#Chapter VIII: Make You Stay | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

selfindulgenceisthekey · 16 days ago

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If You Thought It Was Real Pt. VIII

Pt. I Pt. II Pt. III Pt. IV Pt. V Pt. VI Pt. VII

As always, thank you @hannahbarberra162 for beta reading this chapter! <3

Six

You were starting to believe this was some type of scare tactic they were implementing. You’d been getting more visits regularly, Sanji and Chopper still tying for first place. Nami had started in at least once a day, always carrying her bag of goodies around, sometimes coming with a new shirt or cute socks for you. You were starting to think she enjoyed playing dress up with you, you felt less like a captive and more like a living doll.

It wasn’t surprising to you when the next new face was Usopp. He looked timid as he peeked in, as if seeing you was surprising. He stepped in fully after a second, scratching the back of his neck as he stood awkwardly.

“Uh, hey, good to see you sitting up!” He gave you a thumbs up, as if being able to sit up in the medical bed was some achievement to be proud of, “I’m just grabbing a few things for Chopper.”

He stepped a few feet over, digging through boxes of what looked like files. You had been tempted to go through those earlier, but the moral part of you assumed they were medical records and you shouldn’t touch them. Clearly that was not a unanimous sentiment, as he took a few papers out, reading them before placing them back.

“Nami’s been talking about your planned girls day,” Just as you were hoping his visit would be in and out he began to speak, “She wants to wait a bit before inviting Robin to join the two of you.”

If you had any sliver of a say you’d rather Robin not be invited at all. She nor Zoro had stopped in to see you, yet, and you wished for it to stay that way. Usopp glanced your way, and you must have been making some type of face because he laughed quietly, turning back to continue his search.

“I told her you may not be too thrilled, but she insisted. Robin’s cool, she just has a lot of… layers, so to speak. She’s very protective of the crew, as we all are.”

He seemed to have found what he was searching for, turning around with a file in his hands, leaning back on the table to seemingly study you. You were sick of being studied by them all. For a moment you visualized jumping off the bed, punching him in his stupidly long nose and diving overboard. At the rate of healing you were at you’d more than likely drown, if you even made it into the water. You wondered, for a moment, if drowning would be better than this.

“Y’know,” He sounded more hesitant now, uncomfortably shifting his gaze away from you, “Sanji hasn’t been sleeping well since you got back. Well, actually, since you left but…”

He trailed off, and the implication struck you in the heart. How you wished it didn’t, but some traitorous part of you still ached for the soft affection from him. The bigger part of you wanted to bash him over the head with his own frying pan.

“He’s been cooking a lot more too. Which cooking isn’t out of the question for him, but he’s making enough that even Luffy leaves leftovers. I think he’s just worried though. About you and, well, everything really. He always makes extras for you too, most of the time Luffy ends up eating them after you refused a few times.”

Usopp moved quickly, standing straight so abruptly you jumped, “Well, best get this to Chopper! It’s nice out today, not too sunny, you should see if Chopper will okay you for a quick walk today. I know Sanji would jump at the opportunity to take you outside.”

You didn’t respond verbally, just a quick shake of your head. He only shrugged as he continued to the door, “Suit yourself. But with our deal doctor and our lovesick cook, you’re only going to be able to hide out for so much longer.”

He winked at you playfully, as he left. The silence after the door shut left you stewing, steaming in your frustration.

Five

Chopper was very good at turning his questions into statements. He knew if he’d asked you to step outside you would have refused— why would you want a taste of freedom if it was tainted by the never ending babysitter’s club? So he didn’t ask, he brought you a clean set of clothes, a mixture of gifts from Nami and Robin, and a sweatshirt you recognized as Sanji’s. You didn’t want to change into it, but what choice did you have? Luffy brought you aboard with nothing but the clothes on your back.

You had to admit, for your first time stepping out of the sick bay in days, everything was a lot calmer than you had anticipated. The deck was quiet, Franky and Brook being the only two you saw, other than Chopper. The little doctor was your babysitter for this outing, however short it ended up being. He hadn’t changed into his bigger self, Breaking Point as he called it. You were curious about it, but you didn’t necessarily want to risk him changing his form.

Chopper was talking at you, mumbling things about health benefits of being out in the open air, but you had long tuned him out. The sun on your skin felt amazing after days in doors. It was warm, the heat seeping its way into the clothes you wore, gently kissing your cheeks. You couldn’t help but close your eyes, basking in the warm breeze, feeling more relaxed than you had in days.

You stuck close with Chopper, taking small, baby steps to the edge of the railing, looking out over the never ending sea. Somewhere miles away, if not hundreds of miles away, was your home island. What had happened to the townspeople after you were taken? Would you ever know?

“Yo!” Franky’s voice was loud and unmistakable, cutting across the gentle atmosphere you had fallen comfortable in, “Look who’s out walkin’!”

He and Brook had both turned to look in your direction, walking a bit closer while keeping distance. You felt like they were treating you like a spooked animal, cowering from its hunters. Though from the way you instinctively shrunk in on yourself, that wasn’t far from the truth.

Chopper waved at them happily, before turning and noticing the look on your face, “Oh, it’s okay! They’re just happy to see you!”

“Super happy!” Brook nodded along to Franky’s near shouts, “I had become worried you’d fused to your bed in there! Chopper told me a story once of it happening when some dude was super sick, it was super gross!”

Brook laid a bony hand on his friend’s shoulder, “As fascinating as you found that story, I do worry our new crewmate may not share your sentiments.”

If you hadn’t wanted to return to the sick bay’s bed before, you certainly didn’t want to now. Your body could fuse to the bed? Chopper picked up on your turmoil easily.

“That was a very rare medical case!” He patted your leg reassuringly, “He was in his bed for years! He never even got up to use the bathroom. It won’t happen to you!”

You just nodded, trying to offer him a small smile. The two continued talking, neither missing a beat.

“It’s good to see you out and about dear, you’re a sight for sore eyes!” Brook tilted his head, and you knew one of his jokes was coming next, “That’s to say if I had eyes.”

He and Franky laughed, and Chopper giggled beside you. You’d never gotten a good reading on Brook, you suppose it was difficult considering the man didn’t have skin to make facial expressions. When you first came on the ship, working on enacting your plan, he was one of the few you tried to avoid. You weren’t afraid of him, past the discomfort of him being a living skeleton, but you had no way of being able to tell what he was thinking or feeling. Considering what your line of work is, or was, it was a dangerous aspect.

The two kept talking to Chopper, though much like earlier you tuned them out. Any tranquility that you’d been feeling was gone with those two as close as they were, talking like nothing was wrong. Everything was wrong. You weren’t supposed to be here, you weren’t supposed to be back on the ship with them. You could feel yourself tensing again, clenching your fists in the pocket of the hoodie you were wearing, so tight you could feel your nails biting into your skin.

“Alright, that’s enough walking for today,” Chopper’s gentle nudging snapped you out of your stupor, and he waved goodbye to the other two as he led you back to the sick bay.

“We’ll go out again tomorrow, though Sanji might insist on being with you then.”

Four

The bandages were becoming itchy. They were clean, your wounds sterile, still being hidden away to heal more, but the constant feeling of the fabric pressed to your skin was starting to drive you insane. The constant itch on top of being stuck in the sick bay with the occasional ten minutes of sunlight a day. The notion of drowning was becoming more appealing.

You found yourself absentmindedly picking at the edges of the bandages around your arm, pulling at the edges, hoping to tempt fate and have them fall off. The door creaked open, and you jumped, hand flying away from the bandages with a start. The last thing you wanted to do was tempt them into cuffing your hands to bedside railings if they caught you messing with their medical equipment.

“Don’t mess with the bandages. Don’t waste Chopper’s hard work.”

You swallowed hard, sinking as far back into the pillows behind you as you could. Zoro didn’t say anything else for a moment, his one eye pinning you in place. His arms were crossed over his chest, leaning back against the door behind him.

“Saw you walking around with the cook.”

You nodded slowly. The walk was brief, as it was before. Just long enough for you to get used to the warmth of the sun before being brought back in. Sanji had talked the entire time, cheerful and energetic as you stayed silent. You had seen Zoro for a second while you were out, but he was gone just as quick.

“He’s been… weird lately,” He grimaced at the admittance, “Looked like he’d sucked a lemon after you left. Like he was about ready to kill someone when Luffy brought you back.”

Zoro was a relatively quiet man, especially in comparison to the rest of the crew. But in this moment, the silence felt deliberate, like each pause was giving you time to reflect on his words.

“I didn’t think Luffy should have gone after you. Not in the way he had, at least.”

You risked making eye contact, his gaze steely and cold. God, how you wanted Sanji to come waltzing through the door, ready to defend you against the swordsman. But you knew he wouldn’t, not now at least.

“Luffy said we don’t leave our crew behind.” His voice was stern, borderline aggressive as he continued, “So I listened, and waited for him to come back with you. You looked like shit when he did come back with you.”

Despite the fear and anxiety building in you, you found your eyes narrowing at his blunt remark. You had gotten the crap beat out of you, of course you hadn’t looked your best.

“Chopper brought you in here, tried to drag Luffy in with him. His hands looked messed up. But he said to focus on you first. He was almost as upset as the love-cook.”

That felt almost hard to believe. In your time on the ship before all this had happened, most of your time was spent with Sanji, and then after him was Nami and Chopper, occasionally Usopp and Luffy. Why would the captain care about your injuries? You had suspected, based on blurry memory from when he found you at the bar, that he had only come to get you because Sanji wanted him to.

“He hasn’t told us what happened when he grabbed you,” Zoro continued, tone shifting, sounding almost bored as he spoke, “Not even with all the food he’s been bribed with. Kept his mouth shut for once, said you’d tell us when you’re ready.”

You doubt you’d ever be ready. You doubt you’d ever tell them. Luffy may as well speak now.

“The cook… loves you, for whatever reason. And because of that, Luffy trusts you. At least enough to bring you back to the ship. I figured you had been hiding something, but I kept my mouth shut. I won’t do that again.”

If I find any reason not to trust you, everyone will know. You shifted, tucking your chin down to look at the bedsheets, hands trembling where they were. The threat hidden in his voice wasn’t subtle, nor was it, well, hidden. You doubt he was truly trying to hide it.

“Oi, mosshead,” The door pushed against him harshly, Sanji, near seething, coming back in, eyes narrowed at the swordsman, “Get the hell out! She needs to rest!”

“I was just leaving,” Zoro was quick to sneer back, looking back at you for the briefest of moments, before turning and leaving the sick bay.

Three

The water was warm against your skin. If you shut your eyes, this felt nice; if you pretended you were alone, it didn’t feel like a nightmare. You’d been given permission to take a bath, nothing too hot, nothing too strenuous. It was stupid of you to think you’d be allowed to bathe alone, as well.

“Hold still, please.”

You hadn’t realized you were fidgeting on the stool you’d been given to sit on. Robin had sprouted multiple arms, you’d stopped trying to count, holding bottles of soap and shampoo, washcloths for her to use once the old ones were covered in grime and old blood.

“The tension you hold isn’t good for your muscles,” Her voice was a hum as she spoke, soft and almost nurturing, the same tone she often used with Chopper, “You wouldn’t want to worry our little doctor anymore than you have, would you?”

You didn’t respond, but made an effort to relax your body. The humiliation played a part in your tension, and you had tried to argue that tooth and nail before coming. Chopper had expressed his concerns for you showering alone, Sanji had offered to go with you, though Chopper shut that down rather quickly.

Robin was free and in the right place at the right time, according to her. Chopper had explained how to navigate your stitches, expressed she needed to be gentle, and ensure the water doesn’t reach over a certain temperature.

You had to admit, she had a very soft touch. The washcloth dragged across your bare back, warm and soft against your skin. Though even her soft touches made you wince when she brushed against the healing bruises.

“You have been healing rather well, though I do suspect that’s due to our doctor,” She worded her phrases carefully, making sure you understood her praises weren’t meant for you. Not that you’d ever think they were.

The washcloth was removed, and you could hear the dripping of water as she strained it, “I know our dear navigator’s probably beside herself having missed an opportunity such as this. But there’s a storm approaching, and she had to work on charting a new course to help us evade it.”

She gave no warning as water was poured along your head, and you shut your eyes in a hurry, trying to avoid them stinging. She repeated that process a few more times before moving on, lathering her hands with shampoo. It smelled fresh and clean, but soft compared to the sterile cleanliness of the sick bay.

“I asked if she needed anything, but she declined. She already has your measurements down for the next time we come across a town with a shopping district. Though I doubt you’ll be allowed off the ship with her. She doesn’t seem to mind that idea, she seems rather excited at the prospect of dressing you up. You should feel honored.”

Robin began lathering the shampoo across your scalp, nails digging in just enough to fight the grim and grease there. You cursed your exhaustion for finding it even the least bit relaxing. You flinched when some water splashed against your side, peeking around to see one of her arms filling the small basin with water once more.

She continued with her movements, speaking as if she didn’t mind your silence. “You should try and rest more, Chopper has explained to you many times that your body needs an exorbitant amount of rest for the next few weeks. Sanji has confessed he hears you pacing around the sick bay at night, but he hasn’t brought himself to confront you quite yet. You’re concerning him, you know. Continuous movement, a lack of rest; those together aren’t good for your recovery.”

She grabbed the basin with her arms, the two attached to her body, before slowly pouring the water on your head once more. You did your best to keep your eyes shut, for fear of getting shampoo in your eyes, as well as avoiding looking at her body. Modesty and privacy appeared to be two things no one on this crew cared about.

“I do suppose it makes sense,” She was refilling it once more, gently scratching at your scalp as she poured it once more, “Restlessness is a common symptom of a guilty conscience.”

“What do I have to be guilty of?” You bit off before you could stop yourself, sputtering quietly as water got into your mouth. You felt she did that on purpose.

She set the basin down, moving to grab what you suspected was shampoo with a quiet hum. “Many things, I can assume, given what your past appeared to be before we found you.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

How pathetic of a sight you must have been, sat on a stool, curled over as much as you could be given your injuries. Naked and wet, shivering from fear, with one of the most powerful women in the world cleaning your hair.

“Not yet, but you’ll open up to us eventually. Most of us are rather patient people.”

She sat back, letting the conditioner sit in your hair as she shifted. A quick glance let you know she was washing her own hair, but you turned away just as quickly. You felt miles better than you had when you first woke up. Your muscles still ached, and your injuries were still present, but the layer of sweat and grim that was caked onto you was gone at least.

“I’m sure at the time it felt like the only thing you could do.” How you wished she’d drop this subject, you thought. “Run away without asking us for help. We’ve all been in similar situations, I suppose.” She laughed, light and airy, as if any part of this situation was funny.

She paused in her movements, the stillness behind your back telling. One of her hands brushed along your back, finger trailing down your bare spine. You shot up, sitting straighter on your stool, arms still wrapped across your chest. She moved her hand away, as if it hadn’t been there in the first place.

“We all learned quickly. If you’re to be on this crew, you ask for help when you need it. You’ll understand eventually,” The sound of rushing water indicated she was refilling the basin, more steam rising into the air.

She continued to bathe you, rinsing out the conditioner from your hair, applying a fruity-smelling hair mask, as she called it. You fell silent as she worked, though it didn’t seem to bother her.

You’ll learn eventually.

And if you didn’t? If you never learned? Were they to abandon you on some island, alone, and leave you to die? Or would they kill you? Despite the warmth of the water, the heat of the bath house, you shivered where you sat, goosebumps forming across your skin.

Two

You had been able to convince Sanji to take you on a short walk at night, a weird, desperate feeling clawing at your chest to see the stars, to feel the cool breeze of night against your skin. Admittedly, it didn’t take much to convince him. He was thrilled to take a stroll with you under the stars, his words.

The air felt different than it did in the day. You’d never spent a copious amount of time on the sea, and never at night. The breeze rolling about was chilly and strong. Sanji had insisted you wear a hoodie of his, the sleeves fell past your fingertips, but it was comfortable. You didn’t tell him that, just supplied him with a quick thanks. He beamed as if you’d showered him with praises.

He was nearly glued to your side, and part of you was grateful for his body heat against the night chill. It was the only reason you weren’t shifting away from him.

“Do you have any requests for dinner tomorrow?”

You looked over to him, shifting so you were less leaning over the rail than you had been, answering with a shake of your head.

“I’m thinking of making stew. Luffy and the mosshead caught a decent amount of tilapias today, and we’ve got some onions that need to be used.” He was muttering to himself now, voice soft.

Footsteps had you turning your head, a momentary flash of panic that it was Zoro heading to the crow's nest, “Ah, good evening, you two.”

It was Jinbe, trailing up the stairs at a leisurely pace, gaze soft as he took the two of you in. Sanji stiffened next to you for a moment before his posture relaxed. Odds are he’d hoped for a quiet night alone, but his crew tended to make that impossible.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” His voice was as gentle as it was before, and those quick memories were enough to have your heart constrict in your chest, “I had come out to get some fresh air before bed. I presume, the same goes for you two.”

“No interruptions, my friend,” Sanji responded, turning so his back was leaning against the railing, still pressed next to you, “She had wanted to see the night skies before bed. Who am I to turn down my beloved’s request?”

Jinbe laughed softly, deep and full-bellied at the same time. For a moment, you had wished it was him they had on babysitting duty for you; he was easy to relax around. But he was still a Strawhat; he had sat idly by as his captain kidnapped you.

“You appear to be healing well, that’s good.”

“Yeah,” Without much else to say, you found yourself agreeing quietly.

“And tonight’s a fine night, the clouds have cleared off,” He had turned to look out at the water, the stars and moon reflecting off the calm waves.

Sanji tilted his head back, looking upwards as if realizing from Jinbe’s words that the sky was rather beautiful. Back home, it wasn’t like this; the sky wasn’t this clear, and there were little to no places to sit in silence. You wished you had been here in different circumstances. You wanted to crush that desire the second you had it.

“Chopper’s been saying your strength is returning to you. You do appear stronger than when the captain first brought you on board.”

At the mention of how you’d been when Luffy brought you, Sanji let out a noise. Some mixture of a huff and a growl, and you could see the tension in his jaw as he ground his teeth.

“I’m… just happy to be out of bed,” You admitted, refusing to look at either of them as you spoke, “Even if I feel tired after walking, it’s nice.”

“Yes,” Jinbe sounded happier, and you felt Sanji shift, one of his hands reaching to grab yours. You wanted to stop him, to snatch your own away, but with another member near you, you let Sanji grab yours.

“Recovery for a normal person isn’t always linear,” He continued, a small smile on his face as you turned your gaze towards him, “Perhaps soon enough we can add swimming to your daily exercise. I could lend a hand, of course.”

Before you could respond, Sanji was taking over the conversation, “Oh, I hadn’t even considered that. Chopper and you could probably come up with something, though it would have to wait until she’s more healed, I’d presume.”

The two began discussing this apparent plan, not minding your silence once. You could feel your mind drifting, a fuzzy feeling overtaking your brain. It was comfortable, in a way, letting you bathe in a silent blanket in your mind.

One

The days since you woke up had been near magical for Sanji. Sure, you were taking longer to adjust to your situation, but he was willing to give you as much time as you needed. He knew it was only a matter of time before you two were back to how you were before, and he was already preparing to lavish you with affection and gifts once you were there. Until that point, he was fine preparing simple but elegant meals just for you, willing to fight off his over-hungry captain to ensure it stayed pristine and hot.

Today was a simple salad, though as he added some shredded cheese to the top, simple didn’t seem appropriate. He was still working hard to ensure all your meals had all the nutrients you needed to heal properly.

Luffy was loitering nearby, drool dripping down his chin as he tried to subtly creep closer to Sanji, eyes fixed on the chopped chicken. Sanji didn’t even have to blink before sending a quick, timed kick towards the captain, stopping him from snatching your lunch. Luffy yelped, whining as he stumbled back, falling harshly onto his back,

“Sanji! I’m hungry!”

“You’re always hungry,” He grumbled, the same song and dance between the two, “This isn’t for you, dumbass. Let me finish and take it up to the sick bay when she’s done on her walk, and then I’ll make you a snack, okay?”

Luffy groaned, falling to lie on his back, glaring up at the ceiling, “I want meat now.”

Sanji didn’t budge, moving to place the bowl on a tray, “Your options are to wait alongside everyone else or wait for your snack.”

There was a dull roar of thunder from outside, quiet and far off, but enough to have Sanji pausing as he peered outside through the window from where he stood. Chopper had the idea of having you take a walk earlier, Nami having predicted a pretty intense storm coming their way. They wanted you to be able to move around before you got stuck inside once more, even though Chopper had developed a good amount of exercises you could do in the sick bay. They agreed you seemed at least slightly happier whenever you got to go outside, which was why you were outside with Chopper and Brook.

Luffy had rolled over onto his side, staring at Sanji while picking his nose. He didn’t bother hiding the look of disgust on his face at the revolting action, “Is Sanji worried?”

Sanji’s response was a scoff, though it was a poor attempt to avoid answering the question. Luffy just laughed, eyes shutting as he leaned his head back. How he found comfort in the strangest positions, Sanji will never know.

“Sanji shouldn’t worry! Everything will work out. Eventually!”

“I know that, dumbass.”

Maybe preparing a little plate of the scraps from your lunch wouldn’t be too hard. After all, he didn’t need to make more stock. They had enough frozen to last them months at this rate. He didn’t put effort into making the pieces look appetizing, but it didn’t matter. As soon as the plate touched the counter, Sanji was opening his mouth to tell Luffy, his captain was already moving, scarfing the leftovers down with vigor.

“Idiot.”

Luffy just laughed with puffed out cheeks, and neither mentioned the small smile that was present on Sanji’s face. Another roll of thunder, a bit closer, shook the boat. Waves were starting to pick up some; he could hear the lapping of them against the ship. Perhaps he could prepare some tea to go with your lunch, he had some peppermint tea that he could—

Muffled screaming interrupted his thoughts, and both he and Luffy stopped in their tracks, turning to peer out the door. It sounded like Chopper? Without thinking, the pair had made their way out the door, no doubt feeling matching feelings of curiosity and panic. Everyone else appeared to have heard it too; doors were opening, and faces were peaking out.

Chopper and Brook were peering over the railing. Chopper was crying, wordless screaming leaving his mouth, and Brook was looking on with a deep horror, eyeless sockets seeming wider than normal. And it didn’t appear that you were standing near them—

“She jumped!” Chopper was wailing, rushing to Sanji’s legs, “She- she jumped overboard! I- I can’t go after her!”

He felt his blood turn cold, his legs feeling like lead as he stared down at the little doctor. You had— No. His eyes widened, and he raced to the railing, eyeing how the waves were slowly getting rougher with each passing second. He could make out your figure through the dark blue of the waters, and you didn’t look to be surfacing.

Before he could throw himself over the side, Zoro had beaten him to it. Watching the swordsman dive into the water, he couldn’t even think of any snide comments or remarks to make. Too busy desperately watching as the green-haired idiot swam down after you.

“Chopper,” Robin was there, kneeling down to the wailing doctor, “You need to take a breath and calm down, if she’s hurt or inhaled any water, you’ll need to be prepared.”

He was making efforts to calm his breathing, hooves covering his eyes as he tried to dry his tears. Luffy was leaning over the railing, eyes focused and unblinking as he stared into the depths of the water. The only movement was the waves. Nami was next to Sanji now, hands pressing to the sides of his head to have him turn to look at her. Her facial expression was calm, a clear attempt to calm him down, but her eyes were blazingly angry.

“Sanji, Zoro will get her; she’ll be fine.”

You’ll be fine, of course you will be. That was enforced by a loud splashing and two sharp gasps for air. The crew all looked forward, pressing against the railing as Zoro resurfaced, arms wrapped tightly around you. You appeared to be fighting against his grip, and on his forearms were scratch marks, shallow but bleeding into the salty water.

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#one piece #one piece x reader #if you thought it was real #straw hats x reader #strawhats x reader #op x reader #yandere one piece x reader #yandere one piece #yandere sanji #yandere strawhats #yandere sanji x reader

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wildestdreamsblog · 4 months ago

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Latibule Season 2: VIII

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader (Mafia/Detective AU)

Summary: In which he lost his latibule.

Warnings: Secret Identity, Yandere behavior, Obsessiveness, Possessiveness, Manipulative behavior, Violence, Mention of death, Disability, Sexual themes, If you’re not 18+ please, PLEASE, do not interact. Be mindful of the warnings. Let me know if I miss anything.

A/N: We actually made it to the last chapter???? I hope you enjoyed the ride as much as I did!

Masterlist, Latibule 2.VII

“Are you not going to stop them?” You asked in exasperation at the extremely relaxed Kim Seokjin despite the violence you knew was occurring several floors down, or also known as Yoongi’s torture chamber as per Taehyung.

He was staring down at his phone, lounging on the sofa while browsing through expensive baby clothes you knew your son would just grow out of in a few months.

“Does baby Yoongi like pink? I think he’d look dashing and adorable in this,” he asked nonchalantly as he showed you his phone. Meanwhile, you only gave him a blank look. “Ah. Right. I forgot you’re almost a 100% blind. My bad.”

You groaned at the unmovable man in front of you. As soon as Namjoon declared the two of you married, Yoongi softly asked you to take the baby from Hoseok and before you knew it, he punched the aforementioned man too hard that blood trickled down his busted lips. You knew Hoseok was insane, you just didn’t know he was insane enough to laugh at Yoongi while he was dragged down the basement. Namjoon was sighing as he followed them down, together with Jungkook and Jimin.

On the other hand, Kim Taehyung opted to stay here because he claimed that he would only be bored there. He was just sat there on the sofa, intently watching a documentary on poverty. His gaze never wavered from the face of the journalist. You supposed her voice was strong and her way of telling the story was both compelling and evocative.

“What about you, Taehyung? Shouldn’t you stop them?” you implored as you grasp his surprisingly hard arm.

Taehyung didn’t even tear his eyes off the journalist. He pouted as he shook his head. “No, noona. Sorry. I’m busy watching my future-”

“Future what, Taehyung!?” Seokjin suddenly quipped up, his eyes sending daggers of suspicions at the younger man’s direction.

Taehyung blinked owlishly as he turned to his hyung. “Hmm. I haven’t gotten to the part yet. I just know she’ll be in my future.”

“I cannot emphasize this enough, Taetae. But we absolutely do not need another Yoongi in this family who ran rampant when he lost her-” Seokjin said as he pointed at you.

“Then do we need another Namjoon hyung?” he asked innocently.

“You mean that lunatic who relocated his secretary’s ex-boyfriend to the afterlife and claimed their child as his own? No!”

Taehyung nodded thoughtfully, “What about another you, hyung? You know, someone who sabotaged doctor noona’s transfer to other hospitals but still ended up losing her after being together for several months who also moved her to his house one week in dating and now cannot find her and is desperate enough to-”

“Anyway!” Seokjin cut him off before sighing so deep you thought he lived three lifetimes and was already tired of it. “Don’t worry about Hoseok. That bastard is an idiot, but he is also intelligent as fuck. He will come out of it alive. Yoongi just has to make him bleed.”

“But what if he kills him?”

“Then he doesn’t deserve to be a Bangtan if he can’t come out of that alive.”

“Come on, fucker, also known as Satan’s competitor to the throne, is that all you got?” Hoseok asked amidst the busted lips and beaten and bloodied body of his.

Yoongi was not fairing any better. He was just as bruised as Hoseok but the devil didn’t even care. He was smirking even as he got hit by Hoseok, and even laughing loudly as he hit him back.

“He really is crazy,” Namjoon commented as they watched the two beat each other to death. “No. They are both insane.”

“At this rate, they’re going to end up both dead,” he added when a new batch of blood drops on the floor.

Jungkook watched from where he was standing, his eyes following the pair’s movements. Sure, they were both doing this to inflict pain to each other, yet he noticed something peculiar. All of Yoongi’s attacks was to end Hoseok. On the other hand, that man was attacking to just to inflict pain on him. Interesting.

“Shouldn’t we stop them? They’ve been going at it for a while…” Jimin brought up in concern, biting his lower lip. This was a thing that he always did when he was anxious, a habit he never outgrew.

“I should stop th-” Namjoon was about to step forward when Jungkook spoke.

“Let them, hyung.”

“Jungkook!”

The aforementioned man looked at them with his doe eyes. “What? Hoseok hyung deserves to hit Yoongi hyung just as much as he deserves to hit Hoseok hyung.”

“What the fuck is that logic, Jungkook?!” Jimin asked in exasperation as he turned to the youngest.

“Well, Yoongi killed noona-”

The aforementioned man pushed the bloodied Hoseok down to the ground, their breathings hard as he stared down at the Hoseok. “This was the reason?”

Hoseok spat down the blood to the ground before he wiped the side of his mouth. He was now sneering up at Yoongi. “What else would it be, fucker? You killed the only person I love! You ended her when you knew doing so would end me as well! I thought you were my brother! I treated you like one!”

Yoongi scoffed up, his eyes clenched shut. “You fucking idiot,” he whispered. “She was our sister. Why would I fucking kill her?”

“Stop fucking lying, Yoongi!” he screamed as he stood up, facing the man head on with renewed anger in his eyes. “I saw you that night!”

The thing that was the most peculiar was that despite Hoseok’s blazing anger, Yoongi only now reciprocated it with his cold and calm demeanor. “And what exactly did you see?”

13 years ago

The mansion was in chaos.

Everything was on fire.

The war they waged against Seokjin’s father was not without any casualty. The soldiers took sides; the younger ones sided with the mafia prince, as well as those that wanted a change and those that were fed up with the senseless battles the mafia king was leading them on. On the other hand, the traditional and older mafias that were higher in hierarchy didn’t want the change. Why would they want it when they benefited the most from the current leader?

But they underestimated Kim Seokjin. They underestimated the monster they raised.

And that night, as the mafia prince watched the mansion burned down with a satisfied smile on his face, Hoseok was desperately looking for her. He lost track of her amidst the battle. He knew she could hold her own, having trained alongside the brothers. He didn’t doubt her ability. But damn it, he had a bad feeling about it. And so he braved the fire, he braved the unbearable smoke and went inside the blazing mansion.

He just wished the bad omen he was feeling was nothing.

But alas, it was a wishful thinking. He barged into the main office, desperately calling out her name, just in time to see Yoongi pulled a knife from her shoulder. The squelching sound of blood was sickening, the look on her face as she gasped from the pain was a nightmare. The fire illuminated the scene, and the suffocating smoke was thick, curling through the air, choking every breath with its acrid sting.

“Yoongi hyung?” Hoseok asked with a small voice. What…what happened? Why was Yoongi holding the knife?

Yoongi turned to him slowly, looking like the devil he knew he was, the fire surrounding them made him looked like one. The fire emphasized and illuminated the scar in his eye.

“W-what happened, hyung? Did you hurt her?”

“Hoseok.”

Hoseok turned to her and saw tears slipping down her face. It was the face he loved so much. He loved her so much and now she was dying.

“What did you do?” he asked in disbelief, his feet moving before he could even think of the danger. He was so near her, he could have saved her, but the ceiling gave in.

He would have died had Namjoon decided not to follow him.

He would have followed her had Namjoon not pulled him back just in time.

When he woke up in the hospital, he learned that everyone was safe.

Everyone was okay, except her.

Even the fucker Yoongi who was last seen holding her survived. How could he survive when she didn’t?

There were whispers that she was a spy…but surely, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t kill her over mere whispers, right? They grew up together. There was no way in fucking hell that he killed her over it…right?!

Moreover, there was no way she could betray him. She wouldn’t. Hoseok refused to believe she did.

Because if she could easily betray him, that meant that she never truly loved him. Not like he did.

“You know what I saw.”

“But did you know what you really saw that night, Hobi-ah?”

Jungkook turned to Jimin who was listening just as intently as he was. “What mental gymnastics type of shit is hyung saying?”

He was quiet for a moment, and Jungkook would have believed he wouldn’t answer when he finally did. “In this case, I’d like to believe it’s nothing but the naked truth,” Jimin responded, never taking his eyes off the two men. The way Yoongi pulled back when he heard of Hoseok’s belief was enough to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“I saw you. You pulled the knife from her! She bled in front of you. If you didn’t kill her, why then were you the only one that survived when you were with her?!” At that point, Hoseok’s vein was protruding, his words got louder and louder. They never saw him act that way. They never saw him lose control.

They should have known he only let go when it came to her.

Maybe, he should have done this long ago. Maybe then, he wouldn’t house the decade-old hatred he had been feeling in his heart. Maybe then, they could have the brother he used to be.

“So you tried to kill my angel because of that? You tried to kill her. You tried to kill me. And when that wasn’t enough, you stole the life that should have been mine. You stole my son away from me. You did all those things because of that?”

“And those were still not enough to atone for killing her!”

Yoongi sighed and shook his head. He turned around, walking away from Hoseok and to the chair before he slumped down on it in weariness. His white shirt was bloodied, and no way was it salvageable. His dark hair was disheveled, and the eye that did not house the scar was shut close from the swelling. He regarded Hoseok for a moment as though deep in thought.

“I agree. Those aren’t enough. You should have done more,” he conceded as he leaned back on the chair.

“Hyung!” Jimin protested.

“Why? He’s right. All those things won’t be enough. If I really killed noona knowing full well that she was the center of this moron��s world, then what he did to me was simply not enough. Right? Oh wait…” he trailed off before a smirk graced his busted lips. “Except that I didn’t kill her.”

“That’s enough, hyung! I saw what happened,” Namjoon quipped, wanting nothing but for all of this to have the conclusion it deserved. Everything was in chaos, and the Bangtan itself was in the brink of collapse if this would not be fixed.

“You saw me pulled the knife. You’re a fucking attorney, right, Namjoon-ah? Then answer me this. Is what you saw conclusive enough for you to decisively say that I put the knife in her?”

“You fucker. What the fuck are you saying?” Hoseok asked in disbelief.

“I didn’t kill her, Hobi-ah.”

“You did!”

Yoongi laughed. He laughed for such a long time before he stood up and calmly walked to the door. He was so relaxed as though he wasn’t trying to kill Hoseok mere moments ago, or that he just didn’t drop another perspective from what Hoseok religiously believed in for the past 13 years. He was to the door when he stopped laughing.

“You know what, now that I think about it…I’m not entirely even sure she’s fucking dead.”

The elevator dinged, announcing Yoongi’s presence.

You were sick in worry. It had only been more than two hours since he dragged Hoseok down, and you felt every ticking second of it. No one would tell you anything. The two men with you were completely useless and they couldn’t have been more disinterested even if they tried to. The hatred between Yoongi and Hoseok was more than a decade deep. From what you gathered over the years, Hoseok was retaliating over something that Yoongi committed. And now, Yoongi was retaliating for what Hoseok did to them.

It was a never-ending cycle. You just hoped that it wouldn’t end with either of them dying for it to stop.

The elevator door opened. Min Yoongi was staggering as he walked to where she was. He was using the walls for support, his other hand clutching his stomach.

He was drenched in blood, his immaculate face covered with bruises and wounds. He was obviously hurt, and yet, the sight of you trembling with tears in your eyes was what pained him more.

“Why are you crying, my angel?” Yoongi asked in concern as soon as he reached you, his hand cupping your face gently as he looked down at you with worry in his eyes. “What happened, my love?”

You grasped his hands, feeling the cuts scattered on them. “Y-you need treatment. You-you’re hurt-”

Yoongi pulled you softly to his chest, encircling your crying form to him securely. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being alive,” Yoongi whispered. “For giving me a family. For existing the time as me. For…loving someone as twisted as me.”

But most of all, he wanted to thank her for coming back to him.

At that time, Yoongi wanted to believe that he did the right thing. Removing noona from Hoseok’s life was what was necessary back then. It was the right thing.

But was it really?

He took the fall for noona’s absence. His naïve, younger self surmised that it was better to not say anything, that his silence was enough. He thought everything would go away with enough time, that Hoseok would eventually move on. He couldn’t have been more wrong. He suffered the consequences.

And you… yousuffered the consequences, too.

He was foolish to think that his love for noona was something that would dwindle in time. That love such as Hoseok’s, or rather, his obsession, was not heavy enough to do all this. But now that he had you, he knew better.

Yoongi was wrong.

“Eomma?”

The events of the day had surely exhausted the toddler. Despite the chaos and Seokjin’s annoyance when Yoongi pushed him out of the penthouse after he treated him, he slept soundly. Now that he was awake, his curious eyes observed his surrounding, taking in the unfamiliar place in silence.

“Hi, my love,” you greeted him, reaching for him. His smell calmed you. You hadn’t seen him for what felt like forever. You wanted his life to be better, for calm to reign for the rest of his life. And yet, you were back to where you started.

All those bad thoughts vanished when he wrapped his little arms around you. “Eomma!” he squealed excitedly. He was giggling as he hugged you when the bedroom door opened.

Yoongi was freshly showered and sported a black cotton shirt and comfortable pants. His hair was damped. He was a confident person, yet when his son turned to look at him, he seemed to not know what to do.

"Eomma, who?" Your son asked, his little lips pouting as he glanced up at you, wide-eyed and full of curiosity. He looked so much like Yoongi when he was younger—his expression, the innocence in his gaze, even the way he furrowed his brow when he didn’t understand something.

You were quiet for a moment until you extended your hand to Suga. It was all he needed. He reached for your hand and sat beside you in the bed. His pale skin was just like his son’s. He wanted to hug the little boy, but he knew he was nothing but a stranger to him.

“That’s appa,” you answered with a smile. Your son tilted his head to the side, the way he always did when he was thinking hard, his brows knitting together in the sweetest frown. Yoongi’s heart clenched at the sight. His son.

"Yoongi, meet Jiwon," you said gently, your voice barely above a whisper. You said his name with such tenderness, as if bringing him closer to Yoongi with just the sound of it.

“Jiwon,” he muttered, saying his son’s name for the first time. “Min Jiwon.”

The little boy blinked, still not fully understanding the significance of the man beside him. He regarded Yoongi for a long moment, brow furrowing again, but then a soft smile appeared on his face, the kind of smile only a child could give—pure and uncomplicated.

“Owwie?” Your son asked, pointing at the bruise on Yoongi’s face, his voice filled with concern. The small frown still creased his forehead, a mix of innocence and empathy as he tried to make sense of the man’s injury.

Yoongi smiled, holding the small hand that was pointing at his face.

His son.

He was finally holding his son.

“Not anymore, my son.”

“Owkay I kiss to heal!” he declared earnestly, his face brightening with the simplicity of his gesture, his little lips pressing gently against the wound.

Yoongi froze for a moment, his breath catching in his chest. He couldn’t believe it—this tiny child, this little person who had never known him, was offering him a piece of innocence and love that he didn’t deserve. He had always imagined this moment, but he never could have predicted how much it would pierce through him.

Yoongi blinked, fighting the tears that threatened to spill. He smiled, though the emotions swirled inside him, raw and unspoken. "Thank you, my son," he whispered softly, his voice barely above a murmur.

“Thank you, my wife,” Yoongi looked at you with tenderness in his eyes.

You gave him more than he deserved. You gave him a family.

Yoongi’s eyes snapped open.

It was late, much later than Yoongi had realized. The stillness of the night wrapped around him, the only sound being the steady breathing of his family beside him. He could hear the soft inhale and exhale of your chest, and Jiwon’s tiny, rhythmic breaths between you and him in the bed. It was the first night he had spent with his family, the first night he could legally say that his angel was now lawfully his. A feeling of warmth spread through him as he watched you both sleep soundly, Jiwon nestled safely in the crook of his arm.

It should have been peaceful, this night. It should have been perfect.

But Yoongi’s instincts were screaming at him. A sudden prickle of unease skittered down his spine. Something was wrong. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

He smelled danger.

Every muscle in his body tensed. He needed to divert the threat, to keep you both safe, no matter the cost. His training kicked in, adrenaline flooding his veins as he silently slid out of bed. Every movement was practiced, swift, calculated. He stepped lightly on the cold floor, his feet making no sound as he crept toward the door.

He could hear it now—three sets of footsteps. Slow, deliberate. They were methodical, careful, but not quiet enough.

Yoongi’s lips curled into a barely perceptible sneer as he made his way to the door. He slipped out into the hallway, his footsteps just as silent. His eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness. It was no different than the shadows of his past—quiet, lurking, hiding danger.

He knew the layout of this place better than anyone else. He had memorized every corner, every blind spot. Crouching down behind the table in the hallway, his hand grazed the knife he had hidden there, the cold steel meeting his palm like a promise.

They had no idea who they were dealing with.

Yoongi exhaled slowly, his heart pounding but steady. His grip tightened around the knife, eyes trained on the shadows at the far end of the hallway. They were still a few steps away, but he knew time wasn’t on his side.

Three men?

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, mixed with a bitter, cynical edge. Who was this asshole who sent only three men to eliminate him? Seriously? Was that supposed to intimidate him? It almost felt like an insult.

The first man rounded the corner, his shadow barely visible in the dim moonlight streaming through the window. Yoongi’s fingers flexed around the knife’s hilt, his breath steady. The man was just a few feet away, and Yoongi knew he couldn’t hesitate.

With a swift motion, Yoongi darted from his hiding place, slamming the knife into the man’s side before he even had a chance to react. The man crumpled to the floor, gasping as Yoongi pulled the knife free with a quiet flick of his wrist. Blood stained the floor, but Yoongi didn’t even flinch.

One down.

The second man was already drawing his weapon, but Yoongi anticipated his movements, lunging forward with lethal precision, using the table as leverage to knock him off balance. The sound of the man’s body hitting the floor echoed in the silent house, and Yoongi was already on top of him, pressing his knee into the man’s chest and twisting his wrist until the gun slipped from his grasp.

Two down.

The last man was quicker, his eyes darting frantically between Yoongi and his fallen comrades. But he was already too late. Yoongi’s hand reached for the gun in his waistband, bringing it up in a single fluid motion as the man tried to raise his own. Yoongi fired once, twice, the shots ringing out sharply in the quiet night. The man’s body jerked with each bullet, before he collapsed, lifeless.

Three down.

Yoongi stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, his gaze scanning the hallway. It was over. But the danger wasn’t gone—not yet. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, then slipped the gun back into his holster. His heart was pounding, but his movements were calm as he wiped the knife clean with a cloth.

Quietly, he fished the phone from his pocket and mindlessly took a picture of the scene and sent it to their group chat, prompting for an emergency meeting at the Bangtan’s headquarters. Next thing he did was dialed for Jimin. He knew what to do.

The first to step through the door was Park Jimin, his presence commanding, his eyes scanning the scene with practiced precision. He barely glanced at the bodies on the floor before his gaze locked onto Yoongi, a silent understanding passing between them. Behind Jimin, the rest of the crew filed in—armed, alert, ready to take action. The air thickened with the weight of their presence. Yoongi knew the drill. The storm was only just beginning.

The troop saluted at him and they were quick to assess the situation, recording and preserving the evidence of the crime. They couldn’t allow this to slide, not when the chief of police, Min Yoongi, had been targeted. The idea of him being a victim? Unthinkable.

Jimin gracefully walked to where he was standing. Yoongi stood apart from the chaos, a cigarette dangling loosely from his lips. He exhaled slowly, the smoke curling around his face like a shield. His anger was palpable—his body rigid, his eyes narrowing as the team moved around him. He was barely holding onto the thin thread of sanity that had kept him grounded. His hands were steady, but his mind was a storm. His family was safe, on their way to the headquarters now with the army of men he trusted, but the unsettling calm in his chest only made his rage more dangerous.

“Reporting this to the police?” Jimin's voice broke through the silence, a smirk tugging at his plump lips as he approached. His footsteps were light, almost graceful, as he surveyed the room, his eyes flicking over the men as they worked. “Bold move, hyung.”

Yoongi scoffed, his gaze flicking to Jimin, but he didn’t move a muscle. His fingers tapped the side of his cigarette, the ember glowing in the dark. The sarcasm in Jimin’s voice didn’t faze him. “I’ve already been beaten up by Hoseok earlier, so I’ll just tell them those three assholes did this to me. Self-defense, you know? Trespassing. I’m sure the story will hold up fine.”

Jimin chuckled, shaking his head, but the amusement in his eyes faded as he studied Yoongi. The older man’s expression was cold, a warning to anyone who dared to underestimate his resolve. The anger simmering beneath the surface was a storm just waiting to break free.

Yoongi’s lips curled into something between a grin and a snarl, his eyes sharp as they narrowed on the scene. He tossed the cigarette aside, grinding it into the floor with his heel, and turned toward Jimin. “You know what’s even better?”

Jimin raised an eyebrow, his expression cautious but curious. “What’s that?”

Yoongi’s voice was low, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Call the reporters. I want this shit to be known throughout the country. Making an unprecedented attack on the chief of the police? And his family? His wife that is blind? And his young son? Guess whose sympathy the public will side?”

Jimin blinked, clearly surprised by the request. But Yoongi’s eyes were steely, full of something dark and dangerous. His gaze flicked to the team, who were still working meticulously in the background.

“They need to know who fucked with the wrong man,” Yoongi continued, his voice a low growl. “And the first person who reacts? The first one who does anything different… will most likely be our fucking enemy.”

Jimin's smirk faltered, replaced by the same steel in his leader’s eyes. He didn’t need to ask who Yoongi was talking about. He understood. It wasn’t just about the attack anymore. It was about sending a message—a statement. Whoever was behind this wasn’t just after the chief of police. They were challenging the entire fucking empire.

Jeon Jungkook was the last to enter the room. He held his hand up, silencing the comment Seokjin was clearly about to make on his pajamas.

“It’s 3 in the morning. Don’t, hyung,” he stated, placing his trusty laptop down on the table.

All of them were gathered there, their faces that of seriousness except for Taehyung who was just playing on his phone as though the situation was not grave enough to merit his attention. But the situation was bigger than they initially thought. Someone was foolish enough to go after one of the leaders of Bangtan. An attack to one was, and should be, considered an attack to all.

This ends now.

All of them was there…well, except for Hoseok who they hadn’t seen since the confrontation. However, to what Namjoon divulged, Hoseok was in his own mansion.

Yoongi sat at the head of the table, the whiskey glass in his hand the only thing that betrayed his seething anger. He didn’t speak, but they all knew that a quiet Yoongi was the most dangerous of them all. The air around him seemed to hum with unspoken rage, his silence more ominous than any outburst.

Jungkook sighed, rubbing his eyes. He’d barely slept, and now this. As if things weren’t already complicated enough. He didn’t have the energy for the usual banter. Seokjin, on the other hand, was pouting dramatically, his voice whining as he complained about how the stress of Bangtan’s messes was taking years off his life.

“JK,” Namjoon called for his attention before smiling at him. “Tell us about what you found.”

He nodded before quickly tapping on his laptop. The hug screen in front of the table reflected his findings. “Among our known enemies, as well as people who have been acting strangely lately, these three are the main suspects. First, the one we blew out the ship last year. Second is the-”

Jungkook nodded and immediately began tapping away on his laptop. The large screen in front of the table illuminated as his findings were projected for everyone to see. His fingers moved swiftly over the keyboard, and soon the list of suspects was clear.

“Among our known enemies, as well as people who’ve been acting strange lately, these three are our main suspects,” Jungkook said, his voice steady despite the overwhelming tension. “First, the one we took down last year—the one we blew out of the water in the shipping deal. Second—”

“It’s the third one,” Taehyung interrupted suddenly, his bored eyes finally lifting from his phone to the screen. His voice was casual, as if he wasn’t dealing with the aftermath of an attack on their own.

“What?” Jimin asked, his eyes narrowed in curiosity. He looked at Taehyung, confused by his nonchalant interruption.

Taehyung rested his chin on his hand, the playful air about him from earlier gone as his expression became serious. “It’s the senator. The aspiring president in the upcoming election.”

There was a brief silence before Jimin spoke up again, his brows furrowing. “The senator?”

Taehyung nodded, his tone unchanged, still calm as ever. “He’s been in our pockets for a long time. We’ve been backing him for years, keeping him in line, helping him with his ambitions. But suddenly, we told him we wouldn’t be supporting his bid for president anymore.”

Jungkook looked up from his laptop, his expression now tense. He knew where this was going.

Taehyung continued, his voice growing colder. “The only dirt he has in his ledger? Us. The Bangtan. If we don’t support him, then we’re supporting the other guy. And that’s the last thing he can afford. Losing our backing would destroy everything he’s been working for.

And they all know what happens if they lose our support.”

“Taehyung-ah, that’s a heavy accusation. Do you have any proof?” Seokjin asked.

He nodded, showing his phone to them wherein it showed how he messaged several people with one sentence.

You messed with the wrong people.

The only one who didn’t answer? The senator.

“And well, my sources tell me he’s on the move right now. The fucker is on his way here. So…should we keep going with this pointless meeting or should we head out for war? Because, you know, this is getting honestly boring.”

Before anyone could respond, a loud explosion rattled the walls of the headquarters. The sound of glasses shattering echoed through the room, sharp and continuous, as the windows cracked under the force. Instantly, all six men were on their feet, instinctively reaching for their weapons and preparing for what was about to come. The tension in the air now felt like static, crackling with violence.

The senator had moved first.

Fucking politics.

Yoongi sneered as they all moved to action. “If you get out of here alive, Namjoon-ah, I’m making you a fucking senator!”

“Hyung!”

Well, they did need a political backing. And who better to do that than Namjoon?

The sound of another explosion came, followed by distant gunfire. The senator’s men were already here. They didn’t have time to waste.

Jimin’s sharp eyes narrowed as he pulled on his jacket, his hands readying his gun. “What a fucking foolish man,” he muttered angrily, his voice low but carrying the weight of experience. The last time a chaos with this magnitude was unleashed was when they overthrew Kim Seokjin’s father.

Jimin was already up, moving fluidly, shooting back with precision. His aim was flawless, every bullet finding its mark. The others moved with the same deadly efficiency, but Yoongi’s mind was already a step ahead. His eyes darted to the monitors, where enemy positions were flashing in real-time. He knew the layout of his headquarters inside and out, but it was clear: the senator had come prepared. This wasn’t just a raid—it was a full-on assault.

The next blast came from the front entrance, a massive explosion that blew the doors off their hinges, sending fragments of concrete and wood scattering across the hallway. The force of it sent Yoongi stumbling back, his ears ringing. He recovered quickly, shaking off the disorientation, and rose to his feet.

“Stay alert! They’ll breach the back soon,” Yoongi ordered, voice cold and commanding. He was already heading toward the armory. This wouldn’t be over quickly.

"Taehyung, take the right flank. Namjoon, the left. Jimin, Seokjin—get to the control room. Jungkook, you’re with me. We take the front. Clear?"

"Clear," Taehyung responded, his voice low and focused as he sprinted toward the hallway.

Jimin didn’t need to be told twice—he was already moving. The rest of Bangtan didn’t hesitate either. They were soldiers in their own right, and they knew what was at stake.

Gunfire erupted in the hallway as the attackers advanced. Bullets ricocheted off the walls, but Yoongi was already moving with ruthless precision, his weapon blazing. He took out two men in quick succession, his face impassive as he executed the moves he had perfected over the years. Jungkook was at his side, equally efficient, his gunshots timed perfectly with Yoongi’s.

The sound of the explosions and gunfire seemed to blur together, the chaos intensifying as more men poured into the building. Bangtan’s headquarters had become a battlefield.

Yoongi’s eyes scanned the area, taking note of the positions of his enemies. Every move was calculated. He ducked behind cover, reloading his gun, then came up again, firing without hesitation. The senator’s men were aggressive, but they were no match for Bangtan’s precision and training.

In the distance, the unmistakable sound of a helicopter's rotors beating against the air told Yoongi that their enemies weren’t just coming on foot. The senator had everything planned. It was a full-scale operation.

"Hyung!" Jungkook’s voice cut through the noise, and Yoongi's gaze snapped to him. The younger man was taking down enemy after enemy with ruthless precision, but his face was set in a grim expression, his tone heavy with urgency. "You have to take noona and Jiwon away from this! We’re being surrounded! Backup is a good ten minutes away. You have to keep your family safe!"

Yoongi’s throat tightened at the mention of you and Jiwon. The very thought of you being anywhere near this madness made the blood in his veins run cold.

His eyes flicked to the doorway where you and his son were hidden, safe for the moment, but Yoongi knew that wasn’t enough. He could feel the pressure mounting, the walls of the building seeming to close in with every passing second. The helicopter overhead was a clear indication that the senator wasn’t messing around. This was orchestrated. This was personal.

“We’ll survive. Noona needs you more than us,” Jungkook repeated, his voice a low growl as he fired off a few more rounds, taking out two more of the senator’s men who were sneaking up behind Yoongi.

He hesitated only for a moment, before his jaw set in grim determination. His eyes darted toward the hallway where he had last seen you and Jiwon, the precious little family he thought he could protect.

“Go. Take care of yourself, hyung,” Jungkook said before dashing off into the fray, moving with the precision of a seasoned soldier, disappearing into the shadows as he fought off another wave of enemies.

Yoongi didn’t wait. He moved quickly, every muscle in his body tense as he pushed his way through the chaos, his gun at the ready. As he passed the hallway leading to the room where you and Jiwon were, he felt his chest tighten with a sense of urgency. He couldn’t afford to hesitate.

"Stay low. Stay quiet. Don't make a sound," Yoongi ordered as he approached you, his voice calm but sharp, like steel wrapped in velvet. His gaze was burning, determined. He could feel the weight of his promise to protect you.

He found you in the small, dark room where you were trying to comfort Jiwon, who was clutching a stuffed bear to his chest, eyes wide in confusion. You looked up, your face pale, but there was a quiet strength in your expression. You already knew. You could feel it, too.

Yoongi moved to you quickly, kneeling in front of you. He cupped your face gently, brushing away a tear that had escaped down your cheek, and locked eyes with you.

“We’re leaving now,” he said softly but firmly. “Stay close. Don’t look back.”

You nodded, your grip tightening around Jiwon. There was no question in your eyes. The world outside was in chaos, but you trusted Yoongi, and that was all that mattered right now.

With one last glance at his son, Yoongi turned and led you down the hallway, his mind racing. He wasn’t just fighting to protect you—he was fighting to keep his family whole. And no one—no one—was going to take that from him.

The getaway car was so nearby. He moved his family as quickly as he could, but with you being almost full blind made it difficult. As they rounded the corner, a sharp noise shattered the air. Yoongi’s heart lurched as three masked figures emerged from the shadows, blocking their path. Their weapons gleamed ominously in the dim light. Yoongi’s blood ran cold, but his movements were swift—he spun, instinctively pushing you and Jiwon behind him, using his body as a shield.

Before he could even point the gun at them, three successive shots pierced through their head and their bodies fell down with a thud, revealing Hoseok.

Hoseok lowered his gun, his expression unreadable, his stance calm yet deadly. The hallway, once filled with the sounds of chaos, was eerily silent now, save for the heavy breaths from Yoongi and the distant crackle of the fighting outside.

Yoongi blinked, the shock of the sudden shift in the situation still gripping him. Hoseok? He had barely registered his presence, too focused on the danger ahead.

“What? Are you not going to hurry?” Hoseok’s voice was light, almost amused, but his eyes were hard. There was no room for hesitation, no room for weakness. He was the last person to show any sign of mercy, but right now, there was a flash of something in his gaze that told Yoongi everything—Hoseok had no intention of letting anything happen to his family.

Yoongi didn’t waste time on words. His instincts took over. With a sharp nod, he motioned for you and Jiwon to move faster.

Once Yoongi had secured his family in the car, he took a moment, standing still in the chaos that surrounded them. Without a word, he stepped closer, cupping your face gently, his thumb brushing away the tears that had fallen. His gaze was soft but filled with a sorrow that hurt more than anything. And then, as though time itself had stopped, Yoongi leaned down and kissed you deeply.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It wasn’t just a goodbye. It was everything he couldn’t say, everything he couldn’t protect you from. It was the way his lips moved against yours—slow, desperate, full of meaning. It was a kiss that burned with the intensity of his love and his fear. He kissed you as if he were memorizing every sensation—the way you fit against him, the way your breath mingled with his, the way your heart raced in sync with his own. This moment, this fragile piece of time, was all they had.

You clung to him, your sobs breaking through as you gripped his hands with a desperation that mirrored his own. “Come back to me, okay? Come back to us,” you cried, voice trembling, raw with fear and love.

Yoongi’s chest tightened. He smiled, but it was the kind of smile that felt like it could tear him apart. Instead of answering you, he whispered those three words that had always meant everything between you two, but in this moment, they felt like a promise, a plea, and a goodbye all at once.

“I love you.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before he pulled back, his eyes never leaving yours. But there was no more time. He stepped back, heart breaking with every second that ticked by. His gaze flickered to Jiwon, and without hesitation, he reached for his son. Pulling the boy into his arms, Yoongi hugged him tight, pressing his forehead against his son’s.

“Be safe, Jiwon,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion.

Then, with one last lingering look at you, he straightened up, his face hardening into a mask of resolve. There would be no time for hesitation. He turned and walked away, each step more purposeful than the last. He knew what he had to do. But with every step, the ache in his chest only grew.

Hoseok looked at Yoongi who was marching to him instead of inside the car. “What the fuck? We have no time. You have to leave–”

Yoongi threw him the keys. “You take them to safety. You get them out of here. You get them to safety, no matter what happens. You take care of them, Hoseok. Don’t let anything happen to them.”

“H-hyung,” Hoseok muttered in confusion.

“You’re the better driver between the two of us. Keep them safe, Hoseok. Keep them safe, and I’ll take you to noona myself.”

Yoongi had five minutes.

Five minutes until backup arrived, and he had to make every second count. His heart pounded in his chest as he rushed back to the scene, every step calculated, every movement with purpose. His family was safe—for now. You and Jiwon were miles away from the chaos, out of harm’s way, but Yoongi knew this fight wasn’t over. Not until every last enemy was on the ground.

He weaved through the wreckage, his men fighting tooth and nail. The sounds of gunfire, shouts, and explosions filled the air, but Yoongi moved like a shadow—silent, swift, and relentless. The tide of battle had already begun to turn. His team, the Bangtan, were forces to be reckoned with. Their enemies were dropping like flies, overwhelmed by the sheer precision and ruthlessness of the Bangtan army. They’d been underestimated, and Yoongi intended to make sure they’d never make that mistake again.

There was no hesitation now. Victory was within their grasp. Yoongi could feel it, in his bones, in the tension of every muscle, in the pulse of adrenaline thrumming through his veins. He was going to win this. He would make sure of it.

But just as Yoongi allowed himself to believe victory was imminent, it came—the sharp, searing pain of a bullet tearing through his shoulder. His body jolted, the force of the impact sending him crashing to the ground.

The battle was still raging, but it was quieter now. The enemies’ numbers were dwindling. Yoongi knew they were on the verge of ending this. He had to keep fighting.

Meanwhile, miles away, a car sped down the road, the tires screeching as it rapidly approached the getaway car. It was coming for you. Hoseok’s eyes narrowed as he watched the car in the rearview mirror, knowing that the danger wasn’t over yet.

In a split-second decision, Hoseok swerved the car, taking a sharp turn that threw everyone inside off balance. The vehicle came directly into the path of the oncoming car, his body bracing for the impact. His mind moved faster than his body, and in that moment, he knew what he had to do—he had to take the hit. His team, your family—they were more important than him.

The crash was deafening. Glass shattered, metal crumpled, and Hoseok’s body jerked violently from the force of the impact. But he didn’t care. All that mattered was that you were safe.

As the world around him fell into chaos, Yoongi’s world came to a halt. His pulse raced, but his vision began to darken. He had to finish this, he told himself. He had to finish it for you, for Jiwon, for his family, and for the legacy of the Bangtan.

But in that split second, everything stopped. The roar of battle, the screeching tires, the pounding in his ears—everything faded into the background.

Epilogue

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bonnie-the-butcher · 5 months ago

Text

Rip Tide | Chapter VIII

[ MDNI ] [ word count: 7.289 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; Dark! Content; NSFW; Strong Language; Cheating; Drug Use; Mentions of overdose; Some shades of Munchausen syndrome from dear old Rafe; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar mistakes you might find find.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and JJ have always been in each other's orbit. He's your brother’s best friend, the guy you've known your entire life. He was kind, protective, familiar. You never meant for the two of you to start hooking up. And you never meant for it to last so long. But when this boy you thought you'd come to know like the back of your hand turns out to be no better than the men he'd warned you about, you find yourself in the sights of the guy he hates most, regardless of wether you want that or not.

Likes, asks, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance for reading <3

Silence weighs heavy in the kitchen as Rafe remains there, in the door, looking at you. His smirk widens, a flash of perfectly straight teeth between his swollen lips. – The new chef, huh? You already hired?

Kareem stands, frantically wiping his hands on his apron. – Mr. Cameron, this is—

– I was talking to her. – He takes his time scanning the room, gaze sweeping over the kitchen like he’s searching for something out of place, something to pick apart. When his eyes land on Kareem, there’s a flicker of amusement, barely there before it smooths into something more polished, more calculated. He gives you a slow, easy smile, practiced like the rest of him. – Didn’t know we were hiring new help.

Kareem only barely bites back whatever it was that flashed over his face so violently.

Rafe exhales a short laugh, like he’s humoring him. He moves closer, leaning against the counter like he’s settling in for a show, and pushes at your plate. – So? What's on the menu?

Kareem puts his fork down, fidgeting with his hands. – Lunch’s already in the making. The new hire was just showing off.

Rafe’s eyes flick back to you, trailing down to the plate before drifting back up. – Was she now? – The way he says it makes your skin prickle. Like he’s talking about a trick dog instead of a person. Like the whole thing is some private joke only he’s in on. – Damn, – He whistles, tilting his head. – Guess we’re getting fancy. You go to culinary school or something?

You hold his gaze, forcing your shoulders to stay squared. You don’t know what game he’s playing at, but you’re almost thankful he’s pretending not to know you. – No, sir. Just experience.

– Sir? You serious? – Rafe grins. – I like it. Real respectful. Could use more of that around here.

There’s an edge to it. A warning disguised as praise. You don’t miss the way Kareem stiffens slightly, the way his grip tightens around the fabric of his sleeve. Rafe doesn’t like him. That much is obvious. But more than that—he likes making sure Kareem knows it.

He reaches for the plate without asking, plucking a piece of cornbread from the edge. He takes a slow bite, exaggerating the motion like he’s savoring it, like he’s considering whether or not to spit it out. Then he hums, licking a crumb from his hand.

His eyes gleam as when he meets your gaze. – Not bad.

– Glad it meets your standards. – You say evenly.

His eyes flick back up, a flash of something sharper beneath the surface. – Careful, – he warns, low and amused. – Flattery’ll get you everywhere.

Kareem shifts beside you, his hand landing on your shoulder as if he's trying to tranquilize you. He's shaking. – Mr. Cameron, is there anything we can do for you?

Rafe doesn’t move. Just chews, watching you with the kind of patience that isn’t patience at all. – Yeah. Well, not you. But maybe she can do it. – He takes your fork, scooping up some of your mashed potatoes. – Lamb roast, like the one at the Wreck. Kareem over here always fumbles it, his lamb tastes like beef jerky.

– Mr. Cameron, the supper’s already planned.

– Well, then, un-plan it. – He says as if it’s the simplest thing in the world, taking some more chicken and mash from your plate, and chewing slowly. – We have a very special dinner guest coming over and I want that lamb for dinner. So chop chop. Go ahead and buy the things. I wanna see if your new hire really is up to my standards. – He looks back at you, mischief glinting off his eyes. – Right, newbie?

You let your eyes drift back to Kareem, nodding quietly. – I think I can handle a second interview.

– Great! – Rafe’s smile is almost innocent, he chuckles lightly, his shoulder brushing yours. – Off you go, Kareem. She can handle a second interview.

The man’s eyes linger on you for a moment. His brows drawn together, eyes overtaken by worry. His lips fall open, but they close again as he reaches for a tote bag on the back door. – I won’t be long.

It's a reassurance, you realize, but as soon as the door closes Rafe starts laughing like a child, covering his mouth as he leans into your side.

– Are you always this charming?

– You know I am, baby. That's what you like about me. – You don’t know what to say. A twinge of discomfort still lingers in your chest after watching Rafe treat poor Kareem, who ranks much higher than you, as if he was nothing. – So… – He pokes at you, eyes wide and intent, and pulls the chair behind you closer with a grin. – You’re officially employed now, huh?

– You could say so.

– You know what that means? – He takes another bite of the chicken and hums, happily. Happier than you’ve ever seen him.

You sit down, and he pulls your chair even closer, his knee brushing yours. – That I don’t have to worry about starving anymore because you saved my ass?

Rafe chuckles, the sound light and careless. He seems so different like this. So different from the guy that was bullying one of his employees not a minute ago. – That too. But mostly, that you’ll have to fulfill all of my cravings, no matter how insane.

His eyes darken as he leans close. You don’t miss the suggestiveness, but you look around, at this giant, pristine kitchen, at the calm surrounding you, at this perfect new job you only have because of Rafe.

You don’t have it in you to be bothered for much longer.

Things never go your way.

You might as well enjoy the smooth sailing while it lasts. – Tell me about these cravings then. I know you like my lamb roast. – He nods, taking the other fork on the counter and handing it to you. – What else do you like?

– Tryna get to know me huh? That's cute.

– Go ahead, Rafe. I’ll make it easy for you: Favorite soup, favorite roast, favorite pastry.

He looks at you, challenge glinting off his eyes. – You’re the professional here, aren’t you? Let’s see if you can guess my taste. Give me your palm reading.

– Palm reading? – You laugh. – I’m a psychic now? Shit, I gotta put that on my resume.

– You’re not gonna put shit in your resume. This is your job now. You ain’t getting fired.

His words are even, level, almost casual. Like he hadn't thought before the words left his mouth. But he is still pressed against you, holding up the fork as an invitation, an attempt to make you feel part of his world.

You take the fork from his hand, twirling it between your fingers as you watch him. His expression changes then. He looks so smug, so sure you’ll get it wrong. But you’re good at this. You've never been good with yourself, but you've always been good at people.

– Alright. Let’s see… – You lean back slightly, crossing one leg over the other. His knee is still brushing yours. – Favorite soup? French Onion.

The smirk on his lips twitches, almost falters. You know you have him.

– Interesting. Why?

– You like rich food. Heavy, but classic. Something you’d get at a steakhouse or some bougie country club dinner with your dad. Here's the thing though, I think, for you it has to be indulgent. Something you could eat for days. It's gotta be tasty.

He nods. – That’s what I'm talking about.

– Cheese too. I bet you put a lot of cheese on your soup. What do you like?

He smiles, leaning so close he's almost glued to your side. – I like a good Gruyere.

– Okay, fancy!

– I'm a man of culture, okay?

– I see it. – You tilt your head, watching his reaction. – That’s my first guess. Am I wrong?

His tongue darts out, running along the edge of his teeth. As if he's thinking about it. – Not bad. Not bad at all, baby.

You grin, triumphant. – Roast is easy. Man like you? Only one option: Prime rib. You like it rare, still bleeding.

His brows lift, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and genuine curiosity.

– You sure about that?

– Oh, I am positive. Lamb is still your number one, but prime rib is a close second. You wouldn’t go for anything too gamey—no pork, no turkey, chicken only if it's fried. – He laughs, the bone of your fried chicken still in his hand. – You like the expensive stuff. The things other people think are only good because they cost a lot, but that are actually better than the rest.

Rafe lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. – You really think you know me, huh?

– Oh, I do.

He’s still grinning, but there’s something sharper in his gaze now, like he’s sizing you up in a way he hadn’t before.

– Alright, psychic. Last one.

You take a beat, tapping the fork against your lip.

– Pastry… You pretend you don’t have a sweet tooth, but you totally do. – His smile sharpens. Rafe licks his lips slowly, his gaze fixed on your mouth. – You’d never admit it, though. So it has to be something subtle. Not over-the-top, nothing too sugary. – You pause for effect, then snap your fingers. – Madame Routledge says... Chocolate croissant.

Rafe stares at you, and for a second, you think you’ve finally missed. But then he lets out a small tsk, shaking his head. – Close.

– Close?

– Chocolate éclair.

Your mouth opens, then closes. That’s—okay, that actually makes perfect sense. – Damn. That was my second guess.

Rafe grins, tilting his head as he leans in just a little closer. – Sure it was. – You narrow your eyes at him, but you’re smiling too. – You’re kind of freaky, you know that? – he mutters, taking another bite of your chicken.

– And you’re easy to read.

His smirk deepens, his knee pressing just a little firmer against yours.

– I’ll let you think that.

– Okay, Bella Swan. What else do I need to guess? – You smirk, teasing him back as your hand grips your cup. You’re not intimidated, but it’s hard to ignore how his presence seems to consume the space around you.

He leans back in his chair, watching you with a new kind of amusement. The food he's eaten entirely, almost licked the plate clean, and even as the plate lies between you two, there’s still an unspoken hunger in the air, only it’s not the kind that comes from a full stomach.

– My favorite drink. What do you think? – He takes your glass and runs his thumb along the rim, gaze never leaving yours. There’s a definite playfulness to his tone, but it’s mixed with a touch of challenge. He’s testing you now.

– It’s hard. – You tilt your head, putting your water down. – Scotch. Or something with vodka, maybe a Moscow Mule if you’re trying to play classy.

– Oh, I see, you think you’ve got me pegged now. – His lips curl up. There’s that cocky smirk again. – I do like a good scotch. But you missed one.

Your brow furrows. – What'd I miss?

Rafe’s eyes gleam with something almost conspiratorial as he leans in, lowering his voice. – Gin. The real gentleman's drink. Never would’ve guessed that, huh?

You blink, surprised yet somehow not. – I'll give you that one. You’re full of surprises.

– I like to keep people guessing. – His voice is low, and there’s something almost predatory about the way he’s watching you.

Before you can respond, he casually throws another challenge your way, his eyes alight with the thrill of the game.

– Alright, let’s go for the ultimate test. You ready?

You laugh lightly, rolling your eyes. – Born ready.

He leans even closer, his lips just barely brushing your ear. – Guilty pleasure.

You pause. He’s looking at you like he’s about to tell you something you’re not supposed to know. You lean in, matching his intensity. – What is it? It's something sweet isn't it?

– Peach pie. – He drops the bomb like it’s the most casual thing in the world, his grin only widening at your confused expression. – I eat the whole damn thing. Never fails. It’s the one thing that can put me in a good mood, no matter what’s going on.

You blink, trying to process it. – Rafe Cameron... peach pie? – You let out a small, incredulous laugh. – You? The ‘I’m so fancy’ guy? Eating peach pie like it's your last meal?

He doesn’t flinch, just smirks. – Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you try it. It’s the filling, sweet, juicy—and the crust? It hits every spot.

You shake your head in disbelief, but you can’t hide your smile. – I guess I see it.

His hand moves, brushing against yours again as his eyes drop to your lips for a moment. – What else do you think you can guess? Maybe... – He trails off, leaning back slightly, a new challenge in his gaze. – ...a favorite movie?

You smirk knowingly. – That’s easy. The one you would say, is The Godfather. Definitely. Eldest son of a legendary man, making the world his own? That's all you, Rafe. – There’s a different glint to his eye now, his smile softens, his eyes round the slightest bit, like one of the walls he's put up just fell to his feet around the both of you. – But that's not your favorite is it? It's cool, but it can get a little boring. Not the sort of thing you re-watch. You like a little feel-good.

– You're getting colder…

– I think... Men in Black?

Rafe laughs. – Nope. – He leans in again, lowering his voice just for you. – Shrek.

You blink at him. – Shrek? – You can’t contain your laughter. It feels so fitting, just the right amount of darkness with a lot of humor. It's Rafe to a T.

He grins wickedly. – What? I like the layers. I’m a complicated guy.

You shake your head, laughing. – Of course you do. You’re a walking contradiction, Rafe.

Rafe leans back in his chair again, that infuriating smugness back on his face. – That’s what makes me interesting.

You narrow your eyes, but your smile says it all. – So, what’s your real secret then? You’ve been dropping little hints, but I think I got you figured out.

He grins, standing up to grab the bottle of scotch. – Not yet, that’s-so-Raven. You still have a lot to learn.

He pours himself a drink, you can’t help but wonder if maybe—just maybe—he’s starting to enjoy the game as much as you are. – You want me to dig deeper? Think you can handle that?

– Oh, I can handle it. – He dawns the drink in one breath, flopping back on the seat right in front of you.

– Give me your hands, traveler. Let's see what’s written in your soul. – He’s laughing as he hands himself over, you can see the smallest of shivers blooming in his arms as you cart a finger through the lines of his right hand. – Favorite color, favorite season, favorite ice cream.

– You’re never gonna guess that. None of that.

– Wanna bet?

– What do I get when I win?

– Don’t jump the gun yet, mr. This-is-my-swamp-Corleone. I have not yet revealed all of my talents. – He raises a brow, licking his lips as his eyes trail down your body.

– I’m hoping you’ll show me the talent I’m thinking about when I win.

– Hilarious.

– I’ll guess you! – He grins. – Best of three, how bout that? Loser drinks with every wrong one.

You can feel the smirk tugging at your lips before you even speak. – Someone’s getting cocky.

– I don’t get cocky. I just know you’re not gonna get it.

– You better not bet a drink then. You’ll be owing me a bottle when I’m done with you.

– Fine then, baby. – His eyes flick to your lips. – A kiss then, loser kisses where the winner says.

– With this lipstick? You’re out of your mind.

– I don’t mind if you leave a mark. I like it. – You can see the gears turning in his head. – C’mon. Is someone gonna chicken out?

– Oh, you’re on, mister. Me first. Your favorite color: Judging by the fact that every shirt I’ve ever seen you wear is blue, and your shoes are blue, and your comforter is blue, and your eyes are blue, this is a really tough one. I’d say, blue.

– What kind of blue?

– So I’m right! – You can’t help the giggle. You’ve always been competitive, and this day has you in such a good mood, it falls from your lips before you can even think.

– No! You gotta guess the shade too!

– What am I, home depot? Nobody’s painting walls here, just accept that I won!

– Okay, okay. Where do I kiss? – You laugh, take back your right hand, and point to the floor. It takes Rafe a minute to follow the line. – You’re absolutely hilarious, y’know that?

– I don’t know why you think I’m joking.

– Where do I kiss you?

– Changing the rules, now, Mr. Cameron? – He doesn’t even answer, just leans closer, a smile bright on his face as he pulls back your shirt to kiss your collarbone. His lips remain there for a moment, brushing against your skin like he’s savoring every second. – Sore loser.

– We’ll see who’s losing next. – He squeezes your nose in his fingers as he pulls back, still smiling. – Go ahead. What’s my favorite season?

– Summer.

– You think I’m that much of a plebe?

– Plebe, really?! – You’re laughing now, and he’s holding both our legs as he pulls his chair closer, until his is less than a foot away from yours. – You are a sociological experience, Rafe.

– Wrong. – You can see the pleasure it gives him to say that. – My knee.

You can’t even help the scoff. – You’re wearing pants.

– I can take them off, if you want. – He's squeezing you know, eyes glinting with something almost possessive.

– That's funny. It's just gonna stain.

– Maybe I want it to stain. – He hums, hooking his right hand under your knees and pulling you closer. – Now, you get down there and kiss me.

You shake your head, laughing, but stay put. He doesn’t wanna play your game, might as well play by your own rules.

So you lean in a little closer, just enough that you can feel his breath hitch against your skin, and pull at the collar of his polo. Your lips land just where his had, on the collarbone, and Rafe chuckles lowly, humming with his hand in your hair, keeping you there until you pull away.

You watch the shape of your lips peek from under the cotton of his shirt, deep red and perfectly contoured. It almost seemed like a tattoo. – Your favorite ice cream now. – His fingers are still tangled in the strands of your hair, warm as anything, but still as a stone. – You are a man of hedonisms. You like it sweet, rich, flavorful. But, you are also very layered.

– Thank you.

– That’s nothing. My guess is something indulgent, that’s sweet but not too sweet. Some different textures, some contrasting flavors. A rocky road, if you will. – He smiles, defeated. And you know you read him like a book. – I told you I was good. If I may go a little deeper?

– Go as deep as you want.

– Your perfect rocky road is the dutch chocolate one, with hazelnuts, and marshmallow bits.

– Marshmallow swirl. – He corrects.

– Damn. – You snap your fingers, earning a laugh out of Rafe. – I’ve gotta give it to you, there is not a single thing in your list that is even remotely dubious. Everything is undeniably great.

– That’s who I am. Perfect all-round

You laugh. – Conceited, much?

– Honest. – He corrects. – Now you.

You’re shaking your head before he even starts. – This is not about me.

– You think you’re that hard to guess?

– You’ll never know, Rafe. I will never tell you. My mama always said, remain a creature of mystery. Otherwise people get bored and fuck off. – Rafe raises a brow. – Yeah, that’s it. That’s her whole philosophy.

– Sounds like a bitch. – You laugh, and he does too. You feel a little lighter. – But lets get into it. I wanna know you too.

– That’s too damn bad.

– That's not fair now, baby. You had an advantage.

– Oh, boo-hoo. – You grin. – Told you I would win.

– I still have to kiss you somewhere else.

You hum, tapping your finger on your chin as you smile. Rafe doesn’t even seem angry, his eyes just glint darkly.

You extend your hand. – As Rodrigo Borgia said to Caterina of Forli: Kiss the ring, bitch.

Rafe’s laughter echoes in your ear, low and rich with something dangerous as he takes your hand, his fingers curling around yours. He leans in, lips inches from your hand, but instead of kissing your hand, he trails his mouth up to your neck.

– Careful, – You murmur, almost smiling as you press your palm to his chest, trying to push him away, but his lips keep moving against your skin.

– You said I had to kiss somewhere else. – He whispers, his voice muffled against your neck as he pulls you closer, his hand sliding to your back, pulling you into his body. His other hand is still entwined in your hair, gently tugging to hold you in place.

You roll your eyes, amused by his persistence. But just as you're about to push him off again, something startles you. His phone, tucked in his pocket, rings—a sharp, sudden sound that cuts through the tension between you two.

Rafe groans, pulling away from your neck, a growl of frustration slipping from his lips. His eyes narrow. – No way, – He mutters, already diving in again.

You stop him. – Could be important.

He glances at the screen, and his irritation becomes palpable, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he stares at the name flashing on the display. It’s his father. You can see it clearly from here.

– It’s him, – Rafe mutters under his breath, exhaling sharply through his nose. The smirk he had on his lips fades slightly, replaced by an edge of annoyance. – Of course it's him.

You can’t help but feel the shift in the energy between you two, but you lean back, giving him space to take the call if he has to. – Go ahead. I should get back to work, my boss is really strict.

He shoots you a glare, but there’s something almost resigned in the way he looks at the phone.

– I don’t have a choice, do I? – He leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair before answering the call. His voice is low, almost cold as he speaks into the phone, and you can’t help but notice the way the playful, carefree Rafe fades with each word exchanged.

The call doesn't last long, just a bunch of monotone sounds from Rafe, who sits there, sulking, as you clean up and start chopping vegetables. When he eventually hangs up, there's an unsettling silence from him. Rafe sighs, his hand running over his face in frustration.

– Bastard. – he mutters, more defeated than you’ve ever heard him. He looks at you, his eyes softening, but the playfulness is gone. – Guess you got lucky this time, – He says, the words carrying a weight that wasn’t there before.

– No big deal, I can always beat your ass later.

Rafe leans back in his chair, and stands, coming closer. He doesn’t answer immediately, his eyes distant for a moment as he comes up behind you, looking at your work as he leans his chin on your shoulder. – I have to go.

– It's okay. I'll catch up with you later.

He doesn’t seem to hear you. Instead his arms snake around your waist, face burying deeper into your neck.

You look over your shoulder, hoping Kareem is still far.

– Your father's gone, right?

The question stops you cold. The knife in your hand suddenly feeling heavy. – Yeah.

Rafe burrows in a little closer, breathing you in. – Did you ever wish he would drop dead? – A shiver tears through you as he remains there, holding you in that iron grip, as if he was physically grounding himself, as if his father might burst through the doors and try to drag him away.

You think about it, but you don't have to.

The answer is easy enough.

A thousand times.

Every time you walked into a room he was in, he'd sigh, heavy, as if your presence alone made the space uncomfortable. At some point, you stopped wishing you'd die, and transferred over that rage to him.

Whenever he scoffed at you, you prayed for a heart attack.

When he cursed at you, you wished he'd be mugged in the street.

When he grabbed you, when he'd pull you around, your thoughts got more violent. They worsened and worsened until the day he slapped you, and you found yourself laying on the floor, digging your nails into your hands as you thought about the knives you were always sharpening, sitting there in the drawer, completely unwatched.

You fed on that memory for a while. To the point that every time you saw him you were clenching your fists.

But had you meant it? – Yeah. A couple times.

Rafe doesn’t say anything else. He squeezes you one last time, almost as if plucking the feel of your body against his from that moment. You can feel him hanging onto it as he walks away.

His steps echo loud into the house, beyond the threshold you can step through, and you go through the motions almost robotically, cooking and prepping and cleaning as if it was gonna save you from the thought he’d left you with.

Work goes by smoothly, though your mind remains a wasteland. Kareem is quieter, too, after he returns, and he keeps looking back and forth between what he does and the doorway, a strange resentment burning in his eyes. You don’t meddle, your own spirits low after the talk with Rafe.

Lunch goes by in a blur, even without the chaos of lunch rush at a restaurant. You feel yourself drown out the noise around you, diving completely into the work. Your partner makes a couple comments here and there. He checks your roast, tweaks your reduction, analyses your vegetables. His smile is reassuring everytime he turns to you, tasting this dish and the other with the comically tiny spoon he keeps in a special pocket on his apron, and pats your back like a middle aged dad whenever the servants come in to take your trays away.

– You work quick. – He finally comments, finishing the plate you made for him, as Rose and Ward lunch alone in the dining room. – Every time I looked at you you were doing something else.

– You work quiet. – You smile back, and when he widens his eyes, you immediately clarify. – It’s nice! Like working with a zen master. I’ve never cooked for so long without someone screaming at me.

– Working at a restaurant kitchen makes you feel like the world’s gonna end. – He laughs, but his eyes fall back to the plate, suddenly darkening. – I actually used to have nightmares about burning entrees and being late on mains when I still worked at the bar.

You ponder what to say for a moment, clearly caught in a touchy subject. – I can tell you’re sleeping well, now. Your skin is glowing.

Flattery really does go a long way.

Kareem smiles, finishing his food in silence as you clean up, and the two of you don’t really speak much until the dinner prep starts looming closer.

Supper waits for no one, and Kareem snaps back into focus as the time approaches. — He’s methodical, you admire that in him. —So you follow his lead, letting routine take over, movements automatic as you prepare the kitchen. The momentary stillness gives way to the familiar rhythm of preparation—the clatter of knives, the hum of the oven preheating, the weight of expectation settling over you like a second skin.

You take charge of the entrees and the main dish while Kareem handles the sides. The lamb roast is yours to perfect, its success a quiet challenge, a second interview you refuse to fail. You roll up your sleeves, minding the ingredients you laid out, and get to work.

You begin with the prep, sliding the lamb onto the cutting board, fingers tracing the marbled surface, gauging its density, its fat distribution. A perfect cut. You reach for the boning knife, and trim the excess fat—just enough to allow the seasonings to penetrate deeper, not enough to sacrifice flavor. The rendered trimmings will be saved, melted down for later use. Nothing wasted.

Next, the seasoning. Garlic cloves are smashed under the flat of your knife, their oils bursting free, before you mince them into a fine paste. Rosemary leaves are stripped from their stems, crushed between your fingers, the scent sharp and green. You mix them with flaky sea salt and cracked pepper, the coarse grains binding to the moisture of the garlic. The mixture is worked into the lamb with steady hands, pressing into every groove, every fold of muscle, ensuring the flavors seep into the fibers of the meat.

The pan is already waiting, and you’re happy for the freedom of throwing a healthy dollop of butter on the iron without having to watch out for Anthony’s pretentious complaints. The sizzle is loud as you lay the lamb down. The heat grips the surface, searing it to a perfect crust, the scent of browning fat filling the kitchen. You tilt the pan, spooning the bubbling butter over the top, watching it soak into the herbs and garlic, turning the surface deep amber. When every side is sealed, you transfer it to the preheated oven, where the slow heat will coax out the tenderness, the juices locking in beneath the crisp exterior.

Beside you, Kareem dices vegetables with methodical efficiency, the rhythmic tap of his knife grounding like the hum of a monk deep in prayer. You glance over your shoulder, watching as he peels and slices carrots into thin ribbons, tossing them into a pan where melted butter and honey wait to coat them in a glossy sheen. He looks so peaceful, so in his element. It's almost cute. You catch the faintest scent of citrus as he zests an orange, preparing the glaze for the carrots, and there’s a moment where he looks up, meeting your eyes briefly before returning to his task.

Turning back to your own work, you begin assembling the entrees. You lay out fresh slices of crusty baguette, rubbing each piece with raw garlic before topping them with a blend of ricotta and herbs, the creamy spread flecked with chopped basil and thyme. Cherry tomatoes, roasted until blistered and sweet, are gently pressed atop each slice, their juices seeping into the bread. A final drizzle of balsamic reduction finishes the dish, the deep, tangy aroma curling into the already fragrant air of the kitchen.

By the time everything comes together, the kitchen smells like warmth, like the indulgence you and Rafe spoke of, and you find yourself praying this tops every memory of the lamb he had before, just to give you that reassurance. The roast rests, juices settling beneath its crisp, golden crust, while Kareem plates the sides—a creamy potato purée, the glossy, honey-glazed carrots, a crisp asparagus sauté with almonds. Dessert waits to be finished in the background, Kareem’s perfect pie crust resting easy beside the fresh-chopped peaches you left soaking in syrup, soaking up all the flavor until the moment is right.

You step back, wiping your brow, allowing yourself a moment—just one—to take it in. The meal is set, a quiet triumph, and for now, that’s enough.

Kareem slumps down on the chair as the echo of greeting and bickering in the room next door gives way to the hums and awes of enjoyment. – Who knew art could be so tiring, huh? – You say.

He looks up from his hands, an easy smile on his face, and nods. – “it is, perhaps, the price we pay for love, the cost of commitment.” – The hum coaxes a brow raise from you as you wash your hands again.

– Okay, private school. – You laugh, and catch his shoulders shaking slightly as he watches you. – Care to enlighten the country bumpkin here before you?

– It’s a quote by Colin Murray Parkes.

– The actor?

He laughs even louder, delighted with your lack of poshness. – The psychiatrist. Didn’t you have psychology lessons in your school?

– Does the Outer Banks seem like the sort of place that would offer that curriculum?

– Well, no, of course. But you’re not from here, are you?

You gasp:

– Of course I am. – He doesn’t even pretend to hide his shock. – Born and bred in the OBX.

– Seriously, Routledge. Where did you learn to cook like this? Couldn’t have been here. – You let out an incredulous laugh, but the question is so ridiculous you can’t even find it insulting. – I didn't mean it like—

– I know. – You grin. – I learned how to cook because it’s the only luxury I could have, food can be elevated. It's the other things that are hard to come around. Sometimes I forget you tourons don’t read class cues like the islanders. I’m flattered you even considered the possibility of me being a kook.

– I feel like I’ve just been spoken to in tongues. – It's your turn to laugh again, the genuine bewilderment on his face a joke of its own. – Toro? Like bull?

– You’ve been living here for years and nobody taught you the hierarchy? – He shakes his head, earning more laughter from you. – I’m kinda glad. But here it is: OBX 101, brought to you by a Routledge. So the rich folk, inhabitants of the Figure Eight, this lovely little neighborhood we’re currently in, are the Kooks. Golf players, country club goers, the cream of the crop. Now they’re rich, but not rich like you’re rich.

– I’m not rich. – He pouts, and you have to bite back the brow raise.

– Says the man who had advanced psychology in his high school curriculum. You’re private school. Now, that’s not something to be embarrassed about. But, a pogue, the poor people of the island, the ones that live in the Cut, like me, we can tell.

– I think that’s just you. You get a good read on people. How’d you learn that by the way?

– My older brother who hated me kind of poisoned the well for me when it came to friends. I had to get my hands on whatever outsider I could reach.

Kareem’s brows furrow. – He sounds like a piece of shit.

– He used to be. We’re better now. – He seems unbelieving, but you don’t go any further. – Now you never told me where you’re from, but maybe I can guess you.

– I doubt that. – He says, the hum of his voice low and steady.

You tilt your head, and he smiles at you, signing for you to go on. – You’re a Texan, that much is obvious. By the accent, I’d say Dallas. And you’re a farm boy, clearly old money. Blue blood, boarding school bred.

– I’m from Highland Park. Which is, to your credit, in Dallas. – It feels good to be right. – But I’m not posh.

– Never said you were. – He’s the one raising a brow now, but before he can say anything else, the door opens again.

Daniel, one of the servants, stands there, his face almost worried. – Mr. Cameron asked to see the chef. – Kareem swallows thickly, face suddenly void of all the playfulness he’d had just a moment earlier. But Daniel stops him again. – He asked for her.

You stop cold, heart hammering against your ribs. Daniel’s words echo in your head, but you don’t let yourself hesitate. Kareem steps forward, a steadying head wrapping around your arm. – Hey, don’t worry. Look, they probably just wanna compliment you. That lamb, it was great. Don’t worry about it.

– You don’t know that.

– Routledge, – It's almost pleading, the way he says it. A soft lull of a voice brushing against your ears as he tried to tranquilize you. But it doesn’t help. How often did things go well for you? You should’ve known better than to hope.

– I’ll be right back. – You murmur. Kareem tries to argue, but you’ve brushed past him before he can think to say anything else.

The walk to the dining room feels longer than it should, each step pulling tighter at the knot in your stomach. The hall seems to stretch around you as you reach the warm light bleeding in from the cracked door. You push through it, and immediately, the air thickens.

They’re all there.

It’s Rafe who holds your attention first. He’s leaned back in his chair, a lazy grin on his face, self-satisfied. Like he’s been expecting you. Like he’s enjoying this.

Ward sits at the head of the table, relaxed, a glass of wine in hand. Rose is poised beside him, her smile the perfect shade of contempt. Wheezie barely looks up from her phone, and Sarah… Sarah’s expression falls as she sees you, and she looks up from her plate with something can’t quite place.

Then your eyes shift, and you freeze.

At the opposite end of the table, just beside Sarah, sits your brother.

The sight of him steals the breath from your lungs. His expression is cold, unreadable, but the anger simmering beneath the surface is unmistakable. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches.

Your fingers tighten around the towel in your hands.

– Ah, there she is, – Ward's voice cuts through the silence, warm, approving. – When my son told me he had to fire the last cook, I didn’t think he’d go out and find us a new one. I doubted him, but I have to say, I was… pleasantly surprised. That was the best lamb I’ve had in years. Truly remarkable.

The words come out immediately, but no relief fills you as you speak. – Thank you sir. I’m glad you liked it.

– Liked it? Young lady, I loved this dish. I have to give it to Rafe, he’s ordered nothing but this for years, and I never saw the appeal, but, really, it’s fantastic.

Rose cuts in, a sharp drawl that shatters whatever sliver of gladness was building up. – Honey, you don’t need to be pedantic.

– But, I’m not, Rose. Really. Good help is so hard to find these days, especially on short notice. Very few people put their back into their work. And this, this is exactly that. Passion. I can tell you’re good at what you do.

– Thank you sir, really.

He smiles, gesturing toward his plate, then at Rafe, who’s still watching you like he knows something you don’t. – My son’s gonna sleep like a baby tonight. – He chuckles. – Lamb’s his favorite. But I’m sure you know that.

You swallow hard, forcing a nod. – Yes, he did tell me that.

– She used to work at the Wreck. – Rafe hums, his eyes fixed on you, smiling from ear to ear as he swings a glass around. Scotch, by the looks of it. – She was a chef there. Some moron fucked up her order, and I… Well, I couldn’t think of never eating that lamb again.

You feign laughter, as demure as you can make it. – Yes, thank you for that. I really appreciate it.

– You already thanked me, – His grin is sharp, and he averts his eyes for a fraction of a second, gesturing for you to cut him another piece of lamb. You do, thankful for your steady hands and the heavy knife. – in the interview.

His father makes a sound of surprise. – You interviewed her? – He looks at you as you set the plate before Rafe.

– Yes he did. He was very thorough.

Ward seems pleased. – I’ve never seen this side of you, son. I’m glad to see you take an interest in what goes on in this house.

– What can I say? – Rafe looks back at you, signing to the bottle across the table. You don’t know what game he’s playing, but you’re sure it's not meant to be fun for you. – I’m a proactive kind of guy.

Ward hums, taking a long sip of his wine as he watches you pour Rafe another drink. – I’m glad, son. I’m really glad. – You put the bottle back in its place, trying to ignore the gazes burning holes into your skin as you move to your original spot. – And what’s for dessert?

You hesitate only for a moment, wishing you could disappear. – Peach pie. It should be ready in ten minutes.

The reaction is immediate.

Ward smiles, slow and knowing, but before he can say anything, Sarah speaks.

– That’s Rafe’s favorite. – Her tone is cold, almost suspicious.

Your heart stutters, but you keep your face smooth, your voice even. – Really? That’s a coincidence.

John’s voice echoes then, chilling your blood to ice. – Funny, right? It’s my dad’s favorite too. But she knows that. That why she makes it so well.

Ward doesn't miss a beat, even as Rafe turns to glare at your brother. – You two know each other?

John answers for you. – You could say that. – The earth could just split open, and swallow you whole. – Y/n is my baby sister.

– Really? – Ward’s laughter is deep, but somehow not incredulous. – And she’s Rafe’s friend. God, what a small world.

– Looks like it's getting smaller. – John adds. His stare burns into you, hard and unrelenting, like he’s waiting for something.

You don’t let yourself look away first.

Instead, you square your shoulders, holding onto the only thing you can control—the steady rhythm of your breath, the knowledge that you belong here, no matter how much it feels like you don’t.

– Yes. Well, I’ll go check on that pie, and I’ll bring it out soon enough. – You say, voice steady.

Ward nods, pleased. – Good. We’re looking forward to it.

As you turn to leave, Rafe’s voice follows you, low and amused.

– Good job, newbie.

You don’t stop. You don’t react.

But your pulse thunders in your ears all the way back to the kitchen.

Kareem is already there, watching you closely as you step inside. – You okay? – His voice is low, cautious, but the concern is obvious. He nears you as if he’s cornering a wounded animal, warm hands landing on your arms like he’s afraid you’d bolt.

You try to nod, but the motion feels stiff, forced. Your hands are cold, even in the warmth of the kitchen. Kareem notices. He steps forward, brows furrowing as he reaches for your wrist. – You’re pale. Come— C’mere. Sit down for a sec.

Before you can respond, the kitchen door swings open again.

John walks in.

The air turns sharp. Kareem’s hand drops as your brother steps inside, his expression unreadable but heavy with something darker. He doesn’t look at Kareem. Just you.

– You have anything to say? – His voice is quiet, but there’s no mistaking the steel beneath it. – You already lied to me this morning, wanna get it out already?

Your pulse stumbles.

– John, please. I’m working right now.

Kareem straightens beside you, eyes flicking between the two of you. – Sir, you’re not supposed to be here—

– No. – John cuts in, still staring at you. – This doesn’t concern you, okay man? This is family business.

– Don’t talk to my boss like—

– I’ll talk if I fucking want to!

Kareem doesn’t hesitate, his hand resting on your shoulder for a split second before he steps in front of you. – This is not a therapist’s office, sir. She’s working, and you’re not supposed to be back here. So please, leave.

@chatgtfo @bitterdotcom @xmayankax @bluethperson @coralblue35 @munsoncultedits @the-bitch-who-binges @im-julessssss @redkarmakai @hwaaholic @sydkneez

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ghost-in-the-hall · 1 year ago

Text

Fall For Me (Poly! Sleep Token x Fem! Reader) - Pt. IX

Part 9 has finally arrived!!! This chapter we begin to move into winter as the first big snow storm of the year hits (really funny that I'm getting around to publishing this in the dead of the July heat lol). Everyone's finally starting to settle into the dynamic which will lead to some... Interesting interactions while the five of them are stuck in close quarters. I am still having issues with getting everyone tagged because Tumblr hates me, but if you would like to be added to the tag list please let me know! Thank you so much for reading!

WARNINGS: Some suggestive behavior

My Masterlist! ~ AO3 Link! ~ Tip Jar!

Part VIII - Part X

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“Do you think the storm is going to be that bad?” Vessel asks. “It’s all we’ve been hearing about on the radio for the past few days.”

“It’s probably going to get pretty nasty. They’re expecting most of the town to lose power.” You bounce your leg nervously, watching him pause to go over his mental checklist in his head. “Would you, um… would you like to stay with me?”

He chuckles as he approaches the counter, “Scared of the big, bad snowstorm, lovey?” He teases with a smile.

“I’m not scared.” You snap back instantly, rolling your eyes. “It’s just,” Vessel didn’t miss the way the concern immediately crept back into your tone, “you’re so far out in the woods; what if something happens and no one can get out there to help.” His expression softens, reaching up to caress your cheek. You can't help but lean into his touch, his palm warm against your skin.

“If you’re more comfortable with us here, we’ll stay. Besides, do you really think I’m going to turn down a chance to spend more time with my girl?” Your cheeks grow warm as a flustered smile spreads across your lips. You still hadn't gotten used to Vessel so adamantly declaring you as his.

“Good,” you respond, trying your best to appear confident, “I need someone to keep me warm.” You smile coyly at him, making Vessel chuckle.

“Well, feeling bold today, are we beautiful?” His expression darkens slightly as a devious glint appears in his eyes. Your pulse immediately quickens as he offers you a sharp smile, his massive form towering over you, “You want to be in my arms, pretty girl?” He coos, making your face burn. He leans down, bringing his face in front of yours. “I'll hold you all night if that's what you want.” He whispers. He can't help but laugh slightly at your flustered expression, calling you cute as he straightens back up. “I'll be back in about an hour with the others. Let us take care of dinner tonight; you deserve to be spoiled for once.”

“Just be safe, okay? Everything always gets a little crazy around here on storm days.” He takes your hand, slowly bringing your knuckles to his lips.

“I'll be back before you know it.” He smiles sweetly. “Promise.”

While Vessel went to get the others, you took the time to make preparations. You were lucky enough to have the store beneath you; if you lost power, the fridges and your supply of ice would be sufficient to keep things cold for a while. You gathered all the candles and extra blankets from around your apartment, piling them up in one area with your other emergency supplies. You can’t help but smile when there’s a knock at your door. You squeal as III’s large hands wrap around your waist, lifting you effortlessly from the floor. “There she is!” He exclaims excitedly, spinning you around in a hug. You’re suddenly sandwiched between him and IV; you let out a pleased hum as III slots his lips against yours, IV peppering your face with kisses simultaneously.

IV nuzzles his face against yours as III pulls back. “We missed you, doll.” You spin around, slipping into IV’s arms, letting him hug you close as III starts bringing things into the kitchen. He sways you gently in his arms, taking a moment to memorize the feeling of you being pressed against him before pulling back. “I'm going to help the others set up.” He smiles, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

II pushes through the door, arms full of what appeared to be pillows, as he struggles to keep his grip on all of them. “Want some help with that?” You offer with a giggle.

“That'd be great, thanks.” He responds with a chuckle of his own. You smile coyly at him, your arms sliding over his shoulders as he saunters up to you. “And how are you doing today, beautiful?”

“Much better now that you're all here.” You respond softly.

He hums approvingly, “That’s what I like to hear.” He trails a finger along your jaw, carefully tilting your chin until he can easily kiss you. Even the gentlest kisses from II always managed to take your breath away, and now was no different. “You just hang back and relax, love. Let us handle everything.”

Your heart always felt so full whenever all five of you were together. You would never get sick of how lively the group of them made you and your home feel. “Here you go.” You smile as IV slips a glass of wine into your hand, collapsing onto the couch at your side. Vessel, II, and III were currently bickering over something in the kitchen, leaving the two of you alone for what felt like the first time in forever. “I have something for you.” He states softly. He takes your hand, rummaging around in his bag with the other until he produces a small, brown leather notebook. “Here.” He offers it to you; you can't help but smile at the gift.

“What's this?” You ask curiously. You open to the first page, and IV’s messy script is the first thing you see. ‘For my favorite girl, hopefully, this makes up for all the times I should have bought you flowers.’ You flip to the second page to find a perfectly preserved pressed flower. A bright orange bloom sat atop a stem of tiny green leaves; the date IV must have picked it, and the flower's name should have been written in the upper right corner. The rest of the book followed a similar pattern. A collection of vibrant reds, purples, and golds filled the rest of the pages. You could tell how carefully every flower was handled just by how it was presented to you on the page.

“Whenever I find a flower I think you'd like, I press it in a book. That way, you can keep them forever without them wilting.” The gesture was so sweet you blinked rapidly to clear the tears from your eyes.

“Thank you, IV, this is incredible.” You set the book carefully down on the table, reaching out and pulling him into your arms. He wasted no time melting into you, his arms circling your waist as he returned your embrace.

“You make me really happy, you know that?” You smile, burying your face into the crook of his neck.

“So do you.” You both reluctantly separate from each other. You rest a hand on IV’s cheek, smiling softly at him as you study how his features curve under the fabric of his mask. You carefully take his face in your hands, guiding him forward to kiss his forehead. He smiles, letting out a deep breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

“Dinner’s ready!” You both jump as you hear Vessel call from the kitchen. He stands, helping you from the couch. IV pulls you into his side, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“Let's go before it's all gone.” He chuckles

You stood at III’s side, helping him clean up after dinner. “That food was amazing.” You remark, making him chuckle.

“I try my best.” He responds humbly. “Working with whatever we can grow or hunt, I want to ensure it, at least, tastes good.” You finish drying off the wine glass you had been using earlier, pushing yourself up on your toes to struggle to reach the top shelf. III chuckles; you freeze as you feel the warmth of his body creep up your back, nearly making you drop the glass in the process. “Need some help, love?” He whispers, making you shiver. His long arms can easily reach up to set the glass back in its spot. His hands find their way to your waist, lifting you from the floor to put you on the counter easily. “I can finish up here; you can just relax.” He chuckles as you pout in response.

“You cooked dinner; the least I could do is help with the dishes,” you protest. He places his hands on either side of your waist as he leans closer.

“I think the least you could do is let someone take care of you for a change.” He whispers, making your cheeks grow warm. He studies you, a playful expression growing on his face as he realizes your flustered state. His hands leave the counter, massaging your plush thighs before they slide to your back, pulling you closer to him. You felt so small in his hands, but he still easily towered over you from your position on the counter. He ran his hands soothingly up and down your sides. You forced yourself to stifle the soft whine that threatened to leave you at the feeling of his strong hands against your body. “You're always so worried about taking care of everyone else. When was the last time someone did the same for you?”

Your heart slammed against your ribcage, your thoughts growing fuzzy as you began to feel like putty under III’s touch. “But–” he hushes you softly as you start to argue.

“You deserve to be spoiled.” He says softly, lifting his mask enough to kiss you. “I want to make sure that you are.” You let out a pleased sound as he pushes into you. Your hands roam over his chest; you groan at the feeling of his muscles tensing under your palm. This kiss with III felt different than the others you had shared. This one was noticeably more intense and needy than when you kissed him. His fingers massaged into your muscles as he desperately sought to have you any closer to him than you already were. His breathing was heavy when the two of you finally separated; you could feel the way his hands trembled slightly against your skin.

“What's wrong?” Worry is immediately prominent in your tone.

“Nothing, doll.” He responds gruffly. “It's just if I keep kissing you like that–” he trails off with a chuckle.

“Too bad it's not just the two of us.” You respond under your breath. III’s gaze snaps to you, unsure if he had heard you correctly or not at first. You glance up at him through your lashes, and III could have sworn in that moment his heart stopped. You lean up, placing a gentle kiss on his clothed lips. “Hopefully, that’s not the last time you kiss me like that.”

“Trust me, you don't have to worry about that.” He smiles in response.

“Are you two done in there or what?” You hear II call, “Did we really have that many dishes?”

You giggle, “We should get back to the others.” He chuckles, nodding his agreement.

You found yourself seated in Vessel’s lap; your legs stretched over IV’s legs as he held your hand, your feet resting comfortably in III’s lap as he made easy work of massaging away all the tension in your muscles. II sat on the floor in front of the couch, holding your free hand in his own and bringing your knuckles to his lips every so often. You had thrown on a movie, some mindless holiday comedy that everyone seemed content with. You leaned into Vessel’s chest, letting your head fall against his shoulder. He smiles at you, carefully reaching up to tuck some hair behind your ear. “You less nervous now, love?” He asks softly.

“How could I be nervous? I have all of you within arms reach.” You giggle. He hugs you close, the two of you enjoying the chance to be so close to each other. Just as your eyes grew heavy, your apartment was plunged into complete darkness. “Shit.” You curse, attempting to hurry out of Vessel’s lap; you pause when he gently squeezes your hip.

“II.” He states simply.

“On it.” Before you could ask what was happening, a match was struck to life. But all the candles were on the other side of the apartment; there was no way he could have gotten over there–

“I'll get the stove started.” III stands, placing your feet in IV’s lap. “These two better do a good job of keeping you warm.” He chuckles, quickly pressing a kiss to the top of your head as he passes by.

You didn't have to lift a finger. Before you knew it, the wood stove was warming the living room, candles casting a soft orange glow over the entire space, and a mug of tea warming your hands as you sat sandwiched between IV and II on the couch. The night sped by as you found yourself playing card games, laughing to the point your sides hurt as you witnessed them bicker and repeatedly get caught trying to cheat. “I'm not counting cards!” II protests.

“You absolutely are!” III argues, “Don't think I can't see you counting on your hands!” II opens his mouth to respond, only for III to cut him off, “Disqualified! You are disqualified!” II groans, admitting defeat as he throws his cards on the table.

Vessel wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. “You're looking a little tired, love.” You couldn't even attempt to argue as a yawn forces its way past your lips. “Let's call it a night.” He announced, helping you from the floor. “Goodnight.” Vessel leans down, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“Goodnight, Ves.” You smile, slipping into his arms for one final hug. You exchange your good nights with the others, reluctant to leave them even though you would only be in the next room. You could hear them all get settled as you lay in bed, your apartment eventually becoming deathly quiet once again. You lay there for what felt like hours, and it had only been about 20 minutes when you checked the time. You sigh, sitting up in bed. You stare at the door, debating whether any of them were still up. You toss back your covers and leave your bed, wincing slightly as the floorboards creak beneath your feet. You carefully crack open your bedroom door, glancing into the living room only to find Vessel still awake, reading a book under the low candlelight. “Everything alright, love?” He asks quietly. It took you a moment to respond, surprised that he realized you were there.

“I just can’t sleep.” You admit sheepishly, opening the door just wide enough to reveal yourself. He closes the book he was reading, setting it on the end table behind him.

“Come here, sweetheart.” He beckons you closer with a nod of his head. You carefully maneuver around the others, who had found a comfortable spot on the floor for the night. Vessel opens his arms for you, allowing you to crawl into his warm embrace. You cuddled into his chest, the heavy weight of his arms around your waist immediately lulling you into a new state of comfort as you melted into him. He tilts his head back; you swallow thickly as you realize just how nice it would feel to have your lips trail along the skin of his neck. You quickly shook the thought from your mind as he blew out the candle. “What’s troubling that pretty little head of yours, hm?” He purrs. You were finding it hard to concentrate. Vessel’s body was so warm every ache in your muscles simply seemed to vanish as you allowed your fingers to trail over his bare skin. He smelled of damp earth, musky incense, and the subtle sweetness of freshly cut flowers.

“Can I ask you something?” You whisper, looking up at him despite the fact you could barely make out the outline of his face.

“Of course.” He responds in the same quiet tone. He adjusts his position, hoisting you up higher on his chest to bring your face closer to his. “You can ask me anything you like, love.”

You could feel his lips brush against yours as he spoke; the feeling was enough to send a shiver up your spine. “Do you think about me?”

“Love, the image of you never leaves my mind.” You can’t help but smile at his response. “I can’t even begin to describe how special you are to me.” He carefully cups your cheek in his hand, his thumb trailing across your jaw. “I must not be doing a very good job as your boyfriend.” He jokes with a chuckle. “There’s got to be some way for me to prove how crazy I am about you.” The edge of his mask bumps against your cheek as he pushes it off his face. His hand carefully cradled your head, guiding your lips down to meet his. You could feel his heartbeat racing under your palm. He kissed you hesitantly at first, his whole body rigid as he waited to see how you would respond to such a bold gesture from him. He had kept you at arm’s length since he met you, not because he didn’t care about you. It was the exact opposite. If he wasn’t careful, Vessel felt he could easily find himself becoming infatuated with you, something that could cost him dearly if you ended up stabbing him in the back like so many others had in the past. Yet, over the time he had known you and the short time you had been together as partners, your affection for him never wavered. Goosebumps erupted across your skin as Vessel slid a hand under your shirt, his tough, calloused hands rough against your back. “There isn’t a second that passes by where I’m not thinking of you; the sound of your laugh, the way you smile, the way you seem to fit so perfectly in my arms; I am always thinking about you.” He confesses breathlessly against your lips. You let out a soft hum of approval as he crushes his lips against yours again, struggling to stay quiet but not wanting to risk waking the others. You felt like you would die if Vessel stopped kissing you. He groans at the feeling of your hands timidly wandering his body, shaky fingers tracing along the outlines of his muscles as your lips melded perfectly to his. He kissed you until there was physically no air left in his lungs. You struggle to steady your rapidly pounding heart. You rest your hand on the side of his face, gently trailing along the peak of his cheekbone. He caught your hand in his, startling you slightly at the abruptness. He brings your knuckles to his lips. “No matter how much I would like to keep kissing you, you should probably get some rest, love.” He says with a chuckle.

“Now, how is that fair?” You ask coyly, “You make me wait all this time to kiss you, and I only get to do it once?” He tilts your chin up with his thumb. You could feel him smile against your lips. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” Your eyes flutter shut as you’re met with another euphoric kiss, “but you have to get some sleep.” You grumble out your reluctant agreement, placing one final chaste kiss on his lips before settling against his chest, your eyes feeling heavy as your adrenaline wears off.

You’re woken up the following morning by a knock at the door. You sit up, wiping away the sleep in your eyes as you try to make sense of your situation. You had fallen asleep in the living room last night after coming to see Vessel; you remembered that much. All four of them were already awake and much more alert than you were at the sudden disturbance. “Relax, I’m sure it’s just the plow guy or something.” You reassure them. You stand, shivering as all the warmth is rapidly stolen from your body. You unlocked your door, opening it just enough to peer outside. Your stomach dropped at seeing the police officer on the other side.

He greets you with a familiar smile, “Got a second to talk?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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scarluna · 5 months ago

Text

Y/N, a gifted but self-conscious graphic designer, lands a job at Jeon Enterprises, a powerhouse ruled by the sharp and controlling Jeon Jungkook, whose ruthless perfectionism hides behind an enigmatic façade. Though admired and feared, Jungkook targets Y/N’s insecurities, using them as weapons against her.

Beside him stands his best friend, Min Yoongi, a sly and unpredictable force whose hot-and-cold behavior leaves Y/N questioning his motives.

Tangled in a web of cold authority, teasing games, and unspoken desire, Y/N must navigate a dangerous love triangle where ambition and emotion collide, threatening to unravel everything.

Pairing: Jungkook x Fem!Reader x Min Yoongi

Genre/Tags: plus sized reader, enemies to lovers, ceo!jungkook, graphic designer!reader, mafia!yoongi

Link to the other chapters: ACT I / ACT II / ACT III / ACT IV / ACT V / ACT VI / ACT VII

Chapters: 8 / ?

Chapter Warnings: mature language, bullying, slow burn, enemies to lovers

A/N: I finally managed to make it through! *wipes sweat off my forehead* Whew.

ACT VIII.

I could feel my blood boiling as Jungkook’s sharp voice filled the room. Again.

“Do you even try to meet deadlines, or is this just a joke to you?” he sneered, tossing my portfolio onto his desk like it was garbage. I was working for so long with him that I had gotten used to his outbursts, but today was definitely not the day where he could talk to me like that. I was frustrated and heated enough to keep silent.

The knot of frustration in my chest tightened, and I clenched my fists, trying to hold back the sting of tears. I’d worked so hard on that design, but nothing was ever good enough for him. The perfectionist. The control freak. The world’s most insufferable boss.

“You know what, Boss?” I spat, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “I’m done. I’ve had it with your insults, your impossible standards, and your complete lack of basic human decency.”

He raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into that infuriating smirk. He leaned back against his chair, head tilted to the side. “Is that so?”

“Yes!” I snapped, grabbing my bag off the chair. “Find yourself another designer, because I’m not putting up with this anymore.”

I stormed out of his office, my heels clicking angrily against the polished floor. My heart pounded as I pressed the elevator button, praying it would arrive quickly. I couldn’t stay in this building a second longer.

“Y/N.” His voice echoed behind me.

I refused to turn around.

The elevator doors slid open, but before I could step inside, a strong hand caught my arm, spinning me around. My breath hitched as I came face-to-face with him, his dark eyes burning with something I couldn’t quite place.

“Don’t walk away from me,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

I yanked my arm free. “What do you care? You’ve made it perfectly clear I’m useless to you.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought he’d explode. Instead, he stepped closer, forcing me back until I felt the cold metal wall of the elevator behind me.

“You think you can just quit?” he said, his voice a low rasp. “You think I’ll fucking let you?”

My breath came in shallow gasps as the tension crackled between us. “You don’t get to control me, Jungkook. Not anymore.”

For a second, neither of us moved. Then, without warning, he closed the distance between us, his hands bracing against the wall on either side of me.

“You drive me insane,” he murmured, his voice raw, his eyes locked on mine.

Before I could process his words, his lips crashed onto mine, fierce and demanding. It was a collision of frustration and something deeper, something I didn’t dare name. My mind screamed at me to push him away, but my body betrayed me, my hands curling into the fabric of his blazer as I kissed him back. His tongue swirled in my mouth and I felt my knees go weak. I heard the faint "ping" sound of the elevator and soon the doors closed. But I was too focused on this, it was as if my body was burning. His hands grasped my hips and for a moment I felt insecure, but soon as I was pressed against him and his kiss became more heated, all insecurities were forgotten.

The kiss was overwhelming, igniting something wild and untamed between us. His touch was possessive, sending shivers down my spine. My head tilted instinctively, giving him better access as his lips moved down to my jawline, then my neck. My breath hitched at the sensation, my fingers curling into his soft hair.

The faint scent of his cologne—woodsy and sharp—mixed with the heat of the moment, intoxicating me further. I whimpered softly, and he growled in response, his lips pressing harder against my skin, marking me.

Then, the elevator dinged.

I froze, my heart leaping into my throat. Jungkook’s lips stilled against my neck as the doors slid open.

And there stood Yoongi.

My supervisor, Jungkook’s best friend, and quite possibly the last person I wanted to see right now. His dark eyes scanned the scene, eyebrows raising slightly as he took in Jungkook’s disheveled blazer, my flushed face, and the undeniable tension crackling in the air.

“Well, this is… interesting,” Yoongi said, his tone unreadable as he stepped into the elevator.

Jungkook pulled back slightly, though his body remained close to mine, as if shielding me from Yoongi’s gaze. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice low and clipped.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Yoongi replied, leaning casually against the wall, his arms crossed. “But I think the answer’s pretty obvious.” The elevator doors closed and I saw Yoongi reach over and press the red button at the top of all buttons. It was a STOP button.

I tried to straighten up, smoothing my blouse and attempting to catch my breath. “This isn’t—”

He held up a hand, cutting me off. “Spare me the explanations. I didn’t ask for a play-by-play.” His gaze flicked between us, his expression neutral but his eyes glinting with mischief. “Though, I have to say, this isn’t exactly HR-friendly behavior.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes, his hand still resting on my hip as if staking his claim. “Is there a point to this, or are you just here to annoy me?”

Yoongi smirked. “Both, probably.” He stepped closer, his eyes locking onto mine. “But mostly, I’m curious. How did our dear Y/N go from hating your guts to… this?”

Heat rose to my cheeks, and I opened my mouth to protest, but Jungkook beat me to it.

“She didn’t,” he said firmly, his gaze cutting to Yoongi. “This isn’t your business.”

Yoongi’s smirk widened, and he raised his hands in mock surrender. “Relax, Jungkook. I’m just here to push some buttons.” He glanced at me, his tone softening slightly. “You okay?”

I nodded quickly, not trusting myself to speak.

“Good,” Yoongi said, his playful demeanor returning. “Because I’d hate to see you caught in the crossfire of his temper.”

“Yoongi,” Jungkook warned, his tone sharp.

Yoongi’s smirk didn’t waver as he stepped closer, his dark gaze unwavering and filled with something I couldn’t quite read. The air in the elevator grew even heavier, the tension palpable. My breath quickened as I felt Jungkook’s grip on my hip tighten, his body still close to mine.

“Yoongi,” Jungkook repeated a breathless warning.

But Yoongi only chuckled softly, his voice a low hum that sent an unexpected shiver down my spine. “Relax, Jungkook. I’m not here to steal her. Just curious if our fiery little designer can handle the pressure.”

Before I could respond—or fully understand what he meant—Yoongi moved behind me. My breath hitched as his hands found my waist, his touch firm yet somehow reassuring. Now two sets of hands were all over my body, making me melt completely.

“See?” Yoongi said, his tone teasing as his lips hovered close to my ear. “I’m just helping out. Nothing personal.”

“Yoongi,” I stammered, my voice shaky as my heart raced. “What are you—”

“Shh,” he murmured, his breath warm against my skin. “Just… trust me.”

Jungkook’s eyes darkened as they met mine, his gaze flickering between my face and Yoongi’s presence behind me. There was a challenge there, unspoken but undeniable.

In an instant, Jungkook’s lips were on mine again, the kiss searing and consuming. My back pressed against Yoongi’s chest as Jungkook’s hands framed my face, his thumbs brushing my cheeks with surprising gentleness. My senses were overwhelmed, caught between the two of them, their touches both grounding and electric.

Yoongi’s lips ghosted along my neck, his touch feather-light but enough to send sparks down my spine. His fingers rested on my hips, steadying me as Jungkook deepened the kiss, his tongue teasing mine in a way that made my knees weak.

I was caught between them, my body pinned in place by their presence. The weight of it, the intensity of their focus, left me breathless. Jungkook pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against mine, his voice low and rough as he muttered, “You drive me crazy.”

Yoongi chuckled softly behind me, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear as he whispered, “You’ve got both of us wrapped around your finger, you know that?”

My heart pounded wildly as I tried to find words, to make sense of what was happening.

The pressure was overwhelming, as though the walls of the elevator were closing in. My knees buckled, and just as Jungkook’s lips found mine again, the world shifted—distorted—and everything began to fade.

“Y/N...”

The whisper came again, softer this time. Fainter.

“Y/N!”

The voice echoed, a ripple in the growing void, pulling me out of the suffocating haze. The once overwhelming heat was replaced by a sterile coldness. My limbs felt weighted, disconnected from me, and my chest rose and fell in shallow, measured breaths.

“Y/N, please wake up!”

The urgency in the voice grew louder, breaking through the fog. My lashes fluttered open, and harsh fluorescent light greeted me. Blinking against the glare, I struggled to take in my surroundings. The steady beeping of a heart monitor filled the room, and the faint scent of antiseptic stung my nose.

Hospital?

“Y/N!” Rya’s voice came next, a panicked yet relieved sound. Her face swam into focus, her usually composed demeanor replaced by an expression of raw emotion. Tears shimmered in her eyes, and she leaned closer, gripping my hand tightly.

“Rya?” My voice was a cracked whisper, my throat dry as sandpaper. It was after I heard her voice that I started feeling my body. It was aching all over and I felt paralyzed.

“Oh, thank God,” she breathed, wiping her cheeks quickly as if embarrassed by her tears. “You scared the hell out of us. Do you have any idea—” She cut herself off, shaking her head.

A shadow moved behind her, and Hoseok stepped forward, his arms crossed but his expression soft with concern. “You had us really worried about you, Y/N.” His voice was steady, but I caught the slight quiver underneath.

“What… happened?” I managed to ask, my gaze darting between them.

“You collapsed,” Rya said, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. “They said it was exhaustion and shock. But—” Her voice cracked. “But the accident—”

“Accident?” The fragmented memories returned in jagged flashes—headlights, screeching tires, a sharp jolt of pain before darkness swallowed me whole. “The car…”

“You were hit,” Hoseok said gently. “They brought you here immediately. You’re lucky to be alive. Doctor said you have bruises and your shoulder was dislocated when they brought you in. Thankfully, they managed to help you with it and no other physical traumas were discovered.”

I swallowed hard, trying to process his words. My hands instinctively moved toward my side, feeling for the small bag I’d had with me. My stomach twisted when I found nothing.

“The bag,” I croaked, panic rising in my chest. “Where’s my bag?”

Rya exchanged a worried look with Hoseok. “We… didn’t see one,” she admitted softly.

“No,” I whispered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. “It was important. The journal—”

“Journal, Tina's journal?” Hoseok asked, eyebrows furrowed.

Before I could answer, the memories from the elevator came crashing back with startling clarity—Jungkook’s intensity, Yoongi’s whispered words, the heat and chaos that had consumed me just before the world went dark and I woke up here. I was confused as of to why did I have this . . . was it even a dream? Or a hallucination? I was growing delusional.

“Y/N, you’re safe now,” Rya reassured, squeezing my hand. “Focus on getting better. We’ll figure everything else out later.”

But even as her words tried to anchor me, a chill ran down my spine. Someone wanted that journal badly enough to ensure I wouldn’t stop them. And they wouldn’t stop, not until they had it. "How long..." I whispered weakly, Rya scooted closer. "How long what?" "How long was I. . . out?" "It has been a week, Y/N."

I blinked, trying to make sense of what Rya had just said. A week? I’d been unconscious for an entire week? The realization sent a wave of dizziness through me, and I gripped the edge of the hospital blanket tightly.

“A week,” I murmured, my voice shaky. “I’ve been out for a whole week?”

Rya nodded, her expression softening. “The doctors said it was a combination of stress, exhaustion, and the trauma from the accident. You really pushed yourself too hard, Y/N.”

“You had us worried sick,” Hoseok added, his voice firm but kind. He stepped closer, his arms crossed but his eyes betraying a deep concern. “Do you have any idea how many times Rya and I begged the doctors for updates? We practically camped out here.”

“I… I’m sorry,” I whispered, guilt threading through my voice.

“Don’t apologize,” Rya interjected quickly, shaking her head. “We’re just relieved you’re okay. But there’s something you need to know.”

Her tone shifted, and I could sense the tension in the room thickening. My heart picked up speed, the steady beep of the monitor echoing my unease.

“What happened while I was out?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Rya hesitated, glancing at Hoseok as if seeking confirmation. He nodded subtly, and she took a deep breath before continuing. “It’s about Jungkook.”

My stomach tightened. “What about him?”

“They’ve cleared him,” Hoseok said, his voice steady. “He’s no longer a suspect in the case.”

“What?” My mind reeled. “How? I thought the evidence—”

“Someone gave the police new evidence,” Rya explained. “A photograph, specifically. It proved Jungkook wasn’t the man who murdered Tina. It took them a few days to actually verify the originality and it’s real. Unfortunately, that’s all we know…"

My blood ran cold as the puzzle pieces began to fit together. It couldn’t be a coincidence. The photograph they’d mentioned… was it the same one I was about to ask Taehyung about before everything spiraled out of control? Who even took my bag in the first place? Who was the person who gave the picture to the police too? So many questions. I was awake for a few minutes already and I already had an headache.

My throat tightened, and I struggled to keep my voice calm. “Did they say what the photograph was of?”

Rya shook her head. “No, just that it was enough to clear him completely. The police didn’t share many details, but it’s all over the news now. Jungkook’s free. He went back to the office last week.”

“Of course, he’s still Jungkook,” Hoseok muttered, his tone laced with irony. “He walked back in like nothing happened.”

But I wasn’t focused on Jungkook’s return to work. My mind was spinning, replaying the moment I’d almost shown Taehyung the photograph, the way it had burned a hole in my thoughts since then.

“What about Taehyung?” I asked suddenly, my voice sharper than I intended. “Did he… did he come by?”

Rya and Hoseok exchanged another glance, their expressions softening.

“He did,” Hoseok said after a moment. “A lot, actually. He sat by your side for hours, especially in the first few days. The nurses said he barely left.”

Rya nodded. “He was here when we weren’t. Every time we came by, he was either reading something to you or just… sitting there, holding your hand.”

My chest tightened, a confusing mixture of relief and guilt washing over me. I’d left Taehyung in the middle of all this chaos without any explanation, and yet, he’d been here. He hadn’t abandoned me.

“He’s been busy the past couple of days, though,” Rya added. “Something about work. But he made us promise to call him the second you woke up.”

“I need to talk to him,” I murmured, more to myself than to anyone else.

“We’ll let him know you’re awake,” Rya said, squeezing my hand. “But for now, you need to rest. You’ve been through enough.”

Rest. It sounded impossible when my thoughts were a storm of suspicions and half-formed connections. But I forced myself to nod, closing my eyes briefly as the weight of everything began to settle.

Somehow, I knew that when I saw Taehyung again, I’d find answers. I just wasn’t sure if I was ready for them.

The silence between us stretched, heavy and charged. Taehyung sat by my bedside, his posture relaxed, but there was a sharpness in his gaze that made my skin prickle. It was as if he were studying me, waiting for me to say something—anything.

“I was worried about you, Y/N,” he said, breaking the silence. His voice was low and steady, soothing in a way that felt too careful, too deliberate.

I nodded weakly, trying to muster the gratitude I knew I should feel. “Thanks for being here, Tae. Rya and Hoseok told me you stayed… a lot.”

He offered a small smile. “Of course I did. You’d do the same for me.”

Would I?

The thought barely had time to take root before my eyes drifted to his hands resting on his lap. My pulse quickened, a memory flashing vividly in my mind—the scar.

The man I’d seen before the accident, the one who had loomed in the shadows and made my stomach twist with unease, had a distinct scar on his wrist. It was jagged and angry, a mark impossible to miss.

Taehyung’s wrist was bare.

I couldn’t stop myself from staring, my breath catching in my throat. His skin was smooth and unblemished, completely devoid of the scar I was so certain I’d seen.

The realization hit me like a jolt of electricity, sharp and disorienting. I’d been so sure…

“Y/N?” Taehyung’s voice pulled me back, his brows furrowing as he followed my gaze to his wrist. “What’s wrong?”

I swallowed hard, shaking my head quickly. “Nothing,” I said, my voice a little too high-pitched. “I just… zoned out for a second.”

His eyes lingered on me, sharp and calculating, before he relaxed again. “You’ve been through a lot. It’s normal to feel a little out of it.”

I forced a tight smile, my mind racing. If Taehyung wasn’t the man with the scar, then who was? And why had I been so convinced it was him?

“Did you… hear anything about the guy who hit me?” I asked cautiously, watching his reaction.

Taehyung shook his head. “No. The police didn’t tell me much, just that it seemed deliberate. They’re still looking for leads.”

Deliberate. The word sent a shiver down my spine. My gaze flickered back to his wrist again, my thoughts spiraling.

If Taehyung wasn’t the man with the scar, then I’d accused him in my mind without reason. But the questions surrounding him still lingered. Why had he been so involved? Why had he seemed so calm, even now, when everything felt like it was falling apart?

“You’re staring again,” he said, his tone lighter but edged with curiosity.

I blinked, heat rising to my cheeks. “Sorry,” I muttered. “I guess I’m still processing everything.”

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “Take your time. I’m here.”

But his reassurance didn’t settle me. If anything, it only deepened the unease clawing at my chest. "Fuck, where is my phone, " I croaked out weakly. I tried to sit up properly and Taehyung was by my side immediately, his puppy like eyes were staring at me and I felt a deep pang of guilt in my chest. How could I suspect him at all? I've known him since childhood, he was so caring and always there for people. "If it's about your parents, I already spoke to them. I told them you broke your phone and you will be able to contact them as soon as it gets fixed." I frowned, "And they believed that?" soft snort escaped my lips. I was grateful that he lied, I didn't want to have them worry and fly here. "I mean, they trust me, they think I am a good match for you..." I glanced at him, giving him a weak smile. "Yeah...they do. They like you a lot. And thank you...for doing that, it means a lot." "Don't mention it, next time, treat me a good Subway sandwich and we clear." his comment brightened the mood and made me giggle weakly.

As the night stretched on and Taehyung stayed by my side, I couldn’t shake the thought circling in my mind: If he wasn’t the man with the scar, then who was?

The hospital room was dimly lit, save for the soft glow of the television screen. Taehyung had found the remote, flipping through channels until he stumbled upon Fast and Furious.

“Classic,” he said, a grin tugging at his lips as he settled into the chair beside my bed.

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help a small smile. “Of course, you’d pick this.”

“Hey, don’t knock it. It’s cinema gold,” he defended, tossing a piece of the wrapped candy he’d snuck in onto the tray table.

As the opening scene blazed across the screen, we both fell into an easy rhythm of watching and cracking jokes.

“Do you think anyone actually needs this much nitrous?” I asked, arching a brow as one of the cars practically launched itself down a street.

“Absolutely,” Taehyung deadpanned. “How else are they supposed to dramatically explode at the finish line?”

We burst into laughter, the sound light and freeing. It felt good to let go, even if just for a moment.

A particularly over-the-top scene of Dom driving through a collapsing building made me shake my head. “Okay, there’s no way that car is still running after that. It’s basically a glorified tin can at this point.”

“Blasphemy,” Taehyung said, feigning offense. “These cars are indestructible. Haven’t you learned anything?”

I laughed again, the tension I’d felt earlier slowly easing. Taehyung’s easy humor was infectious, and for a while, the world outside the hospital room seemed to fade away.

But then, the door creaked open.

The air shifted immediately, a charged tension filling the room as I turned to see who it was. Jungkook and Yoongi stood in the doorway, their expressions unreadable. Jungkook’s dark eyes flicked between Taehyung and me, lingering just a moment too long on the smile that hadn’t yet faded from my face.

Yoongi, as usual, looked amused, his lips curving into a faint smirk as he leaned against the doorframe. “Well, isn’t this cozy?” he drawled, his tone light but with an edge I couldn’t quite place.

Taehyung sat up straighter, his easy demeanor shifting subtly. “We were watching cinematic history.” He gestured toward the screen, where another improbable car stunt was unfolding.

Yoongi quirked a brow. “Fast and Furious? Classy.”

Jungkook, however, didn’t seem interested in the television. His gaze locked onto mine, his jaw tightening slightly. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” I replied, my voice quieter now. The warmth I’d felt earlier was quickly replaced by a nervous energy.

Taehyung leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “She’s doing fine. You didn’t have to come all this way to check up on her.”

“We wanted to see for ourselves,” Jungkook said, his tone clipped.

Yoongi stepped further into the room, his sharp eyes darting between us. “Relax, Taehyung. We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”

“Friends?” Taehyung echoed, his tone just as sharp. “I don’t recall you visiting much while she was unconscious.”

Yoongi’s smirk deepened, but there was something dangerous in it. “You wouldn’t know because you weren’t here the last few days.”

The tension in the room was palpable now, the playful atmosphere from moments ago completely gone. I shifted uncomfortably, my gaze darting between the three men.

“Guys,” I said, my voice breaking the standoff. “This isn’t a competition.”

Jungkook’s gaze softened slightly as it landed back on me. “You should be resting,” he said, ignoring Taehyung completely.

“I was resting,” I said, gesturing to the TV. “And then Taehyung decided to educate me on the importance of nitrous oxide in car stunts.”

Yoongi chuckled, the sound low and amused. “Sounds about right.”

Jungkook didn’t smile. His jaw tightened again, and he took a step closer to the bed. “If you need anything—”

“She has me,” Taehyung interrupted, his tone firm.

“Funny,” Jungkook replied, his gaze never leaving mine. “Because last I checked, she wasn’t just your concern.”

The room felt like it was on the verge of imploding, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on all of us. Even the TV, still blaring action sequences, felt muted against the charged silence.

“Maybe we should all take a breather,” I suggested weakly, my heart pounding in my chest. “This doesn’t have to turn into… whatever this is.”

Yoongi finally moved, breaking the tension as he grabbed a candy from the tray table and unwrapped it leisurely. “She’s right,” he said, popping it into his mouth. “No need to fight over her. Yet.”

The word hung in the air, laced with something unspoken.

Jungkook’s glare shifted to Yoongi, but he didn’t say anything. Taehyung, however, didn’t back down, his shoulders squaring as he leaned slightly forward.

I sank deeper into the bed, my pulse thrumming in my ears. What had started as a lighthearted evening had turned into something far more complicated—and I wasn’t sure how to untangle it.

The tension in the room was unbearable, a pressure cooker of barely restrained tempers. Jungkook’s eyes narrowed as he took another step toward the bed, his posture rigid. Yoongi, meanwhile, lounged against the wall, but his smirk betrayed an underlying sharpness that felt just as dangerous.

Taehyung, on the other hand, seemed entirely unfazed. In fact, he looked downright smug as he leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed casually over the other.

“Relax, guys,” Taehyung said, his voice dripping with cocky amusement. “Y/N and I were just having a little fun. No need to get all territorial.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened, his dark eyes flashing. “This isn’t about territory.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Taehyung shot back, a grin tugging at his lips.

Yoongi chuckled, though the sound was anything but friendly. “You’re awfully confident for someone who’s just playing nursemaid.”

Taehyung’s grin widened, and he tilted his head, his gaze flickering toward me. “I don’t mind taking care of her. Someone has to, right?”

“Guys,” I said sharply, my patience wearing thin. “stop it.”

They all glanced at me,their expressions softening slightly, but the defiance in their eyes remained.

“I’m tired,” I said, louder this time, my voice firm as I sat up straighter in bed. “I don’t have the energy for your childish behavior. If you can’t all be civil, then I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Jungkook’s gaze snapped to mine, his expression softening. “Y/N—”

“Let her rest,” Yoongi cut in, though his tone held an uncharacteristic seriousness. He turned to me, his smirk fading slightly. “We won’t take much of your time, before we go we have to talk. Privately.”

Taehyung’s eyes narrowed, his cocky demeanor slipping. “Anything you have to say to her, you can say in front of me.”

Yoongi raised a brow, clearly unimpressed. “This isn’t up for debate, little lawyer.”

“It’s fine,” I interjected quickly, raising a hand to stop the brewing argument. “Tae, I’ll be okay. We’ll talk later.”

Taehyung hesitated, his jaw tightening as his gaze flicked between Yoongi and Jungkook. “You sure?”

I nodded, offering him a small, reassuring smile. “I’m sure. Thank you for being here, really.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly, though his expression remained tense. Standing, he shoved his hands into his pockets and took a step toward the door.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said, his voice quieter now. His eyes lingered on mine for a moment, and there was something unspoken in his gaze—a mixture of worry and frustration.

“Goodnight, Tae,” I said softly.

“Goodnight.” With a final glance toward Jungkook and Yoongi he left the room as the door slammed shut. I reached to rub my forehead, clearly tired and exhausted by this entire behavior of theirs. I didn’t get neither of them, it was they were on a damn competition and it was getting on my nerves.

I let out a slow breath, turning my attention back to the two men still in the room. Jungkook stood near the bed, his posture tense, while Yoongi leaned casually against the wall, his arms crossed. Both of them wore black suits, they were probably visiting after work. If I didn’t knew them, I’d simply think how attractive they were and pass them on the street without even thinking of talking to them, or them talking to me. I was /that/ insecure in my looks. But now? I had both of these men’s attention on me. And I felt exposed and awkward as hell.

“Okay,” I said, my voice weary. “You have me alone. What’s so important that it couldn’t wait?”

Yoongi pushed off the wall, his expression serious now. “We need to talk about what’s really going on.”

Jungkook nodded, his eyes dark and unreadable. “The accident. The photograph. Everything.”

I swallowed hard, my heart racing. “What about it?”

Yoongi exchanged a glance with Jungkook before stepping closer, his voice low. “We think whoever’s behind this isn’t done. And you’re still in danger.”

My stomach dropped. “Danger? What are you talking about?”

Jungkook’s voice was firm, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “Someone wanted to hurt you, Y/N. And we’re going to figure out who. But you have to cooperate with us..”

The weight of their words settled over me like a suffocating blanket. I’d spent so much time trying to piece everything together on my own, but now, with them standing here, it was clear this wasn’t something I could face alone.

I took a shaky breath, meeting their gazes. “I will hear what you have to say first, if I think it’s worthy enough of me to cooperate, then I shall.”

Jungkook let out a quiet sigh, shaking his head as he ran fingers through his black locks of hair. “You’re so damn stubborn.”

I crossed my arms. “Flattery isn’t going to make me any more agreeable. What exactly do you want from me?”

Jungkook stepped closer, and I could feel the weight of his gaze pressing down on me. “We already moved your stuff.”

My jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

Yoongi looked entirely too pleased with himself. “To a small apartment near the company, it’s security covered so…” he added, voice calm but teasing.

I stared between the two of them, incredulous. “You—what? You can’t just—”

Jungkook shrugged. “We can. And we did.”

I clenched my fists. “That is an invasion of my privacy! What the hell makes you think you can just decide where I live?”

Yoongi sighed dramatically. “Maybe the fact that someone is trying to kill you? Call us crazy.”

I shot him a glare, but my mind was already reeling with a million other thoughts. My things—Hades. Oh god. “Where’s Hades?”

Yoongi hummed, grasping the edge of my bed and leaned closer, “Your little spawn of death and barks is also there in the apartment.”

Jungkook huffed a quiet laugh, but I was too busy staring at them, seething. “And what about Rya? You think she’s just going to be okay with this?”

Jungkook’s gaze softened slightly. “She was worried about you. After what happened, she agreed that you should be somewhere safer. For her own safety, too.”

My stomach twisted. Rya agreed? That meant she really thought it was bad. “Yoongi and I will occassionally come and check up on you, as well as you will have bodyguards escort you to work.” “You are both insane.” “I mean, we are, but you have no choice, really.” Yoongi added, wiggling his eyebrows.

I swallowed, shifting uncomfortably under their watchful eyes. The heat in the room felt suffocating, and I realized too late that we were standing far too close. The memory of my dream hit me like a truck—the way Jungkook and Yoongi had been pressed against me in that tiny elevator, their warmth surrounding me, their breaths teasing my skin—

I felt the heat rise to my face instantly.

Jungkook’s sharp gaze flickered to my expression, as if he could read my thoughts. His lips curled into the slightest smirk, and Yoongi raised an eyebrow.

“Something wrong, sweetheart?” Yoongi asked, his voice slow, knowing.

I quickly shook my head, stepping back. “Nope. Nothing. Just… furious. Absolutely livid.”

Jungkook leaned in slightly, voice dropping to something almost dangerous. “You can be as mad as you want. But you’re staying in that apartment.”

I swallowed hard, my pulse racing. Their presence was suffocating in the worst and best way, and god help me, part of me wanted to keep pushing just to see how far I could take it. Other part of me just wanted to say “Yes”, roll over and cover myself as if to hide away. -

The past week had been… eventful, to say the least. Between physical therapy, endless check-ins from Jungkook and Yoongi, and the suffocating presence of security, I hadn’t had a single moment of true solitude. But I was feeling better now—stronger. The lingering pain was manageable, and more importantly, I could walk on my own again.

Which led me here.

Two bodyguards flanked me as I stepped into the apartment Jungkook and Yoongi had forced me into, their presence a constant reminder that I wasn’t exactly free.

The moment I stepped inside, I was met with the excited barks of my little monster. “Hades!” I grinned, crouching just as my dog launched himself at me, his little tail wagging so hard I thought he might levitate. “Did you miss me, you little terror?”

Hades whined and licked my face, and I buried my hands in his fur, grateful for at least one familiar presence in all this insanity.

Only after I’d gotten my fill of Hades’ affection did I take in my surroundings. And wow.

This place was insane.

It was all sleek black and white, modern and sharp, like something out of a high-end magazine. The floors gleamed under the dim lighting, the glass windows stretched from floor to ceiling, offering a breathtaking view of the city. A massive, plush-looking black sofa sat in the center of the living space, and I already knew I’d be spending my nights there—it looked way more inviting than the small bedroom tucked into the corner. The kitchenette was minimal but polished, the kind of thing that suggested whoever owned this place either rarely cooked or had an expensive personal chef.

I frowned. This was definitely a bachelor’s pad.

Yoongi’s bachelor pad?

The thought made me pause. It had to be his, right? Jungkook had plenty of money, but this felt too… refined for him. No offense.

I looked around again, taking in the details. Close to the office. Expensive but understated. Perfectly located for convenience. It screamed Min Yoongi.

I glanced at one of the bodyguards. “Who owns this place?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Mr. Jeon.”

I blinked. Jungkook?

My lips parted in surprise. I’d expected this to be Yoongi’s, but now that I thought about it… the place was sleek, but not entirely cold. There was warmth in the details—things I’d overlooked at first. The slight messiness near the entertainment system, the faint scent of something clean yet musky. Jungkook’s cologne.

My stomach did a weird little flip.

Jungkook owned this place.

I knew he was rich—his suits alone could probably pay my rent for months—but this apartment was stupidly luxurious. And the fact that it was just minutes from our office? That meant he stayed here often.

So why the hell was he giving it to me?

I plopped down onto the massive couch, Hades jumping up beside me. “So, this is my life now, huh?” I muttered, scratching behind his ears.

The bodyguards didn’t answer. They just stationed themselves near the door, watching me like hawks.

I sighed. “Great.”

I was safe. Comfortable. But I wasn’t free.

And something about sleeping in Jungkook’s space—surrounded by his presence, his scent—felt more dangerous than anything else.

As I sank deeper into Jungkook’s ridiculously comfortable couch, Hades curled up beside me, I let my mind wander back over the past week. So much had happened, and yet it felt like time had moved in slow motion.

Rya had visited almost every day, her face twisted with worry no matter how many times I reassured her that I was fine. She had been surprisingly okay with me moving here—though I suspected it was more out of fear for my safety than anything else. Hoseok had also stopped by whenever he could, bringing his usual warmth and easy humor, trying to keep things light even when everything around us felt unbearably heavy.

But Taehyung?

Taehyung had not been happy.

The first time he visited me after finding out I was moving into Jungkook’s apartment, he had been fuming. I could still hear his sharp words from that day.

"Are you serious? Out of all the places you could stay, you’re staying at their apartment?”

I had tried to calm him down, explaining that I didn’t really have a choice, but Taehyung was stubborn—almost as stubborn as me. He hated the idea, hated that Jungkook and Yoongi were the ones “playing hero,” as he so bitterly put it. Eventually, though, he’d had no choice but to accept it.

Even so, I knew him well enough to recognize that he was still uneasy about the whole situation.

And honestly? So was I.

Because ever since that night—the accident, the photograph—I couldn’t shake this awful feeling.

Like I was being watched.

It didn’t make sense. Jungkook and Yoongi had doubled security. I was constantly surrounded by bodyguards, and I never went anywhere alone. There was no way someone could be keeping tabs on me.

And yet, I felt it.

The sensation of eyes on me, lingering just out of sight. The subtle shift in the air that made my skin crawl. I’d glance over my shoulder, expecting to see someone, but there was never anyone there.

At first, I’d brushed it off as paranoia. After everything that had happened, it wasn’t exactly surprising that my nerves were shot. But the feeling didn’t go away. If anything, it had gotten worse.

I pulled my knees to my chest, pressing my lips together. Maybe I was losing it. Maybe I was letting fear get the best of me.

Or maybe… someone really was watching.

I exhaled slowly, forcing my thoughts away from the unsettling idea. Instead, I focused on something more manageable—like the fact that Yoongi had given me a new phone.

My old one had been destroyed beyond repair, and I hadn’t even realized how disconnected I felt without it until Jungkook placed a brand-new one in my hand, his voice nonchalant as ever.

"You need a way to contact us. Don’t lose this one.”

It had taken me a moment to adjust to the new device, but once I did, the first thing I did was call Rya. She had sounded relieved to hear from me, even if our conversations had been short.

I had also called my parents, keeping up the lie Taehyung had fed them.

"Sorry, my phone broke. I just got a new one, but everything’s fine now."

They had believed me without question, which was both a relief and a small pang of guilt. Lying to them had never been easy, but it was necessary. The last thing I needed was my parents panicking over something they couldn’t fix.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. Everything was so… unreal. My life had been turned upside down in a matter of days, and now I was here, in Jungkook’s apartment, trying to pretend like things were normal when they were anything but.

Hades nudged my hand, as if sensing my unease, and I let out a small, tired laugh.

"At least I have you," I murmured, scratching behind his ear.

But as I stared out of the massive glass windows, the city lights stretching endlessly beyond the horizon, that feeling returned.

That prickling sensation at the back of my neck.

Like someone was watching me.

The next morning, I was up earlier than I wanted to be. Hades had decided that I needed to be awake at the crack of dawn, his tiny paws pressing against my stomach as he barked insistently.

"Alright, alright," I groaned, rubbing my face as I sat up. "I’m up, you little gremlin."

Hades wagged his tail, completely unbothered by my suffering.

Dragging myself toward the kitchenette, I squinted at the sleek, ultra-modern touchscreen coffee machine that had been mocking me since I moved in.

"Alright," I muttered to myself. "You and me, we’re gonna get along today."

Attempt #1: Pressed the wrong button. Machine beeped angrily. No coffee.

Attempt #2: Accidentally selected espresso shot instead of a full cup.

Attempt #3: Pressed too many buttons at once. Machine froze like it needed a damn reboot.

Hades barked at me, his tiny tail flicking with judgment.

"Oh, shut up," I grumbled, resetting the machine.

Attempt #4: No water in the tank. Had to refill it.

Attempt #5: Finally got a full cup of coffee.

I let out a triumphant sigh, holding my mug like it was a trophy. "I am the master of technology."

Hades sneezed.

I took a long sip, letting the caffeine work its magic before heading to the bedroom to get ready.

By the time I arrived at the company, escorted by two bodyguards like some sort of celebrity, I was fully awake and determined to have a normal workday.

The moment I stepped inside, the whispers started. My colleagues turned to look at me, some with wide eyes, others with relief.

Then, chaos.

"Y/N! Oh my god, you’re back!"

"Are you okay? What happened?"

"We were so worried!"

"I heard you were in an accident—was it really an accident?"

I barely had time to process the flood of voices before my desk was surrounded. People bombarded me with questions, their faces filled with concern and curiosity.

I forced a smile, trying to keep up with their energy, but before I could even begin to answer, a familiar voice cut through the noise.

"Alright, that’s enough," Rya’s firm tone rang out.

Hoseok appeared beside her, his usual bright smile present, but his eyes held a warning. "Give her some space, guys. Let the woman breathe before you interrogate her."

The crowd dispersed, grumbling but ultimately listening.

I shot Rya and Hoseok a grateful look. "Thanks. I think I forgot how loud this place could be."

Rya rolled her eyes. "Please. You should’ve seen them before you even got here. They’ve been talking about you all morning."

"Do you need anything?" Hoseok asked, his voice softer now.

I shook my head, smiling. "No, I’m fine. Really."

They exchanged a look, clearly unconvinced, but didn’t push it further.

And just as I settled into my chair, ready to start the day, a familiar presence loomed nearby.

Jungkook stood near my desk, arms crossed, an unimpressed expression on his ridiculously perfect face.

I blinked up at him. "Uh… good morning?"

"You’re not supposed to be here," he said flatly.

I tilted my head. "Last time I checked, this was my job."

Jungkook exhaled sharply. "You were supposed to take two more days off."

"I’m fine," I repeated. "I’d rather be here than sitting in that apartment doing nothing."

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue further. Instead, he sighed. "Fine. Since you’re already here, come to my office."

A few of our colleagues exchanged looks.

I ignored them and followed Jungkook to his office.

Once inside, he immediately launched into the latest project details, his voice professional and controlled. But every now and then, he’d slip in something else.

"So, the marketing team needs a revised pitch deck," he said, tapping on his desk. "Also, you look great today, but that’s nothing new."

I blinked at him.

He didn’t even acknowledge what he just said, continuing on. "I need you to go over the latest client proposals—"

"Wait." I cut him off. "Did you just—"

"What?" He looked so innocent.

I narrowed my eyes. "Never mind. Continue."

"Right. As I was saying, the finance team needs our projections by Friday…”

I deadpanned. "Jungkook."

"What?"

I stared at him for a solid three seconds before laughing in his face.

I couldn’t help it.

He was flirting with me. Horribly.

Jungkook’s brows furrowed. "Why are you laughing?"

"Because you’re terrible at this," I grinned, shaking my head.

"I—" He paused, offended. "Excuse me?"

"You’re not serious," I said, still giggling. "Are you?"

Jungkook opened his mouth, then closed it.

His ears turned pink.

I smirked. "Yeah, that’s what I thought."

Before he could respond, I turned on my heel and walked out of his office, still grinning.

And as I sat back down at my desk, I swore I could feel his flustered stare from across the room.

The meeting room was filled with quiet murmurs as everyone settled into their seats. The air buzzed with anticipation as Jungkook stood at the front, his presence commanding the room effortlessly. His dark eyes swept over the team, his usual sharp focus in place as he began the presentation.

Behind him, the large screen displayed the details of their latest client—a high-profile luxury brand looking for a full-scale identity revamp. Jungkook spoke with his usual confidence, outlining their expectations, the marketing direction, and the design elements they needed to refine.

I tried to focus. Really, I did.

But across the room, I could feel Yoongi’s eyes on me.

Every time I dared to glance in his direction, his gaze was already there, heavy and unreadable. It wasn’t the first time he’d done this—watching me with that infuriatingly unreadable expression. But today, it felt more intense. Like he was waiting for something.

I straightened in my chair, pretending not to notice.

Jungkook continued, his voice smooth and authoritative. "With the expansion of our design team and the increased workload, I realized we needed an extra set of hands. So, I’ve gone ahead and hired someone new."

A few people exchanged glances, curiosity sparking around the room.

Jungkook gestured toward the door. "He should be arriving right about—"

As if on cue, the doors swung open.

A tall figure stepped inside, his presence instantly drawing attention. He moved with quiet confidence, his dark eyes scanning the room before settling—

On me.

My breath hitched. My heart stopped, then started again in an erratic rhythm.

No.

It couldn’t be.

My lips parted, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Jason."

Silence stretched across the room as the man’s lips curled into a familiar smirk.

But before I could even begin to process it—before the weight of his presence could fully sink in—Jungkook’s voice cut through the air with a shocking revelation.

"Everyone, meet our newest hire."

My brother.

206 notes · View notes

mapsthewanderer · 2 months ago

Text

Caffeine, chemistry and Caleb VIII

Synopsis: The café was supposed to be just another coffee shop. For a law student who enjoys her morning coffee and a shy newbie still learning the ropes, it should have been nothing more than part of the daily routine… But then there’s Caleb.

Details: Another 3000-worder (sorry lol). Non MC!reader as the law student. This chapter features our favorite trio. Light angst, lots of wholesome vibes, flirting, tension, and banter. We’re back at it and… we keep peeling barista booooi. Romcom all the way and deffo not 18+ (go away tumblr)

Parts: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12

Tags: @gavin3469 @unstablemiss @i-messed-up-big-time @mipov101 @zukini-01 @ariakamil @zaynessdarling @gojosballsack69

Exhibit A(bsolutely not over him) | Pt. 8

You haven’t stepped foot in the café in two days. What you have been doing is eating Golden Delicious apples until your stomach turned.

And that’s what finally reminded you of something important: You are, in fact, still a law student. And law students cannot afford to tank their entire future over a man with unfairly good forearms, a devastating smile, and an apple charm that clearly wasn’t just an accessory.

Not when it’s obvious now—undeniably, painfully obvious—that he’s taken.

You were never in the running.

You were just… killing time.

And now? You’ve seen the proof.

Time to stop pretending otherwise.

So, you’re buried in case law—mortgages, foreclosure procedures, and the soul-crushing distinction between de lege lata and de lege ferenda.

Except for that twenty-minute break earlier when you absolutely, definitely did not go down a google rabbit hole about psychological testing in aviation training.

… Not to mention the newbie texting you yesterday.

newbie: he’s wearing a navy button-down. i know the case is closed. just thought you’d want the update.

newbie: hair’s messy.

newbie: he just offered someone extra foam with a wink. i’m going to throw myself into the milk fridge to remind myself that this case is closed. sorry.

You’d bitten the inside of your cheek just to keep from grabbing your bag and sprinting there like a woman possessed.

So yeah. Extremely focused. Laser-sharp.

But you had stayed away.

Your highlighter is again uncapped. Your outline is almost legible. You are, objectively, thriving. Eating a sad multigrain bar between paragraphs and chasing it with lukewarm water like it’s a performance enhancer.

And then your phone buzzes.

Unknown number.

You stare at the screen. Don’t open it. Just… hover over the preview.

Unknown Number: hey. don’t you want your caffeine anymore? i can make you something else. de-caf americano. lavender latte. fake espresso with oat milk and ego support. or something worse :3 caleb (got your number from the newbie. hope that’s not a crime.)

You actually stop breathing.

Like, for real. Chest still. Brain blank.

Your heart has the audacity to flutter. Traitor.

You check the time. You should be reading about lien enforcement. Instead, you’re calculating how long to wait before answering so it looks like you’re busy and unaffected.

You add him to your contacts like a normal, composed person.

Then scream internally for a full minute.

Exactly eleven minutes pass before a reply is sent—just long enough to look busy, not eager.

you: wow. illegally obtained contact info and weaponized oat milk? bold strategy, counselor.

He replies immediately.

Barista Boi™ (DO NOT FLIRT): i prefer the term morally flexible barista. you want the latte or not?

you: define “latte.” is this a real drink or a coded trap?

Barista Boi™ (DO NOT FLIRT): yes

You scowl at your phone, biting back a smile.

you: i’m studying.

Barista Boi™ (DO NOT FLIRT): and i’m offering academic support. in beverage form.

you: …is this a bribe?

Barista Boi™ (DO NOT FLIRT): depends. is it working? :3

Of course you don’t answer right away. You make him wait this time. On purpose. Thirty minutes pass. You even get through two and a half pages of your reading before you cave.

you: i could maybe stop by. for like ten minutes. purely for the fake espresso.

Barista Boi™ (DO NOT FLIRT): :D perfect. i’ll be ready. and i’ll make sure the newbie doesn’t rat you out for folding under pressure :P

You glance at your reflection in your laptop screen. You look like someone trying not to smile.

You fail.

——————————————————————————

Ten minutes. That’s what you told yourself.

Ten minutes. In and out.

And yet—you pause outside the café window, checking your reflection checking your reflection like Professor Litt’s about to grade it. Hair? Rebraided. Clean. Tight. Strategic. Lip gloss? Freshly applied. Not too much, just enough to look unbothered. Like you woke up glowing, not panicking about your response time and lack of emojis.

You push the door open.

The bell chimes.

And then there he is.

Behind the counter, in a black fitted tee that fits too well, apron tied low on his waist like it’s a fashion statement instead of a uniform, he’s cleaning the counter. He stretches forward to drag the rag across the far edge, one arm bracing his weight, the other gliding the cloth in wide circles. A vein pops along his forearm with the motion.

Your breath stutters for half a second.

He glances up.

Sees you.

And—oh no—he smiles.

The good one. Slow. Warm. Like you’re the most interesting thing in the room and he’s so glad you walked in.

“Hey,” Caleb says. “You look—”

A pause. His eyes scan you, just briefly.

“Really good.”

Your pulse skips like a badly written objection.

“Studying looks good on you,” he adds, tossing the rag aside as he steps toward the espresso machine. “What’ll it be? Oat milk ego boost? Fake espresso?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Whatever supports academic integrity.”

He grins. “So… lavender guilt with a hint of vanilla ambition.”

“Perfect.”

Behind the counter, the newbie ducks out of view with suspicious timing. Probably pretending to organize straws. Probably texting you in all caps.

Sure enough, your phone buzzes:

newbie: ok so we’re not dropping barista boi? because i distinctly remember “case closed” energy two nights ago… and you said you’d only show up during my solo shifts…

You exhale. Type back quickly:

you: i know. i meant it. mostly

You stare at the screen. Then add:

you: there’s just… one thing i still need to figure out. something he said. i’ll tell you when i know

A few seconds later:

newbie: i’ll be waiting (and possibly reorganizing inventory until then)

You glance up.

They’re crouched behind the counter, aggressively focused on a box of wooden stir sticks and definitely not subtle. Right.

You take your usual seat, pretending this is casual. That you don’t feel your lip gloss catching on your smile. That you’re not watching Caleb’s hands as he works—entirely too good at this for your emotional well-being.

He slides the drink toward you a moment later.

You rise, shift your weight like you’re pretending this is no big deal, grab the cup—and by the time you’re lowering yourself back into the chair, he’s already grinning.

Before you can respond, the newbie drifts by, eyeing the scene with quiet dread and maybe a flicker of amusement. They point vaguely between you two with a cloth in hand.

“Is this, like… scheduled flirting or do I need to update the roster?”

Caleb doesn’t miss a beat. “Let’s call it a catch-up session. Someone’s been ghosting their caffeine dealer for two days.”

You raise your cup, playing it cool. “Had to detox from questionable latte crimes.”

The newbie snorts. “Sustained.”

Caleb leans in just slightly, voice low. “Counterpoint: I missed the chaos.”

You sip, eyes locked. “Careful. I might bring it back in full force.”

The newbie exhales like they’re watching an HR violation unfold in real time.

You sip your drink again. It’s perfect.

Of course it is.

Before you can take another, Caleb’s already untying his apron like he’s done it a hundred times without thinking. He tosses it behind the counter, then shrugs into his jacket. Then he walks over like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like you’re not still trying to recover from the way he complimented you when you walked in.

He pulls out the chair across from you and sits—casual, easy, focused entirely on you.

“Clock’s off,” he says. “Extension granted.”

You raise your cup. “Wow. An unsupervised barista in the wild.”

He leans forward, elbows on the table. “Careful. I’m dangerous without caffeine supervision.”

You smile into your drink. “You are the caution label.”

Caleb grins, easy and crooked, like he knows it’s true. But then silence settles in—comfortable at first, then strange. You realize you don’t actually know what to ask him. Not anything normal. Not anything safe.

That’s when the newbie drifts over again, towel still in hand and one brow raised. “Didn’t you say you had to leave exactly on time? Plans, or something?”

Caleb doesn’t look up right away. “Yeah,” he says slowly, sliding a finger along the edge of the table. “Changed my mind.”

Then—just a shrug. No comment. They turn and walk off, disappearing behind the espresso machine like they’ve decided they’ve already witnessed enough plot for one shift.

Your phone buzzes a second later.

newbie: he totally bailed on a date for you. i’m not saying i approve. but i am saying… damn gurl

You pretend to stare into your drink, hiding the flush that climbs up your neck. One hand cradles the cup, the other slips under the table to text.

you: noted. proceeding with caution.

newbie: you’re already toast

And you’re left sitting there. Caleb still not looking at you. Still pretending your pulse hasn’t picked up again.

You look at him, careful. “So… how does your date feel about being stood up?”

You try to make it light. Offhand. Like it’s a joke. But your hands are wrapped a little too tightly around your cup.

He doesn’t flinch. Just holds your gaze and says,

“She’ll survive.”

You raise an eyebrow, and he adds—quieter now, more certain,

“I’m just… starting to make the right priorities.” He leans back slightly, eyes still on you. “Honestly? I prefer this date over the one I had lined up.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Wow. So cross-examination is your ideal date?”

He grins, unbothered. “I don’t mind a little pressure.”

A quiet breath escapes as your thumb drags along the rim of your cup, buying time you’re not sure you need.

“Well,” you say, a little softer now. “Something you said at the farmers market stuck with me.”

His smile fades just a little—still gentle, but cautious now.

“If you don’t mind,” you continue, “I’d like to ask one more serious question. And then I’ll get out of your hair.”

He nods slowly. “Go on.”

The question leaves your mouth before you can overthink it. “So… do they really make you take psych evals in aviation school? Like, sit in a room and prove you’re not gonna fly off the handle mid-flight?”

He hums, glancing down at his hands. The moment stretches—something careful and unfinished in the space between you.

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “It’s… part of it.”

You wait. Just for a second. But he doesn’t add anything.

Doesn’t look up either.

You backpedal before you realize why. “Sorry—was that a weird question?”

He finally looks at you. Smiles, but not quite like before.

“Nah. Just… not all turbulence is flight-related, you know?”

It lingers. Quiet.

You nod like you get it. You don’t push.

Instead, you check the time and start to gather your things.

“Well. I should head back to the library. Real law waits for no one.”

Caleb stands up with you. “Mind if I walk you?”

You pause. “To campus?”

One corner of his mouth quirks up as his hands disappear into his jacket pockets. “Unless that violates attorney-client privilege.”

You try to act cool. Casual.

But your heart’s doing flips like it just passed the bar on vibes alone.

“…Sure,” you say. “As long as you promise not to distract me from my constitutional crisis.”

“No promises.”

——————————————————————————

You didn’t think walking back with Caleb would feel like anything.

But it does.

It doesn’t feel like the farmers market. There’s no soft buzz of vendors or distraction of overpriced produce. No easy banter. It’s just a ten-minute stroll through campus. And every step feels charged. Not tense—just aware.

Aware of the way his shoulder brushes yours every so often. Aware of the fact that he’s not saying anything too deep—but he could. And aware that whatever weight hangs between you now, it’s heavier than before. Not bitter. Just real. Like he’s thinking, maybe, just as loudly as you are.

You try to focus on the path ahead. The looming faculty building. The notes in your bag. The faint echo of de lege ferenda in the back of your brain.

But instead, your thoughts keep rerouting to him. To how beautiful he looks walking next to you—hands in his pockets, jacket slightly open, the chain around his neck just barely visible under the collar of his shirt. There’s a faint scent clinging to him—subtle cologne, warm cinnamon, and coffee. Familiar now. Unfairly comforting.

The apple charm flashes once.

And you look away.

“Campus is weirdly quiet at this hour,” he says, voice low.

You nod. “All the reasonable people went home to rest. The rest of us have finals and bad taste in coping mechanisms.”

He chuckles, a soft breath more than a laugh. “What category do I fall into?”

A breath of hesitation hangs in the air before your gaze flicks his way.

“You’re the exception.”

He arches a brow. “To which part?”

You smile, quiet. “Exactly.”

Then, casually—maybe too casually—you ask, “Why flying?”

He hesitates. Not long. But long enough.

“You already had your serious question,” he murmurs, lips quirking. “But fine. I’ll indulge you, Golden Girl…”

His gaze tilts skyward—toward the horizon where dusk spills purple into orange, soft as breath. The light kisses his skin, scattering gold across the freckles on his nose, tangling in the soft, unruly fall of his ashen brown bangs. And his eyes—those impossible eyes—catch every violet thread of sky like they were made for this hour, like the universe choreographed sunset just to wreck you slowly.

“There’s something about being up there,” he says, quieter now. “Everything feels small. Like it can’t touch you.”

You nod. “Sounds peaceful.”

He shrugs. “It used to be.”

It used to be.

You don’t press. You’re out of allowed serious questions. Dang.

He glances sideways at you, his voice a little softer. “You always this curious?”

You smirk. “I’m literally training to cross-examine people for a living.”

A quiet chuckle slips out, low and unsurprised. “Right. Should’ve seen that coming.”

The silence that follows is longer. He doesn’t fill it. Neither do you. Just the sound of your steps echoing on the pavement, both of you pretending this is still light.

And then, he says:

“I saw you.”

You stop. So does he.

His voice is softer now. Measured. “After I left you. At the farmers market. After we parted… I… I saw you walk away.”

Your throat tightens.

“I didn’t mean to—” you start.

“I know,” he says quickly. “You… don’t have to explain.”

You look away. It stings, hearing him say it. Knowing he knew. That you weren’t as invisible in your spiral as you hoped.

“She’s part of me,” he says finally, eyes on the dark stretch of sidewalk ahead. “Whether I like it or not.”

You don’t say anything.

“She was… important,” he adds. “Still is. Very much so. Maybe… In ways I wish she wasn’t.”

You glance at him. His jaw’s tight. Not sad—bitter. Quietly so.

“Serving coffee helps,” he says with a dry smile. “Stupid as that sounds. So does working. Part-time hours, full-time distraction.”

You don’t speak. Just listen. For once, you’re not cross-examining, not poking holes in the story.

“Flying was supposed to help too,” he continues. “Thought maybe if I was up there, I’d finally feel free. Untouchable. Like I could outrun… outfly all of it.”

He shakes his head. “Turns out… you land eventually. I… always get home on time. No matter how hard I try not to.”

He gives you a sideways look. Not for pity. Just to see if you’re still here.

You are.

“I didn’t mean for you to see that,” he says. “And I didn’t want it to look like—”

“It’s okay,” you say quietly. “You don’t have to explain either.”

He exhales, the sound heavy even in the cool early evening air. “Yeah, but I want to.”

You reach the steps of the faculty. He slows with you.

There’s a pause. You glance at him.

He glances at you.

Then he blinks—like he’s just realized how much he said. How serious it suddenly got. You watch him. Carefully. Then, quiet but steady:

“Caleb. Am I an emotional distraction to you?”

That familiar smirk flickers to life—like he’s winding up to make a joke about your dwindling cross-examination time. But then it falters. Softens. Something gentler bleeding in at the edges.

“You ask that like it’s a bad thing,” he murmurs. “But I don’t want you to see it that way, Golden Girl.”

You lean in, just enough that your shoulders brush—just enough to make it teasing, grounding, not heavy.

You raise a brow. “Depends. Is this a paid role?”

“Not yet,” he says, voice dropping just slightly. “But the benefits are excellent.” He exhales. Runs a hand through his hair.

“I wanted us to stay light, Golden Girl,” he mutters, then flashes a crooked, too-fast smile.

You open your mouth—don’t know what to say.

But he keeps going, softer this time.

“I like being around you,” he says, voice low. “Not because of her. Just…”

Caleb pauses, searching for the words.

“Just because it reminds me of who I used to be. Someone I could… be lighter with. Before everything got so heavy.”

You don’t say anything.

But something in your chest cracks a little—softly. Quietly.

You nod once.

Then, without thinking, he brushes your arm with his fingers. Light. Fleeting. Just enough to feel real.

He holds your gaze.

“I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

Not a question.

A soft certainty.

You could leave it there.

You should.

But you say it anyway, like it’s no big deal:

“…You could kiss me goodnight.”

He pauses.

Raises a brow. “Yeah?”

You shrug, playing it off. “Just to test it. See if it still feels lighthearted.”

A slow grin curves across his face. “Bit early for goodnight kisses, isn’t it?”

Then softer—closer: “And if I kissed you goodnight… it wouldn’t just be a goodnight kiss.”

Your breath catches. His eyes are still open—still watching. Fingers drift forward—just enough to brush against your hair. It’s not a kiss. But it feels like one.

Then—he exhales, a little laugh under his breath.

“We’d fail the test.”

You blink. “Why?”

His voice drops.

“Because I wouldn’t want to stop.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

Because the ache in your chest says it all.

Still—

You let it settle.

You let it stay.

Then he walks away.

You blink. Once. Twice.

And then you turn on your heel and book it back inside. Back to the library. Back to your laptop. Your outlines. Your annotated casebooks.

Back to your safe zone.

The water bottle hits your desk like a gavel. A granola bar follows—torn open and half-devoured like it might file your stress for you. A blank doc blinks back at the chaos.

You start typing.

——————————————————————————

Caleb v. My F*cking Sanity

Exhibit A: Apple Girl

She exists.

Confirmed visual. Confirmed hug.

Still part of him. Still hurts.

Exhibit B: The Look

He knew I saw.

Felt bad.

Explained… sort of. That’s not nothing.

Exhibit C: The communication pattern

Texted me FIRST. Flirts.

“First-class comfort.”

Braid-touching violation.

Walked me back. Said “see you soon.” Like it meant something???

Exhibit D: The confession

“You remind me of who I used to be.”

He told me. Voluntarily.

Not sad, not sweet—true. Bitter?

Exhibit E: The proximity

The almost-kiss?!?!

Stepped closer.

Eyes open the whole time.

Looked at me like I might undo him wtf

Exhibit F: The Suggestion

I joked: “You could kiss me goodnight.”

He said: “Bit early for goodnight kisses.” …..

Like… early relationship-wise or early as in it’s not bedtime yet? Fml

Exhibit G: The Verdict

“We’d fail the test,” he said.

“Because I wouldn’t want to stop.”

(I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t… jesus)

——————————————————————————

You stare at the screen.

Your heart’s still pounding.

Your fingers hover over the keys—then type one last paragraph:

——————————————————————————

Case Status: Dangerously reopened. Evidence still being collected. *And I’m starting to think I might not want to win.

——————————————————————————

Part 9

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: Ahhh, here we are again, dear readers: Spiraling straight back into his orbit. There’s just something about a guy who uses :3 So… are you feeling the vibe? Picking up on what Caleb’s trying to tell us? I really hope my initial arc for him is starting to take shape, hehe. (This is, without a doubt, the only arc I can imagine Caleb having… testing, maybe even choosing someone other than the MC. The song below is Caleb’s theme song “back to you, back to you nanananaa”) Now, technically, I could drag this story out forever. I mean, the banter? The flirting? Yum. However, I was thinking about starting to wrap things up… buuuut if you’re into this, I can absolutely slow-burn it into oblivion. Let me know! Anyway, see you in the next one, and have a great weekend, peepz! Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

#barista caleb #caleb love and deepspace #love and deepspace #lnds caleb #lads caleb #you x caleb #non mc x caleb #reader x caleb #fanfic love and deepspace #fanfic caleb

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adragonprinceswhore · 9 months ago

Text

Rumours

Aemond Targaryen x (Ex)Wife

Chapter VIII: Rumours 🎼 Masterlist

Summary: Three months after your show in Oldtown, things seem different. How will you and Aemond navigate this new normality?

Warnings: 18+, self-destructive thoughts, mentions of rehab, therapy and anger management, allusions to smut

Word count: 4500

A/N: What a journey! Thank you so much to everyone that has followed this story, both for the first and second time.

Three months later.

The tour went on for over two months, finishing with a sold-out show back home in King’s Landing. Thanks to management bringing in some highly skilled people to work on finalising the songs on Rumours, the event doubled as the release day of your second album.

You sold twice as many records in the first three days as your first album did since its release last year.

Though you’re certain that some of the attention your album’s received is due to the dramatic end of your marriage to Aemond, you’re convinced that fans wouldn’t be buying it if they didn’t enjoy the music. The reviews from major music outlets were raving about the emotional depth throughout the album, another indicator that gossip wasn’t the only selling point of your heartbreaking labour.

Now, with the holidays closing in, your label has asked you to create some type of extra material to put on a limited edition version of Rumours.

The members of Dragon Dreamers agreed that adding a bonus track would be the best feature, and decided to meet in the studio to record it in one go; a straight-forward and quick procedure fitting your time restraint.

You’ve been playing around with a few ideas for new songs, but nothing substantial that feels ready just yet. Lucky for you, Helaena posted in your group chat that she’s been working on a song you could use.

You’d listened to the demo she shared and the song truly has great potential, being somewhat fast-paced with Helaenas dreamy vocals adding that mellow feel to it only she seems capable of.

Reaching the studio, you step out of the taxi and thank the driver over your shoulder, pulling the thick, wool fabric of your coat tighter around your trembling body.

It’s only the last week of November, but winter seems to have come early this year. You hurry to get into the building where the studio is, shaking fingers fidgeting with the key in your cold, inflexible hand, too stiff to obey you and get the thin piece of brass into the keyhole.

“Allow me”, echoes a voice behind you, and the corners of your lips pull up at the familiar, gentle tone.

“It’s fucking freezing”, you say light-heartedly and move away from the lock to make space for Aemond, who steps forward, key already in hand.

He unlocks the door swiftly, giving you a pointed look while pushing the heavy door open with one hand. It’s his idea of banter; meeting your eyes with that cheeky glint dancing in his eyes, amusement hiding in his lips where the faintest promise of a smile forms.

“Thank you”

You walk past him into the hallway leading to the studio and he follows behind you, mumbling a quiet,

“Anytime”

After the show in Oldtown, your and Aemond’s relationship has improved immensely. Agreeing that whatever happens, the band comes first, proves to be a good way for the both of you to stay on track.

Being on the road and performing several times a week is draining, stressful, and overall rough. But in the strain, it’s provided you with some peace of mind, forced to put all your focus on work instead of dwelling on the past.

On everything that’s happened between the two of you.

Besides, Aemond’s put in effort to be civil as well, even bordering on being friendly at times, asking you if you’d like anything from the coffee shop before he went to grab an espresso. A clear sign of trying that you appreciate, no matter how small.

Besides, it’s not like he even needs to ask. He knows perfectly well what you like.

But this feels better; feigning ignorance.

Not still acting like a married couple.

Perhaps his change was not entirely due to what occurred in Oldtown. Helaena had let it slip one day over lunch that he’d started seeing a therapist, while also attending an anger management program online.

You’re happy for him, truly.

It shows on his demeanour that he’s doing better; that he knows how to handle situations better. He seems more in tune with his inner self as well, more in control of it. You’re glad to see him improving, and yet there’s a small part of you that still mourns the broken bond between the two of you.

That part feels resentful, annoyed with the fact that he couldn’t have done this before your divorce.

Then you might still be together.

Helaena’s singing voice grows louder as you move closer to the door of the studio, pushing it open with your stiff, cold hands.

Jace and Erryk are already seated, listening intently to Helaena’s instructions as she explains how they’re going to record the song. You and Aemond slip in, eyes trained on her, and she offers you a nod in greeting, continuing to discuss her vision of the song,

“The build up has to be captivating! It speeds up towards the outro at the end, which is like the highlight of the song”, she says, hands coming up to put emphasis on her words,

“That’s what you’d envisioned, right Aemond?”

Her head turns to meet the gaze of her younger brother, waiting for a sign of agreement. He only hums in reply and nods at her, prompting her to continue.

Has Aemond written this song?

You think back to the demo Helaena sent of her singing and playing piano.

Isn’t this a love song?

“Finally wrote a song for your girlfriend then?”, Erryk teases as he lowers himself to take a seat behind the drum set.

A wave of nausea crashes over you without warning. You feel your heart race in your chest, like it’s fighting to get out, and a sickening panic spreads within you. Your hands, that’d just felt so cold and stiff, now feel clammy and tingling with unease.

You knew this day would come.

The day Aemond writes a song for Alys.

You’d mentally prepared for it; convinced yourself that whenever this day came, you’d be okay. It wouldn’t hurt that much, you already know that he’s moved on.

But Erryk’s question leaves you disoriented, almost dizzy, and you hear the furious beat of your heart in your ears.

Now you have to live with your decision to leave him all those months ago. Allow him to move on and watch him from the sidelines as his colleague.

Sing along to the declaration of love he’s written for his new lover?

“Hel and I have been working on this song since last spring”, he dismissively replies, throwing Erryk a look that feels cold, yet his tone stays neutral.

Since last spring?

You still feel the heavy weight of anxiety on your chest, but with a few deep breaths, you manage to pull yourself together.

Just get through this afternoon, then you can go home and dwell in self-pity without spectators.

The band starts to play, Helaena singing as her fingers dance over the keys of the piano,

‘Sweet, wonderful you’

‘You make me happy with the things you do’

‘Oh, can it be so?’

‘This feeling follows me wherever I go’

Aside from the demo Helaena sent you a few days ago, you’ve never heard this song before. If Aemond’s been working on it since last spring, does that mean he’s kept it a secret from you?

Maybe he played a rough edit to you before your separation?

Maybe he and Helaena had reworked it beyond recognition?

‘I never did believe in miracles’

‘But I’ve a feeling it’s time to try’

‘I never did believe in the ways of magic’

‘But I’m beginning to wonder why’

He’s not usually the type to write love songs. His solo song on your first album, titled ‘I’m so Afraid’, can be described as anything but romantic.

‘Don’t break the spell’

‘It would be different and you know it will’

But this? Is it the love he receives from Alys that has prompted him to write such an exposing song; causing him to believe in miracles and magic?

Does she make him feel safe?

Safer than before?

‘You make loving fun’

‘And I don’t have to tell you but you’re the only one’

You try to keep your voice stable as you sing along, backing up Helaena’s delicate tone.

It hurts, hearing how much he doesn’t miss you; how happy he is with her.

The one that makes loving fun.

When you were married, all you seemed capable of was making him miserable.

Loving you wasn’t fun.

‘You make loving fun’

‘It’s all I wanna do’

‘You make loving fun’

‘It’s all I wanna do’

Some hours go by.

You record a few different versions of the song; playing around with various sounds.

Every time you sing the words, they stab your heart like a knife,

‘You make loving fun’

You try to act normal. You try so hard that you can taste copper on your tongue. Thankfully, no one seems to see through your facade.

Just breathe.

In. Hold three seconds. Out. Hold three seconds.

You know that it won’t hurt this much forever.

One day, you’ll wake up and your lungs won’t ache when you inhale deeply. Your eyes won’t burn from the force in which you're trying to prevent tears from falling.

Time heals all wounds.

But yours are still fresh. Leaking and aching.

All you want to do is go home, throw yourself in bed and cry.

You crave release, whether it comes from sorrow-induced dehydration, calling Alysanne just to yell out your frustrations, or screaming into a pillow.

When Helaena finally wraps up the recording session, asking you to come back tomorrow after she’s listened through a few of the takes, you hastily grab your bag and move towards the door.

Just need to get out.

Away.

You call out a rushed farewell over your shoulder as you make your way down the corridor of the building, hand coming up to the door handle to step out into the cold November night.

You brace yourself, ready for the chill air to hit your cheeks as you pull the door open. But before you’re able to leave, a large hand gently grabs your shoulder, keeping you in place,

“Wait”

Aemond’s voice is low behind you.

You inhale a deep, shaky breath before you turn around to face him.

“Yes, Aemond?”

Your voice is purposefully flat, and you’re doing your absolute best to not let the hurt you feel reflect on your tone.

“I wanted to talk to you”, he begins, tongue coming out to lick his lips. He’s apprehensive in a way that makes his voice sound foreign, like he’s not himself.

“Did you like it? The song?”

Your gaze flickers down at his question, a reflex-like response so you don’t roll your eyes at him. He sure makes it difficult to be the bigger person.

Set on tormenting you.

“Yes”

You bite out the reply, laced with innate irritation you can’t conceal.

Yes, it’s a good song, you can’t deny that. But seeking you out to have you admit that the song he wrote for his new partner is good Is a new low.

And to think you thought he’d finally changed for the better.

Aemond’s good eye roams your face, seemingly searching for something. An answer hidden in your features.

He licks his lips again, as if he’s looking for what to say,

“You do, you know”

His eye still flickering around without meeting yours, and his restless demeanour makes you nervous too.

“I do what?”, you ask, irritation now clear in your curt tone.

“Make loving fun”, he answers.

The shock of his sudden confession renders you speechless, and Aemond takes the opportunity to pull you out of the building and into the dark night.

The heavy door to the studio closes with a loud thud, and left are you and Aemond, alone in the freezing, dark November night.

“I wanted to surprise you with the song on our wedding anniversary in June, but obviously..”, his voice dies out.

Still lost for words, you’re sure you look ridiculous, mouth agape and eyes wide.

Aemond carefully takes in your reaction and takes a deep breath himself,

“I’ve thought about our relationship recently. A lot”, he says, eyes flickering down to your trembling hands.

Are they shaking from the cold?

He takes your hands in his warm grip, encapsulating their entirety,

“I didn’t treat you right-”

“I, I just-, I loved you so fucking much, I-, I didn’t know how to handle loving you so fiercely. I still do”

He has that sad look in his eye that you’ve grown familiar with; the sorrow that he’s made a habit of keeping from you.

Now, it’s on full display as he offers you himself again,

“Please take me back”, he quietly begs, body moving forward, face coming down so he can rest his cheek on your head, hands still holding yours tightly.

You feel lost for words, stiffly staying in place as you hear Aemond inhale deeply through his nose buried in your hair.

“Aemond”, you sigh, tone thick and unsteady,

“I thought we’d agreed to move forward as bandmates”

“I’ve missed you so much”, he mumbles in reply, unmoving as he rests his head on yours.

“You’re with Alys now”, you breathe out, disbelief making it hard for you to sort out your thoughts.

“I haven’t seen her since Winterfell”, he replies.

“Aem-”, you try to oppose but he cuts you off,

“I’m sorry for ruining everything. I’m sorry for taking my anger out on you. I’m sorry for being selfish”, he confesses quietly, whispering his sins into your hair.

Aemond moves to let go of your hands, and instead brings his arms around your shoulders to hug you.

His voice is still low, mouth right next to your ear,

“I took your love for granted. I couldn’t imagine a world where we weren’t together”, he admits and presses your body against his,

“And now I regret how I treated you every day. I know my actions are inexcusable, and I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I need-”, his voice breaks,

“I need you”

Being in his embrace, so full of the love you’ve been missing for months, causes your lids to feel heavy, and you close your eyes and rest your cheek against his chest, listening to the beat of his heart.

He still smells the same.

The most comforting, warming scent in the world.

It would be so easy to take him back.

It is so tempting.

You gently pull away to look up at him, eyes locking with his,

“Aemond, you know you weren’t happy being with me”

“I’m going to therapy, I’m trying to be better”, he says quietly. His eyes are glassy when he adds,

“For you”

You swallow the lump lodged in your throat.

“That’s great, Aemond, and I’m so proud of you”,

“But I don’t think getting back together would be good for either of us”, you conclude, gaze carefully gauging his expression, anxiously awaiting his reaction.

The inevitable fire.

His eyes narrow, face setting in harsh displeasure.

You notice the corners of his mouth twitch downwards as he stares at you in silence, nostrils flaring with each breath.

His warmth disappears as he steps away from you.

He quickly shifts to the side to avoid your eyes, and leaves without another word.

You do all three things when you get home.

You cry, you scream into a pillow, and you call Alysanne to yell out your frustrations.

Nothing helps.

Why did he have to do this now?

Why couldn’t he have done this when you were still together?

The wound of your marriage opens up again, sending icy waves of pain through your body.

This was supposed to be the part when things got better; when time had healed the wounds.

And yet, you’re still hurting just as much.

A gash that refuses to stop bleeding.

In the depths of your despair, you see your phone light up with a notification through the veil of tears obstructing your vision.

You bring one of your hands up to half-heartedly wipe away the tears that spill out as the other grabs the phone to see who’s texted.

Aemond: “I’m sorry for earlier tonight. If you want to remain friends, I would appreciate that”

For the second time tonight, his unpredictability astonishes you.

Where’s the anger?

You’re unmoving, hand holding your phone in a cramp-like grip as it lights up again.

Aemond: “It’ll be entirely on your conditions”

You inhale, closing your eyes as you ponder your reply.

Exhaling slowly, you open your eyes again to type out your answer.

You: “Okay”

Like most things, though it seemed absurd in the beginning, being friends with Aemond has become a normality.

It started slowly, not going further than the two of you chatting during band practice.

Then, you started going out to grab coffee together, airly discussing the band, upcoming shows, and what music you’d been listening to recently.

As weeks pass by, your newfound familiarity blooms into a friendship.

You start taking more liberties around each other, without constantly being on edge.

Things like Aemond asks you if you’d like to go see a film by an up-and-coming director, you asking him if he’d like to grab food on the way home from the studio together.

Your marriage, as tumultuous and heartbreaking as it had been, seems a distant memory now. The ashes from what once was have provided soil for the two of you to build a new, healthy friendship on. You feel thankful for that.

Thankful to still have Aemond in your life.

Being friends suits him.

He’s opened up far more in these past few weeks to you than he had during the entirety of your futile relationship.

He acredits it to the therapy and anger management he’d done, but you sense a real shift within him.

He tells you about Alys; how he met her and how they developed a kind of friends with benefits dynamic as he longed for intimacy and she became his manager.

Though you can vividly remember him calling her his ‘girlfriend’, he apparently hadn’t made that clear with her, and when he asked her to come on tour with him, a childish attempt at making you jealous, you presume, she’d patted him on the cheek and explained that though he’d been a fun fuck, she didn’t have time for a partner.

He says that in retrospect, her not having any romantic feelings for him must’ve been a blessing, since he was only using her for selfish fulfilment himself.

He tells you about Aegon; how they hadn’t spoken all summer, until Aemond reached out to properly apologise, a crucial part of the anger management program.

Aegon, inspired by Aemond’s dedication to sort out his inner demons, had decided on a fourth trip to rehab. By now, he’s stayed sober for longer than ever before.

Aemond says that he’s made a habit of bringing his brother out hiking, trekking the vast landscape of the Reach.

Sometimes during those long walks, they’d talk over each other, engaging in passionate discussion about everything and anything. Other times, they walk in comfortable silence, simply existing together.

It’s nice seeing your ex husband so content.

The bitterness you first felt at his dilatory introspection has been replaced by admiration; impressed by his dedication to be better.

Somewhere inside, the wound of the past bleeds less and less.

Perhaps this is how you were always meant to be?

Friends.

The realisation is bitter, but you’ve grown used to the taste on your tongue.

You made the right decision.

It’s almost midwinter when Aemond asks you to come over to your old flat one Sunday morning.

Apparently he’s in the process of subletting the place, and needs help removing any personal belongings.

It’s strange being back, already foreign and distant, yet still so familiar.

“I’ve put some of your stuff in the guest bedroom”

Aemond gestures for you to follow him as you step inside.

Like you don’t know where it is.

You follow him, watching as he opens the wardrobe, stepping to the side to invite you in.

True to his perfectionist nature, your things are neatly organised, hanging in tidy rows.

Some of your clothes, two coats, a vase you’d gotten from Alicent on your birthday, a jewellery box. Mostly gifts you received from Aemond, too painful for you to bring with you when you left all those months ago.

Maybe now you’re finally ready to look at the relics of your broken marriage with fondness, reminiscent of the love you once shared.

As you inspect the wardrobe, you notice an old box tucked in one corner, edges worn down and structure almost caving in.

You pick it up and open the lid, surprised to find the picture collage you’d made for him on your six month anniversary inside, along with a few other memorabilia from your relationship.

Two tickets to the cinema, a pub receipt, an ugly doodle of Aemond you drew as a joke.

“What’s this?”, you ask as your hands rummage through the content of the box.

Aemond looks up from the moving box he’d been hunched in front of, eyes going wide when he sees what’s in your hand.

“You can just put that back”, he quickly replies, face growing a bit pink.

“I can just move this to the trash as well”, you say and shift towards the big, black bin bag in the corner.

“That’s alright. I-, I want to keep it”, he mumbles quietly and stands up, towering over you as he takes the box from your hands.

Your eyes dart from the frame with the pictures you’d made for him to his face, not quite sure why he wants to keep such trivial things.

“I want to keep the memories”

He puts the lid back on the box, bends down to place it on the floor, and pushes it towards the back of the closet using his foot.

There’s something in the air that causes the mood to shift. It’s like a thick fog has settled over the room, sticking in your lungs whenever you breathe.

“The good old days”, you joke stiffly, trying to chase the uncomfortable tension away.

Aemond’s standing with his back against you, facing the closet. He hums in reply at your attempted humour.

“Everything was so easy back then”, you sigh, moving to grab one of the coats hanging next to where he stands.

He’s stiff as he turns to you, watching as you carefully examine the coat, pondering whether you should keep it or not.

“I-”, Aemond starts before he stops himself, appearing to be lost in thought,

“I’d try every day to make it easy for you. To love me, I mean”

Your head snaps to the side. His confession hits you with such force, it’s almost physical, and now it’s your turn to be lost for words.

“Oh, Aemond”, you choke out as you take in the sad frown his face is set in,

“It was never hard loving you. It was hard being loved by you”

“I know”

One of his hands moves carefully towards you. When you don’t back away from him, he takes the opportunity to place it on your cheek.

You can feel the way his hand trembles against your skin despite how gentle his touch is.

“I can’t promise that it’ll always be easy. But I still love you as much as I did back then. I know I shouldn’t but I need to-” he licks his lips as he’s searching for the right words,

“I need to ask you again. Will you take me back?”

His stare is intense as he carefully evaluates your reaction. You still can’t find your voice, stuck in your throat in shock.

“I know I don’t deserve it, but I don’t want anyone-, anything else. I’ll do anything for you. Please take me back”, he begs, voice cracking at the end of his plea.

The hand he’s placed on your cheek feels like it’s burning an imprint onto your skin.

You’ve never seen him like this before.

So open; heart on display, laid out in the hand he’s now offering you.

It’s all yours.

He hurt you so much during your time together.

He made life so hard for you.

He made you feel alive.

Would it be worth it; possibly being hurt again?

Feeling alive again.

You bring your hand up to his cheek, mirroring how he’s cradling your face.

Alive.

Aemond’s POV

When she tilts her head up, leans forward and pulls his face closer to hers, he almost lets out a relieved cry.

Kissing her again feels like coming up for air after being underwater for too long.

It’s so relieving it hurts.

Even when he has to leave her lips to breathe, he presses his face against hers, desperate for the contact.

He can’t be apart from her warmth for even a second longer.

Her arms meet around his neck, keeping him close as her breath heats up the skin of his face.

He’s robbed himself of this for months. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever forgive himself for that. for allowing her to slip away.

He searches for her mouth again, kissing her as if she could breathe life into his lungs and revive his numb heart.

His hands can’t decide if they want to touch every part of her being, or hold her so close they melt into one.

She presses herself against him, kissing him back with just as much vigour.

The thought that she’s missed him makes him want to weep.

“I love you”, he says between pants as he moves his lips from hers, trailing down to kiss her neck.

Her hands grab the back of his shirt and she lets out a moan when his lips find the patch right beneath her ear she loves so much.

She pulls him downwards, onto the floor, and offers him a giggle as she straddles him.

Her fingers come down to help him unbutton his trousers, just as eager for him as he is for her.

He feels tears burn behind his eyelids again.

Finally.

He can hardly contain himself as his fingers clumsily search for the buttons of his jeans to aid her in getting them off. He is so impatient, so eager for her, that his hands shake from desire.

His soul is finally soothed when she sinks down on him.

He’s consumed by her.

When she begins to move, the grip of her cunt around him indicates that this won’t last long. But that’s alright. It won’t be the last time.

He surges forward to kiss her again, to let her know how grateful he is.

That she came back to him.

That she’s offered him her warmth once again.

Fin.

A/N: Thank you for reading! ❤️

A very special thank you(!) to Justine @theoneeyedprince who've helped me by beta-ing this fic. You are truly a gem, so wonderfully supportive of me and I appreciate you so, so very much. Besides being an absolute legend of a friend, Justine's also an immensely talented writer. If you're eager to read more modern heartbreak, check out her story Careless Whisper - it's so good! ❤️

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen angst #aemond targaryen imagines #modern aemond targaryen #house of the dragon fanfiction #rumours

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fxtalitygod · 1 year ago

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X. ~Survival~

Genre: Historical AU, angst, mature, suggestive, arranged-marriage

Warnings: Dark themes, gore, graphic imagery, theme/depictions of horror, body horror, swearing/language, suggestive, pregnancy, mentions and acts of suicide, arguments, mentions of adult murder, Pet name (Little Flower 6-10x) implied Stockholm Syndrome, grief imagery, images/depictions of dead bodies, child death/murder, character death(s), slight misogynistic themes (if you squint), dubcon/noncon (not any actual smut other than vague mentions of sex), implied postpartum, implied survivors guilt

Word Count: 3.5k

A/N: Today is a new day and after I got home from work and did some fine-tuning, I finally posted the FINAL CHAPTER (not including the epilogue) of Survival!!! I honestly find it funny that I had originally planned for this story to be a short series and it just spiraled into two years of writing! HAHAHAHAA!!!

JJK Mlist•Taglist Rules• • Pt.I • Pt. II • Pt. III • Pt. IV • Pt. V • Pt. VI • Pt.VII • Pt. VIII • Pt. IX • Pt. X • Epilogue

Emptiness.

It was a feeling that you bitterly greeted after having abandoned it six years ago. It was disappointing, but welcome nonetheless. You wished it was under different circumstances. You did not know which circumstances but knew it was anything other than this.

After the destruction of your life, everything went back to the beginning. You were rehomed in a new village and a different temple, though you could not tell much of the difference. Those blank walls still drove you to insanity. The marriage ceremonies had resumed and more children began crawling the halls in a matter of months.

Sukuna had seemingly lost interest in you after the incident. You had finally snapped, extinguishing the anticipation for the hopes that you would one day. Despite his seeming lack of interest, you were still watched over with diligence, still resided in his chambers, and still acquired a caretaker.

Your mental forces were deteriorating, and it was clear from the blank expression that graced your face. You assumed that Sukuna acknowledged that and decided to have a sitter stay on top of you if you were to do something unexpected– much like what you had done to your village.

The curse user knew the extent of your rage, but he did not quite expect you to leave your home in ruins, to burn your family into nothing but ash. Little to your knowledge, a part of him admired you for that; however, the words that left your mouth after the act had been done brought him a discomfort that neither himself could explain.

From the way he was rutting in you currently, you could not tell. Another attempt of impregnating you. Years ago, you would have had a mind to beg him to stop, and when you could not accomplish that, feign pleasure. You used to want to please Sukuna not for his benefit but your own. Now all you cared about was embracing the feeling of that emptiness as you merely felt the man fucking you: soundless, motionless, thoughtless.

It took a matter of months before you were with child again; however, unlike before, this pregnancy was worse. In the physical aspect, you were overall healthy, but your mental health was far from good. You were a husk of the woman you once were, having lost all ambition for your future. Even when spontaneous thoughts of what life would be like outside the temple, you could not help but feel nauseous.

Guilt.

There were times you wished you could have blamed it on your pregnancy and escape the reality of the issue, but your mind would not allow it. You were repulsed with yourself and could not help but feel like you were betraying your twins by just the simple notion that you were alive, and to think of a future for yourself without them revolted you beyond compare. Your pregnancy did not make it any better.

Most women in the temple thought of pregnancy as a fresh start after losing their previous offspring; a new chance to impress their husband– a sickening point of view; however, you could not be upset with them. Deep down, you believed they had been just as afraid as you were upon their arrival when their village elders proclaimed them the next tribute to Sukuna. They more than likely had a plan to make it out of this hell and made promises to return to their families, but somewhere down the line, all the manipulation, physical strain, and mental stress, caused them to accept their fates and try to make the best out of it, losing themselves in the process.

You were not so lucky.

If pregnancy was a punishment before, it was a curse now. Knowing you were to have another child brought you great remorse. Anytime you were to look or even feel your bump, you could not help but think of the past... to think of your twins. It felt like you were betraying them, trying to unconsciously replace them even though your pregnancy was out of your control.

The way you would eat at yourself could have been considered torture.

Besides the normal work around the temple, you would spend most of your evenings in a dark and unoccupied room, keeping to yourself. No one dared to disrupt you, mostly out of fear due to the knowledge of your power. Few left you space out of respect, knowing the pain you were going through; however, sometimes you wished they would walk through that door, hoping they would attempt to comfort you.

It would have been a good distraction from your running mind.

Those dark and quiet rooms gave you time to think and reflect. You realized there were many things you had undermined and denied for your own sanity. The list could go on, some minor, some major…and the major miscalculations stuck out like a sore thumb.

Trimester One.

Despite your efforts, your village nor your family would have ever accepted your children– Sukuna's blood coursed through their veins, and that was enough to consider them a monstrosity. Your hopes of escaping with them and living a happy life were an illusion you conjured up to keep a drive in you.

Trimester Two.

Whether you liked it or not, your twins would not stay innocent forever. The twins were under Sukuna's guidance, no thanks to your pact, and they absolutely adored him. The twins blindly trusted him with their entire beings and would have believed anything Sukuna had taught them was for good, and you knew for a fact that is how your partner would have spun it. Their acts would have been malicious and cruel and they would not have even known...and despite your want to tell them the truth, the constraints of your pact would have stopped you from doing so.

Trimester Three.

Even if you had successfully run away with your son and daughter in hand, the life the three of you would have lived would have been far from peaceful. You and the children were proven valuable assets to Sukuna; to think that your husband would give you all up so easily was foolish. The curse-user would have hunted you down to the ends of the world until you were back in his grasp.

And as you sat there holding your new baby girl, tears streaming down your face as you listened to her whimpers, you hoped she'd grow up to be a fool; a strong, but foolish girl. If your daughter grew up to be a fool, the world could not hurt her as it had hurt you. If she becomes a fool, she would not have to feel the burden you were feeling.

You hated that you hoped for her, hated the fact that you loved and cared for her after laying eyes on her small figure. The whole scene was pitiful. The arms of a mother holding her child close to her bosom as if shielding them from the world– the effort could be appreciated but was futile because the looming threat was already hovering over you as he inspected his creation. If his presence was not unsettling enough, his hum of satisfaction horrified you, causing you more tears.

"I should have killed myself that morning. It would have saved me a lot of heartache..." you whispered, repeating the words you had mentioned over a year ago.

Months back into motherhood you found yourself questioning yourself and your emotional availability every time you looked at your daughter. You were doing all the right things, but performing the tasks felt heavy on your shoulders, and the smiles you painted on your face felt like they were caked on. None of it felt real. There was no doubt you cared for your little girl, but you had to admit that the task was tiring– caring was tiring.

You thought the feeling would end, believed it was temporary, but days turned into months, and months turned into a year.

You had just finished your daughter's first inspection and were now in your sleeping chambers with your husband. You both stood there silent and unmoving, staring at each other with hardly any indication of who was willing to speak first. Fortunately, your daughter was the first to break the silence, whining as she clung to you. You sighed as you understood the child needed attention, moving the baby into a better position to lightly bounce her, attempting to calm her down.

"You know, I thought you would be overjoyed to be blessed with another child, Y/n," Sukuna sounded as he studied you.

"Whatever do you mean? I am nothing but pleased," you blankly responded, focusing entirely on the little girl bouncing in your arms.

Silence once again.

You could feel his stare burning into you; feel his agitation radiating off his skin as he looked for a real answer. Sukuna was not an idiot, you were aware of that, but his meaningless probing was getting on your nerves. You would much rather he got to the point than play his mind games. If he was going to be indirect, you would only do the same.

"Do you think of them when you look at her?"

There was a halt in your movements, breath hitching as you did so. You slowly moved your head to look at the man before you, your gaze piercing. You had every intention to avoid the question, but your mouth betrayed your mind.

“What do you think?” You snipped, a grimace forming onto your features.

“I could make you forget, simply remove them from your memory to rid you of this…ailment.”

For what felt like the thousandth time of your life, you could feel your eyes widen, however, this was the most appalling statement your husband had made. Had he really suggested ridding your memories with your twins? Had he no remorse? Of course not, why would he? The children were a means to an end, nothing more than a few pawns in his plan. Any love and affection the father had shown his son and daughter were shown with calculation and precision– there was no meaning behind those affections.

"You sick bastard."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"Y/n, I would advise that you watch your tone," a warning glare, "If I did not know any better, I would say that you were speaking out of turn when I am offering you such a gift– I do not offer such things lightly."

"Well it is good that you know better," the seething anger bubbling in your chest was choosing your words at this point, "How could you suggest such a thing?"

"I am doing you a mercy, Y/n, you are letting the past consume you from the inside out, and sooner or later you will become the image of your agony."

"You know nothing because if you did you would be in the same state as I am. You speak as if you know sympathy, but your words are honeyed to keep me in your grasp!"

Your breath was heavy as you confronted Sukuna, glaring daggers into his soul as you watched him step closer.

"Your perception can be quite bothersome at times, Little Flower; however, I believe it is what I admire most about you. I think it is why I chose you...why I love you."

Love.

"Love."

Your laughter was hysterical. The tears welling up in your eyes from pure disbelief and humor. Sukuna Ryomen himself has admitted to loving you for the second time. This time claiming he chose you because he loves you.

What a joke.

"Love me?" you choked between giggles, "Sukuna, you would not know love if it hit you in the face. Like I said before, your words are coated with the sweetest sugars to keep me around, to bring me hope, and quite frankly, the sweetness has become dull and bitter," a pause as you caught your breath, "You do not love me Sukuna. As I have stated, you love what I can provide you."

Silence had greeted you both for what seemed like the millionth time, but you could have been wrong, you lost count at this point.

"I understand the concept of love, more than you think, Little Flower; however, love has little meaning. So you are right, I do not love you, I value you. Is that not greater than love?"

You scoffed.

"You are going to die alone and I am glad that you will."

A soft chuckle sounded from your husband before feeling a strange feeling at the back of your head. You could feel the kanzashi pin moving in your hair as Sukuna played with the accessory.

"I highly doubt that."

Those four words had caused your heart to sink, bringing you more fear than you had ever experienced in your entire life. Without thought, you backed away from the man towering over you. You shook your head as you held eye contact with Sukuna, almost stumbling on your feet as you felt for the door and clumsily exited the room. You had your daughter close to your chest as you entered the hallway.

What little you had of your life came crashing down instantly as the gravity of your reality unfolded to its full extent.

You would never be free and although that was a realization you had made long ago...this time you had no hope to convince you otherwise.

So what did you do?

You ran.

You flew through the corridors to the gardens, arriving with heavy breath. Scanning the grounds you searched for the only individual who could help you right now. The moment your eyes registered the woman, you quickly approached, hardly paying attention to anything along your path as you made your way over.

"Y/n-"

"I have something for you!" you interrupted, holding out a pin you had stored and concealed for years, never knowing the right moment to give it to the woman before you.

The woman who had lost her sick and poor son on your very first inspection day.

You watched as her eyes welled up immediately, taking the pin and inspecting it as if to make sure it was real. When she was able to confirm the little trinket was indeed not a figment of her imagination, she held it close to her chest, letting her silent sobs escape before looking at you.

"Thank you. Thank you so much. But why are you giving this to me?"

You looked around hesitantly before pitifully looking at her, letting your walls crumble to reveal all your pain and suffering.

"I need your help."

"Uraume!"

"Yes, Sukuna-sama," the right hand responded.

"I would like you to gather the women and children from the inspection, I have an announcement."

"Yes, Sukuna-sama, I'll get right on it."

With that Uraume disappeared, leaving Sukuna in his quarters alone. The man paced in his chambers, reflecting on the prior conversation from earlier. The talk did not have the most satisfying ending, but much like the other unfortunate discussions that had been held between the two of you, this would be another problem that would resolve itself in due time.

The move would help move that process faster.

This village had quickly bored the tyrant, as they were quick to promise vengeance and destruction upon his empire. Same-old-same-old. So with that, it was time to move on to the next village after leaving this one behind in ashes.

"Sukuna-sama, the women and children do not appear to be in their chambers or the gardens, the workstations are abandoned too.

"What?"

Without a thought, Sukuna stormed out of the room and into the halls, those blank walls making the temple look more abandoned knowing that everyone had seemingly disappeared. He looked through every room he managed to pass, even using his abilities to sense the faintest amount of cursed energy. For a while, he came up with nothing, but after catching a familiar aura, he briskly started to follow the direction it was coming from.

The curse-user found himself in the main hall, where he saw his wives and children gathered. The husband would be lying if he claimed he was not confused with the situation, but he would not show that. Instead, Sukuna decided to try and decipher the scenario.

Upon first glance, it had seemed that the women and children were gathered for a usual gathering, but upon closer observation, something was off. The looks of the individuals in the room seemed to differ. Some women seemed relieved, others looked almost proud, and others...well, the last of the women looked as if they were being held there against their will.

As the monster-of-a-man continued to scan the room, he finally managed to find you, standing in the center of the room, your head held high; however, you looked exhausted, broken. It brought that familiar discomforting feeling to Sukuna, the same feeling when you had spoken those words after you had burned down your village.

"What is this, Little Flower?" Sukuna questioned with some amusement behind his voice, masking his indifference.

"Do not call me that," you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper as it softly echoed in the room.

"Y/n-sama ple-"

"SHUT YOUR MOUTH!" you yelled, successfully silencing the crying woman who had shouted for you.

The atmosphere was tense, and he would tread carefully because Sukuna was no fool.

"What do you want, Little Flower? An apology? I can, obviously, give that to you, but we both know it would not solve much. So what is it you truly want?"

"To leave..." you weakly announced, watching as Sukuna gradually approached before stopping in his footsteps.

"Well then, Little Flower, you have gathered yourself and all your companions just in time, I was ready to announce our departure from this village. You get what you want, righ-"

"That's not what I want." you interrupted.

Sukuna was silent, his brow twitching in irritation as he stared at you, stopping mid-stride.

"Then what do you want?"

"I want the offer you gave me back on the table?" you quickly responded.

"And what offer would you be referring to, Little Flower?"

"On my very first inspection with my twins, you offered me to kill everyone in this room– I want to change my answer."

Your husband chuckled, "Do you not think the circumstances have changed a little, my dear? I gave you that option years ago, what makes you think that is something I am still willing to offer?"

"Because you love me..."

"Now you are willing to embrace that love?"

"Only if you do this one last thing for me. I will let you love me until my last mortal days, and me in return, just as long as everyone in this room dies."

A sly smirk, "As you wish, Little Flow-"

"By my hands!" you interjected.

Delight was an expression that Sukuna could not hold back at those words.

"It's a deal, Y/n."

"Perfect."

With those words sealing the pact, you took no further wait in your next actions. You ignored all the shouts and screams of those who wished to live, ridding yourself of whatever empathy you once had– you had to admit, it made things a lot easier when setting the room ablaze. Hearing their screams of agony and pain was a lot easier when you managed to wash out the humanity within you.

You could only feel relief after hearing all the shrieks and wails die out into nothing but silence. The room was filled with nothing but fire, bone, and ashes, the smell of burning flesh was prominent; however, that did not stop him from approaching you.

"I love you, Little Flower." Sukuna proclaimed, bringing his forehead to yours before softly kissing you.

He pulled away to look into your eyes, admiring them momentarily before smiling softly. Some may have mistaken it for a look of endearment, but it was a look of satisfaction. He had successfully taken your pride, dignity, and hope– he had taken all of you.

"I love you too."

And because you had no pride, dignity, or hope, left to hold on to...

It made it so much easier to bring that poison-coated dagger to your flesh and slit your belly.

For Sukuna everything went in slow motion, immediately swatting the dagger from your hand to the ground before cupping your wound, blood covering his hand in seconds. The desperate individual tried using his reverse curse technique to revert the damage, but it was pointless as you were resisting. For the first time in a long time, Sukuna felt genuine fear as he watched you slowly slip away from reality. And as everything started to play back to speed, Sukuna had a realization.

"Where is our daughter?!" The four-armed monstrosity yelled upon notice of your empty arms, continuing at attempts to stop your bleeding with little success.

Your smile made his heart drop.

"Gone." you sputtered, blood slipping from your cooling lips before going completely limp.

"...Gone where? Little Flower..."

"Little Flower!"

"LITTLE FLOWER, ANSWER ME!"

"Y/N!!!!!!!!"

You upheld your deal...you loved him for your last mortal days, it just so happened that day was seconds into a day, and as Sukuna sat there holding your motionless form, he could not have regretted anything more in his life. Making that deal was the best thing to happen in your life because in the end...

...You won the game of Survival.

And you hoped that your daughter could one day do the same.

Until the epilogue yall... (｀∀´)Ψ

Taglist:

@littlemochi @mistalli @youngbeansprout @bbylime @bangtan-forever1479 @idktbhloley @izayas-rings @o3o-aya @pyschopotatomeme @persephonehemingway @otomaniac @meforpr3sident @fourcefulcupid @nezuscribe @my-simp-land @zukuphilia @niya729 @spiritofstatic @bbittersw33t @kashasenpai @decaysan @honeybaegle @ygslvr @outrofenty @esposadomd @ali2426 @anmath @yazzzmints @lovingnahida @sincerest-one @rosemaydone321 @j0dios @k-ki3rd @maki-zenin1944 @shadowywizardarcade @ae-mius @xiangping-28 @loaves4me @aloraaaxcrystalzx

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minimomoe · 7 months ago

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How to Train your Demon

Pairing: trueform! Sukuna x Fem Reader

Summary: Life has all kinds of wins and losses. You don't know which category to put your new demon husband in though.

Tags: MDNI!, red string of fate trope, true form sukuna, librarian reader, soul mates, reincarnation, accidental summoning, love at first sight (but it's one-sided (until it's not)), Sukuna is demon, but he's v much in love, smut and stuff eventually i guess....

AN: smut in this chapter!! p in v sex, some fun with hand mouths, oral (fem receiving), Sukuna may or may not have a praise kink. also blood drinking it isn't a part of smut (just walk with me)

Part: I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. IX. X. XI. XII XIII. (completed)

Revisit rule: "Never Leave Him Unattended"?

“Yeah, I’m not feeling too well. My foot is killing me way more than before and I think I’m coming down with something.”

A barely concealed moan left your lips that you covered up by clearing your throat. You glared at Sukuna who was stuck on your back like a koala bear. You were laying naked in bed, limbs upon limbs tangled up in the sheets, his hands roaming over all the planes of your body. He tweaked your nipples while other hands dipped into your sex, making it impossible for you to stay on the phone with a steady voice.

“I will make sure to stop by the ho–hospital today,” you shuddered. Sukuna made good use of his hands, and last night you learned of one of his many quirks. One of them being the mini mouths which appear in his palms that have been tormenting you if his mouth on his face was preoccupied. You took deep breaths in to control the mounting wave of arousal building up as he toyed with your clit. “I’ll try to come in tomorrow. Thanks for underssstanding.” After wincing at the sound of your squeaking voice at the end of your sentence, you practically threw your phone across the room once you hung up.

“Sukuna please,” you whined.

“If you wanted me to stop you would have used your fists,” he smirked. He rolled you over until you laid beneath him, his arms caging you in with nowhere to hide. On his arms and the tops of his shoulders you saw faint bite marks and scratches that you had left behind. You lost count of how many times you went at it last night. The soreness aching in your bones signalled that maybe you had overexerted yourself, but seeing Sukuna’s eyes roll back when you took him in your mouth only spurred you on, and he wasn’t satisfied until you were a breathless, boneless mess, so you found yourself wrapped up in each other until the wee morning hours.

“Now watch carefully,” he purred at the apex of your thighs. He bit into your flesh, not softly but with real teeth and tug that made you hiss. You were going to reprimand him— maybe finally give him that knuckle sandwich he was begging for earlier— but he shoved his face into your cunt and lapped you up with a reverence that had your complaints melt out of your brain. Your legs crushed the sides of his head, so Sukuna pried your thighs open and kept them wide, pushing them as far as they could on the bed. His other hands were busy marking you up once again, whether it be with his nails or the tongues that he could make appear in his palms that sucked on your skin until you were shivering.

“Fuck– that feels so good. Just like that, baby.”

You were too busy with your mouth hanging wide as you writhed around in the sheets to see Sukuna’s eyes widened at your words. Your praise did wonders for his already large ego, and in no time he lifted you up to the heavens and back with his name screaming on your tongue. When he climbed up your body to fuck you once more, Sukuna held your chin and licked up the side of your face to catch the tears that were streaming down. In one swift motion he pushed inside of you, still holding your face to force eye contact. It was intense and all consuming, almost too intimate like he wasn’t deep seated inside of your cunt.

“Why are you staring?” You nervously laughed. Despite the molten pool of arousal building up in your lower half, you couldn’t help but to tease your lover. “‘Baby’ is all it takes to get you blushing like that?”

You hooked your leg around his wide waist, raising your hips to his rhythm and matching his thrusts. The bed squeaked dangerously underneath your motion. Sukuna’s arm steadied himself right next to your hair, and you turned your head to kiss his wrist with a mischievous smile. “Or would you rather Your Highness?”

You were driving the demon wild. He quickly cuffed the back of your leg to perch on your shoulder, reaching a new depth inside of you. Your eyes rolled back into your head and Sukuna latched onto your shoulder with his teeth.

“Stop talking,” he growled. Sukuna could barely hold it together. You were gripping him like your life depended on it. He couldn’t last much longer with all your teasing and still you giggled.

“Are you gonna make me?”

His hand slid down and rested heavy on your neck. You grinned, your hand laying on top of his, matching his movements.

“What a brat,” he gritted out, but he loved it. Whether it was audacity or confidence, you had it all. Sukuna reveled in it as he brought you over the edge, your orgasm sucking him in deeper, allowing him to bury himself in you. With a sharp kiss he finished inside of you, but you melted all the same. Even with all his edges, the gentle undercurrent couldn’t be ignored. You coaxed Sukuna to lay on top of you like a weighted blanket to bask in the afterglow. As you combed through his hair with your finger you laughed to yourself. The noise made him look at you with a raised brow.

“I’m just happy that you found me. That’s all.”

Sukuna gazed at you intensely. Heat began to prick at your face once again, but he spoke before you could crack a joke to lighten the mood.

“You are not allowed to leave me again,” he said very seriously. You smiled softly and cupped the side of his face.

“I doubt I had any say in the matter the first time,” you laughed. “But I can promise that I’m not going anywhere. This time you’re stuck with me.”

It was a promise. Despite the curve of your lips you truly meant the words coming out of your mouth. The start of your relationship didn’t make sense, and there were many logistics that needed to be sorted out later, but as of right now, you knew that you wanted to make this work with Sukuna. You had a feeling that everything would fall into place.

Sukuna laid his cheek back on your bare chest. His deep voice rumbled through your body in a way that reminded you of Cleo’s purring.

“Sleep. You will need energy for the ceremony.”

The idea of genuine rest coming finally within reach made your eyelids droop. You wanted to fight the sleepiness off but it was futile. The last thing you remembered before going under was a soft kiss pressed into your palm.

~*~

You were gently woken up by the feeling of Cleo’s whiskers tickling your face. She gently pawed at your nose, then waited for you to sit up. Beside her you spotted black robes carefully placed at the end of your bed and you blinked.

“I guess I’m supposed to put this on,” you muttered. The material was thick and soft. Cleo meowed and jumped off of the bed, going to who knows where. You stood up and slipped the garments on. It didn’t swallow your entire frame as you expected, and there were ties to cinch in your waist. The dress was made for you.

As you were putting on the last piece of the ensemble, a veil that stopped middle of your chest, a soft knock came from your closed door.

“Come in!”

Uraume scuffled inside, glad to see that you were already dressed. You did a quick twirl for them with a smile. “How do I look?”

“The stars pale in comparison, ma’am,” they said with a tug on their lips.

“You flatter me too much,” you gushed. “I guess it’s time to get this show on the road. What do I have to do?”

“Everything else has been taken care of. Please follow me.”

Uruame took you outside to your backyard and you realized it was much later in the day than you had thought. The sky was a bright pink with streaks of orange clouds cutting through the horizon. Sukuna stood at the other side of your yard in a kimono that was in the same colored garbs you were in, the dark reds and blacks flowing around his physique. All his eyes watched you intently and your heart rate quickened. With your hands held together in front of you, you carefully walked behind Uraume down to where Sukuna was, trying hard not to trip because of the fabric that swished at your ankles. When you stood across from Sukuna you, a small table with an obsidian bowl and a dagger laid inside separated you.

Uraume wasted no time getting started once you had stopped moving. They held the book that started it all in their hands.You only caught bits and pieces of what they were saying as they spoke quickly, moving through prayers and chants from eras of ancient times. While you were caught in a trance from the words Uraume was saying, Sukuna’s eyes never left your face. Uruame spoke of combining two souls and you gasped. You remembered Sukuna mentioning the string of fate the very first night you had met, but it wasn’t until now that you could faintly see the glimmering red string from your pinky to his. It was barely there, hidden by a very thin veil of the world as you know it and all the possibilities out there.

Uraume stopped talking and looked towards Sukuna. He grabbed the dagger from the table and held out his hand for you to take.

“This will hurt but you will be fine,” he stated. You watched as the jagged teeth of the blade tore through your skin and hissed. Drops of blood pooled in the bowl, and Uraume quickly wrapped your hand and wiped the blade clean. They handed you the blade, and you gingerly took Sukuna’s awaiting palm.

“Let me know if I’m hurting you,” you mumbled.

“Impossible.”

After a few deep breaths you managed to cut through Sukuna’s skin and his blood joined yours in the bowl. Once again, Uraume wrapped Sukuna’s hand and cleaned the blade. Sukuna lifted your veil and brought the plate up to your lips. The smell of iron filled your nose and you took a small sip. The metallic liquid covered your tongue, and Sukuna kept his eyes locked on yours as you consumed it. He brought the plate down to place in your hands, and you fed him your blood the same way.

You didn’t know what to expect. There was no cloud of smoke, or flashing lights, or anything that showed a major transformation had occurred. Sukuna looked as handsome as ever, but you did notice that he no longer had four eyes. You turned to Uraume with a quizzical gaze.

“What now?”

“I believe this when they say, ‘You may kiss the bride,’” Uraume smiled.

“Finally,” Sukuna grinned. He wrapped his hands around your waist (only two) and kissed you like he hadn’t in centuries. And maybe he hasn’t. The kiss marked a new beginning that started and would end with you.

You broke apart when you heard loud complaining from your cat that watched from the patio. Cleo laid over the cement floor flicking her tail back and forth, watching the two of you with disdain. You laughed at her call to stop and Sukuna told her to go away.

“God, there is blood all over your lips,” you shook your head. You wiped it away with your hands and Sukuna couldn’t stop smiling.

“Your blood all over my lips.”

“And yours,” you giggled. “It’s official now. You are my husband–”

“And you are my wife,” he said against your mouth.

Thanks for reading loves!! lemme know what ya think xx

Part: I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. IX. X. XI. XII. XIII.

M.list || Twitter || Ao3

#minimoe #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu sukuna #sukuna ryomen #sukuna x reader #ryoumen sukuna #sukuna fluff #sukuna x you #sukuna smut #sukuna ryoumen x you #jjk x reader #jjk x you #red string of fate #sukuna

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ssweeterthanfiction · 5 days ago

Text

Glimpse of Us

summary: routine became something finnick cherished. but course, the capitol must ruin everything, including his love. but he will still find a way to get her back.

finnick odair x fem!reader

content warnings for the whole story: descriptions of death, torture, starvation, and everything described in The Hunger Games, mentions of suicidal thoughts, implications of S/A

mood board + playlist

previous part | masterlist | next part

Chapter VIII

They don’t stop him from visiting.

Maybe it’s pity. Maybe it’s because Haymitch told them not to interfere. Maybe it’s because no one knows what else to do with him.

But no one says anything when Finnick shows up. Every day, from the moment he wakes up, he’s there.

The Recovery Wing is quieter than any other place in District 13. Too clean. Sterile. The air smells like antiseptic, but it’s the kind of sterile silence that doesn’t offer any peace. It clings to the back of his throat like saltwater that won’t wash away.

And then, there you are.

Always in the same place. Curled up on the thin hospital bed, your body buried under oversized blankets and clothes. They dressed you in the standard gray uniform, the same as everyone else, but it doesn’t fit right—too big, too loose. The fabric hangs off you like it doesn’t belong, like it’s swallowing you whole.

You’re awake sometimes. But even when your eyes flicker open, it’s like you’re not really here. Like your mind is miles away, and your body just hasn’t caught up yet.

Sometimes you sit up by yourself. Sometimes you let the nurses help you. But Finnick knows. He can tell when you’re too weak, too distant to care. And every single time his shadow crosses the threshold, you flinch. Every time his voice brushes against the air, your whole body tenses, like you’re waiting for something. Like you’re bracing for pain.

It’s that reaction that eats away at him. That’s the part that’s almost unbearable.

He spends most mornings in the chair by the wall, just out of reach. Close enough to watch your chest rise and fall with each shallow breath, but far enough that you won’t notice him too much. Sometimes, he wonders if you even know he’s there at all.

He watches the rhythm of your breathing like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered.

In his lap, his hands work through knots. Tiny, shaky loops. His fingers ache, cramped from twisting the rope too tight, too fast. But it’s the only thing that helps him hold on to something.

Sometimes, he talks. Softly. So softly that he’s not even sure you can hear him.

He likes to believe you can. Even if he can’t see it in your eyes.

“Hey, Angel,” he whispers one afternoon, his voice barely rising above the silence in the room. “It’s morning again. The sun’s probably rising over Four right now, you know?”

His eyes drop to his hands, moving mechanically over the rope, watching it twist. “Mags would’ve made you tea by now. Annie would’ve shown up with one of those seashell bracelets she’s always making. You used to love those. You loved when she gave them to you. You wore them everywhere cause you said it was like having a piece of the ocean with you all the time. ”

He smiles softly, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His throat tightens when he thinks of it. “You always said the mornings there smelled like salt and cold sand. Like the ocean was always just a breath away, even when we were indoors.”

Nothing.

His fingers tighten around the rope, pulling, twisting, knotting. He doesn’t even feel the burn in his muscles anymore.

“You hated it when I made fun of you for using too much sugar in your tea,” he adds, his voice so small, so fragile now, like it’s breaking with every word. But it’s the last thing he can remember—those mornings. That laughter. The warmth of it.

Still, there’s nothing.

The room stays as still as a tomb. The only sound is the faint, quiet echo of Finnick’s own voice in his ears, the only thing that feels real anymore.

The quiet is unbearable.

Every word he speaks seems to get lost in the air. It hangs there like smoke, slowly drifting away, just out of reach.

Finnick’s hands keep moving, the rope slipping through his fingers like time itself—too fast, too slow, a tangle of memories he can’t untie. He pulls tighter. Over, under, through, over, under, through. He does it until his fingers start to sting and the knots are so tight they almost seem to bite back.

He wants to speak more. He wants to remind you of everything. He wants to be the one to make it all come rushing back. But how do you remember someone when you don’t even remember yourself?

He glances at you again, his breath catching in his throat. There you are, lying there, eyes closed, but the softness in your face doesn’t reach your eyes. You look like you’re sleeping, but Finnick knows better. You’re not resting. You’re trapped in a place he can’t reach.

And that’s what kills him most of all.

It isn’t just that you’ve forgotten him. It’s that you’re still in there somewhere, lost. Somewhere inside that broken mind, there’s a part of you trying to claw your way back to the world, to him.

But it’s so far gone, buried under layers of pain, and Finnick doesn’t know how to bring you back to him.

He tries again.

“Do you remember...?” His voice is quiet, hesitant. He can’t bring himself to finish the question, the one that’s been gnawing at him for days. Do you remember us?

His throat tightens as he swallows the words, choking on them before they leave his mouth. He doesn’t know why he asked. Of course, you don’t remember. How could you?

Instead, he says something else. Something safer. “I remember when we first met. We didn’t talk much. Just shared a look. You were too shy, and scared—obviously. But you warmed up pretty quick."

He smiles bitterly at the memory. He remembers the way you’d shyly glance at him, your eyes full of questions you didn’t want to ask. The way you’d laugh under your breath when he’d say something under his breath about Lyssandra.

“Do you remember when I taught you to tie knots for the first time?” Finnick’s voice breaks, but he doesn’t stop. “It was after your games, I knew that your brain was probably think of a million things at one time. I wanted to give you something to do with your hands so you could turn your mind off for a little bit.”

He looks at you again. This time, you’re not sleeping. Your eyes are open, unfocused, staring off into some distant space. There’s no recognition. Just that vacant look he knows too well.

His heart clenches, and for a moment, he forgets to breathe.

You flinch when he shifts in his chair, and he recoils in kind, like he’s the one who’s been struck. His heart aches in a way he didn’t know it could. It feels like all the air has been sucked from his chest.

For a few moments, there’s nothing but silence again.

Then, you speak.

It’s quiet. A whisper that barely cuts through the weight of the room.

“I’m sorry...” Your voice cracks, so faint he almost doesn’t hear it. “I don’t... I don’t remember.”

Finnick closes his eyes, but the tears still slip through. He wasn’t prepared for this. He didn’t know how to be.

“I know,” he whispers back, his voice thick with emotion. “I know you don’t.”

He doesn’t know how long he sits there after that. The room stretches on forever, stretching his pain with it, making everything feel endless.

Eventually, he stands. It feels like moving through mud, like he’s dragging his own body forward. Every step is harder than the last, each one heavier than before.

Before he leaves, he glances back at you one last time.

You’re still lying there. Your eyes have drifted closed again, but the stillness in the room makes Finnick feel like he’s suffocating.

And as he steps out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him, he finally lets the tears fall.

🌊 .·:*¨🌊🐚🌊¨*:·. 🌊

The days blur together after that.

Finnick doesn’t know how many times he’s sat in that chair, or how many times he’s spoken to you. His words hang in the air like a forgotten song, like an echo fading before it’s even begun.

Every morning, he wakes up with a new sense of purpose, but by the time the day ends, it feels like he’s only ever going in circles. Around and around, through the same old routines, the same old words that lead to the same place: the chair by your bed, the silence, and the aching emptiness in his chest.

Some days are worse than others. Some days, the silence feels suffocating—like there’s a weight pressing against his chest, making it harder to breathe. Other days, there’s a flicker of hope, a sliver of light. The small moments where he swears he sees something in your eyes, some fragment of recognition, a spark that shouldn’t be there but is.

But every time he gets close, it vanishes. Just like everything else.

It’s the waiting that’s killing him. The waiting, and the feeling that he’s not allowed to be anything more than an observer in your life. He can’t reach you. He can’t save you. And every time he’s faced with that harsh reality, it feels like a part of him shatters all over again.

One afternoon, he finds himself standing by the window, staring out at the cold, gray wall. The weight of everything feels unbearable, like it’s pressing in from all sides, and Finnick knows that if he doesn’t find something to hold on to soon, he might just break.

His fingers drift toward the knot of rope in his pocket. It’s worn now, the edges fraying from all the hours he’s spent twisting it between his fingers, but it’s the only thing that keeps him grounded. The only thing that keeps him tethered to the world when everything else seems so far out of reach.

He pulls it out and begins to work the rope, his hands moving quickly, expertly. The knots are familiar now, automatic, like breathing. Over, under, through, over, under, through.

It’s the only thing that makes sense.

But even as his fingers work the rope, his mind drifts back to you. To the way you looked at him when he spoke, the way you flinched, like he was a stranger.

The memory claws at him.

Finnick exhales slowly, the air leaving his lungs in a broken, jagged breath. The tears are close now, but he swallows them back. He won’t let himself cry. Not yet. Not when he hasn’t even begun to figure out how to fix this.

He turns away from the window, eyes lingering on the door to your room. There’s a pull, an ache in his chest, and for a second, he’s sure he’s going to walk right back to you, sit in that chair again, and say the same words he always says. The same words that don’t reach you.

But then, he hears a voice in the hallway. A familiar voice.

“Finnick.”

He stiffens, his heart racing for a moment, before he recognizes it.

He turns, watching as Haymitch approaches, his expression unreadable. There’s a silence between them, thick and heavy, as if neither of them quite knows where to begin.

“You’ve been at it for days,” Haymitch says, his tone sharp but not unkind. “I’m not going to tell you what you’re doing is wrong, but it isn’t helping her either.”

Finnick opens his mouth to argue, but the words get caught in his throat. The truth stings too much.

“I’m not giving up on her,” he finally says, his voice hoarse.

Haymitch eyes him carefully, studying him. “I never thought you would.”

For a long moment, Finnick doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, the rope still clenched in his hands, his fingers stiff and aching from all the twisting and pulling. The words he wants to say don’t come. Not now, not yet.

“I just...I don’t know what to do,” Finnick mutters, his voice quiet, almost lost in the air between them. “Every time I think I might get through to her, it’s like...she’s still so far away.”

Haymitch nods slowly, his face softening just a little. “You’ve got to let her find her way back to you. And maybe it won’t be the way you want. But you can’t force it, Finnick. Not when she’s so broken. Not when everything is so...fragile.”

Finnick looks down at the knot in his hands, the tension in his chest growing tighter with every word.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I know. But I’m afraid...that if I don’t keep trying, she won’t ever remember me. That she’ll forget what we had.”

Haymitch doesn’t say anything for a long time, and when he finally does, it’s just one quiet sentence.

“She’s not the only one who’s lost something.”

Finnick’s chest tightens at that. He looks at Haymitch, seeing something deeper in his eyes. Something that resonates with him in a way that nothing else has.

Haymitch’s words settle heavily around him, a reminder of everything Finnick has lost in the chaos of the war, of the Games, of the Capitol. Of the person he’s been before. Before the weight of his memories started to slip away, too.

Before he started losing parts of himself.

🌊 .·:*¨🌊🐚🌊¨*:·. 🌊

Finnick doesn’t go back to his room that night.

Instead, he finds himself pacing the hallways, the silence of 13 pressing down on him like a weight he can’t shake off. His mind is a storm of conflicting thoughts, a thousand questions he can’t answer. What if she never remembers? What if all he’s doing is making things worse?

Everywhere he goes, he’s haunted by the echo of his own voice. By the quiet gap between the words he speaks to you and the silence you give back. It feels like a loss too big to understand, like a void that swallows him whole every time he thinks about it.

The walls seem to close in as he walks, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. Not yet.

He’s at the end of the hall when he hears it—soft footsteps behind him.

This time he doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is.

“Finnick,” Haymitch says again, his voice low, the kind of voice that speaks without words. The kind that understands what’s happening without needing to say it.

Finnick doesn’t respond. He just keeps walking, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his eyes trained on the floor ahead.

“I know you’re struggling,” Haymitch continues, his voice gruff but not without care. “But there’s a line, you know? You’re going to drive yourself mad if you don’t start thinking about something else.”

Finnick stops, but only for a moment, his body stiff with the weight of Haymitch’s words. He presses his forehead against the cold wall, trying to steady himself.

“What do you want me to do, Haymitch?” His voice cracks, rough with the tension he can’t shake. “She’s in there, and she doesn’t even remember me. I don’t know how to fix this. How do I... how do I make her see me again?”

“You don’t.” Haymitch’s voice cuts through the quiet, harsh and direct. “Not all at once. You don’t get to make it happen. You have to let her come to you when she’s ready. She’s not the only one who’s broken here. You’ve got to remember that.”

Finnick turns, finally meeting Haymitch’s eyes. The older man looks as tired as he feels, his face worn down by everything they’ve been through. But there’s something else there—something that gives Finnick pause.

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Finnick whispers, his chest aching with the weight of all his unanswered questions. “I’m not stupid, Haymitch. I know what’s happening. But every time I see her... I know she’s in there. I just can’t reach her. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to.”

Haymitch steps closer, his face softening slightly. He places a hand on Finnick’s shoulder, giving him a rare moment of grounding.

“Then stop trying to be the one who saves her,” he says quietly. “You can’t fix everything. Not this time. Sometimes the only thing you can do is wait. Just... wait.”

Finnick swallows hard, his throat tight. For a long moment, he stands there, his hand gripping the rope in his pocket like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the present.

Finally, he nods.

“Alright,” he says softly. “I’ll wait.”

But as he steps away from Haymitch and walks back down the hall, a small part of him wonders how much longer he can keep this up. How much longer he can wait for a love that might never come back.

🌊 .·:*¨🌊🐚🌊¨*:·. 🌊

The next morning, he’s back at your room, back in the same chair, watching you sleep—watching for any sign of movement, any hint that you might remember. He talks to you again, just like the day before, just like every day since they brought you back.

“Hey, Angel,” he whispers softly. “It’s me again. I know you probably don’t remember...but I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You shift a little in the bed, your eyes fluttering open. You blink at him, and for the briefest second, there’s something there. Something that flickers in your gaze, like a spark. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, and Finnick feels his heart sink again.

You’re not ready. Not yet.

He exhales a shaky breath and shifts in the chair, the knot of rope still in his hands. He runs his fingers over it absently, wishing it could anchor him to something solid, something real.

But it doesn’t.

“Do you remember...the beaches back home?” Finnick asks, voice barely above a whisper. “We would go all the time before...before everything happened. You loved the sound of the waves crashing. You said it felt like the world was breathing.”

Nothing.

“I still remember it,” he continues, his voice breaking on the words. “I still remember how your hair smelled like salt and the wind, how you smiled when I tried to teach you to fish.”

Your eyes don’t even flicker at the words. They stay blank. Vacant.

And for a moment, Finnick wonders if he’ll ever be enough. If he’ll ever be the one to bring you back from the dark.

But then—just as the silence settles back around them, thick and suffocating—he sees it.

Your hand shifts slightly, your fingers brushing against the edge of the blanket.

It’s so small, so faint, but it’s there.

For a second, Finnick dares to hope.

Maybe you’re not as far away as he thought.

Maybe, just maybe, you’ll find your way back to him.

🌊 .·:*¨🌊🐚🌊¨*:·. 🌊

The days stretch on, but Finnick is still there. Still waiting. Still speaking to you.

It’s almost like a ritual now—the mornings, the chair by your bed, the endless string of memories he whispers into the quiet. He talks to you like you can hear him, like you can understand. Like everything will fall back into place if he just keeps reminding you.

But it never works.

Not yet.

He shifts in his chair again, his hands shaking slightly as he touches the rope in his lap. The knots are tight, small, perfect. Each one he ties feels like a silent plea. Every twist of the rope is an attempt to anchor himself to something—anything—besides the ache that is becoming unbearable.

“Do you remember,” he asks gently, his voice trembling, “the first time we ever went to the beach?”

You blink slowly, not responding. Your gaze drifts past him, unfocused, lost somewhere far beyond the room. But Finnick doesn’t give up. He leans forward, his hands gripping the edge of the chair like it’s the only thing holding him together. His eyes never leave you.

“We went down to the water... you were wearing that white dress you loved so much.” He swallows, trying to steady his voice. “You remember that, don’t you? The one with the flowers? The one you always said made you feel like you could breathe again?”

He watches your face, looking for any sign—anything—of recognition.

But there’s nothing.

He tries again, pushing the words out like they’re his last chance. “You said it reminded you of the sea. That you’d never seen anything more beautiful than the way the waves shimmered in the sun. You said it was like the ocean was speaking to you, telling you secrets no one else could hear.”

He pauses, the silence swallowing him whole. It’s unbearable, and his heart aches with the weight of it.

“You always said,” he continues softly, his voice cracking as he forces the words out, “that you could hear the ocean calling your name.”

For a moment, he swears he sees something shift in your eyes. A flicker. A small change, but it’s there, almost imperceptible. Finnick’s heart skips.

He leans in closer, his breath catching in his throat.

“Do you remember?” he whispers urgently. “Do you remember that day? Do you remember us?”

But then, just as quickly as it comes, the spark fades. Your expression goes blank again, like a veil has descended, and Finnick’s hope crashes down, heavy and cold.

He leans back in the chair, his chest tight with the weight of disappointment. The knot in his hands trembles with the same frustration. He’s trying so hard. Harder than he’s ever tried for anything in his life, and yet it’s never enough.

The silence is deafening, and he feels like he’s drowning in it.

And then—before he can say anything else, before he can beg you to remember—the world shifts around him.

The air in the room seems to change, like the walls are closing in on him. The chair under him feels like it’s pulling him downward, and for a moment, he swears he’s falling into the past.

His fingers slip from the rope, and suddenly—just as the room begins to fade away—the sound of waves fills his ears.

The world around him softens, and he’s not in the sterile, white Recovery Wing anymore.

He’s back on the beach.

***

The air smells like salt and the earth, the waves crashing gently against the shore in a rhythm Finnick knows all too well. The sound wraps around him like a blanket, the familiar scent of the sea filling his lungs, grounding him in a time that feels both distant and close, like a dream he doesn’t want to wake from.

He’s standing on the beach, the sand cool beneath his bare feet, and the sun is still low on the horizon—casting everything in a golden haze. It’s the perfect morning. Quiet. Peaceful. Just the sound of the waves and the distant calls of seagulls. No worries. No Capitol. No war. Just the two of them.

You’re there beside him, standing at the water’s edge, the hem of your white dress fluttering in the wind. Your hair is tangled by the breeze, but you don’t mind. You never do. You’re smiling, and it’s the kind of smile that fills him with a warmth he can’t explain. The kind of smile that makes him think, This is it. This is everything I’ve ever wanted.

The sun catches the edge of your dress, the pale fabric dancing in the wind, and he can’t help but smile as he watches you. You’ve always had that way of moving, like the world was a little bit more beautiful when you were in it.

“You know,” you say, your voice light and teasing as you glance back at him, “I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to stand here. The waves keep pulling at my feet.”

Finnick chuckles, shaking his head as he steps closer to you, the sand soft beneath his feet. He can hear the laughter in your voice, the sound that always brings him a sense of peace.

“You’re always complaining about the waves,” he says, nudging you lightly with his shoulder. “But you never stop coming back to them.”

You tilt your head, looking out at the ocean with a faraway look in your eyes, the salt of the air catching on your lips. “I think the ocean speaks to me,” you murmur softly, almost as if the waves are the ones you’re talking to and not him. “It tells me things. Secrets no one else can hear.”

Finnick looks at you, his heart skipping a beat as he takes in the sincerity in your expression. You’ve always been like that, so deeply connected to the world around you. He wonders if you even realize how beautiful you are when you’re lost in your thoughts.

“Secrets?” he asks, a grin tugging at his lips. “What kind of secrets?”

You turn to face him fully now, your eyes sparkling with something he can’t quite place. The wind tugs at the edges of your dress, and for a moment, you look like you’re floating on air.

“The kind that make me feel like I belong here,” you say, your voice quiet but certain. “Like I belong with the ocean. With the sky. Like I’m part of something bigger than just... me.”

Finnick’s breath catches in his chest. The weight of your words settles over him like a quiet understanding, something deeper than just a passing moment. He doesn’t know why, but suddenly everything feels clearer. Like this moment is the one that’s been waiting for him all along.

He steps closer to you, his hand brushing against yours, and for a second, neither of you says anything. The world feels still. The sea. The sky. The sand beneath your feet. All of it is just... you. Just the two of you, lost in this moment, caught between time and space, with nothing else to worry about.

“You know,” Finnick says softly, his voice barely more than a whisper against the wind, “I don’t think I’ll ever hear the ocean the same way again. Not without thinking of you.”

You smile at him, that same soft, knowing smile that always made him feel like you held all the answers. “You’ll always hear it, Finnick. Even when we’re not here, when we’re not together. The ocean will always call your name.”

And then, as if by instinct, you reach for him. Your hand slides into his, fingers curling together with ease, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The waves crash at your feet, the sound so familiar it feels like home. You close your eyes for a moment, and he can’t help but pull you just a little closer, the warmth of your body against his, the salt of the sea lingering in the air.

Everything feels perfect. Unbreakable. Just for a moment, you are everything to him. The ocean. The sky. His entire world.

And in that instant, he knows with all his heart that he will never let you go.

***

The sound of the waves faded slowly, and suddenly the air in the room grows heavy once more. Finnick blinks, his vision blurring for a moment as the beach begins to slip away, replaced by the sterile white walls of the Recovery Wing.

His heart pounds in his chest as he comes back to the present, his fingers still trembling from the memory that lingers so clearly in his mind.

But it’s gone. It’s only a memory now.

He opens his eyes, and there you are—still lying in the same spot. The same hospital bed. The same quiet room.

And yet, somehow, he feels like he’s closer to you than he was before.

The memory lingers in Finnick’s chest like a weight he can’t shake off. The taste of salt on his lips, the feeling of your hand in his, the sound of your voice—soft and sure. All of it clings to him like an anchor, grounding him even when everything else feels adrift.

But as the last echoes of the waves fade away, Finnick’s heart aches with the knowledge that it’s just a memory. A moment in time that he can never fully reclaim.

He blinks a few times, the stark, sterile white walls of the Recovery Wing pulling him back into the present. The noise of the machines and the soft hum of the air vents return, and with them comes the crushing weight of everything he’s lost.

His fingers curl into fists around the rope in his lap, the knots still tight and perfect, but now they feel like shackles, tying him to the pain of the present.

You’re still there. Still lying in that bed, so close and yet so far away. His heart clenches, and for a moment, he wonders if the memory will ever be enough to bring you back to him.

He stands, his legs shaky as he moves towards your bed. His heart beats faster, thumping painfully against his ribs as he watches you, as he gets closer.

Your eyes are closed, but there’s a soft rise and fall to your chest. The air feels thick, heavy with the silence between you two. Finnick swallows hard, his throat tight with the words he can’t seem to say, the things he’s been holding onto for so long. He takes a shaky breath, forcing his hands to stay steady.

“I miss you,” he whispers softly, barely more than a breath. The words come unbidden, spilling out before he can stop them. “I miss you so much. I miss the way you looked at me, the way you smiled. I miss hearing you laugh.”

His fingers brush the edge of your blanket, but he doesn’t dare touch you. Not yet. Not until he knows if you’ll flinch away from him again.

“Please... I just need you to remember,” he murmurs, his voice breaking as the words catch in his throat. “I need you to come back. I can’t do this without you.”

The silence in the room feels suffocating, like it’s pressing in from all sides. He takes another step closer, but before he can say anything else, he hears it.

A soft sound. A faint shift from the bed.

His breath catches in his throat.

You stir, your eyelids fluttering, and for a moment, Finnick dares to hope.

And then, your eyes slowly open.

There’s a pause—just a beat—but it feels like eternity.

You blink up at him, and Finnick’s heart skips, his pulse racing as he watches you. For a second, just a second, he sees it. A flicker of recognition in your gaze. Something familiar, something so small, but so important.

He doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t dare move, his whole world narrowing down to the look in your eyes.

You blink again, your brow furrowing as you take him in.

And then, softly, so softly, you whisper, “You’re still here.”

The world holds its breath.

The words aren’t enough to bring everything back. They aren’t the words he’s been waiting for, the ones that will bring you back to him completely. But they’re something. They’re a sign.

Finnick’s heart cracks open, but there’s something else, too—something that feels like hope. He leans forward, holding onto that thread with everything he has, because you’re still here. You remember him. You remember something.

“I’m here,” he whispers, his voice steadier now, stronger. “I’m right here. I'll always be right here.”

And this time, he doesn’t wait for you to respond. He just stays, watching you, holding onto that spark.

Finnick doesn’t leave right away.

He stays, even when the silence grows thick between you both. His heart still beats faster, the pulse in his ears louder than the quiet hum of the room. You’re still here. You spoke. You remembered something. Even if it wasn’t enough, it’s more than he had a few minutes ago.

But it isn’t enough.

Not yet.

🌊 .·:*¨🌊🐚🌊¨*:·. 🌊

He doesn’t know how long he sits there. His legs ache from the stillness, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t dare. The small, fragile thread of hope that you’re still in there, somewhere, is enough to keep him tethered to the moment.

“Do you remember when we used to sit on the beach?” he says after a long while, his voice low, soft. It’s almost like he’s trying to speak to himself more than you, but he says it anyway. “You used to say the ocean called your name. You’d stand there with your feet in the water, your hands stretched out like you could catch the wind itself.”

He doesn’t know if you’re listening. He doesn’t know if you even care to hear the words. But he says them anyway, because they’re all he has.

“I still remember it,” he murmurs. “I remember the way the wind felt, the way the sun warmed your skin, the way you smiled when I asked you what the ocean was saying. I remember everything. I don’t care if you can’t yet. I’ll hold onto it for both of us.”

There’s a flicker in your eyes again. Maybe it’s just his wishful thinking, or maybe it’s the fading edge of some distant memory. But Finnick latches onto it, the small glimmer of hope growing brighter. It’s enough to make his heart ache and swell at the same time.

He leans forward, his hand reaching for the edge of your blanket, hovering there, but not touching. He doesn’t want to push you again. He’s learned that much.

“I’ll wait for you,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

His fingers curl into the fabric, and for a moment, his mind drifts back to that day on the beach. The warmth of the sun, the sound of the waves. You, standing there like you could command the world with a single step.

It’s a memory he’ll never let go of. And as he watches you, as he waits for you to say something—anything—he realizes just how deep his feelings go. How deeply he’s willing to wait.

For you. For the person you used to be. For the person you’ll become again.

The silence stretches on, but it’s different now. It doesn’t feel suffocating. Not anymore. It’s a silence filled with possibility, with a fragile hope that maybe—just maybe—you’ll find your way back to him.

Finnick leans back in the chair, exhausted, but for the first time since he found you, he feels like he can breathe again. Even if it’s just a little bit.

And as he watches you, still so far away, he knows this is only the beginning. This is just the first step in what’s going to be a long, difficult road.

But he’ll walk it. He’ll walk it for you. And he won’t give up.

Not now. Not ever.

A/N: okay it's out everyone pls come back.

Taglist: @jacaeryslover @sundawn1990 @redama @noodleisodd @amara-mars @lovemyself-m-k @goosy-goose @potao-o @womenkisser05 @arsonistlizard @iguanagwen @lover-rep-fanfic@tatumrileyslover @kimarii-00 @shuri-my-love @saleyeniu @succulent-ruler6 @aphxdea @humongousrunawaytiger @herbal-tea-and-manga @1i1winter @echoingrainydays @technicallyspookymoon @smthabsolutelyunhinged @yeah-idk-either @moon-zoons @shutendoji22 @thatoneamericanblonde @syd649 @curryexpress @harrypotterlovers-things @wonubby @212-apricity @anyaslittlepeanut @momoriii-i @milfslover2 @pluto-plutonium @xmochiloverx @wowlani @eyantice @suneaterscape @hanjelia @winx333-blog @lisaoligy

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rubycruzin4abruzin · 9 months ago

Text

Forbidden Crown - VIII

Summary: Will you follow your head, and stay in Tir Asleen to marry Airk and rule your kingdoms together? Or will you go with your heart, and run away with Kit to hide in the valley of Nockmaar?

Pairing: kit tanthalos x princess!reader

Contains: non-explicit smut, kissing, homophobia, commitments, arranged marriages

Word Count: 3.7k

A/N: we’re finally here… the final chapter. Thank you to everyone who’s supported what is over 30k words of pure lesbian pining. Extra thanks to anyone leaving comments, replies, or messages to tell me how the story has affected you—whether it be positive or negative, your words brightened my day!! Onwards and upwards, onto the next writing process, but until then, without further ado… here’s the Forbidden Crown finale :,)

Kit gazed at her reflection in her bedchamber’s polished mirror, the white satin of her gown flowing around her ankles. She shifted her legs with a grumble, feeling bare beneath the billowing fabric.

“Please hold still, Your Highness,” the seamstress murmured from behind, carefully removing pins from the gown. Kit couldn’t recall her name in the moment. “I wouldn’t wish to prick you.”

With the last pin removed, the seamstress stood and circled Kit, inspecting every inch of the newly-finished garment, The way the lace dipped low at her back before forming sleeves that cascaded down her arms like bells, while the satin hugged her hips, gathering at her thighs before softening into delicate folds around her feet. Every stitch was impeccable, the dress handcrafted specifically to give Kit the appearance of the most elegant bride.

With a final nod of approval, the seamstress began to pack up her workbox. “The gown is ready for the morrow’s matrimony, my lady,” she said. “You’re sure to make a radiant bride.”

As she left Kit alone to undress, Kit couldn’t help but note how the seamstress had avoided her gaze throughout the entirety of the fitting. It didn’t surprise Kit; much of the castle staff had been behaving strangely after the events of the previous night. Of course, they knew better than to blatantly give voice to scorn about any member of the royal family, but their sudden eschewal and reproachful stares were difficult to ignore.

It wasn’t as if Kit was overly concerned by their sudden change in demeanor; she had long grown accustomed to strange looks—after all, she wasn’t exactly a ‘beloved’ princess. What troubled her more was how you were faring. Your parents had ordered guards posted outside your doors during the night, making it impossible for Kit to check on you after you were sent to your separate chambers.

Kit turned her attention back to the mirror. Despite her unease, she chuckled softly at the sight of herself in the gown—the white gown; a color worn by brides to signify their purity, something Kit was proud to admit that you had ruined many times over.

Reaching behind herself, she tugged at the laces holding the gown together, only to groan upon realizing the seamstress had left her locked in a double-knot. She clutched at the fabric in frustration, knowing she’d be resigned to waiting until her lady’s maid came to relieve her.

Just when she was considering reaching for a dagger to cut herself free, her door swung open. She turned away from her reflection, expecting her maid—and ready to scold for the delay—but instead came face-to-face with her brother.

“Airk,” she exclaimed in surprise. “What are you…? I could’ve been undressed! You shouldn’t…”

“Come with me,” he interrupted, taking her hand and pulling her along.

Kit was not one to yield to orders and quickly began to protest, but her objections went unheard as Airk continued to lead her through the castle corridors. Anxiety gnawed at her as he steered her around the busy servants who paid them no mind—why would they? To them, it was simply a prince walking with his sister through their home, never mind that Kit was debuting her wedding gown a day too early.

“Could we please just…”

“Here,” Airk opened the door to a random guest chamber and pushed Kit inside. “Half an hour. No more,” he declared cryptically before slamming the door shut.

Kit stared at the wooden barrier in shock and confusion before revolving to take in the room. It was small, dark, lit by nothing but a mullion window in the corner, and only by its narrow rays of sunlight could Kit see you, standing in the center of the floor, donning your own fluffy white gown.

“Princess…” she breathed, taking in the sight of you in your dress. Ivory brocade embraced your chest and torso, flowing into a full skirt around your feet. Gilded laces formed a mock-corset at your waist, matching the gold trim along your neckline and attached hood. You were the picture of wealth, the portrait of a perfect bride, and if you had been wearing that dress in any other context, Kit might have taken you right there and then.

“I’ve just finished my final fitting,” you explained, stepping closer.

“As did I,” Kit chuckled, gesturing to her own gown. “But, what are you…” Her voice trailed off as she noticed the tears staining your face. You wrapped your arms around her neck and kissed her gently, your lips salty from crying. Kit hesitated, but soon brought her hands to your waist, drawing soothing circles into your hips in an attempt to comfort you. Her small gesture prompted the lump in your throat to rise again, and you pulled back, deepening Kit’s confusion. “Princess, what…”

“I just… I wanted to see you… one final time,” you whispered, your voice shaking as you held her tight.

“You… final?” Kit questioned, a nervous chuckle slipping through. Her hands clasped at the small of your back, pulling you closer. “Don’t be ridiculous, Princess. We leave tonight, remember?”

All you could do was shake your head, unable to meet her eyes.

Kit’s face faltered. “No?” She moved you to sit on the edge of the bed, wrapping an arm around your waist. “I don’t understand…”

Your gaze dropped to your lap as you spilled everything in a single breath—how your kingdom was in dire straits, how Tir Asleen had been financially supporting Azarenth in exchange for your betrothal to Airk, and how your engagement was necessary to save your people. When you finished, you looked up to find Kit’s eyes swelling with tears.

“So… this is it?” She asked, her voice cracking.

You didn’t respond; you swallowed the lump in your throat and seized her lips in a passionate force, almost as if she could take this thing from you, as if you could somehow rid yourself of this reality if you kissed her hard enough. She grasped your hips, falling back onto the bed as you covered her with your body, your hand already slipping beneath her dress.

This would be how you remembered each other—faces flushed and limbs twisted in the linen sheets, hair splayed about the pillow, skirts bunched at your waists, eyes clouding over in pleasure upon reaching your peaks. Kit brought her lips to yours as you came down, removing her fingers from within you and wiping them on the soiled coverings. “I love you,” she whispered against your skin.

“I love you too,” you murmured, still overtaken with bliss. But as your breath evened, and your skin cooled, you felt the fragile oasis you had built begin to crumble, leaving only a devastating reality behind. “It… nothing will ever feel whole… not without you.”

Kit shook her head, stroking your cheek. “Don’t say that. You don’t mean it.”

“I do,” you insisted, your voice breaking again. “I’ll remain in Tir Asleen, but my heart will wander with you, wherever you go—whether that’s Galladoorn or beyond.”

Kit desperately wanted to protest—argue that you would be sisters, that you could see each other all the time, that you could live for little stolen moments like this during visits. But deep down, she knew better—that if you would be risking your lives for slivers of secret bliss, and even if you were extra cautious, your royal responsibilities would keep you far too busy for such endeavors.

Instead, she lifted your chin, meeting your tear-filled gaze. With a sad smile, she whispered, “I want you to have something.”

She helped you sit up, smoothing out your hair while you pulled your freshly-wrinkled skirt over your legs. The lace of her sleeve bunched around her elbow as she pushed it up, revealing a thin, gray string hanging loosely around her wrist; it was frayed, discolored, worn to mere threads, but you instantly recognized it as the once bright-pink ribbon she had stolen from you as children. With one careful motion, she released the knot, letting the ribbon dangle freely from her pinched fingers.

That lump returned to your throat. “Kit, I…”

“Take care of this, would you?” She gingerly took your wrist, wrapping the ribbon around it. “It means a lot to me.”

You shook your head. “Kit, no, I can’t take this. You’ve kept it for fifteen years.”

“Then give it back to me in another fifteen.”

There was nothing you could do to stop the tears from spilling down your cheeks as Kit secured the knot. The tattered strings appeared foreign on your wrist, but not as much as the pale band encircling Kit’s—a narrow strip of skin shielded from sunlight for nearly a lifetime. Unable to trust your voice, you simply nodded, silently accepting her gesture.

She caressed your cheek, her thumb wiping away your tears, though her own had begun to fall. Her voice came out weak, barely audible. “I love you.”

You let out a watery laugh, your own voice trembling. “I love you too.”

She leaned in for another kiss, the taste of salt lingering between you, only to be interrupted by a knock at the door. You both pulled back reluctantly, standing up to fix and flatten your gowns as the door cracked open, Airk’s head peeking through, his eyes shut tight. “Are you presentable?”

Both of you let out breathy laughs. Kit took your hand as she responded, “You’re clear.”

Airk opened his eyes, blushing slightly. “Forgive my intrusion, but the half-hour has passed.”

You smiled back warmly. “We truly appreciate it, Airk. Thank you.”

He bowed his head, extending a hand to Kit. “Come on, then.”

Kit glanced at you, her eyes filled with unspoken words suppressed by the absence of time. She squeezed your hand once, holding on until she was out of reach. And then the door snapped shut, and Kit was gone, and you were once again left alone, surrounded by empty darkness.

The following morning, Kit had expected to be awakened before dawn by a frantic servant sent to fetch the bride. Instead, she awoke to golden rays of sunlight spilling through her chamber window and the cheerful sound of birds chirping outside. She rubbed her eyes, allowing them to adjust to the newfound brightness when she heard a soft rap at her door.

Expecting her lady’s maid, she sat up. “Enter.”

The door swung open to reveal Sorsha, standing in the doorway with her hands clasped in front of her.

“Mother,” Kit groaned, her voice raspy with the weight of sleep. “What are you… am I late?” Her gaze drifted to her wedding gown, carefully hung on a rack in the corner of her chamber. “Nobody came to fetch me…”

Sorsha cut her off with a shake of her head. “Make yourself presentable and meet us downstairs.”

“Presentable?” Kit pressed. “I… where’s my maid? I’ll need help donning the gown…”

“There will be no need for that,” Sorsha interrupted. “Dress in your everyday attire and come downstairs. We’re met in the Great Hall.”

Before Kit could further question, her mother made a swift exit, clicking the door shut behind her. Kit sighed, throwing off the covers and dragging herself out of bed. She trudged to the storage chest at the foot of her bed, selecting a loose, woad-dyed blue tunic, some boots, and black trousers. As she dressed, a feeling of unease crept through her—fear of the unknown gnawing at her insides, coupled by an intrusive, pondering voice rattling through her mind and growing louder with each step, only ceasing upon reaching the Great Hall.

All eyes turned to Kit as she stood in the doorway, but her gaze settled only on you—sitting in a beige linen gown, your confused expression mirroring that of your parents sat on either side of you. Sorsha motioned to the seat beside her, and Kit obliged, settling across from you and your parents.

The air in the hall hung as heavy as a drawn bowstring, everyone waiting with baited breath for the meeting’s purpose to be revealed. Kit glanced around the long table, realizing something was missing, and decided to ask, even if she didn’t necessarily want the answer. “Where is Graydon?”

Sorsha let out a long exhale before answering, a breath perhaps even she hadn’t known she was holding. “Prince Graydon and his father have returned to Galladoorn,” she replied finally. “They left early this morning, and Airk has gone with them.”

Everyone at the table seemed to gape at this news, but it was your mother who pressed further. “What do you mean my daughter’s betrothed has fled?”

“He hasn’t ‘fled,’” Sorsha clarified. “I’ve sent him to train with the knights of Galladoorn.”

Not a jaw in the room remained shut. Your mother’s face quickly hardened. “You’ve done what?”

Sorsha merely nodded. “He’s always been quite the swordsman; I think you’d agree. King Hastur certainly did. I had him demonstrate his abilities late last night, and he agreed to take him on as a trainee.” She turned her attention to Kit, her expression unreadable. “Due to this new arrangement, your betrothal to Prince Graydon is no longer necessary.”

Kit could have sworn her heart ceased its beating.

”And our daughter?” Your mother asked angrily. “What is the nature of her engagement?”

”Well,” Sorsha began. “Airk will reside in Galladoorn for the time being—five years, perhaps more. Because of this, I believe the best course of action would be to… postpone the nuptials.”

Something snapped inside your mother; she rose, slamming her hands on the table. “You’re delaying our daughter’s matrimony? You’ve decided all of this without even taking the time to discuss it with us?”

“I see no reason for such commotion.” Sorsha stated, folding her hands atop the table. “The engagement still stands, it’s simply postponed until further notice. Your alliance with Tir Asleen remains intact.”

She glared across the table, her gaze hard and unblinking. Your mother faltered, reminded of something she momentarily forgot; Sorsha held the power—she always had, whether financial, political, or otherwise. With an awkward clearing of her throat, your mother resumed her seat.

“But how shall I fare?” You couldn’t help but ask. “Am I to return to Azarenth for the next decade?” A sense of dread washed over you at the thought of living with your parents for another ten years, especially knowing what they know now. Not to mention, the idea of being away from Kit for just as long made your heart ache.

Sorsha took in a breath, fiddling with her hands as if preparing to say something controversial. “It is of utmost importance to keep up appearances… for the sake of our people, of course. After all, we’ve just made a spectacle of an engagement party.” She glanced at you. “Your parents may return to Azarenth. You shall remain here so our people see Airk’s departure as an unexpected change of circumstance rather than a capricious stunt.”

Something flashed within Sorsha’s eyes—something small and brief, almost imperceptible, but you saw it: recognition. This wasn’t about Airk, or her kingdom, or anything else but her acknowledging the love between you and her daughter. A short gasp escaped your throat as you realized this, tears pricking the corner of your eyes.

Your father turned to you, noticing your hand over your mouth. “Are you alright, Princess?”

You could barely speak; you stood, muttering something along the lines of “you must excuse me” before making a brisk exit, overwhelmed with emotion and unable to meet anyone’s gaze as you pushed through the doors of the Great Hall.

Kit stared after your retreating figure until you were out of sight, wanting nothing more than to run after you—to hold you in her arms, to cry together tears of joy, to promptly move all of your belongings into her chamber despite the protests she would face. It was Sorsha who shook her from her trance with a hand on her shoulder. “I believe we can handle the remainder of the meeting,” she said, gesturing to your still-seething parents. “Why don’t you go… settle your own arrangements.”

With a smile full of gratitude, Kit mouthed a quick word of thanks and dashed out of the Great Hall, determined to find you. She beelined toward your guest chamber, throwing open the door, but was met only with dark, empty space. Her heart quickened its pace, and she rushed through the castle corridors, her resolve to find you growing more desperate with each empty room. All hope was beginning to fade, and Kit became anxious. Her hand moved to fiddle with the ribbon on her wrist—a nervous habit she’d developed—but her fingernails only scratched a pale strip of sunless skin. In that moment—that moment of fleeting forgetfulness—she remembered the sacred oasis you two had shared for so many important moments, and suddenly, Kit knew exactly where you would be.

The wintry February air nipped at her skin as she stepped outside, the tall stone walls of the castle doing little to stave off the shivers running up her spine. Despite the chill, she pressed on until she reached the garden gates, finding you exactly where she thought she might—perched beneath the protective branches of the large tree. You had your knees tucked to your chest, your arms wrapped around yourself in a feeble attempt to shield against the frigid air. The wind whipped at your hair, leaving messy strands strewn about your face and framing your cheeks, stained red from a mixture of tears and the cold.

“You’ve never looked more beautiful,” Kit murmured, latching the gate shut behind her.

You lifted your head to look at her. “Kit…” you whispered, your voice shaky and fragile. “What… what’s happened?”

“I’m not sure myself,” Kit replied, moving to sit beside you. She smiled, reaching up to wipe away your tears. “Can’t we just enjoy it?”

You let out a shuddering breath, shaking your head. “I… I can’t…”

Kit frowned. “Why not?”

“I don’t understand,” you sniffed. “Your mother… after all this time… why?”

Kit smiled, brushing away the wisps clinging to your cheeks. “My mother knows of love,” she explained softly. “Her own union was not arranged.”

You sniffed again, hugging your knees tighter. “This doesn't feel true,” you admitted. “It feels like a cruel trick.”

“No tricks,” Kit assured. “It is true, Princess. Yes, there will be some conditions, and we must make sacrifices for a public appearance, but we can be together. Isn’t that what matters most?”

“But your brother,” you protested. “I’m still his betrothed. What happens when he returns from training?”

“We have at least half a decade until that day, perhaps more,” Kit chuckled. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” She took your hands in hers, compelling you to look at her. “Princess, I may not know what fate has in store, but I do know I want you in it. I’ve known since our first kiss under this very tree. I remember it well—you wore that muddy pink gown, all tucked into a pair of my breeches. I’d never seen anyone so beautiful. Somehow, since that day, you’ve only grown more so. Every time I look at you, I manage to fall in love all over again.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Kit quickly shook her head. “We’ve been granted an opportunity, Princess, and if you’ll have me, I’d like to spend the rest of my days—or as long as I’m able—with you, falling in love again and again. Please, Princess. Will you let me?”

Kit’s words swirled in your mind like birds around the eye of a storm. You stared into her pleading eyes, filled with hope and adoration, and your own began to well with tears once more. Dropping her hands, you stood and silently made your way over to a barberry bush in a corner of the garden, Kit’s curious gaze following you all the way. Your fingers fell to your wrist, toying with the delicate knot Kit had tied so carefully the day before until it hung from your skin like a loose thread. Kit’s brow furrowed, but before she could speak, you plucked a branch from the barberry bush and used its piercing thorns to slice the ribbon in two.

A strangled gasp escaped Kit’s throat, her eyes following the tattered string as it drifted atop the garden dirt. “Princess…” she whispered, her face twisting with hurt and confusion. “I don’t… why…?”

You seized the two pieces and knelt beside her again. She couldn’t bring herself to look at you, only at the ruined ribbon hanging limp from your palm. Without a word, you took her left hand and tied one of the pieces around her fourth finger.

“I meant what I said,” you murmured, securing the final knot. “Nothing is whole, not without you, not even this ragged ribbon.” You chuckled breathily, your cheeks reddening at such a blatant display of sentiment, but you continued on. “Because it’s not mine—it hasn’t been in fifteen years—but it’s not yours either. It’s ours, and it cannot be complete without both of us.”

Kit stared down at her finger, once bare and reserved for Graydon’s wedding ring, now occupied by a sweet promise, a piece of you. The gray, uneven bow drooped down the back of her hand, brushing against her skin with every movement. Her heart swelled with affection, and she saw your gesture for what it was—a symbol of your commitment to her, as official as one could be within a realm of disdain.

“I promise myself to you,” you held out your own left hand, the other half of the ribbon resting in your palm. “Will you do the same?”

Kit let out a breathy laugh, overwhelmed with emotion. “What sort of question is that?” She secured the knot before bringing up her own left hand and intertwining it with yours, the tattered laces blending into each other like the tree branches overhead. “I love you, Princess.”

You sighed, a blissful smile painting your features. “I love you, always.”

As you tangled beneath the big tree, sealing your promise with a sweet kiss, you both knew how different your vow was from your previous betrothals; marriage may not have been about love, but the commitment you shared, your bond, would be forever forged within it.

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averillaratargaryen · 6 months ago

Text

“The Bitter Bond.”

Chapter VIII

“I plan to take out a boar, if not, two” Jacerys spoke in excitement.

“We have been on these hunts, they are not thrilling. If anything, it is awful” Aegon shook his head in disapproval.

They were sat in a carriage, beside one another, on their way to

“This is our first. I think we will have to decide that after experiencing it” Lucerys added on.

“And of course, the women are made to stay back and do nothing” Heleana sighed.

“Do you want to go out there and hunt?” Aegon scoffed, “perhaps you and Daerlyssa could both find us more than just a boar.”

Helena looked toward Daerlyssa, who sat in silence, as she fiddled along with her fingers, not wishing to talk, or remotely lift her head up.

Her reaction had Aegon worry, as he looked in his brother’s direction, finding his brother doing anything to avoid contact with anyone sat in that carriage.

“From what I know, Daerlyssa will be expected marriage proposals” Jacerys chuckled, “she has been quite popular with all these Lords, in that sense.”

“But Daemon will not allow it, will he?” Aegon asks.

“It is not his decision, it is mine” Daerlyssa looked up to her brothers, “none of these men are to my standards.”

“Then who is?” Lucerys looked at her, confused.

“Lord Cregan Stark” Jacerys coughed out, as he nudged his brother.

“Funny” Daerlyssa rolled her eyes away from them.

“Lord Cregan Stark, of Winterfell?” Helena asks.

“He is just a friend” Daerlyssa responds, “an awful one considering he is yet to respond to the raven I sent out to him two weeks ago.”

“He is a busy man. I’m sure he’ll get back to you soon” Jacerys assured his little sister, “do not be so disheartened.”

“Do you plan on marrying that man?” Helena asks.

They all turn to look at her, considering they have all been asking that same question, in their head.

“He is the only man in my life, other than my brothers, who has treated me fairly. He has the qualities to make a perfect husband. So I am considering it” Daerlyssa responds.

“You’d have to convince grandfather, he is not going to be happy” Jacerys sighed.

“That’s right! He wanted you to wed our Uncle, Aegon!” Lucerys pointed out.

“I am right here, Lucerys” Aegon let out an awkward chuckle.

“Well, it is not his decision to make. It is my life, I will choose who I wish to get married to” She looks toward Aegon, “whilst you are a great man with perfect attributes, I can not marry you.”

“Well perhaps we ought to make that clear to them today. From my understanding, it will be today’s topic of conversation” Aegon responds.

“Perfect” Daerlyssa responds.

Helena looked toward her brother Aemond, before approaching him, “what has you so quiet?”

“Hm?” He looked away from the carriage window toward her, the distance chatter in the back from the others, before he responded, “I am just enjoying the scenery.”

“Enjoying the scenery?” Helena scoffs, “I am your sister, you can not fool me. Is something bothering you?”

“No” he shook his head, “nothing.”

Helena sighed, as she sat beside him.

“First Daerlyssa and now you” she poked him.

“What of Daerlyssa? Has she said anything? Did she say something?” Aemond panicked, at the thought that his niece outed him to his sister.

“Relax” Helena chuckled, “I just meant, she has been feeling down quite recently. I continue to ask her what is wrong but just like you, she denies anything is wrong.”

“Maybe nothing is wrong” Aemond shrugged.

“I wouldn’t exactly say that I mean, she has been upset given Lord Cregan Stark has not responded to her raven” Helena responds, “she must really like this man, if it has upset her this much.”

“There is nothing to him, for her to like this much” Aemond scoffed.

“That is not your place to say, Aemond” Helena responds, “from what I have heard, he is truly kind to her.”

“And you think kindness is what she needs?” Aemond asks, “I find that quite boring.”

“Well, not everyone has preferences like yourself” Helena shook her head, “it wouldn’t kill you to be a little more supportive.”

After her short lecture, she goes back to the others, sitting beside Daerlyssa and she joins into the conversation.

Aemond sat back as he looked in Daerlyssa’s direction.

Her usual, lit up aroma no longer hung, but rather, she looked dull, and tired. Aemond could not help but feel responsible to such a look on her face.

And he hated it.

“Daerlyssa!” Aegon called out to her, as she walked ahead, beside her brothers.

Turning around to see him, she sighed, before turning back to her brother, “you go on, i will catch up with you.”

Dismissing herself from the both of them, she walked toward Aegon, meeting him halfway.

“I thought you did not want us to engage in conversation around our families” Daerlyssa spoke.

“Yes but, we are making our choices clear, today. So it does not matter if they see us” Aegon responds.

He walks beside her, as the two take slower steps amongst the others, in order to stay back and have a conversation of their own.

“We haven’t spoken since.. well, you know” Aegon looked toward her in concern, “how are you?”

“I’m fine” Daerlyssa shrugged, “it is clear I am not made for such a lifestyle.”

“I’m sorry, about Aemond” He apologises.

“What for?” Daerlyssa chuckled, “he said he didn’t wish to do it, and left. There is nothing wrong with that.”

“He left you undressed and embarrassed. That is not okay” Aegon shook his head.

“Your brother is cruel. I had noticed it from the moment I was here. I did not expect any better from him” Daerlyssa responds, “besides, it has been weeks. It no longer matters. If anything, I wish to forget it and move on.”

“I get that” Aegon nods, “I just want there to be no bad feelings, between us.”

“Of course not” Daerlyssa shook her head, with a sweet smile, “I just need some time to myself. That is all.”

She leaves Aegon to walk on his own, running forward to join both her brothers once again, linking both arms.

…

“What do you think?” Daemon and Rhaenyra were both questioned by Lord Jason Lannister, who stood before them, holding up the perfect steel sword, “it is worth millions.”

“Why are you asking our opinion again?” Daemons asks, as he sits himself up, from his chair, leaning forward.

“I just wish for your approval, on such a lovely piece” Jason Lannister responded.

Rhaenyra and Daemon glanced at one another, confused as to what exactly was going on, at this moment.

“Father, Jacerys is asking for your help-!” Daerlyssa walked toward both her parents, pushing past Jason Lannister and his steel sword, without realising, given that her gaze was busy elsewhere.

“Princess” Jason whispered out.

Daerlyssa turned to face him, as she looked at him blankly, “who are you?”

“Lord Jason Lannister” he smiled, taking a step forward, “May I?”

“Careful” Daemon spoke out as he glared at him, her Rhaenyra’s hand kept him back.

“May you what?” Daerlyssa asks.

Jason Lannister then took her hand, as he bought it up to his lips, having her knuckles press against them, delivering a soft kiss.

“It is true, what they say about you” he whispered, before looking up, toward her.

“And what is that, exactly?” Daerlyssa asks.

“You are the most beautiful Targaryen woman to exist” His eyes were astonished, widened by the sight of her beauty.

“You may leave” Daemon called out, not liking the interaction between the two.

“Why?” Daerlyssa turned to her father, “does is agitate you to find that your daughter is a grown woman, attracting suitors.”

“Daerlyssa” Rhaenyra looked toward her, displeased by her attitude.

“I apologise if you find myself vulgar toward your daughter. I only mean to say, she is beautiful, just as her mother” Jason Lannister looked toward Rhaenyra with a smile.

It was not odd for him to act this way, considering he had previously tried his best to pursue Rhaenyra at her young age.

“Thank you, Jason Lannister” Daerlyssa smiled.

“Lord Jason Lannister” he corrects the young woman before him.

“Right” Daerlyssa nods, watching the embarrassed man walk away.

“Daerlyssa, I do not understand your attitude recently, but you must stop this. Now” Daemon demands.

“Your Grandfather would not be happy, having you act this way, in front of his guests” Rhaenyra responds.

“Why? Because he wishes to introduce me as his future daughter in law?” Daerlyssa asks.

Daemon stood up, looking at her in question.

“Aegon has already confided in me, for what Grandfather wants. It is the only reason you have bought me here, otherwise you would have left me back in Dragonstone, with your maesters and maids” Daerlyssa snapped back.

“Why are you so snappy about such a thing? I thought you and Aegon were getting along well?” Daemon asks.

“It is insulting!” Daerlyssa shouts back, “you did not bother to even consult in me, about who I am to marry!”

“Keep your tone down” Daemon whispered.

Rhaenyra stood up, walking to stand beside Daemon, when she noticed her father’s presence.

“Why? All you have ever done is treat me like a baby, keeping me completely hidden to such things, and now that I am angry of it, you ask me to say silent?” Daerlyssa asks.

“This is not what we wanted” Daemon assured her.

“I thought you cared for my happiness, father. As a child, you told me yourself, just how much you would take care of me. This is not me being taken care of. I am your daughter” Daerlyssa looked at her father in disappointment.

“Daerlyssa?” Viserys called out, before looking up to his brother and daughter, “what is going on?”

“I will not marry Aegon” Daerlyssa turned around, to face her Grandfather.

“What?” Viserys looked to his Granddaughter in shock, to see her speak to him in such a way.

“Your son is a great man. He will make a perfect husband to his own choice one day. But that choice will not be me. I am not marrying Aegon” Daerlyssa demanded.

“My dear, I understand your frustration” Viserys walked toward her, cupping both her cheeks in his hand, “but these things are best left for us to decide.”

“To decide my future?” She took a step away from her grandfather, “you tried to decide my mother’s future and what had come of that? In the end she is now married to the man she loves. You can not decide my future for me, I do not love your son.”

“Daerlyssa, please” Rhaenyra pleaded.

“No!” Daerlyssa turned to face her parents, “and I can’t believe you kept it a secret from me. You made me feel like such a fool. All of you.”

“You are not a fool” Daemon sighed, taking a step down to her.

Daerlyssa looked around to the faces toward her, one much more noticeable as she looked to the far right corner, where Aemond stood, watching her outburst unfold.

Despite wishing to forget the events with him, it was hard to get away.

She had come to realise it was everyone, who was out for her, to make her a fool. Her own family, her grandfather, her brothers.. now Aemond too.

“I can’t do this” Daerlyssa stormed past her Grandfather, as she ran off.

“Daerlyssa, wait!” Rhaenyra called out, but her daughter was persistent to get away.

“I shall go after the Princess” Ser Harold walks away from the scene, as he followed after Daerlyssa.

Aemond’s eyes followed her out, before he began to walk in her direction, to keep an eye out for what she was doing.

…

“Princess!” Ser Harold called out.

“Leave me alone!” She shouted back.

Jacerys looks back to his sister, noticing her tear stained face as she was rushing away, to her horse.

“Daerlyssa, what is going on?” Jacerys ran to her.

“I just need to be alone” Daerlyssa sobbed out, before helping herself on to her horse.

“Daerlyssa, get down and we can talk” Jacerys demanded.

“I do not want to talk” Daerlyssa looked to her brother, “I want to go home.”

“Princess, do not go anywhere!” Ser Harold shouted out to her. But it was too late.

She had pulled onto the reins, gripping her horse with her legs, having it ride off.

Ser Harold then took it upon himself and his duty, as he got onto a horse of his own, before following after her.

Jacerys looks around for answers, wondering what had happened, before turning to Aemond, who stood quietly.

“What has happened?” He asks.

“A quarrel with your parents and grandfather” Aemond replied, “I do not know much, I did not hear.”

“Is everything alright?” Lucerys approached his brother, “what has happened to Daerlyssa? Why has she rode off?”

“I guess she declined the proposal to Aegon” Jacerys responds.

“It is more, than just that” Aegon spoke out, joining the three boys, “as her brothers, you should have spoken to her and let her know your parents reasons for bringing her here.”

“You seemed to have a close friendship with her, why not you?” Jacerys asks.

“I had warned her the moment I was aware myself. But you are her brothers, it would have felt much better to have heard it from you” Aegon sighed, “she is embarrassed that she had befriended me whilst all of you kept this from her.”

“It was not like I wished to. We were told not to tell her” Jacerys responds.

“I mentioned it.. in the carriage” Lucerys whispered, as he scratched the back of his head.

Aemond turned away, looking in the direction that Daerlyssa had rode off to, wondering if he played any responsibility for this.

“Now what do we do?” Lucerys asks.

“We have to wait. Ser Harold has gone to her, and he is who she trusts the most. I am sure he will calm her down and bring her back” Jacerys assured his worried brother.

“Princess, it is dangerous out here on your own, you must stop this” Ser Harold had caught up to her, “let me take you back, and you can speak to your father.”

“I have nothing to say” Daerlyssa responds.

“Princess, I know that you are hurt” Ser Harold sighed, “but this is the right time for you to speak to your parents and bury this hatchet once and for all.”

“Do you know what it is like?” Daerlyssa turns her horse, facing back toward him, “I had befriended Aegon, simply believing everyone was happy for our families getting along. Meanwhile, I was laughed at and spoken about secretly, whilst they were planning to wed me to him.”

“Do you not like him?” Ser Harold asks.

“He is kind” Daerlyssa responds, “but I am tired of everyone treating me this way. As though I am a child.”

“You are the youngest daughter, granddaughter, and cousin. I do not think their actions toward you is in any way, to embarrass you or make you feel this way” Ser Harold spoke to her softly, his eyes watching her as she jumps off her horse.

“I hate living this way. Feeling this way, I cannot-!” She turned her back toward him, as she sniffled.

Ser Harold followed in her steps, as he jumped off his horse to follow behind her, worried about her well being, at this state.

Holding her shoulder, he had turned her around, to face him, noticing the streak of tears running down her face.

“Oh dear” he whispered, before finding Daerlyssa’s arms around him as she hugged him tightly, to sob in his arms, “Princess, what has you so disheartened?”

“I do not know” She sobbed in response.

Ser Harold knew it best, that what she needed right now, was simply an embrace from a father figure, and so, he stood back quietly, embracing the young girl in his arms, with comfort.

“Everything will be okay” he whispered, shushing her.

…

“How long was it, when you realised?” Ser Harold asked.

The two were sat beside a fire, as the night came quick, and the cold wind blew.

“It has been a couple of weeks, before Aegon had confided in me” Daerlyssa responds, her hands reaching out to the fire in front, desperate to keep her hands warm.

“Is that why you have been so distant?” Ser Harold asks.

Daerlyssa nods silently, not bothering to mention any other factors.

“If I may, Princess, from what I know of marriage, it is not something to fawn over” Ser Harold shrugged, “many times, marriage alliances consist of two people in solitude of one another, simply making it a duty, if anything.”

“But that is not what I want” Daerlyssa responded, “I wish to marry for love. I wish to find a man who loves me. Who will cherish me, protect me, and be truthful to me. I do not want to be married by choice, or duty. In the end, i will only end up in the same misery of being lied to, and treated like a fool.”

“You are not a fool Princess. Do not be so harsh with yourself” Ser Harold told her off.

“Then what else am I, when everyone around me gatekeeps information from me? In the end, that makes me a fool, does it not?” Daerlyssa asks.

“No” Ser Harrold shook his head, as he turned to face her, “it is just to protect you. You are a beautiful young woman, and the last your parents want, is for you to fall into the arms of a man who is not pure or respectful. They only do what is best for you.”

She looks toward him.

“Parents make mistakes, I will say. But the only mistake your parents made is not telling you things that are important to you. Everything else they have done is to protect you” Ser Harold gave her a soft smile.

“Perhaps I had let my emotions get the best of me” Daerlyssa sighed, “but I can not go back tonight. I need some time to myself.”

“Then that is fine, we will stay out here tonight” Ser Harold nodded, “we will do what must be done, in order for you to feel more at peace. The last thing we need is for you to be so disheartened.”

Daerlyssa smiled at him, thanking him for his understanding to her.

“In another life” she whispered, leaning toward him, “I should hope to have you, as my father.”

Ser Harold smiled at her kind words, letting out a soft chuckle just afterwards.

“What?” She chuckled back, “I mean it.”

“I already see you as my daughter, Princess” he responds, “i have seen you grow up into an incredible young woman. You deserve nothing, but the best.”

The two smile at one another, Ser Harold then clearing his throat as he looked around, “perhaps we should look for something to eat, if we are staying out here.”

“What would be sanitary to eat, out here?” Daerlyssa’s face twisted in disgust, at the thought of food that could be found in the woods.

“If you stay put, I shall put my hunting skills to use” Ser Harold stood up, as he drew his sword out.

“Very well” She smiled with a nod, watching him leave.

Daerlyssa sighed, turning back to the fire, as her smile dropped, recalling Aemond’s look at her.

It was hard, considering she had no one to speak about it to. She couldn’t bring up the courage to speak to Ser Harold about it.

At least not yet.

She trusted him, not to tell her parents, as the two had kept many secrets in the past.

Many times, Ser Harold has secretly led the way to the Dragonpit, in order for Daerlyssa to bond with them.

She did not have a dragon of her own, given that she was raised solely to be a Princess and nothing more.

However, she had always found dragons to be beautiful, and hoped one day, she could have her own.

All these secrets and stories, Ser Harold and Daerlyssa shared with one another, did not question the trust she had for him. But she was afraid to be judged, should she tell him of her and Aemond.

As Daerlyssa was occupied in her thoughts, she heard the sound, of what was a branch, cracking.

“Ser Harold” she called out.

But it could not have been, given she heard the sound of a low growl following after.

Slowly reaching in to her pocked, Daerlyssa held the end of her brother’s dagger.

She had remembered a while back, that she had still kept it with her, forgetting to give him back.

Daerlyssa began to breathe quite frantically, worried of what was behind those bushes, further away.

She was never left on her own, in such a place, that she was hardly sure whether or not she had any survival instincts.

As she began dragging herself back, she heard another ruffle from the bushes behind her, causing her to turn her head around.

But it was only the wind that blew, nothing else being heard.

As she spun her head back around, to the low growls that continued on, she was then hit with a full snarl, yet had no time to process the sound, before finding herself hit the ground.

A massive boar erupted from within the bushes, pushing himself onto Daerlyssa, having her fall onto the grassy floor.

Daerlyssa let out a horrified scream, as the boars tusks were only an inch away from slicing her cheek.

“Ser Harold!” She cried out in panic.

Daerlyssa kept one hand, pushing him up, and away from her, fighting against the boar, as her other hand tapped the ground beside her, looking for her brother’s sword which she lost, after being attacked.

She felt herself almost unable to breathe, as her head moved side to side, looking around for the dagger, whilst keeping her eye on the vicious animal above her.

Her hand then felt the burning steel, as her fingers began pulling onto the dagger, until she managed a firm hold.

“Princess!” Ser Harold shouted out, with a couple of steps away from her.

He began to rush toward her, before realising Daerlyssa pulling her dagger up, before stabbing the boar in its face.

Her eyes closed, tightly, as the blood splattered across her face, her hand dragging the dagger down, as she sliced open the boar.

Ser Harold stood still, as his eyes found amusement to Daerlyssa’s bravery in doing such a thing.

Daerlyssa fluttered her eyes open, as the boar slowly slid off her.

Her breath paced rapidly, as she was confused, and slightly scared, incase she had only just injured the boar, rather than killing it. But to her surprise, just as Ser Harold, the two look to the dead boar that lay on the ground beside her.

“Ser Harold is with her. I am sure he will keep her safe and they will return tomorrow” Daemon assured his wife.

“This is all our fault” Rhaenyra shook her head, “we should have told her. I should have told her.”

“You wouldn’t have known for something like this to happen, Rhaenyra. It is not your fault” Daemon responds.

“I just-!”

“Stop” he held both her hands, to comfort her, and stop herself from panicking even more than she did.

“All we need to do is speak your father, and we will leave. Take the kids back, to Dragonstone, and return to our usual lifestyle” Daemon assured her.

…

“Has it gotten worse?” Viserys asked, as he sat naked, from the waist-above, his back toward the maester and his first hand, Otto Hightower.

“It seems to be getting infected, your grace” the maester responds.

A wound that was formed on the Kings back, from an illness that was well known to his grace, given that he had been feeling this pain and constantly given remedies to help, throughout the years.

“It is a wound that does not seem to heal” the maester spoke.

“Father, we must speak-!”

Rhaenyra found herself storming in, before stopping herself to the commotion she had walked into.

“Rhaenyra” Viserys looked at her as though he were caught.

“Father what is going on?” Rhaenyra asks, as Daemon walked in, before he stood behind his wife.

“What has happened?” Daemon looks to the maester.

“It is not a big deal. It is just a scratch” Viserys responded, “both of you, go.”

“Father tell me the truth” Rhaenyra pleaded.

“Or perhaps he’s hiding a matter that his first hand has caused?” Daemon looked toward Otto.

Otto let out a chuckle, as he shook his head, “I have done nothing, other than looks after your brother.”

“Then why is he sat with a wounded back. Ironically, that is where one would hit, at the sight of betrayal” Daemon responds.

Otto shook his head, before looking to Rhaenyra, “your father is suffering a skin disease, due to the stress and maintaining the throne, Princess. Nothing more.”

“Father why have you not told me of this?” Rhaenyra asks.

“Because it is not a big deal” Viserys responds, “the maesters have many different ways to help this wound to heal.”

“We could suggest cauterisation” the maester spoke.

They all look toward him, in silence, having no clue as to what that might mean.

The maester sighed, before explaining himself, “cauterisation would be a wise course of treatment, your grace. It is a painful procedure, but it is successful in slowing the spread, of the infection.”

Rhaenyra and Daemon look to one another, realising their plan on returning home would have to be put on hold, as the worry of Visery’s health occurred.

As it got to the next morning, Viserys had joined the table beside his family, the silence and awkward stares lingered.

Daemon, Rhaenyra, Otto and Viserys, all held a secret with one another, which now had the four grown ups feeling awkward.

Whilst the others continued to wonder when Daerlyssa returned home.

But the worry was put to ease, with the sound of hooves clicking, and neighing of horses were heard, as Daerlyssa arrived back.

Rhaenyra stood up immediately, having Daemon turn around to see what she was so distraught about. He then stood up, the two now looking at their daughter in distraught.

She had gotten off her horse, as she held the boar from its tusks, in her hand, dragging it across the floor.

But that is not what had everyone so distraught.

Daerlyssa’s youthful face was now spattered with dry blood, given that she had nothing to clean herself with, after viciously attacking a boar.

The silk of her hair had turned into frizz, no longer having her look as elegant as she did, when she left.

Her lips were pressed into a straight line, her eyes narrowed at everyone around her, with a lingering trace of anger held from within.

Aemond made his way out of his tent, looking toward the table, to notice all their stares in the same direction.

As his eyes followed, he found himself shocked at Daerlyssa’s state. But his shock did not last long, as he let out a soft smirk.

Rhaenyra looked toward her daughter, with expressions painted in shades of confusion and loss, their brows knit tightly, eyes searching her face as she made her return.

The family were shocked, having found Daerlyssa in such a state. Rhaenyra knowing that she was never trained to kill, but rather bought her up to be a gentle Princess.

Yet Aemond found himself with a smirk, as his eyes turned toward her. He knew there were something to her, other than embroidery and reading historical books. something intriguing. something..dangerous.

As Daerlyssa reached the table, she slapped the boar harshly on the table, in front of her grandfather, “enjoy your breakfast.”

As she walked past, heading away, her mother had called out to her, “Daerlyssa!”

“I need to have a bath. I am dirty” she responded, continuing to walk without looking back.

Daemon then looked toward Harold, who only gave an assuring nod, before he whispered, “she is alright. She just hoped to freshen up, before speaking to you.

Noticing no one recognised Aemond’s presence, he had followed after Daerlyssa, rather than to the table.

Not realising the pair of eyes on him, as Ser Criston Cole took a watch.

…

As Daerlyssa entered her tent, she sighed, taking a hold of her hair, as she looked around, frustrated for feeling this dirty.

She heard the footsteps of another person, walking in, as they stood behind her.

“What?” She spoke out.

“I am impressed to see you have such courage” Aemond responds.

“And why would you care?” Daerlyssa asks, before turning to face him, “were you hoping I wouldn’t, after embarrassing me that night?”

“Daerlyssa, I’m sorry-”

Before Aemond’s apology could be meaningful, Daerlyssa had slapped him harshly against his cheeks, shutting him up.

He held his cheek, a grin on his face.

Daerlyssa then took a step toward him, leaning her face in as she whispered, “stay away from me.”

Aemond looked toward her, watching her cold expression as she pushed past him.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

chapter 9

#hotd fanfic #house of the dragon #house targaryen #hotd fanfiction #daemon targaryen #aemond targaryen #fanfiction #fanfic #aemondfanfic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond x reader #hotd aemond #aemond fanfiction #hotd

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skzdarlings · 2 years ago

Text

part ix: bodyguard!felix x reader

masterlist.

PART I ; PART II ; PART III ; PART IV ; PART V ; PART VI ; PART VII ; PART VIII ; PART IX ; FINAL PART.

( READ ON AO3. )

Your father hires an inconspicuous bodyguard to accompany you at school and supervise you at home. What seems like an innocuous change in routine eventually spirals into a forbidden romance that grows more passionate over the years.

pairing: lee felix/reader content info: smut. violence. parental abuse. situations of intense peril overall. forced proximity. enemies2lovers. angst with eventual happy ending. (chapter word count; 11,700 words)

chapter warnings: the usual dynamics. child abuse history. reader in peril. violence and death. explicit sexual content.

(THE SECOND TO LAST CHAPTER! <3)

You move back into your father’s house after graduation. You are surrounded by all your old pains, your childhood and adolescence written into each familiar brick and tile. Your past overwhelms you at every turn. It is a fight to focus on your future.

But you are ready to fight.

The only question is how, especially when you are battling your own emotions in that house.

Your reprieves are small. You find some solace in routine and the distraction of your job. Your father gives you an internship at his company. The role is honestly superfluous, comprised of busy work and redundant tasks, but it is clear he is not ready for you to meddle in any real business affairs. You are not sure if that is because he does not trust you or because he does not trust his business people with you.

You still see Jeongin and Seungmin, less than you did but often enough. They are both pursuing higher degrees so when you meet them at that campus coffee shop, it feels like a moment back in time. But lingering on the past, even the good memories, is no greater help than lingering on the bad ones.

Because there is also Felix.

You return to silent, secret communication. He will make you feel flushed with just a glance, so much thought in his gaze that you feel it to the depths of you. It seems like he does not even need to touch you to make love to you.

But when he does touch you, it releases you from the prison of your house and your mind. You put your body in his hands for a few precious moments and he takes care of it. And in the long days in which he bears the dehumanizing commands of your father, wearing the identity of a non-person to never arouse suspicions otherwise, then he places his humanity in your hands for safe keeping. You give it back to him with your own glances and careful touches.

It takes so much effort to take care of each other, so the idea of active offense seems nearly impossible. Felix certainly thought it was impossible, the one time you asked, but that was years ago. Things have changed. You and Felix have changed.

You do not know what your father is holding over his head. You only know it is something, and you think it might be time to find out what.

You want to do this right. Felix does not have to carry his burdens alone anymore. You need him to truly understand that you want to protect him as much as he protects you. You know there is a part of him that still believes he does not deserve it.

All your plans are thrown into flux the day your father calls Felix into his office.

Usually when your father summons Felix, it is for routine updates. But this is a long meeting. It lasts at least two hours with the office door sealed shut. Your mind races with the possibility of what is being discussed.

You find yourself gravitating to that side of the house, anxiety worsening the longer that door stays shut. As the clock ticks, your nerves get the best of you. You wander closer, hoping you can hear from the corridor.

The guard at the door stares at you. His scrutinizing regard gets under your skin. Before you can stop yourself, you snap at him, “What? I’m just walking.”

“You don’t need to walk here,” he says and waves you off, dismissive as always.

A lot of the men in your father’s employ seem to get some perverted joy out of dismissing or punishing you. They have since you were a child. Their surveillant eyes played host in your nightmares for years. His smug countenance coupled with his threatening stance makes your blood boil in helpless frustration.

“Fuck you,” you say. You want to hurl it at him, but it spills out of your lips no stronger than a whimper. Your fists are balled at your side and your brain is screaming to walk away, but your body goes cold.

“Do not take a tone, bitch,” he says.

The unwarranted name-calling feels like a slap. It is him flaunting the obvious truth: your father has never taken your side and he never will. You are nothing but a problem that needs to be solved. You are still just a stupid, emotional child who needs a fist closed around her to keep her safe from the greatest danger in her life: herself.

“I said walk away, little girl,” the guard continues. “Your presence is not needed.”

“I’ll go where I want,” you say. “This is my house.”

“It’s your father’s house. Now walk away or I will escort you myself.”

“I dare you to try.”

You feel like you are outside of your body, watching this ridiculous scene unfold with no way to stop it.

He takes a menacing step forward and you stumble back. You bump into the wall and hit a small mirror, barely a nudge but enough to knock it off its hook.

It shatters at your feet. Yu step on a shard of glass and sharp pain lances through your foot. It feels like someone driving a knife straight through it. You scream, the sound ripped out of you in surprise.

The office door swings open and your father storms out. For a moment, he looks alarmed, eyes wide and brows high, but this only fuels his anger when he sees you are unharmed. Fury conquers fear in moments.

“Look!” you cry in protest. You lift your foot because you must have a massive shard of glass protruding from it.

Your father does not even look down. He marches into his office and shouts something that you are too disoriented to register. Your attention has narrowed to a pinprick of a point, centred entirely around the gash in your foot.

You only register what is happening when a familiar face enters your vision. Felix is in a black t-shirt and jeans, his hair in a short ponytail with not a strand out of place. Whatever transpired in that office was clearly not confrontational. He is completely fine.

His thick boots crunch over the glass. On your father’s order, he swoops you easily into his arms and carries you into the office.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” you say. Your tears infuriate you. They are the result of physical pain but it is only exacerbating the hurricane inside you. “God, it hurts so much. How big is it—”

“A foot wound hurts more than usual cuts,” Felix says.

He puts you on the couch in your father’s office. You father is standing by his desk, drinking coffee and rolling his eyes. You want to shout at him, purely on instinct, but your coherency is shot when Felix pulls the glass out of your foot.

More tears fall, some in relief. Then you look down and see an impossibly tiny shard. You cannot believe how small it is. It truly felt like it went deeper, like it slashed right through your foot.

“Show me,” your father says.

Felix meets your gaze, his eyes apologetic. He lifts the glass for your father to see. Then another glass breaks when your father smashes his coffee mug in a fit of frustration.

“It really hurt!” you protest, feeling as pathetic as you sound.

“Ridiculous, dramatic child,” your father says. “Felix, close the door.”

Felix obeys. He cannot show any hesitation. He is the emotionless robot that your father wants.

Felix closes the door as commanded then stands against it. He folds his hands behind his back and stares ahead, not sparing you another glance. He looks every inch a waiting soldier. Someone who would sooner drive a knife through his own hand than disobey an order.

“You want to cry?” your father asks, as if you are not already hiccupping on half-aborted sobs. “Do you have any idea about the scale of work I have to accomplish this week? Do you think I play games behind these doors? For you to – to – to waltz around, acting like a child and throwing a tantrum over nothing—”

You must be dripping blood on the hardwood but he does not even care to look. He stalks to his desk where he sits.

“Felix,” your father says, his rage barely suffused in the address. He gestures to you and says no more.

You and Felix meet eyes. He conceals his alarm fairly well. You doubt anyone else would see fear and concern in the subtle crease of his brow. He makes it look contemplative, but you see it. You see him.

And you know he is making a mistake before he even says anything.

“Sir?”

Your father, who was looking at a file on his desk, lifts his head.

You and Felix have been in this office many times. He has watched your father beat you, and you have watched him take as many strikes on your behalf. Your father’s instructions are implicit in the environment, under the circumstances. He is asking Felix to deliver a beating on his behalf. Experience and common sense should be clarity enough for a soldier like Felix.

This confusion, feigned to buy himself a moment, is worthy of your father’s furious stare.

“What?” your father snaps.

Felix hesitates, then approaches.

That moment of hesitation is enough. You look at your father. Just like you can read Felix, you can read that man. You can see the calculation behind his eye. Everyone is a thing, a statistic, a number, something that be crunched and calculated, something that can be used and discarded if the calculations are unfavourable. Things are supposed to function according to his commanded algorithm.

Felix is not supposed to hesitate.

You were correct to assume your father would never suspect your affair based on romance. He does not see or recognize an exchange of true love. But he understands violence. He understands its absence. Felix could kiss you and your father would not notice, but Felix refusing to hit you is worth a second glance.

With very little time to think, you diffuse those suspicions before they take flight. When Felix is near, you do not hesitate to swipe at him. You land a mean smack on his cheek that sufficiently surprises him.

He meets your eyes. They are narrowed with righteous anger as you play the part you must. You know he sees the apology in them. You hope he sees the forgiveness.

Felix returns the smack. He does not hit you anywhere near as hard as he could – even your father would hit you harder – but it is still enough of a crack that your head turns on impact. You clutch your cheek and your whole body quivers, like it is confused by the alternating directions of pain.

“Don’t you dare touch me again,” you say, looking at Felix. “You stupid animal. I hate you.”

That you know he cannot misunderstand.

And so it is within that mute understanding you hand yourself over, as you have so often done. Felix does what he can to lighten the severity, just as he always does, but it still requires a few good hits so your father believes your weepy surrender.

You are very quiet after. You can hear your father’s pen scratching across a paper pad. He watched it all then went right back to work.

You remember when you chased the high of his attention just to linger in a pit of despondency for hours after. You do not feel that now. Pure, unadulterated rage flows through you, hot as fire and as all-consuming. You feel no other emotion in that moment.

You look at your father, unwavering.

“I despise you,” you say.

Then pen on the paper stops. For a moment, he seems struck. But then he crosses a line on the page and resumes his work, not once looking at you, your bruises, or your blood. Not acknowledging your anger, the one trait you inherited from him.

“You’ll see,” your father says, with a fair degree of poise and equanimity. Unbothered, like he is talking about ordinary things. You suppose he is. What could be more ordinary to this man than the ominous prophesizing of his self-inflicted horror? “One day,” he says. “When I am gone and you really see the world for what it is, you will understand why I did what I have done. You will be safe and you will thank me.”

I will kill you before I ever thank you, you think, and realize with a shiver you truly mean it.

“Felix, retrieve Domino,” your father says.

Domino is the guard posted at the door. When he enters, he gives you a cursory glance, his cheek dimpled, the amusement towards your situation scarcely concealed.

Your father’s money might afford him influence over this stock of men, but they are all in the business of profitable pain. Military men, ex-cops: they are a dirty and criminal ilk who are accustomed to holding authority in their own right. It is little wonder they never liked you and you never liked them.

“Sir,” Domino says, at attention.

“Take my daughter to her room and see to it she is tended. Then send someone to clean up this mess. I have work to finish here and I will not tolerate any further interruptions. None. Do you understand?”

“Sir,” is the reply, affirmative, with a sharp nod.

“Good. Felix. Sit.”

Your father gestures to the chair across his desk and Felix moves towards it. Unlike the perfect boy soldier who once sat in that chair, Felix kicks it because he is glancing back at you.

You meet his eye for a brief moment, then the world spins as Domino picks you up. It is a grappling yank, like you grab a thing, with no care for injury or a polite touch.

You are carried out of the office and back to your room. One of the crew’s medics patches your foot. You sit through it with a cold detachment, then your room is empty and you are alone, waiting in bed for Felix so you can ask what is happening and discuss what to do.

Felix never comes.

In your wildest imaginings of what transpired behind that door, a job is not what you anticipate. It is at once too strange and too mundane.

A job is not an operation; it is an errand, a sleight of hand conducted in the shadowed crevice of a greater business scheme. It is not unusual for your father to send his men out on these jobs. But in all the years Felix has been in his employ, he has never been sent out. His only occupation is to serve as your bodyguard, and he has proven time and again how he is irreplaceable in that position.

You do not know what makes this job different. You glean only a little information from the chatter of the crew, just enough that you know it is a stealth acquisition and a rare, unprovoked move against Miroh. Your father is known for his defensive tactics, seldom manoeuvring in offense, so you suppose the inclusion of his best solider on a risky venture makes sense. Felix is likely your father’s only guarantee.

But you cannot shake there is something else. Felix is more than just a soldier and Miroh is more than just a businessman. You know their past is tangled together.

You do not get a chance to ask. The next time you see Felix is through a window. You are in the upstairs corridor, staring down at the driveway as he climbs into a van with a few other agents. Then the van pulls away and it is just you in that house with your temporary replacement bodyguard team.

Even your father leaves, though you doubt he will be involved in the physical mission itself. You overhear him telling your security that he anticipates returning in a week. You count down the hours until then.

By the second day, you are sick with worry. Sitting around with your unanswered questions makes the time drag. Hours pass in dissociation, unmoving and anxious. You decide that waiting will only worsen your state. Although you are not keen to wander around town with your security entourage in tow, you cannot sit here either.

The team is made of three men including Domino. They are all as subtle as a scream with their bulk and demeanour, and every bit like all the others.

Though they will undoubtedly report even the most mundane actions, they acquiesce and take you into town. The campus café is one of your father’s approved locations.

You are not sure if you want to run into your friends. The distraction would be a welcome one, not to mention the balm that is a smile from a friendly face, but you also have no idea how you will explain the obvious security. You are exhausted with lies. You are not sure you could spin a convincing story even if you wanted, and you do not.

The café is always quiet before lunch. There are a few students scattered around so even though you feel ridiculous, no one pays you much attention.

One guard waits outside the door, one inside by a window, and Domino stays by your side as you order your drink and take a seat.

You forgot just how invasive and uncomfortable this dynamic was. If you were not so drained, you would be snapping at them just to relieve the tension drawn tight in your chest. Instead, you endure. Every breath feels more strained than the last. You cannot focus on your work any better here. The words on your screen are just meaningless letters and shapes.

You stare at your hands, at their faint, vibrating tremble.

Then you hear your name. The guards have been addressing you as girl, sometimes subject or the daughter when speaking to each other. The gentler murmur of your name momentarily stills the shaking of your fingers, steady as a hand grasping yours. You lift your head and see Jeongin, his bag slung lazily over one shoulder, his dark hair a shaggy mess, and his concerned eyes flitting between you and Domino.

“Hey,” Jeongin says with that dimpled smile. “What’s up?”

“Who is this?” Domino asks. Before you can answer, he turns to Jeongin and says, “Stand back. You do not have permission to stand here.”

“Oh my god,” you say, slapping a palm to your forehead.

You are flooded with childhood memories, idiots like this intimidating everyone who tried to speak to you for longer than a minute. Whether they took the form of a guardian or masqueraded as a janitor or something else, they always made everyone sufficiently uncomfortable. Even Jisung was often disturbed by them, though he drew the wrong conclusions about their identity. He was good with weird.

Jeongin must be made of a similar mettle. He gives your guard a pinched look, lip curled like he smells something bad, but he does not move. He looks at you with a tip of the head, concern once more creasing his features.

“Do you need help?” he asks.

The poor guy must be so confused. You look like you are being held hostage in a coffee shop by a stupidly inconspicuous thug.

All you can do is sigh and shake your head. “I’m fine, Jeongin,” you say, a very unconvincing lie. “I’ll catch you around, yeah?”

“Move along,” Domino says.

Jeongin looks at him. His glance flicks up and down. Then he says, “Your fly is down.”

Domino stares at him, unblinking, as if he can vaporize Jeongin with just a glare. Jeongin stares back.

“Really, Jeongin,” you say. A genuine breath of a laugh leaves your lips. Jeongin could not even throw a punch without smacking a chair, but he is willing to stick up for you. And his annoyance tactic is the funniest defense you can imagine.

Jeongin finally leaves, but with a glance over his shoulder. You fight the urge to throw something at the guards who watch him go.

“Who was that?” Domino asks.

“I don’t know his name,” you say. “He was just a classmate a long time ago.”

You hope that is enough to make him forgettable.

You act casual, taking a sip of your coffee. Then Domino looks down into his lap, quickly checking his fly. Your snorting laughter sprays coffee everywhere.

Fortunately, this does not impact the report. You are allowed to return to the same coffee shop the next day. This time both Seungmin and Jeongin are there, books open but blathering in distracted conversation. Another young guy is sitting with them, maybe a classmate, though he has no books with him. He is sprawled in a chair, holding a coffee and grinning at whatever the boys are saying.

He notices you first, probably because you are staring. He tips his head as he looks at you, black bangs falling across his forehead. He is noticeably stocky and broad, but he smiles behind the brim of his coffee cup and it is incredibly disarming.

He is handsome but the overt flirtation brings only pain. It makes you think of Felix. You barely slept last night, tossing and turning with anxiety. Your stress only worsened when you woke in an empty bed.

You are so fraught with anxiety, your whole body feels taut like a thread about to snap.

Something is going to happen, or maybe it already has. It is bad. You know it intuitively, the way you know which hand will strike when your father is in a mood, the way you know a black car on a quiet street is an enemy, the way you have always known this life is a death sentence, a slow execution by the brutality of weathering.

You look away from the stranger’s smile. Then Jeongin sees you and his laughter fades, concern and curiosity drawing his brows together. He nudges Seungmin who looks too, tipping his head with a questioning look.

You just shrug and take a seat at a different table. There is nothing else to do.

Domino sits with you, as bored with his duty as ever. You believe your whole team is annoyed with their job. Your father would not leave weak soldiers in charge of you, but he also had to take his very best with him. These men are probably too competent for menial work and are likely offended by their assignment. They are the worst of the best.

Which is how you steal a moment to talk to Seungmin. One guard outside, one at the window, and Domino at your table. He lets you leave to get some sugar for your coffee, watching with glazed-over indifference as you fuss at the counter.

Seungmin joins you, pretending he is also grabbing sugar.

“You’re keeping some weird company,” he says in a low voice. “Are you in some kind of trouble? Do you need help?”

You swallow an unexpected lump in your throat. Your friendship with Seungmin and Jeongin was only ever casual, so it is quite touching that the two civilians are so willing to defend you, even when standing at an obvious disadvantage against your thugs.

Your prepared lie gets tangled in that lump. You swallow it down. For a moment, your mouth is open with nothing to say. You both stir your coffee slowly. Eventually you take a breath.

“It’s complicated,” you say. “It’s just to do with my dad. Thank you, though.”

There is a beat of silence before he says, “We’re friends, okay? Just let us know if we can help.”

You have been trapped in solitude for days now. Seungmin provides the comforting reminder that your world is not all bad. Though he cannot do much to help, the sentiment in his simple offer is enough to temper the worst of your anxiety, at least for the time being.

“Thank you,” you say. “Really.” You spare a glance at Domino who is watching you intensely, just waiting for you to slip up and do something that warrants a reprimand or report. “I better get back,” you say. “Say hi to Jeongin, and say sorry from me for yesterday. You guys have fun with your friend.”

“Oh, we don’t know that guy. He just sat with us out of nowhere,” Seungmin says, laughing. “He says his name is Changbin. But he paid for our coffee so he can sit wherever he likes, haha.”

You smile at his playfulness. He smiles too, then he walks back to his table. Your eyes follow him and settle on the stranger – Changbin.

You want to keep smiling, want to imagine the stranger is just an awkward university kid making friends in a weird way. But Changbin is looking at you again, with the same intensity as Domino. Your eyes skirt his shoulders and biceps and his too-charming smile.

You want to chalk it up to paranoia, exacerbated by the extra stress of the last few days. But something is off about this stranger appearing here, suddenly, at a place you are known to frequent, the week your father is moving against Miroh, when Felix is gone and you are vulnerable. He is sitting with your friends, like he knows they are your friends, like he can trick you into trusting him by their proximity.

He is not like your father’s guards who are blatantly out of place. Changbin is so visible that he is invisible. Just a friendly college boy.

Just like Felix.

You are being ridiculous, you tell yourself. You cannot walk around assuming everyone is an enemy. But you cannot shake the feeling of wrongness, the awful premonition that something is going to happen.

You try to ignore Changbin as you drink your coffee but you are unsuccessful. Your hackles are raised and will not come down, made worse by the indifference of everyone around you. Domino is none the wiser. The other guards have not left their posts. Your friends are laughing with him like he is just some guy.

You ask yourself what Felix would do. You imagine he would not cause a scene or confront Changbin. He would quietly take your arm and usher you to safety, only fighting in retaliation if necessary. Part of his job has always been discretion, but he has never relished in violence anyway. It is always a last resort.

Your instincts have often propelled you into heated action until you freeze, always one extreme or the other. Now, you calm yourself and steady your shaking hands. You comfort yourself the way Felix would. You tell Domino you want to go home. He makes some agitated remark about you needing to make up your mind, that you only just arrived, but you do not rise to his bait. You close your laptop and pack your bag.

It takes one second. Changbin is sitting with your friends, then you look down. When you lift your head, he is gone. The boys think nothing of it. Your guards don’t notice. You want to scream but you know it won’t make a difference. These men won’t listen to you.

You leave with your guards. The large campus is practically a city unto itself, separated from the mainland by a stretch of woods. It is a scenic drive with a deer park in its centre, but all you see is rain ripping through branches and the shadows between each slash of grey daylight.

You are almost relieved when something thumps heavily onto the roof. But the relief that you were right is short-lived when all hell breaks loose.

You close your eyes, arms wrapped around yourself in the back seat. Glass shatters and the car skids to a rough stop, flying off the road and onto the forest terrain.

You open your eyes to the windshield in pieces, the driver frozen with his head thrown back. Domino and the other guard are out of their seats in seconds, making the same mistake as Miroh’s men all that time ago. You know how this fight will end.

You look through the broken windshield. Changbin flies into view and knocks Domino onto his knees. It takes one roundhouse kick for him to fall over, unconscious. The other guard tries to take a shot but Changbin disarms him with a couple sharp moves. You close your eyes when Changbin shoots.

He fights with the same fluidity as Felix. For a moment, you are back there, eighteen years old and frightened and relieved all at once. Except when the back door opens this time, you are not quick to rush out. It is not Felix waiting for you.

Changbin clears his throat and you slowly look over. He is wearing jeans and a leather jacket and does not look ruffled in the slightest. Dark hair falls over his forehead as he tips his head. He smiles, handsome and charming. As unassuming as Felix when his eyes crinkle up with delight and he laughs like he has never known pain. Like he was not raised for the purpose of violence, property of Miroh, of your father, of whoever else, acting as their hand because they won’t get their own fingers dirty.

Changbin gestures to you, curling his fingers, a mute come here.

“Hurry up,” he says. “Time to go.”

You imagine escaping out the other door, trying to make a run for it through the forest. You know you will not get far.

“Are you one of them?” you ask, impulsively. “Miroh’s?”

You already know the answer.

Changbin blinks at you, then laughs.

“It depends,” he says, then tuts like he thinks you are preciously naïve. “I personally think I’m one of a kind. But I guess we’ll find out. Now get out of the car.”

With little choice in the matter, you obey. Your legs wobble when you stand so you instinctively take the hand he offers.

You have not yet steadied yourself when he yanks you into his arms. Though Felix undoubtedly holds strength in his lithe form, he is more dexterous and athletic than outright powerful. He knows how to use his body to its best advantage. But Changbin is strong and he does not hide it, the bulge of his biceps crushing you in the hard, ungiving circle of his arms. Leather and muscle cage you in tightly, so unyielding that you cannot even squirm. Your heels dig at the ground as he hauls you away from the car. A belated scream claws its way up your throat but gets strangled in his chokehold.

Then you feel ice, so cold it burns. Your racing heart propels each freezing shard through your bloodstream.

You realize he stabbed you with a needle. It is a flickering thought, only momentarily realized, then you are plunged beneath the surface of that ice, drowned in black waters, and you think no more.

You are plunged into an oblivion so deep and so fast that you wake thinking no time passed at all.

You hear before you see. The patter of rain overhead is not unlike its tapping against the roof of the car. Groggy, you think you are still there, your arms wrapped around yourself while waiting for the worst.

Then your sense of smell creeps in, overwhelming you with damp and something metallic. A cool breeze pebbles your skin as it washes over you. It coaxes you out of your bleariness.

You blink awake, the blurry world taking gradual shape around you. It is not the world you left behind, no sign of a car or campus or coffee shop. It looks like an old warehouse or maybe a factory, but the room has been stripped to its bare bone essentials. The exposed pipes and rotting damp of the high walls account for the smell.

The breeze blows from your left where a garage door is open. You squint towards the grey light of the rainy day. You do not know how long you have been unconscious. It looks like early afternoon but your body tells you that you have been asleep for longer than a few minutes.

You try to gather your bearings. You see a harbour in the distance, past the pavement and the fence and what must be a drop to water below. Your university is not near any body of water. So you must have been unconscious long enough to transport this far. A few hours at least, but given the light maybe it has been a full day.

That is all you can deduce. You do not recognize the warehouse or the harbour.

You do recognize the man in front of you, though it takes a second. Changbin is no longer dressed like a civilian, wearing a black combat uniform and boots. His shirt covers his arms but fits like a second skin, his bulk emphasized. He is squatting on the ground a few feet from you. He holds a black mask in his hand, one that covers the lower half of his face when he swings it up. He lifts and lowers it a few times, absent-mindedly it seems. Then he realizes you are stirring and fastens it in place.

Your head is pounding. Your petulant side wants to bark a complaint, but even you know taunting this man would be beyond stupid. Changbin is not just any soldier. Miroh did not send one of his regular men. He clearly learned his lesson last time. Even without asking, you know Changbin is like Felix. He did not merely train as a soldier; he was born and moulded into it.

And, unlike Felix, he has had no reprieve from Miroh.

You come into your body, stretching your fingers. Your hands are cuffed behind your back and locked to your chair. One ankle is cuffed to the chair leg. Metal jingles as you move, testing your bonds.

You stop when Changbin approaches, your heart thumping as hot adrenaline melts the ice in your blood.

“Good morning,” Changbin says. “How did you sleep?”

Your body is still slow to respond, but you manage a decent glare. It makes him laugh.

“They told me you were funny,” he says. “That you make your father’s men look like a joke – not hard, to be fair.” He tips his head, looking at you like he is waiting. All you do is stare. “Come on,” he whines. “Say something funny.”

Your stomach turns over itself, not because Changbin is taunting you… but because you think he isn’t taunting you. He does not speak with the sarcastic intonation of your father’s men, dryly mocking your helplessness in his presence. His eyes are big and resolutely focussed, seeming to genuinely anticipate your retort. He is almost child-like with his attention.

This impression only solidifies when he sighs, morose, and crouches again.

“Do you want something?” he asks.

“Let me go?” you say.

It comes out rough but it makes him laugh behind the mask, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

“Aha, you are funny,” he says and slaps his knee. “Anything but that. But don’t worry your head.” You flinch from his touch, but all he does is pat your head like he is reassuring a frightened puppy. “This isn’t about you,” he says. “Well, not yet. Maybe later. First… Your father took something from us. And he won’t give it back.”

Changbin removes the mask so he can smile, one of those disarming smiles that is so at odds with the rest of him. Felix might switch demeanours depending on the circumstance, but Changbin flickers between faces from one breath to the next.

“We just need it back,” Changbin says. “Then, maybe, we’ll even the score. Maybe. Don’t worry about that yet. For now, you just need to sit. Are you thirsty?”

The distinct reverberation of gunfire comes from the front of the building. You shriek and duck your head, like that will do anything to protect you, gasping as you listen to bullets ricochet off the walls in some distant room.

When everything goes quiet, you lift your head. Your chest is heaving with each deep breath, your adrenaline bleeding out your pores so even the air around you feels like it is humming. You stare at Changbin who has not moved a muscle, still squatting and staring.

“I think we have lemonade,” he says. “You want that?”

You do not even know what to say. His sincere but stunted peculiarity reminds you so much of a teenage Felix even though Changbin looks older than both of you.

There is more gunfire. You duck your head and slam your eyes shut. Changbin does not move until it stops, his mouth open with another comment, but he silences himself when the far door opens. Then he is swift, on his feet with his mask secured. He stands at your side as he silently watches the approach of a small group of men.

You are still reeling from panic, so it takes you a second to realize what is happening.

“Felix!” the cry leaves your lips.

Five of Miroh’s men surround him, suited guards in various states of dishevelment, like they have been fighting for much longer than a few minutes. Felix is bound with his hands behind his back, a yellow bruise already forming on his chin. His own dark uniform is singed with bullet holes. His hair looks like it was slicked back, but he has sweat through some of the product, tendrils of blonde falling into his face.

Despite his state, his attention is all on you. Eyes assessing, scanning you from head to toe.

When you meet his gaze, the whole world falls away. These men, this place, none of it exists for a breath of a moment. Felix is here and that means you will survive. Everything will be fine. You have always kept each other alive. This time will be no different. You can see it in his eyes, in that oh-so subtle twinge of a smile. You can hear him without him moving his lips.

Hello, sweetheart. You’re safe.

They put him on his knees. His gaze flits to either side. You can see him calculating. Oh, he is here on purpose. He let himself be caught, you are certain, so he could find you and rescue you and—

“Target acquired,” a man says.

It takes you a moment to realize he is talking about Felix.

You look at the man then at Changbin, considering his earlier words.

Something your father took. Something they want back.

It hits you all at once. You have not been kidnapped as leverage against your father. You have been taken as bait for Felix. They don’t want you, they want him. An irreplaceable soldier your father stole from Miroh a decade ago, that he has paraded in front of him for years at galas and parties. Using him as a bodyguard for his wayward daughter and not as a soldier, not until now. Biding his time before using Felix against the house that made him.

You can see your father’s stupid machinations clicking into place. He is a perpetual child throwing a tantrum. His movements are sloppy and immature. He steals from his enemy, a weapon he does not know how to use, thinking it will keep him safe, letting it make him cocky. And now he is sitting somewhere as it all blows up in his face.

Or it would. In an ironic twist of fate, you are saving your father.

Because as far as Miroh knows, Felix is here as your bodyguard, acting on your father’s orders to retrieve you. All Miroh has to do is pluck him from the fray. And as a bonus, he has you in captivity for future leverage.

It would have been a good plan. It would have worked if Felix was an emotionless machine. If would have worked if Felix was here because of a command.

But Felix loves you.

He is here to save you.

In a quick move, Felix sweeps two men off their feet. He rolls on his back and propels himself to his feet, hands bound under him, leading with his core. He slams his head into an oncoming guard and the man stumbles back. Three out of five on the ground. Then suddenly one hand is free of the cuffs – he must have been picking at it the whole time - and he swings the dangling metal in another’s eye.

You flinch away from the violence, even while rooting for Felix. A few more thuds and you know all five men are incapacitated. You open your eyes and lift your head, watching Felix drop the handcuffs on the floor. He absently rubs his wrist, his gaze drifting from you to Changbin. His fingers freeze, his eyes narrowing as he perceives the stoic soldier at your side.

Felix stares, like he if he looks hard enough, he will see through the mask.

“You’re new,” Felix finally says.

Changbin rolls his eyes.

Changbin reels back and hurls a knife in a swift arc, right at Felix’s face. Felix is just as fast and catches the handle. He returns the throw. The knife clatters on the ground as Changbin surges forward.

These two are evenly matched. Watching them fight is terrifying and unpredictable. They dance around each other, delivering equal blows and blocking similar shots. In the end, Felix wins in one move miscalculated by his opponent. With an opening granted, Felix takes Changbin down. One, two, three hits to the head. Changbin stumbles backward, his mask falling. He is disoriented when he looks Felix, but Felix sees him with complete clarity.

You learned to read Felix a long time ago. You know all his expressions by heart, the crease of each smile memorized, the track of each tear committed to heart.

You have never seen this face, this mix of horror and bewilderment as a barely conscious Changbin slams onto the ground. Then it is Felix who missteps, tripping over his own feet as he reaches for the opponent he just threw down.

“Changbin,” he says. “You’re alive, I—”

Changbin swings at him but is too dizzy to land a hit. Felix catches the punch. He should throw one back, finish him off, but he hesitates. His brow furrows. He grabs Changbin by the neck of his shirt and yanks him close.

“Chris,” he says. “Chan. Chris. Where is he?”

Changbin laughs. It turns to choking when a dribble of blood gurgles past his mouth. He spits it at Felix then heaves a rough breath.

“Oh, fuck you, Yongbok,” he says. “’You’re new’ – didn’t even recognize me—”

“It—it’s been so long—and I thought you—”

“Yah, not all of us got to attend pretty parties these last years like you—”

“Stop it, you don’t know anything about what I’ve been doing—”

“Chris he says. First thing he says.” Changbin squirms but does not have the strength to rip away, especially with Felix gripping him so hard. He heaves another aggravated groan. “You know Chris died because of you. He’s been gone for years.”

“No,” Felix says, his voice pinched. His eyes rapidly water, his knuckles white from his death-grip.

Changbin shakes his head but slips further. Felix once more catches him when he should be ending him, sniffling hard as he gets on his knees.

“He’s not dead,” Felix says. “He can’t be dead—”

“Why don’t you ask your boss?”

As if on cue, your father’s men burst into the room. Felix looks at them in surprise even though he must have coordinated their arrival.

Changbin laughs. “I hope it was worth it, Yongbok,” he says. He uses one last burst of energy to throw himself forward, propelled away from Felix. He rolls across the ground then stumbles to his feet, running past the open garage door, into the rain, and disappearing around the corner.

Felix is too stunned to chase him. You look at Felix, on his knees and holding nothing, palms up like he expects something to appear in them. He closes his fists as your father’s men approach.

Then he slides his figurative mask in place, assuming his usual role. He kicks the literal mask discarded by Changbin, then finally looks at you.

“Get the car,” Felix says to the men. “And check the grounds for anything useful.”

The men disperse and Felix approaches you. He kneels at your side and picks at the lock of your handcuffs. You are crying before you can stop yourself, overwhelmed with everything that just transpired.

“Shh, sweetheart,” Felix whispers, looking at you with pain of his own. “It will be okay. Just a little longer.”

The handcuffs drop. He squeezes your hand in his.

“Just a little longer.”

You are several cities over, hours away from home and even further from the job your father was conducting against Miroh. Miroh was clearly trying to divert his enemy. He tried to steal Felix back while doing so.

Neither he or your father accounted for you, for Felix, for all the love between you.

You are in a small hotel room away from prying eyes and military men. You are scrubbing yourself clean in the bath and he sits on the rim of the tub, wiping your back with a cloth.

You checked in two hours ago. You spent most of that time blubbering incoherently, catching your breath even hours after freedom. You have not had a real conversation yet. Felix has been quiet, his eyes intermittently far away or so intensely focussed on you that it makes you hiccup with more tears.

You hiss when he presses his thumb to the mark on your neck, the little bite from the needle so carelessly plunged into your vein.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, smoothing with a gentle circle.

“This has been the worst week of my life,” you say. “And that’s saying something. Oh my god, and it’s only Wednesday.”

Felix laughs in spite of himself, though it is more of a breath than a sound. He drops the cloth in the water and you shiver as he caresses the bare skin of your back.

“I love you,” he says, like it is something he has always said, like it is easy to say. Like he could say it again and again.

The room feels so quiet. His voice is soft but it sounds like a shout, echoing back in this intimate space. Your breath catches. You go very still.

Then he says your name in a breathless murmur that is exhaled with more adoration than the word love itself.

“No games,” he says. “No jokes. No hidden meanings or secrets.”

“Felix,” you say. It is all you manage.

“I know,” he says weakly. “I know, sweetheart. You don’t have to say anything, I just…”

His hair is wet from a quick shower, combed back neatly, more composed than the rest of him. You look up as he runs his wet fingers through it. The bruise on his jaw is darkening, a burned gold that looks incredibly painful. He shed his outer layers, is wearing a black t-shirt and black pants. He has a silver army tag, or something like it, marked with your father’s name and not his own. It’s new. Something the field agents wear. Good as a collar.

You reach out and take hold, ripping it off his neck. He looks at it dangling from your fist, as surprised as you that it broke so fast.

Maybe it really is it that easy.

His hurt jaw wobbles. He touches the bruise and looks down, away from you, head bowed as if in supplication. Worshipful. Penitent.

“I’m sorry,” he says, lighter than a whisper. “I will tell you everything. I just want to be a person for you a little longer.”

“Felix,” you say, dropping the tag on the floor. You kneel in the bath and reach for him with your wet hands. He does not lift his head when a silent sob wracks his body. His shoulders shake when you touch him. “You have always been a person to me.”

“I know,” he says, voice breaking. “I know, sweetheart. I owe you so much—”

“You don’t owe me anything—”

“I owe you everything.”

He looks at you then, his dark eyes wet with tears, his expression serious. He breathes a shaky exhale then leans away, grabbing a towel.

“Come here,” he says, and stands.

Moments later, you are standing on the floor, wrapped in the towel in his arms. He bundles you tightly and you rest your head on his shoulder, safe and secure with his strong hold around you.

“I love you,” he says, his wet cheek pressed to yours. “Even if you hate me, even if you don’t, even if you can never say it back, I love you and all the life you have in you.”

“I’m a mess,” you say, trying to laugh, but it comes out weak.

“You’re alive. I don’t think anyone understands better than you, what it means to have a life,” he says. “The way your life fills you, the way you hold onto it no matter how many times someone tried to take it away.”

You are hiding your face in his neck, embarrassed and amorous and teary all at once. Then he lifts you up and turns around, perching you on the counter. You wriggle your arms free, tucking the towel beneath them. You steady your breathing as he picks up a cloth to wipe the smudged vestiges of make-up off your cheek.

“I remember the first time I saw you,” he says. “I’ve always been so scared. I hide it, yeah? But it’s there. Miroh, your father, everything about them… It was like living in a nightmare. They were bigger than life. They controlled dangerous people. I couldn’t imagine anyone standing up to them.” He smiles now, his thumb smoothing over your cheek. “Then you burst into the room and started a fight with one of them. I was shocked. I thought, is this girl crazy? What have I gotten into?”

“That girl was crazy,” you say, laughing.

He laughs too, but shakes his head. “She was the only sane one,” he says. “God. You had more passion in your little finger than I had ever felt in my whole body my whole life. And I thought… I will never feel that much emotion. I knew it was too late for me. I wasn’t living for myself and I was fine with that. I couldn’t be saved.” His eyes are teary again. He takes your hand and looks down at it. “You took my hand. Even in your anger, even in your everything, you saw something… You touched me once and it was like life rushed into me. And I hated myself everyday after that because I wasn’t enough. I wasn’t what you needed. I could take your beatings but I couldn’t save you because I was a scared coward and you were stuck with me—”

“Shh, stop that,” you say. You run your fingers through his hair, smoothing the pieces he rucked up.

He wipes his cheeks. He plants his hands on the counter, on either side of you. His eyes are closed when he takes a deep breath.

“Miroh couldn’t kill your grandfather,” Felix says. “He tried and he failed. Your grandfather was willing to sacrifice everything for himself. Your mother died in his place. You and me were on opposite sides of the world, both just babies. You never knew your mother. I never knew my parents. Miroh decided he needed a new generation of soldiers. There were a few of us, all over the world. When we were old enough to speak and run and fight, he recruited the best. I was one of the best. So was Changbin.”

“And Chris,” you say, remembering the exchange in the warehouse.

Felix’s face scrunches in pain. He nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “We travelled together. We trained together. We were like brothers.”

“What happened?” you ask. You lay a hand on his chest and he takes it, holding it there.

“I was stupid,” Felix says with a self-deprecating laugh. “I believed Miroh. I thought… there are bad guys out there, simple as that. If we get rid of them, then we won’t have to be scared anymore, yeah? They wouldn’t have to hurt us if we just got rid of the bad guy. But it wasn’t that easy. I killed your grandfather and it didn’t end anything. Chris was right. Because he always knew. He said it wasn’t right, what Miroh was doing. Chris could have been the best if he could let go of who he was, and just be what he was supposed to be… but he didn’t. I… I felt like I… I couldn’t afford to be that way… If I wasn’t the best, I was nothing. If I couldn’t kill, I was going to be killed. And by the time I realized he was right, it was too late.”

He finally meets your gaze, squeezing your hand in his.

“I almost died on a job and Chris saved my life. He wasn’t supposed to. In Miroh’s order, if something happens to a soldier, you leave them behind. You don’t waste resources on the weak. Chris disobeyed orders and all his training to save me. I told him I wouldn’t have done the same and he said I know, that’s not why I’m doing it. It’s just the right thing, Felix. I thought, how can someone like this even exist, after everything he’s seen and done, how does he still try to find the good? I didn’t know if he was stupid or smart. Then a commander found out what he did and they took him out of our order for re-training. I still saw him but we couldn’t talk. He had so much potential and the organization didn’t want to throw it away. They tried to break him. It wasn’t working. It broke me instead. I realized I had to get us out or die trying.”

He looks at you and says, “You get it, don’t you? The way Jisung saved you. The way he was your friend. The way he was just there. That was Chris for me, yeah?” His voice is rife with desperation, like he needs you to understand this more than anything else.

“Yeah,” you say softly, feeling that very heartache all over again. “I do. I get it, Felix.”

“Then you know,” he says, voice breaking, “how I felt when I let him down. I let everyone down. I fucked up a job, trying to undermine Miroh. I thought I could outsmart him but I didn’t. It just opened a door for your father to get in. There was a stupid skirmish over a politician in Miroh’s pocket. Your dad was trying to buy him out and it ended in a fight. Three of our best men dead. Including Changbin, I thought. Just someone else I let down. I was taken alive. I knew if I went back to Miroh, I was dead. If I ran off on my own, Chris would never escape, and they would break him eventually, or kill him trying. I couldn’t go. I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t take Miroh on my own. So I made a deal with your father.”

And what I get is a life worth more than mine.

You remember those words. Felix once spoke them in an emotional moment, lost to his memories. You never knew what he meant. You realize now he meant Chris, the friend he left behind, the friend he sold himself to save.

“You gave up your life to my father,” you say, “and in return—”

“He would rescue Chris,” Felix says. “It was a win for us both, yeah. Take out Miroh, steal his assets. My friend gets his freedom. Your father gets a soldier. I was willing to give up my life. I figured I never had one. I wouldn’t miss it. All I knew was how to be a soldier. I didn’t even know how to want something else. But then you… You.”

“Felix,” you say, overwhelmed with his confession and the depth of his feeling.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I let you down.”

“What? How?” You touch his face, cupping his chin in both hands. “What do you mean?”

“I couldn’t save you,” he says, voice rasping and light again, speaking above a sob. “At first because I couldn’t leave, not until we rescued Chris. And there was never an opportunity. I waited years. Years. And by then I had to keep waiting, because I couldn’t have wasted all that time for nothing. I had to save him. I had to save someone. Or else I failed everyone. It had to mean something. I couldn’t—”

“Felix,” you say. “It was an impossible situation. We were kids for half of it. I don’t blame you for anything.”

“I do,” he says, barely more than a breath, a faint whisper against your skin. “I wasn’t good enough. I didn’t do enough.”

“We have no way of knowing what else could have happened,” you say. “We did our best. And now—”

You cut yourself off. And now? What happens next? You heard their conversation in that warehouse. You know why Felix looked so torn apart.

“Chris,” you say. “Is he…?” Dead. “Was Changbin telling the truth?”

“I don’t know,” Felix says.

Dead. For years. Because of Felix. Because of your father.

It does not take much to piece together the implications. Your father is a cowardly, underhanded schemer. He poisons teenagers and beats his daughter and hides in his mansion except when he’s lashing out for attention. He put Felix under contract, but the only guarantee of servitude was his honour and one stipulation. Honour would mean little to your father. But a person, that he could leverage. That he could calculate and control. So long as he could dangle Chris over Felix’s head, then Felix would be bound to him.

And the best way to guarantee he would never have to fulfill his end of the bargain, the best way to guarantee Chris would never escape, would be to kill Chris himself and never tell Felix.

You see it written all over Felix’s face, the horror of this very plausible idea. That in his effort to save Chris, he actually got him killed.

There is a long moment of quiet. It is a very empty silence. There is no way to confirm if Chris is truly dead, and so Felix cannot truly mourn him. There is also no way to prove he is alive, so he cannot take any action.

You hold his hand. It is all you can do right now. You look at where your palms touch, where your fingers lace. The caress of his skin against yours never fails to touch your heart. Even this simple touch warms you. It affects him too, because he exhales and leans in, resting his forehead against yours.

You want to comfort him but your shiver betrays you. The heat from the bath is diffusing and you are in nothing but a towel. Felix laughs and shakes his head, withdrawing.

“Sorry,” he says. “Let’s, uhh, get you dressed first.”

“Or at least under some covers.”

“Someone could come knocking,” he says.

“Yeah,” you say with a jut of your chin. “And?”

He stares back at you. This silence is not so empty, a heady and contemplative regard as he glances at your lips then the rest of you. Then he sweeps you into his arms and carries you into the room.

You kiss his cheek, just above his bruise. You are not sure if he winces from the pain or the affection.

The moment your head touches a pillow, you feel your eyelids drooping. Exhaustion hits you instantaneously. You groan and snuggle under the covers, quite convinced this plain hotel bed is the comfiest bed in the world.

Felix hovers at the bedside, folding your towel. You look back at him with sleepy eyes. It is early evening but he must be as tired as you, from the physical exertion if not the emotional one.

“Aren’t you sleepy, baby?” you ask.

He drops the towel and has to fold it again. It is messier the second time, then slides off the dresser into a lump on the floor. He ignores it, approaching the bed. You pull back the cover in offering.

You think he strips down to his boxers, but you are fast asleep before he even unzips. You stir a little when he climbs in the bed, but his presence is so comforting that it sends you right back to sleep. It is the most restful sleep you have had in a while. But, predictably, falling asleep in the early evening means you wake up in the dead of the night, bright-eyed.

The room is dark. The clock reads 2:17 AM, blinking in red, the only light in the room other than a blue wash of moonlight pouring through the translucent curtains.

Felix is curled up behind you, an arm under his head and the other over your hip. When you wake, he follows but slowly, shifting and grumbling. He does not usually sleep so deeply. It is a testament to the day.

You sidle up to him, your back to his front. He is in his boxers and nothing else, bare skin against yours as he hauls you up against him. You lay your hand over his, resting it on your stomach then on your breast. It is not especially flirtatious, merely intimate. He touches you and you sigh contently, too awake to lose yourself but enjoying the comfort nonetheless.

He exhales. It sounds a little ragged. You look over your shoulder, at his dishevelled bed hair and dark freckles, the bow mouth you so missed, the tenderness in those dark eyes when he gazes back at you.

“Sorry,” he says.

“Hmm? For what?” You roll onto your back to look at him better.

He scrubs a hand down his face then pushes back some unruly hair. “I think, um.” He looks up at nothing. “A part of me always thought a day would come when you would hate me for real. I’m, uhh, a little… I guess I just… was more prepared to be hated than, um, cared about, after everything.”

You lean over him, propping yourself on one arm. He meets your serious gaze, licking his lips under the intensity of your stare.

“Do you see me that way?” you ask. “That I would be that unforgiving and fickle?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Of course not. It’s not how I see you, it’s… myself.”

“Well, I don’t want you to see yourself that way either,” you say. “It offends me.” You say this was a dramatic air, making a point of shoving your nose in the air.

It makes him laugh, a real smile pulling at his lips. You swear it brightens the room.

“Does it?” he says. “I’m very sorry. I’ll have to make it up to you.” He reaches for your face, strokes his knuckles over your cheek, but you pull away.

“That won’t be necessary,” you say, in the same playful tone as him.

“Oh?” he asks, chasing, stroking your other cheek.

“Yes,” you say. You catch his hand and lower it. When you speak again, it is sincerely, without any joke or artifice or double-entendre. “I don’t just care about you, Felix,” you say. “I love you. And you don’t need to thank me or pay me back. You just need to believe it.”

He blinks up at you, surprise written all over his face. You feel flushed with heat even though the admission is obvious. Saying it out loud, truly and honestly, makes your heart flutter anyway. Love and want tangle together in a knot inside you, making you feel soft and desirous at once.

His lips part with a breath as he stares at you. You chase those lips, leaning down and sealing his mouth in a kiss. It takes only a second for him to kiss you back, cupping your cheek and parting your lips with a swipe of his tongue. His bruise must not hurt too badly, or maybe he is just ignoring the pain, but you are careful with your light kisses despite his attempt at more.

You always happily concede to his more dominant guidance. This time it is a little different. You are telling him something with your kisses and you want him to hear it, without any games or distractions. So you take both his wrists and push his hands into the bed, at the same time swinging on top of him. He looks surprised a second time, looking at where you press his hands into the sheets.

He could easily buck you off, but he lets you kiss him like that. You kiss his cheek and under his jaw, avoiding the bruise, then down his neck. His hips lift under yours, rolling against you to get hard. You are already wet and naked, making him moan, a low, dark sound as you grind your softest parts against the hardening line in his boxers.

It makes you want to skip right to it, but you are determined. You kiss down his chest and he laughs when your tongue swipes his nipple, evidently a little ticklish. You smile and keep going, until your lips hover above the hard bulge in his boxers. You kiss him through the material then tug it down. He shuffles quickly, ripping them off and tossing them aside. Then his hand is on the back of your neck as you take him in your mouth.

The hotel room affords some privacy. He makes a little more noise than usual. Or maybe he truly does not care anymore.

Yes, you think, loving at him with your mouth and hands, let yourself go.

He must be getting close because he squeezes the back of your neck and lets out a groan. “Slow down,” he says. “Please. It just—”

“Feels good?” you ask, a little cheekily, but he answers earnestly, with a nod and shaky exhale. “Mmm, okay,” you say. “Tell me what you want.”

This gives him momentary pause. Then he grips your neck more possessively and guides you up.

You follow his direction, lifting your head until your pretty raw lips are hovering just inches from his.

“Get back on top me,” he says. “I’m going to fuck you.”

“Oh. Well.” He has said far dirtier things in the past, but usually in the context of your role-play, where you are the worst versions of yourselves, the real you just laughing under it. It is a little different for the real him to so blatantly state his desire.

It leaves you just as weak in the knees. It is a miracle you manage to swing a leg over him, but you get there. He helps line you up, then he holds your hips and slides you right down until he is fully inside you. It is a lot all at once, especially after time apart. You did not have many opportunities for sex before that either. But you are so wet, despite the sharp burn, it is a smooth fit, and you adjust quickly, mostly because he wastes no time rolling his hips up into you.

“Oh,” you say, hands on his shoulders and mouth falling open.

“That’s it,” he says, taking complete control even though you are on top, holding your hips, guiding you to match his rhythm. “Could – uh, yeah – could have you on your knees, begging for it, without doing anything. So easy for it, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you say, gasping. “Just for you.”

“Just for me,” he says. He pushes himself upright, wrapping an arm around you and pushing your face into his shoulder. He holds you there, fingers stroking the nape of your neck as he fucks you, drawing all those soft, whimpering sounds of you. “That’s it,” he says. “That’s my girl. Just for me. Hold onto me. I’m gonna come. Spread your legs, your pussy can take it. Good girl. Just like that.”

You are wrapped tightly around him, clinging to him as he comes as promised, deep and hard inside you while you tremble and sigh in his arms. Then he lifts your head to kiss you, a quick peck before he presses your foreheads together to just breathe.

“Can you…” Your voice comes softly. “Can you maybe stay inside me, just another minute.”

“Fucking… fuck,” he says, making you laugh. He smiles too. “Yes. I can do that.”

He keeps you in his arms as he lays back. You lay against him, his heart pounding against your chest. You stay like that for a while, almost drifting to sleep when he slides his hand up your spine, reawakening every sensitive nerve in your body.

He says your name, that loving murmur of a sound. You lift your head to look at him. His gaze darts to your lips then back to your eyes.

“I wouldn’t trade places with any of them,” he says. “I want to be your bodyguard. I want to set you free. I want to keep you safe until the day I die.”

“On a few conditions,” you say. “The first, that you cannot die for a very long time. The second, I will only be free when you are. And finally, you can be my bodyguard, but only if I’m your bodyguard too.”

He smiles, his eyes bright and his cheeks dimpled. His nose nudges yours.

“All right,” he says. “Consider it a promise.”

#skz smut #stray kids smut #lee felix smut #lee felix x reader #felix x reader #skz x reader

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