#Child Exploitation Hearing | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bumblesimagines · 6 months ago

Text

Curiosities

Request: Yes or No

Summary: Overwhelmed and distraught by his duties and the death of his child, King Aegon decides to indulge in his favorite pastime: visiting the Street of Silk. However, he decides this time, he wants to seek comfort in the one person he's always been curious about.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

TW/CW: Typical GoT warnings, Aegon being Aegon, mentions/implications of child exploitation, mentions of teen-adult relationships, mentions of Targcest/incest, death of a child, sexual content dontttlookatme, (Y/N)/Reader is a brothel worker, potential spoilers for S2, mentioned/implied homophobia (the Faith)

Aegon is a pathetic wet cat of a man (derogatory) but Tom is so pretty

~~~

Aegon hardly remembered the first time he'd visited a brothel.

Perhaps it was the mixture of drinks in his system preventing him from recalling the first time he'd stepped foot in a brothel. He'd been a teenager, he knew that much, and he'd likely paid for the prettiest woman in there. He'd had enough experience messing with the maids around the castle to know what to do and he'd ensured to pay well for the service. But despite not recalling the act itself or even the woman he'd done it with, he vividly recalled the worker who'd caught his eye the second visit.

It'd been a week or so after the first visit and he'd gone in sober, willing to drink whatever the brothel had in stock until he passed out or was kicked out. He sauntered in with his typical confidence. He was a prince; everyone wanted a taste of him. The other customers in the brothel regarded him with smug smirks and nods of acknowledgment, to which he returned with the same smugness. He'd taken a seat at one of the tables and savored the way workers glided toward him in revealing clothing - or no clothing at all - with coy smiles and flirty coos. His eyes, however, failed to lock on the women flocking to him.

Across the way, he noticed one of the rooms with the curtains drawn back by a few inches, giving view to the worker and customer inside. A boy around his age, perhaps a year or two older, sat on the bed with his rope drawn back and hanging loosely from his shoulders. A woman had her head on his chest, her eyes shut tight and cheeks stained with tears while her red-colored lips formed words.

The sight would've made him laugh, it was utterly pathetic for a grown woman to cry on the chest of a boy, but his heart lurched longingly when the boy raked his fingers through her hair and gently rocked her. The act looked so... sweet.

"Who is that?" Aegon questioned one of the women settled at his side, hardly paying any mind to the soft stroking of his chest. She tilted her head over her shoulder, searching for what'd caught his attention before she spotted the two. She gave a soft hum and looked back at him, her lips delicately dragging over his cheek and stopping at his ear.

"That would be (Y/N)," She told him softly, her voice velvety. Her long lashes tickled his skin. "Poor Nora lost her husband to a horrible fever not long ago, My Prince. I hear he looked like (Y/N) in his youth. She seeks comfort, not pleasure."

"I see," Aegon murmured and finally took a swing of the wine offered to him, waiting for it to settle into his veins before he gave in to the ladies around him. His eyes continued to drag toward (Y/N) throughout his stay.

Men in brothels were no surprise, not to frequent customers, at least. Some enjoyed the company of men without facing scrutiny, some needed the money, and others were simply raised in the brothel. Throughout his visits to the brothel, Aegon learned it'd been the latter for (Y/N); a boy born in a brothel who simply never left. He found his curiosity spiked with each visit, each time he caught sight of him serving wine or slipping behind the curtain to entertain someone new.

Aegon never approached. It was completely new territory, territory he'd been told by septas and maesters he should never enter.

It'd only been when his little son and heir died at the order of his older half-sister that he decided he couldn't give a rat's ass about what the Seven thought of him. They'd never given him a time of day, even as the King of Westeros, so why should he care? His son was dead, his sister-wife was a mess, and the Council acted as if it were all a mere inconvenience.

When he staggered into the brothel that night, everyone stopped their doings to stare at him wide-eyed and silent. Each of them bowed, whether dipping their heads or bending at the waist and watched him as if waiting for him to crack. Aegon hated it. He hated how everyone seemingly viewed him as weak. He was the King, for fuck's sake! The wine and ale swimming through his veins made his senses and emotions heighten, forcing tears to spring to his eyes.

"Drinks on me!" He hollered into the room, and the crowd within erupted in cheers and whoops, the energy returning to the room tenfold. A laugh tumbled out of his lips and his shoulders straightened, soaking in the gleeful looks and nods sent his way. They loved him now, even if they believed him to be a usurper or not. They loved him.

Aegon took a goblet from a table and drank its contents, feeling the liquid burn his throat and send a shudder up his spine. He set the goblet aside and wiped his lips with the sleeve of his shirt, vibrant eyes searching the room until they spotted the object of his desire. He made a beeline for him, ignoring the ladies who attempted to catch his eye until he stopped by him and grasped his arm a tad roughly.

"Your Grace?" (Y/N) stumbled slightly with the tug, his grip on the pitcher tightening to avoid spilling any wine. He stared at him, brows lifting and eyes blinking owlishly. Aegon had never seen him up close before, and regret settled in his belly at the realization. What a fool he'd been, letting time pass him by.

"You're mine for the night," Aegon told him, taking the pitcher from his hands and setting it down at the table he'd been serving. The men there shifted uncomfortably under Aegon's stare, none of them uttering a single word of protest and instead turning their attention onto the other workers around.

Brothels had unspoken rules. Everything that happened in a brothel, stayed in the brothel. No one spoke a word of what went down or whom they saw within the walls of one, unless they wished for their own secrets and pleasures to be spilled to the public. Of course, Aegon expected his new Master of Whisperers to hear of it by the time he returned to the Red Keep, but he trusted Lord Larys to keep it to himself.

Without another word, he turned toward the nearest empty room and tugged the curtain open far enough for the two to step inside before tugging it close again. Aegon's heart raced in his chest, be it from the drinks or genuine excitement, he couldn't be sure. He turned to face (Y/N), finding the young man already seated at the edge of the bed watching him.

"What do you want, Your Grace?" He asked gently, his head tilting to the side while Aegon fumbled to get his clothes off fast enough. He looked enticing in the soft candleglow with his rope pulled apart to show his chest and stomach. It made heat spread throughout Aegon's body.

Discarding his layers of clothing, he stumbled forward and grabbed hold of (Y/N)'s face, lips slamming against his clumsily. "You." He exhaled and pressed their lips back together, pushing (Y/N) flat against the bed with ease and digging his knees into the mattress. His hands forced the silky robe further apart, undoing the belt and pushing it further down (Y/N)'s shoulders until he could grab a fistful of it and yank it off the bed.

"What is it you want from me?" (Y/N) asked next, breathless and head tilting back to allow Aegon more access to his neck. Aegon suckled and nipped whatever skin he could reach, littering his skin with red and purple marks that'd surely vex the Madam who owned the brothel, but he was a king. He could do as he pleased.

Aegon laughed airly in return, leaning back to admire his work and pressing his thumb into one of the bruises. "What everyone else wants." He responded, eyes slowly raking over the rest of his body; from his rising and falling chest down to his thighs. Irritation flared in him at the fading mark of fingers and he placed his hand over his thighs, squeezing until he ensured the only mark left was by him.

"Your Grace," (Y/N) reached out to cup the nape of his neck, and in one swift move, Aegon found himself lying beneath him. He blinked up at him and then laughed giddily, hands flying to (Y/N)'s hips and squeezing the flesh there. (Y/N) leaned back on his thighs and took him by the shoulders, pulling him up into a sitting position so they were face to face. "What do you really want?"

"Yo-" The word died in his throat when (Y/N)'s fingertips brushed back his messy silver hair behind his ear. His lips pressed together tightly, eyes jumping away from the worker to focus on the lewd mural painted over the wall. (Y/N)'s palm pressed against his cheek, his thumb stroking his skin.

The gentleness of it, the sweetness, the comfort. It was all foreign to Aegon. He was used to being slapped, pushed, screamed at, ignored. Nobody had ever touched him with genuine kindness, not even Ser Criston who seemingly preferred his brother over him, or his mother who spent most of her time staring at him in exasperation or disappointment. The only people who ever looked at him with pure love and adoration... were his children. Little Jaehaerys..

Tears sprung to his eyes immediately, a sob threatening to rise in his throat. His teeth clamped down on his bottom lip as his vision blurred, fingers curling around the sheets in a desperate attempt to stop the tears from falling. He couldn't cry in front of someone else, much less a stranger. He was a king. He had to be strong. Crying showed weakness. Aegon wasn't weak. No, no, they were all wrong. He was strong. He-

"I'm here, Your Grace." (Y/N) cooed softly, and Aegon's eyes snapped back to him. He smiled kindly at him and pulled him closer, his fingers tangling themselves in Aegon's hair. They ran through the silver locks sweetly, comfortingly, detangling the knots that'd formed and scratching gently at his scalp. "I'll take care of you."

With that, the wall he'd so desperately built crumbled, his arms slinging around (Y/N)'s waist as his lips parted to release whimpers and muffled wails. (Y/N)'s arms curled around his shoulder, cradling his head and humming gentle lullabies Aegon vaguely recognized. His body trembled and shook with each sob and cry, arms pulling and tugging him closer; seeking out the warmth and comfort he'd been deprived of since his childhood. A father who ignored him, a mother who begrudgingly cared for him, siblings who hardly liked him... a dead son.

(Y/N) only moved to lean back into the countless pillows, bringing Aegon along with him and letting the king rest his head over his chest. His skin had long grown wet with tears and saliva but he remained silent, focused on rubbing circles along Aegon's back and brushing back his hair until the hiccups and sobs subsided, quieting down into sniffles and tired sighs. Part of him wanted to feel embarrassed but he felt too exhausted to allow the emotion to take hold of him.

"I'm sorry this happened to you, Your Grace." (Y/N) told him softly, and Aegon's face scrunched up again, the last few tears spilling down his cheeks. Nobody had bothered to comfort him, and he'd been too overwhelmed by everything to seek it from his sister-wife. They hardly understood each other. Her with her odd riddles and sayings, him with his drinking and affairs.

(Y/N) shifted underneath him, reaching over to the nightstand and retrieving a handkerchief. He dipped his fingers under Aegon's chin and tilted his head toward him, gently dapping at his cheeks and under his nose, drying and cleaning the evidence of his weeping. Nothing in his face changed, no disgust or boredom in his eyes. Only the kind smile and soft eyes. It made Aegon relax fully and completely.

His fingers tightened on Aegon's chin, tugging on it gently and pulling the king up before connecting their lips again. Aegon slumped against him, his clear mind focused on the softness of his lips and the hint of wine still on his tongue. The back of (Y/N)'s ankles met Aegon's bare thighs, carefully pushing against them until their hips were pressed together. He swallowed the breathy whine that escaped Aegon, a brief teasing smile appearing on his face before Aegon began rocking needily against him, the smile vanishing. His parted lips allowed Aegon to venture into his mouth, tongues colliding on occasion.

The hand along Aegon's back began exploring, running over the muscles he'd developed despite spending most of his time lazying about. His hand dipped downward and playfully squeezed the mound of flesh there, a low groan escaping Aegon. He pressed his forehead against (Y/N)'s, his lips curling into a smirk at the innocent look that (Y/N) gave him. Cheeky bastard. It was expected from a brothel worker, though.

The clumsy rocking of his hips increased and the fingers that retangled in his hair gave a tug, gentle enough to not create any real pain but hard enough to get his attention. Aegon whined and dropped his head down to (Y/N)'s shoulder but he eased his rocking, his fingers digging tightly into the pillows and sheets beneath him. At his easy submission, (Y/N) smiled again and pressed a chaste kiss to his temple.

"Good," He breathed and Aegon flushed at the way heat rushed to his lower belly. (Y/N)'s hand left Aegon's backside and reached for the nightstand again, pulling out a small round cup and bringing it closer. Despite his trembling thighs, Aegon managed to peel himself away from (Y/N), the loss of contact making his hips buck.

"What is..." Aegon trailed off, (Y/N)'s hand taking his wrist. His thumb swiped over Aegon's fingers, pressing each down until one remained uncurled. The realization dawned on him fairly quickly, the way his features brightened making (Y/N) laugh softly before he dipped the finger into the liquid Aegon assumed to be some sort of oil.

"I'll guide you, Your Grace." (Y/N) told him softly, setting the cup aside and guiding his hand down between their bodies. Aegon's eyes flickered between (Y/N)'s face and his hand, a strangled curse escaping him when warmth greeted his digit. His free hand tightened further around a pillow, the designs threaded into it imprinting in his palm. The way (Y/N) held eye contact hardly helped with his attempt at self-restraint.

His mind ran wild, promptly forgetting about politics or the fact they were nearing a war for the first time in decades in order to focus on (Y/N)'s face. The darkening bruises along his neck only made Aegon's mouth water and heart flutter with pride, every gentle gasp and quiet whine that left him only made his veins burn with desire, something he found more addictive than the intoxication of wine. His head swooped down, burying itself in his neck to drag his tongue over the bruises and darken them even further with more suckling.

His hand began moving, slowly and experimental at first. Aegon hardly considered himself a gentle lover, for he preferred the joy of rough and fast fucking, only ever being considerate when it came to his sister-wife. Even then, even with Helaena, he often chased after his own high and pleasure over everyone else's, but he'd been desiring (Y/N) for far too long to make a fool of himself. When he curled his finger and heard (Y/N)'s breath hitch, he smirked and slipped in a second digit.

Aegon humbly believed himself a quick learner when it came to things he enjoyed, so by the time he added a third digit, he'd already ensured (Y/N) had turned into a panting and whining mess. (Y/N)'s heels dug into his calves roughly enough to turn his pale skin red, the subtle hint of pain only fueling him to quicken his pace. He'd left (Y/N)'s collarbone and part of his chest covered in markings, ensuring any other patrons (Y/N) took for the following days knew who'd taken him to bed.

The hand tightly gripping his bicep flew down to Aegon's wrist, squeezing around it and pulling his fingers out. His lips formed a pout immediately but he savored the gasp and light huff that escaped (Y/N). He swallowed and leaned up, capturing Aegon's lips again before pushing back against him, toppling Aegon onto his back once again and straddling his hips. Aegon's eyes brightened, his hands digging into (Y/N)'s thighs in anticipation.

"Shit," A guttural groan left the king, his blunt nails leaving imprints in (Y/N)'s skin when he wrapped his fingers around Aegon's length, his thumb pressing over the slit. Aegon's hips bucked and he threw his head back, his adams apple bobbing with a harsh swallow. His chest heaved and a mixture of a whine and a plead fell from his lips like a prayer.

"Easy, Your Grace." (Y/N) cooed, his free hand moving to Aegon's chest and pressing against it, fingers gently massaging into the muscle. The hint of mischief in his words didn't go over Aegon's head. His heels dug into the crinkling sheets and his nostrils flared with the deep breath he took, his grip on (Y/N) loosening and thumbs rubbing over the areas apologetically. (Y/N) nodded approvingly and Aegon gave a lopsided grin.

His composure lasted a whole three seconds before it crumbled with a few pumps from (Y/N)'s hand, though he only continued with a chuckle instead of scolding him. Aegon's eyes turned glassy again from the sensations, his breath hitching every few minutes while the knot in his stomach tightened. He let out a whiny noise when (Y/N) paused his movements, his bottom lip jutting out. However, when he caught the way (Y/N) pushed himself further on his knees and hovered over him, he clamped his mouth shut.

Aegon's breath hitched again followed by a sharp curse as (Y/N) lowered himself at an agonizingly slow pace. A dribble of drool slipped out from the corner of his parted lips and trailed down his cheek. His mind had long gone blank, the only thing he focused on being the sensation of (Y/N) taking him with only soft pants and the occasional hiss. He desperately wished to move, to flip them over and ensure (Y/N) wouldn't be able to walk for at least a day but he wanted to be good, he wanted the praise he rarely ever got. So he remained still, hands moving to (Y/N)'s hips and clawing lightly at him.

"You're doing-" (Y/N) cut himself off with a soft grunt, the hand at the base of Aegon's length leaving to plant itself on his other shoulder. Aegon swore he saw stars when (Y/N) fully settled on him. (Y/N) breathlessly laughed at the awestruck, hazy look on Aegon's face, his hand gently cupping his cheek and kissing him. "-so well, my sweet Aegon." Aegon whined softly at that.

"Please," Aegon whispered and (Y/N) gave him a thoughtful look despite the teasing curl of his lips. "I'll be good." He murmured, words slurred but he hardly felt the effects of everything he'd taken that night.

"Will you?" (Y/N) still sounded breathless, the candlelight showing off the gleam of sweat on his skin. His hands moved from his shoulders to wander over Aegon's chest and stomach, trailing over his biceps and arms until they reached his hands and laced their fingers together. Aegon nodded hurriedly, so desperate and wanting but the feeling of their hands together made his stomach flutter with a newfound emotion.

"I-" Aegon had little time to finish his sentence before (Y/N) rose to the tip and then slipped back down to the base, the action knocking the air out of both of them and further tightening the knot threatening to break loose at any moment. One of (Y/N)'s hands untangled itself from Aegon's to slam beside Aegon's hand, a half-hearted attempt at balancing and grounding himself. Aegon held onto the other hand tightly, refusing to let him go for even a second.

(Y/N) leaned down and pulled him into a heated kiss full of all tongue and muffled cries, Aegon's restraint chipping fully away when (Y/N) grinded down on him a few times. He pushed himself up into a sitting position and wrapped his arm around (Y/N)'s waist tightly, his thighs beginning to ache and burn deliciously.

"Go ahead," (Y/N) exhaled on his lips and Aegon lost himself.

Much time passed, the sound of pained groaning and grumpy muttering from the other side of the window telling them the sun would soon be rising. The thumping footsteps of patrons nursing hangovers echoed through the brothel as they shuffled out, the jingling of coins and such mixing in. The quiet chatter of brothel workers followed, cups and chairs clinking as they began cleaning up.

"Your Grace," (Y/N) sighed sleepily, his eyelids visibly heavy and lip slightly jutted out. Aegon felt equally as exhausted but the sight of him rubbing tiredly at his eyes made his heart swell, finding himself unable to resist kissing his semi-swollen lips. (Y/N) hummed softly, his fingers slipping between their faces to push Aegon back. "You must head home. Your-" He cut himself off with a yawn. "Your kingdom requires you."

"I'd much prefer staying here forever," Aegon responded, coiling his arms tightly around (Y/N)'s body and dragging him closer against him. His whole body ached, his muscles sore and head spinning from the beginning of a hangover. (Y/N) breathed out a snort and rubbed his cheek into the soft satin pillow, eyes beginning to droop.

"You mustn't. They'll come looking for you, Your Grace."

"Aegon." He groaned. "Call me Aegon."

"Aegon." (Y/N) repeated softly. "Go home."

"Come with me, then," Aegon told him quietly. At his words, (Y/N)'s eyes snapped open, the sleep jerked away from his body and replaced with surprise. Aegon chuckled at his wide-eyed expression. "Come with me to- to the Red Keep. Come... be my paramour. You'll have your own room near mine... and- and you'll receive whatever you wish for. No one will dare say a thing."

(Y/N) stared at him for a long moment before he cupped Aegon's cheek and pressed a fleeting kiss to the tip of his nose. "You're exhausted, Your Grace. You do not understand what you're saying. You'll come to once you properly rest. You must go now before the sun rises and others see you." He said, slithering out of Aegon's hold to retrieve their clothes. He slipped his robe on with ease and offered Aegon his tunic.

"I'll get dressed," Aegon took his wrist and dragged his lips over the back of his hand. "If you agree to become my paramour and live in the Red Keep."

"We're only allowed in the Red Keep to entertain, Your Grace. You'll never be allowed to have a brothel worker as a paramour, much less a man. The Faith will never allow it. The Dowager Queen and- and-"

"I do not care what they think. I am King. I can do whatever I want, and I want you to be mine."

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gladiatorcunt · 9 months ago

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summary: king!aegon ii targaryen x afab rhaenyra’s child!reader

cw: CANON TYPICAL incest/targcest, boot worship, free use, public, voyeurism/exhibitionism (non con on the guards part 💀), hints of reader being just as much of a weirdo i’m sorry (rhaenyra can’t blame them tho), used a valyrian translator so if there’s any mistakes no there’s not <3, fucking on the iron throne as a celebratory end of work day thing, everything is 100% consensual on reader’s part, one use of “whore”, aegon’s pet names are all food related 🥴 (deadass almost had him call reader beer for the joke)

wc: 888 (🎱✨)

block & move on if uncomfortable !!

do not repost, translate, or give ai my work

last hotd fic for a bit bc i’m out of ideas

kinktober masterlist

“Ry paktot, ilagon ao jikagon, jorrāelagon (all right, down you go love).”

You and your uncle Aegon have the strangest end of day ritual. It always starts with you being shoved on your knees, his hands cradling your shoulders to protect you from the sharp iron throne.

All others are sent away from the room, save for a few guards that had been eyeing your body far too much for his liking. You were yet to be married but numerous whispers of your sexual exploits ran through the castle like wildfire. Aegon II Targaryen, was a king that one could not even sneeze in front of for fear of setting him off. So he is careful to keep those shrews' musings away from you, it was a feat of strength to coerce you into being as bold as you are now.

“Come now, elilla (honey). Clean my shoes so i can give your cunt the fucking it deserves.” He orders you, and you are all too eager, especially with the eyes of the uncomfortable guards on you.

You pray to the Gods that Aegon does not catch them looking with their peripheral vision, pausing your fun to murder more of the staff would really rain on your parade.

The shoes of your king are cleaned before you put your tongue to them, something that you’re almost disappointed by at this point. You are tempted to ask him to turn away the shoe shiner for next time.

His crown has the same red haze surrounding it that lives deep within Aegon, and it commands your attention all the same. You let your eyes softly fall shut as you run your wet tongue along the edge of his boot. The metallic tang has become an old friend, as well as any paltry specs of blood you find. You fear that you could possibly develop a craving for it.

You prostrate yourself before your betrothed as if you were a humming bird that had come face to face with Balerion himself. A house kitten mewling for the attention of a tiger. It is not unlike performing a blow job. Your lashes become the sheer curtains you look out of and your mouth fulfills its purpose.

You flatten your tongue and begin to dip into the crevices, getting every inch of his shoes slick with your spit. Aegon has his weeping cock in the firm hold of both of his hands, and he times his strokes to every flick of your tongue.

Your “services” last for what feels like an eternity. Your uncle’s eyes wander to keep the forcibly voyeuristic guards in check. You can hear their feet shuffling on the ground as they squirm behind you, and Aegon is so pleased by this that he returns his attention to his beloved pet.

“Prūbres (apple), that is quite enough. Come back up, darling.” He says while gingerly rubbing the heel of his boot into your cheek.

“Yes, qȳbor (uncle).”

You clamor into his lap, taking the initiative by lifting your previously stretched hole over his cock. One of his hands claws into the flesh of your hip to steady you, and the other positions his cock upright. Once you get past the pink tip, your walls are snugly wrapped around his entire length in seconds. You both groan as he bottoms out. Aegon wastes no time and digs his nails into your other hip, lifting you off of his cock until the tip catches against your entrance and swiftly dropping you back down.

“My whore, a jewel worth more than any found in my crown.” The word comes out between gritted teeth, but the thumb drawing loose circles on your pearl is kinder. “Not one of those filthy dogs will ever know the pleasure of a cunny as sweet as the one made for me.”

“They will not.” You whined, relishing in the red marks his nails were no doubt leaving on your jiggling ass as you bounced on his girthy cock. “Only you, qȳbor (uncle), only my king. They could hang for all I care.”

You have an awful habit for letting words flow from your mouth with no thought of their consequences. It’s not your fault though, you muse as Aegon scratches at your moving globes of flesh, your cunt takes priority more often than not. You ignore the spark that ignites in his soul at the foolish declaration.

His thumb stops teasing your clit and rubs it harshly up and down until your rapid bouncing ceases in favor of chasing that high. He only has to spank you a single time for you to shatter around his cock with an angelic and blissfully soft moan. You let your torso fall to his and you bury your face in his neck as his other hand travels to grope your other ass cheek.

Aegon spills into you with an embarrassingly long and loud groan, licking at the pulse point of your neck as he fucks himself into overstimulation. This is the only time he will allow the guards to drink your sex in, so they can gawk at the pure amount of spend that leaks out of your ravaged cunny. He pretends not to notice or enjoy the stares, spreading your fat cheeks to give them a better view.

“Leave us be.”

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eu-nicola · 22 days ago

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first love

summary: you always hated Ragnar until you realized that that hatred was not hatred but love

warnings: age-gap, infidelity, pregnancy

word counter: 9363

author's note: english is not my first language, inspired by something old that I also wrote

You had known Ragnar Lothbrok for as long as you could remember, and you had always known that his place in your life was not that of a stranger. He had been a part of your world even before you came into it.

Your father always spoke of Ragnar as if he were a son. When you were younger, you sat on your father’s knee as he told stories of Ragnar’s bravery and cunning, of how, as a mere boy, he had shown intelligence that few men possessed. You listened, but those words never filled you with pride. It wasn’t admiration you felt for him. It was jealousy. Jealousy of how your parents looked at him, jealousy of how your father laughed with him, a truer sound than the one you managed to coax out of him.

Ragnar wasn’t just bigger than you in age; he was bigger in every other way. He had always been that way. In your family’s eyes, he was more than an older brother. He was the perfect son they had never had before you.

You clearly remember the first time you realized how deep your connection to your father was. You were about six years old, running through the field near your house, chasing butterflies as your bare feet sank into the damp grass. When you came home, sweaty and leafy, you saw him there at the table next to your father. Your heads leaned forward, talking quietly as if they shared a secret that would never include you. Your small hands balled into fists, and you stood in the doorway, feeling like a stranger in your own home.

“What are you doing standing there?” he had asked you, with an easy smile that lit up everyone’s eyes but your own.

“I don’t like the way you talk to my father,” you told him with childlike sincerity that knew no filters.

He laughed, a sound he had always hated because it was loud, as if the entire world could hear how much he enjoyed life. "And why not, little one? Is it yours and not mine?"

Your father laughed too, but you didn't. You looked down and crossed your arms, muttering something that even you didn't quite understand. At that moment, Ragnar had looked at you like someone would look at a child who barely understands the world, and that only increased your childish rage.

Over time, things didn't improve. Ragnar grew into a strong, cunning, and charismatic man. His exploits began to resonate beyond the borders of your small world, and while others celebrated him, you still felt overshadowed by his presence.

Sometimes, you tried to reason with yourself. It wasn't Ragnar's fault that your father adored him so much. It wasn't his fault that others looked at him with admiration. But those thoughts didn't ease the weight in your chest every time his name came up in family conversations, as if everything revolved around him.

There were days when you wished he would go away. That his ship would not return from the sea, that his laughter would stop filling the rooms, that his stories would become a thing of the past. And yet, there was a part of you that couldn’t deny that you were watching him intently. Like a wolf on the prowl, you memorized his every gesture, every word he said.

One day, when you were ten, things reached their breaking point. Ragnar had returned from a long journey, and your father threw a banquet in his honor. The entire village gathered at your house, singing, drinking, and celebrating his return. You were at the back, in the darkest corner of the hall, watching as Ragnar moved through the crowd with the ease of someone who knew he belonged.

When you finally crossed paths with him, he gave you an amused look. “Why are you always so serious when you see me?”

“I’m not serious. I just don’t like you,” you blurted out without thinking.

He laughed, but it wasn’t as loud this time. There was something else in his expression, something you hadn’t seen before: curiosity. “Do you not like me because I’ve always been here, or because you think I don’t pay attention to you?”

The question left you silent, because you didn’t know how to respond. Ragnar always found a way to disarm you, even when you didn’t want to admit it.

“Maybe it’s not you who hates me,” he finally said, leaning in to look you in the eyes. “Maybe it’s you who doesn’t want to share your place in this world with me.”

Those words stuck in your mind, though at the time you didn’t know what to do with them. Because, as much as you hated to admit it, maybe he was right.

Over the years, you left behind the childish games and tantrums, but Ragnar remained a constant in your life. You no longer openly hated him, but you didn't seek him out either. You avoided him, always hiding behind the responsibilities of the house or the social gatherings that you so detested. But even from a distance, you felt his presence like a shadow that stretched over you, a force that you couldn't ignore.

It was around your thirteenth birthday that you began to understand something that you didn't want to accept. Ragnar had returned from another of his trips, this time with the triumphant air of a man who had achieved something great. His face was covered in dust and sun, his eyes shining with that fire that seemed to ignite everyone around him. He entered your home as if he owned the place, with that laugh of his that always managed to put everyone in a good mood. Everyone except you, or at least that's what you forced yourself to believe.

You watched him from the table, hidden behind a curtain of your hair, while he spoke to your father. Ragnar had this ability to capture everyone’s attention, as if words were something created just for him. He was charismatic, strong, and self-assured, and for the first time you noticed something that left you frozen: you didn’t look at him the way you look at a brother.

The thought hit you like a bolt of lightning. All that time, all that anger you’d felt towards him, all the arguments and resentment, it hadn’t been because you wanted him to go away. You hadn’t hated Ragnar because he was your father’s favorite, or because he made you feel small next to him. You’d hated him because you liked him.

The realization stunned you. You’d heard other girls in the village talk about what it was like to be attracted to a man, about how their hearts beat faster and their stomachs filled with nerves when they were around someone they liked. You’d always thought those things were ridiculous, that love was something you didn’t need or want. But now, you felt that same uneasiness in your chest whenever Ragnar was around.

That night, you couldn't sleep. Images of him filled your mind: his laugh, the way his hair fell across his forehead, how his gaze seemed to pierce you every time it met yours. You felt caught between the desire to push him out of your life and the inability to imagine a world without him.

The following days you tried harder than ever to avoid him. If you saw him coming, you would veer off on another path. If your father mentioned his name, you would quickly change the subject. But Ragnar didn't seem willing to ignore you. Every chance he got, he would look for you with his eyes, with that crooked smile that seemed to know more than he was willing to say.

Some time later Ragnar had returned from the north with more than just stories of his travels. He returned with a woman at his side: Lagertha. The first time you saw her, you understood why he had chosen her. She was beautiful, with such a strong and determined presence that she seemed to fill the room without needing to say a word. She was not a simple peasant or any woman. She was a warrior, a shieldmaiden, someone worthy of accompanying a man like him.

And you hated her.

It wasn't because she was evil or cruel, because she wasn't. Lagertha, with her open smile and direct gaze, tried from the beginning to win your sympathy, but you refused point-blank. Every kind word she spoke to you crashed against the wall you had raised between you. You didn't want her friendship. You wanted nothing from her.

But what really tore you apart was Ragnar. He seemed different with Lagertha at his side, as if his world had become complete in a way you had never seen before. When he looked at her, there was something in his eyes that made you grit your teeth: affection. It wasn't the camaraderie she shared with your father or the teasing affection she sometimes gave you. It was something deeper, more real.

At first, you tried to ignore what you felt. You told yourself it didn’t matter, that what Ragnar did with his life wasn’t your problem. But the more time passed, the harder it was to contain the rage that was building up inside you.

You became a walking storm. Your words became sharper, your gestures more abrupt. Everything you did was tinged with an anger that you couldn’t explain to others, not even to yourself. When you crossed paths with Ragnar, you barely looked at him. And if he tried to talk to you, your answers were cold and distant.

“What’s wrong?” he asked you one day, after you completely ignored him during a conversation at the family table.

“What would happen to me?” you replied without looking at him, focusing on breaking off a piece of bread as if it were the most important thing in the world.

Ragnar wasn’t stupid. You knew that. He had always been shrewd, able to read people with an ease that was disturbing. But this time, he didn’t seem to quite understand you. He frowned, leaning towards you a little. “You’ve been in a bad mood since I got back. Is it because of Lagertha?”

The sound of her name on his lips made your stomach twist. You forced yourself to remain calm, though. You looked up, staring at him with a hardness you didn’t know you possessed. “So what if she is? I don’t like her. Is that enough for you?”

Ragnar arched an eyebrow, surprised by your bluntness. “She hasn’t done anything to you. Why does she bother you so much?”

“Because I do,” you snapped, bolting up from the table. “Because I didn’t have to bring her here, or marry her.”

He stared at you, and for a moment you thought he was going to insist. But instead, he leaned back against the back of his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t understand why this matters so much to you.”

“And you don’t need to understand it,” you blurted out before exiting the room, leaving your anger and unfinished words behind you.

After that, you avoided any prolonged interaction with him. If he was in a room, you found an excuse to leave. If he spoke to you, you responded in monosyllables or ignored him completely. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he affected you.

But there were times when you couldn’t help but see him, like when he walked beside Lagertha through the fields, his laughter mingling with hers as if they were the only ones who mattered in the world. On those occasions, you felt something inside you break a little more.

When you turned sixteen, the day was a cold, grey sky, as if even the gods shared the melancholy you felt inside. The village was busier than ever; Ragnar and Lagertha had just had their son, Bjorn, a little boy who had already stolen everyone's hearts with his loud cry and inquisitive look.

You received the news while helping your mother in the kitchen. A neighbor came in excitedly, her beaming smile lighting up the room. “A son has been born to Ragnar! A strong, healthy boy. They have named him Bjorn.”

You stood still for a moment, your hands still covered in flour. The air seemed to grow heavy, as if every word of that woman crushed you. Bjorn. Ragnar had a son.

You knew this moment would come. It was natural for a man like him to build a family, for his life to be filled with new bonds and responsibilities. But that certainty didn’t make it hurt any less.

That night, as the village celebrated the birth of the little boy, you stepped away from the crowd. Chants and laughter filled the air, but you couldn’t bear to be there, watching Ragnar and Lagertha receive everyone’s congratulations. Instead, you sat alone on the riverbank, watching the current carry away the fallen leaves.

It was then, in the pale moonlight, that something inside you changed. For years you had carried an unrequited love, a weight that had filled you with rage, sadness, and frustration. But now, thinking of Bjorn and the future Ragnar was building, you realized it was time to let it go.

It wasn't easy. It was like ripping out a part of yourself, a part that had been with you for as long as you could remember. But you knew you could no longer live trapped in that cycle of emotions. Ragnar wasn't yours, and he never would be. And that was okay.

You decided that if you wanted to find your place in the world, you had to free yourself from that weight. So you let it go, like the leaves falling into the river, allowing the current to carry them away to a place you couldn't follow.

Letting it go didn't mean forgetting it, though. Ragnar was still a part of your life, as he always had been. But now you saw him differently. He was no longer the man you wanted, but someone you had learned to respect from a distance.

He was still there when you needed him, though those occasions were becoming less frequent. You were no longer a child, and the world did not revolve around him as you had once felt it did. You were a woman now, and you were determined to forge your own path.

One afternoon, while you were working in the fields, Ragnar approached you. He was carrying Bjorn in his arms, and the boy looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and adoration that made you smile despite everything.

“Aren’t you coming to see the little one?” he asked you, with that smile of his that still managed to disarm you, although in a different way now.

You wiped the sweat from your forehead and walked towards them. Bjorn stared at you with his big blue eyes, so similar to his father’s. He extended a small hand towards you, and you couldn’t help but gently take it between your fingers.

“He’s strong,” you said, more to yourself than to Ragnar.

“Like his mother,” he replied with a soft laugh.

You looked at him, feeling a calmness you hadn’t known before. “And like his father.”

Ragnar watched you for a moment, as if trying to decipher something in your expression. But he didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

That was the last time you allowed the ghosts of your past love to visit you. From then on, you focused on yourself, on your own goals and dreams. Ragnar was still a part of your life, but no longer the axis of your thoughts.

A year later when you turned seventeen, your world began to expand in ways you had never imagined. Ragnar, always restless, had begun to embark on more frequent trips, exploring new lands and discovering unknown horizons. It was on one of those days, while he was planning his next expedition, that you decided to accompany him. It wasn’t something you thought about much; you simply felt it. You wanted something more, something far from the confines of the village you had called home all your life.

“Are you sure you want to come?” Ragnar asked you when you proposed, with a raised eyebrow and a half-smile. “The sea is not as kind as it seems.”

“As kind as you, I suppose,” you replied with a spark of humor that made him laugh. “I don’t mind. I want to go.”

And so it was that you found yourself on the ship, surrounded by men weathered by wind and water, the smell of salt filling your senses. At first, you didn’t know what to expect. The constant movement of the waves was disconcerting, and the sound of the wood creaking beneath your feet made you feel small and insignificant. But as the days passed, you began to understand why Ragnar loved these voyages so much.

There was a freedom at sea that couldn’t be found anywhere else. There were no village expectations, no inquisitive glances, no questions about your future. On the ship, you were simply you, facing a world that stretched beyond the horizon.

Ragnar taught you to navigate by the stars, pointing out constellations you’d never noticed before. “Look there,” he said one night, as the sky spread out like a black blanket studded with diamonds. “Those take us north.”

“And those others,” you added, pointing to a group of stars that seemed especially bright to you, “where do they take us?”

He looked at you with a calm smile. “Wherever you want to go.”

It was in those moments, amidst the vastness of the ocean, that you began to understand something about yourself. You had spent years feeling trapped, first by your emotions towards Ragnar, then by the weight of your own expectations. But here, far away from everything, you realized that freedom was not something anyone could give you; it was something you had to claim for yourself.

When you reached land, every place you discovered filled you with wonder. The villages you visited, the new faces, the unfamiliar languages… everything was a reminder of how big the world was and how small you were within it. But that smallness did not intimidate you. On the contrary, it inspired you.

Ragnar seemed to notice the change in you. Although he did not say it openly, his gestures made it clear. When she watched you interact with the villagers or explore the markets with eyes full of curiosity, there was something in her expression that almost seemed like… pride.

When you returned from travels, there was always a mix of relief and melancholy. Returning meant safety, the warmth of home, but also the return to routines and inevitable questions.

Lagertha, who you had learned to get along with better, always greeted you with a smile and a question she couldn’t seem to avoid: “Well? When are you going to marry one of the men?”

That question always made you feel uncomfortable. You knew it was common for you to be engaged at your age, but the thought of tying yourself down to someone had never been appealing to you. Not after everything you had felt for Ragnar. Not after having tasted the freedom that travel offered you.

“I haven’t found anyone worth it yet,” you always answered with a noncommittal smile, trying to downplay it.

Lagertha would often laugh at your answer, though she would insist. “You are beautiful and strong. There is no shortage of men in this village who would want you as a wife.”

You would simply shrug and change the subject. Although you could now see that Lagertha was not your enemy, you could not confess the truth to her either. You could not tell her that deep down, there was still a part of you that could not imagine being with anyone but Ragnar, though you knew that dream would never come true.

It was not long before you were once again embarking on another journey with Ragnar. This time, the destination was beyond anything you had ever imagined. There was talk of faraway lands, with riches and wonders that few had ever seen. The preparations were long and meticulous; the journey would be longer and more dangerous, but the excitement in the air was palpable.

“Are you sure you want to come?” Ragnar asked for the umpteenth time, as he adjusted the oars on the boat.

“What kind of question is that?” you replied with a defiant smile. “Of course I’m going.”

Ragnar nodded, though his eyes reflected more than just acceptance. It was a mix of pride and concern, but you didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

The first leg of the journey was exciting, as always. The wind filled the sails and the horizon stretched out before you like an endless promise. But as the days passed, the conditions began to change. The waters grew colder, the air heavier, and your strength began to fail.

At first it was a simple malaise that you tried to ignore. A slight fever, some weakness. But soon it became impossible to hide. Your body was exhausted, and every movement cost you more effort than you wanted to admit. Ragnar was the first to notice.

“You look pale,” he commented one night as you stood by the fire, trying to warm up from the cold sea.

“I’m fine,” you lied, your tone firmer than you felt.

But the next day, when you tried to get up to help row, your legs wouldn't respond. Ragnar caught up with you before you could fall to the ground.

"Enough!" he said, his tone so authoritative it brooked no reply. "You're not well. You need to rest."

You were placed on a makeshift bed inside the ship, and though you resisted at first, your body soon gave out. The fever rose, and the weakness became unbearable. You could barely open your eyes, and when you did, everything seemed to spin around you.

Ragnar remained by your side from that moment on, like a constant shadow. He barely ate or slept, always attentive to any change in your condition. His face, normally full of confidence and energy, was now marked with worry.

In the moments when you were conscious, you could hear Ragnar speaking softly. You couldn't always understand what he said, but his words were often directed at you.

“This is my fault,” he muttered one night, as he changed the damp cloth on your forehead. “I shouldn’t have let you come. I was selfish to think you could handle this. I always wanted you around… but I should never have put you in danger.”

You wanted to respond, to tell him that it wasn't his fault, that this trip had been your decision, but the words wouldn't come out. All you could do was weakly squeeze his hand when he took it, a gesture that seemed to give him minimal comfort.

Your illness lasted for weeks in those distant lands, an unknown place where every dawn seemed just as uncertain. No one knew exactly what had caused you such extreme weakness: the change in climate, the different food, or simply the exhaustion of the journey. The days passed in a mix of hope and worry, and although the others continued with their tasks of exploration and looting, Ragnar did not leave your side.

The fever slowly subsided, and your strength began to return. At first, getting out of bed was a triumph, a small step towards normality. But as the weeks turned into a month and a half, you found yourself trapped in a state of endless recovery. Ragnar did not let you do absolutely anything, which at first you were grateful for, but soon began to drive you crazy.

“You’re not ready yet,” Ragnar insisted every time you tried to get up to do more than walk a few steps.

“I’m better,” you protested one day, crossing your arms in frustration. “I can carry something, help around camp, train even.”

“No, you can’t,” he replied, his tone firm enough to shut down the conversation before it even began. “I don’t want to see you lifting anything heavier than that plate of food.”

The concern on his face was evident, and though you understood where he was coming from, you couldn’t help but feel annoyed. You weren’t used to someone limiting you like that, least of all Ragnar.

“You’re worse than any disease,” you murmured, your tone more playful than angry.

Ragnar smiled slightly, but didn’t relent. “You can hate me all you want, but you’re staying here. I’m not going to risk you relapsing.”

With Ragnar acting as a relentless guardian, your world shrank to the walls of the house where you were staying. It was a simple building, with wooden walls and a roof that barely protected you from the icy wind. Although you were grateful to have a place to shelter, the stillness made you feel useless.

You did small tasks: cleaning utensils, mending the clothes of the men traveling with you, and even cooking when you were allowed. But none of that filled the void you felt from not being able to participate in training or scouting. The lack of action weighed on you like an invisible burden, and though you tried to hide it, it was clear that you were not satisfied.

Sometimes, as you worked in silence, you felt Ragnar's eyes on you. When you faced him, he would simply smile and look away, as if he wanted to reassure you that everything was okay. But that only made you more upset.

There were days when you felt like a burden. Seeing the others return to camp with stories of what they had seen and done while you had barely stepped out into the yard was a constant reminder of what you had lost. You didn't want to admit it, but you felt weak, and that was something you had never handled well.

Ragnar seemed to sense your emotions even when you said nothing. “Why are you so quiet?” he asked you one night, as you ate dinner in silence.

“I’m thinking,” you replied, not wanting to go into details.

“Thinking about what?”

You paused, unsure if you wanted to tell him the truth. Finally, you decided to be honest. “About how useless I feel here. Everyone is out there, exploring, fighting… and I’m here, mending clothes.”

Ragnar set his bowl aside and looked you straight in the eyes. “That doesn’t make you useless. You’re alive, aren’t you? That’s all that matters now.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” you replied, your tone bordering on resentment. “You’re out there, being who you are. I’m stuck here, being… nothing.”

Ragnar sighed, as if he understood your frustration more than you cared to admit. “Sometimes, surviving is the hardest thing we can do. But don’t think for a moment that you’re not important. I wouldn’t be here, wasting my time with you, if I thought that.”

His words, though well-intentioned, didn’t completely dispel your unease.

In those days you tried to convince yourself that it was all behind you. The childish love you once felt for Ragnar was a distant memory, a whim buried beneath the years of maturity and the reality of his life with Lagertha. You had spent enough time hating him, loving him, and finally letting him go, or so you told yourself. However, as the days passed in that small village, something began to change.

The way Ragnar looked at you was different. You weren’t entirely sure at first, but there was something in the intensity of his gaze, in how his eyes seemed to search yours for no apparent reason. It was like every time you moved around the house, even in the most mundane moments, he was watching, watching.

That invisible weight, that tension between the two of you that seemed to fill the air. Every time you were near him, you felt a warmth in your chest that you hadn’t experienced in a long time. You tried to ignore it, to convince yourself it was just your imagination, but it wasn’t that simple.

For his part, Ragnar was experiencing something he couldn’t explain. For years, he’d always seen you as the little girl who ran around the camp, the younger sister who looked down on him or argued with him about anything. He’d been by your side like an older brother, like a protector. But now… now he couldn’t help but see you differently.

He didn’t know when it had started exactly. Maybe it was when he realized how strong you’d been during your illness, fighting weakness with silent determination. Or maybe it was simply the fact that, by spending so much time together, he’d started to notice things he hadn’t seen before.

The way the sunlight lit up your hair as you moved near the window. The softness in your gestures as you worked on chores around the house, even if you did it in annoyance. The way your eyes sparkled when you were angry at him for not letting you do more.

Everything about you intrigued him.

One afternoon, as you stood alone in the yard trying to mend an old coat, Ragnar appeared. He didn’t say anything at first, just sat next to you, watching your fingers move with precision.

“Why are you always staring at me?” you finally asked, without looking at him.

Ragnar smiled, but didn’t answer right away. “And why are you always so attentive to what I do?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the blush that rose to your cheeks. “Because you’re impossible to ignore. You’re always there, like a shadow.”

“Maybe because I like being where you are,” he replied with a sincerity that took you by surprise.

You stopped, the thread in your hands hanging. His words weren’t brazen, but they weren’t innocent either. You looked at him, trying to read on his face if he was joking or if there was something more behind his words. What you saw in his eyes disarmed you: there was no trace of mockery, only a curiosity that seemed to dig deep inside you.

From that moment on, everything seemed to be charged with a new energy between you. Casual conversations were filled with awkward silences, as if both of you knew something was changing but neither of you wanted to admit it.

Ragnar couldn’t help but find excuses to spend time with you. He always had some reason to come over, whether it was to bring you some water, check on how you were feeling, or just sit quietly beside you. And you, despite your frustration, couldn’t help but feel more aware of his presence than ever.

One night, while the others slept, you stepped out into the courtyard to get some air. Ragnar appeared shortly after, as if he knew exactly where you were.

“You can’t sleep,” he said, more of a statement than a question.

You shook your head. “The air here is different. It’s hard to breathe sometimes.”

He nodded, coming close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body in the cold night. “Do you regret coming?”

“No,” you answered quickly, looking up at the stars. “Despite everything… I don’t regret it.”

Ragnar was silent for a moment, before saying, “Me neither.”

You turned to look at him, searching for some meaning in his words. But before you could ask, he had already looked away, as if he was afraid to say anything more.

The day after the conversation in the courtyard, you decided that you couldn't allow what you felt for Ragnar to take shape. If you allowed those feelings to grow, you would lose control over yourself, over your life, over your ability to decide. And worst of all, you would lose Ragnar in a way you didn't want to even imagine. So, for three whole days, you avoided him.

You didn't look him in the eye more than necessary, you kept yourself busy with tasks that took you away from him, and you always looked for excuses not to be around. Every time Ragnar showed up at camp, you somehow slipped out of his reach, seeking to avoid the tension you knew existed between the two of you.

But despite all your efforts, you couldn't deny that every time Ragnar looked at you, there was something in his eyes that overwhelmed you. The tension grew like a storm about to break. You knew he felt the same way too, and even though you tried not to admit it, the emotions were eating you up from the inside.

On the fourth day, confrontation was inevitable. Ragnar found you in the small tent where you were busy organizing the equipment. He closed the entrance behind him with a soft knock, and stared at you silently, knowing you had been avoiding him.

“You can’t keep doing this,” he said, his voice low and calm, as always, but this time with something more. An urgency.

You stared at him for a long moment before speaking. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.” His footsteps echoed on the wooden floor as he came closer, closing the distance between you. “Stop running away from what’s happening between us.”

You breathed quickened at the closeness, at the certainty in his voice. You knew he was just as caught up in this game as you were. But you couldn’t let this be real. You shouldn’t.

“You’re right,” you murmured, looking away. “But we can’t…”

“We can’t keep ignoring what we feel, can we?” Ragnar interrupted, leaning slightly towards you, searching your eyes.

The space between you shrank to inches, the electricity in the air palpable. You could hear your own heartbeat quickening, the heat of his body overwhelming you. And before you could stop him, Ragnar raised a hand and gently touched your cheek.

The contact ignited a spark that ran through your entire body. You couldn’t resist it any longer. Without thinking, you launched yourself at him, your lips meeting his in a fiery kiss. It was as if all the time of tension, of repressed desires, exploded in that single moment.

Ragnar responded immediately, his hands moving up your back, pulling you closer to him. Your hands tangled in his hair, as the kiss deepened, moving from something passionate to something more urgent, more desperate.

“I love you… I always have,” you managed to whisper between the kisses, unable to keep quiet what you had held in for so long. The words came out of you with the same intensity you had repressed those feelings with for years.

Ragnar didn't respond. He looked into your eyes, as if he wanted to make sure you had really said it. But he didn't say anything, he just kissed you again, harder, as if the answer was in the act, not the words.

The intensity of that kiss didn't go away. Instead, it intensified as his hands moved with an urgency you had never seen in him. There were no more barriers, only the desire to explore what had been dormant between you.

Ragnar took you firmly, guiding you towards the bed with gentle but determined movements. You didn't say anything, because you knew you didn't need to. Everything that had been left unsaid between the two of you was now expressed in a much more intimate and direct way.

That night, was the first time you spent in his bed. And he was the first man you had ever been with. You felt it in every touch, in every caress, in the way he knew you and wanted you with an intensity you had never experienced before. At that moment, Ragnar was not only the man you had secretly desired, but the only one you wanted to share your body and soul with.

When you finally rested, breathing intertwined, you said nothing. There was no need. There was no turning back, no way to deny what had grown between you and finally unleashed.

The night stretched between you like a blanket of calm after the storm. The two of you lay together, the softness of your breaths intertwined in the stillness of the bed. Despite the intensity of what had happened, something in your chest was still churning.

Ragnar, lying next to you, watched you with an intensity that overwhelmed you. His gaze was deep, as if he were trying to decipher something that had been hidden for a long time. Finally, he broke the silence, his voice low, but with an unmistakable weight.

“You love me… Why didn’t you tell me before?”

The question left you speechless for a moment. You turned to look at him, and although his face was serene, his eyes reflected a mix of surprise and something else, something that seemed to be a request for explanations.

You knew you couldn’t hide it anymore, but how to respond? How to explain all the suffering and anguish you had felt loving someone who seemed unattainable?

“I didn’t say it because I knew you would never love me back,” you replied, your voice cracking, the pain of all those years of silence making a dent in your tone. “And besides… you have a family. Lagertha… your son…”

Ragnar looked at you in silence for a moment, as if he was processing your words. The seconds seemed eternal as his gaze softened, as if he too understood the weight of what you had just said.

“Don’t think about it,” he finally said, his tone filled with a firmness that left no room for doubt. “Let’s not think about what we can’t change.”

Before you could respond, Ragnar kissed you again. A deep kiss. In that kiss there was no room for doubt or fear.

The nights that followed were like a dream from which you didn’t want to wake up. Every night you spent in his bed, every night Ragnar adored you with an intensity that made you feel like you were the only woman in the world. In his eyes, you looked more beautiful than ever, and every word that came out of his mouth, every touch his hands offered, enveloped you in a feeling of ecstasy you had never known.

He treated you with a tenderness and fervor that overflowed from what you had imagined in your most secret dreams. His caresses were soft, but his kisses were ardent, as if he wanted to erase all the distance that had existed between you during all those years. You felt that you were finally seen, that Ragnar saw you, not as the girl who was once part of his life, but as the woman you were now. And, for the first time, you did not care what the future might bring.

However, that peace you had found in his closeness, that security that Ragnar seemed to give you, was shaken when the time of staying in distant lands came to an end. The journey home was long, tense, and for the first time, uncertainty settled over you.

Every day that passed, the question hung in the air, even if neither of you said it out loud: what will happen when we get home? You knew Ragnar had a family, and even though he told you not to think about it, you couldn't help it. Lagertha, his son and the one on the way, his life... it was all there, waiting for them. And what was left for you? What was left for what you had shared? The distance between the realities you faced became more and more evident as the journey progressed.

Despite everything, hope was still alive in your heart. Despite the doubts that haunted you, the constant question about what would happen when you returned home.

Ragnar didn't talk much during the trip, and perhaps, in part, neither did you. You both knew there was something that needed to be resolved, something that couldn't be left hanging in the air.

The wind blew hard, the waves of the sea crashed against the rocks, but as you approached the familiar shores, the weight of the unknown seemed to increase. You didn't know what you would do when you set foot in your home, nor how you would react to seeing Lagertha, nor what Ragnar would think of everything that had happened.

Returning home was a heartbreaking contrast to the intense emotions of the trip. As soon as you arrived, the usual routine seemed to take its place as if time in distant lands had not happened. Lagertha had given birth to a girl while you were away, and Ragnar's joy for his new daughter filled the air.

You stood by, watching from a distance. You went back home to your parents, trying to put a physical and emotional barrier between you and Ragnar. You thought that distance might help you forget, that staying away from him, from his family, might ease the weight of what you shared.

You didn’t visit his home, not even when your parents mentioned his name. You tried to distract yourself with your own tasks, with the life you’d put on hold while you traveled. But, despite all your attempts, you couldn’t get him out of your mind. Every corner of your memory seemed to be permeated with his voice, his touch, the way he looked at you as if you were the only thing that mattered.

And then, as if fate wanted to mock you, he appeared. Ragnar arrived at your house without warning, his laughter echoing from the living room as he spoke to your parents. You heard his voice before you saw him, and something inside you tensed. You knew you couldn't avoid him forever, but that encounter took you by surprise.

You decided to stay in your room, taking refuge in the distance you could still maintain. You figured that if you didn’t see him, it would be easier to ignore the reality of his presence, easier to remind yourself that you couldn’t keep feeding what you felt.

But Ragnar wasn’t one to be ignored easily. As night fell and the house fell silent, you knew something was about to change. You felt his presence before he knocked on your door, before he peeked into the room with that look that always managed to disarm you.

“Are you going to hide from me all night?” he asked quietly, closing the door behind him before you could answer.

“I’m not hiding,” you replied, even though you both knew it was a lie. You didn’t look up from your hands, afraid that if you did, all the control you’d tried to build would crumble in an instant.

Ragnar didn’t say anything. He walked over to where you were sitting and, with a calmness only he could project, knelt in front of you. His eyes searched yours, and when you finally looked at him, you felt all the weight of your will evaporate.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, though your voice lacked conviction.

“And yet, here I am,” he replied with a smile that only made things more complicated.

You didn’t know how it happened, but before you could stop him, his lips were on yours. It was a slow kiss, filled with an intensity you hadn’t forgotten. Everything you had tried to bury, all the distance you had tried to impose, crumbled in that instant.

“Ragnar…” you tried to speak, but he shook his head, silencing you with another kiss.

That night, you had him in your bed, and the weight of the forbidden made every moment even more intense. You tried to keep quiet, afraid someone might hear, but Ragnar seemed to be in no hurry, taking his time exploring every corner of your skin as if he wanted to memorize you.

Every caress, every whisper in your ear, made the outside world disappear. For a few hours, there were no wives or children, no families or responsibilities, just the two of you in that room, sharing something that couldn't be explained with words.

When the heat of the moment was behind you, your body intertwined with his. The silence in the room was deep, broken only by the sound of your breathing calming down. Ragnar wrapped one arm around you, pulling you towards him, while his other hand gently rested on your bare belly.

He began to trace slow, abstract movements on your stomach with the tips of his fingers, almost absentmindedly, as if his mind was somewhere else. You could feel the weight of his thoughts, though you couldn't guess what was going through his head.

“Once,” he began in a low, contemplative tone, “a witch told me I would have many children. More than I could count.”

His words, spoken with a mix of seriousness and curiosity, struck something deep within you. Even though he didn’t seem aware of the impact they might have, you felt a pang of sadness creep into your chest. You didn’t know exactly why; perhaps because those words were a reminder of the life he led, a life that didn’t include a future with you.

You swallowed, trying to contain the lump that formed in your throat, but it was useless. A silent tear rolled down your cheek, followed by another. You tried to turn your face away, you didn't want him to see you like that, you didn't want him to know how much those words had touched a wound you tried to ignore.

“What's wrong?” Ragnar asked, noticing your silence and the trembling in your breathing. He sat up slightly, turning to you with a worried expression. “Did I say something that hurt you?”

You shook your head, but your lips trembled. “It's not that... I just... I don't know.” The words escaped you; you couldn't explain this whirlwind of emotions that invaded you.

Ragnar took your face with both hands, wiping the tears with his thumb while looking at you with an intensity that disarmed you. “I didn't mean to make you feel bad. Never.”

His eyes, as blue as the clear sky, reflected a sincerity that hurt you even more. You wanted to tell him how you felt, but how to put into words something so complex? How to explain that it wasn’t his fault, but the weight of everything you shared, of everything that couldn’t be?

“I’m fine,” you finally managed to say, though your voice was a broken whisper. “I just… sometimes wonder how I fit into your life. Or if I do.”

Ragnar watched you in silence for a moment, and then pulled you into his chest, enveloping you in a warm, protective embrace. “Don’t think about it now,” he said softly, his voice echoing in his chest against your ear. “What we have here, now… that’s what matters. I don’t want you to cry for me. I don’t want this to hurt you.”

You clung to him, letting his warmth comfort you, though the questions in your mind remained unanswered. His words were a temporary balm, but they couldn’t undo the truth of the situation. Yet, at that moment, you decided to allow yourself to believe him, if only for that night. Because when you were in his arms, the world seemed a little less complicated, and that was enough to keep you going.

The days that followed were a whirlwind of emotions for you. You had tried to get back to the routine, to the normality that you so wanted to get back, but something inside you had changed. It wasn't just the guilt or the love you still felt for Ragnar, it was something deeper, something you hadn't faced until you started to notice the first signs.

At first, you ignored it. The constant tiredness, the nausea that hit you without warning, it could all be attributed to the wear and tear of the trip, or the stress you had accumulated. But you couldn't deny the truth for long. With each passing day, the signs became clearer, until you finally accepted what your body was trying to tell you: you were pregnant.

The revelation was a shock that left you breathless. You sat on the edge of your bed, trembling hands holding your belly as reality sank in. The life you carried inside was too big a secret to share, a secret that could change everything.

You couldn't tell your parents. Their disappointment would be an unbearable weight, and the scandal that could be unleashed if anyone else found out was something you weren't willing to face. You couldn't tell Ragnar either. He had a family. The last thing you wanted was to further complicate their life, or yours.

So you decided to keep it to yourself. He was yours, and yours alone.

Days turned into weeks, and you learned to hide the signs. When you felt sick, you found an excuse to get away. When tiredness got the better of you, you made sure no one noticed. But keeping the secret wasn't easy, especially when Ragnar was around.

There was something in his gaze that seemed to pierce through you, as if he could see past your attempts to hide the truth. Even though he didn't say anything, you knew he suspected something was bothering you. His questions were subtle, but constant, and every time you evaded them you felt the tension between you grow.

At night, when you lay alone, the weight of your decision crushed you. You wondered if you had done the right thing, if keeping the secret was really the best option. But every time you thought about what could happen if the truth came out, you convinced yourself that you had no other choice.

It was madness, a storm you couldn't control, but you had no choice but to face it alone.

The days continued to pass with a tension that seemed to cut off your air. Every glance from your parents, every conversation with Ragnar, was like walking on brittle ice. You knew you couldn't stay much longer. Not because you didn't want to, but because every moment prolonged the risk of your secret being discovered, and that wasn't something you could allow.

You hadn’t made the decision lightly. For days, you’d been turning it over in your mind, searching for options, wondering if there was any way to stay, to keep what you carried inside you safe without destroying everything else. But every path you imagined led to the same place: to chaos, to pain, and to a scandal that would affect not only you, but everyone around you.

You couldn’t allow that. And so, one night, as you sat alone in your room, you decided you had to leave.

The conversation with your parents was one of the hardest things you’d ever faced. You sat with them at the family table, your hands clenched in your lap to hide the shaking.

“I need to go,” you finally said, breaking the silence that seemed to weigh like a slab in the air.

Your parents looked at each other, confused. It was your mother who spoke first. “Leave? Where?”

“Away,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. “I need some time to myself, to find my own way. I’ve been feeling… trapped.”

It wasn’t quite a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either. Your parents seemed to hesitate, exchanging glances that clearly argued your request without the need for words.

“Does this have anything to do with Ragnar?” your father finally asked, his tone sterner.

Just hearing his name made your heart stop for a moment. But you shook your head. “No. This is something of mine, something I need to do.”

Your mother tried to convince you to stay. She told you about how dangerous it was to travel alone, how you’d always had a safe home with them. But you had already made up your mind. You listened to her in silence, letting her words flow over you like water over rock. When she was done, you simply repeated, “I have to.”

“If Ragnar knows you’re leaving…” your father began, but you cut him off with a gesture.

“He mustn’t know. I beg you. If he asks, tell him I left because I needed some space, but don’t tell him anything else.”

Your mother looked at you with concern, while your father frowned, clearly uncomfortable with the request. But eventually, they nodded. You gave them no other options.

You had planned everything in secret. You knew where you would go: a small settlement far from Kattegat, isolated enough to avoid questions. You had packed the few things you needed into a sack and prepared a horse to set out at dawn.

The night before your departure was the longest of your life. You were alone in your room, watching the shadows move on the walls as a storm of emotions raged within you. There was pain, sure, pain so deep it seemed to cut your soul in two. But there was also a strange sense of relief, as if you had finally taken control of your destiny.

You didn’t sleep that night. As the sun began to peek over the horizon, you got up, got dressed, and grabbed your things. Your parents bid you farewell in silence, though your mother couldn’t help but hug you tightly before you mounted your horse.

“Be careful,” she told you with tears in her eyes.

“I will be,” you promised, though you weren’t sure it was true.

As you left Kattegat behind you, you felt an emptiness in your chest that threatened to devour you. Each step of the horse seemed to take you further away from everything you knew, from everyone you loved, but also closer to a future that was now yours alone.

You knew this path would be difficult. You knew you would be alone, and that there would be times when you would question whether you had made the right decision. But you also knew you had no other choice. You had to protect your son, even if it meant sacrificing everything else.

As the landscape changed around you, you held on to that thought. Because while the pain of leaving Ragnar and your family was unbearable, it was also a reminder of how strong you were. And that no matter what, you would find a way to move forward.

#fanfic #oneshot #imagine #x reader #ragnar lothbrok #ragnar lothbrok x reader #vikings #ragnar x reader #ragnar x lagertha #vikings fic #vikings fanfiction #lagertha #ragnar x you #bjorn ragnarsson

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the-fandom-is-now-my-life · 8 months ago

Note

The funniest thing about the Creator having a child thing (to me anways) is that the Archons act like their poor dear deity was an innocent in the whole situation, when you just KNOW that all the potential fathers (with the exceptions of Abyss Prince Aether and maybe Childe) were the ones being seduced.

Kaeya is a flirt, but he's not the type to bed someone willy-nilly, much less a deity. Nev is the Hydro Sovereign, he would have too much respect to try anything uncouth towards the Maker of All without their express permission. Kaveh would have to be blitzed out of his mind to even THINK of flirting with the Creator, much less bedding them. Childe, well...honestly it's a 50-50 split on that imo, he might if he thought it would go well and/or get him power of some sort. Traveler Aether would be focused on finding his sister, he wouldn't allow himself to be distracted by things like that...and Xiao? Xiao would never try anything that could even be mistaken as rude towards the Creator. Heck, I think getting a kiss on the cheek would be enough to make the poor guy panic.

So uh, I guess what I'm asking is...how did the dad's initially react to learning the Creator wanted to do the horizontal tango with them?

Help you are actually so right, in most scenarios I can only picture the reader being either shameless or forthcoming enough to say it to their face that they find the boy attractive or anything close.

I know there are at least a handful who while they fantasize about it wouldn't even dreamm of telling you that .

Their grace is so forthcoming

WC 1,2k

Flirty banter gets misunderstood for real flirting but they exploit the bug

Childe

“Your grace, you are shivering a lot!” he exclaims loudly as he pulls his harbinger coat onto your shoulders. The tsaritsa held a kind of ‘greetings party' with her harbingers, even if the atmosphere was tense and the chatting short, each of your sides being taken by the tsaritsa and Pierro. Sooner than expected everyone left. When you notice you left an accessory behind and meet face to face with the redhead alone in the room.

“Hm, I guess I'm a bit cold”

And without missing a beat or looking up from the clasp he was trying to secure he chimes faster than he can think “cold? But you are so hot!” but after he noticed his eyes seem to lack more will to live.

“I'm inc-”

As he attempts to apologize, your hand pulls on his wrist, getting him closer, his blue eyes wide, “You yourself are quite nice on the eyes, don't you want to tell me anything else?”

His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows the spit that pooled behind his teeth, his little Freudian slip ended up better than he expected.

Kaeya

“Oh my, what are you doing alone here?” Kaeya sits down on the chair next to you, only a lonely drink with you

“Mhm, Venti got into a fight with Jose six fingers about who was a better bard” you sigh as you sip your drink, looking down a window at the two bards singing outside trying to get the crowd to decide who was better.

“To leave such an beautiful person alone in a bar, I wouldn't be surprised if a drunkard tried to sweep you off your feet” he sips his alcoholic drink, the burning on his tongue soon settling warmly in his stomach before letting out a roaring laugh from the bottom of his chest “I'm joking~ I doubt anyone would dare attempt”

You let out a simple ‘mhm?’ before leaning your head to the side to look at Kaeya with a mischievous grin “oh, such a shame, I would have allowed you to do something so bold and a bit more” and your hand falls on his thigh under the table and his soon follow.

Venti

Would NEVER, under No circumstances flirt first for reasons

Xiao

-holds too much respect to dar think about you like that-

“Aren't you sweet?” the small apple falls on your hand, Xiao had climbed a nearby tree after hearing your stomach rumble.

“I appreciate your kind words, even then I think I'm too jaded to be considered anything akin to that” He bows his head. It's been a while since he accepted that he would never be clean of the blood he spilled during the war, but that at least managed to make him want to protect Liyue so they will be able to live peacefully.

“You may say that but isn't selflessly protecting liyue sweet? I would say it's sweet how you care about little Qiqi, I saw how you carried her up a cliff to grab qingxin. Undoubtedly pure sugar”

“Your grace…” his eyes soften as he looks down where you are.

“You are almost like candy I could eat up!”

Traveler aether

-shy/ has other things in his mind-

“I have to say aether, your house is surprisingly comfortable” the words slip past your lips before you can think about it. Even if it isn't how you would have furnished it nobody could say he had bad taste. There are lots of fireplaces and cushions and the seats and beds are quite comfortable, an odd combination of styles that sustained the idea of him being a traveler and cherry picking the most comfortable parts of each nation.

“Paimon had a hand at it too! If it was up to aether this would only be cushions and blankets! Paimon had to push for these plants!”

“Well it wouldn't be strange for a traveler to seek mostly comfort rather than looks”

Later into the night he leads you to another room on the upper floor, just a few meters away from his “how strange, I would have guessed the guest's room would be on the lower floor”

Aether just sighs, his braid swaying softly “Paimon wanted her room to be close to the kitchen so it was this or having the game room up here”

A few hours pass, there is a noise like paws on the roof but you pay no mind, Aether already explained that nobody could enter unless he allowed them to and most likely they were one of the many animals he kept inside the teapot. Softly you walk towards his door and knock on it, not without looking down the railing only to see pain passed out surrounded by a few fruits.

“Could I sleep with you?” You stand before his door wearing your piyama, as you say those words you drink in his disheveled appearance, a t-shirt a few sizes too big hanging from his shoulders down the middle of his white thighs, long blond hair usually collected in a braid now loose, some bits tangled and another flowing as they please.

“Huh…? If you are afraid of noises the cranes sometimes go to the roof and you can hear them”

“It's not that… it's more like I want to be close to you, in the same bed” his cheeks, usually milky white bloom peony red, and the last bit of hanging sleep fell from his eyes. He nods vigorously.

He has principles and openly flirting with you almost seems disrespectful

Neuvillette

Melusines are the pride of Fontaine, with their joyful disposition and chubby cheeks even if chronologically they can be hundred if years old they can blend in with 5 year olds seamlessly. Be it their tiny huffing and puffing when things don't go their way, to their attraction to sweets and how clingy they can be with neuvillette. Especially when he misses the usual monthly visit.

“I have already apologized, work stacked up and-”

“You prefer our sisters who stay in the city! It's unfair” the melusine who took over his lap started kicking the air until Neuvillette combs her hair with his fingers.

“You know it isn't like that… could you as a group behave for their grace? they are arriving soon” he attempts to calm her down while looking at the drawing another is showing him and how two others are braiding his hair.

“Never took you for the fatherly type” as you walk inside the grotto some melusines jump on you, they only see you as mister Neuvillette's friend and someone with a gift which you soon give them, it's a small ball with glitter inside, soon the melusines focus on that and start running around chasing it “aren't they a joyful bunch?”

“They seemingly never run out of energy so they can be tiring at times. My apologies for such display, I expected them to be able to be calm by the time you arrived but as you can see…”

“I don't mind, it's adorable, attractive even” he doesn't look too taken aback by your comment other than his slit pupils being thinner and longer than usual.

Diluc

Thoma

Alhaitham

Would actually flirt, holds you in high regard but still sees you as a human

Dainsleif

Abyss aether

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misahyochaeng · 4 days ago

Text

“Mami, Esto es Cosa Nuestra”

Momo x Fem!Reader 🌧️

tw’s- momo x fem!reader, mafia!au, angst, fluff, gore, violence, physical abuse, mental abuse, mentions of family trauma, child exploitation, etc.

note: bro i exceeded the max word limit.. please enjoy! also not proofread im sorry for any mistakes! listen with the music on loop you wont regret

—

The first time you met Hirai Momo, she wasn’t wearing one of those sharp suits that would later become her armor. She was just Momo, leaning against a jukebox in a dimly lit bar, tapping her cigarette against the rim of an ashtray. You’d been dragged there by friends, already itching to leave, until your eyes landed on her. She wasn’t trying to stand out, but she did. It was the way she owned the space without even trying.

She caught you staring, her lips curving into a smirk.

“Enjoying the view, Mami?” she asked, her voice smooth as whiskey.

You should’ve looked away, walked out of that bar, and never looked back. But instead, you matched her smirk and sat at the barstool beside her.

That night, you learned her name, her laugh, and the way she tilted her head when she listened. You didn’t learn until much later that she was the youngest boss the Hirai family had ever seen, a woman who ruled the city's underworld with the same ease as she lit a cigarette.

The affair started innocently enough—if anything involving Momo could be called innocent. You found excuses to see her. Coffee in the mornings, stolen moments in her office, late-night drives with jazz playing softly on the radio. She made you feel alive, like you were part of something bigger than yourself, something dangerous and exhilarating.

“Esto es cosa nuestra,” she’d say, her lips brushing against your ear. “No one else will ever understand.”

You believed her, even as the walls began to close in.

Your father found out first, of course. It was impossible to hide the way your gaze lingered on her at the rare social events where your families crossed paths. He wasn’t stupid—he saw the way she looked at you too, like you were hers.

The night he confronted you was the first time you felt the weight of your family name. You were a pawn in his game, a piece to be moved and sacrificed as needed.

“This stops now,” he growled, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. “Do you understand what you’ve done? Do you understand who she is?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. The betrayal in his eyes was enough.

The phone rings, dragging you back to the present. You’re sitting on the edge of your bed, knees pulled to your chest, staring at the cracks in the ceiling as if they hold some kind of answer. You don’t want to answer, but you do.

“Momo.” Her name feels heavy on your tongue.

The sound of her exhale comes through the line, followed by the faint flick of a lighter. You can picture her perfectly—leaning against the window of her office, cigarette between her fingers, the city’s neon lights reflecting off her sharp features.

“How bad is it?” she asks, her voice calm but edged with tension.

You swallow hard. “He knows everything. About us. About…everything.”

There’s a pause, and you hear her take a drag from her cigarette. “And?”

“And he’s furious, Momo. He’s calling for a meeting with your family. This isn’t just about us anymore. He’s talking about war.”

The word hangs in the air like a curse.

“I’ll handle it,” she says finally, her tone steady.

You shake your head, even though she can’t see you. “You can’t fix this, Momo. It’s too big.”

“Y/N,” she says, her voice softening, almost breaking. “This is our thing. They won’t understand, but we’ll figure it out. I promise.”

You close your eyes, gripping the phone like it’s the only thing tethering you to her. You want to believe her. You want to believe in the fantasy you’ve built together, but the weight of reality is pressing down on you, threatening to crush you both.

“Momo…” your voice wavers. “Maybe we should stop before—”

“Don’t,” she interrupts sharply. “Don’t say it.”

You hear her take another drag, the silence between you stretching like a chasm.

“This isn’t just you and me anymore,” you whisper. “It’s everyone. Your family. My family. People are going to get hurt.”

Her voice drops, low and dangerous. “Let them come. They don’t get to decide what’s ours.”

And just like that, you remember why you fell for her in the first place.

It wasn’t just the late-night meetings or the stolen glances at crowded events that tied you to her. It was the way Momo made every moment feel like a scene from a movie—intense, passionate, and fleeting, as if you both knew this wasn’t meant to last.

You remember one night in her office, where the scent of smoke and whiskey always lingered. The room was dim, lit only by a desk lamp and the soft glow of the city skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows. She sat behind her desk, her sleeves rolled up, revealing the faint scars and tattoos etched into her skin.

You were perched on the edge of her desk, playing with the lighter she always kept there. She was reading over papers—probably something about her family’s business—but her eyes kept flicking to you, a quiet smirk playing on her lips.

“What?” you asked, tilting your head. “You,” she replied, leaning back in her chair. “You don’t belong in this world, but here you are.”

“And whose fault is that?” you shot back, tossing the lighter onto the desk.

She stood, stepping closer, her hands sliding to your waist as she pulled you into her space. “Mine,” she admitted, her lips brushing against yours. “And I don’t regret it.”

Other nights, it was the bars. Places you never would’ve dared step foot in before her—hidden, smoky lounges where jazz and blues spilled from old speakers. She was in her element there, always sitting in the shadows with a drink in her hand, her presence commanding the room even in silence.

One time, she played guitar. You hadn’t even known she could, but someone handed her one, and she didn’t hesitate. She sat on a stool under the warm glow of a single spotlight, her fingers moving effortlessly over the strings.

It wasn’t a love song—not exactly—but it felt like one. Her eyes found yours across the room, and for a moment, the world shrank to just the two of you. When the song ended, she nodded at you, a small, knowing smile on her lips, and you thought, *This is it. I’m never walking away from this.*

There were roses, too. Always red, always with the thorns carefully removed. She’d leave them for you in unexpected places—a single stem on your windowsill, a bouquet waiting in the passenger seat of your car.

“You’re predictable,” you teased one night when she handed you another bouquet, this time wrapped in black paper.

“Am I?” she countered, leaning in close. “Then you should’ve known this was coming.” And before you could answer, she kissed you, pressing you back against the wall of her office. Her hands framed your face, her lips possessive and urgent, like she was trying to mark you as hers. You let her, melting into her touch, your fingers tangling in her hair.

There were quiet moments, too, like the time she fell asleep on your couch after a long night. Her head rested on your lap, her guard finally down. You brushed a strand of hair from her face, marveling at how someone so fierce, so untouchable, could be this soft.

“You’re staring,” she murmured without opening her eyes.

“Maybe,” you whispered back.

She didn’t say anything else, just reached for your hand and held it, her fingers laced with yours.

Momo had a way of making you feel like the only person in the world, even when the weight of her empire loomed large over both of you. It was intoxicating, and you drank it all in, even as the cracks began to form.

It wasn’t just the moments you shared or the way Momo made you feel like the world revolved around you—it was the things she left behind, little pieces of herself she gave you as if to prove she was yours.

The first love letter arrived on your windowsill, held in place by one of her silver lighters. You unfolded the parchment paper, its edges slightly burned, and read the words scrawled in her sharp, elegant handwriting.

> “Esto es cosa nuestra. No one else will ever understand. You’re the one thing in this world that makes sense, and I’d burn it all to the ground if it meant keeping you. —M”

You laughed at how dramatic it was, but your fingers lingered on the paper. It smelled faintly of her cologne, the same scent that clung to your clothes after every stolen night together. You pressed the letter to your chest, feeling the weight of her promise even though you knew it would only bring you both trouble.

Then there were her watches. Momo loved her watches, each one custom-made and far too expensive. The first time she gave you one, you nearly refused.

“This is too much,” you protested, holding the sleek timepiece with trembling hands. “It’s just a watch, mami” she said, leaning back in her chair with that infuriating smirk. “And besides…” She gestured to the back.

You turned it over and saw the engraving: *El Zorro.*

Her street name. The one whispered in fear and awe throughout the city.

“You’re giving me your name?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “I’m giving you part of it,” she corrected. “The part that matters.”

You wore it sometimes, even though it felt too heavy on your wrist, a constant reminder of the line you were crossing.

One night, she handed you a folded sheet of paper, its edges creased from being carried in her pocket.

“What’s this?” you asked, opening it to reveal a page of handwritten sheet music.

“A song,” she said, lighting a cigarette and leaning against your kitchen counter. “I wrote it for you.”

“I can’t read music,” you admitted, staring at the notes and lines that meant nothing to you.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said, exhaling a plume of smoke. “Now you have a piece of me.”

You didn’t know why it meant so much, but it did. You tucked it away in a drawer, keeping it safe like a secret.

The roses stopped being enough, so she started leaving you things she knew you wouldn’t expect. A tie she’d worn to a meeting, still knotted the way she liked it. A cufflink that had slipped off during one of your more heated encounters. A tiny pocketknife engraved with her initials.

“These aren’t gifts,” she’d say whenever you protested. “They’re reminders.”

“Of what?”

“That no matter what happens, you’re mine.”

You didn’t have the strength to argue with her.

You found the letters and trinkets piling up, a collection of things that felt like pieces of her soul. Some nights, you’d sit on your bed and lay them all out in front of you—the watches, the sheet music, the love notes—and wonder if she gave them to you because she knew, deep down, that you’d never have all of her.

Momo sighing kicked you out of the trance of memories you were in.

Her voice softens, the dangerous edge replaced by something quieter. “And what do you think, mami?”

“I think I don’t care about the war,” you whisper. “I only care about us.” There’s a faint sound of her shifting, probably leaning back in her chair or propping her feet on her desk. “That’s why you’re different, you know. Everyone else in my life is a pawn or a threat. But you…” She pauses, exhaling smoke. “You make me forget I’m playing this game at all.”

You smile faintly, even though your chest still feels tight. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

“Maybe,” she agrees, but there’s no conviction in her tone. “We’ll figure it out. I’m meeting with your father’s men tomorrow.”

Your stomach drops. “You’re what?”

“Relax,” she says, her voice calm but firm. “They requested it. Neutral ground, all very civilized. I’ll take my people, they’ll take theirs, and we’ll talk.”

“And what exactly are you planning to say?” you ask, gripping the phone tighter.

“That depends on them,” she says, her voice taking on that familiar commanding tone. “But I’ll do what I have to if it means keeping you out of this.”

Your pulse quickens, dread settling in your stomach. “Momo, you can’t just—”

“I know what I’m doing,” she interrupts. “Trust me.”

“I do,” you whisper, but the words feel fragile, like glass about to shatter.

She sighs, and for a moment, you hear the weariness she never lets anyone else see. “Look, I’ll handle your father’s people, baby. But you need to be ready to meet mine.”

You blink. “Your team?”

“Yes,” she says simply. “They’ve been asking about you. Curious, I guess.”

“What do they think of me?”

“They think I’m stupid for dragging you into this,” she admits with a bitter chuckle. “But they’ll understand once they meet you.”

You let out a small laugh despite yourself. “You make it sound like some kind of formal introduction.”

“It is,” she says, dead serious. “You’re important to me, Y/N. That makes you important to them.”

Her words linger, filling the silence between you like a balm for the tension.

“When will this end, Momo?” you ask after a moment.

There’s a long pause, the kind that makes you wonder if the line’s gone dead. Then, softly, she says, “I don’t know. But whatever happens, we’ll get through it. Esto es cosa nuestra, remember?”

You close your eyes, her words settling deep in your chest. “Yeah. I remember.”

“Good,” she says, her voice carrying that familiar steel. “Now get some rest. I’ll call you tomorrow after the meeting.”

“Okay,” you say, even though sleep feels impossible.

And with that, the line goes silent, leaving you alone with your thoughts—and the weight of her promise.

—“The Morning of a Fox”—

Momo’s mornings were rituals of control, precision, and preparation. It started with her alarm at exactly 5:30 AM, a soft chime that was neither jarring nor soothing—just enough to wake her without irritation. She rolled out of bed and stretched, her muscles tense from a restless night.

The city was still cloaked in darkness when she stepped into the shower, the hot water hitting her like a reset button. Steam filled the bathroom as she scrubbed away the weight of the previous day, the tension in her shoulders easing as she mapped out her next steps.

The meeting with Y/N’s father’s men was at the forefront of her mind. It wasn’t the first time she’d dealt with rival families, but this was different. This wasn’t just business—it was personal.

After her shower, she dressed carefully: black slacks, a crisp white shirt, and her signature leather jacket. She tied her hair back into a neat ponytail and slipped on her favorite watch, the one engraved with “El Zorro.”

In the kitchen, she poured herself a cup of black coffee and leaned against the counter, lighting a cigarette. The bitter taste of the coffee and the burn of the smoke grounded her, pulling her fully into the day ahead.

By 7:00 AM, the rest of her team had gathered in the main room of the safehouse. It was a converted warehouse, its industrial charm masked by sleek furniture and state-of-the-art tech scattered across the space.

Jihyo was already seated at the long table, a laptop open in front of her as she typed away with a focused intensity. Her glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, and a faint line of concentration furrowed her brow.

“Morning, boss,” she said without looking up, her tone clipped but warm.

“Morning, Hyo” Momo replied, taking her usual seat at the head of the table.

Sana was sprawled across the couch, one leg draped over the armrest as she scrolled through her phone. She looked up and gave Momo a playful smirk. “You look like you’re about to seduce a boardroom.”

“I’ll leave that to you,” Momo shot back, smirking.

“Touché,” Sana purred, sitting up and stretching lazily.

Chaeyoung entered next, carrying a tray of breakfast pastries like she was delivering contraband. “Got these from that bakery you like, Jihyo,” she said, setting the tray down on the table.

“Thanks,” Jihyo muttered, glancing up briefly before returning to her screen.

“Did you get me something?” Sana asked, leaning over Chaeyoung’s shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah,” Chaeyoung said, swatting her away. “You’re lucky they had your stupid croissant thing.”

Tzuyu arrived last, keys in hand and a faint scent of gasoline trailing behind her. “Morning,” she said simply, taking a seat and pulling out a tablet.

“Good, everyone’s here,” Momo said, stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray. “Let’s get started.”

Momo leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “We’ve got a meeting with Y/N’s father’s men later today. Neutral ground, but we’re not taking chances. I need everyone sharp.”

“Are we expecting trouble?” Jihyo asked, her voice steady but laced with concern.

“Always,” Momo replied. “But this one’s more delicate. They’re not happy about me and Y/N, and they’re using it as leverage.”

Sana raised an eyebrow, a sly grin playing on her lips. “Leverage? Do they even know who they’re messing with?”

“They know,” Jihyo said firmly, shooting Sana a warning glance. “Which is why we have to play this smart.”

“Smart’s boring,” Chaeyoung muttered, twirling a pen between her fingers. “Can’t we just scare them a little? Show them who’s boss?”

“Not this time,” Momo said. “We’re keeping it clean. No theatrics, no threats.”

Chaeyoung groaned but nodded. “Fine. But if they so much as flinch, I’m pulling out my baby Zeusito.”—the name of her favorite pistol, named after the greek god, it had a lightning bolt on it and she thought it was cool, Momo found it stupid though—

Tzuyu tapped her tablet, her calm demeanor unshaken. “I’ve got dossiers on everyone who’ll be at the meeting. I’ll send them to your phones. If they try anything, we’ll know exactly how to hit back.”

“Good,” Momo said, leaning back. She glanced at Jihyo. “You’ve got the escape routes mapped out?”

“Of course,” Jihyo replied, closing her laptop. “Two exit strategies, one on foot, one by car. Tzuyu’s driving if we need the second.”

“And the first?” Momo asked.

Jihyo’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “Sana’s got it covered.”

Sana leaned back, her grin widening. “Trust me, I’m very persuasive.”

“Don’t get carried away,” Jihyo warned, her tone softening slightly.

Sana gave her a playful wink. “Wouldn’t dream of it, babe.”

Momo caught the brief exchange but said nothing, filing it away for later. “All right, that’s the plan. Stay sharp, stay ready.”

The team nodded, each member falling into their role seamlessly. As they dispersed to prepare, Momo lit another cigarette and stared out the window.

This meeting wasn’t just about survival—it was about proving that she and Y/N could exist in a world that wanted to tear them apart. And no matter what it took, Momo would make sure they did.

The neutral ground was anything but neutral. The warehouse’s fluorescent lights flickered above, casting sharp shadows on the peeling walls and rusted metal beams. Momo walked in first, her leather jacket almost blending into the dim surroundings. Jihyo and Chaeyoung flanked her like silent sentinels.

Across the room, Y/N’s father’s men stood in a loose but imposing group. Their leader, Mr. Y/L/N’s lieutenant—a burly man with a scar running down the side of his semi deformed face—stepped forward, his expression already twisted with disdain.

“So, you’re the one causing all the trouble,” he spat, his voice sharp and laced with venom.

Momo didn’t flinch. Her posture was calm, her gaze cold and unyielding. “I’m the one who showed up to talk. Let’s get this over with.”

The man sneered, stepping closer. “You think you can just waltz in here and take what isn’t yours? You’re nothing but a street rat playing dress-up.”

Behind Momo, Jihyo stiffened, her hands curling into fists at her sides. Chaeyoung’s hand twitched toward her concealed pistol, but neither moved. Momo had been clear—no one acted unless she gave the signal.

“Funny,” Momo said coolly, tilting her head slightly. “Last I checked, Y/N makes her own choices. Or does that threaten your fragile little world?”

The man’s face turned an alarming shade of red, and the other men murmured angrily behind him. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” he growled, stepping even closer until he was practically in Momo’s face.

“Neither do you, cabron.” she replied, her tone icy.

The slap came out of nowhere. It cracked through the air like a gunshot, echoing off the warehouse walls. Momo’s head snapped to the side, but she didn’t stumble. A faint red mark bloomed across her cheek, but her expression remained unreadable.

Jihyo took a sharp step forward, but Momo raised a hand without turning, stopping her in her tracks. Chaeyoung looked ready to pounce, but Momo’s silent command kept her rooted to the spot.

“You’ve got guts,” Momo said softly, her voice calm but laced with something dangerous. Slowly, she turned her head back to face the man, her eyes locking onto his with a steely intensity. “But you just made a very stupid mistake.”

The man barked a laugh, clearly trying to mask his growing unease. “What are you gonna do? You’re outnumbered. Outgunned.”

Momo stepped closer, her voice dropping to a low, deadly tone. “You think I need a gun to deal with you?”

The man faltered, his bravado cracking for a split second before he doubled down. “You’re nothing but a pest. A parasite. You—”

Before he could finish, Momo moved. Her fist connected with his jaw in a blur of motion, sending him staggering back into his men. He scrambled to recover, but Momo didn’t follow up. She stood her ground, her stance relaxed but coiled like a spring, ready to strike again if needed.

Behind her, Chaeyoung whispered under her breath, “Let me take him out.”

“Not yet,” Jihyo hissed, her eyes locked on Momo.

The man wiped at his mouth, glaring at her with pure hatred. “You’ll regret that, pendeja.”

“No,” Momo said, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. “You’ll regret ever thinking you could put your hands on me.”

The tension in the room reached a breaking point. One of the other men started to step forward, but Jihyo’s voice cut through the air like a whip. “Try it,” she said, her tone calm but deadly. Her hand rested on the butt of her concealed weapon, her eyes never leaving the man. “See how that works out for you.”

The man froze, glancing between Momo and her team. “Enough,” Momo said, her voice carrying the weight of authority. She stared down the lieutenant, her gaze unwavering. “You came here to talk. So talk.”

For a moment, it seemed like things might escalate further. But then the lieutenant gritted his teeth and waved his men back.

“You think this is over?” he spat, his voice trembling with barely restrained rage.

Momo smirked, her confidence cutting through the tension like a knife. “Oh, I know it’s not. But if you want to keep whatever scrap of dignity you have left, you’ll shut the fuck up and listen.”

The man glared at her, but he didn’t move.

“We’re done here,” Momo said firmly, turning on her heel. She walked away with the same calm confidence she’d entered with, her team falling into step behind her.

Back in the car, the silence was heavy. Jihyo finally spoke, her voice tight with frustration. “You should’ve let us step in.”

“I didn’t need you to,” Momo said simply, lighting a cigarette. The faint glow of the lighter illuminated her face for a moment before she exhaled a plume of smoke.

Chaeyoung huffed. “You’re lucky I didn’t put a bullet in his head.”

“Don’t worry,” Momo said, her lips curling into a smirk. “He’ll think twice before trying that again.”

Jihyo and Chaeyoung exchanged a glance but said nothing. Momo leaned back, staring out the window as the city blurred past.

The war was far from over, but this battle belonged to her. And she intended to win the rest of them, no matter the cost.

As they were back home the hum of the city outside was drowned out by the tension in the warehouse. The slap had set everything in motion, and Momo knew that nothing would be the same after tonight. She stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, eyes scanning the faces of her team as they watched her with a mix of anticipation and concern.

“Here’s the deal,” Momo started, her voice low but steady. “They made their move, now we make ours.” She flicked the cigarette from her fingers, the ember sizzling as it hit the ground. “We hit them where it hurts. Their operation on 5th and Main. It’s a weak point, a perfect target.”

Jihyo was the first to speak, her fingers tapping against the table, a sign she was already calculating. “If we strike, they’ll retaliate. It’s not going to be as clean as last time.”

Momo’s gaze hardened. “Let them come. We’ll be ready.”

Chaeyoung cracked her knuckles, a grin spreading across her face. “I’ve been itching for a fight. If they want a war, they’ll get one.” Her excitement was palpable, and though her voice was playful, the threat in her words was anything but.

Sana leaned back, her lips curving into a smirk. “And we know how to make it interesting. Let’s take everything from them. Make them feel what we felt when they disrespected us.” Her eyes gleamed with a deadly intensity. “I’ll personally handle the cleanup. They won’t see us coming.”

Momo nodded, satisfied with the team’s response. The energy in the room was a mix of resolve and anticipation. They were ready. This wasn’t just about business anymore. This was personal.

Jihyo continued, her voice steady, though a hint of concern lingered in her tone. “And if they make a move against Y/N or any of us?”

Momo paused, letting the question hang in the air. “We handle it,” she said quietly, her gaze hardening as she looked each member of her team in the eye. “But until then, we wait. Get into position, and don’t do anything until I give the signal.”

Tzuyu, who had been silent up until now, spoke softly but with the weight of someone who always had an eye on the details. “I’ve been gathering intel on their movements. I’ll keep tabs on their communication. If anything goes south, we’ll know about it first.”

Momo gave a sharp nod, appreciative of Tzuyu’s vigilance. “Good. Now, get to work. And remember, this isn’t just business. It’s payback. We make them regret ever crossing us.”

As the team scattered to carry out their roles, Momo stood there for a moment longer, staring into the shadows of the warehouse. She could feel the weight of the conflict pressing down on her—one wrong move and everything could fall apart. But there was no turning back now. The lines had been drawn, and she would make sure her enemies knew who they were dealing with.

The war had just begun.

The clock ticked down as Momo’s team gathered in their makeshift headquarters—a quiet, dimly lit warehouse on the edge of town. The buzz of neon lights from the distant city streets barely reached them. The air felt thick, charged with the anticipation of what was to come. They had all agreed on one thing: the time to strike was now. The rival mafia had crossed a line, and it was time to show them what happens when you disrespect Momo’s crew.

Momo sat at the head of the table, a hard silhouette against the faint glow of the streetlights. Her hands were folded in front of her as she exhaled a plume of smoke from her cigarette, letting it curl into the air before speaking.

“This is it. We’re going after them. The underground casino on 5th and Main. It’s not just a casino; it’s their lifeblood—the heart of their money laundering operation. Take that out, and we’ll send a message they’ll never forget.” Her eyes swept across her team, each face set with determination. They knew the stakes, and they were ready.

—“The Plan Begins”—

Sana leaned forward, her fingers toying with the edge of her wine glass, her expression unreadable. “I’ll get us in. They’ll never see it coming.” She’d always been good at playing her part, and this was no different. She was an expert in the art of manipulation. It was almost a game to her, the chase, the seduction. The casino's upper circle would never know what hit them.

Jihyo’s gaze was sharp, calculating. “We’ll need to get past the external security first. I’ll take care of the surveillance systems. If we get the right window, we can disable the cameras for a solid ten minutes. That’s all we need.”

Chaeyoung cracked her knuckles, a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. “I’ll handle the distraction outside. We’ll draw them away, just enough for Momo to slip in unnoticed.” She was always the one to embrace the chaos, eager to make her mark. The idea of causing a ruckus thrilled her.

Tzuyu was quiet, focused. She didn’t need to speak much to communicate. Her role was clear. “I’ll secure the getaway vehicles and monitor their internal communications. I’ve already hacked their network, so I’ll know when we’re about to hit the jackpot.”

Momo nodded, pleased with the coordination. “Everyone knows their role. We’re in and out. No mistakes.”

As the night fell, the team split up. Momo’s crew was a well-oiled machine, each member moving with the precision of a surgeon.

Sana, dressed to the nines, slipped into the casino like she owned the place. Her confidence was intoxicating, and she was everything they expected. High heels clicked on the marble floor as she made her way to the VIP area, her charm turning every head. She was an investor, looking for a safe place to park her money—a convenient lie, but one that would work to her advantage.

Once inside, Sana casually scanned the room. There were men in suits, cards being dealt, the clink of chips against felt. But it was the back rooms that caught her attention—the vault, the storage of money. She smiled, knowing her role in this was only just beginning.

Outside, Chaeyoung was the spark that would ignite the flame. She was parked a block away, eyes on the casino’s entrance, waiting for the signal. A slight breeze ruffled her hair as she checked her weapons—her beloved pistols, tucked carefully into their holsters.

With a flick of her wrist, a flash of bright lights broke the calm. The distraction was set. A black car roared into the street, slamming into a parked vehicle. Chaeyoung fired a couple of shots into the air, just enough to draw the attention of the guards. It wasn’t about hitting targets; it was about creating chaos, throwing them off balance.

As expected, the casino’s security began to mobilize. The guards moved toward the commotion, leaving their posts unattended. This was Momo’s opening.

Inside, Jihyo had already hacked the casino’s surveillance system. The screens went black for exactly ten minutes, giving Momo the window she needed. The timer was ticking down. She had no room for error.

Momo moved swiftly, her leather gloves slipping over the keypad of the security system that controlled the vault doors. She’d been here before, studying their defenses. She wasn’t about to let a high-tech lock stop her now.

“Ready, Momo,” Tzuyu’s voice crackled over the comms. “Surveillance is off, and the guards outside are distracted. You’ve got the green light.”

Without a second thought, Momo spun the dial, the vault doors groaning open. A small smile crept across her face as she stepped inside. The walls were lined with stacks of cash, diamonds, and illicit goods. It was a fortune waiting to be taken.

She moved quickly, expertly loading the cash and valuables into bags. The whole operation had to be seamless. Every second counted.

As Momo moved to collect the last of the cash, she noticed something peculiar tucked behind a stack of bills—a ledger. The name on the cover read El Zorro—the same alias she used. Her stomach twisted in recognition.

Opening it, Momo’s eyes skimmed through the pages. It wasn’t just money laundering. This was a detailed list of operations, involving everything from drug trafficking to weapons smuggling. And there, near the back, was something even more alarming: a map. A map to a weapons cache.

Her fingers paused on the page. The weapons cache wasn’t just a stash; it was an arsenal that could arm an army, and it was closer than she thought.

“Jihyo, I’ve got something,” Momo said quietly, her voice steady, but her mind was already racing. “There’s a weapons cache. It’s not far from here. We can hit it now.”

Jihyo’s voice came through the earpiece, calm but with a hint of concern. “You sure? We’ve already got the money. Adding this to the mix could complicate things.”

Momo’s lips curved into a dangerous smile. “I’m not leaving without it.”

With the money secured and the ledger in hand, Momo signaled to her team. The exit was clear. They’d done it.

As Momo moved toward the getaway, the casino’s guards began to realize something was wrong. Their surveillance was back online, and they could see the vault doors were open. Momo gritted her teeth, knowing it was time to leave—now.

Tzuyu was already in position with the getaway car, and the team was waiting at the predetermined rendezvous point.

Momo was the first to step out, and as the team followed, they noticed something else: an unmarked van pulling into the alley, blocking their escape route. It was an ambush.

Chaeyoung didn’t hesitate. She pulled out her gun, her finger tightening on the trigger. Shots rang out, but the enemy was already retreating, realizing they were no match for Momo’s crew.

“Move it!” Momo shouted, her voice urgent. “We need to get out before reinforcements show up.”

Tzuyu was quick on the wheel, the tires screeching as the car tore through the alley. The team was still reeling from the sudden ambush, but they had what they came for. The money, the weapons, and a message: they were not to be messed with.

As they sped through the streets, the city lights flashing past, Momo looked at her team, knowing this was just the beginning.

They had won the battle. But the war was far from over.

The adrenaline was still coursing through Momo’s veins as they returned to the hideout. They had succeeded, but the mission had been far messier than expected. Still, they had what they came for—and something more: the map to the weapons cache.

The team was victorious, but Momo knew that the rival mafia wouldn’t let this slide. And with the weapons cache within their reach, there was no going back.

—

“Y/N are you even listening!?”

The office was cold. The soft hum of the overhead lights felt like the only thing keeping you tethered to reality, and your father's presence across the desk felt like a heavy weight pressing down on your chest. You could feel the heat rising within him—the simmering anger he'd been holding back since the heist.

"You've disappointed me again," your father growled, his eyes dark with fury as his hands gripped the edge of the desk with a force that made the wood creak under the pressure. "This—this is what happens when you get involved with people like her."

You swallowed, trying to steady your breath. You had known this moment would come, but you didn't expect the venom in his voice to be so suffocating. You had made your decision, and there was no turning back now.

"You've gone soft, Y/N. Soft for a criminal—for her," he spat, his words dripping with disgust. "I warned you what would happen if you sided with her. Now look at the mess you've made. We’re losing control. Your mother would be ashamed of you."

His words struck deep, but you didn’t flinch. You couldn’t. Not anymore.

"I’m not afraid of her, Dad," you said, your voice calm, even though your heart was pounding. "Momo isn't like the others. She's not the monster you think she is."

Your father slammed his fist onto the desk, and the sound echoed through the room. "You don’t get it, do you? I’ll make you understand—one way or another. You’re going to regret this decision."

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “I’m not going back. Not to you, not to this.”

He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. The rage in his eyes was palpable as he loomed over you. "Fine. But don't come crawling back when everything falls apart. Because it will. And you’ll be the one to clean up the mess, just like always."

You didn't answer him. You didn’t have to.

With a final sneer, he turned and walked toward the door, pausing just before stepping out. "You’ll regret this, Y/N. Mark my words." And with that, he slammed the door behind him, leaving you alone with the quiet hum of the lights and the decision you had made.

—

The team was celebrating. The air was thick with the smell of alcohol, smoke, and the satisfying feeling of a job well done. The sound of laughter and clinking bottles filled the room as Momo leaned back against the wall, the warmth of her drink spreading through her veins. She had done it. They had done it. The heist had gone off without a hitch—well, mostly.

Sana was sprawled across the couch, an empty glass dangling from her hand as she giggled about something Chaeyoung had said. Tzuyu sat quietly next to Jihyo, the two exchanging a few words here and there, but both were content to enjoy the rare moment of peace.

It was almost too easy. They’d done their part, and now all that was left was to enjoy the fruits of their labor.

Momo took a long drag from her cigarette, watching her team unwind. They deserved this. But as much as she wanted to relax, something in the back of her mind nagged at her. There was a tension in the air she couldn’t shake off.

Her phone buzzed, and she immediately pulled it from her pocket. She didn’t recognize the number, but the message was clear: “Remain anonymous. Zorro, they’re planning on holding your girl hostage. They're targeting you. Be careful.”

Her stomach dropped. Her eyes scanned the room, the chaos of her team still ongoing, but now there was an edge of dread creeping up her spine. The phone call had barely ended when her sharp eyes caught something across the room—a red dot, shining brightly on the wall opposite her.

She didn’t hesitate.

"Duck!" Momo yelled, her voice cutting through the noise, just as a burst of gunfire erupted from across the room. Her team scrambled for cover as bullets ripped through the walls, the sound of gunfire deafening. Chaeyoung swore under her breath as she dove for cover, pulling Tzuyu down with her.

"Move!" Momo barked, adrenaline surging through her veins. "Don’t let them get away!"

It all happened so fast. The enemy had been waiting for them, lying in wait just like they had been warned. They were trapped in their own celebration, the joy of the heist quickly turning into the chaos of an ambush.

Momo’s hand shot to her side, grabbing her pistol, her instincts kicking in. She was already on the move, guns blazing as she tore through the building with Chaeyoung, Tzuyu, and Jihyo following close behind. The enemies were fast and ruthless, but they were nowhere near the level of Momo’s team.

They fought their way through the building, dodging bullets and taking cover wherever they could. The stench of gunpowder was thick in the air, the echo of bullets rattling through the walls. It was a game of cat and mouse now, and Momo’s team wasn’t about to lose.

"We need to get out of here!" Jihyo yelled, pulling Momo back into cover just as another round of fire came dangerously close. “The exit’s not far, but we’ve got to move quickly!”

Momo was already planning their escape, every move calculated and precise. But something gnawed at her as they moved deeper into the building. There was one thing she couldn’t shake—the fact that the spy who’d warned her had been right.

Her mind raced. If they had the inside scoop, then they knew everything about her team. Who could it be?

The firefight continued as the team managed to push their attackers back, but the chase wasn’t over. They couldn’t stop until they reached their hideout. Momo's heart was pounding, her thoughts only on one thing now: Y/N.

Finally, after what felt like hours of evading gunfire and chasing shadows, the team made it back to their hideout, the adrenaline still pumping through their bodies. Momo slammed the door shut behind them, locking it with a quick flick of the wrist.

Everyone was breathing heavily, the tension still thick in the air. But Momo didn’t give them time to relax. She stood in the middle of the room, her gaze hard, her jaw clenched.

“Y/N’s been taken hostage.” The words left her lips in a low, controlled tone, and the impact hit her team like a punch to the gut.

Everyone was silent for a moment. No one had expected this. They had just been celebrating their victory, and now this.

“They know everything about us.” Momo’s voice was steady, but beneath the calm exterior, her anger burned like wildfire. “We’ve been compromised. Someone in our ranks is working with them.”

Jihyo’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll figure out who it is. But right now, we need to focus on getting Y/N back.”

Momo nodded, her fists clenching. “We’re going to make them pay. But first, we have to get to her before they do any damage.”

And with that, the game of cat and mouse began anew—only this time, it was personal.

The tension in the safehouse was palpable as the team gathered around the large, scarred table. Weapons, documents, and scattered plans littered the surface. Momo stood at the head, her expression a mix of frustration and determination.

“One of them knows us,” Momo began, her voice sharp and steady. “Knows our moves, our safehouses, and our weaknesses. Someone’s been feeding my father information.”

Jihyo leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed as she stared at the table. “It’s not just betrayal. This is calculated. They’re trying to dismantle us from the inside out.”

Chaeyoung was the first to speak up, her tone fiery. “Then let’s make them pay. Whoever it is, we’ll find them and—”

“Stop,” Jihyo interrupted, her voice calm but firm. “Rushing into this without a plan will just get us killed.”

Sana, leaning against the wall, tapped the handle of her knife against her palm. “Jihyo’s right. This isn’t just a random mole. This is personal. Your father’s trying to destroy everything you’ve built, Momo.”

Tzuyu, hunched over her laptop, spoke without looking up. “If they’re a spy, they’ll slip up eventually. We just need to watch for cracks in their story.”

Momo’s gaze swept across her team, lingering on each of them. She trusted them, but the weight of the betrayal gnawed at her. “We’ll figure out who it is,” she said firmly. “But first, let’s remind ourselves why we’re here.”

“You all know I used to bartend,” Jihyo began, her voice steady but tinged with pain. “What you don’t know is why I stopped.”

She sat up straighter, her gaze fixed on the table. “The night it happened, the bar was packed. Music, laughter, the works. It felt like any other night.”

Her voice faltered for a moment, but she pushed on. “I didn’t see them come in at first. Not until the music stopped, and I heard the first gunshot.”

The room was silent, her words pulling everyone into the memory with her.

“They were looking for someone—a man who owed them money. But they didn’t care who got in the way.” Jihyo’s jaw tightened. “They shot first, asked questions later. I was behind the bar when it started. I hid, clutching a broken bottle, hoping they wouldn’t find me.”

Sana twirled her knife absentmindedly, the blade catching the faint light. She leaned against the wall, her gaze distant.

“I was there that night too,” she started, her voice quieter than usual. “Dancing. Not because I wanted to, but because my father made me.”

The team listened intently. Sana rarely opened up, and when she did, it was usually veiled in sarcasm or flirtation.

“He called it a family business,” she said bitterly. “Said I should be grateful for the ‘opportunity.’ But all he ever did was use me. Paraded me around like a trophy, profited off me, controlled every part of my life.”

Her voice tightened, and she gripped the knife harder. “When the massacre happened, I should’ve run. But I didn’t. I just stood there and watched as they shot him. Watched him bleed out on the floor.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “You’d think I’d feel relief, right? He was gone. But all I felt was anger. Anger that I didn’t get to do it myself. Anger that he got an easy way out.”

Her gaze shifted to Momo. “When you offered me a place on this team, it wasn’t just a way out. It was a chance to finally take control of my life. For once, I wasn’t someone’s puppet.”

“You know,” Sana said, her tone softer now, “I still remember the first time I saw you, Jihyo. You looked so out of place at that bar. All serious and stoic, wiping down glasses like you were waiting for someone to piss you off.”

Jihyo chuckled, shaking her head. “Well, they did piss me off eventually. Just took a massacre for it to happen.”

The room fell quiet for a beat, the gravity of her words settling in.

“I still can’t believe you survived that,” Chaeyoung said, breaking the silence. “I mean, I knew you were tough, but…”

Jihyo shrugged, her expression unreadable. “You do what you have to. That’s all it was.”

“You ever think about that guy?” Tzuyu asked, finally looking up.

“The one they were after?” Jihyo clarified. She shook her head. “No. He’s probably dead by now. Either they got him, or someone else did.”

Chaeyoung, who had been fidgeting with the strap of her rifle, straightened up. “I guess it’s my turn.”

She smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I wasn’t always like this, you know? Trigger-happy, gun-crazy.”

The team exchanged skeptical looks, and Chaeyoung laughed. “Okay, maybe I was always a little gun-crazy. But I wanted to be legit. Open my own business, make my parents proud.”

Her expression darkened. “That dream ended when I crossed paths with a client who didn’t want to pay up. He framed me for a crime I didn’t commit, and just like that, I lost everything.”

She looked at Momo, her grin returning, though this time it was genuine. “And then you showed up. Gave me a chance to use my skills for something that mattered. You didn’t just save my life, Momo. You gave me a new one.”

Sana chimed in, her usual cheekiness returning. “Still dreaming about that legit business you wanted to start?”

Chaeyoung laughed, tossing a peanut into her mouth. “Not really. Crime’s more fun anyway. Plus, I wouldn’t trade this team for anything.”

“Aww, Chaeng,” Sana teased, leaning over to pinch her cheek.

“Don’t get sappy on me,” Chaeyoung grumbled, swatting her hand away.

The conversation shifted again, this time to Tzuyu.

“I don’t know why you stuck with me after that car meet,” Momo said, eyeing Tzuyu. “You could’ve easily gone solo.”

Tzuyu’s lips quirked into a rare smile. “I could have. But you saved me that night. When they rigged the race and tried to take me out, you didn’t have to step in.”

Sana rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. Momo just wanted another driver for the team.”

“And look where that got us,” Tzuyu shot back, her voice cool. “I’m the best driver in this room, and you know it.”

“Debatable,” Chaeyoung said, smirking.

“Not even close,” Tzuyu countered, her tone sharper than usual, but there was no malice behind it.

Eventually, the lighthearted tone faded as the conversation shifted to the real reason they were all there.

“So,” Momo said, setting her glass down with a soft clink. “Who’s the rat?”

The room went still. The camaraderie from earlier dissolved into a tense silence as everyone exchanged glances.

“It’s not one of us,” Jihyo said firmly, her gaze sweeping over the table.

“Obviously,” Momo replied, her tone clipped. “But it’s someone close enough to know our moves. Someone who’s been watching us.”

“Could be one of her father’s men posing as an ally,” Tzuyu offered, already typing furiously on her laptop.

“Or one of the newer recruits,” Sana suggested, her voice low. “Someone desperate enough to sell us out for a little cash.”

“Either way,” Chaeyoung said, her fingers tapping restlessly on the table, “we need to figure it out before they get any closer.”

Momo nodded, her expression grim. “And when we do, we make an example out of them.”

The team agreed, their earlier laughter now a distant memory.

Days went by, and the calls kept coming. Every few hours, another message from the spy—always the same calm, cryptic tone, always a reminder of the consequences if she didn’t act. The urgency in the voice wasn’t lost on Momo, but what made her skin crawl was the desperation behind it. This wasn’t just someone trying to manipulate her. This person genuinely wanted to help, to protect her from the storm that was brewing around her.

But it wasn’t the danger that gnawed at Momo the most. It was you.

The spy’s calls were filled with hints, warnings about the bigger plans her enemies had in motion. Yet, no matter how much they hinted, no matter how much they pushed, the message always came back to one thing—*you*. Always you. And every time she heard the voice on the other end, Momo’s chest tightened with a feeling she couldn’t shake. A feeling that she had lost you. That she was never going to get you back.

The first few calls, Momo was patient. She listened, tried to keep calm, to play along with the game of cat and mouse. But the messages—about *her*—kept repeating, as though the spy couldn’t let it go. It wasn’t about the war. It wasn’t about the heists or the rivalries.

It was about you.

“Zorro, you can’t let this go on. You have to stop. She doesn’t want this life. She doesn’t want you.”

It was always the same. Those words, those reminders. Each call made Momo more frantic, more agitated, but she kept it together. For a while, at least.

But then came the final call.

The voice was softer this time, almost as though it were pleading. There was something urgent, desperate in the tone. “She’s not the one pulling the strings anymore. The war is shifting, Zorro. And she’s going to be the one who suffers. Do you really want to see her hurt? Can you live with that?”

The voice dropped to a whisper, almost cracking with emotion. “I’m trying to help you. You have to listen to me. Please…”

Momo’s fingers clenched around the phone. She didn’t want to listen. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Not again.

In that moment, something inside her snapped.

She didn’t know if it was the voice, or the way it spoke of you, or the fact that her world was collapsing around her. All she knew was that she couldn’t take it anymore. She didn’t want to hear about you—didn’t want to hear that she was still helpless, still stuck in this war, still a prisoner of the choices she’d made.

With a roar of frustration, she slammed the phone down, her heart pounding. The room felt like it was closing in on her. Momo stood up, her hands shaking as she clenched them into fists. Without thinking, she stormed toward her desk, grabbing the stack of letters she had been keeping, unopened. The ones she had never sent.

She ripped them from the container, scattering them across the floor in a frenzy. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her chest tight with emotion. Her fingers trembled as she picked up the first letter, her eyes scanning the familiar handwriting.

It was from you.

“I never got the chance to say what needed to be said. I wish I could hold you, Momo. I wish you would just let me. I know you’ll never forgive me, but I’ll never forget you.”

The words hit her like a ton of bricks. She crumbled to her knees, her vision blurring as the overwhelming weight of everything that had been said and unsaid crashed down on her. The letters spilled out around her, each one a painful reminder of what she had lost. What she had thrown away.

“I still wear the watch you gave me. I keep it close, just like I keep you in my heart. You’ll never know what you really mean to me.”

She stared at the paper for a long time, the words twisting inside her mind, and then her rage flared up once more. With a scream of frustration, she slammed her fist down onto the desk, knocking over the container that had held the letters.

"Esto es cosa nuestra” she screamed, her voice hoarse with fury. "nobody would understand."

She stood up, kicking the letters across the floor, stomping on them in a blind rage. The hurt, the guilt, the anger—it all poured out of her in one violent outburst. The room around her felt like it was suffocating her, the walls closing in on her as the memories flooded back.

“Love is so short, but forgetting's so long.”

The words echoed in her mind, like a song she couldn’t escape. She collapsed onto the floor, her hand buried in her hair, tears streaming down her face. She had done this to herself. She had thrown it all away.

“Why can’t I have you?”

She whispered it, as though asking the universe, as though pleading for an answer.

But there was no answer.

She wiped the tears away, her hands shaking with the need for control. She couldn’t keep crying. She couldn’t let it defeat her. She had made her choice. She had to stick with it.

But the pain—oh, the pain was unbearable.

The letters. The broken promises. The broken love.

She picked up the revolver from her desk, her hands steady now as she loaded it. The metallic click of the bullets was cold, sharp, and it grounded her, bringing her back to the reality she knew best. Violence. Survival. Revenge.

“On the streets, there are eyes crying tears of sorrow. The difference is some keep it in, others let it out.”

Momo stood up, her jaw tight with resolve. “One thing is, I’m not letting it out.” She wasn’t going to let the pain consume her. She couldn’t. She had made her choice.

Her fingers dialed the anonymous number of the spy, her voice a low growl as she spoke into the phone. "You better have something useful for me. This ends tonight."

The phone rang only once before the spy picked up, their voice quiet but steady. "I figured you'd call back."

Momo paced her office, the revolver still in her hand, her knuckles white around the grip. Her tone was sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade. "You’ve been playing this game for too long. Time for you to come out of the shadows."

The spy hesitated for a moment before responding, their voice tinged with caution. "I’m only trying to help you, Zorro."

"Help me?" Momo scoffed, her laugh dark and humorless. "By calling me every damn day, reminding me of what I already know? If you really wanted to help, you wouldn’t be hiding behind an anonymous number. So, here’s what’s going to happen—you and I are going to meet, face to face, and you’re going to tell me everything you know. No more games."

The line was quiet for a moment, and Momo could hear the faint sound of the spy’s breathing. "Fine," they said finally. "But on one condition—no guns, no fights. Neutral ground."

Momo smirked, though there was no humor in it. "You think I’d trust you without a backup plan? Listen carefully—if you even think about trying something funny, I’ll have my people on your ass faster than you can blink. And when I say you won’t make it out alive, I mean it. They’ll sink so many bullets into you that your worthless body will be unrecognizable. Are we clear?"

There was a beat of silence before the spy spoke again, their voice low but firm. "Crystal. Just pick a place and a time."

"A jazz club," Momo said after a moment, her mind already calculating the logistics. "Tomorrow night. 10 p.m. Discreet, public, and neutral. You’ll come alone."

"I’ll be there," the spy replied. "And so will you, I assume."

"Don’t test me," Momo warned, her voice icy. "I don’t make empty promises."

The call ended abruptly, and Momo tossed the phone onto her desk. She stared at the scattered remnants of her earlier rage—the letters, the broken glass, the smeared ink. Taking a deep breath, she straightened up, forcing herself to focus. Tomorrow would be a pivotal night.

And no matter what the spy had to say, Momo would be ready.

The next day started with a weight in Momo’s chest that no amount of coffee or cigarettes could shake off. She sat at her desk, a pen in hand, staring at the blank sheet of paper in front of her. She hadn’t written to Y/N since everything started spiraling out of control, but today, something compelled her. Maybe it was the jazz club meeting, maybe it was the gnawing emptiness she couldn’t seem to fill. Whatever it was, her hand moved almost on its own, words spilling onto the page.

She wrote about the things she’d never dared say aloud—her fears, her regrets, her dreams. She admitted how much she missed Y/N, how much she hated herself for the choices she’d made. "Like the leaves and the wind," she wrote, "your memory comes and goes, but it never leaves me for long." Tears welled up in her eyes, falling onto the page and smudging the ink. “Hearing your name is like a sensation that never heals”. She cursed under her breath, brushing them away, but the damage was done. Still, she kept writing until there was nothing left to say.

Once finished, she folded the letter carefully and tucked it away in the same box where the others lay hidden. A bittersweet pang hit her as she closed the lid, knowing full well she’d never send any of them. With a deep breath, she pushed herself to her feet and tried to shake the melancholy off.

The afternoon was spent with her team, a rare moment of downtime before the night’s meeting. They gathered in the lounge, a mismatched room filled with worn leather couches, a pool table, and the scent of fried snacks wafting from the kitchen. Chaeyoung and Tzuyu were locked in a heated debate over which car model was the fastest, while Jihyo tried to mediate, her motherly patience wearing thin. Sana, meanwhile, lounged on the couch, a mischievous smile on her face as she chimed in with playful jabs to stir the pot.

Momo sat back, watching them with a faint smile. She appreciated their attempts to distract her—they all knew she hadn’t been herself lately. Jihyo glanced over, her sharp eyes softening. "You good, boss?" she asked quietly, sitting down beside her.

Momo nodded, though the gesture lacked conviction. "Yeah," she said. "Just thinking about tonight."

At that, the room’s energy shifted. The team turned their attention to her, and Momo leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "We need a plan in case things go sideways. The spy claims they’re trying to help, but I’m not taking any chances. If they try anything funny, we’ll hold them hostage. Worst case... we take them out."

Chaeyoung grinned, her trigger-happy nature shining through. "Blowing their brains out is always an option," she said, earning a glare from Jihyo.

"Not ethical," Jihyo countered, crossing her arms. "We’re not resorting to that unless absolutely necessary."

Sana smirked, her voice laced with mock innocence. "I could always... persuade them to behave."

"Not this time, Sana," Momo said, shaking her head. "We’re keeping it clean and professional. No distractions, no unnecessary risks."

The team nodded in agreement, and after a bit more strategizing, the conversation shifted back to lighter topics. Despite their efforts to lift her spirits, Momo couldn’t fully shake the heaviness in her chest.

Later, Momo retreated to her personal gym. It was her sanctuary, the one place she could unleash the storm brewing inside her without hurting anyone else. She wrapped her hands and began working on the punching bag, her fists colliding with the heavy canvas in rhythmic thuds.

Negative thoughts flooded her mind with every punch—Y/N’s face, the betrayal, the endless chaos of their lives. Her hits grew harder and harder until the bag gave way, splitting open with a loud tear. Sand spilled onto the floor, and Momo stopped, chest heaving, sweat dripping down her face.

She stood there for a moment, hands on her hips, before letting out a long sigh. "Get it together," she muttered to herself. She glanced at the clock and realized it was time to get ready.

After a quick shower, Momo stood in front of her mirror, her movements precise and practiced as she dressed for the night. She chose a sleek black suit, pairing it with a 24-karat gold necklace featuring a fox pendant. She added her signature rings and her engraved watch, spraying on her favorite cologne as the final touch.

When she stepped out of her room, the team was already waiting for her, dressed sharply and ready to go. Momo nodded at them, her expression unreadable. "Let’s go," she said, her voice steady despite the tension simmering beneath the surface.

They moved as one, stepping into the cool night air. The jazz club awaited, and with it, the answers Momo so desperately needed.

Momo stood alone in the semi-private lounge of the jazz club, leaning against the back of a worn leather chair. The dim lighting cast long shadows on the walls, the soft hum of a saxophone playing faintly from the main stage. Her jaw clenched as she glanced at the clock, her patience thinning.

The door creaked open, and Momo's sharp gaze shifted to the figure entering. Tall and clad in a neatly pressed tuxedo, the person moved cautiously, their hands buried in their pockets, head slightly bowed. A pair of thin-rimmed glasses reflected the warm light as the figure stepped forward.

“Zorro?” the woman’s voice was low, almost hesitant, as she stopped a few feet away.

Momo straightened, her fingers brushing the edge of the knife tucked into her jacket pocket. “That’s me,” she replied curtly, her tone laced with suspicion. “Who the hell are you?”

The woman raised her head just enough for Momo to see her face—stern but soft around the edges. “Yoo Jeongyeon,” she answered, standing still, her hands still deep in her pockets. “I’m... I’m a childhood friend of Y/N. We grew up together in her barrio.”

Momo’s brows furrowed. “Childhood friend?” she repeated, her tone skeptical. “Then what the hell are you doing here? Why should I trust you?”

Jeongyeon let out a shaky breath, finally pulling her hands from her pockets to show they were empty. “She’d always talk about you,” she said softly, avoiding Momo’s piercing stare. “I thought it was cute at first, how head over heels she was for you. But now...” She trailed off, her voice breaking slightly. “She’s suffering, Zorro. I’m working for her father, yeah, but I can’t stand seeing her like this anymore. She’s sick. Barely eats. Doesn’t talk. She needs you.”

Momo’s fists clenched, her jaw tightening as she tried to suppress the anger bubbling up. “Empty your pockets,” she ordered coldly, stepping closer to Jeongyeon.

Jeongyeon hesitated for a brief moment before complying, pulling out a wallet, a lighter, and a small set of keys. She set them on the nearby table, then raised her arms. “Satisfied?”

Momo scanned her closely, her eyes sharp. After a beat, she gave a curt nod. “Fine. Sit down,” she commanded, gesturing to the chair opposite her.

Jeongyeon obeyed, lowering herself into the seat with careful movements. “I’m risking everything being here,” she said quietly. “Your girl... she’s on the verge of breaking. And if we don’t act fast, I’m afraid it’ll be too late.”

Momo didn’t respond immediately, her mind racing as she assessed the woman in front of her. “Why are you really doing this?” she asked finally, her voice low and measured. “You’re working for her father. You could easily let her die and save your own skin.”

Jeongyeon’s expression darkened slightly, but she held her composure. “Because she’s my best friend,” she said firmly. “And because I hate her father more than you’ll ever know.”

Momo’s hand shot to her holster, pulling out her pistol in one swift motion. She aimed it squarely at Jeongyeon’s forehead, the cold steel gleaming in the dim light. “Don’t test me, bitch.” she hissed, her voice deadly.

Jeongyeon didn’t flinch, her hands slowly rising in surrender. A small, calm smirk tugged at her lips. “Calm down,” she said evenly. “I’m not testing you. I’m on your side. But you have to understand, both Y/N and I are on the line here. One mistake, and we’re both dead.”

Momo’s grip on the gun tightened for a moment before she exhaled sharply, lowering the weapon. She stepped back, pacing as she processed Jeongyeon’s words. “What do you want?” she asked finally, her tone still icy.

Jeongyeon dropped her hands slowly, adjusting her glasses. “My mom’s sick,” she admitted. “The bills keep piling up, and her father doesn’t give a shit. I need help. Let me work for you, and maybe... a little something to help cover the costs.”

Momo stared at her for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she extended a hand. “Fine. You’ll get your reward, but don’t think for a second I won’t blow your brains out if you cross me.”

Jeongyeon reached out, gripping Momo’s hand tightly. The cold metal of Momo’s rings sent a shiver through her fingers. “Understood,” Jeongyeon replied.

“Meet me at the warehouse tomorrow,” Momo said, pulling her hand back. “We don’t have time to waste.”

She grabbed her bag, slinging it over her shoulder as she turned to leave. The tension in the room lingered as Momo disappeared through the door, her mind already racing with the steps they’d need to take.

The next day, Momo’s team gathered at the warehouse, a quiet yet tense atmosphere settling over the group. A map of the compound was spread across the large table in the center, dim overhead lights casting faint shadows on the markings Jeongyeon had made on it. Everyone was seated or standing nearby, their expressions a mix of focus and unease.

Jeongyeon stood at the head of the table, tapping the edge of the map with her finger. “They’re holding Y/N in an isolated chamber,” she began, her tone grim. “It’s one of the older facilities her father’s team used for brainwashing and torture. It’s practically a shithole—barely ventilated, no proper lighting, and the stench is enough to make you gag. She’s been there for days, and they’re not letting up.”

Momo’s jaw clenched at the words, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “What kind of torture are we talking about?” she asked, her voice low but filled with restrained fury.

Jeongyeon hesitated before responding. “Beatings, starvation, psychological games. They want to break her down completely.”

Momo closed her eyes for a brief moment, steadying herself. “And you know how to get us in?”

Jeongyeon nodded. “They have food deliveries to the compound every few hours. I can smuggle you and your team in through the trucks. Once inside, we’ll need to take down the guards quickly and quietly. From there, I’ll open access to all the internal doors to give you a clear path to her.”

Chaeyoung, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, frowned. “What about their security? Cameras, alarms, patrol schedules—what are we up against?”

“They’re heavily monitored,” Jeongyeon admitted. “But I can disable the cameras temporarily from the control room. The patrols are more sporadic, but I’ve tracked their usual routes. You’ll need to be fast and precise.”

Sana leaned forward, twirling a pen in her hand. “What if something goes wrong?” she asked, her voice calm but pointed. “What if we get separated, or they lock the doors again?”

Jeongyeon slid a separate sheet of paper across the table. “I’ve mapped out alternative routes to the chamber, but they’re longer and more dangerous. If the primary route fails, you’ll have to split into pairs to avoid detection. Timing will be everything.”

Tzuyu, who had been quietly studying the map, spoke up. “And what about reinforcements? If they realize we’re there, they’ll call for backup. We could end up outnumbered.”

“I’ll cut the landlines and jam their radios once we’re inside,” Jeongyeon replied. “That’ll buy us some time, but it won’t stop them from sending word eventually. You’ll need to move fast.”

Jihyo, standing next to Momo, tapped the map with her finger. “And where exactly will Y/N be? We can’t risk wasting time searching.”

Jeongyeon circled a specific area on the map with a red marker. “This is the chamber. It’s deep in the west wing, near the old loading docks. They’ve been using it as a makeshift holding cell. I’ll guide you through every step of the way.”

Momo finally spoke, her voice steady but filled with determination. “What about their guards? How many are we looking at?”

“About fifteen to twenty stationed inside,” Jeongyeon answered. “Most are poorly trained, but a few of them are elite. You’ll need to be careful.”

“And what about you?” Momo asked, her gaze sharp. “Where will you be during all of this?”

Jeongyeon straightened, meeting Momo’s eyes. “I’ll be in the control room, handling the cameras and unlocking the doors. But if things go south, I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.”

Chaeyoung smirked. “Good to know. Let’s hope you can back that up.”

Momo leaned over the table, studying the map intently. “Here’s the deal,” she said firmly. “We stick to the primary route as long as it’s viable. Chaeyoung and Tzuyu will handle the guards—quietly. No unnecessary noise. Sana, you’ll create a distraction if needed, but keep it subtle. Jihyo, you’re with me. We go straight for Y/N.”

“And if they’re expecting us?” Jihyo asked, raising an eyebrow.

Momo’s expression hardened. “Then we improvise. But we’re getting her out. No matter what.”

Jeongyeon hesitated before adding, “One last thing... They’ll likely have someone stationed near Y/N at all times. If they catch wind of what’s happening, they might use her as leverage.”

A tense silence filled the room at her words. Momo’s fists clenched again, her voice barely above a whisper. “If they touch her again, I’ll make them wish they were never born.”

The team exchanged determined glances, the gravity of the situation sinking in.

Jeongyeon reached into her bag, pulling out a small communication device. “We’ll use these to stay in contact,” she said, distributing them. “Make sure they’re always on. If anything changes, I’ll let you know immediately.”

Momo stood straight, her expression steely. “Get some rest tonight,” she said to her team. “We move out at dawn.”

As the others began to file out, Jeongyeon lingered for a moment, watching Momo. “You’ll need to trust me on this,” she said quietly.

Momo didn’t respond, her eyes still locked on the map. Trust was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

The truck rolled to a stop, its brakes hissing softly in the quiet night. Momo motioned for everyone to move, her sharp eyes scanning the area. Jeongyeon was the last to step out, her posture tense but her expression unreadable.

“Alright,” Jeongyeon whispered, pointing at the compound map she had memorized. “Two guards at the main entrance. After that, you’ll pass through the loading dock. I’ll head inside first, so they don’t suspect anything. Give me five minutes to unlock the internal doors. Then, move.”

Momo’s voice was icy. “Don’t screw this up, Jeongyeon. If anything feels off, we’ll know.”

Jeongyeon nodded, her face hardening. “I know. Just stick to the plan.”

The team dispersed, slipping into the shadows as Jeongyeon strolled up to the entrance. Her posture shifted, casual and unbothered, as if she belonged there. The guards gave her a glance but said nothing as she passed. She disappeared through the main doors, her footsteps fading.

Momo crouched low, her team gathered around her. “Five minutes,” she said, checking her watch. “Chaeyoung, Tzuyu, get in position near the dock. Jihyo, Sana, cover our flank. No mistakes.”

The team moved like phantoms, their dark clothing blending seamlessly into the night.

Inside, Jeongyeon kept her head low as she made her way to the security panel. Her heart raced, but she forced herself to stay calm. She nodded to a passing guard, who barely acknowledged her, then slipped into the server room.

Pulling out a small device, she hacked into the controls, unlocking the gates and disabling the cameras. Her fingers trembled slightly as she worked. *This has to work,* she thought.

When the system beeped softly, confirming the locks were off, she pressed her earpiece. “You’re clear. Doors are open. Move now.”

---

Momo and her team crept through the now-unlocked loading dock. Chaeyoung and Tzuyu took out the guards stationed there with silent precision. Jihyo led them into the compound, her sharp eyes darting around for any signs of an ambush.

As they advanced, the deaths were quick and brutal. Momo’s team worked with ruthless efficiency. Tzuyu dispatched a guard with a garrote, his body slumping quietly to the ground. Sana slid her blade into another’s side, her movements as graceful as a dance.

The smell of blood and mildew filled the air as they approached the final corridor. Momo’s jaw clenched as she gestured for the team to halt. She glanced at Jeongyeon’s signal on the map, indicating the chamber’s location.

Jeongyeon rejoined them near the corridor, her face pale but steady. “It’s at the end,” she whispered. “But be careful. They’ve left traps in the area. I couldn’t disable everything.”

Momo nodded, her voice low and cold. “Stay close. No mistakes.”

The team advanced carefully, avoiding the tripwires and hidden sensors Jeongyeon had warned them about. The corridor felt suffocating, the tension mounting with every step.

Finally, they reached the heavy steel door Jeongyeon had described. Momo pressed her ear against it, listening for any movement inside. She gestured for Jeongyeon to step back.

“You’re not coming in,” Momo said firmly. “Stay here. If this is a trap, you’ll be the first to pay.”

Jeongyeon raised her hands, her voice calm but strained. “Understood. Just get her out.”

Momo nodded to Jihyo, who pried the door open. The creak of the metal echoed ominously, and Momo stepped in, gun raised.

The dim light inside revealed the horrors of the chamber—bloodstains, chains, and the unmistakable stench of suffering. Momo’s eyes scanned the room until they landed on a figure slumped in the corner.

“Oh, you bitch…” Momo muttered under her breath, her voice trembling with fury and disbelief as she took in the sight before her.

Her fingers tightened around her gun, her knuckles white as the scene burned into her mind. Behind her, the team stood frozen, the silence weighing heavy as they waited for her next move.

The metallic clink of chains echoed faintly as Momo stepped deeper into the chamber, her heart pounding. The sight in front of her made her blood run cold. Y/N sat restrained, her face pale and hollow, eyes sunken with exhaustion and despair.

But the real shock was Jeongyeon.

She stood inches away from Y/N, a gun trembling in her grip, pointed directly at her best friend’s head. Her face was a mask of shame and agony, her shoulders hunched as though the weight of the world pressed down on her. Behind her, Y/N’s father loomed, his expression a mixture of arrogance and sadistic satisfaction.

Momo’s voice was a dangerous growl, venom dripping from every word. “Jeongyeon… what the hell are you doing?”

Jeongyeon’s lips trembled, but she said nothing. The shame in her eyes spoke volumes.

“You traitorous bitch,” Momo hissed, taking a step forward.

Y/N’s father’s laughter cut through the tension, cold and cruel. “Oh, look at this. The infamous Momo. So fierce, so proud. And yet, you’re just a pathetic street rat playing mafia boss.”

Momo’s fist clenched, but she didn’t rise to the bait.

The man turned his attention to you, his sneer deepening. “And you. My worthless daughter. Weak. Useless. You’re an embarrassment to the family name. Always chasing after someone to save you. Always the damsel, never the hero.”

Tears burned in your eyes as you shook against your restraints, his words cutting deep.

He then turned to Jeongyeon, his voice cold and commanding. “Do it.”

Jeongyeon’s hands shook even more, her finger hovering over the trigger.

“I can’t,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

“DO IT!” he roared, his voice booming through the chamber. “Don’t you want to make me proud? Think about your mother! Do it!”

Jeongyeon flinched, her resolve crumbling. She closed her eyes, her finger pressing slightly on the trigger.

A gunshot rang out.

Jeongyeon screamed in pain as the gun flew from her hand, clattering to the floor. Blood dripped from her palm where Jihyo’s precise shot had struck. She crumpled to her knees, clutching her injured hand.

“Pathetic,” Y/N’s father snarled, reaching for his own gun.

He never got the chance.

Momo’s gun fired, the shot clean and final. His body collapsed to the floor, lifeless.

“No!” You screamed, your voice cracking as sobs wracked your body. Your restraints bit into your wrists as you shook uncontrollably.

Momo was at your side in an instant, freeing you from the chains and pulling you into her arms. Your cries soaked into her shirt as she held you tightly, her hand cradling the back of your head.

More footsteps echoed in the distance. Reinforcements.

Still holding you, Momo raised her gun and fired with ruthless precision. One after another, the men fell, blood pooling around their bodies. Her grip on you never faltered, even as the chaos unfolded around you.

“We have to go. Now,” Momo ordered, her voice sharp. She glanced at Jeongyeon, who was still cradling her injured hand on the floor. “Take her.”

Chaeyoung and Tzuyu moved to grab Jeongyeon, dragging her to her feet.

Jeongyeon winced but managed to speak through the pain. “There… there are tanks in the lower chambers. Fuel tanks. If you set them off… the whole place will blow.”

Momo nodded, her jaw tight. “Sana, Tzuyu, handle it. The rest of us are heading out.”

The team moved with precision, Momo carrying you as you clung to her, sobbing against her chest. Behind them, the muffled sound of explosions grew louder as Sana and Tzuyu set off the charges.

As the group reached the exit, a deafening boom tore through the air, and the entire compound erupted into flames. The heat was unbearable, but Momo didn’t stop until she was certain you were safe.

Outside, under the cover of night, she set you down gently, her hands still trembling as she wiped the tears from your face. The glow of the burning compound reflected in her dark eyes.

“It’s over,” she whispered, her voice raw. “You’re safe.”

But deep down, she knew the battle was far from finished.

Your vision blurred.

You woke up in a haze, your body aching and weak. The faint scent of roses filled the air, and when you blinked your eyes open, you saw Momo sitting on the edge of her desk, holding a bouquet of roses. She looked at you with such tenderness, it almost made your heart ache. A dark bruise adorned her eye, evidence of the chaos you had just endured.

“You’re finally awake, amor,” she murmured, a soft smile gracing her lips as she leaned down to place a gentle kiss on your forehead.

You sat up instinctively, worry flooding your chest. But the sharp pain in your side made you wince, and you clutched your ribs with a gasp.

“Easy, girl,” Momo warned, her hands steadying you.

You panicked, words spilling out of you in a torrent. “Are you okay? What happened? I missed you so much, Momo, I’m so sorry for everything—Momo silenced you with a kiss, her lips firm but soft, her hands cradling your face as if you might break. The words froze in your throat as your heart stuttered under her touch. “I’ve got it settled,” she said when she pulled away, her voice steady and reassuring. “With your father gone, we don’t have any opposing teams left to worry about. I just want to lay low and take care of you now. I love you, Y/N. And I’ll do anything to keep you with me.”

Her words hit you harder than any bullet ever could, tears welling in your eyes as you nodded. Momo stood and moved to a cabinet near her desk, rummaging through it until she pulled out several containers. She turned to you, her expression soft but serious. You tilted your head in confusion. “What’s this?” She walked back over, setting the containers in front of you. “All the letters I never got to send you.” Her voice wavered, just slightly.

“I want to read them all with you.” Your heart swelled at her confession, and you pouted playfully before leaning in to kiss her lips. “Hey… I love you too,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

Momo chuckled, the sound warm and familiar. “Good to know.” As she sat down beside you, her expression turned thoughtful. “Oh… by the way, Jeongyeon’s okay. She’s with Jihyo and Sana right now, being looked after.” A teasing grin curled her lips. “Unless Sana and Jihyo are making out in a corner somewhere, knowing them.”

You laughed softly, though your ribs protested the motion. Momo kissed your temple before standing again. She turned to a guitar propped up against the wall, picking it up with care. She glanced at you with a glimmer in her eye. “You know how I gave you that sheet of music?”

You nodded shyly, reaching into your pocket after a moment of hesitation. The paper was wrinkled and stained with blood, but you handed it to her anyway. “I’m sorry it’s all dirty.” Momo took it, her touch gentle. “It’s okay, love. Guess you’ll finally find out how it goes.”

She adjusted the guitar on her lap, her fingers finding the strings. With a deep breath, she began to strum a hauntingly beautiful melody. Her voice, soft yet rich with emotion, filled the room.

"Esto es cosa nuestra...

“Esto es cosa nuestra…no creo que lo entiendan.”

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