one has done–  and now Lord of Winterfell. You did that by yourself as Jon, not as Stark, not as a Targaryen, but as yourself. And none of that has changed. It doesn’t matter what name you choose or what colors you wear, you are still Jon and will always be Jon.

His heart still beats at a quickend speed, and his breathing uneven, but now he’s looking at me and his eyes are more focused. 

“What Ned Stark did was to protect you and to honor Lyanna’s dying wish so you could live a safe life. If he’d told anyone– Catlyn or Robb– he would’ve been going against his word to his sister and risking your safety. He’s a man of his word, so if he told you that he’d tell you the truth then I have to believe him. There was no one as honorable as him, well, except for his nephew.”

Slowly, he nods, letting out a shaky breath. I could feel most of the tension leave his body, but there was still something holding him back. “Daenerys… when she finds out she’ll..” 

I quickly shake my head fearing that if I let him go on he’d fall back to overthinking. “No. She won’t. I swear it.” I bring my hands from his arms to his hands, giving a reassuring squeeze like I do to Daenerys. “Tell her the truth– all of it– and tell her how you really feel. We’ll deal with this together and I promise you, nothing bad will happen between you two.” 

He swallows down the lump in his throat, nodding, a bit more calm than before. “When?” 

“Tomorrow,” the sooner the better and the faster we can deal with it. Will there be a blow back? Yes, but it has to be done. “For now, rest. Try to get as much sleep as you can. We have a dead man and his army marching south and none of us can afford to be caught on our wrong foot. Understand?” 

He nods and goes to step to the stairs, but stops and turns. He looks down, still shaken up. “Thank you.” 

I nod and watch him leave. I let out a deep sigh after hearing the crypt doors slam shut and I turned over to face the statue he’d been staring off. I look down at the stone engraving at the base of the tombstone. 

Lyanna Stark. 

“Could’ve gone a hundred different ways, y’know?” I stared at her stone face, just loud enough for her to hear. “And now here I am, cleaning up after the both of yall’s mess.” 

@wotcherpeak @music-luver25 @your-favorite-god @radiantdanvers @cluelessteam @daenerys713 @ministark @laanswife @idohknow @jromanoff @bdudette @bitchyfestivalbouquet @glitteryobjecttaco @cantbecreative @lovelyteenagebeard @the0twst0shrimp0mc @sucker4seresin @marytargaryen @naneko31 @9tailedfoxfire @iilsenewman @ivyrose9194 @coffee-is-my-oxygen @mysterypotatoink @bitchycolletorvoid @nattysplatty @wifiatthetrainstation @nymeriiiia @llynx7 @pookynknowntranger @riley-625-bell @myathegoat @evilunicorns4minions @honeycola-umbra @nen-nyy @agentdead @fanboilingwriter

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[mahalachives]

Part 10: Golden, At Last

Author’s Warning: This is the final chapter. Prepare your tissues, your emotional support bunny, and possibly your will to live. Enjoy, and sob responsibly. ��🐇🔥 Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Genre: angst, romcom, humor, fish out of water reader, canon (ish)

Summary: Murdered after a late-night study session in the modern world, you awaken in Prythian—still yourself, but with Fae features and the infamous title of Beron’s cold-hearted and ruthless daughter.

Then, fate snaps the mating bond into place between you and the shadowsinger, Azriel—who rejects it so fiercely, even the magic recoils.

You died a healer. You woke up a villain. Now fate’s mated you to who wants nothing to do with either—you’ll prove them all wrong, one heartbeat at a time.

Between Two Fires - Masterlist

The crown of the High Lady rested on a velvet cushion beside your bed, a physical manifestation of power that needed no adornment.

Unlike Beron's flame circlet, your crown was simpler.

Twisted copper branches studded with amber gemstones that glowed with inner fire. You hadn't worn it since the coronation three days ago.

You stood at the window of what had once been Beron's chambers, now yours by right of power and blood.

The Autumn Court stretched before you, eternal flames painting the landscape in crimson and gold.

Beautiful, undeniably. But was it home?

The bond within you remained muted but present, a dull ache where once golden light had flowed. You'd tried to sever it completely, but some connections transcended even the strongest will.

Ember and Sizzle materialized on your desk, their tiny flame forms nudging a stack of reports toward you: diplomatic communications from other courts, updates on rebel strongholds, casualty counts from skirmishes still flaring at the borders.

"Later," you told them, turning back to the window. "I need a minute to process... everything."

A knock interrupted your thoughts.

"Enter," you called, straightening your shoulders.

Eris stepped inside, his injuries from Beron's torture still evident in the careful way he moved. His face bore half-healed cuts, but his eyes were sharp, alert.

"The Dawn Court delegation has arrived," he said without preamble. "Thesan came personally."

Your heart stuttered. "I thought they weren't expected until tomorrow."

"Apparently Dawn Court operates on its own schedule," Eris replied dryly. "And... there's another report about the shadowsinger."

You didn't need to ask.

The guards had been bringing reports for days about Azriel's presence at the borders of your territories, watching, waiting, sending shadows to gather information about your wellbeing.

"What is it this time?" you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral and failing miserably.

"He's made camp at the western border," Eris said, studying your reaction. "The guards say he looks... haggard. Like he hasn't slept in days."

The bond twisted painfully at the information, a golden thread pulling taut beneath your breastbone. You'd left his charm behind in Velaris, deliberately creating distance between you. But the connection remained, a constant awareness that transcended physical tokens.

"Tell the guards to maintain the perimeter," you said, the words costing you. "No entry without my express permission."

"This is the fifth day," Eris noted, no judgment in his tone, merely observation. "How long will you keep him at the borders?"

"As long as necessary," you replied, turning back to the window. "I have a court to stabilize. Rebels to pacify. I can't afford distractions."

Eris made a noncommittal sound that somehow conveyed disbelief without directly challenging you. "The eastern rebellions have been contained," he reported, changing the subject. "Lucien's efforts have been... surprisingly effective."

Lucien had left the Night Court temporarily to help after Beron's death, his diplomatic skills honed through years of navigating complex political landscapes proving invaluable in bringing rebel factions to the negotiating table.

"He has a talent for mediation," you agreed.

"And for avoiding topics that need addressing," Eris added pointedly. "Like your apparent disinterest in actually ruling the court you now control."

You bristled at the accusation. "I've attended every council meeting. Signed every decree."

"With the enthusiasm of someone awaiting execution," Eris countered, his gaze unwavering. "The court needs more than a figurehead, sister. It needs a leader."

"I'm doing my best," you said finally, the admission costing you.

Eris's expression softened fractionally. "I know. But we need to decide what happens next. The court is stabilizing, but your... reluctance... creates uncertainty."

Before you could respond, another knock came, this one lighter, more musical somehow.

"That will be Thesan," Eris said, moving toward the door. "Shall I tell him you're indisposed?"

You straightened your informal robe, wishing you'd worn something more appropriate for receiving a High Lord. "No, I'll see him. Just... give me a moment."

Eris nodded and departed, leaving you alone to collect yourself. You moved to the small mirror, assessing your appearance with critical eyes. The High Lady of Autumn looked back at you, familiar features that still sometimes surprised you, golden light occasionally pulsing beneath your skin when emotions ran high.

Who was she, really? The cruel Lady of Autumn from before? The human nurse whose body lay in a hospital bed? Or someone new entirely, forged in the crucible of trauma and healing, of two worlds colliding within one soul?

You had no answer yet, but the question itself felt important, a compass pointing toward something true.

Thesan entered with the quiet grace characteristic of Dawn Court, his copper-gold skin catching the flame-light from nearby sconces.

"High Lady," he greeted, bowing slightly. "Forgive the unexpected visit. The roads were clearer than anticipated."

"High Lord Thesan," you replied, inclining your head in return. "Dawn Court is always welcome in Autumn territories."

His smile was genuine as he straightened, eyes taking in your informal attire and the scattered reports on your desk with knowing sympathy. "The early days of leadership are always overwhelming," he observed, no judgment in his tone. "Even when the transition is more... conventional... than yours was."

You gestured to the sitting area near the hearth where flames danced in ever-changing patterns. "Please, join me. I can offer refreshment if you'd like."

"Just your company is refreshment enough," Thesan replied, settling into one of the copper-inlaid chairs. "My court has been following your progress with great interest. The reforms you've implemented in just a few months, quite remarkable."

"Necessity more than vision," you admitted, taking the seat opposite him. "Beron's approach was unsustainable."

"Perhaps," Thesan acknowledged. "But identifying necessity and acting upon it, that is leadership, whether you recognize it as such or not."

Something in his tone, in the quiet confidence of his assessment, eased a tension you hadn't realized you'd been carrying. Unlike Eris's pointed observations or the court's watchful speculation, Thesan's words carried no agenda beyond recognition of shared experience.

"How did you know?" you asked, the question emerging before you could consider its wisdom. "When you first became High Lord, how did you know you were making the right choices?"

Thesan's expression turned thoughtful, fingers absently tracing the copper inlay on his chair's arm. "I didn't," he admitted candidly. "No one does, not really. We act based on the best information available, guided by whatever moral compass we possess, and hope the consequences align with our intentions."

"That's... not especially reassuring," you replied, a hint of your former human humor surfacing despite the gravity of the conversation.

He laughed, the sound warm and unexpected. "No, I suppose it's not. But it is honest. And honesty has been in short supply in Prythian's courts for far too long."

The flames in the hearth danced higher, responding to your emotional state without conscious direction. You'd been working on control, but moments of genuine connection still triggered your power in ways you couldn't always predict.

"May I speak freely?" Thesan asked, his gaze following the flame patterns with understanding rather than concern.

"Of course."

"The shadowsinger at your borders," he began, careful but direct. "His presence creates... speculation... among the other courts."

You tensed, the bond flaring briefly beneath your skin. "Azriel's actions aren't my responsibility."

"No," Thesan agreed. "But they are connected to you nonetheless. The mating bond between you is evident to those with eyes to see such things."

Your hands fisted in your lap, knuckles whitening. "I have responsibilities now. A court to rebuild. People who depend on me. I can't allow personal attachments to interfere with duty."

"An admirable position," Thesan acknowledged. "And yet... in my experience, denying such connections rarely results in greater clarity or focus. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"What are you suggesting?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.

"Speak with him," Thesan said simply. "Not as High Lady to shadowsinger, but as yourself, whoever that may be now, to one who sees you clearly across that divide."

The bond pulsed at his words, golden warmth briefly spreading through your chest before retreating to that muted, distant ache. "It's not that simple."

"Few worthwhile things are," Thesan replied, rising with fluid grace. "But consider this, I have witnessed dynasties rise and fall, courts evolve and dissolve, power exchange hands countless times. The one consistent truth I've observed is that those who lead from connection rather than isolation ultimately create more lasting change."

He moved toward the window, gazing out at the eternal autumn that painted your territories. "Your court reflects you, whether you intend it or not. If you remain divided within yourself, so too will your lands, your people."

The insight struck with uncomfortable precision, naming what you'd felt but couldn't articulate, the sense of operating half-present, caught between worlds, between identities, between paths diverging before you.

"I'm still figuring out who I am in all this," you admitted, the confession easier with this High Lord who radiated compassionate understanding rather than political calculation. "Human nurse or High Lady of Autumn. Both seem equally impossible and equally real."

Thesan turned from the window, copper eyes gentle but direct. "Perhaps that's your strength, not your weakness. The ability to see from both perspectives, to bring human compassion to Fae politics, to recognize that power need not corrupt if wielded with awareness of its cost."

The words settled deep, a truth you'd sensed but hadn't fully claimed. Your hands unclenched in your lap, flames in the hearth settling to steadier patterns that reflected growing calm within.

"Thank you," you said simply. "For seeing me. The real me, whoever that turns out to be."

"Dawn Court specializes in transitions," he replied with a small smile. "In the spaces between darkness and light, between what was and what might be. Your path is uniquely your own, but not one you must walk in isolation."

Before you could respond, another knock interrupted. A guard entered, bowing deeply. "Forgive the intrusion, High Lady, High Lord. Reports from the western border require immediate attention."

Your heart skipped. "What's happened?"

"The shadowsinger, my lady," the guard reported, keeping his eyes respectfully lowered. "He's... well, he appears to be constructing something. Our scouts report it resembles the beginning of a small dwelling."

The bond flared painfully at the information. A dwelling. A cabin. The dream you'd shared of a place between mountains, with windows facing sunrise and a porch for watching storms.

"Is he within our borders?" you asked, voice carefully controlled.

"No, my lady. He remains just beyond the boundary, in unclaimed territory. But his presence has drawn attention from neighboring courts. The Summer Court has sent observers."

Thesan exchanged a glance with you, understanding passing between you without words. The political implications of Azriel's actions extended beyond personal connection, creating potential complications you couldn't ignore regardless of your feelings.

"Thank you," you told the guard. "Double the patrols but maintain distance. No engagement without my direct order."

After the guard departed, Thesan moved toward the door. "I've taken enough of your time," he said. "But consider what we've discussed. True strength sometimes lies in acknowledging connection rather than severing it."

"You've given me much to think about," you acknowledged, rising to escort him properly. "Dawn Court's wisdom is appreciated in Autumn territories."

His smile warmed. "We are neighbors, after all. And I, for one, am pleased with the changes in leadership at our borders." He hesitated at the threshold, then added, "Should you need neutral ground for any... conversations... you might wish to have, Dawn Court stands ready to offer sanctuary."

The offer hung between you, significant in its generosity, in its recognition of both your official position and your personal dilemma.

"Thank you," you said again, meaning it more deeply than the simple phrase could convey.

The night terrors started three weeks before Winter Solstice.

You woke screaming, sheets twisted around your limbs, fire erupting from your fingertips to scorch the bedding. Guards burst through your chamber doors, weapons drawn against invisible threats, only to find you alone, trembling, sweat-soaked and wild-eyed.

Night after night, the pattern repeated.

Images haunted your sleep.

Cold stone corridors, hands pinning you down, laughter echoing off walls, pain beyond bearing.

"You need to speak with someone," Lucien insisted after the fifth consecutive night of screams that echoed through the palace corridors. He had returned to the Autumn Court temporarily, taking leave from his position in the Night Court to help stabilize territories in rebellion. "This isn't normal exhaustion or stress."

You sat in your private sitting room, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders despite the fire blazing in the hearth. You couldn't seem to get warm, the chill settled bone-deep regardless of external heat.

"I'm fine," you insisted, the lie transparent even to your own ears. "Just court pressures manifesting in dreams."

"Lies don't become a High Lady," Eris commented from the doorway, his entrance silent as always. He studied you with calculating precision, missing nothing. "Particularly not when they're this poorly constructed."

You hadn't invited him to this conversation, but you lacked the energy to send him away. "What do you want, Eris?"

"Answers," he replied simply, crossing to pour himself a measure of wine. "The entire court is whispering about their High Lady's nocturnal disturbances. Some suggest madness. Others, possession."

"And what do you suggest?" you asked, exhaustion making the words sharper than intended.

Eris settled into the chair opposite yours, swirling the wine thoughtfully. "I suggest you're remembering."

The simple statement hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. Lucien shifted uncomfortably, his mechanical eye whirring faster as it darted between you and Eris.

"Remembering what?" you asked, though dread pooled in your stomach, a certainty you weren't prepared to face.

"The Winter Court corridor," Eris replied, his voice gentler than you'd ever heard it. "The night your soul shattered."

Cold swept through you, so intense you gasped with it. The fire in the hearth dimmed, responding to your instinctive retreat from heat, from flame, from sensation itself.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you insisted, but your voice trembled, betraying the lie.

"You do," Eris countered, setting his wine aside untouched. "You've carried the memories since returning to this body, but they were dormant, disconnected, until recently."

Lucien moved to stoke the fire, avoiding your gaze. His discomfort was palpable, confirming what you already suspected. He knew what Eris was referencing. He'd known all along.

"What changed?" you asked, the question directed to neither brother specifically, perhaps not even to them at all. "Why remember now?"

"The Winter Court emissaries," Lucien supplied reluctantly, still focused on the flames rather than your face. "They arrive tomorrow for pre-Solstice negotiations."

Horror washed through you in a nauseating wave. "Winter Court," you repeated, the words ashen in your mouth. "Here. In Autumn territory."

"Diplomatic necessity," Eris confirmed, watching your reaction closely. "The first official delegation since before Beron's death."

A memory flashed, unbidden. Pale hands against your skin, frost magic creeping through your veins, voices whispering terrible promises while you struggled against restraints both physical and magical.

"No," you said, the word emerging as a plea. "I can't, I won't see them."

"You must," Eris replied, no cruelty in his tone, only cold realism. "You're High Lady now. Diplomatic relations cannot be avoided based on personal history, no matter how... significant."

"Personal history," you echoed, a hollow laugh escaping you. "Is that what we're calling it? Thirteen nobles. My soul literally torn in half. Just 'personal history'?"

Lucien flinched at your words, finally turning to face you. "We didn't know," he said, voice rough with what might have been guilt. "Not until later. Not until it was too late."

Another memory surfaced. A palace guard finding you at the border, body broken beyond recognition, frost magic still lingering in your veins. The guard's horror, his hesitation, his eventual decision to bring you back rather than leave you to die. The bitter knowledge that nothing could be done, no justice sought, not without risking open war with Winter.

You rose abruptly, blanket sliding from your shoulders. The cold had vanished, replaced by rage that burned hotter than any Autumn flames.

"Who were they?" you demanded, each word precise despite the fury coursing through you. "I want names. All thirteen."

The brothers exchanged a glance laden with centuries of silent communication, of shared survival beneath Beron's rule.

"Most are already dead," Eris finally said. "The war with Hybern claimed several. Others fell during earlier conflicts."

"How many remain?" you pressed, fire dancing at your fingertips unbidden.

"Two," Lucien answered reluctantly. "Lord Heatherson and Lord Gaius."

"Lord Kieraven was the leader," Eris added, his voice hard. "But Azriel killed him during the war with Hybern. The shadowsinger selected him specifically from the battlefield, though none knew why at the time."

A chill ran down your spine at this revelation. Had Azriel somehow known? Had his shadows whispered secrets about the male who had orchestrated your suffering?

"And are they among the delegation arriving tomorrow?" you asked, already knowing the answer.

"Both of them," Eris confirmed, watching your reaction with calculating eyes. "As Kallias's appointed representatives."

Your knees buckled. You sank back into your chair, trembling returning despite your efforts at control.

"I can't face them," you whispered, the admission costing you. "Not yet. Not while these memories are still fragmentary."

"You must," Eris insisted, leaning forward. "Not just as High Lady fulfilling diplomatic obligations, but as yourself, the self you were before, the self you're becoming again."

"Why?" you challenged, tears threatening.

"Because some wounds don't heal until the blade is removed," he replied, surprising you with unexpected wisdom. "Because your soul will never be whole while pieces of it remain lost in darkness."

Silence fell between you, heavy with implication, with possibility both terrible and necessary.

"I'll be with you," Lucien offered unexpectedly, his voice firm despite the discomfort evident in his posture. "Every moment. They won't have access to you without witnesses."

"As will I," Eris added, something approaching protectiveness in his tone. "The time for allowing Winter Court transgressions has passed. Beron may have valued politics over family, but we do not."

The declaration, spoken with such certainty, broke something open inside you. These brothers, complicated, difficult, damaged in their own ways, were offering something you'd never experienced from them before: unequivocal support, protection without condition or expectation.

"Family," you whispered, testing the word, its weight, its truth.

"Vanserra Siblings," Eris confirmed, no hesitation in his voice. "Whatever came before, whatever may come after, that much remains constant."

You nodded once, decision crystallizing. "I'll meet the delegation. I'll face Heatherson and Gaius." Resolve hardened your voice, straightened your spine. "But on my terms, in my court, with my power."

"As is your right," Eris agreed, satisfaction evident in his expression. "High Lady."

The title no longer felt foreign, no longer sat uncomfortably on your shoulders. It felt like armor, like identity, like the person you had been and were becoming again.

That night, after leaving your brothers, you made a decision. Before you could face the Winter Court delegation, there was something else you needed to do. Someone else you needed to see, even if just from a distance.

You donned a simple, dark cloak, evading the palace guards with ease born of centuries living in these halls. The night embraced you as you slipped beyond the castle walls, magic carrying you swiftly toward the western border.

The bond in your chest pulled stronger with each mile, the carefully constructed barriers weakening with proximity. You followed that golden thread through forest and field, until finally, you stood at the edge of Autumn Court territory.

And there he was.

Azriel.

Your breath caught at the sight of him. He sat before a small fire, his wings folded tight against his back, shadows swirling restlessly around him. Even from this distance, you could see the changes in him. His face was gaunt, cheekbones sharper than before, as if he hadn't eaten properly in weeks. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, testifying to sleepless nights.

Before him, the foundation of a cabin was taking shape, stone by stone. Windows positioned to catch the sunrise, just as you'd dreamed. A porch that would someday face the storms rolling across mountains. A home built by hand rather than magic, each stone placed with deliberate care, with hope, with patience.

The bond throbbed painfully in your chest, golden light briefly illuminating your hands before you forced it down again. You took a step forward, drawn by something beyond conscious thought, beyond reason.

Azriel's head snapped up suddenly, as if sensing your presence. His shadows froze, then surged forward, testing the air, seeking confirmation of what his instincts already knew.

You retreated behind a tree, heart pounding. His face in that brief moment of awareness had been transformed, hope and longing replacing exhaustion in an instant. It would be so easy to reveal yourself, to cross that border, to let the bond between you flare back to full strength.

But you couldn't. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

As long as your human body lay in that hospital bed, as long as part of you longed for a world beyond Prythian, you couldn't give Azriel what he deserved.

A mate fully present, fully committed, fully his.

With a final glance at the cabin rising stone by stone, you turned away, tears streaking silently down your face. The bond protested, a physical pain in your chest that echoed with each step back toward your court, your responsibilities, your throne.

Tomorrow you would face the Winter Court delegation. Tomorrow you would confront those who had shattered your soul. But tonight, you allowed yourself to mourn what might have been, what still might be, if only the worlds would align, if only your fractured self could become whole again.

The Winter Court delegation arrived precisely at midday, when Autumn Court's eternal sunlight blazed at its brightest, a deliberate choice that didn't escape your notice. Winter Court preferred twilight and dawn, times when light and darkness balanced. By forcing them to arrive at noon, you established dominance from the first moment.

You sat upon your copper throne, crown gleaming with inner fire, as the delegation entered the great hall. Eris stood at your right hand, Lucien at your left, both brothers radiating cold vigilance despite the formal occasion.

Lord Heatherson entered first, his pale skin almost translucent under autumn light, veins like blue shadows beneath the surface. Lord Gaius followed, silver-white hair bound in traditional Winter Court braids, his steps deliberate and measured.

Your breath caught in your throat as they approached, memories threatening to overwhelm you. Cold hands. Cruel laughter. Pain beyond endurance.

"High Lady," Heatherson greeted, bowing with precise formality. "Winter Court brings greetings and congratulations on your ascension."

"Indeed," Gaius added, his voice as brittle as his name suggested. "Your coronation marks a new chapter in relations between our courts."

You studied them, these males who had once torn your body apart, who had fractured your very soul. They showed no recognition, no awareness that you might remember. To them, this was merely diplomacy, politics as usual.

"Winter Court is welcome in Autumn territories," you replied, the formal words tasting like ash in your mouth. "So long as all agreements are honored."

The diplomatic discussions began, trade routes and border policies debated with careful precision. You participated with cool detachment, signing what needed signing, agreeing where agreement served your court's interests.

Through it all, the memories simmered beneath the surface, threatening to break through at any moment. Lucien noticed your tension, his hand occasionally brushing yours in silent support. Eris watched the Winter Court representatives with predatory intensity, missing nothing, cataloging every reaction for future reference.

As the formal negotiations concluded, Lord Heatherson requested a private audience "to discuss matters of historical significance between our courts."

The implication was clear, a discussion of past grievances, policies established under Beron's reign.

"Of course," you agreed, your voice steady despite the rage building beneath your calm exterior. "My brothers will join us, as is tradition when discussing matters of historical record."

Disappointment flickered across Heatherson's face, so brief you might have missed it if you hadn't been watching carefully. "As you wish, High Lady."

You led them to a smaller council chamber, where wine had been prepared in advance. As the Winter Court representatives sipped from copper goblets, Lucien engaged them in conversation about border policies, his diplomatic skills creating a facade of normalcy.

But something had changed in the atmosphere.

Tension crackled beneath the polite exchanges, a current of awareness building with each passing moment. You could feel it, the sense of a trap about to spring, though who had set it remained unclear.

"I must say," Lord Gaius remarked, swirling his wine thoughtfully, "you seem remarkably... different... from when we last encountered you, High Lady."

The words hung in the air like an icicle about to fall. Eris tensed beside you, his hand drifting casually to the knife at his belt.

"Different how, Lord Gaius?" you asked, voice deceptively mild.

"More controlled," he replied, his eyes never leaving yours. "More... present. As if pieces of you that were once missing have been returned."

The deliberate provocation sent ice through your veins. He knew. They both knew. This wasn't diplomatic small talk; this was calculated testing of boundaries, of memory, of power.

Lucien's control snapped first. "How dare you," he snarled, his mechanical eye whirring furiously as he set his goblet down with enough force to slosh wine across the table. "How dare you stand in our court, drink our wine, and make such insinuations?"

"Insinuations?" Heatherson's face arranged itself into a mask of innocent confusion. "I believe Lord Gaius was merely complimenting the High Lady's composure."

"We all know what you meant," Eris said coldly, his voice all the more threatening for its quietness. "Just as we all know what happened two centuries ago."

The temperature in the room dropped several degrees as both Winter Court nobles froze, composure briefly cracking before masks slid back into place.

"I'm afraid I don't recall any significant events from that time," Gaius said carefully, but his eyes betrayed him, darting nervously between you and your brothers.

"Don't you?" You finally spoke, rising from your chair with deliberate grace. Fire danced at your fingertips, responding to your emotions without conscious summoning. "Thirteen nobles. A female bound with frost magic. Hours of torture. Does none of this sound familiar, Lord Gaius?"

Heatherson's face drained of what little color it possessed. "High Lady, these accusations—"

"Are not accusations," you interrupted, your voice calm despite the inferno building inside you. "They are statements of fact. Facts we all know to be true, though some have spent centuries pretending otherwise."

Power flowed from you in waves, the High Lady's magic responding to your righteous fury. The fires in the wall sconces blazed higher, shadows dancing across the faces of males who had once believed themselves untouchable.

"What happened that night was a diplomatic incident," Gaius said, his voice betraying a tremor despite his attempt at composure. "One that both courts agreed to put behind them."

"Both courts?" Lucien echoed, incredulity and rage making his voice shake. "You mean Beron agreed to silence in exchange for continued alliance. The victim was never consulted."

"The victim?" Heatherson's laugh was brittle. "You speak as if she remembers. As if part of her didn't flee that very night, leaving behind a shell we simply... helped reshape."

The casual cruelty of his words, the dismissal of your suffering, the pride still evident in his tone—it was enough.

More than enough.

"I remember everything," you said, each word precise and heavy with power. "Every hand. Every voice. Every moment."

Golden light flared beneath your skin, the High Lady's magic merging with the bond, with your human consciousness, with the part of your soul that had fractured and fled. For the first time since your coronation, you felt truly whole—human compassion and Fae power united in perfect clarity.

"High Lady," Heatherson began, rising from his chair, fear evident now. "Perhaps we should return to diplomatic matters—"

"This is diplomatic," you replied, flames now wreathing your hands in controlled, deadly beauty. "I am informing Winter Court representatives of new policy regarding those who harm Autumn Court citizens."

With a gesture, fire encircled the chamber, cutting off any escape. Not attacking, not yet, but a demonstration of power, of control, of boundaries that would no longer be crossed.

"You can't do this," Gaius protested, frost magic gathering defensively around his fingertips. "This violates every diplomatic protection—"

"As you violated me?" Your voice remained steady, though the fires burned hotter. "As you violated the most basic tenets of decency, of honor?"

"That was different," Heatherson insisted, backing away as flames licked closer. "That was politics. That was—"

"That was rape," Lucien said, the word dropping into the room like a stone into still water. "That was torture. That was an act of war disguised as politics."

Silence fell, heavy with centuries of unspoken truth finally given voice.

"Here is the new policy of the Autumn Court," you announced, your power filling the room until the very air shimmered with heat. "Those who harm our citizens answer with blood and bone. Those who tortured their High Lady answer with their lives."

Gaius made a desperate move, frost magic surging toward you in a futile attempt at self-preservation. The ice melted before it reached you, evaporating in the heat of your rage.

"High Lady, please—" Heatherson began, but it was far too late for pleas.

"I, as High Lady of the Autumn Court, find you guilty of crimes against this court, against its lady, against its future," you declared, the formal words binding, irrevocable. "The sentence is death."

Fire answered your command, precise and purposeful. It did not burn wildly or cause unnecessary suffering. It simply consumed, reducing the two Winter Court nobles to ash where they stood, their screams brief before silence fell once more.

As the flames receded, Eris moved to your side, assessing you with new respect in his eyes. "What of Winter Court? They will demand explanation."

"They will receive one," you replied, your voice calm as the fire within you settled to embers. "The full truth, documented and witnessed, will be sent to Kallias. He may choose war if he wishes, but I suspect once he knows what his nobles did in Winter's name, he will choose justice instead."

Lucien's mechanical eye whirred as he studied the piles of ash. "And if he doesn't?"

"Then Autumn Court stands ready," you said, turning toward the door. "We will no longer sacrifice our own to maintain false peace."

As you walked from the chamber, power still humming beneath your skin, you felt lighter than you had in weeks. The memories remained, the pain not erased, but facing those who had hurt you, delivering justice long delayed—it had changed something fundamental within you.

For the first time since your coronation, since waking in this world, you felt not torn between identities but unified. Human compassion and Fae power, merged into something new, something stronger.

That night, standing on your balcony, you gazed westward once more.

The vial of Ash Tea rolling between your fingers. The dark liquid caught the amber light of the setting sun, its potent magic a silent promise of temporary peace.

The tiny pinpoint of Azriel's fire still burned at the border, a beacon in darkness. The cabin would continue rising, stone by stone, window by window.

And perhaps, when you were truly ready, when your court was secured, when your soul was fully healed—perhaps then you would cross that border. Perhaps then you would let the bond flare to full strength once more.

But for now, you had a court to rule. Justice to deliver. A future to build, brick by brick, just as he built that cabin stone by stone.

For now, that was enough.

The wind whispered through the pines like it knew you wouldn't stay, mourning before you spoke a word.

You stood at the threshold between Autumn territory and unclaimed land, taking in the cabin Azriel had built with his own hands. It was more beautiful than you had imagined - sturdy logs fitted perfectly together, a welcoming porch wrapping around one side, windows gleaming in the afternoon light.

Azriel appeared at the doorway, shadows twisting anxiously before settling around his shoulders. When he saw you, hope flared in those ancient eyes - too much hope, a brightness that would only make the darkness to come more devastating.

"You came," he said, voice rough from disuse. His shadows stretched toward you before he pulled them back, a habit of restraint he couldn't break even now.

"I wanted to see it," you replied, gesturing to the cabin.

"I thought—" he hesitated, shadows twitching, "—maybe you were ready to come home." The fragile hope in his voice made your heart splinter.

You couldn't meet his eyes. "It's exactly as you described."

He stepped onto the porch, movements careful, measured. "Windows facing east," he confirmed, a tentative smile touching his lips. "For the sunrise."

"And the porch for watching thunderstorms roll across the mountains," you added, remembering your conversation from what felt like a lifetime ago.

You followed him inside. The interior was simple but beautiful - pine furniture he must have crafted himself, a fireplace of river stones, bookshelves already filled with volumes. A home built for two, with every corner yearning for a presence it had never known.

You turned to face him fully. "I know the whole truth now," you said. "About what happened in Winter Court. About why my soul fractured."

His face softened with understanding. "Your memories returned?"

"Not all of them," you admitted. "But enough. Enough to understand why part of me fled to another world, why I woke up in a hospital bed with a family who'd never heard of Prythian."

Azriel moved to the window, looking out at the mountains. "You were too gentle for what was done to you," he said. "Too kind for the cruelty they inflicted."

"I was broken," you acknowledged. "And now I'm whole again. But I still have to choose."

He turned back to you, and something in your face must have given it away. The shadows around him stilled completely.

"That's why you're really here, isn't it?" he asked softly. "Not just to see the cabin."

"I had to come," you said. "To say goodbye properly."

The light in his eyes dimmed. "Goodbye?"

The bond between you didn't just throb—it screamed, a golden cord pulled taut enough to snap, singing with the agony of a love denied.

"I've made my decision," you forced yourself to say. "I'm going back. Back to my world."

"Of course," he said softly, staring past you. "Why would you stay?" You opened your mouth to speak, but he shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "Don't lie to make it easier."

"Azriel—"

"Was it ever real?" he asked suddenly, voice breaking. "Any of it? Or was it just the bond?"

The question hung between you, raw and bleeding. The hearth looked cold despite the fire. The books seemed too untouched. The walls too thin to hold the ache left behind.

Instead of answering, you crossed the distance between you. After a moment's hesitation, you wrapped your arms around him.

He remained still, unyielding, before slowly, painfully embracing you in return. His arms encircled you with restrained strength, as if afraid you might shatter. The bond between you wailed in golden agony as his wings folded around you both, creating a sanctuary of shadow and starlight.

"I understand," he whispered against your hair, his voice breaking. "If it brings you happiness, I would never stand in your way."

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you clung to him. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." His arms tightened, memorizing the feel of you. "These moments with you have been worth centuries of solitude."

You felt tears dampen your hair as he pressed his lips to your crown.

"I love you," he confessed, the words torn from somewhere deep and vulnerable. "I've existed for five hundred years, but I only began living when I found you."

A sob escaped you, muffled against his chest. He smelled of night-chilled stone and cedar, of safety and sacrifice.

"I'll wait for you," he promised, voice thick with emotion. "If there's even the slightest chance you might return... I'll wait centuries more."

His scarred fingers tilted your chin up, hazel eyes memorizing every detail of your face. "The cabin will remain. This life I've built will remain. Whether you return tomorrow or in a thousand years."

You reached up, brushing tears from his beautiful face. "Live for yourself, Azriel. That's all I ask."

"I will try," he whispered. "But part of me will always be yours."

You stayed locked in each other's arms as the sun began to set, casting the valley in amber light that matched the golden bond pulsing between you. Neither willing to be the first to let go, to end what might be your last embrace.

"Be happy," he murmured against your temple. "That's all I've ever wanted for you."

When you finally pulled away, both your faces were streaked with tears. He let his wings unfold reluctantly, the cold rushing in where his warmth had been.

You turned away as he whispered your name like a prayer he'd never say again. The door didn't close behind you. Neither of you had the strength to end it.

Beeping.

That's the first thing you notice. A steady, mechanical rhythm cutting through darkness.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy. Your mouth is dry, with something hard and plastic between your lips. A tube. You can't speak.

With monumental effort, you crack your eyes open. Fluorescent lights, harsh and clinical, burn your retinas.

White walls. Machines with glowing numbers and lines.

"Oh my god." A familiar voice breaks through the fog. Your aunt. "She moved! Doctor! Nurse! Someone!"

Hurried footsteps approach as her face appears above you – lined with exhaustion and hope. Tears immediately well in her bloodshot eyes.

"You're back," she whispers, clutching your unresponsive hand. "You're really back."

More faces appear. A doctor in a white coat. A nurse adjusting something on the machines. They speak in quick, clinical bursts.

"...unexpected return to consciousness..."

"...extraordinary after this duration..."

"...need to run tests immediately..."

The breathing tube is carefully removed, leaving your throat raw and aching. Someone holds a straw to your lips, and you take a small sip of water.

"Can you hear me?" the doctor asks, shining a light in your eyes. "Can you blink once for yes?"

You manage a slow, deliberate blink.

Your fingers unconsciously reach for your chest, seeking something that should be there. A warmth. A pulse of gold beneath your skin. Nothing. Just the steady beat of your ordinary human heart.

Hours later, after the initial medical frenzy subsides, the door opens. Your grandmother enters slowly, leaning on her cane, your aunt supporting her elbow. Your grandmother's face, deeply lined and framed by silver hair, crumples at the sight of you awake.

"My girl," she whispers, her voice wavering. "My precious girl."

Your aunt helps her to your bedside. With trembling hands, your grandmother cups your face, studying you as if memorizing every detail. Her tears fall onto your cheeks, mingling with your own.

When she embraces you, fragile arms holding you with surprising strength, something breaks inside you. The dam holding back your emotions crumbles completely.

You sob against her shoulder, great heaving cries that shake your weakened body. The tears come from somewhere bottomless, somewhere that knows what you've lost, what you've gained, what you've left behind.

"I'm here, my darling," she murmurs, her voice cracking. "I'm here."

Your aunt joins the embrace, her arms encircling you both. They hold you as you cry, mistaking your tears for relief and trauma from the attack.

They don't understand you're mourning a life they can never know about. A bond severed. A cabin in a valley. A shadowsinger with scarred hands who promised to wait forever.

"We kept the light on for you," your aunt says, stroking your hair. "Every night. We knew you'd find your way back to us."

Fresh tears spill down your cheeks. The guilt of wanting to be elsewhere when they've waited so faithfully for your return. The gratitude for their unwavering love. The grief for what can never be explained.

As night falls and they reluctantly leave, promising to return at first light, you lie awake, staring at the ceiling. The machines continue their vigilant beeping.

You close your eyes and try to reach across the void. Try to feel that golden thread that once connected you to a world of magic. To him.

But there's nothing.

In the silent hours before dawn, you whisper his name, the sound barely audible even to your own ears.

"Azriel."

No shadows stir in the corners of your room. No wings unfurl from darkness.

The bond is severed. The connection lost.

You are home.

But in your dreams that night, you smell night-chilled stone and cedar. You feel the ghost of wings enfolding you. You hear a voice promising to wait, even as it fades into memory.

"Until we meet again, my heart."

Five years, and the world still doesn't fit right.

Five years since you woke in a hospital bed with hands that remembered magic and a heart that had forgotten how to beat without him.

Medical school consumes your days and nights. The transition from nursing student to medical student raised eyebrows, but your near-death experience provides a convenient explanation for your sudden change in direction.

What you can't explain is how anatomy comes to you like breathing, how you can identify trauma patterns with uncanny precision, or why you instinctively reach for moonleaf or frostroot—plants that shouldn't exist here, but live vividly in your muscle memory.

"Your spatial reasoning is exceptional," your neurosurgery professor remarks after watching you practice sutures. "It's like you've been doing this for centuries."

You flinch at his words, a memory fragment flickering—your hands wreathed in golden light as you healed a wounded faerie in Dawn Court. You smile tightly to hide the tremor. "Just good with my hands."

You specialize in trauma surgery. Each life you save feels like redemption for the one you abandoned. Each scar you repair reminds you of wounds you couldn't heal across worlds.

Two albino rabbits sit in the pet shop window, twitching their noses. Their eyes are wrong—not quite red, but a soft, gleaming pink.

You freeze. The world blurs.

You don't notice you've sunk to your knees until someone asks if you're alright. You aren't. You haven't been, not since two glowing shadows with cotton-flame tails hopped through fallen leaves, and someone with a voice like dusk laughed beside you.

You wake some nights gasping, hand clutched to your chest, sure the bond has snapped back into place—only to find yourself alone in the dark, throat raw with his name half-spoken.

During thunderstorms, you sit on your apartment balcony, watching lightning split the sky. Sometimes the shadows seem to reach for you, comforting and familiar.

In those moments, you unconsciously reach for your chest, searching for a golden warmth that no longer pulses beneath your skin.

Autumn becomes your season. You collect fallen leaves that shimmer copper and gold in certain light, pressing them between book pages like precious memories.

Your apartment fills with candles scented with cedar and pine, though they never smell quite right—never like night-chilled stone and forest.

Your grandmother notices these peculiarities but never questions them. "You came back different," is all she says, squeezing your hand during Sunday dinners. "But you came back. That's what matters."

Your aunt is less philosophical. "You need to start dating again," she insists regularly. "That surgical resident keeps asking about you."

You nod and make vague promises you never keep.

How could you explain that you left your heart in another world? That you loved someone with wings and shadows and scars who offered to wait centuries?

In your final year of residency, you join a research trip to Scotland.

The program pairs physicians with historians to study ancient healing practices.

While your colleagues are excited about the medical aspects, you're drawn by a different hope—one you barely acknowledge even to yourself.

The museum sits nestled in the highlands, a small stone building housing local artifacts.

Your group filters through the first exhibition hall, examining crude surgical tools and herbal remedies. You lag behind, something pulling you toward a separate gallery.

And then you see him.

Not his face, not truly.

But the silhouette, the posture, the wings—etched into you so deeply no time or world could ever wear it away. And your soul answers. Fiercely. Immediately.

Azriel.

A tapestry, ancient and faded, stretches across the far wall.

Your breath catches in your throat. The air tastes like lightning. Like cedar. Like home.

The weaving depicts a forest of perpetual autumn, trees burning with colors that never fade. Figures with pointed ears move through the scene, and at the center stands a male with a crown of living flame.

"Fascinating piece, isn't it?" The curator appears beside you. "Local legend says it depicts 'the autumn people' who live beyond the forest. Fairytales, of course, but the craftsmanship is remarkable."

You barely hear him, your eyes fixed on the tapestry's border. There, nearly hidden in the woven scene's edge, sits a small cabin with east-facing windows. A figure stands before it, wings folded against its back, staring at mountains as if waiting.

The curator moves on. Your colleagues drift toward the next exhibition.

You remain rooted, trembling.

You step closer, fingers brushing against the woven silhouette. Golden light flickers beneath your skin—then flares. It burns like resurrection.

The bond, asleep but never gone, seizes your chest in a silent scream of recognition.

"Azriel," you whisper, the name both foreign and familiar on your tongue after years of silence.

Tears spill down your cheeks as you trace the winged figure.

Something inside you breaks open—grief you've suppressed for five years flooding to the surface.

"I'm sorry I left you alone," you sob quietly, fingers pressing against the tapestry. "I'm so sorry."

You collapse to your knees, forehead pressed to ancient threads, sobbing like a soul unmoored. Your tears fall into a forest woven in legend, into a promise that never died.

And somewhere—across stars, across centuries—he lifts his head.

He's still waiting.

Ten years pass in rhythms of healing and work.

You try dating—a surgeon from your hospital, a literature professor who quotes poetry, a kind veterinarian with gentle hands.

Each relationship ends the same way. "You're never fully here," they eventually say. You can't explain the hollow space in your chest where golden light once pulsed.

The nightmares still come, though less frequently.

Cold hands holding you down. Mocking laughter echoing off stone walls. You wake gasping, drenched in sweat, reaching for shadows that aren't there.

These experiences shape your medical practice—you specialize in trauma recovery, creating a program for assault survivors that combines medical and psychological care. Your colleagues marvel at your intuitive understanding of trauma's physical manifestations.

"It's like you've lived through it yourself," a psychologist comments.

You smile tightly. "I just listen carefully."

At forty, you're respected, successful, alone.

Your apartment fills with more autumn leaves, more candles that never smell quite right. You volunteer weekends at an animal shelter, drawn especially to the rabbits with their twitching noses and watchful eyes. Your coworkers call you the "rabbit whisperer" when traumatized ones calm at your touch.

"You understand them somehow," the shelter director says.

If only she knew how you sometimes whisper to them in a language that shouldn't exist, how you occasionally catch yourself looking for pink flames that never appear.

Your fiftieth birthday arrives with honors from the medical community. You've pioneered trauma-informed surgical protocols now implemented nationwide. Your sister hosts a celebration dinner, her grandchildren clambering for your attention.

"Tell us a story!" they beg as the adults clean up.

You settle in your favorite chair, children gathered at your feet.

"Once," you begin, "there existed a world where autumn never ended, where trees burned with colors that never faded..."

Your stories grow more elaborate over the years—tales of courts governed by seasons, of creatures with powers tied to natural elements, of shadows that whispered secrets.

Your family assumes they're born from your imagination rather than memory.

"You should write these down," your great-niece suggests on your sixty-eighth birthday. "These stories about the shadowsinger and the flame lady are beautiful."

You smile, throat tight. "Perhaps someday."

At seventy-two, retirement brings contemplative quiet. Your hands, once steady in surgery, now shake slightly as you press another autumn leaf between journal pages.

The cabin with east-facing windows haunts your dreams more frequently now—so vivid you can almost smell pine needles, almost hear wings rustling in pre-dawn darkness.

Your eightieth year brings pneumonia that never quite resolves.

Hospital corridors feel strange from the patient's perspective. Family gathers, whispering consultations with your former colleagues.

"It's my time," you tell your great-nephew when you catch him crying. "Don't be sad."

"We can't lose you," he insists, clutching your fragile hand.

You smile, peace settling in your bones. "I'm not being lost. I'm going home."

The night your body finally releases you, golden light flickers beneath your skin for the first time in decades.

The monitors flatline as nurses rush in, but you're already gone—crossing between worlds on a bridge of light that never truly broke.

You wake with a gasp, heart hammering against your ribs. The scent of cinnamon and burnt maple rushes into your nostrils, familiar and foreign all at once.

Sunlight filters through amber-stained windows, casting warm patterns across your nightgown. For a moment, you're disoriented, the transition too abrupt, too complete. Your fingers trace the silk sheets, luxurious against your skin after decades of hospital linens.

"I'm back," you whisper, touching your face in disbelief. The skin feels impossibly smooth, eternally young. "I'm actually back!"

Small pink embers spark from your fingertips, startling you. Your magic. Your true power, returning like an old friend.

Without thinking, you leap from bed, nearly tripping over the nightgown that tangles around your legs. You catch yourself on a bedpost carved with autumn leaves that weren't there before, already running toward the door.

"Eris!" you shout, flinging open your chamber door. The familiar weight of it surprises you; heavier than human doors. "ERIS!"

Briar, who was carrying fresh linens, shrieks as you barrel past, dropping her basket. Sheets flutter to the floor like startled ghosts. Her face is the same, yet different. Faint lines around her eyes that weren't there before.

"My lady!" she calls after you, voice cracking with disbelief. "You need proper attire! The court will see you! My lady!"

You ignore her, bare feet slapping against cool marble as you race through familiar corridors. The walls have been repainted, you notice absently. Darker reds, deeper golds. A guard nearly drops his spear as you round the corner, his uniform subtly different from what you remember.

"The Lady is awake!" he shouts, voice breaking in shock. "After all this time! The Lady is awake!"

The cry echoes behind you, rippling through the castle like wildfire. Servants peek from doorways, many faces you don't recognize, eyes wide with shock. More guards join the chorus, their disciplined decorum crumbling at the sight of you, the Lady of Autumn Court, sprinting through hallways in a nightgown with your hair flying wildly behind you.

"My lady, please!" calls an elderly housekeeper you've never seen before, clutching her chest as you leap over a small decorative table that definitely wasn't there eighty years ago. "Your slippers! Your robe!"

The scent of autumn magic fills your nostrils, stronger than before. The court has grown in power during your absence.

"Where is Eris?" you demand, not slowing. Your bare feet slap against the cold stone, the sensation grounding you in this reality.

"The war room, but—"

You're already gone, leaving the poor female sputtering in your wake. The corridor stretches longer than you remember, new tapestries depicting battles you don't recognize hanging between windows.

You skid around another corner, nightgown billowing. A young noble steps directly into your path, and you collide with enough force to send him sprawling. His papers scatter like autumn leaves. His clothing style is subtly different, more angular, with decorative metal leaves at the shoulders that would have been considered ostentatious in your time.

"So sorry!" you call over your shoulder, already back on your feet. The bond in your chest pulses stronger with each step, drawing you west. Pulling you back to life. "Royal emergency!"

Behind you, the noble stares open-mouthed at your retreating form. "Was that...?" you hear him ask a nearby guard.

"Indeed, Lord Ramel," the guard replies, his voice reverential and hushed. "After eighty years... she has returned."

"In her nightclothes?"

"Apparently so, my lord."

The war room doors loom ahead, massive oak panels carved with battle scenes from Autumn's history. New scenes have been added since your time, conflicts you never witnessed, victories and defeats that occurred while you slept.

Two stone-faced guards stand at attention, their expressions flickering with shock as you approach. The insignia on their armor has changed. Eris's mark now, not Beron's.

"My lady," one begins, swallowing hard at the sight of you. His eyes darting to your bare feet, your disheveled state. "Perhaps you would like to—"

You don't let him finish. With a strength that surprises even you, you slam both doors open, the bang echoing like thunder through the chamber beyond. The wood feels different against your palms, worn smooth by hands that touched it while you slept.

Silence falls instantly.

A dozen lords in autumn finery turn as one, mouths agape. Maps and tactical markers cover the massive table between them. A territory dispute you don't recognize depicts borders that have shifted since your time. And at its head—

Eris.

He stands frozen, quill suspended over parchment, amber eyes widened in disbelief. A flame crown burns atop his head, smaller than Beron's had been, but undeniably the mark of High Lord. He looks older, not in body but in bearing. The weight of leadership has changed him, sharpened his edges, softened others. A thin scar traces his right cheekbone, one you've never seen before.

"Sister?" he whispers, face draining of color. His fingers tremble almost imperceptibly, the quill shaking in his grip.

You beam at him, suddenly aware of your nightgown, your bare feet, your hair that probably resembles a bird's nest after eighty years of disuse. Inside, you feel both people you've been, the healer and the lady, merging into something new. "Surprise!"

No one moves. No one breathes. The scent of shock and disbelief fills the room, thick enough to taste.

Then Eris, the terrifying High Lord of Autumn Court, drops his quill. Ink spatters across ancient maps and generations-old treaties. Without a word, he vaults over the table—literally vaults, one hand pressed to the wood as he leaps—sending markers and figurines flying. A move so unlike the controlled brother you remember that you almost don't recognize him.

"It's really you?" he asks, approaching cautiously as if you might vanish. His voice breaks on the question. "Both parts of you?"

You nod, tears and laughter mingling. The bond in your chest pulses, reaching westward even as you stand here. "All of me. Every memory. Both lives."

A strangled noise escapes him as he pulls you into a fierce embrace. His body trembles against yours, a vulnerability he would never have shown before. Over his shoulder, you see the assembled lords exchanging glances of utter bewilderment. Some you recognize, aged but familiar. Others are complete strangers, risen to power during your absence.

"My lords," Eris says, his voice suspiciously thick as he turns to face them. The flame crown flares briefly with his emotion. "Meeting adjourned."

"But the Winter Court border dispute—" one begins, gesturing to markers that indicate a conflict near the mountains where once there had been peace.

"Can wait another day," Eris cuts him off. The authority in his voice is new, a confidence he lacked when you last saw him. "My sister has returned from the dead. In her nightclothes. Priorities, gentlemen."

The lords bow hastily, filing out with backward glances and poorly concealed whispers. The last one pulls the doors shut behind him, the sound echoing in the suddenly empty chamber.

Once alone, Eris holds you at arm's length, examining you with eyes that gleam suspiciously bright. His hands grip your shoulders, as if assuring himself you're solid. "Eighty years," he says, voice rough with emotion. "Eighty years, and you choose to return while I'm in the middle of the most boring border dispute in Prythian history."

"Your timing was always worse," you counter with a watery smile. Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, both familiar and unfamiliar. More like the Lady of Autumn than the nurse you became.

"Says the female who just crashed a war council in her nightgown." His gaze travels pointedly to your bare feet, where a small flame bunny has materialized without your conscious thought. "Nice entrance, by the way. Very dignified. Absolutely befitting a Lady."

The flame bunny sneezes, leaving a scorch mark on the ancient floor.

"Ember?" you whisper in disbelief. "After all this time?"

The bunny chirps, hopping up your leg to nestle against your hip. A small piece of home you'd thought lost forever.

"What happened?" you demand, instinctively stroking the flame creature. "Why am I here? I was eighty! I died in that hospital bed!"

"Not exactly," Eris says, looking amused despite the wetness in his eyes. "You never actually died."

"What?" The word comes out sharper than intended, your Autumn Court accent reasserting itself over the human one you'd adopted.

"The Ash Tea you took. It didn't just dampen your magic—it eventually put you into a death-like sleep." Eris gestures to a new tapestry on the wall, one depicting your sleeping form surrounded by flame. "Your body remained here, perfectly preserved, while your consciousness..." He waves vaguely. "Went wherever it went."

You blink. "Like Sleeping Beauty?" The human reference feels strange on your tongue, a remnant of your other life.

Eris stares blankly. "Like what?"

"Sleeping Beauty! The princess who pricked her finger and slept for a hundred years until true love's kiss woke her?" The bond in your chest pulses at the mention of true love, a warmth spreading through your veins.

"That sounds... highly improbable," Eris says diplomatically. His expression has changed, you realize. He's learned restraint in your absence, a political savvy he once lacked.

"Says the immortal faerie with fire powers," you retort, the banter familiar despite the years between.

He concedes with a tilt of his head, a new scar visible along his jawline when he turns. "Fair point."

"Does anyone else know I'm back?" Your hand instinctively rises to your chest where the bond pulses stronger. "What about Azriel? The Night Court?"

At the shadowsinger's name, the bond flares so strongly that small flames dance along your fingertips. Eris notices but doesn't comment.

"No one knows yet," Eris says, sobering. "And it should stay that way temporarily. You're vulnerable right now. Your magic needs time to stabilize." His protective instinct reminds you of the brother you knew, beneath the High Lord he's become.

"Vulnerable to what?" The question feels naive even as you ask it.

"Assassins, power-hungry nobles, the usual delightful court politics," he says casually, as if discussing the weather. The words carry weight that speaks of experience. "We've had three attempts on the Autumn throne in the last decade alone."

"Lovely. Just what I needed after eighty years of human medicine—fairy court murder plots." Despite your sarcasm, your body remembers court life. You find yourself automatically scanning exits, assessing threats. The Lady of Autumn reemerging.

Eris smirks, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Welcome home, sister."

"But wait—if I've been technically alive all this time, why wake up now?" you wonder, running a hand through your tangled hair. "Why today specifically?"

Eris shrugs, the gesture too casual to be genuine. "The Ash Tea finally wore off? Cosmic timing? Who knows how these things work?"

"Or maybe... the charm..." You touch your chest, feeling the golden bond stir and pull westward. The sensation stronger than it ever was before. "Maybe he called me back somehow. Maybe he never stopped trying."

"Speaking of your brooding shadowsinger," Eris says, something softening in his expression. A melancholy that speaks of changes you don't yet understand. "I assume you'll want to see him rather urgently?"

"Is he—" The question sticks in your throat, fear suddenly gripping your heart.

"Still in that ridiculous cabin with the impractical east-facing windows? Yes." Eris sighs dramatically, but there's a fondness in his voice that surprises you. "Eighty years, and he's still there, waiting. Immortals and their stubborn attachments."

Your heart stutters. "He's still waiting? After all this time?"

"Of course he is," Eris says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Hasn't left that valley for more than a few days at a time since you... left."

"I need to go," you say, starting for the door before realizing. "But not like this! I need clothes!" Your nightgown, while fine for running through the castle, would hardly be appropriate for reunion with your mate after eighty years.

Eris looks you up and down, smirking. "I don't know. This look might be exactly what the shadowsinger has been waiting eighty years for."

"ERIS!" Heat rushes to your cheeks, both from embarrassment and from your magic responding to emotion.

"Fine, fine." He chuckles, guiding you toward the door. "Let's find you something suitable. Though fashion has changed considerably in eighty years."

"If you try to put me in anything with unnecessary feathers or those weird shoulder leaves that lord was wearing—"

"Wouldn't dream of it," he lies smoothly. "Though the current style does involve quite a lot of strategically placed autumn leaves..."

Your horrified expression sends him into a fit of laughter as he leads you down the hall, his arm around your shoulders in a gesture of protective affection you'd never experienced from him before.

Behind you, servants whisper excitedly:

The Lady has returned—in her nightgown, no less—and she's headed west, to a cabin with east-facing windows, where a shadowsinger has waited eighty years, watching the sunrise, never giving up on the bond that finally, finally called you home.

You crest the last hill just before sunset, your boots crunching over the forest floor. The path winds familiar but strange; wider than memory, the trees newer, as if time itself tried to soften the edges of what you left behind.

You pause at the treeline.

The cabin waits below.

Except, it isn't a cabin anymore.

It's a home.

Two stories of weathered wood and stone, a wraparound porch shaded by climbing vines. A garden spills out in vibrant rows of herbs and vegetables. Windows facing east gleam in the fading light, capturing the day's last embers.

Your chest tightens, the bond humming faintly beneath your skin.

"Azriel?" Your voice sounds small in the vast silence.

No answer. Just the hush of wind through pine.

You step forward, each footfall carrying the weight of eighty years. The door stands ajar, as though left that way for you. Inside, the air holds warmth but no presence. A stillness too reverent, too expectant.

The house is a reliquary. A shrine to a love he never abandoned.

Your fingers trail across a workbench where wood shavings still curl, fresh and fragrant. A half-finished flame bunny waits patiently beside carving tools.

The pink glass eyes gleam, unfinished but already alive. On the mantle above the fireplace, dozens of others stand in silent formation; each unique, each perfectly capturing some essence of Ember and Sizzle.

You turn slowly, taking in walls lined with bookshelves, maps of stars, sketches of landscapes you've never seen. The home feels thoroughly lived in yet meticulously organized. Everything has a place, a purpose.

A note lies on the kitchen table, pinned beneath a carved stone bunny:

Gone to settle matters with Rhys. Return in three days. —A

Three days. After eighty years of waiting, you've missed him by hours.

A laugh breaks from your throat, wet and trembling, as you sink into the kitchen chair.

Not from humor. From disbelief.

The sort of cruel irony only fate could orchestrate.

Your fingers tighten around the carved bunny. Its tiny ears tilt slightly left, just like Ember's did when he was curious. He remembered.

Of course he did.

As you explore further, you notice something strange about the land surrounding the cabin. Boundary stones mark a perimeter that belongs to neither Court.

He's carved out a territory... a small realm between worlds, belonging to no High Lord.

"He's created his own little realm," you whisper, touching the stones etched with unfamiliar symbols. A place outside court politics. A sanctuary.

On a lower shelf, tucked between histories of Prythian, you find a collection of journals bound in midnight-blue leather. Your hand hesitates, fingers hovering over the spines.

Is this too private? Too personal?

But the need to understand these missing decades overrides your hesitation.

The first entry is dated exactly one day after you took the Ash Tea.

The writing is tight, controlled, betraying nothing of emotion.

She is gone. The bond remains, but muted. I will wait.

Just three sentences.

But the pressure of the pen has nearly torn through the paper.

You trace the words with trembling fingers, feeling the grief preserved in careful script.

Your tears fall, smudging the ink before you hastily wipe them away.

You turn pages, decades passing between your fingers.

Year 5: Began construction on the second story. The sunrise is better viewed from height.

Year 12: Rhy has conceded territory around the cabin. Cassian calls it folly. Perhaps it is.

Year 20: Found pink crystal in the mountains today. Captured the exact shade of the flame bunnies' eyes. Have begun carving again.

Year 37: The garden produces more than enough now. I've started leaving the excess at the border village. They still fear the "shadowsinger" but the food disappears by morning.

Year 53: Feyre visited today. Asked if I regret my choice. I do not.

Your fingers press against your chest, and for a moment, just a moment, you swear the bond hums.

Soft and golden. Waiting.

As the decades progress, the entries grow longer, more detailed.

More...hopeful. The words of a male who has chosen patient waiting over despair.

Year 68: I felt the bond flicker today. Stronger, then gone. Is she thinking of me across worlds? Is she near windows facing east?

Year 79: Dreams of her return have increased. The shadows whisper of changes coming. I dare not hope, yet find I cannot stop myself.

The final entry, dated just days ago.

Rhysand has requested my presence. After all these years, a summons I cannot ignore. I go reluctantly, but perhaps this is the Cauldron's design. I leave signs of my return, should the impossible happen while I'm gone.

Three days. I will be back in three days.

You close the journal, something breaking open inside you. Eighty years of patient waiting, of building and preparing, of never losing faith that somehow, someday, you would find your way back.

The day fades into evening as you explore further.

The upper floor holds a bedroom with that promised view of the sunrise. A smaller room adjoins it, filled with musical instruments and comfortable chairs... a room for leisure, for living, not just surviving.

You climb the stairs like you're in a dream.

The bedroom is beautiful: warm wood, east-facing windows painted with sunset. A reading nook nestled in the corner. A space made for two.

But it's the third room that destroys you.

A nursery.

Simple, practical, but unmistakable. A cradle carved from pale wood. Tiny clothes folded in a dresser, and a rocking chair by the window.

Your knees buckle.

You sink to the floor, sobs tearing from your throat, raw and wordless.

He hadn't just hoped for your return. He had prepared for a future.

A life.

Every dream you'd whispered together, every small detail you'd imagined for a life beyond courts and duty... he'd made it real. He'd built it, year by patient year, while you lived an entire human lifetime.

Night falls gently, like a blessing. You light the hearth, the candles. Shadows dance across walls that have waited for you. Outside, the forest seems to hold its breath, as if the trees themselves sense something momentous.

You could return to Autumn Court, wait in comfort, let Eris announce your return properly. The diplomatic, sensible choice.

But no. Not when he carved eighty years of devotion into every beam of this house.

"Three days is nothing," you whisper, settling into the chair by the fire with another journal.

You stay.

And somewhere, far across the courts, a shadowsinger feels the shift in the air.

The bond hums.

The fire rekindles.

The forest holds its breath.

Three days. After eighty years, what's three more days?

Light spills through east-facing windows, bathing the cabin in liquid gold. You've fallen asleep in his chair, his journal open in your lap, after two days of exploring every corner of the home he built for you both.

The door opens with barely a whisper.

Azriel stands frozen in the threshold, wings tightly folded, dawn painting his silhouette in fire and shadow. The package in his hands drops to the floor with a soft thud. His shadows, always in motion, go completely still.

Your eyes flutter open.

Time stops.

The space between heartbeats stretches into eternity as your gazes lock across the room.

Neither of you moves. Neither breathes.

The morning light wraps around him like a memory made flesh, illuminating the planes of his face unchanged by decades, yet somehow different.

His eyes widen, lips parting slightly, as if he's seeing a ghost.

Perhaps he is.

His name rises in your throat but gets caught there, trapped behind emotion too vast for sound. The bond between you pulses once, tentatively, like a bird testing broken wings.

"I'm finally going mad," he whispers, voice raw and reverent.

You rise slowly, journal sliding forgotten to the floor. The movement feels like swimming through honey, each second precious and thick with meaning.

"Azriel," you breathe, his name a prayer on your lips.

The sound shatters his stillness. His shadows surge forward, reaching you before he does: tentative, trembling. They brush your cheeks, your hands, your hair, as if making certain you're real.

"How?" The word tears from his throat, rough with hope and fear.

"The bond never broke," you whisper, your voice trembling with truth. "It stretched across worlds, across time. My body lived there, but my soul was always anchored here, with you."

He takes one step forward, then another.

His scarred hands hover near your face without touching, as if afraid you might dissolve like morning mist.

"Every sunrise for eighty years," he says, voice catching, "I've stood on that porch and whispered your name to the mountains."

"I heard you," you tell him, tears spilling freely now. "In my dreams. I always heard you calling me home."

When your fingers finally brush his cheek, he collapses.

Not like a warrior falls in battle, but like a man finally allowing himself to believe. His wings fold forward, arms encircling your waist, and he buries his face against your stomach. You sink with him to your knees, your legs giving out from the sheer weight of finally being found.

"I'm here," you whisper into his hair, voice breaking, "I'm home."

His scarred hands cradle your face with such reverence it breaks your heart.

"Tell me you're staying," he pleads, voice raw with eight decades of longing. "Tell me I won't wake tomorrow to find you gone."

Instead of words, you take his hand and place it over your heart where the bond pulses golden beneath your skin.

"Feel that?" you whisper. "It never faded. It never broke. It only stretched between worlds until I could find my way back to you."

The bond flares between you, no longer muted by distance or dimensions, but blazing with renewed life. Golden light spills from beneath your joined hands, illuminating his face.

A single tear traces the sharp line of his cheekbone. "I built this home with my own hands," he says, voice breaking on each word, "plank by plank, stone by stone. Not because I believed you would return, but because I couldn't bear to stop waiting."

Your thumbs brush away his tears. "How did you survive it?" you ask, your own voice breaking. "How did you bear it alone for so long?"

"I wasn't living," he confesses, pressing his forehead to yours. "I was existing. Breathing because my body refused to stop. My soul has been right here all along, waiting for you to make me whole again."

As if summoned by the truth in his words, warmth blooms between you. Pink flame erupts in twin bursts of light and joyful squeaking. Ember and Sizzle materialize, hopping excitedly around you both.

"They remember," you whisper in wonder.

"Everything that is part of you refuses to forget," Azriel says, watching the flame bunnies with awe. "Just as I memorized every detail of your face, every sound of your laughter, every shade of light in your eyes."

Ember hops onto his shoulder while Sizzle circles your joined hands, leaving tiny scorch marks on the wooden floor.

"After you were gone," he says softly, "I kept feeling you everywhere... in the sunrise, in the autumn wind, in the spaces between heartbeats. They said I was mad to keep believing."

"I felt you too," you tell him, your fingers tracing the lines of his face. "Even across worlds, even across time. My soul never stopped reaching for yours."

His shadows curl around your joined hands, no longer restless but finally at peace. "When I felt our bond dim," he whispers, voice raw, "it was like watching the stars fade one by one until the night was empty."

"I thought I was setting you free," you confess, pressing your forehead to his chest. "I thought I was being merciful."

His arms tighten around you, wings creating a cocoon of shadow and warmth. "There is no freedom in half a soul," he says fiercely. "No life worth living without you in it."

You look up at him through your tears. "How can you still look at me like that? After all this time?"

"Like what?" he asks, his voice achingly soft.

"Like I'm everything."

"Because you are," he says simply, the words striking your heart like lightning. "You are dawn after endless night. You are the answer to prayers I was too broken to speak."

Tears stream freely down your cheeks as he lowers his forehead to yours.

His shadows curl around your face, tender and possessive. "My fierce, impossible mate," he breathes, voice rough with wonder. "My heart. My home."

And then his lips find yours, gentle yet desperate, a reunion and a promise in one.

His wings wrap around you both, shuttering out the world until there is nothing but this: his mouth on yours, his scent of night-chilled stone and cedar surrounding you, the bond between you singing like the first notes of creation.

When you finally part, both breathless, his eyes hold a peace you've never seen before... the look of someone who has finally, after endless searching, come home.

Your gaze falls to the forgotten package on the floor. "What's that?" you ask, voice still thick with emotion.

A different kind of warmth colors his cheeks as he retrieves the small burlough sack.

"I remembered how much you missed it," he says softly as you open it.

The rich, familiar aroma hits you immediately: coffee beans, perfectly roasted, their scent rising like a memory from another life.

"You remembered," you whisper, tears welling fresh in your eyes as you run your fingers through the dark beans.

"I spent eighty years trying to grow them," he admits, his shadows curling bashfully. "The first plants all died. Then the beans were too bitter. By the fortieth year, I could make something drinkable, but it wasn't right. It wasn't what you remembered."

A laugh bubbles up through your tears. "You spent eighty years learning to grow coffee beans? For me?"

His smile is small but reaches his eyes, perhaps the first true smile you've ever seen transform his face. "I would have spent eighty lifetimes learning."

Ember hops excitedly around the bag, leaving tiny scorch marks that curl into a heart shape. Sizzle bounces onto Azriel's shoulder, nuzzling against his cheek with fiery affection.

"I think they approve," you laugh through your tears, clutching the precious beans to your chest.

You rise together, his arm steady around your waist, the bond between you glowing like captured starlight.

"Show me," you whisper. "Show me everything you built."

Outside the window, dawn breaks fully over your valley.

Your home.

Bathing everything in golden light that feels, at last, like a beginning rather than an ending.

Author’s Note: And that’s it. That’s the fic. She died, she lived, she ran through a palace in her nightgown like a feral fairy princess, and she got her man (who, in case you forgot, spent EIGHTY YEARS building a house and practicing agriculture like a sad, winged Pinterest husband). 🐇💔🔥

Thank you for crying with me. Screaming with me. Whispering “oh my god just kiss already” with me.

This story was equal parts pain, pining, trauma-healing, and “what if Azriel just... stood outside her kingdom for decades like a Victorian ghost with a toolbelt?”

To those of you who made it to the end. I see you. I love you. I, too, would betray a High Lord for a coffee bean grown out of pure love.

BUT WAIT.

While the main arc has closed with a very dramatic, very deserved Happily Ever After, you didn’t think I’d leave you without some bonus content, did you?

Stay tuned for bonus chapters featuring:

1. The mating ceremony (someone cries, someone combusts emotionally and/or literally, everyone gossips) 2. Azriel trying to be a husband and a mate while quietly short-circuiting every time she kisses his cheek 3. Domestic arguments about mundane things like curtain color and whose turn it is to wash the flame bunnies 4. Azriel learning to cook without murdering a pan (he fails, but his arms look great while doing it) 5. Found family visits. Too much wine. Velaris bets. Rhysand regrets inviting himself. 6. Intense fluff. Devastating angst. Some smut that’s been aged like fine wine in my drafts 7. And yes, maybe babies, because listen... have you seen Azriel hold things gently? Of course we're going there

Basically: a mating bond is forever, but so is the chaos that comes with it.

Thank you for reading this soul-wrecking, hope-restoring, very dramatic tale of second chances and shadow-soaked love. You made it through. Go scream into a pillow and eat something carb-heavy. You’ve earned it.

—With all my love and possibly a flame bunny plush in hand, mahalachives 🖤

Taglist: @circe143 @lunarxcity @willowpains @messageforthesmallestman @lreadsstuff @evye47 @lovely-susie @moonfawnx @tele86 @moonlitlavenders @darkbloodsly @ees-chaotic-brain @smol-grandpa @auraofathena @lottiiee413 @minaaminaa8 @claudiab22 @moonbeamruins @shewolf1549 @crimsonandwhiteprincess @a-band-aid-for-your-heart @kathren1sky-blog @alimarie1105 @masbt1218 @topaz125 @falszywe @randomdumsblog @sophia-grace2025 @okaytrashpanda @thegoddessofnothingness @unarxcity @svearehnn @suhke3 @galaxystern08 @ivy-34 @hellsenthero @nayaniasworld @raccoonworld @bobbywobbby @evergreenlark @greenmandm @shinyghosteclipse @catloverandreader @the-onlyy-angie @bunnboosblog @i-like-boooks @ashduv @kayjaywrites @lovelyreaderlovesreading @badbishsblog @vera0124 @i-am-infinite @scatteredstardustt @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @chaotic-luvrs @etsukomoonbeam @justtryingtosurvive02 @dianxiaxiexie @annaaaaa88 @mortqlprojections @quiet-loser @shamelesswolftheorist @vanserrasimp @lovelyflower7777 @probendingwords @allthatisbuck1917 @thejediprincess56 @forvalentineboy @romwyz @plowden @jada-lockwood @traveling-neverland @wanderwithmex @magicaldragonlady @makemeurvillain @justswimm @saltedcoffeescotch @rafeecameronsbitch @sherhd @stainedpomegranatelips @ayohockeycheck @yourdarkrose @taurusvic @illyrianshadow @s-h-e-l-b-e-e @ly--canthrope @star-chaser1 @dormantzzzs

[fanfictiongirlie]

Marvel: Unplanned Chapter One

Masterlist

Parings: Bucky Barnes x Reader (First person written though)

Description:

"It says...it says it's positive doll" His voice matching mine in a quiet shaky whisper.

"Fuck... I'm pregnant?"

"Yeah doll, you're pregnant"

"Fuck" I whisper.

Rating: Explicit

Chapter Warnings: Smut, Name calling, Two fools arguing, somewhat public smut

Chapter Words: 2,727

(I have the urge for every Marvel fanfic I write to have a seperate timeline where nothing bad happens, and everyone is happy)

Bucky stood in the kitchen shirtless, I swore quietly to myself as I stopped at the doorway, it was 2am, I hadn't expected anyone to be awake, but of course, he was. I had been an Avenger for a little while, my skills with in hand to hand combat matched Nat's, I was also very skilled in using a rifle. And being Nat's best friend, she got me a place on the Avengers, whilst also getting Tony to let me live at the compound. Which was a nice change, I lived in England my whole life, so being in a new country was scary, but Nat made it less scary for me. I got along with everyone, except Bucky. It had been near a year, and we hated each other... Which sucked, because he was so hot, I hated myself for thinking that... 

I sighed and walked fully into the kitchen, he turned around facing me. 

"What do you want?" He asks, his voice low and annoyed. 

"Nothing from you" I mumble walking to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water. His eyes were still on me. 

"Then what are you doing up?" He asks, his eyes rolling. 

"None of your business" I mutter. I should of just left, gone back to my room, but arguing with him, it was additive. He steps closer to me, still an arms length away from me, but close enough that I could smell his cologne. 

"It's my business if you're prowling around this place at the dead of night" He answers, his arms crossed over his chest, I rolled my eyes, I knew he liked arguing with me too, that's why our arguing was usually over stupid things. 

"Says you" I snapped "You're doing the same thing" 

I watch as Bucky raises an eyebrow, I put my bottle of water down on the kitchen counter and step closer to him, challenging him.

"I live here doll, I can do what I want" 

"So do I!" I yell.

"Watch how you're talking to me doll" He scoffs, his eyes narrowing at me. 

"Why should I" I answer stepping closer to him, I crossed my arms copying his stance, our arms brushed against one anothers. Bucky tilts his head, he moved closer, his arms pressing against mine. 

"Because I don't have the patience for you right now" He says, his voice a low rumble, almost a growl. 

"You think I have a patience for your bullshit?" I snap back. I watch as a ghost of a smile flickers on his face as he lets out a quiet scoff. 

"You're the one who started this! Be careful who you pick a fight with doll"

"Me?" I hissed "I didn't fucking start this, god you're always so ready to yell at me"

Bucky clenches his jaw, his nostrils flare, he looked extremely pissed off at me now. Good.

"You're always on my case! You just won't shut up, will you? Just have to make a comment about anything I say" He towers over me, making him look more intimidating, but so fucking sexy. 

"Fuck" I say laughing slightly "I think you're enjoying arguing with me, you know, so fucking annoying" I hiss, trying not to eye his muscles. Bucky let out a laugh, that arrogant smirk coming back. 

"You're the annoying one, always sticking your nose in my business, and trying to get on my last nerve" His gaze travels down my body as he spoke. "God you're pissing me off"

"You're pissing me off!" I snap. 

He steps forward, pushing against my body, I sneer as my back hits the kitchen counter. 

"Oh yeah? You've got a lot of guts for a girl who's half a feet shorter than me" He laughs, his body pressed against mine as he looks down to me. 

"Doesn't matter, I can still fucking pin you" I snap, I could pin him, and I have done. 

"Oh yeah sweetheart? I doubt it" He answers with a huff. 

"What you gonna do Bucky? You've got me pinned, gonna hit me?" I taunt him, he usually walks away when I taunt him, daring him to snap, he never does. I watch as he leans down slightly, his breath hot on my face. 

"Don't tempt me doll" He says low and deep. 

"Fucking do it" I dared, my voice barely above a whisper. 

He leans his face closer to mine, his eyes darkened with lust and anger "You really want me to? You really wanna know what I'll do?"

"Fucking nothing I bet" 

"You think I won't? You think I can't put your smart mouth in place?"

"No I don't think you will, Stevie isn't here to stop you, so come on Barnes, what's gonna be?" I laugh slightly, my voice deep as I spoke. I watched as Bucky's eyes darkened even more at the mention of his best friend, Steve was always breaking up our fights, not this time... 

"You think Steve's the only thing holding me back from arguing with you?" He asks. 

"Yeah I do, you always do as you're told when he's around" I smirk. 

Bucky huffs through his nose "Always doing as told? Doll, you're really pissing me off, you think you know me?" He lowers his voice into a growl, almost a whisper as he looks right into my eyes. "You think I don't have a mind of my own?"

"I don't know, do you?" I snapped, my eyes not looking from his, I hated his eyes, his perfect, Ice blue, lovely eyes... Ugh, I shook the thoughts from my head. 

"You're really playing with fire here doll...You better watch your smartass mouth, before I shut you up myself" 

"Fucking do it then" I snapped. He stares at me for a few seconds, a mixture of anger, lust and annoyance in his eyes. And then suddenly his lips slam onto mine, his body crushing me against the counter, the kiss was rough and hard, almost dominating. 

Shocked I don't move for a second, before I close my eyes and kiss back. Bucky's hands grip onto my hips, holding me hard, his tongue licking into my mouth, exploring me, a low moan escapees his throat as he deepens the kiss, his body pressing against mine, his hips moving pathetically against mine. 

I kiss back harshly, my hands moving to his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin. I hear him groan, his hands move from my hips to my thighs, he picks me up with ease, sitting me down on the counter, he steps closer standing in between my thighs, his hard length pressing against my leg, his flesh hand moves up to my throat holding me as he moves his lips away from mine. 

"Doll, you know just how to piss me off, don't you?" He growls, his hand holding my throat tightly. 

"Says you, you fucking piss me off" 

His eyes darken at my words, his hips moved, pressing his hard length into me, his hand tightens around my throat, I gasped a little for air, but it felt good. 

"You know, I could just take what I want from you, just shut you up right here, right now" He growls, looking over my features. 

"Fucking do it, take me" I whisper. 

He growls again, I wanted to make a comment about him being an animal, but I decided against it. He moves both hands down to my hips holding me hard, he moved forward nipping at my neck. "You want me to take you, huh?"

"Fucking yes, before I change my mind" I gasp, taking in a large breath now his hand was away from my throat. A low moan escapes his throat and he kisses my neck frantically, sucking rough marks into my skin. 

"You think you can change your mind doll? You challenged me, and I'm gonna make sure you don't forget who's in charge here" He speaks in between bites. 

"If you don't kiss me in the next 5 seconds, I'll leave, maybe ask Stevie to make me feel good" I teased, my voice dark and low, I knew that would piss him off. 

He stops kissing my neck and looks at me, his eyes full of jealousy "You wouldn't dare" Then he slams his lips against mine again, his tongue pushing past my lips exploring my mouth. I moved my hips against his, being on the kitchen counter perfectly lining me up with his hips. I spread my legs and wrap them around him, pulling him closer to me. 

Bucky lets out a stifled moan, his lips leaving mine and running down my neck. 

"God, you don't know what you do to me" He says, nibbling at my neck, his hips grinding against me, through my thing pyjama bottoms. 

"Yeah I do, I can feel how pathetically hard you are against me" I smirked, my head rolling back as his lips touching my collarbone. 

He growls taking my throat in his metal hand, he moved my head so I looked at him. 

"Pathetically? I'll give you pathetic" He growls, his flesh hand snakes from my hip and to the waistband of my pyjamas, tugging on them, he stops for a second, his eyes on mine, silently asking for permission. I nod, my cheeks flushing. He moves his hand away from my throat, and move them to pull my pyjama bottoms down, he threw them somewhere, his eyes were still on me whilst his fingers brushed over my inner thigh, his fingers were rough, calloused leaving tingles as he traced my skin. 

Now naked from the waist down, I shivered at the cold air, I moved forward capturing his lips again, Bucky moans softly against my lips, his fingers moved to my clit, slowly circling his fingers a few times, before he took two fingers and slid them down, parting my lips and dipping down to my hole. 

"Fuck, yes" I whispered against his lips, he swallowed my moan, his tongue licking mine, he spread my wetness over my pussy, his two fingers entering me slowly. I moaned breathlessly enjoying the warmth of his flesh fingers, a small part of me thinking about his metal fingers, and how they would feel inside of me. 

"You're all hot and bothered for me, aren't you doll?" 

"Watch it, I'll happily walk away" I hiss, lying through my teeth of course, but he didn't need to know that. His metal hand moved holding my jaw within in his fingers. 

"And I'll drag you right back here doll, you're not going anywhere" 

"Fuck me, dickhead" I sneered, his fingers fucking into me, spreading me open, I needed him. His fingers still fucked into me, whilst his metal hand moved from my jaw to his jeans, undoing them, I reached forward and undid them for him, reaching my arms to push them down, his cock sprung from his boxers as I pushed them down. 

I gasped slightly at the sight of his cock, it was beautiful, it annoyed me how beautiful, cocks weren't supposed to be pretty, but here he was. I muttered a fuck under my breath. 

"Careful how you speak to me, I could bend you over this counter and make you shut your mouth real fast" He says, leaning forward, his hot breath on my ear as he speaks. 

"Yeah?" I whisper "Do it? Please?"

Bucky bites my ear, his voice lowering to a deep rumble "Say please again" 

"Please?" I say, gritting my teeth. He grips my thigh with his metal hand, his fingers slowing inside of me. 

"Such a good girl, asking so nicely" He laughs, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He takes his fingers out of my pussy, I whine at the emptiness, he then grabs my hips pulling me off the kitchen counter, he turns me around and bends me over the counter, he lets out a low growl and pushes his cock inside of me, I moan loudly, my head moving down to rest on the counter. 

Once fully inside of me, his flesh hand moves to my throat, holding me tight. "You like being bent over? You like having me in control?" He taunts me, his hand tightening around my throat, his hips moved backwards, nearly taking his cock out of me, before slamming himself back into me. 

"Fuck" I groan, my breaths ragged as I struggle to breath, the force of his hand holding my throat making the feeling of him fucking me even better. 

I lift up slightly, so my back was flushed against his chest, my moans quiet as he slams his hips into my arse. Anyone could walk in, my eyes dart to the open doorway. Sure it was early morning and in theory everyone was asleep. 

"Anyone could walk in doll" He speaks as he fucks me "They could walk in, see you, see me taking you like the perfect slut you are" He whispers, his lips against my ear, I nod slightly, unable to talk anymore, his metal fingers circle my clit pushing me to my edge, I come hard my legs shaking under his body. 

"Jesus doll, you've got no idea what you do to me, do you?" He asks, moaning loudly in my ear. 

"Yeah? Harder" I whimper, my voice strained. 

"You want more, doll?" He growls in my ear, his hips move faster, fucking me harder, his thick cock stretching my tight pussy. I was grateful for his hand around my throat, I'd be screaming the compound down otherwise. Bucky lets out a low moan of pleasure, his hand clenching around my throat. 

"You like that doll? Like being taken by me?" He asks, his lips moving against my ear, his teeth scraping the shell of my ear, his thrusts into me became sloppy, he fucks harder into me, whines coming from his lips as he finished hard, spilling completely into me. 

"Fuck" I mutter as I feel him pull out of me, stepping away. 

He lets out a long breath, I turn around to see him pulling his jeans up, he looked up to me, his eyes dark with a hint of possessiveness. 

"You good?"

"Yeah...fuck, that was good, I still dislike you however" I smirk, my legs feeling weak. He lets out a snort, a smirk on his lips. 

"Oh doll, don't act like that, you loved that I gave it to you" He smirks, I shake my head, I grabbed my pyjama bottoms, pulling them on. I walk past him, my shoulder knocking into him. He grabs my arm, stopping me in my tracks, spinning me around to face him. 

"Where do you think you're going doll?"

"To bed, that alright with you Barnes?" I ask, more harshly than I should of. 

"Alone?" He smirks. I roll my eyes, I wanted him to come with me, I found myself wanting to sleep next to him, he wouldn't...Would he?

"Not going soft on me, are you?" I asked, smirking. He smiles and presses his body to mine again. 

"It's not going soft, it's called being a gentleman"

"You've never once been a gentleman to me before" I say, my eyes looking over his face. 

"True, but I can be, when I want to be" He smiles, letting out an amused huff, running his hand down my arm, his fingers trailing over my skin. 

"Fine, sleep in my bed with me?" I say, trying not to sound pathetic, like I was begging. A look of surprise and smugness came over his face.

"Is that an invitation?" He smirks. 

"Jesus, take it or don't, I don't care" I say shaking him off and walking out of the room, he follows me. "Fuck, you're annoying"

He chuckles, watching me open the door to my bedroom "Says the one who's inviting me into her bed doll" He smirks. 

"Fine, invitation revoked" I say, stepping into my room, I watched as laughed following me. 

"Oh no doll, You can't invite me and then take it back" He grins, shutting my bedroom door. 

"Whatever" I say as I walk to my bed and crawl in. I watched as he follows me, crawling into my bed, he lays on top of the duvet, looking unsure on what to do. I smile softly and shut my eyes, ready for sleep to take me. 

Chapter Two

(I do not consent my works to be posted anywhere else, by anyone other than myself)

Taglist:

@quinquinquincy

[your-friendly-sociopath]

I've been thinking recently about a story I made a while back about yandere alastor while he was alive, and apparently ppl liked it so I've decided to make a part two of that, but it's shortly after both alastor and his darling (reader obv) are dead

Also bc alastor is hot and I need more

Part one here

His Darling Doe, Pt 2

After Alastor had "saved" you in the alleyway, he never let you leave the cabin

For the rest of your (admittedly short) life, he had forced you into the role of the meek and helpless housewife

It wasn't so bad, he was a gentleman and always made sure you had everything you could want

Except your freedom of course

The night alastor died you thought you were finally free

But nope

Turns out that when the cops found out he was the killer, they thought you were an accomplice and had you sentenced to death

One moment you were on an electric chair, the next you were falling from the sky

As you were falling you heard a loud screech, and could see the devastated look coming from a glowing creature above

It looked like an angel

The next thing you noticed was a glowing green chain dragging you down (bc the chain scene was so hrrrgh)

And the last thing you noticed was two small wings attached to your back, you watched as the once snowy white color became corrupted by black and green -the same shade of green as the chain- then you hit the ground and blacked out

Again you woke up, face smushed against the weirdly warm cement

Confused, you slowly pulled yourself into a sitting position, and looked around trying to make sense of your surroundings

Right as you finally pulled yourself to your feet (or hooves, since ur a deer demon cause I say so) you heard a very loud, very staticy, and very family voice

A voice you had come to both dread and love while alive

"Ah, there are my dear. I was starting to think that my spells hadn't worked!"

Your eyes widened in horror as you turned to face the man you had once loved, your now discolored wings subconsciously wrapping around you in an attempt to comfort you

"No... not you" you whispered

Alastor tilted his head in confusion

" Whatever do you mean by that, my darling doe? I'd have thought you would be absolutely ecstatic to see me!"

You scowled at him and took a step back, to which he responded by smiling wider and stepping forward

"Come now my dear, you can't really be upset still, everything I did was to keep you safe."

Your ears (you hadn't noticed you deer ears in your hair until they had just moved, surprising you) flattened in irritation as your wings flared out in anger

"You kept me locked up in that God forsaken cabin," you hissed "trapped there to be nothing more than a trophy for you."

Alastor's eyes narrowed, he had known that you didn't like being kept in the house, but he couldn't just let you out!

Anything could've happened to you, he was simply protecting you!

Alastor decided to close the distance between you two, and quickly strided over to you, pushing you against the wall he trapped you in a passionate kiss

Despite your anger, you couldn't help but melt into the kiss, having missed him despite being separated for just under a month

You two stayed like that for a few minutes, relishing in each other's presence

When you finally came back to your senses, you shoved him away and ran

Distantly, you heard a record scratch as alastor took a moment to realize what you just did

Then he snarled, his smile growing impossibly wide as he shifted into his full demon form

You rushed through crowds of demons, a few of them snarling at you and threatening you, others catcalling

Now, despite being in hell for only a few weeks, alastor had already set a reputation as demon not to fuck with

So as you rushed through the crowds with a creepy ass deer demon chasing you, many knew not to interfere

Alastor reached out a long clawed hand, just barely brushing your arm

Panicked, you glanced back and saw alastor, looking like a fucking monster

You shrieked in terror, and out of instinct, your wings opened up and launched you into the sky

You heard alastor let out an unearthly, furious scream

You let yourself hope, for a brief moment, that you had escaped

Then the same glowing chain appeared around your neck, a d yanked you back down to the ground

You crashed into the broad chest of alastor, still in his demon form, as he whispered in your ear

"A valiant effort, my darling, but you forget. You couldn't escape me while alive, so what makes you think you can escape me now.." he growled "..now that I'm so much stronger."

"You can't escape me.. you are mine~"

He chuckled lowly at your continued struggling, watching as you finally went limp in his hold when he yanked on your chain

"Come along now, pet, it's time we went home"

The hand not holding the chain snaked around your waist, bringing you flush against his body

Everything went dark for brief moment, before the both of you appeared in front of a cabin

Your cabin

The one that you now considered a prison

You ears flattened once again, this time in despair as tears started to flow

You weren't ever going to escape now

He was much to powerful for anyone to go against

Alastor buried his face in your soft hair, nhaling deeply before walking you up to the front door, slowly turning back to normal from his demon form

"Ah, welcome home, my doe~"

Hehehehehehe

Finished another

Hot deer daddy

[cades-outsider]

Hawk X Reader SMUT

Warnings: Smut, just absolute SMUT!

A Burning Passion 4

  "I'm tired of you being so defensive over everything" You huff. Hawks face turns stone cold as he scoffs.

  "Well if that's how you feel then this-" he points to you and him "is over" he spits as he harshly hands you his hoodie.

  That was definitely not what you wanted, your heart tells you to go after him but your feet keep you planted where you are.

  Turns out he was the one who got you after all.

-

  Hawk hadn't spoken to you since then. He wouldn't even glance at you in the halls, and even if he did he would throw snarky comments your way. You showed defeat, not daring to utter another word to him. In fear you'd only push him away more.

  Every time you closed your eyes all you could see was him, as you ran the tips of your fingers against your lips gazing at the mirror in the schools bathroom, you felt his lips on yours. Your fingers moved to your arm to which you could only feel how he was touching you that night.

  Your eyes started to water as your heart ached, why hadn't you gone after him that night? He was so sweet and caring until you let your mind get the best of you.

  You still had his hoodie from the last encounter. It smelt like him, and over time as it faded you grew more needing of him. Not just the sex and the thrill of being caught, but him.

  You were snapped back into reality when the bathroom door snapped open, your hands automatically come to wipe away the tears threatening to fall from your eyes.

  As the stall door slammed shut you looked back into the mirror and let out a deep sigh, touching up your concealer to cover the puffiness under your eyes.

  The bell rang throughout the school house, signaling for lunch. Your heart started to race because of what you were about to do. You couldn't hold back anymore, all the cold shoulders and hateful glares Hawk sent your way ate you up.

  You rushed out of the bathroom and into the lunch room, automatically spotting Hawk and his friends as they were the loudest group.

  Hawk has his leg propped up onto the chair beside him, head to the side laughing because of something his friends had said. You were so close to backing out, but your legs had other plans as you neared his table.

Their laughter dies as Mitch slaps Hawk on the shoulder signaling your way, you now stood just a few feet away from him as he turned to look at who Mitch was pointing to. His smile automatically fades as he stands up quickly, his nostrils flare up and his jaw clenches.

"What do you want, princess?" He sneers with such venom as he closes the gap in between you two, he glares down at you while you look up at him with nervous eyes.

"I wanna talk about us" Your voice comes out weak and shaky.

"Us? There is no us Y/n" Hawks expression hardens at the word.

"You...you don't mean that..." You protest, your heart shatters as your legs grow weak.

"Oh I mean it, you of all people know I keep my word princess" he laughs angrily.

Your expression hardens, matching his anger. You needed him so bad that your emotions got the best of you, your anger started taking over, you couldn't take his constant switching up moments. Yes you had messed up, but so had he and right now he was acting entitled, he isn't the only one who gets to be angry.

You start to laugh, matching his anger as tears start to fall down your face. Though Hawk found you extremely hot in this moment, he couldn't help but feel guilty.

"Okay have it your way, but if you think we hated each other before then your in for a rude awakening...-" You lift your head up as you stand on your tippy toes, faces side by side and before you could even stop yourself. You whisper "-lip" into his ear.

You back away from his face, his eyes softened as he looked around subconsciously, his hand come up to cover his mouth before he could stop it. You felt bad, but that didn't stop a smirk from falling onto your lips.

It wasn't until you walked away and was out of his view when you pressed your hands against your head, squeezing your eyes shut "what the fuck did I just do..."

-

After that day you stood true to your word, you would flip him off in the hallways, laugh at him when he would trip up, constantly calling him lip or loser- even though you knew it hurt him and your heart twisted in pain every time you put him down you couldn't stop.

-

The coach blows the whistle, telling us to get back in place. You take your place in front of the soccer ball and on the sound of the whistle you start kicking the ball to the goal until someone's foot comes under yours, stealing the ball and causing you to trip.

"Thanks princess" Hawk mocks you with his laugh.

You glare at him as he laughs over his shoulder, but nonetheless you run up until your beside him, shoulder to shoulder you push him as hard as you can watching as he falls on his side.

You hear the sound of the whistle go off "let's take it easy on the physical contact!" The coach yells as it was your turn to mock Hawk.

You bend down to Hawks level "good job loser" you laugh as you start back running with the ball.

He's pissed. He stands up while the guy in front of him runs like a sloth, he's so pissed off he pushes the innocent guy harshly and watches as he hits the ground.

Another whistle goes off "hey!" The coach warns as you kick the ball into the goal, winning for your team.

You go for a water break as the coach yells for another round, you expect Hawk to come up to you but instead he yanks the red team shirt off and makes his way back into the school, to which you assume would be the locker rooms.

You couldn't help yourself so you went after him, just before the door to the boys locker room closes you wrap your fingers around the handle. Careful not to make too much noise you walk in, closing the door and locking it.

Hawk went to one of the sinks, placing both of his hands on either side. He looks in the mirror, sweat dripping from his face, his jaw clinched, nostrils flared and his knuckles turning white from how hard he was gripping the sink.

"Didn't know i got to you that much lip" You smirked, keeping up your act.

You watch as his eyes move from his face to yours through the mirror, he slams one of his hands against the sink and rushes over to you. His body flush against yours as he harshly pushes you up against the hard wood door. His right hand slams on the door just above your head.

Your skins on fire just from the small contact, the heat from his body dragging onto yours as your sweaty bodies collided. Your breathing picks up, eyes immediately drifting to his lips but quickly back to his eyes before he noticed.

"Who do you think you are princess?" Hawks gaze turns harsh as the veins and mussels show against his arms.

You don't give him a response at first, until you've finally had enough. You harshly push his body off of yours, "no. Don't you dare Hawk! I know it was wrong of me to act like a bitch that night, but you don't get to treat me the way you did and not expect me to do the same! I fucking hate you for that!" You yell.

  "Yeah? You hate me?" Hawk says almost seductively. He walks back up to you, hand on your waist "show me how much you hate me princess..." He starts breathing unevenly as you look up at him.

  You practically throw yourself on him, exactly like you did that night. But this time, you know you won't regret it. You grab Hawks face, eyes staring into each others while he tightens his grip on your thighs. Your legs wrap around his waist in a death grip, you could already feel how hard he was for you.

  You smashed your lips onto his, moaning as he uses one of his hands to hold the back of your head as he kisses you like he's in love with you.

  Hawk try's to carry you to the bench but instead he ends up slamming your back into the lockers, creating a loud noise as you whimper and arch your back into his.

  Your eyes widen and you pull away from him, "wait we're at school Hawk" you say as you try to get down from his hold.

  "Oh no. You wanted this, you're gonna take it" He groans, he pushes his crotch into yours to keep you steady as he grabs the top of your gym shirt, ripping it in half exposing your bra covered tits.

  "What the fuck Hawk?!" You push his shoulder.

  "Shut up princess" He rolls his eyes as he places his lips on yours while his hands wander to your chest, feeling you up.

  He pulls away from the kiss only to actually carry you over to one of the very thin wood benches and places you on it so everything but your ass is against it.

  Hawk yanks his shirt off before he spreads your legs farther so he can bend down to your face. He lightly kisses your lips, trailing the small butterfly kisses all the way down while holding eye contact as you moan.

  He yanks your shorts and panties down in one swift motion, exposing your bare pussy to him all over again. He wastes no time before pulling his own down, his hard cock dripping with pre-cum.

  He makes you watch as he strokes his cock with his hand, his head falls back as his mouth falls open "y/n" he moans out.

  "Fuck. Please Hawk...." You beg of him.

  He looks at you, still stroking his cock but at a faster pace "be patient princess" he whimpers as his cock starts leaking with more beads of pre-cum.

  You practically whine until he lightly slaps his cock on your clit, the slightest touch making you a whore for him.

  Your dripping pussy begging to be fucked by him, you roll your eyes at the teasing "c'mon stop being a loser and just fuck me already" you say, resorting to the worse possible comment. It worked.

  Hawks eyes turn a darker shade as his jaw clenches, forcefully he stuffs his cock into your soaked pussy. It takes you by surprise as you let a small squeal fall out by accident.

  His cock hits all the right places as he stretches you out, "can a loser fuck you like this?" He asks condescendingly as he uses both of his hands to yank your bra down, your perky tits bouncing with each harsh thrust.

  You don't say anything, it feels so good it leaves you speechless. Your hands go behind your head voluntarily to steady yourself, grabbing onto the sides of the bench. Your hair goes everywhere as your bodies slip together easily because of how sweaty you both were before.

  There was something so thrilling about the possibility of getting caught which only made you more wet, gushing around Hawks cock as your pussy makes lewd sounds.

You found yourself gazing up at him, he looked so pretty even in such a state. As his cock continues to fill you up in every way possible, you found yourself questioning why you even 'hated' him to begin with.

Maybe it was because he was an arrogant asshole sometimes, or because he would bully innocent people, or maybe just maybe it was because you were in love with him.

Your eyes meet Hawks again and in that moment you wanted to reveal all your deepest secrets to him. You wanted to tell him how much you were in love with him. You could barely suppress your moans until loud banging erupted from the other side of the locked door.

Hawk's hips stilled, cock fully stuffed inside of you. You're eyes widened as you covered your mouth and Hawk snapped his gaze over to the door. You both watch as the door knob starts to jiggle.

He pulls you up keeping his cock inside of you as he rushes to one of the showers, turning the hot water on and closing the thin curtain behind you both, once again slamming you up against the wall.

You're both completely soaked, you expect him to pull out of you as keys start to jiggle from behind the door but instead he looks you straight in the eyes "think you can be quite for me princess?" Hawk whispers, tightly wrapping his hand against your mouth as he smirks, not allowing you to answer him.

The next thing you know he's using his other hand that's holding you up to help move your hips with his, fucking you perfectly as your hips start moving with his hand movements.

Your eyes roll back into your head as the coach lets in the rest of the boys. You pray your underwear are somewhere out of sight as you're being fucked in the shower.

"Hawk is that you?" A voice calls out and you can barley comprehend what's going on, all you feel is pleasure from his cock.

"Yeah!" he yells over the shower, his breathing staggering as his head leans against yours.

You look so beautiful like this, his hand wrapped around your pretty mouth as you're taking his cock. He feels his high near, letting out more noises than intended.

The hot water from the shower has hawks hair completely down, crowned around his face. You've never seen him like this, your pussy clenches at the sight, your nails dig down his back, surely leaving marks.

He brings his mouth to your ear, hand tightening on your mouth "cum for me princess" he whimpers. That's it for you as your eyes roll in the back of your head, your cum leaking around his dick, tightening up around him.

Hawk clenches his jaw as he tries to stay quiet, fucking you with no mercy while he tries to make less noise as possible. Your hands move to his hair, pulling it as you feel his hot cum fill you up to the brim.

His movements still as he removes his hand from your mouth, letting it go to your other thigh to hold you upright. Hawk makes eye contact with you, he can't help himself from pressing his lips up against yours.

He's so gentle with you, he's slightly shaking from his orgasm as are you. He pulls away from your lips, listening as he hears the last person leave the locker room. You whimper as he falls out of you, gently placing you back on your feet.

He turns off the shower while you flip your bra back to its place, though it sticks to you like glue. Hawk pulls the thin curtain back in search for a towel. He grabs the nearest one and places it around you, grabbing one for himself.

You felt exhausted.

But the question is; What happens now?

Tags: @let-love-bleeds-red @royalstydia @ryvrelinkin @jester2407 @diaphragmjellyfish @shadowmoonlight0604 @ion-even-know @potentialgay @olivv33z

Let me know if you want to be tagged for the next part!!!

[maraschinomerry]

Sleepless Nights pt1

Pairings: George Karim x gn!reader

Summary: as if it wasn't enough to be woken up in the middle of the night, the events that occur are going to stop you going back to sleep

Content: canon-adjacent, canon-typical horror/fear elements, hurt/comfort, psychological implications

A/N: this is my first ever fic that I've written to intentionally be multiple parts so please be patient with me (and thank you to @neewtmas and @uku-lelevillain for encouraging me to do it this way)! I thought it'd be really interesting to explore the lasting implications of the events of the Annabel Ward case - none of the characters seem to get much sleep anyway, so I'm building on that. There should be 2 more parts of this to cover the home invasion and Combe Carey Hall (part 2 is like 75% written already 👀)

Word count: 2.7k

Taglist: @neewtmas @marinalor @ettadear @honey-with-tea @mischiefmanaged71

It had been a long night.

It started with the thundering of feet past your door in the middle of the night. You stirred, rolling over to glance blearily at your alarm clock, but even if you'd got your eyes to focus it was still too dark to make it out properly. What was Lucy playing at, running through the house at a time like this? You tried to go back to sleep, but the padding of more feet and a couple of dull thuds alerted you to the fact that there was something going on. Reluctantly, you flicked off your duvet, pulled on a pair of socks and a jumper and wandered to the door. On the landing below, Lucy was standing in Lockwood's bedroom, peering past the boy leaning on the doorframe. A pair of boots lay scattered in front of the other door, which you supposed explained the thuds, and as it creaked open George emerged in socks, an oversized T-shirt and an equally oversized scowl. You weren't the only one annoyed at being disturbed, then.

“Can't you even be bothered to cross the landing to wind me up?” Was that what this was about? You'd been dragged from peaceful sleep for a prank?

“Annabel Ward's ghost is here,” Lockwood replied quickly and quietly. Dread settled in the pit of your stomach. She was the ghost they'd dealt with at that Sheen Road house, and it had ended badly. But at least they’d secured her. How had she followed them home? Was that something ghosts could do? As George returned to his room to prepare, you stepped back into yours and grabbed a handful of salt bombs and your rapier.

Together you headed cautiously up to the attic. Part of you had expected to hear wailing, crashing, anything, not the silence of an empty room.

“I don't feel anything.” George confirmed your suspicions, hand on the door. If this really was an elaborate prank you were going to be so mad. He was prepared for the worst, though - chains, rapier, torch and two full body belts of salt bombs, flares, a whole stash. Lockwood had taken the chains, and now he took the lead. You hadn't been in here very often, you only joined the agency shortly before Lucy and the guys had kept mostly to themselves so you were still adjusting to the idea of your personal spaces being so open. It was a little unnerving seeing it now so dark and desolate, lit only by the sickly torchlight glow. A spread of articles about the dead starlet littered her floor, and as you scanned the room you spotted another on the wall by her bed. She must be more invested in this case than you'd realised. Below it were other photos of a young redhead girl, and you would have almost assumed they were of Annabel too were it not for the fact Lucy was in them. Oh.

“We contained her source, covered her body with a silver net,” you heard Lockwood say. You grimaced at the thought of finding an actual body. Ghosts were bad enough without having to contend with their corpse.

“How did she even get in here?” George continued, joining you in looking at the pictures on the way. “It's not as if her source is inside the house.” When there was no response, you all turned and looked at a slightly sheepish Lucy.

“Is it?” Lockwood pressed. Before she could respond, there was a whispering from the entrance to the room, and she raised her torch just in time to catch curling wisps of other-light before they disappeared into nothing.

“Uh… she's back.”

You and George moved away from the wall, closer to the main group. Instinctively, you drifted towards Lucy, figuring she would be your best bet against the ghost she'd already survived twice. George hung back, and as you all swept your beams across the room to catch where she might appear next, he missed the glow manifesting over his shoulder.

“George…” Lockwood began, low and warning. “Don't… move.”

A face was forming now from the glow, long hair falling as it appeared. George stayed remarkably calm. “Please tell me it's a wasp.”

“Stand perfectly still.” Lockwood tensed the chain. Whether Annabel noticed or whether she was always going to react this way, her face began to contort. “On second thoughts, move!”

George dove towards the empty space in front of the door as Annabel lunged forwards with a snarl. Lockwood swung the chain; Lucy switched her torch to her other hand and hurled a salt bomb; you brandished your rapier. The ghost vanished in a burst of sparks, but you knew that wasn't the end.

“Not a wasp, then,” George huffed.

You needed to find the source to put an end to this, and you all knew it. Lockwood pushed Lucy for an explanation, but before she could offer one the ghost appeared from nowhere, Lucy almost running into her as she turned. She stumbled back, landing between the boys as you surged forward and threw two of your salt bombs. The chain slashed through her and she dissipated once more. You all formed a circle, back to back, spinning slowly. George was on your right, Lockwood your left, and Lucy on their other side.

“I had her ring in my hand, and then I fell asleep with it,” she finally explained. The bed came into view as you turned, and you began to move towards it before Lockwood reached out and stopped you.

“Let’s get rid of this thing properly, then we can go searching.”

Those fine silvery tendrils began to unfurl down the far side of the bed and the group broke into formation with Lockwood at the head.

“Oh, shit.” George's voice shook, reflecting your thoughts exactly. On Lockwood's word, they swapped weapons, so now you and the taller boy had the rapiers and the other two held the chain across behind you.

“Be ready to move,” Lockwood told you quietly. You nodded.

Annabel was fully formed and furious. You heard the warning shouted as she lunged again and you all reacted at once. Lockwood twisted as he jumped towards the bed while you rolled towards the window, your rapier clattering from your grip, and Lucy and George surged forward with the chain which sliced the ghost in half. She reformed quickly, quicker than you expected. You were a sitting duck, squatting behind the armchair and with nowhere to go but back towards the wardrobe and the spirit in front of it.

“Y/n, go!” Lucy yelled as she hurled more salt bombs. Annabel flickered, just long enough for you to escape your hiding place. George ushered you behind him, into the safety of the eaves, giving you a second to catch your breath. He threw a quick glance over his shoulder to check you were okay and you nodded gratefully, hands on your knees.

“George, throw it all, everything you've got!” Lockwood said forcefully. The other boy reacted immediately, flinging his body belts in one fluid motion, and you tried to ignore the glimpse of bare skin as his T-shirt rode up with them. He almost crashed into you as everyone ducked back from the explosion of the screaming ghost, his hands grasping at your jumper and yours at his arms to stop you both from toppling. Lucy had landed on the bed and Lockwood down the other side. His face popped up, halfway between a smile and a grimace as he held aloft a silver ring with green gems.

If you'd had your way, you'd have gone back to bed and tried to forget the whole thing. It was still very early in the morning after all, the sky outside a rich blue dotted with stars. Instead you all ended up in the kitchen, listening to Lucy explain why she'd thought it was a good idea to take Annabel's ring, which was now in a silver-glass case. Something about a psychic connection, she said.

“I literally cannot believe you stole a source from a crime scene,” George shook his head in bewilderment. He'd swapped his boots for a pair of grey sweatpants and was leaning against the edge of the sink. You sat on the worktop on his right, watching the argument unfold.

“Excuse me,” Lucy countered. “I'm not the only one around here who steals sources. What about that ridiculous skull you're always experimenting on?” She had a point, and it added a whole new layer of worry to the events of the night. How many other sources did your team have hidden around the house? How many other visitors were waiting to attack in your sleep?

“What exactly are you planning on doing with this psychic connection?” you asked instead.

Lucy looked to you, relieved to have someone care about her reasoning. “Solve her case. Get justice for those 40 years she spent boarded up in some wall.”

“She's dead, Lucy.” Trust Lockwood to state the obvious. “We need to destroy her source. Let her go.”

The girl at the other end of the dining table looked so defeated that you felt sorry for her before remembering she'd basically invited an angry ghost into your home.

“Come on George, back me up,” she pleaded as she moved forward. He tried to deny it, but you knew from the moment she suggested trying to communicate with Annabel that it was an opportunity he wouldn't be able to resist. When he joined her, Lockwood looked at you.

“What do you think, y/n?”

You weren't exactly sold, but you could tell Lucy would never find peace until she tried and you trusted the boy beside her to keep things as safe as he could. Besides, there was no way you'd be able to get to sleep knowing your friends were downstairs putting themselves at risk. “Fine, let's try it,” you sighed, hopping down from the counter and standing at Lucy's other side.

The first rays of daylight were creeping into the study, the site of this experiment, by the time you were all set. You wondered whether you were likely to get any sleep at all tonight as you squeezed into the alcove behind Lockwood and George. The curtains were drawn, leaving the room dimly lit by only a lamp in the corner and the picture light on the wall. It would have felt cosy if not for the sense of foreboding that had settled over you. Ever the researcher, George had a small notebook and pen to record any useful information or unusual activity (though you hoped there wasn't any). A hush fell over the group as Lockwood placed the ring in Lucy’s palm. Silver shards spread from within it like ice, and she closed her fingers around the cool metal.

“It's okay, Annabel,” she murmured, eyes closed. “It's safe.” You admired her confidence. If you were given the choice to be half-possessed by a ghost who had tried to kill you less than an hour ago, you'd be encasing the source in so much silver-glass you could barely see through it. Your fears were confirmed when, as the session continued, Lucy rose to her feet and moved towards Lockwood. You all tensed. Lucy's eyes suddenly opened, but she wasn't really looking at any of you. That foreboding feeling tugged at the core of you, deep in your chest.

“Something isn't right,” you whispered through your teeth. George glanced at you, but said nothing.

“He's angry. Jealous.” Lucy's expression twitched as though fighting the wave of emotions she was being subjected to. “She's afraid. Again.” Her hand came up to Lockwood's cheek and he took her by the wrist; she pulled away, then stroked him again, then away once more. “It's alright. He loves me. You love me don't you?” Something was definitely wrong. She shouldn't be switching perspectives like that. Things were going too deep. The boy in front of you could sense it too.

“We need to stop this, now,” he said darkly over his shoulder, not breaking his focus on Lucy.

“Let's just see what happens.” George was writing something. You knew he was invested in seeing this through, but at the expense of your friend's safety seemed a step too far.

“George…” you began, and he turned a questioning gaze to you. Lucy let out a gasp, and you both snapped your attention back to the matter at hand. She was choking on nothing, clawing at her own throat. Reliving Annabel's final moments.

“Lucy, stop it. Annabel!” Lockwood was gripping her now, trying to bring her back to herself. You were frozen in horror. George thought for a moment before he barged past and flung open the curtains.

Everything happened in slow motion and too quickly. The room was flooded with light, the glare of the early morning sun temporarily blinding you so you almost missed the chair flying through the air. Lockwood was quicker, spinning his body to shield Lucy as they landed on an armchair. You had less chance to react. As you dropped to the ground, the rush of the chair passing above you ruffled your hair. It collided with the bookcase, one of its legs snapping clean off and another breaking as it hit a table and rolled from there onto your back and across the floor. It was hard to tell whether the scream that followed came from you or Annabel or both as the room exploded into a shower of impossibly bright sparks, bursting and scattering in succession. Your arms were wrapped over your head, legs tucked under in a crouch, and you curled yourself in even closer as the flakes of light fell around you, illuminating patches of the carpet. You felt something on one of your hands and flinched, but the warmth was not from a spark but skin. Fingers wrapped around your palm and more across your shoulders, pulling you from the alcove and against the security of a trembling yet firm chest. Your breath came in gasps, shaking even more than the person holding you.

“Are you hurt?” George asked quietly from above. You hummed a vague response - nothing was bleeding or broken as far as you could tell if that's what he meant, but your back ached from the impact of the chair and you were too shaken to speak. He stepped back slightly, holding you steady as he moved around you. You twisted to follow his gaze, ignoring the pain in your spine as you did so, and noticed that Lockwood had led Lucy from the room to recover. George's breath hitched, and you soon saw why. The back of your jumper was dotted with tiny scorch marks, nowhere near deep enough to have done you any harm but enough to leave the fabric irreparable.

“Shit,” he whispered, paling.

“It's fine,” you groaned, sinking into the nearest armchair. “It's an old jumper anyway, it's not the end of the world.”

“It's not the jumper I'm worried about.”

It was so rare to see him the way he was looking at you, so tender and full of concern, that it made all the remaining fight leave your body. You wanted to say something, to tell him that it wasn't his fault. Lucy had been in immediate danger, you'd have done the same thing if you hadn't been so scared, it was just the way things worked out that she had both boys protecting her and you only had yourself. Still, he'd come for you the second he could, so how could you blame him? But exhaustion overtook you, and you suspected that if you tried to voice any of those thoughts you'd only end up feeling worse, so instead what you said was: “Come on, it's been a long night. I'm going to try and get a couple of hours’ rest before we start again.” George nodded and wordlessly helped you to your feet and up the stairs.

“Sleep well,” he said softly as he left you at your bedroom door.

You didn't.

[thedensworld]

Perfect Pairing | C.Sc

Pairing: Mafia Seungcheol! x Agent Reader

Genre: Action, suggestive, slow burn

Words Count: 12k

Summary: Mafia Seungcheol has to face a fact that he found his bestfriend's long-searched sister. However she is a NIS agent who was ordered to terminate him.

Author Note: BOO! It's been a long time since the last time i left a note hehe.. Here's another Seungcheol's action ff because y'all love it, i love it, and we love strong-masculine but gentle Seungcheol 👉👈 i just wanna say thank you very much for all the support you guys has been given to me. I'll work harder to make a better story in the future. Love you all🤍

Seungcheol sat on the plush couch, his eyes fixed on the figure sprawled across his bed. She was the only one, aside from himself, who had the privilege of laying there. Yet, the questions that loomed large were 'Who is she?' and 'Why had she ended up in his club, drugged and unconscious?' 

For Seungcheol, it was routine to make the rounds, keeping a watchful eye over his nightclubs. He was the guardian, determined to shield his establishments from any foul play. He harbored no forgiveness for those who dared to tarnish what he considered his babies – his clubs. So, when he stumbled upon the woman, tucked away in a corner near the office, his suspicions flared. Her state, drugged and vulnerable, was the last thing Seungcheol wanted associated with his club.

"Who is she?" Seungcheol's voice cut through the air, halting his steps. He turned to fix his gaze on the manager, who fidgeted under his scrutinizing stare. Joshua, Seungcheol's right-hand man, approached the woman and confirmed their worst fear.

"I think she's just a lost customer, sir. We'll take care of her," the manager hurriedly explained, already signaling the staff to attend to her.

But Seungcheol wasn't ready to let it end there. He took a deliberate step forward, his pulse quickening as he locked eyes with a face that stirred something within him. The words caught in his throat, his astonishment rendering him momentarily speechless. Joshua, sensing a shift in his boss's demeanor, followed Seungcheol's gaze to the woman's face. Surprise registered in Joshua's eyes, prompting him to act swiftly.

"We'll take care of her," Joshua instructed the manager, while signaling Seungcheol's bodyguard to prepare to transport her. The pieces of this unexpected puzzle were falling into place, painting a picture that Seungcheol hadn't foreseen, Yoon Jeonghan's sister. 

Yoon Jeonghan, Seungcheol's steadfast companion, had been inseparable from him and Joshua since their high school days. Five years prior, a tragic twist of fate claimed Jeonghan's life in a deadly rivalry, all for a monumental deal with a club in Seoul. That night, half of the association's spirit seemed to vanish, and Seungcheol couldn't deny the immense role Jeonghan played in his current success. Despite their decade-long friendship, Jeonghan was a mystery to Seungcheol. He knew little about the man, except for the fact that Jeonghan had once mentioned having a younger sister back in their high school days.

"She might be the female version of Yoon Jeonghan," Jeonghan had mused during their time at the Judo club, informed everyone that his sister was a judo athlete. It was a memory that now surfaced in Seungcheol's mind. 

A knock jolted Seungcheol from his reverie. He opened the door to find Joshua standing there, bearing a file brimming with information about the girl they had just brought to the house.

Seungcheol's brow furrowed, concern etched across his face. "When was the last time she met her brother, Jeonghan?" he inquired, a note of urgency in his voice.

Joshua's reply held a solemn weight, "Five years ago, when Jeonghan flew to the States." There was a palpable sense of distance in those words, a span of time that seemed to stretch on endlessly. Seungcheol couldn't help but wonder about the vast expanse of experiences that must have unfolded in those five years. He leaned in, his gaze locked onto Joshua, eager for any shred of insight into the woman's life.

Joshua's voice held a touch of uncertainty as he continued, "She might not know about the business Jeonghan's been doing." It was a possibility that hung heavy in the air, a question mark that loomed over the narrative. Seungcheol's mind raced, concocting scenarios and speculations. Why was she in his club? He couldn't shake the feeling that her presence held significance beyond what met the eye.

Joshua's eyes narrowed as he gestured towards a screen, revealing a CCTV feed. Seungcheol's breath caught as he watched the footage unfold. There she was, stepping into the limited area, a figure shrouded in mystery. But before she could make another move, someone emerged from the shadows, drugging her. Seungcheol saw her being held and strangled before she passed out. Seconds ticked by, the person escaped the area and Seungcheol, Joshua, and the manager's shadows appeared, unknowingly they had failed a crime that almost had taken place in Seungcheol's club.

Seungcheol let out a sigh of relief, grateful that nothing more sinister had occurred within the confines of his club. The weight of what could have been settled heavily on his shoulders. He couldn't help but contemplate the grim possibilities if a murder had taken place under his roof. The thought of imprisonment loomed, as did the fate of those who worked tirelessly under him.

With a determined look, Seungcheol turned to Joshua. "Find out more about the person who drugged her," he instructed, his voice steady. "I need to understand the connection, and why she ended up in our club in the first place."

Joshua's response was accompanied by a respectful bow, his demeanor exuding poise and unwavering focus. He left Seungcheol to his contemplations, striding off to untangle the enigmatic threads of this puzzling situation. With a gentle smile, Joshua mentioned that everyone was gathering for dinner, extending an invitation to Seungcheol. 

"No, I'm good. Thanks," Seungcheol politely declined, choosing to venture forth on his own.

After what felt like an eternity, a sudden thud echoed from outside, followed by an abrupt blackout. Seungcheol's heart raced, propelling him from his seat towards the desk where he had stashed his gun. The suspense hung heavy in the air, each passing moment pregnant with anticipation.

Seungcheol moved cautiously, stepping outside to investigate. He caught a fleeting glimpse of figures entering his penthouse. Gritting his teeth, he pressed himself into the shadows, keenly eavesdropping on their conversation. 

"I'm sure, he's here!" One of them said as they were certain Seungcheol was his place, and the others were preparing for dinner. 

Seungcheol deliberated, mentally counting their numbers. Four. After much contemplation, he acted swiftly, firing two shots that sent two of them scrambling for cover.

"Shit, who's that?" a voice exclaimed in surprise.

As another figure approached, Seungcheol didn't hesitate, striking with deadly precision. Seungcheol took a step, a dragon tattoo adorned their hand, a clear mark of Kanga's handiwork. The rival association had been a thorn in his side for years, the one who had killed Jeonghan.

Suddenly, the icy touch of metal pressed against Seungcheol's temple. "Choi Seungcheol, I've got you," the assailant whispered.

"Kanga's the one who sent you, isn't it?" Seungcheol inquired calmly.

A chuckle escaped the stranger before he retorted, "Whoever sent me definitely wanted you dead."

Seungcheol couldn't help but chuckle too. "Yeah, heard that from the previous people they had sent before. Guess what? They had failed." With a swift motion, he disarmed the assailant.

Punches flew, relentless and unforgiving. Seungcheol didn't give his opponent a chance to respond. But in his focused assault, he failed to notice what transpired next—a gunshot rang out.

 

*

 

You jolted, heart pounding, as the two gunshots pierced the darkness. The inky blackness enveloped you, exacerbating the headache, likely from whatever Seo Myungho had injected into your body. Did he succeed? The thought of your demise hung heavy. But if he failed, you were alive, albeit barely.

Your hand fumbled towards the pistol stashed on your inner thigh, a wave of relief washing over you as you found it intact. It had been your lifeline since that encounter with Myungho in Seungcheol's club.

"Seo Myungho, that son of a bitch," you seethed, memory flooding back. The betrayal cut deep, after a decade of unwavering dedication, sacrificing family, friends, and any semblance of a normal life. The country had turned its back on you. They betrayed you.

Steeling yourself, you descended from the bed, moving toward the commotion outside. Moonlight filtered through, casting a pallid glow. Amidst the shadows, you witnessed a fierce altercation. One man pummeled another, while a third sat poised, gun trained on the scene. Your instincts took over, aiming for the armed figure and firing, the shot tearing through his arm. 

The other man's gaze locked onto you, and recognition flickered in his eyes. Choi Seungcheol. The very man you had studied meticulously for this mission, only to realize it was a deadly mission targeting you, a mission to distract you and terminate you.

"Yoon Y/n," Seungcheol's voice cut through the tension, surprising you. He knew your real name. With deliberate grace, he released the lifeless figure he'd pummeled and advanced toward you. Instinctively, you took a step back, your gun trained on him.

He called your name again, this time coupled with another - Yoon Jeonghan.

"You're Yoon Jeonghan's sister, aren't you?" he inquired, his gaze flitting from his bruised knuckles to your face. You felt your back press against the wall as you continued to retreat, his presence closing in.

"How do you know?" you demanded, your grip on the gun steady. But you didn't notice as he skillfully disarmed you. The drugs Myungho administered began to take their toll again, sapping your strength. You slumped to the floor, powerless against it.

"Are you okay?" Seungcheol's concern was palpable, his eyes locked onto yours. The soothing timbre of his voice sent shivers down your spine.

Before you could muster a response, a surge of people barged into the room, casting a blinding cascade of light.

"What's going on?" A man's voice cut through the chaos, clearly taken aback by the grim tableau before him - blood spattered across the floor, Seungcheol sheltering you in the corner.

Joshua, the name Seungcheol had mentioned, approached, drawing Seungcheol's gaze as he spoke through gritted teeth, "Kanga sent them. How dare he invade my place!"

"You're awake. Why is she here?" Joshua's eyes narrowed, noticing you weakly cradled in Seungcheol's arms. You wondered how he knew you too.

Seungcheol let out a sigh, "She shot one of the men and saved me. Could you take her to the bedroom? I need to talk with the others." With gentle care, he helped you rise and passed you into Joshua's custody.

As Joshua guided you towards the bedroom, Seungcheol's voice echoed from beyond the door, seething with frustration, "WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU GOING?! WHO WAS RESPONSIBLE— " The words reverberated, tinged with urgency and anger.

You regarded Joshua, his demeanor seemingly acquainted with this kind of scene. He gently settled you on the bed and inquired if you needed anything.

"Thanks," you politely declined, gnawing at your lip, your mind grappling with how you ended up here.

Joshua's gaze on you was intense, and a soft chuckle escaped his lips. "You're truly a female version of Jeonghan," he remarked, a warm smile gracing his features.

"How do you know my brother?" you questioned, struck by the contrast between Joshua's aura and Seungcheol's. Where Seungcheol exuded intimidation, coldness, and territoriality, Joshua emitted a different energy. You shook off your thoughts, reminding yourself this was your first encounter with him, though you had studied images of him for months, they still swirled in your mind.

"We've been friends since high school. We watched your competition once, but after that, Jeonghan never let us go again," Joshua explained. He mentioned your past as a judo athlete, a chapter of your life that had been dormant for over a decade. Did his "we" means him, Jeonghan, and Seungcheol? And was Jeonghan's death connected to the murky business they were involved in? The questions hung heavy in the air.

Joshua struck you as a seemingly affable guy, you mused, recalling details from his profile. Hong Jisoo, but commonly known as Joshua since he hailed from the States. He held the esteemed position of Choi Seungcheol's right hand. His face bore an almost angelic quality, and seeing him in person you could confirmed it. However, his reputation preceded him; he is known for his deft manipulation with words and actions, a key factor in Seungcheol's meteoric rise in the industry. You couldn't help but wonder, was Jeonghan also a part of this world?

"How did I end up here?" you questioned, making a conscious effort to steer clear of any mention of your brother.

"You passed out in front of our office. Seungcheol had a hunch you might be Jeonghan's sister, and he was right. We've been searching for you ever since he... passed away," Joshua's voice trailed off, carrying the weight of unspoken sorrow.

"You were the only family he had, weren't you? Discovering you were truly his sister was quite the surprise," he continued, recounting how many times they had attempted to trace Jeonghan's family after his tragic demise.

Taking a deep breath, Joshua ventured further, asking about your presence at their club the previous night. You hesitated, deliberating whether to divulge everything. Could you truly place your trust in these people? After the events of last night, you have no plans on trusting people. You'd devoted over a decade of your life to serving as a secret agent for the NIS, giving your all for your country, only to be betrayed by sending Seo Myungho to take your life last night. You had been tasked with a mission to apprehend Choi Seungcheol, a businessman suspected of dealings with a dangerous Japanese mafia. Yet, it was a mission built on falsehoods. The complexities of your situation weighed heavily on your mind.

"I was—"

The door burst open, and Seungcheol strode into the room, immediately advancing towards you. He seized the gun you had, aiming it squarely at you. Joshua's startle prompted him to mimic Seungcheol's move, clearly uncertain about his intentions. But you sat there calmly, unruffled by the display, and noticed a smirk playing on Seungcheol's lips. 

"G19 Gen6, not even released yet. How did you get this?" Seungcheol's gaze bore into you, intense and penetrating. He must have some familiarity with firearms; perhaps he had a side business involving them, a detail that had slipped your memory.

"Are you a part of them?" he accused, linking you with Kanga, the well-known rival association.

You couldn't help but chuckle. "Afraid you've saved an enemy, Choi Seungcheol?" you taunted, sensing his surprise at your knowledge of his true identity.

Seungcheol didn't respond. Instead, he handed the gun towards Joshua, instructing him to handcuff you. 

"Choi Seungcheol, also known as S.Coups..." You paused, debating whether to reveal your true identity.

"Organized crime, money laundering, fraud. Your knowledge of the G19 Gen6 suggests you're involved in arms trading," you ventured. Earning his trust was crucial now. You needed him to release you so you could slip away from their clutches. You were acutely aware that Seo Myungho was relentless in his pursuit, and they might launch a thorough search for you.

"I'm not your enemy, Seungcheol. I'm nobody to you," you asserted.

He smirked, a glint of interest in his eyes. "So, you've been studying me? Excellent! Tell me more."

You held his gaze, your eyes probing, voice laced with trepidation. "My brother... It was Kanga who took him from us, wasn't it?" The question hung in the air, heavy with its implications. "That's why you were searching for Kang Jaehoon."

Seungcheol settled onto the bed, his expression focused and intent as he studied you. "Who exactly are you?" His words were measured, hinting at a mix of curiosity and caution.

A lump formed in your throat as you weighed the decision to disclose your true identity. It seemed like the key to gaining his trust, perhaps even securing his help to escape the clutches of South Korea. Your hand moved to your bra, retrieving a badge holder that had been carefully tucked away. With a deliberate gesture, you tossed it before him, the emblem of the National Intelligence Service of South Korea gleaming. It bore the title that defined your role there: 'Special Agent.'

"I was on a mission to apprehend you, but it was a misguided attempt to terminate me instead," you admitted, the weight of the revelation palpable in the room. 

Seungcheol's eyes shifted between the badge and your face, a dawning realization painting his features. The room seemed to hold its breath, a charged silence enveloping you both. With a subtle gesture, Seungcheol motioned for Joshua to leave them alone. Respectfully, Joshua bowed and exited the room, leaving you alone with Seungcheol.

"You're... NIS?" Seungcheol's voice carried a mix of surprise and suspicion, his brows furrowing as he contemplated the revelation.

You affirmed with a nod, your voice steady despite the weight of the truth. "Yes, I was sent here under false pretenses. They wanted me out of the way, but I never expected they'd go this far." The gravity of the situation hung heavily in the air.

A profound silence settled between you, the implications of your revelation settling like stones in a pond. Then, Seungcheol released a resigned sigh, his hand raking through his hair. "This complicates things."

You understood the far-reaching consequences of your admission. "I need your help, Seungcheol. They'll be looking for me. I have to go."

Seungcheol's gaze bore into yours, searching for sincerity in your eyes. His breath grazed your skin, a palpable intensity in the air. "Are you truly his sister?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper.

As if lost in thought, he murmured to himself, "You really could be his sister." You observed the turmoil within him, recognizing the weight of this revelation.

With a final sigh, Seungcheol rose from the bed. "Let's discuss this in the morning. Rest, Yoon Y/n." His voice held a gentle authority, a promise of further conversations to come. 

 

*

Seungcheol stood there, the weight of your revelation sinking in, memories flooding his mind. He remembered the last time he held Jeonghan, the pain etched on his face as he bled out from the gunshot wound inflicted by Kanga's people. Jeonghan had looked at him with desperate eyes, gasping for breath, and in those final moments, he had implored Seungcheol to find his sister and take care of her.

The memory was etched into Seungcheol's soul, a haunting echo of a promise made to a dying friend. He had sworn to Jeonghan that he would look after you, protect you. But now, faced with the reality of your presence, uncertainty gnawed at him. Could he trust you? Could he truly believe that you were Jeonghan's sister?

As Seungcheol lay in bed that night, sleep eluded him once again. His dreams were always haunted by Jeonghan's presence, a constant reminder of the debt he owed to his fallen friend. That night was no different. In the depths of his restless slumber, Jeonghan visited him, his ethereal form hovering in the shadows of Seungcheol's subconscious.

"Have you found her, Seungcheol?" Jeonghan's voice was soft, tinged with a sense of longing.

Seungcheol's heart ached. "I don't know, Jeonghan. I'm not sure about her."

When Seungcheol awoke, his body was drenched in sweat, the remnants of the dream clinging to him. The weight of his promise pressed on him, urging him to make a decision about you. He knew he couldn't ignore Jeonghan's final wish any longer. Determined, Seungcheol rose from the bed, ready to face the challenges that lay ahead. Seungcheol took a deep breath, steadying himself, as he made his way to the dining room. His crew stood in respectful unison, bowing their heads as he entered. He motioned for them to continue, acknowledging their presence with a nod. His thoughts were still consumed by the revelation from the night before.

"Joshua," Seungcheol inquired, "is she awake?"

Joshua looked up from his meal, his expression calm. "Yes, she's up and had breakfast already."

With a nod of gratitude, Seungcheol left the dining area, heading back to his bedroom, now shared with you. As he approached the door, he felt a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. 

But when he opened the door, he was met with a sight that took him completely off guard. You stood in the middle of the room, in the process of changing, your back exposed to him. Seungcheol's eyes widened in a, and he immediately averted his gaze, hastily closing the door.

He turned to Joshua, his voice low and incredulous. "Why didn't you tell me she was changing?"

Joshua looked nonplussed, offering a casual shrug. "I thought you might knock."

Seungcheol's brow furrowed in bewilderment. "It's my own bedroom. Why would I need to knock?"

Before Joshua could respond, the door creaked open, revealing you on the other side. "I'm done," you mumbled, your cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

Seungcheol swiftly averted his gaze, the atmosphere tingling with an undeniable awkwardness. 

"We need to go," he stated with a sense of urgency, turning to face you. With determined steps, he entered his room as he beeline to his closet. You followed, curiosity knitting your brows.

"Why?" you queried, seeking to understand the sudden need for urgency.

He paused, pivoting his body to meet your gaze, his expression bearing a weighty concern. "It's not safe here," he explained, his words carrying the gravity of a man well-acquainted with danger.

You held his gaze, surprise flickering in your eyes at the sincerity in his tone. "You want to help me?" The question hung between you, a silent plea for confirmation.

Seungcheol's response was a resigned sigh, his shoulders sagging as he grappled with the complexities of the situation. "You want to see me change?" he quipped, a touch of wry humor attempting to diffuse the tension.

You responded with a nonchalant shrug, crossing your arms in a self-assured stance. "You saw me change," you reminded him, a wry smile dancing on your lips. 

Seungcheol couldn't help but notice a glimmer of Jeonghan's personality in your demeanor, though he chose not to comment on it directly. Instead, he proceeded to lay out the plan to leave the penthouse and head to his villa in Jeju. It was a strategic move, combining the need for safety with a business meeting.

"As for the business," you inquired, your tone laced with a hint of sarcasm, "which one are we talking about? Your vast array of illegal enterprises, perhaps?"

Seungcheol's jaw tightened, irritation flickering in his eyes. He didn't appreciate the reminder of his less-than-legal dealings. "You saw me punching the guy last night. I don't exclude women, woman," he warned, his tone laced with a sharp edge.

Your smirk was quick and sharp, a challenge glinting in your eyes. "And you saw me shooting that guy last night," you retorted, refusing to back down, your voice echoing the same defiant spirit.

A timely knock shattered the tension that had settled in the room. Joshua's voice called out your name, signaling that he had something to discuss. You excused yourself to attend to Joshua's call, leaving Seungcheol alone in the room.

Taking the opportunity, Seungcheol set about changing his clothes and assembling his belongings. The task was done with a practiced efficiency, each item packed with purpose. The atmosphere was charged with a sense of urgency, a reminder of the weighty decisions that needed to be made in the face of mounting uncertainties.

As Seungcheol made final adjustments to his belongings, his thoughts raced through the upcoming plans. The trip to Jeju was a necessary step, but it also meant delving deeper into a world that held no shortage of dangers.

"Seungcheol, we need to talk."

 "What is it?"

Joshua's gaze met Seungcheol's, his expression grave. "We have to be cautious. With Y/n here, things are more complicated than ever."

Seungcheol nodded in agreement. "I know. We'll have to tread carefully."

Joshua's voice lowered. "And what about her connection to NIS? That's a wild card we can't ignore."

Seungcheol's jaw clenched, a surge of apprehension coursing through him. "We'll need to find out more. But for now, we need to get to Jeju. It's our best chance to regroup and plan our next move."

Joshua nodded in agreement, the weight of their circumstances hanging in the air. 

With a shared understanding of the complexities they were about to navigate, Seungcheol and Joshua left the room, their footsteps echoing in the corridor. The gravity of their situation pressed on them, a reminder that every move they made held the potential for both danger and revelation.

As they approached the main area, Seungcheol's crew stood at the ready, their expressions a mixture of concern and determination. Seungcheol addressed them with a voice that carried authority and purpose. "We're leaving for Jeju. Make sure everything is in order."

The crew members nodded in response, swiftly moving to carry out their orders. The sense of urgency in the air was palpable, each person understanding the weight of the circumstances they faced.

Seungcheol turned to you, his gaze steady. "Y/n, we need to stick together and be vigilant. This won't be easy, but we'll do our best to get through it."

You met his gaze, a sense of resolve mirrored in your eyes. "I'm ready," you affirmed, your voice holding a determination that matched his own.

Seungcheol's expression grew serious as he considered the weight of the decision. Without a word, he reached into his coat and retrieved a compact pistol, handling it with the practiced ease of someone intimately familiar with such weapons.

He extended the gun towards you, his eyes never leaving yours. "Take it," he instructed, his voice low and steady. "You may need it."

You accepted the weapon, feeling the cool metal against your palm. The gravity of the situation settled over you, the weight of the gun a tangible reminder of the dangers that lay ahead.

Seungcheol's gaze held yours, a silent understanding passing between you. In that moment, you both knew that trust would be your greatest asset on this perilous journey. With a nod, you secured the gun, a silent promise to yourself and to Seungcheol that you would do whatever it took to navigate the treacherous path that awaited.

 

*

 

"FUCK YOU CHOI SEUNGCHEOL! YOU DOUBTED ME?!" The words burst forth, a torrent of raw emotion that reverberated through the charged atmosphere of the villa. The scene that met your eyes was a brutal tableau, a testament to the 'loyalty test' you had just endured. Seungcheol's men, once a formidable force, now lay strewn across the floor, some nursing wounds, others utterly broken, their blood staining the very foundation of the villa. It was clear now, with visceral certainty, that this had been a test - a trial of your allegiance to Choi Seungcheol, and he had orchestrated it with brutal precision. Is this his plan?

Seungcheol, his countenance unyielding, stood at the entrance, a silent observer to the chaos he had set in motion. He offered no words, only a casual shrug, as if the mayhem that had unfolded was but a casual affair. This calculated trial had served its purpose, a ruthless measure of your loyalty to him.

Earlier, just before his departure, his directive had been succinct and commanding. "We're leaving for a meeting. Make sure this villa is safe." His tone brooked no debate, and with a seamless transition, you shifted into your assassin mode. Adrenaline surged, senses heightened, as twenty assailants launched an assault on the villa. In the midst of the fray, a searing pain shot through your arm, a cruel reminder of the peril that surrounded you.

Grimly, you surveyed the bleeding wound, the realization settling in. Was this why Seungcheol had handed you a gun? The revelation underscored the unforgiving nature of the world you now navigated, where trust was a currency often traded for survival, and alliances were forged in the crucible of adversity.

As you tended to your wounded arm, a surge of bitterness welled within you. The betrayal by NIS was a jagged thorn in your side, a question that gnawed at the edges of your thoughts. Why had they turned on you? Why had they orchestrated a mission to terminate you, sending Seo Myungho as the executioner? It was a betrayal that cut deep, a wound far more insidious than the one you now tended.

Memories of your years of dedication, the sacrifices made in service of your country, flashed before your eyes. The sleepless nights, the countless missions executed with precision, all in the name of duty and honor. And yet, here you were, marked as a target by the very organization you had pledged your allegiance to.

The implications of their betrayal were far-reaching. It wasn't just a matter of personal vendetta, but a shadowy web of intrigue that extended into the highest echelons of power. Questions swirled in your mind, each one a shard of a puzzle that refused to be pieced together. Who had ordered this mission? What were their motives? And perhaps most pressing of all, how had they infiltrated the seemingly impenetrable walls of NIS?

The truth eluded you, shrouded in a fog of deception and hidden agendas. But one thing was clear - you could trust no one, not even the very organization that had once been your steadfast ally. As you contemplated the depths of the betrayal, a resolve took root within you. You would uncover the truth, expose the puppet masters pulling the strings, and ensure that those who had betrayed you would face the consequences of their treachery. 

"You cry?"

Seungcheol's voice jolted you back to the present, shattering the fragile reverie that had taken hold. Startled, you hastily wiped away tears that had silently betrayed you. His mock tone and the smirk on his face grated on your nerves.

"Shut up," you retorted, the irritation plain in your voice. Meanwhile, Joshua, who was now tending to your wound, observed the exchange with a small, appreciative smile. He couldn't help but notice the striking resemblance you bore to Jeonghan. It was a revelation that brought with it a sense of gratitude, knowing that you were capable of eliciting a playful side from Seungcheol, a side that had perhaps been buried beneath the loss of Jeonghan.

The room held a curious energy, a blend of tension and familiarity, as you each navigated the complexities of your newfound alliance. It was a precarious dance, one that required finesse and an acute understanding of the intricate dynamics at play. As Joshua continued his ministrations, the unspoken bond between you and Seungcheol seemed to solidify.

Seungcheol's voice held a gravitas that cut through the air, breaking the tension that lingered in the room. "You need to know the truth," he began, his gaze steady and unyielding. "Kanga is a puppet, dancing on the strings pulled by NIS."

His words hung heavy, the weight of their implications settling in the room. You exchanged a wary glance with Joshua, both of you keenly aware of the gravity of the revelation.

Seungcheol continued, his tone unwavering. "They receive secret information, illegal permissions, all in exchange for their services. The most lucrative of which is the import of drugs from Japan, a trade that lines the pockets of those in power."

The revelation was a bitter pill to swallow, a glimpse into the shadowy underbelly of the world you had once called home. The intricate web of deception and betrayal now stretched even further, revealing the sinister dance between organized crime and the very agency sworn to protect the nation.

Seungcheol's revelation hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the depths of deceit that surrounded them. 

As the weight of the truth settled, you couldn't help but feel a surge of anger and betrayal. The organization you had dedicated your life to had fed you misinformation, leading you down a treacherous path that had ultimately led to this moment.

"You mean to say... I've been fed wrong information all this time?" The words left your lips, laced with a mixture of disbelief and outrage. The realization was a bitter pill to swallow, a testament to the extent of the manipulation that had been orchestrated by NIS.

Seungcheol's gaze bore into yours, his expression one of grim acknowledgment. "You might know something about them that they decided to eliminate you."

The weight of Seungcheol's revelation settled over you, each word sinking in like pieces of a puzzle finally clicking into place. The mission, the betrayal - it all makes sense.

The black file.

Contained within its darkened pages were the damning records of illegal activities, a trove of evidence implicating powerful figures, including your own chief. It was what they were after, what they desperately sought to retrieve. And unbeknownst to them, you held it in your possession.

In that moment, you knew that the stakes had escalated to a perilous height. The file was not just a collection of papers; it was a weapon, a leverage that could shift the balance of power. The revelations had transformed the journey ahead into a high-stakes game, one where every move would be a calculated risk, every decision a potential turning point.

Where did you put that damn file? 

The black file, a digital repository of evidence, held the potential to turn the tide in your favor. But now, in this critical moment, you found yourself grappling with a nagging uncertainty. Frantically, you cast your thoughts back, retracing your steps in a desperate bid to recall where you had put the file. The room seemed to close in around you, each passing second a reminder of the ticking clock. Your heart raced as you mentally rifled through your memories, searching for the elusive location.

"You'll be safe with us," Joshua mumbled, his voice a soothing presence as he finished tending to your wound. Seungcheol nodded in agreement, his eyes reflecting a quiet determination.

With a gentle pat on your shoulder, Joshua left, leaving you alone with Seungcheol. He took a seat in front of you, his gaze steady and unwavering. "Jeonghan wanted me to take care of you," he began, his voice tinged with a solemn weight. "Those were his final words to me - find you and look after you on his behalf."

You couldn't help but raise an eyebrow, your skepticism clear in your gaze. "And that's why you orchestrated that earlier?" you asked, alluding to the attack his men had initiated.

Seungcheol let out a weary sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I needed to be sure. You worked with NIS. I had every reason to be cautious, to doubt your intentions," he admitted, his tone tinged with a mumble of apology.

He continued, his voice carrying a rare vulnerability. "Me, Jeonghan, and Joshua built this association from the ground up. Jeonghan was my right hand, handling all aspects of the business, while Joshua helped me manage our resources." He paused, a flicker of emotion crossing his features.

"My relationship with Jeonghan... it was different. He was like a brother, someone who completed me in a way that no one else could. I hope you understand why I view Kanga with such animosity," Seungcheol explained, his words carrying a weight of history and sentiment.

You tilted your head, offering a hesitant observation. "I didn't expect you to be this... emotional, Seungcheol. You might just be the most melancholic person to run an illegal business," you remarked, earning a sigh from him.

"I'm a businessman, not a robot, Y/n," he replied, rising from his seat. "We'll be here for five days. After that, we'll move to Busan, and perhaps even Japan. Be prepared for a lot of traveling. Once you join us, there's no turning back."

With those final words, Seungcheol left you alone in the bedroom, leaving you to contemplate the weight of the journey that lay ahead.

 

*

The sleek black car cut through the night, slicing through the darkened roads like a shadow. Inside, it was an atmosphere thick with tension, with only the low hum of the engine breaking the silence. Seungcheol's gaze remained fixed ahead, the muted glow of passing streetlights painting fleeting streaks of light across his focused expression.

Beside him, you sat in contemplative silence, the gravity of the situation weighing heavily on your mind. The file, the association, Seungcheol's motives - it was all a whirlwind of complexity that demanded your utmost attention.

Abruptly, the car jerked to a stop, sending a jolt through your body. Panic flashed in your eyes as you instinctively glanced at Seungcheol, who already had his hand on the gun tucked at his side. The driver, Seungcheol's trusted bodyguard, was on high alert, scanning the surroundings for any signs of danger.

Seungcheol's phone chimed, breaking the silence, and he quickly answered. Joshua's voice crackled through the speaker, fraught with urgency. "Seungcheol, I've had a tire blowout. I'll be delayed. Go ahead without me."

Seungcheol's brow furrowed in concern, his gaze flickering to you briefly before refocusing on the situation at hand. "Understood, Joshua. We'll proceed. Be safe."

As the call ended, the car suddenly rocked violently, the sound of screeching metal filling the air. The windows shattered, showering you with glass, and the world outside seemed to explode into chaos. The driver fought to regain control, but it was clear - they were under attack.

Seungcheol's training kicked in, his movements swift and calculated as he returned fire, the staccato bursts of gunfire filling the confined space. The assailants, masked and armed, were relentless, their bullets finding purchase in the car's reinforced chassis.

With a steely resolve, you reached for the concealed weapon at your side, your training taking over. You fired back, your shots precise and calculated, each one a declaration of your determination to survive.

The battle raged on, a fierce clash of wills in the heart of the night. The car became a battleground, a symphony of gunfire and shattered glass.

With a final surge of determination, Seungcheol's onslaught forced the assailants to retreat, their presence vanishing into the night. The car, battered and smoldering, sat in the aftermath of the brutal assault.

The air inside the car hung heavy with tension, suffused with the acrid scent of gunpowder. Seungcheol's gaze bore into the darkness outside, his mind racing with thoughts on their next move.

Without hesitation, he swung open the door, motioning for you to follow. The night air was cool against your skin, carrying with it a sense of urgency that matched the pounding of your heart.

Seungcheol took the lead, his every movement calculated and purposeful. His eyes scanned the surroundings, searching for any sign of danger. "We can't stay here. We need to find shelter," he declared, his voice steady despite the chaos that had erupted around them.

You nodded, falling into step behind him, the weight of your weapon a reassuring presence in your hand. The driver, still recovering from the shock of the attack, looked to Seungcheol for guidance.

"Head towards the nearest safehouse," Seungcheol instructed, his voice leaving no room for hesitation.

As the driver navigated the damaged vehicle through the treacherous terrain, Seungcheol's mind raced, formulating a plan to ensure their safety. "We'll need to regroup, gather our resources, and assess the situation," he murmured, more to himself than to you. Seungcheol's jaw clenched, the weight of responsibility settling firmly on his shoulders.

When the car finally came to a stop outside a nondescript building, Seungcheol wasted no time. He directed the driver to secure the perimeter while he ushered you inside.

The safehouse was dimly lit, a stark contrast to the chaos outside. Seungcheol's eyes scanned the room, assessing its potential vulnerabilities. "We'll need to fortify this place. It's not ideal, but it will have to do for now," he declared, his tone unwavering.

"You're bleeding." You stated as your gaze fell into his shoulder. Blood stained his baby blue shirt, signing that he got shot there. 

As you swiftly moved around the safehouse, your eyes scanned for a medical kit. It was a testament to the intensity of the night that you didn't even flinch at the sight of the supplies, grabbing what you needed with the precision of someone well-acquainted with field medicine.

When you returned to Seungcheol, he watched you intently, his gaze never leaving your hands as you tended to his wound. It was a clean shot, but it still needed attention. The room was hushed, save for the soft rustle of the bandages.

"You're a pro," Seungcheol's voice cut through the quiet, his tone a mixture of admiration and respect.

"I received a lot of training," your reply was simple, a reflection of the life you had led.

Curiosity danced in Seungcheol's eyes as he asked about your time with NIS. You shared snippets of your missions, the work you did in the security and international affairs division. The topics ranged from diplomatic protection to intelligence gathering in high-stakes environments.

"What kind of training did you receive?" Seungcheol inquired, genuinely interested in the life you had lived.

You listed off the various disciplines you had honed: firing, martial arts, endurance, criminalogy, psychology. Each word held weight, a testament to the breadth of skills required in your line of work.

"Is that hard? Being an agent?" Seungcheol's question was measured, a genuine curiosity about the world you navigated.

You met his query with one of your own, turning the spotlight back on him. "Is that hard being a mafia?"

Seungcheol blinked, momentarily taken aback by the question. It was a rare moment of vulnerability from a man who exuded confidence in every step he took.

"Even answering is hard," you mused softly, a wry smile touching your lips. With a final adjustment to the bandage, you finished tending to Seungcheol's wound. The room settled into a thoughtful silence, each of you lost in your own reflections.

"Have you ever thought of leaving the job?"

Seungcheol's question hung in the air, a weighty inquiry that cut through the silence. It was a question that carried a depth of understanding, born from the recognition of the sacrifices that came with a life dedicated to a cause.

You looked at him, your gaze meeting his, and for a moment, the veneer of professionalism fell away. It was just two individuals, bound by circumstance, facing the complexities of their chosen paths.

"Yes," you admitted, your voice soft but resolute. "There have been moments when I've wondered what it would be like to walk away, to have a life that doesn't demand constant vigilance."

Seungcheol listened, his eyes fixed on yours, his expression a mirror of contemplation. It was a conversation that touched on the vulnerabilities that lingered beneath the surface, the unspoken desires for a different kind of existence.

"And have you?" Seungcheol's question was equally gentle, a reflection of the trust that had begun to form between you.

You nodded, a subtle admission of the complexities that colored your journey. "There have been times when I've come close, but duty always called me back."

The weight of your shared confessions settled in the room, a heavy presence that underscored the gravity of the paths you both walked. It was a moment of vulnerability, a rare glimpse into the hearts that beat beneath the professional exteriors.

You mustered the courage to speak about your brother, Jeonghan. "I found out about Jeonghan's death through a covert channel within NIS. It was a blow, a revelation that shook me to my core." The memory was still fresh, the pain of loss a constant ache in your heart.

You pondered over what Jeonghan's life must have been like, what secrets he held. "I always assumed Jeonghan was running a clothing line," you admitted, your voice tinged with a hint of regret. The memory of your last encounter with him flashed before your eyes. It was then that he had learned about your affiliation with NIS.

Seungcheol listened intently, his eyes fixed on you. It was a story that resonated with him, for he too had lost Jeonghan, a brother in a different sense. "I'm sorry you had to find out that way," he offered, his voice laced with genuine sympathy.

Every time you considered leaving the job, the specter of your brother's death loomed large. It was a reason to stay, a burning desire to unravel the mystery of who had taken him from you. The need for closure, for justice, fueled your determination.

"He never said anything about you. I think he was just being secretive to protect your privacy. It must have been a surprise for him to learn you work for NIS," Seungcheol mused, offering his perspective.

The thought of NIS potentially being involved in Jeonghan's death hung heavy in the air. "If Jeonghan's death is related to NIS, I would do anything to rip them apart," you confessed, your voice edged with determination. The words held a weight of truth, a vow to seek justice for the brother you had lost.

Seungcheol's gaze met yours, a solemn understanding passing between you. The room seemed to hold its breath, the weight of your shared purpose settling around you.

"I can assure you, Y/n," Seungcheol began, his voice carrying a quiet resolve, "we both want the same thing. I'll kill Kang Jaehoon with my own hands. I'll do it by my self to whoever did that to Jeonghan."

You nodded, grateful for his words. It was a reassurance that you weren't alone in this pursuit, that you had an ally in Seungcheol, even if your worlds were vastly different.

As the conversation lingered in the air, there was a subtle shift in the atmosphere. It was a recognition of the bond that had formed between you, a connection forged in the crucible of shared loss.

"We'll find the answers together, Y/n. No matter where they lead us," Seungcheol vowed, his eyes steady and unwavering.

With those words, a pact was sealed. You and Seungcheol were now bound by a shared purpose, a determination to uncover the truth that had eluded you both for far too long.

In that moment, the boundaries of your worlds seemed to blur. 

 

*

 

The shadows of intrigue danced around the dimly lit room where Joshua stood, a man cloaked in secrets and allegiances. Before him stood a figure whose face was veiled in shadows, a powerful presence in the criminal underworld.

"Yoon Y/n has met Seungcheol," Joshua reported, his voice carrying the weight of significant revelation. "Seungcheol seems to have taken an affection to her, especially upon learning she is Jeonghan's sister."

The man nodded in acknowledgment, absorbing the information with calculated interest. It was a revelation that held implications beyond what was immediately apparent.

Joshua continued, his voice steady, "Tonight's assault was successful. Seungcheol has informed me that they will stop at the safe house."

The man wasted no time, instructing his associates to mobilize towards the designated safe house. It was a calculated move, a chess piece carefully maneuvered into place.

"As you promised, make sure my name remains clean," Joshua stated, a reminder of the intricate web of alliances and agreements that bound them.

Seo Myunho, a formidable figure in his own right, extended his hand for a handshake, sealing a pact forged in the shadows of their clandestine dealings. Joshua, however, shifted his hand to another figure in the room, Kang Jaehoon, a gesture that spoke volumes of the shifting alliances and hidden agendas at play.

In the complex tapestry of loyalties and betrayals, Joshua's decision to betray his own association was woven from a history that ran deep, entangled with the fates of Seungcheol and Jeonghan.

From the inception of their criminal enterprise, Joshua had always been the steadfast third pillar, his words overshadowed by Jeonghan's charismatic influence. His loyalty was unwavering, his execution of tasks impeccable. Yet, when a deal with Kang Jaehoon emerged, a sinister plot was set into motion. Jaehoon sought to eliminate Jeonghan, recognizing him as the linchpin to Seungcheol's success. With Jeonghan removed, the balance shifted, and Joshua stepped into the void, his influence expanding, making it all the easier for Kang Jaehoon to tighten his grip on Seungcheol's empire.

As Kanga sought to escalate their operations, delving into the drug trade, they required political backing, and that's when Kim Chul, Chief of NIS, entered the picture. Seo Myungho was deployed to play his role, a lethal pawn in the intricate game.

Yoon Y/n, an NIS agent of unparalleled dedication, possessed an unparalleled knowledge of the geopolitical intricacies between nations. Her resolve was unyielding, and she became a potent force within NIS. When her familial connection to Yoon Jeonghan was discovered, it provided a strategic advantage, a means to chip away at Seungcheol's empire from within.

The plan was deceptively simple: bring S.Coups and Y/n together, knowing that their union posed the greatest threat to Kang Jaehoon and Kim Chul. It was a calculated move to weaken their adversaries, setting the stage for a termination mission that could shatter Seungcheol's empire.

Yet, in the twisted dance of deception, Seo Myungho failed to convey the full extent of Y/n's power—the possession of The Blackfile. And Joshua, blinded by the intricacies of the game, failed to realize the magnitude of the force that would be unleashed when Choi Seungcheol and Yoon Y/n stood united.

Jaehoon's operative delivered the report with a somber tone, "Hyungnim, report. Choi Seungcheol and Yoon Y/n had left the safe house. We failed to get them."

Jaehoon's gaze narrowed, a steely resolve settling into his features. He turned to Joshua, seeking answers, "Any information from Coups?"

Joshua's expression registered surprise, shaken by the fact that Seungcheol hadn't disclosed his whereabouts. He shook his head, uncertainty etched in his eyes. This unexpected move was a curveball that had caught them off guard.

Jaehoon's voice held a note of determination, "Okay, let's go with plan B." 

 

*

 

The small, unassuming bookstore loomed in front of both you and Seungcheol. His driver took a separate route, following instructions issued by Seungcheol himself.

"Is this the right place?" Seungcheol inquired, a note of skepticism threading his words. The decision to leave the safe house was a precautionary one, a response to the looming threat of Kanga's relentless pursuit. The only refuge you offered was this hidden bookstore, a sanctuary where trust still held sway.

A boy stood behind the counter, his eyes flicking up to greet you. You wasted no time in your inquiry, asking if 'Gameboi' was present. Without hesitation, the boy gestured towards a concealed door, hidden behind a curtain. Seungcheol followed your lead, stepping into the dimly lit corridor.

With practiced precision, you input a code and scanned your fingerprint, unlocking the hidden passage. 

"What kind of place is this?" He asked again. 

You smiled at Seungcheol, a silent invitation for him to enter the room ahead of you. As he crossed the threshold, the stark transformation in atmosphere struck him.

The room burst forth in a riot of color, adorned with an array of vibrant and eclectic decorations. It resembled nothing short of a teenager's bedroom from high school. Seungcheol's gaze swept over the lively surroundings, a stark contrast to the dark corridor outside.

Just as the intrigue deepened, a bespectacled man entered through another door. He exuded an air of warmth and welcome. He approached you, enfolding you in a genuine embrace. Then, he extended a hand towards Seungcheol, introducing himself as 'Wonwoo'. 

"I know you," Wonwoo said when Seungcheol introduced himself, his curiosity piqued. "You haven't visited for a long time. Any news?" He turned to you, inquiring while the three of you settled on the couch.

Seungcheol found amusement in witnessing how at ease you appeared in this room compared to his own. Your legs rested casually on the table as you sank into the couch.

"Seo Myungho and that damned organization turned their backs on me, Jeon Wonwoo! I can't believe the time has come," you sighed, frustration evident in your voice.

"What do you mean? You're the one and only gem in the division," Wonwoo remarked, revealing his knowledge of your work with NIS.

You stood up and turned to Seungcheol, "Wonwoo was a former NIS agent as well. Specializing in programming, hacking, whatever," you explained, shedding light on your connection with Wonwoo.

"Cybersecurity agent," Wonwoo corrected, "I resigned two years ago," providing a little background on how he knew Seungcheol's name from earlier.

You assumed they were looking for you because of The Black File, a file that Wonwoo had contributed to before he left NIS. You explained to Wonwoo how Seo Myunho had nearly killed you that night, and Seungcheol had saved you, revealing that he was a friend of your brother Yoon Jeonghan. 

Wonwoo was taken aback by the news, both the fact that they wanted to terminate you and that you were Yoon Jeonghan's sibling.

You then requested Wonwoo's help in tracking down Seo Myunho. He beckoned for you both to follow him to his room, where his equipment was neatly arranged.

As he typed Seo Myungho's name, he initiated a thorough search. Wonwoo combed through Myungho's location via his cellphone, bank transactions, and car GPS. After a few moments, he pinpointed a location and immediately pulled up a live feed from the nearest CCTV.

Seungcheol couldn't help but question the legality of their actions, only to be met with scoffs from both you and Wonwoo. "You ask that like you've never done anything illegal, Choi Seungcheol," you retorted.

You watched intently as Myungho emerged from a building that bore the appearance of a club. Seungcheol confirmed that it was indeed one of Kanga's establishments.

"Then it's true that Myungho has worked with Kanga," Wonwoo concluded, the gravity of the situation becoming even clearer.

As you observed Myungho, a thought crossed your mind - was he merely a puppet in this intricate web? You recalled a crucial event months ago when you intercepted one of Kanga's transactions, a move that had ultimately led to your current mission of apprehending Choi Seungcheol. There was a possibility that someone within NIS was colluding with Kanga.

You turned to Wonwoo and inquired if he had a copy of The Black File. He shook his head, affirming that you were the sole holder of it.

Seungcheol, sensing the gravity of the situation, asked, "What is The Black File?". 

Wonwoo explained that it contained information on powerful individuals engaged in illegal activities, including politicians, celebrities, and leaders. Both you and Wonwoo had worked on compiling it for several years, believing it would prove valuable. Little did you know, it had now become a weapon that held your fate.

You admitted to Wonwoo that you had forgotten where you stashed the flash drive containing the file.

Wonwoo's expression turned serious. "We don't have time for memory lapses," he stated firmly. "You need to remember where you put it. It's crucial. This file holds immense power, and if in the wrong hands..." He left the implications hanging in the air, emphasizing the urgency of retrieving it.

"But i don't think they were looking for the file, Y/n." Wonwoo began. "They won't kill you if they knew the file exists. There must be another reason why they had to terminate you."

Wonwoo's revelation sparked a realization. If they were after The Black File, they wouldn't be attempting to terminate you. Their motives ran deeper, and you couldn't quite fathom the underlying cause.

Seungcheol's sudden question pierced the air, "Does NIS know about your brother?"

Your mind raced, trying to connect the dots. How could Jeonghan, who was long gone, be relevant to this?

Wonwoo's inquiry brought forth more details. Seungcheol explained that Jeonghan's tragic demise occurred five years ago, a casualty of a successful deal he had struck with Kanga. The revelation sent a jolt through you. Three years ago, you received the news from the NIS channel, indicating a two-year delay in information. 

There must be reason for NIS to inform you about your brother's death. 

Morning bathed the room in a soft glow as you and Wonwoo delved into the intricacies of the case that had entangled both you and Seungcheol. Seungcheol momentarily stepped out to take a call, leaving you alone with Wonwoo.

Out of the blue, Wonwoo dropped a bombshell. "He likes you," he declared. "And you like him too."

You shot him a look, dismissing his words. "Shut up."

Wonwoo merely shrugged, undeterred. "Why not? Can't I be happy for you? He seems to genuinely care about you. Plus, he's in this danger too," he pointed out.

"He sees me as a sister," you retorted, brushing off his claim.

Wonwoo couldn't resist a sarcastic agreement. "Right, because every brother looks at their sister with such affectionate eyes." He knew how to push your buttons, and it irked you.

There were a pregnant pause before you suddenly chirepd, "But seriously?" you pressed, the seed of doubt taking root.

Wonwoo smirked, triumphant. He had you.

"Damn it," you muttered, landing a playful punch on his arm.

Seungcheol entered the room, his expression tense. "We need to go. Kanga's people are looking for us, whether it's me or you, I'm not sure. They were spotted near the safe house last night."

You bid a hasty farewell to Wonwoo and left the bookstore with Seungcheol. Sensing his exhaustion, you offered to take the wheel, knowing he hadn't slept since the previous night.

Your plan was to head to Japan by ship later that evening. It was the only solution Seungcheol could think of, a way to put some distance between you and the danger lurking in South Korea.

As you discussed your next moves, Seungcheol mentioned Joshua's unusual situation. His tire hadn't been repaired despite the supposed breakdown last night, his bodyguard had checked it for him. There was no repairment service that handling his car last night. The unspoken suspicion hung heavily in the air, and you couldn't bring yourself to voice it aloud.

"Are you trying to say that Joshua..." Seungcheol, however, nodded in grim acknowledgment. The truth seemed painfully apparent.

At the rest area, Seungcheol stayed in the car while you hurriedly went to grab some food. Just as you were about to return, you caught sight of individuals with distinctive dragon tattoos etched on their arms. Panic surged through you, propelling you to rush to your car and start the engine with a burst of urgency. The abrupt motion woke Seungcheol, his eyes widening at your alarmed announcement about Kanga's henchmen tailing you.

With Seungcheol's calm guidance, you maneuvered the car with precision, skillfully evading the pursuers. Eventually, he directed you to a public parking lot, providing a temporary sanctuary where you could catch your breath.

As the car rolled to a stop, you released a trembling exhale, your fingers still gripping the steering wheel tightly. Seungcheol's concerned gaze met yours, his worry palpable as he took in your shaken state.

"Are you alright, Y/n?" His voice held a mixture of concern and a trace of remorse for allowing you to take the wheel amidst the heightened tension.

You nodded, though the rapid rise and fall of your chest, coupled with your trembling hands, betrayed the underlying tension that still clung to you. With deliberate movements, you unbuckled your seatbelt and rose from your seat. As you nestled into Seungcheol's lap. You lips crashed his. Without a doubt, his arms enveloped you in a protective cocoon. The kiss that followed was a fusion of relief, gratitude, and an unspoken understanding of the danger that lurked around you.

His lips met yours with a gentle urgency, a silent promise of safety and support. It was a kiss that spoke volumes, conveying emotions that words could scarcely capture. Time seemed to stand still, and the world beyond the car became a distant backdrop.

The touch of his lips against yours was both tender and reassuring, a testament to the unspoken connection that had been forming between you. In that stolen moment, you found solace in each other's arms, seeking comfort in the midst of uncertainty.

When the kiss finally ended, there was a lingering warmth, a shared understanding that hung in the air. You pulled back, your eyes meeting Seungcheol's with a mixture of gratitude and something deeper, something that hinted at the complexities of the situation you found yourselves in.

Seungcheol's gaze held a rare vulnerability, a glimpse into the depths of his emotions that he seldom allowed to surface. It was a fleeting moment of raw connection, a silent acknowledgment of the gravity of the circumstances that brought you together.

Without a word, you shifted back to your own seat, a comfortable silence settling between you. The events of the night had forged an unbreakable bond, a shared experience that bound you in ways that words could not express.

"I'll drive." Seungcheol said and went out to switch the seat. 

 

*

 

"The boat will be ready by tonight," Joshua assured Seungcheol over the phone, a sense of anticipation in his voice. "Yes, I'll report to you about that. Please take care, the two of you."

As the call concluded, Joshua's eyes shifted to Seo Myungho. "Easy," he remarked, a sly smile playing on his lips. He motioned for Myungho to join them, setting their intricate plan into motion.

Their objective was clear: secure The Black File before executing their plan to eliminate both you and Seungcheol that night. Myungho's valuable insights into The Black File, a compilation of your intelligence and that of a former NIS agent, made it a potent weapon for seizing control of the industry.

Joshua couldn't help but smirk, satisfaction evident in his expression. The alliance between him and Myungho, forged in the crucible of shared secrets and calculated trust, held the promise of a meticulously planned revenge. The culmination of a long-simmering vendetta was now unfolding step by step.

Myungho, behind the wheel, sighed in relief as he drove. "You finally could be the boss of your association by tonight."

Nodding, Joshua turned his gaze to Myungho, a glint of triumph in his eyes. "And you finally could gain what you've deserved with Y/n out of the frame."

Myungho smiled slyly, understanding the gravity of their collaboration. "It's mutual, right?"

Joshua chuckled softly, his amusement blending with a hint of menace. "Yeah. Once we get The Black File, it's time for Kanga and your boss's end."

As they drove towards their destiny, the tension in the air was palpable. The night held the promise of transformation, and each calculated move was a step closer to the realization of their shared ambitions.

Joshua sighed, his mind drifting back to a time when camaraderie thrived among them—Seungcheol, Jeonghan, and himself, the third wheel in their trio. In the beginning, questions about their friendship never crossed his mind. Jeonghan's insatiable need for attention seemed to explain Seungcheol's profound admiration for him. Yet, as the dynamics shifted from friendship to business, Joshua's perception underwent a seismic change.

He came to the realization that he had never truly been considered family from the start; he was more of a distant relative, someone known but not entirely trusted. The shift became painfully apparent as their bonds transformed amidst the demands of their new business endeavors. What once felt like an unbreakable connection now seemed tenuous, as he found himself relegated to the sidelines.

The tipping point occurred when Seungcheol, in a move that cut deep, was elected as the boss. Instead of recognizing Joshua's unwavering dedication to the association, Seungcheol chose Jeonghan as his right-hand man. It was a bitter pill to swallow, a stark revelation of the hierarchy within their supposedly close-knit circle.

Life, Joshua mused, was undeniably unfair. Yet, he harbored a growing understanding that life could be twisted, transformed by unexpected events. And that twist entered the frame in the form of Kang Jaehoon.

As Joshua delved into these memories, a mixture of nostalgia and resentment played across his features. The emotions he had bottled up over time simmered beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to unfurl. 

Turning his head towards Myungho, Joshua couldn't help but voice his curiosity, "What kind of person is Y/n?" His interest in unraveling your persona evident in his inquiry.

Myungho, with a momentary pause, described, "She's naive, perhaps the most naive agent I've ever met." There was a hint of both assessment and a touch of amusement in his words. Myungho's insight into your character seemed to amuse Joshua, who couldn't resist a scoff. "Pretty much like her own brother," he remarked, drawing a subtle parallel between you and someone else close to Joshua.

"But she's smart, detail-oriented, and quick," Myungho continued, offering a more comprehensive picture of your capabilities. "Truly speaking, she has an undeniable charm that could make everyone like her. That's how she got into her position."

Joshua, listening attentively, shook his head slowly, a mix of acknowledgment and resignation in his expression. "Right? People with charm always beat the hard workers like us," he mused, releasing a sigh that carried a hint of bitterness.

Myungho, however, added a layer of perspective. Nodding thoughtfully, he turned to Joshua, "But only a hardworking one could steal that." His words hung in the air, emphasizing the value of perseverance and diligence in their cutthroat world.

As the conversation unfolded in the confined space of the car, the atmosphere became charged with unspoken truths and the acknowledgment of the intricate dynamics at play. Myungho, growing impatient, stepped on the gas, propelling them forward towards a destination where destinies would intersect and choices would define their futures.

As Joshua and Myungho arrived at the port, they spotted Seungcheol's car parked nearby, a silent testament to the unfolding scheme. Joshua swiftly dialed Seungcheol to relay the exact location, establishing the designated meeting point. In the shadows, Myungho concealed himself, poised for the opportune moment to secure you and The Black File.

"Boss," Joshua greeted both you and Seungcheol with a facade of politeness, his demeanor belying the intricate web of betrayal that had been spun. He gestured for both of you to embark on the waiting boat. Seungcheol took the lead, extending his hand to assist you, an innocent enough gesture that masked the underlying deceit.

However, the engine roared to life unexpectedly, disrupting the carefully choreographed plan. Joshua observed Seungcheol's momentary surprise as he, with calculated intent, pushed Seungcheol onto the boat just as it began to glide away. The abrupt departure left you momentarily stranded, only to find yourself being pulled aboard by none other than Myungho.

"Y/N!" Seungcheol's desperate scream echoed through the port, his voice carrying the weight of genuine concern for your well-being. The urgency in his tone betrayed the turmoil within, a realization that the situation had taken an unexpected turn.

Yet, before Seungcheol could comprehend the full gravity of the unfolding events, someone stealthily emerged from the shadows behind him. With precision born from sinister intent, they clamped a hand over Seungcheol's mouth, the cold touch delivering a swift introduction to a sleeping drug. As the sedative took effect, Seungcheol's struggles faltered, and he succumbed to the encroaching unconsciousness.

 The abrupt silence that followed Seungcheol's desperate cry hinted at the abrupt shift in dynamics, leaving only the sound of lapping waves and the muffled breaths of those entangled in a web of deceit.

"Let me go!" Your desperate plea echoed through the air as you struggled within Myungho's unwavering grip. Every fiber of your being seemed determined to break free from the confining hold.

The air crackled with tension as you, fueled by a surge of adrenaline and determination, engaged in a physical struggle with Myungho. Your attempts to break free were met with calculated resistance, his grip unyielding as he maintained control over the situation.

Myungho, seemingly amused by your defiance, continued to taunt, "Give us The Black File, and maybe we'll reconsider your fate." His words hung in the air, a sinister bargain that underscored the high-stakes nature of the unfolding confrontation.

In the midst of this struggle, Joshua stepped forward from the shadows, his expression betraying a mix of amusement and cold detachment. "Y/N, you always were a formidable opponent," he remarked, his voice carrying the weight of shared history now tainted by betrayal.

Undeterred, you fought fiercely against Myungho's hold, refusing to succumb to the impending surrender. The port became an arena for a clash of allegiances, the sounds of the scuffle blending with the distant cries of seagulls and the lapping of the waves against the dock.

A sudden, desperate maneuver afforded you a brief respite, breaking free from Myungho's grasp. As you distanced yourself, the intensity of the confrontation hung in the air, a palpable tension that mirrored the fractured alliances in this shadowed port.

 

In that fleeting moment, your eyes met Joshua's, sparking a glimmer of recognition. A shared history echoed in that exchange—a whisper of the camaraderie that once bound you together. The gravity of the betrayal seemed to pause briefly as the weight of the past flickered in your gaze.

 

Yet, the fragile thread of nostalgia snapped as Joshua, devoid of sentiment, raised his hand. A calculated gesture, a silent command to Myungho to resume the pursuit. The camaraderie dissolved into the cold reality of betrayal, leaving you with a bitter taste of disappointment and the knowledge that any remnants of trust had been irrevocably shattered.

"The Black File was with Jeonghan," your voice cut through the tension, a revelation hanging in the air like an electric storm. Joshua and Myungho, masters of manipulation, found themselves momentarily caught off guard. The revelation was a jolt, and vulnerability flickered across their faces, bared for just a moment amid the chaos they had orchestrated.

The port, once a canvas for clandestine alliances, now bore witness to the unraveling of carefully laid plans. The shock on their faces mirrored the seismic shift in power dynamics, a stark reminder that even the architects of betrayal could be blindsided.

Seizing the moment, you acted swiftly, drawing a concealed gun and aiming it at Myungho's stomach. The sudden threat disrupted the calculated dance of deceit, leaving Myungho staggered by the impact of the shot. The crack of gunfire echoed in the night, punctuating the escalating drama.

With the grip on you released, you walked purposefully toward Joshua. "If you really want to get it, then get it by yourself," you asserted, the words laden with a mix of defiance and resolve. The revelation had turned the tables, and now the power dynamic teetered on the edge of retribution.

Raising the gun, you pointed it at Joshua's head, the port's ambient sounds providing an eerie backdrop to this dramatic showdown. "To hell with both of you," you declared, the words carrying the weight of betrayal and the determination to break free from the shackles of their deceit. The air crackled with a charged intensity, marking a turning point in this intricate dance of loyalty and betrayal.

 

*

 

"As we knew, both agents Y/n and Myungho were very diligent and loyal. They were our siblings, our children, our family, and our friends. May their souls rest in peace," solemn words hung in the air, marking the culmination of a funeral that served as a testament to the sacrifices made in the clandestine world of espionage.

As the NIS agents stood united in both grief and silent acknowledgment of the perils they faced daily, the atmosphere remained heavy with the weight of loss. The caskets, side by side, symbolized the interconnected destinies that had led to this tragic end. Flowers adorned the area, a feeble attempt to inject a touch of solace into the stark reality of their fallen comrades.

After the formalities, Wonwoo stepped back from the circle of mourners. His eyes caught a figure wearing a mask and hat lingering in the shadows. Carefully, he approached, recognizing the need for discretion in their covert world. Together, they walked towards where Wonwoo had parked his car earlier.

"Your funeral would pretty much look like that in case you'll curious," Wonwoo remarked, acknowledging the clandestine nature of their existence.

In response, you scoffed and hissed, "Fuck you," tossing the cap and mask onto the backseat. The exchange carried a residue of bitterness, a reminder of the thin line between duty and personal sacrifice in the intricate dance of espionage. The port, once a hub for secrets, now bore witness to the aftermath of lives lived in the shadows and the heavy toll extracted in the pursuit of elusive truths.

A week had passed since the discovery of "your" lifeless body submerged in water alongside Myungho's. The pursuit of Choi Seungcheol had come to a somber close, marked by the tragic demise of two dedicated agents in a public spectacle. The National Intelligence Service (NIS) found itself thrust into the spotlight, with the media seizing the opportunity to expose the agency's inner workings, tarnishing its once-respected image. 

In the aftermath, you handed a necklace to Wonwoo, solemnly instructing him, "Do this last favor for me." Wonwoo, eyebrows raised, initially puzzled, finally grasped the situation. "As Yoon Y/n? Alright, I was taken aback for a sec. Dude, I was just attending your funeral!" he exclaimed in relief.

With a subtle roll of your eyes, you replied, "Agent Yoon is no more, Wonwoo. Please welcome the newest persona, Jeon Y/n!" Your announcement was met with your own sense of excitement, while Wonwoo couldn't help but roll his eyes at your characteristic flair for the dramatic. 

If only you didn't promise him big money, he won't let you use his surname.

 

*

 

Two years later, you find yourself standing in front of the iconic statue of Marcus Aurelius in Rome, reflecting on the profound changes that have unfolded since adopting your new identity as Jeon Y/n. Life has taken unexpected turns, leading you down a path of reinvention. Shedding the cloak of espionage, you embraced a role far removed from the covert world – that of a counselor.

Roaming the world, your journey eventually brought you to Rome, a city steeped in history and timeless beauty. A client, seeking solace and guidance, had specifically requested a month of regular sessions. The cobblestone streets echoed with the whispers of ancient stories as you navigated through the enchanting blend of past and present.

As a counselor, your days are now filled with meaningful conversations, helping others navigate the intricate tapestry of their lives. The weight of secrets has given way to the liberation of shared emotions, and the art of healing has become your newfound purpose. The serene atmosphere of Rome serves as a backdrop to these sessions, adding an extra layer of tranquility to the therapeutic journey.

Standing before the stoic statue of Marcus Aurelius, you ponder the resilience of the human spirit and the transformative power of embracing a new identity. The winds of change have carried you to this moment, where the echoes of ancient wisdom mingle with the whispers of contemporary souls seeking guidance.

Your phone rings, and it's your client representative on the line. "Hi, Ms. Jeon. I would like to inform you that Mr. Lee would be available today at 3 o'clock. I'll send you the location for the counseling session. And I'm so sorry for the sudden reschedule."

You reply calmly, "It's okay, I'll be there first to prepare the counseling session if you don't mind."

The representative reassures you, "It's totally fine. Enjoy your time in Rome."

With the call ended, you take a moment to appreciate the city's timeless charm before gearing up for the upcoming session. The cobblestone streets and ancient architecture seem to whisper tales of resilience, mirroring the very themes you navigate in your counseling sessions. As you await the location details, the anticipation of another transformative encounter with a client adds a layer of purpose to your journey through the heart of Rome.

Arriving at the hotel room designated for today's counseling session, you meticulously organize your materials, mentally preparing for the upcoming encounter. The ambiance of the room exudes a mix of professionalism and quietude, a fitting space for the intricate nature of your counseling work. 

As you immerse yourself in thoughts, the distinct sound of footsteps interrupts your focus. A familiar voice, unexpectedly speaking Korean, greets you. Turning your head, disbelief washes over you as you meet Choi Seungcheol's gaze, his sly smirk adding an element of intrigue.

"You are Mr. Lee?!" you demand, your tone revealing a blend of astonishment and assertiveness. Seungcheol nods, seemingly amused by your reaction.

With a nonchalant tone, he responds, "Nice to meet you, Ms. Jeon. Should we start the session?"

 

*

 

Your breath hitched, lingering in the air, though the kiss had ended moments ago. Seungcheol, face flushed, entered the car, tapping clumsily on unnecessary features of his own car, seemingly surprised by his own actions. As you turned your head toward him, his eyes locked onto yours, a profound connection established as if you had discovered something essential in this vast world.

The sensation surpassed the satisfaction of profits in Seungcheol's clubs or the triumph of a successful case. It was a peculiar feeling, one that transcended tangible accomplishments.

Your gaze drifted to his neck, where a familiar necklace rested. Without a second thought, you grabbed his collar, surprising him once again. "Your necklace," you mumbled, and his eyes followed your gaze.

Seungcheol, flustered, stammered, "M—my necklace. Oh, it was... Shoot! I thought you were gonna kiss me again." His attempt at diversion was met with skepticism.

Locking eyes with him, you asked, "Is this from Jeonghan?" Seungcheol nodded slowly, still in an awkward position, but his gaze remained fixated on your lips.

Closing his eyes, Seungcheol suppressed a surge of longing within him. "Give me," you demanded, suddenly unhooking the necklace. Your proximity was dangerously close, and he swore he could detect the scent of your body.

Seated again, you opened the necklace, revealing something Seungcheol had never known. "You can open it?" It turned out to be a flash drive. Plugging it into your phone, you discovered something crucial that you had been searching for – "The Black Files." Without hesitation, you showed Seungcheol the file on your phone and promptly sent it to Wonwoo.

In the tense atmosphere, with evidence of Joshua's betrayal in hand, Seungcheol's bodyguard unveiled a revelation that brought clarity to the mysteries lingering in Seungcheol's mind. You proposed an audacious plan to Seungcheol, urging him to seek Joshua's assistance for your swift departure to Japan tonight. Initially resistant due to the inherent danger involving you, Seungcheol hesitated, his internal struggle palpable.

"I could be a better fighter than you, Seungcheol," you confidently asserted, persuading him to entertain the daring idea. As Seungcheol reluctantly agreed to be part of the plan, you swiftly connected with Wonwoo, seeking his alliance in this perilous endeavor.

"I just have to hide on the boat and pretend I'm one of their people, right?" Wonwoo's words unveiled his cyber expertise, underscoring the contrast with his lack of field experience.

Rolling your eyes at Wonwoo's comment, you took charge, instructing him, "Pretend to sedate Seungcheol. I know they're after me for The Black Files." The gravity of the situation hung in the air as you navigated the intricate details with determination.

Hooking the necklace back onto Seungcheol's neck, you expressed gratitude, saying, "Thank you for taking care of my brother's stuff." The gesture carried a weight of acknowledgment and trust. As a token of appreciation, you kissed Seungcheol's left cheek, leaving a lingering sense of warmth amidst the impending dangers that lay ahead. 

 

*

 

"So, how have you been since then, Seungcheol?" you gently inquired, your voice breaking the silence that enveloped the car as the complexities of your mission unfolded.

"I'm having a very good life. I was dropped in Japan, and Wonwoo had left me without a word. He was a very cold man," Seungcheol revealed, his tone carrying a hint of abandonment that lingered from his past experiences.

"He is."

"Still? I don't understand how you're still a friend of his," he remarked, curiosity etched across his features, his gaze seeking understanding.

You smiled, your eyes studying his demeanor. "You're different, Seungcheol. I mean in a good way."

Seungcheol responded with a playful smirk, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "How do you know that just by our first session? Am I in good hands?"

Laughter bubbled from you, a refreshing sound amidst the tension. "Thanks for reaching me," you expressed sincerely, the gratitude apparent in your voice.

"I'm more grateful for you, for staying alive," Seungcheol confessed, acknowledging the significance of your presence in his life.

The conversation took an unexpected turn as you playfully probed, "Did you have a crush on me, Seungcheol?"

Caught off guard, Seungcheol blushed, attempting to articulate his feelings. "You know what? Yes, I did have a crush on you, and I might still. But how could someone not? You're amazing and—"

Before he could finish, a sudden peck landed on his lips, catching him by surprise. A genuine smile formed on his face, reflecting the warmth of the moment.

Seizing the opportunity, Seungcheol reached for your hand, pulling you closer. His touch was both gentle and possessive as he cradled your neck, initiating a more passionate exchange of kisses. What began as a simple peck evolved into a deeper connection, emphasizing the unspoken emotions between you.

"I actually like you," he admitted, the confession lingering in the air, signaling a shift in the dynamics of your relationship amidst the intricate dance of the mission's complexities.

 

*

 

"She's indeed so pretty," remarked Seungcheol, a university student whose gaze remained fixed on your figure as you fought fiercely to secure your position as a national Taekwondo athlete.

"Ya! Don't you see she's drenched in sweat? Disgusting..." Jeonghan mumbled, expressing his dissent to Seungcheol's admiration.

"No! I mean, she radiates beauty," Seungcheol clarified, his admiration for you evident in his eyes.

Jeonghan, unimpressed, rolled his eyes. "That's why I never asked you to come to her competition, you moron," he stated, walking away and leaving Seungcheol in a state of starstruck infatuation.

Seungcheol, determined, chased after Jeonghan, making a request that lingered in the air, "Introduce me to her."

"No!" Jeonghan bluntly refused.

"Come on..."

"I said no! Why are you so hard-headed?"

[buckybarnesleebodecker123]

Part 3: Uneasy Trust Hybrid AU! Task Force 141 x Female!Reader

The first few days at the **141 safe house** were tense.

You barely spoke, barely moved unless necessary. Your body was still healing, but your mind remained in fight-or-flight mode. Years of being hunted had taught you that trust was a luxury you couldn't afford.

The others gave you space—**except Ghost.**

He was always near. Never intrusive, never speaking much, but watching. You should have been unnerved by it. Instead, it made your instincts settle, just a little.

---

On the third day, you sat on the edge of the cot, ears flicking toward the sound of boots approaching. You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Ghost.

He stopped at the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest. “You should eat.”

You scowled, curling your tail around yourself. “I’m fine.”

A huff. “You’re not.”

Annoyance flared in your chest. “I don’t take orders from you.”

His head tilted slightly, like he was studying you. "Didn’t ask you to."

You bared your teeth at him—an instinctive warning. But he didn’t react, didn’t flinch like most people did when you showed a hint of aggression. Instead, he took a step forward and placed something on the nearby table.

A plate. Food.

Not just military rations. Freshly cooked meat, still warm, along with bread and some kind of broth. Your stomach betrayed you with a low growl.

Ghost said nothing. Just turned and left.

You stared at the food for a long time before giving in.

---

That became a pattern.

Ghost never pushed, never forced conversation. But he left food, blankets, small comforts that you hadn't expected.

And slowly, your walls started to crack.

One night, after another quiet meal, you spoke without thinking. “Why do you wear that mask?”

Ghost stilled, his hand pausing on his cup of tea. You almost regretted asking, but then—

“Why do you keep your tail tucked in?”

You blinked, ears twitching. “What?”

He didn’t look at you, just leaned back in his chair. “You’re always hiding it. Like you’re afraid to take up space.”

Your tail twitched on instinct, curling tighter against your leg. You hadn’t even realized you did that.

Ghost finally glanced at you, his blue eyes sharp but unreadable. "We all got reasons for hiding parts of ourselves."

You didn’t know what to say to that.

But for the first time, silence between you wasn’t so heavy.

---

### **Meanwhile…**

A shadowy figure scrolled through surveillance footage, pausing on an image of you with **Ghost** standing nearby.

"Looks like you've made some new friends," the man mused, a smirk pulling at his lips. "Let’s see how long that lasts."