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ghost-in-the-hall · 9 months ago

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Fall For Me (Poly! Sleep Token x Fem! Reader) - Part VII

*inhales aggressively* VESSEL CHAPTER!!!!!! FINALLY!!!! Reader has a talk with the boys about what exactly happened with the night's kissing incident, after so much time of him being a bit distant towards reader Vessel decides to let his softer side show, plus more moments with III because I'm in love with him and I can't help myself sorry not sorry hehe I can't wait to know what you all think of this chapter thank you all so much for all the wonderful comments. If you would like to be added to the tag list please let me know!!

WARNINGS: discussion of boundaries, proposals of a polyamorous relationship (I tried my best to make it realistic but I, myself, am not polyamorous), fluffy stuff per usual. NOT PROOFREAD

My Masterlist! ~ AO3 Link!

Part VI - Part VIII

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The sight before you almost made you want to laugh. The four grown men that sat in various seats around your living room almost resembled a group of school kids waiting anxiously outside the principal's office. “I’m sorry.” III was the first of them to speak up.

“No, if anything I should be the one apologizing.” II quickly follows, both of them unable to even look in your direction.

“I’m not upset at either of you, I’m just… confused.” You respond softly.

“It started off as simple crushes; me, IV, III, Ves.” You noticed Vessel’s shoulder tense as he was dragged into this conversation as well. “We all think you’re beautiful-”

“And very sweet.” III adds on. You can’t help the subtle smile that finds its way to your lips at their compliments.

“We could tell things had gotten a little more serious between you and III so we all decided to back off. But, I can’t lie to you,” II chuckled, “I’m a very jealous man. So when someone tries to keep me from what I want I don’t typically respond the best.”

“And I don’t feel right asking you to commit solely to me when you clearly have feelings for II, as well.” III adds his piece. You found it odd, there was no anger in his voice at the thought of you with his friend. “I guess what we’re trying to say is, um…” he trails off, looking to II as he searches for the right words to say.

“How would you feel about dating all of us?” Vessel breaks the thick tension with his blunt question. You felt like all of the air had been punched from your lungs, your heart jumping into your throat as your head snapped in his direction.

“Vessel, you can’t phrase it like that!” IV groans from his spot on your couch, dropping his head into his hand.

“What? She's a big girl, you don't need to beat around the bush.”

“Dating… dating all of you?” You finally mutter after a few moments of shocked silence.

“Obviously only if you're comfortable with that.” III stands from his seat, slowly stepping closer to you. “You don't have to say yes to any of this. It doesn't matter if you want to date only me, or if you would be okay dating all of us. Hell, after dropping this on you, there's a chance you might not want to see any of us ever again.” You didn't miss the nervousness that laced its way into his laughter. III was genuinely scared that this was going to fully push you away. “But, it's about what you want, that's the important part.”

“And you're all okay with this?” You would be lying if you tried to say you didn't find the offer very appealing. Every member of the group that sat before you drew you to them in one way or another, they were definitely an attractive bunch to put it lightly; III with his subtle intensity, who was always making you laugh, II who would turn you into a flustered mess with his sweet words, IV who’s easily excitable nature and blind confidence when it came to complimenting you made your heart thrum in your chest, Vessel who lets his hand linger on your waist as he maneuvers around you doing restock days, who holds your gaze for perhaps a little longer than necessary when wishing you goodbye at night. But, could you really handle four relationships?

“The way we see it, we’d rather share you with others who we know are going to take good care of you than to be forced to hold our tongues about how we feel about you.” II explains.

“I…” you trail off as you look between the four of them. “I need some time to think.” Your voice shook slightly as you spoke.

“Of course.” Vessel responds. Without another word II, III, and IV stood, quietly said their goodbyes to you and left your apartment. Vessel hung back for a moment, waiting for III to fully shut the door behind him before breathing out a sigh. “I'm sorry that all of this happened the way it did. I kept telling them to wait to bring it up.” His gaze drops to you, who was silently fidgeting with your fingers as you leaned against the wall.

“I can always tell them to back off, love.”

“No, you don't have to do that.” You brush him off. “It's nothing to do with any of you, you're all incredible. It's just- it's me, that's what the problem is.” You tried to force a laugh to prove to Vessel that you were fine, his unchanging expression let you know immediately that he saw right through you. “You're all so wonderful, and the fact that you would be willing to make such a huge compromise.” You stare through the slits of his mask, believing you were meeting his eyes. “What if it's not worth it?”

You didn't have time to register what was happening before Vessel was in front of you, pulling you into a warm embrace.

“I know I might not be as… prominent with my acts of affection as the others.” He pulls back slightly, one large hand coming up to cradle the back of your head as your eyes instinctively rise to look at him. “But, considering II put things out in the open, I need you to know that I care for you viscerally.” The soft growl that found its way into his voice made your cheeks grow warm. “I don't want you to feel pressured into anything you don't want, but I need you to understand that there has not been a single moment since I met you that would make me think any of this wasn't worth it.” You blink slowly as a hand comes to rest on the top of your head, comfortingly patting the spot. “Would it be alright if I came and checked in tomorrow?” You nod, reluctantly letting your hands fall away from their position pressed against his chest as he stepped back, his warmth fading away with it.

“Goodnight, Ves.” Your voice cracked slightly as you tried to keep your overwhelming emotions in check.

“Goodnight love, rest well.”

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You watched the second hand on the clock tick, bringing you closer to when Vessel would usually make his nightly supply runs. You hadn’t managed to sleep at all the night prior, tossing and turning as you played through every scenario you could think of as you made your decision. At the sight of the familiar pick up truck rumbling into the lot you felt your heart race. “This is it.” You muttered out loud to the empty store. “No going back now.” He poked his head through the door before fully entering.

“You still open?” He offers you a playful smile.

“No, but for you I'll make an exception.” You giggle in response. He slowly steps inside and approaches the counter.

“How’d thinking on things go?” He rests his elbows on the counter, bringing him closer to face level with you.

You set a hand down on the counter, Vessel cautiously reaching out to take it in his own. He hesitates for a moment, his hand drawing back slightly as if he was preparing to pull away. His fingers were rough against the soft skin of your hand when he finally decided to take his, his thumb running languidly across the peaks and valleys of your knuckles as he waited patiently for your response. “I want to take things slow… but the thought of having all of you to myself is a little too good to pass up.” He breathes out a chuckle, flashing you a sharp smirk that makes your breath catch in your throat.

“Is that so?” He mulls over how to respond to your statement for a moment. “How about I make us dinner and we can sit down and talk about how slow you want to take things, just so we can make sure everyone is on the same page.”

“You want to cook me dinner?” You shoot him a playful smile. “Is it going to be edible?” He bellows out a laugh in response.

“You're funny, you know I've been told I'm a wonderful cook.” He points an accusatory finger at you, standing up to collect what ingredients he needed from around the store. “Just you wait and see, this is going to be the best damn meal you've ever eaten.”

The whole thing was a bit strange in the best way. If he hasn't told you so directly you would've sworn that Vessel thought of you as little more than an acquaintance. But now, you were sitting on your kitchen counter, a glass of white wine swirling around in your hand, rolling your eyes playfully at all of Vessel’s terrible jokes as he made the two of you dinner. He asks you where you keep your plates, you easily reach into the cabinet behind you and produce a pair, holding them out to him with a soft smile. He carefully plates the pasta he made, penne with bacon and spinach and some type of cream sauce he had pulled together with odds and ends from your pantry. “It smells incredible.” He saunters in front of you, trapping you on the counter by placing a hand on either side of your waist.

“And here you were questioning my culinary skills.” He feigns a hurt tone before a soft chuckle rumbles from his chest. “Come on beautiful, let's go eat.” He pulls away from you, your body trailing after his warmth. You pad your way into the living room, Vessel close behind as he carries your plate for you. You sat close together on the couch, angling yourself to better face him. “So, define slow.” He jumps in immediately.

“Let me at least get a couple bites in.” Vessel can't help but smile at your teasing tone. “I just… I don’t know. This is all so different I don't think I can really tell you what going slow even means.”

“Well, I can assure you that all of us care a lot about how you feel during all of this.”

“And I know that.”

“I think you're worried about more than just taking things slow, love. What's on your mind?” The softness to his tone immediately lulled your anxious mind into a sense of safety.

“I'm worried about things developing quicker in certain relationships than others, I just don't want that to cause any of you to fight.” You absentmindedly twisted your fork around in your fingers, studying it as you tried to put into words what was racing through your mind.

“That might happen, but if it does it's alright. Unfortunately that's just something we have to deal with.” He chuckles. “There's no doubt in my mind that you would be more comfortable moving a bit quicker with III than you would with me, he started flirting with you from the start. We all know that you're in various stages of getting to know us, we're more than willing to give you time to figure all of that out.” Hearing him being so reassuring made the heaviness weighing in your chest lighten considerably. “Is there anything else I can do to ease that pretty little head of yours?” You slowly shake your head no before pausing. You looked at the man before you, swallowing thickly as you mulled over an idea. Vessel was an enigma to you even after months of knowing him. He was aloof, quiet, but the few rare instances he let part of his personality break through you could tell just how wonderful he could really be.

“Dance with me?” The question hung in the air for a moment before Vessel wordlessly rose to his feet.

“I will warn you, I'm not much of a dancer.” He chuckles, outstretching his hand for you to take. His palm was warm against your fingertips; the smudged edges of his paint were a stark contrast to the pale skin underneath.

“What a shame, neither am I.” You giggle in response before he pulls you to your feet. He looks around the room, making a small sound of affirmation to himself before pushing your coffee table out of the way to open up the space. You walked over to a bookshelf in the corner of the room, clicking on your radio and letting the soft tune crackle to life. Vessel stood in the center of the room, hands shoved into his pockets as he waited for your return, a soft smile settling onto his lips.

“You look really beautiful today.” He says softly, one strong arm reaching out for you and wrapping around your waist when you were within reach. Your fingers intertwine with his, Vessel watching carefully as each delicate digit slotted between his own. Your cheeks grow warm as you timidly accept the compliment. You had never been this close to Vessel before, feeling the way his muscles tensed and shifted under the hand that rested on his shoulder sent a shiver down your spine. You were unable to tear your eyes away from him, the intricate detailing along the edge of his mask highlighting how wide and bright his smile was as he gazed down at your flustered form. The music you had turned on was non existent at this point, the only thing mattering at this point in time was Vessel finally allowing you the briefest glimpse inside his walls. You managed to trip over your own feet, yelping slightly as you stumbled into him. “Easy now, I got you.” He chuckles, helping to steady you on your feet. “If you're going to faint at least wait until I kiss you for the first time.” He jokes

“Already thinking about kissing me, huh?” You smile coyly

“It'd be hard not to with a pretty face like that.” You let out a flustered laugh, your eyes dropping to the floor. You jumped when there was a sudden knock on the door. You reluctantly pull out of Vessel’s grasp, his fingers trailing across your waist as he tries to remain connected to you until the last possible moment. You slowly open the door, not knowing who to expect on the other side so late. You froze when your eyes landed on III, who was nervously swaying his heels on the creaky wooden landing outside. The moment he realized you had answered he immediately began to ramble.

“I'm sorry, I know you said you needed time to think and I absolutely respect that. I just, I know we kissed, and if you decide you don't want to go through with this I don't want it to make things weird-”

“III.” His mouth snaps shut as you softly say his name. You look back into your living room, Vessel’s head rested in his hand, he seemed mildly annoyed to be interrupted. Not knowing how to respond, you simply pushed the door wide open, III’s attention immediately drawn to Vessel. “We were actually just talking about that.” His eyes widen slightly, his gaze switching between you and his friend.

“Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt-”

“I was just leaving, actually.” Your brows furrowed in confusion. You turn to face him as he walks up to you. He cradles your face in his hand, “tonight was wonderful, I hope we get to do this again soon.” He swipes his thumb across your cheek, leaving a thin black streak in its wake. “Goodnight, love.”

“Goodnight, Ves.” You respond breathlessly. You turn to face III, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth before reaching out and taking his hand, tugging him inside your apartment. His eyes stay locked on you as he follows you through the door, shutting it quietly behind him. “I really enjoyed, um… kissing you last night was really nice.” You let out a flustered laugh. “I don’t want you to worry that you made things weird.”

He chuckles, “Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it.” He stuffs his hand in his pockets, shifting his weight awkwardly. “I hope that talk you guys were having was a good one.”

“I think you’ll be very satisfied with the outcome.” You giggle. He gazes at you curiously, the usual playful sparkle back in his eyes when he realized he hadn’t scared you off.

“Is that so?” He saunters closer to you, his towering height and intense gaze threatening to make your knees buckle. “You let me know if any of this is moving too fast, okay?” He says sweetly, gently cupping your jaw.

“Okay.” You smile up at him. He trails his thumb over your bottom lip, his bright blue eyes darting around your features as he drank in the sight of you.

“You are simply gorgeous, love.” He whispers after a moment of silence.

“You flatter me too much.” Both hands slide around your waist, gently pulling you flush against him.

“I'm only telling my girl the truth.” He smiles. Your eyes flash up to meet his, the declaration of being his girl making your heart flutter in your chest. “Well, it seems like we have the night to ourselves. What would you like to do?” Wordlessly you take one of the hands that had settled against the curve of your hip, guiding him towards your couch. You threw on a movie, something mindless that you didn't need to pay attention to. Tonight was about spending time with III. No distractions, no hidden feelings, just you and someone who made you feel like a girl experiencing her first crush all over again. III takes you in his arms, laying back and pulling you on top of him in the process. One arm resting comfortably behind his head, the other slung over your waist as the two of you cuddled in a comfortable silence. “You know, I was really worried all of this would make you never speak to me again.” He speaks up after a while through a quiet chuckle.

“I was definitely a bit nervous about the idea, still kind of am if I'm being honest.” You laugh softly, absentmindedly tracing shapes against the soft material of his sweatshirt on his chest. “But, none of you have given me any reason not to trust you, so despite being nervous I feel like this is the right choice.”

“How you feel about this is very important to me, okay? If there's ever anything I can do for you love, just let me know.” He rubs his hand soothingly up and down your back, keeping you pressed close to him almost as if he was scared if he let you go you'd disappear. The two of you stayed up talking late into the night; you learned that III is more of a cat person than a dog person, his favorite color is red, and he would willingly disappear into the woods without a trace if it meant never folding laundry again. “It's such a dumb concept, I'm going to put the damn clothes on anyways. Why do they have to be folded and put away?” You hid your face against his shoulder, trying to hide the fact you had tears forming in your eyes from laughing so hard. You look up at him with a bright smile, the tangent dying in his throat as his eyes meet yours. He slowly sits himself up on his elbows, your body responding as it gradually slid into his lap. One of his hands pressed into the small of your back, keeping you held as close to him as possible, the other moving to cup your cheek.

“I haven't been able to stop thinking about kissing you since last night.” You admit in a tone barely above a whisper.

“Trust me, I wasn't doing much better.” He chuckles, his gaze briefly flashing down to your lips. “Everything about you… everything about you is just so perfect, and for the life of me I can't figure out why you give me the time of day.”

“Because you make me feel like I'm the only girl in the world.” Your voice shook as you spoke, you could hear your heartbeat thundering in your ears and you were nearly positive that III could hear it too.

“Because you are the only girl in the world for me.” He admits without a second thought. “I haven't been able to get last night out of my head. Of course I want to kiss you again, but this time I want to kiss you and mean it.” Trembling fingers rose to the edge of his mask, glancing up at him through your lashes asking for silent permission to raise his mask enough to kiss him. He nods, studying your nervous expression as you gently took the edge of the fabric and raised it to just below his nose. Your breath was snatched from your lungs as III crushed his lips against yours, your mind immediately swimming in the overwhelming sensation that was him. His lips subtly sweet as he eased your mouth open, his tongue carefully caressing yours, making sure to take things at a bear agonizing pace in order for you to be able to back away at any time. Your hands slid up his torso, III shivered under your delicate touch. You felt lightheaded as the kiss took over your senses; the euphoric feeling of his warm lips against yours, the deep, earthy smell of his cologne, his massive hand kneading at the softness of your hip. You both pulled away equally breathless, your hands coming up to his mask in order to readjust it into place before he had a chance to.

“I think you definitely meant it this time.” You giggle, your forehead falling to rest against his.

“There's going to be plenty more where that came from.” He winks playfully at you.

III decided to leave you for the night when you could barely keep your head up anymore. He scoops you up in his arms. You grumble in annoyance despite the fact you immediately begin to nuzzle your face against his chest. “Where are we going?” You ask through a yawn.

“I’m taking you to bed sweetheart, you need to rest.” He chuckles.

“-’m not tired.” You try to protest, your actions only make him laugh again before he presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Says the woman who can’t keep her eyes open.” You could hear his smile in his voice.

“I don’t want you to leave.” You admit softly.

“I know love, but you have a store to run, I’m afraid I’ve kept you up more than I already meant to.” He carefully maneuvers himself so he’s holding you in one arm, pulling back your blankets with his now free hand. He lays you gently into bed, his knuckles trailing across your cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” His head dips down, allowing you to share one more chaste kiss before he left you to fall into a dreamless sleep.

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narcoticv3nus · 3 months ago

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© all work and content posted are the property of narciticv3nus 2024. It is strictly prohibited to alter or repost them under any circumstances. do not replicate or assert them as your own. refrain from endorsing my work on tiktok, wattpad, ao3, or any other social media platform. additionally, do not utilize my work for asmr purposes.

Good morning/afternoon/evening and welcome to my very first participation Kinktober 2024! I’m so excited to share my smutty fics with you all. I will be locking in and writing one fic for the next 31 days of October. These works are all nsfw so if you are not 18 and up please do not interact with my work.

Please check out my blog rules before proceeding.

If any of the topics discussed make you feel uneasy, please continue scrolling and refrain from engaging with content that makes you uncomfortable. I will provide warnings, but if I overlook anything, please inform me. It's perfectly acceptable if the content I share is not suitable for you.

That's all! Have fun, teehee.

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Day I: Be Good to Me — Arthur Morgan (Edging)

Day II: Burning Desire — Simon “Ghost” Riley & John “Soap” Mactavish (Threesome)

Day III: Lust for Life — Kyle “Gaz” Garrick (Vibrator)

Day IV: Catch a Ride to Heaven — Arthur Morgan (Virginity)

Day V: Tomorrow is a Long Time — John Price (Masturbation)

Day VI: A Little Blood Never Hurt Nobody — John “Soap” MacTavish (Period Sex)

Day VII: All For You — Simon “Ghost” Riley (A/B/O)

Day VIII: Living Legend — König (Belly Bulge)

Day IX: Sweet Like Cinnamon — John “Soap” Mactavish (Praise Kink)

Day X: Beautiful People Beautiful Problems — Kyle “Gaz” Garrick (Aphrodisiacs)

Day XI: In Love With a Hurricane — Simon “Ghost” Riley (Uniform)

Day XII: Let Me Love You Just a Little Longer — König (Overstimulation)

Day XIII: Under the Influence of You — John Price (Blowjobs)

Day XIV: Blue Is the Warmest Color — Keegan P. Russ (Lingerie)

Day XV: Too Late to Change — John Price (Cockwarming)

Day XVI: Crimson and Clover — König (Spanking)

Day XVII: Say You Want Me Too — John Price (Honeymoon)

Day XVIII: Every Man Gets His Wish — Simon “Ghost” Riley (Squirting)

Day XIX: Bitter Sweet Love — König (Degradation)

Day XX: Halfway to Heaven — John “Soap” MacTavish (Shower Sex)

Day XXI: Dancing With Danger — Kyle “Gaz” Garrick (Sex Pollen)

Day XXII: Chasing Ghosts — Simon “Ghost” Riley (Hybrids)

Day XXIII: You Can Be the Boss — John Price (Dominance)

Day XXIV: Cherry On Top — Kyle “Gaz” Garrick (Sensory Deprivation/Sensory Play)

Day XXV: Pretty When You Cry — König (Crying)

Day XXVI: Ride or Die — Arthur Morgan (Face Sitting)

Day XXVII: Living in the Afterglow — John Price (Aftercare)

Day XXVIII: Breathless Nights — Simon “Ghost” Riley (Bondage)

Day XXIX: The Sweetest Escape — John “Soap” MacTavish

Day XXX: Everybody Knows I’m a Good Girl Officer — John Price (Authority)

Day XXXI: Mirror Sex — Arthur Morgan

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#2024 kinktober #kinktober 2024 #kinktober #venus.navigation

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skzdarlings · 1 year ago

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final part: bodyguard!felix x reader

masterlist.

PART I ; PART II ; PART III ; PART IV ; PART V ; PART VI ; PART VII ; PART VIII ; PART IX ; FINAL PART.

( READ ON AO3. )

Your father hires an inconspicuous bodyguard to accompany you at school and supervise you at home. What seems like an innocuous change in routine eventually spirals into a forbidden romance that grows more passionate over the years.

pairing: lee felix/reader content info: smut. violence. parental abuse. situations of intense peril overall. forced proximity. enemies2lovers. angst with eventual happy ending. (chapter word count; 19k words)

warning for this chapter: the usual story dynamics plus explicit violence, intense peril, threat and injury to reader, graphic depictions of death, explicit sexual content.

Your father will be here soon. He kept his distance during the rescue operation but will reconvene with his team before the journey home.

You and Felix wake long before his anticipated arrival, when dawn is only just peeking into the hotel room.

You lay in bed, your head on his bare chest and his arms around you. You discuss the potential confrontation ahead. Last time you were taken, your father was less than sympathetic to your plight. Even though this was more his fault than yours, you are certain you will take the blame. He cannot take responsibility for a misstep. If he is fallible, he is weak, and that puts his whole existence in jeopardy. It must always be someone else’s fault.

Therefore it is likely he will punish you. Therefore it is likely he will ask Felix to do it.

“Felix,” you say when he does not look at you. He is staring out the window with a look of pure frustration.

“I know,” he says. “You want me to do it. Last time I…”

“Yes.”

There is no need to discuss last time. You both know he fumbled that exchange. Felix is meant to be the personification of resolute strength and obedience, the perfect soldier. His moment of weakness snared your father’s attention, as weakness always does. Your quick response remedied the situation well enough, but you will not be so lucky next time. The only thing worse than a moment of weakness is the persistence of it. He cannot hesitate again.

“If,” you say slowly, “we want to find a way out… then now, more than ever, we cannot give him any reasons to be suspicious of us.”

“I know,” he says, but his jaw is still clenched and his gaze is faraway.

“Felix.” You touch his jaw, minding the darkening bruise, and turn his face to yours. His expression softens when he meets your gaze. “Thank you,” you say. “I love you. I trust you. It will be okay.”

He cups your cheek and lifts your face. His looks at you like he is studying every small detail. Even though he must know your face perfectly – seeing it when he wakes, before he goes to sleep, every day for so much of his life – he looks at you like he is seeing you for the first time all over again.

You laugh when he flicks your bottom lip, the little pout he has long since called his weakness.

“You could convince the sky it wasn’t blue,” he says, and kisses you tenderly. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

Maybe it is the novelty of hearing that out loud, or maybe you will just be crazy about him forever, but you feel flustered. You laugh and squirm, your skin hot. It makes him laugh, the menace kissing down your throat just to make you wriggle more.

“Don’t let my daddy catch you then,” you tease, breathlessly. “He wouldn’t like that very much.”

The returned chuckle makes you shiver. You run your fingers through his hair but he grabs your wrist and pins it down. Your breath catches when he sucks a bruising kiss on your throat. He is usually so careful about leaving marks, but today he dips his head to the soft skin of your breast and bites a mean little mark into the tender skin, making you gasp and buck beneath his hold.

“No, he wouldn’t, would he?” Felix says, his deep voice dropping even lower. “What would everyone say, hmm? Your daddy, your guards… all those rich boys at those fancy parties who think they have a chance with you…”

“Everyone thinks I’m a frigid bitch,” you reply, joining his game, smiling knowingly. “And I am, aren’t I? Nothing but trouble.”

“Nothing but trouble,” he says with a grin. He flicks the covers off, then his hands are on your hips and he flips you as smoothly. You yelp when he drags you halfway down the bed, arranging you as he kneels behind you. “You can’t fool me, sweetheart,” he says. One hand curls around your throat and the other snakes down your backside. “Frigid? Mm. I don’t think so. I actually think you are very, very soft… and warm…”

His fingers slip inside you easily, wet from your previous lovemaking and wetter still from his voice. Every little breath and tortured groan has you twitching and gasping.

“Felix,” you say.

It is the right thing to say. You are clawing at the bedsheets moments later, hiccupping on each watery breath as he holds your hips and fucks you right down into the mattress. You press against it like you could disappear there, fucked into freedom, never to return to this dire world again.

You sink into the bed and float in your mind, sighing when he wraps his arms around you and covers you with his body. He is hot and whole and so alive, and everything seems possible while you are joined together. You have each other, completely and irrevocably. That is all you need to survive.

You finish not a moment too soon. You are nestled in his arms, kissing and kissing and kissing, flushed and satisfied and content, when reality comes knocking. Felix throws on some pants while you scurry into the bathroom and close the door.

Felix steps into the hall. Between the bathroom door and the hotel room door, you only hear muffled voices. Then a few clicks, then another knock, then you jump. You are wearing a blanket and it slips with your surprise. You adjust it frantically, but Felix says, “It’s just me.”

You crack open the door to Felix in a t-shirt and his combat pants. You recognize the tired lines on his face, cracks in the mask he is struggling to don. His reassuring smile is not convincing.

“Here,” he says, handing you some clothes. “Your father is here. He wants to see you at breakfast.”

“Of course he does,” you say, just for something to say, letting your frustration seep into your tone.

The bathroom tiles are cold under your feet. A sharp snap of sensation and a reminder of reality. Felix makes the world feel small in comparison to him, but the world is still there, ever turning with its usual machinations and politics and powers. You are still suspended helplessly in the centre of it all. Though you pushed the darkest truths to the corner for a few hours, making love and comforting each other, all those hurts and agonies are still there. You see it in his eyes, his glance flickering from here to there as he roams with his thoughts.

Neither of you have ever had a normal life and you do not know what to do with one. He has been making difficult choices since he was a child. Neither of you truly knows if you are making the right one now.

You do the best you can with a strong hug. It is a lingering, affectionate embrace, fitting your bodies together until you feel grounded.

Felix looks over your shoulder, catching his own reflection. You look back as well, his cheek against yours, your eyes meeting in the mirror.

“I couldn’t stand the sight of my own face,” he says, his voice low even though you are alone, like the words are fighting his tongue. It is hard to admit. He swallows hard but continues, “I hated the stupid kid looking back at me… I wanted to be someone better, someone who could actually do something right…”

You look at him rather than his reflection. When you touch a strand of blonde hair, he closes his eyes, as if he can feel the pad of your finger on a lock of hair, smarting more than his bruises.

“Is that why… the hair?” you ask clumsily. You do not know how to wade through ten years of emotion. Felix has coloured his hair regularly since the day you met him. The blonde suits him but it is clearly unnatural. It has not been soft in a very long time, coarse from repeated dye jobs.

The colour is just one more layer of his meticulous mask, crumbling in front of you as he nods and sighs. An admittance. He could not stand to look in the mirror and see that other version of himself, the boy he was, the boy who made all those mistakes. You see him, the years of questioning his choices, the impossible tether around his throat. There has never been a day he has not questioned his choices. Working for one bad man or another. Rescuing his friend or his lover. Letting violence happen or letting the violence use him.

You kiss his cheek, then below his jaw, threading your fingers through his hair. You scratch at his scalp, just a feathery light touch, one that makes him melt in your arms.

“I love you,” you say. You find it is an addicting word yet it never loses its potency. Your heart still races when he touches his forehead to yours, when he strokes your sides and hums a gentle sound of pleasure. “Things have changed a lot over the years. But we’re still here.” Still living your lives, even in broken bits, those stolen pieces you mentioned so long ago. “We’ve changed. We’ll change again. Things will happen and we’ll figure it out. But please don’t hate that boy anymore. I care about him a lot. I want him to be happy too.”

His face scrunches with the threat of tears, but he controls himself. He pushes the emotion into a laugh, though it is humourless. Then he closes the space between you and kisses you, cups the back of your head and holds you there until you are both satisfied.

“All right,” he says in a rough voice. “Get dressed. It’s going to be a long day.”

“You’ll be there, though,” you say.

“Always,” he says, a hint of amusement touching the corner of his lips. “I’m your bodyguard, hmm?”

You laugh and kiss him again.

“Right,” you say. “Always.”

Your father sits at a dining table in the penthouse suite. Behind him, a window wall flaunts the city skyline. Daylight casts a glow around him like some deified king lording over his petty kingdom. Guards loiter in the room and the corridor, keeping their eyes sharp as hotel staff prepare the table.

You sit across from him with the sunlight in your eyes, the usual position of discomfort and inferiority. He does not look at you, nor does he greet you, his eyes on his phone until the table is set. A staff member goes to serve him but he dismisses them.

“All of you, go,” he says, not just to the staff but his team as well. They filter out of the room one by one.

The penthouse is a ostentatious space, all white linen and gilded frames, tall ceilings and bay windows, but as the room empties, it becomes frighteningly big. Or maybe you just feel frighteningly small, his tactics working as they often do. Your father knows how to push your buttons because they are the same as his. He is scared. It makes him angry. He makes you scared. It makes you angry.

“Felix,” he says. “Stay.”

Felix is all that tempers you. He stands against the wall but you do not look at him, staring at your father until he finally looks your way. Despite the light, you hold his stare, feeling a modicum of triumph when he looks away first.

“Did they damage you?” he asks. His phrasing almost makes you laugh. Damaged. As if outside forces were needed for that.

“I’m fine,” you say. “My bodyguard rescued me. Your team was damaged, though.” You throw the word right back at him. You cross your leg and sit back, like you are as unbothered as him.

You know that underneath his cold exterior, he is anything but casual. He is letting his rage simmer as he builds to some awful retaliation. He was conducting a mission, sending his best asset on a job, and it was interrupted by your kidnapping. A kidnapping that nearly lost him more than his heir, but that same irreplaceable asset. An asset that previously made a mistake in front of his eyes. This is no longer a game, a squabble between a parent and child, but a real world crisis with dangerous consequences.

You should not provoke him, and that is why you do. Because provoking him is something you have always done and you need him to see you as that hapless child if you are going to beat him. You do not want to arouse further suspicion in him, that you are sitting here thinking about your own schemes, that you know more about his assets and operations than he could ever suspect.

So you toss your rejoinder and he catches it, as he always does, with a cruel smirk.

“There are more where they came from,” he says.

Returning like cockroaches and squashed just the same. If only a multi-generational empire could be toppled as easily. But your father is more than a man across a table; he is ten men in the corridor and more on the ground, he is paid staff and investors and a whole society.

Though you feign nonchalance, inside adrenaline pounds. Sweat gathers, your heart races. He is good at making you feel small, but at least it is predictable. The scene unfolds in your mind before it happens, the script playing before a single action is commanded. You will be scolded. You will be reprimanded. You will be punished.

“Felix, come here,” your father says.

You predicted he would involve Felix after what happened last time. The only question is what manner of punishment he will force from his hand. All you can do is trust Felix to play his role so you can play yours. You made it clear the physical pain was meaningless, that you could take whatever he inflicted. Just another inside joke between you. You will laugh about it one day.

You do not look away from your father. Your eyes are locked in a challenging stare, daring the other to break. You are scared, but you feel so much more than fear and rage. With your love for Felix, with the hope in your heart, you are an ocean of feeling and you are not ashamed of it anymore. You stare your father down and mutely convey that you are not broken, that he did not win, that he never will win.

His answer is the flick of a kitchen knife. It slides across the table and nearly tumbles right over the lip. It teeters within arm’s reach of you. It is tempting to look and consider its purpose with the trepidation you feel, but you do not. You tell yourself he will only hurt you so much, that putting you in true peril would surely be counterproductive to his overall efforts. Whatever plan he has for that knife will be a momentary pain you can recover from.

Then he says, “Felix.”

Felix steps into your periphery, the black of his fatigues a shadow at your side.

“Pick up that knife,” your father says. “Put it through your hand. Right through to the table.”

It is not the demand you were expecting, not by a long shot. As your father stares you down, steady where you start to waver, you realize this test is not for Felix. It is for you.

“I trust,” your father hisses the word, “you know the spot that will inflict the least permanent damage.”

The last time your father made this demand, you and Felix were kids at the start of your messy life together. Instinct propelled you to stop him. Over the years, you have mastered schooling your reactions. The girl who tackled Felix, the girl who sobbed while he was beaten, that girl learned to save her tears for later. Your father’s version of you is a cold, headstrong, hateful fool. She might stop Felix to combat her father, or she might let him suffer out of pure hatred.

Both options feel wrong. Regardless of what you choose, you feel like you are giving something away. You feel like your father will see right past it. He stares at you like he will find your secrets written on your face.

You have seconds to decide and that is not enough time. The moment passes you by. Felix plants his hand and takes the knife. Your father does not count him down. He watches you, willing you to make a mistake, to show your weakness. To prove him right.

You flinch when the knife thuds into the table, the soft reverberation of the wood accompanied with a gross little squelch that sounds too loud in this too big room. Your reaction is strongly stamped on your face, disgusted and upset. You look away to stop the tears that stab behind your eyes.

Everything that has happened, everything you have done, and you are right back here. After everything, he still ended up with that knife in his hand.

Your father rips it out. Felix catches his breath but does not cry out. You catch a glimpse of the bloody knife before your father tosses it on the floor, as if he is discarding something insignificant.

You slowly meet his gaze. He is still assessing you. You cannot tell if you passed or failed his test. By the scrutiny of his regard, it seems he does not know either. All you can do is look at each other while Felix bleeds beside you.

“You may go,” your father says, cold as the ice that locks your limbs. It takes you a moment to stir life back into them.

“Felix,” your father says. “You stay. We have business to discuss.”

You do not look at Felix. You cannot bear to look at him. On the escorted march back to your room, you are quiet, biting the inside of your cheek to stop any more unwanted reactions. Only when you are alone in the room do you let it out, an aggravated cry as you rip a pillow off the bed and whip it blindly across the room.

This was never going to be easy, but now it feels like the ongoing struggle between you and your father has led to an insurmountable deadlock. He has you enclosed in his fist and he is threatening to crush you in it.

You do not think he knows about the true nature of your relationship with Felix. He might suspect anything, an affair the last of it. Even a menial friendship would be a detrimental betrayal to him. All he sees is a smudge of a weakness in what should be the strongest cog in his machine.

He is testing you and tormenting you. He is perched on his pedestal, waiting for you to throw yourself at his feet in eventual penitence.

You will not. Not this time. Your father is expecting retaliation in the form of equal dramatics and you will not satisfy him. You will sit quietly. You will do what you have been doing, stealing pieces of your life in the silence and shadows. He controls a realm of power, affluence, and violence. You control yourself. Love has saved you all this time. It will be your means of escape for good.

You sit in quiet repose until Felix returns. Although you promised to remain calm, you cannot help but fuss over his injured hand. It has already been stitched and bandaged but you peek beneath the binding, almost gagging at the sight.

“All right, enough,” Felix says. He lifts your head and guides it onto his shoulder instead. You are sitting on the small loveseat under the window. You throw your arms around him and hold tight.

“I’m sorry,” you say, a tear sliding from your cheek to his shoulder. You sniffle.

“Don’t be,” he says. “I can take the pain. It means nothing. Sweetheart, he means nothing.”

“I know,” you say, but you sniffle one more time anyway. Gathering yourself, you lift your head to look at him. “What did my father want after I left?”

“I don’t fully know,” Felix says, the tenderness in his expression giving way to uncertainty. “He said he wants to continue the job,” Felix says. “He and Miroh, they’re both chasing these long-term investments in some government building contracts… Miroh has been getting in the way of your father’s deals, so he’s been mostly standing guard. Then he got intel that a significant asset of Miroh’s would be involved in securing an upcoming bid… And he thought… he thought with the right team he could… acquire whatever this asset was…”

“Chris,” you say, a breathless note. “That’s why he brought you on, isn’t it? He told you the acquisition was Chris.”

“If Chris was alive, if he was working for Miroh even after everything…” Felix swallows. He looks pained, like all these words are hard to say. His voice is rough and the words scratch like sandpaper as he forces them out. “Between me, your father’s back-up team, and the element of surprise… We had a chance of stopping Miroh’s subterfuge and getting… rescuing… Chris. Finally.”

But Chris might be dead. Your father might have killed him. Miroh has a vast artillery and the asset in question could be anyone or anything. It makes more sense your father was using Felix to eliminate this obstruction. That is what he always does. He uses someone like a thing, strengths and weaknesses calculated, and works them into his scheme.

You look at the bloody bandage, wrapped tight around that wounded hand, and you cannot bring yourself to vocalize these awful, pessimistic thoughts. You say instead, “But why would he want to continue the job now? You no longer have the element of surprise.”

“No,” Felix says. “We don’t. That’s because the job is over and your father is lying.”

“What?”

“Chris is dead.” Felix says it for you, with a hard set to his jaw that you recognize as a shield against emotion. He does not look at you because it exposes that vulnerable, human part of him, and right now he is fighting to maintain his composure. Cool, collected, he plainly states, “There is no chance of this job succeeding anymore. Miroh caught onto us. He interrupted us. Whatever we were after is not there anymore. Your father is just pulling my leash to see if I fight back.” He takes a deep breath before saying more. “He wants an excuse to question my loyalty.”

“He is provoking us,” you agree. There is a second of silence, both of you in contemplation, then you say, “We can’t let him.”

“If I refuse this job, he will just get worse,” Felix says. “If we try to run right now, we won’t get far. We need to do this right, we need to—”

“Take the job,” you say. “You said yourself, the job is over. My father is a bastard and an idiot but he would never risk sending his best team somewhere dangerous when he has nothing to gain from it. Call his bluff. Take the job.”

“I can’t leave you again,” Felix says, eyes closing as he clenches his good fist. “I won’t leave you alone with him again. Not right now, not like this. Sweetheart, if something happened—”

“I’ll be fine,” you say, wrapping your hand over his fist and gently uncurling his fingers. You nudge your nose against his chin, coaxing him to turn his head. He finally does, sighing as he looks down at you. You smile. “I’ll be safe in the house.”

“It’s more dangerous in there than out here,” he says.

“You know he won’t do anything worse than he’s ever done before,” you say. You look down when you touch the bandage on his hand. “We can take the cuts and bruises a little longer. Do the job, then come back to me. And who knows…” You kiss his cheek, a touch of comfort. “Maybe you’ll find the truth about Chris.”

“I know the truth,” he says, unmoved. “He’s dead.”

You do concede it is incredibly likely. If anything stopped your father from killing Chris, it was not morality, rather the practicality of breaching Miroh’s defences. But it sounds like Chris was trouble to Miroh, so it is possible there was no pushback.

It still breaks your heart to see Felix like this. The burden of this bargain has caused him strife for so long, but you can see how it motivated him too. As the hope leaves him, a light dims, and even your affection cannot ignite it.

“How do you know that?” you ask helplessly.

“I just feel it,” Felix says. “In my heart. I guess. I think, umm. I think. I think I’ve known for a long time. Maybe from the last time I ever saw him. But I needed to believe in it. I think I needed to believe Chris could be saved because then maybe—” He looks down at his injured hand. His fingers twitch when he fails to close his fist. “Then I would have done something good,” he says miserably. “Maybe then I could be worth saving too.”

“Felix. Baby.” You touch his face, still minding the bruise that grows more vicious by the second. It only adds to the ache in your chest as you look at him, beaten and battered for someone else’s sake. He has been taking hits every day since he was fourteen years old. Whether it was for you or his friend, he was willing to surrender his life if it meant even a possibility of saving someone else. “Felix, you have more heart and humanity than anyone I have ever known,” you say. “Everything you have ever done has been because of love, despite what they tried to make you otherwise. How can you not see what I see?”

He looks at you, really looks at you, the way he did this morning. He traces the curve of your cheek and brushes the subtle pout of your lips.

“You’ve always seen more than most people do,” he says. “You give me something else to believe in, you know?”

“Stop flirting,” you tease gently. “This is serious.”

He laughs, his smile soft but sincere. You kiss him slowly, until you are breathing the same uneven breaths, your hearts no doubt beating in tandem.

Then you pick yourselves up and prepare for what comes next.

Your father claims they will be gone for a week but you know it is not true. There is no real mission so they will return in a few days at the latest. For your part, you can only wait.

Even though you have a tenuous plan, it is still hard being separated from Felix. You remind yourself that you could not protect him in the field anyway, but logic is meaningless to your heart. You imagine a version of yourself that is possessed of so many skills, she could wipe out every obstacle without breaking a sweat.

But you are you. Your skills are more emotional than physical and right now that physicality is even worse than usual. You are lethargic from a brutal couple days, weak from the drugging, sore all over, and you cannot sleep well in an empty bed.

You wake repeatedly in the night, startled by a nightmare where you are being taken, where Felix is being beaten, where your father kills him and a dozen boys like him and all you can do is watch. The nightmares drag you into consciousness where you are barely eased, the reality of the world not so different from your nighttime horrors.

In the daylight, you maintain the healthiest disposition possible. You keep your distance from the security team, sitting in your room or quietly on the couch. You do not engage when they antagonize you. They grow bored of your presence soon enough, especially when they cannot get a rise out of you, leaving them with nothing to report to your father.

You expect the hours to drone endlessly.

Then you have a visitor.

You ignore the doorbell. The security team does not seem surprised by the interruption so you disregard it. Maybe it is just another member of the team.

You ignore the bell and the bustle of guards. You head to the kitchen to scrounge for some lunch instead. You hum as you chop vegetables, not paying any mind to the footsteps behind you. You expect it is a member of the security team, stalking you in the name of supervision. You turn to address him, a saccharine sweet smile at your face and a drole quip on your tongue, but your heart stops at the figure standing across from you.

“Hyunjin?”

You breathe more than whisper his name, like surprise has winded you.

You stand there, knife in hand, jaw hanging open as you stare into the face of your old friend. He is somehow even more handsome than you remember, long dark hair framing his face, eyes fierce and cheekbones sharp. An expensive blazer hugs his trim form. His boots resound with a softer thump than combat boots, so you should have realized it was someone else sooner.

You never would have guessed him. You have not seen Hyunjin in years.

“Hello, my girlfriend,” Hyunjin says with a smile, dazzling and beautiful and oh-so very fake.

“What are you doing here?” you ask tentatively, so perplexed by his appearance in your house that you do not know where to begin. You nearly pinch yourself to make sure you are not dreaming.

“Your dad called my dad,” Hyunjin says, his voice very light and casual, like he is picking up a conversation you paused an hour ago and not years ago. “He thought you needed company so you wouldn’t try running away off or something. So here I am. Ta-daaa. Company.”

Security shuffles past the kitchen. Hyunjin pauses, listening to the scuttle of their booted feet. When the din quiets, he smiles at you again. It does not reach his eyes.

“Hyunjin,” you whisper, laying the knife down. “What on earth is happening? Why are you here right now?”

Voices, laughter, the team in the other room. You and Hyunjin look at the door. His smile droops and he leans closer when he says, “Somewhere quieter please.”

You are still in something of a daze when you lead Hyunjin downstairs to the gym. A guard departs after giving the room a sweep, as if anyone or anything could have gotten down here with all the security.

Then it is just you and Hyunjin.

Hyunjin crosses the room, taking in the space and equipment. He whistles long and low while shaking his head. It makes you laugh despite everything.

“No, no, it’s nice,” Hyunjin teases. “I never saw this room before. But I always remembered your house was very small and understated.”

It’s a joke but you cannot force a laugh because his reminiscence sends you hurtling through your own memories. He turns and you see a younger version of him, just for a moment, beaming and bright. Hyunjin used to be the hopeful one, the person with a plan and ambition. He believed there was more to life and he believed he could achieve it. He was so certain that it sparked a flicker of hope in you. Now your flame is an inferno but there is no light or fire behind his eyes. He is so cold that it is hard to believe there was ever a flame.

“Hyunjin,” you say, imploringly. “What happened?”

“A lot,” he says. He puts his hands in his pockets like he feels at ease, but his eyes keep darting around the room, betraying his discomfort.

Though your friendship was short, it was substantial. You know him. Right now he is labouring beneath the weight of his performance, his charming expressions crooked, like poorly fitted clothes. He looks like an uncanny duplicate of the boy you once knew.

You step closer to him. He does not move, frozen in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets. When he eventually looks at you, it is with a slow lift of the head. You swear you can see a curtain drawing across his face as it happens. This close, you realize just how pale and wan he looks. He is grey at the edges, like he is fading away before your very eyes.

“Hyunjin,” you say, instinctively reaching out. He flinches away from your touch, then tries to smile like it didn’t happen. You do not hide your distress.

He finally drops the pleasant façade. His hands fall out of his pockets and swing at his sides. His countenance is even colder, his striking features sharper than ever as he levels you with a venomous stare.

“Don’t pity me,” he says. “I can’t stand it. I made my choices and I’m living with the consequences.”

“Consequences?” you ask. “Did they catch you trying to—”

“I never left,” he says. “I never even tried. I was close. I had a whole plan. A way to start over. But then...” He turns without any warning and walks to the mirror wall where he looks at himself. His hand hovers in the air, fingers curling. “I met someone,” he says. “And he wasn’t who I thought he was.”

When he does not elaborate, you step closer. You reach out to touch his shoulder, a consolation on the tip of your tongue. Before your touch even lands, he spins around and looks right at you.

“It turns out he was working for my father,” Hyunjin says. He speaks in a plain tone, conveying facts without any unnecessary sentiment, but you can see the red in his eyes as he strains to hold back emotion. “It was my fault for being so stupid. With the way things were going, I should have seen it coming. There is no such thing as selfless love. Everyone serves themselves in the end and I was stupid to compromise my well-being for someone else. I deserved the betrayal.”

“That’s not true,” you say without hesitation. He is talking about someone else but his words feel like a slap against your friendship too. You grab his hand like you can squeeze sense back into him. “I’m so sorry you were hurt,” you say. “But you can’t honestly think—”

“Hurt.” He chokes on the word and rips his hand back. “It nearly killed me. I wish it killed me. I wish I was anywhere but here. But I am stuck here because of my stupid feelings. Everyone has a weakness waiting to be exploited and you can’t trust anyone not to take advantage of yours.”

It sounds so much like your father that you stumble back. It resonates with a heavy slam against your ribs and the heart beating inside them. That heart feels so wrung out these days, swollen with so much love one second then shrivelled with pain the next. It throbs now. You are hurt just witnessing his pain. He has been betrayed and broken and he is unreachable in his grief. You can only imagine what he has endured to end up back here, in this house, with you.

You cannot blame him for guarding himself, but your combative side rears its stubborn head.

“There are good people,” you say. “There are people that can be trusted. You can trust me, after all.”

“I don’t know that,” he says. “We don’t know each other anymore.”

“That is definitely not true,” you say. You and Hyunjin clicked so well because your circumstances were so similar, your fears and pain the same. “We know each other perfectly, Hyunjin,” you say.

He looks away, blinking rapidly. His shoulders hunch. It looks so wrong for a man like him to curl in on himself in shame.

“Fine,” he says. “One person. It doesn’t make a difference.”

“One person makes all the difference,” you say. “Remember Minho?”

That one really makes him flinch. You are pretty sure a slap would hurt less.

“And Felix,” he says, his voice softer now. He scrunches his eyes shut like he can stop his pain with enough concentration. He pushes through and says, “He works for your father, doesn’t he? I remember him at that party. He was with the security team.”

“Yes,” you admit. “He works for him. In a way.”

“And you still trust him?” Hyunjin laughs. He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “That’s just stupidity.”

“It is not.”

“He works for your father and takes his money and you still trust him not to betray you? That’s stupid.”

“It’s not.” Frustration bubbles inside you. You want to grab him and shake him around, like you can sift through and find the real Hyunjin underneath all this. “I know I can trust him completely.”

“You can’t possibly know that for sure,” he says. “He’ll betray you for the right price. Everyone has a price. You don’t think there’s something he’d trade you for?”

That does sting, if only infinitesimally, as you recall Felix and his conflicting desires. But you do not begrudge Felix for his life choices. He was an impressionable boy, raised to follow orders with no thoughts of his own. It made him wise in some ways and naïve in others. He fell into a bad bargain with a scheming man and found himself trapped. He was forced to make difficult decisions. It was not about choosing you or Chris. You would never make it about that.

“Felix loves me,” you say. “And I love him. You’re right. There are things he wants desperately. But he doesn’t have to trade me for it. He knows I would surrender myself willingly to see him happy. Just like I know, no matter what else happens, he will always come back for me. No matter where they hide me. No matter where I hide myself. No matter what men like my father do to him. We choose each other.”

“Everyone breaks,” Hyunjin says weakly. “No one’s that strong.”

“Not on their own, maybe,” you say. “We’re not alone.”

There was so much ice in his feigned arrogance that you are startled when Hyunjin starts crying. He covers his face with his hands. His shoulders shake and his breath hitches.

“Hyunjin,” you say, your own voice breaking. You rush up to him in a flustered hurry. You touch his head and his shoulders, trying to peer at him through his fingers. “Hyunjin, talk to me, please,” you beg. “Something else is wrong, isn’t it? Hyunjin, why are you here? Where are your parents? Why did my father call yours?”

“My parents are dead,” he barely manages to speak, gasping between his hiccupping cries. “It’s just me. They came for me and my father was difficult, he asked for too much, and they— and I—”

“They?” you say.

It is then you see it. You are clutching his shoulder and it tugs at his blazer. A shirt button pops open and your eyes drop to the exposed bruises across his collarbone. You blink in disbelief at the horrible mosaic beaten into his skin, angry welts of red and purple and yellow. It seems to go all the way down his chest. When you part the material of his shirt, something else catches your eye.

You freeze.

“Oh,” you say. “Hyunjin.”

He is wired. Someone is listening. Your father is listening.

You stop breathing for a moment. The world gets quiet. You look at Hyunjin. An old friend showing up at your house out of nowhere, presented like an offering. Jisung was not important enough for your father to remember, but Hyunjin is a different matter. He is rich if not wealthy. His parents were upwardly mobile, his father the kind of pathetic rich man who thought he was equal to a man like your father. Willing to do awful things to his own son to keep him in his clutches, then selling him to the highest bidder if it meant advancement. His only mistake was asking for too much when he was ultimately expendable. There are always more where he came from.

You want to be wrong. Your father is a busy man. He would not waste time finding Hyunjin and putting him through so much just for this, just to corner you into a confession. But you know he did. This is exactly what he would do. He moves like a coward, killing civilians and poisoning innocent boys, then he makes a show of throwing it in your face.

He always told you friendship was beneath you. What a way to prove it.

“I think you’ve fallen in with a bad crowd,” you say, forcing a laugh through the gathering tears.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, a tearful whisper. He touches your arms like he wants to hug you, but holds himself back.

“Me too,” you say. You warned him a long time ago that befriending you was dangerous. You wish you had been wrong.

You pull him into a hug and he immediately envelopes you, his arms around your shoulders and yours around his waist. He chokes out a sob and squeezes you so tight that your breath catches. Then he just holds you there.

You do not know if it is his cologne or his shampoo, but it smells so familiar. It takes you back to that treehouse, looking over a glittering neighbourhood as the sun set and he dreamed about the dawn.

“I still remember that rhyme, you know,” you say. The address of that cabin, written in a rhyming lilt that you never forgot. “If you ever have a chance again… promise me you’ll try…”

He chokes out another sob.

“How can you still care about what happens to me?” he asks. “What about you?”

“I’ll be fine,” you say. It is spoken calmly, for all that it is a lie. “Promise me?”

He just nods, then pulls you closer again.

You cling to him for as long as you can. It gives you the strength to stay upright despite your shaking legs, even when you hear footsteps coming down the stairs. You brace yourself for the worst, halfway expecting the whole house to erupt in a violent explosion.

It is just a guard. He says, “Time to go, Hwang. Visit’s over.”

You want to keep hugging. You feel like you will fall through the floor if he lets you go. He is just as reluctant, but withdraws when the guard steps into the room. He does not look at you as he leaves, head down as he trails towards the stairs.

“Goodbye, Hyunjin,” you say.

It stops him for a moment. He nods then continues. There is nowhere else to go but back up those stairs.

You are left standing by yourself in the middle of the room. The mirror wall makes the space feel never-ending. You look at your reflection. You look so rough already, scarred from your kidnapping, tear-streaked from crying. Your hands tremble uncontrollably. You remember a younger version of yourself sitting in front of this mirror with Felix, for a moment feeling like a normal girl with her boy. His touch brought you to life. He made you feels things you thought you would never feel.

It will be your own voice your father plays back to you, your own confession betraying you.

You will not be sorry for it.

You look at yourself and wipe your face. You take a breath. You walk to the stairs, one step after another. There are guards upstairs but they pay you no mind. They have clearly received no orders, not yet. You could try to make a run for it, but you would not get far on your own.

Instead, you go upstairs to your room. You look around like it is the last time you will ever see it. You know that is not true, logically. Your father will not kill you, but there are fates just as devastating.

You walk through the room. It is plainly decorated with a mix of things owned by you and Felix. For all that this house is not a home, you carved a shared space in this room. You sit on the bed and study everything from discarded clothes to books to computer parts.

Something compels you to open the drawer on his side of the bed, that same single drawer you allotted when he first moved in. A ragged old beanie sits at the bottom of it, the first thing he ever owned. You fold it over in your hand and squeeze it like a talisman, like it will infuse you with some magic to endure whatever storm is blowing your way.

You cross the room and touch a few more things. You find some university textbooks and your heart aches with the desire to return to those times. You lived a fleeting few years like you were completely free, in love and happy and home.

You will probably never see Seungmin or Jeongin again, but it brings you some peace to know they will live good lives. You will never forget their willingness to intervene on your behalf despite the odds being so stacked against them. Maybe they were not very good at it, smacking chairs and throwing drinks, but you will remember them fondly. You wish you could say goodbye.

With that thought, you pause. Your gaze drifts to your computer.

You cannot say goodbye to Seungmin or Jeongin, but you can say goodbye to someone else.

You never wanted to risk contacting Jisung from home, just in case your father was found out. But everything is ending today, one way or another. There is nothing more you can lose. You will take some comfort in a final word to an old friend before you are sealed in this gilded mausoleum.

You sit at your computer. You log into the blank profile you made some time ago. It is hard to tell if you are nervous because your stomach is so twisted in knots already, but you think there might be some happy anticipation. You try to manage your expectations because there is a chance Jisung did not read the messages, seeing as they came from a blank account.

You should have known better than to doubt him. You log in to several new messages, laughing from the first line.

OH MY GOD!!!!!!!! IT’S YOU????? MY GIRL!!!!!!!

Okay sorry about that I am totally so cool I promise. I’m just in shock.

I know you told me not to, but just so you know, I spent a year trying to reach you...

Well, actually, I spent like four months crying my eyes out and being miserable and pathetic first.. On god, I eyed a jar of peanut butter with some serious thought for a minute there!!! But then no, no way. I had to keep going.

I tried to find you. Your bitch ass dad is famous because he’s an ugly rich loser so his properties are listed all over a million websites. I found the one in town where you must live and I rode my bike there a bunch of times but uhhhhh yeah much to my eternal disappointment I am not James Bond and that security system was insane. Don’t even get me started on when all the dudes in the army gear kept showing up.

On an unrelated note it’s way harder to buy explosives than you’d think.

Just want you to know I did try to get in there. You were never alone even if you felt like it.

But it sounds like you’re not alone anyway HELLLL YEAHHHHH she is getting SOOOME. All jokes aside I am crazy happy for you. You deserve it for real. He better be treating you right though or I WILL find a way through that gate and I WILL kick his ass. Just say the word and I will be there in a heartbeat.

He goes on for a while, the whole length of his message making you smile. When you did not respond, he sent a few more, spaced further and further apart from each other. The last message he sent was just a few days ago.

Hey I don’t know if you’re getting these. I like to think so. You don’t have to answer if you are. I know you are in a dangerous spot. Or maybe you’re not anymore and you got out. In that case, I hope you never read these. I hope you’re out there living your best life. Maybe we’ll cross paths again but if not, I count myself lucky for knowing you at all. I think we’re both slightly insane and everyone else I meet is way too normal haha.

What I’m trying to say is I miss you like crazy. I hope we can laugh together again someday. Even if we never do, let’s say we will. Keep smiling till I’m there. Catch ya later crazy girl.

You smile. Then emotion takes over, tears returning as you lay your hands on the keyboard to type a response.

You have just hit send when there is a knock at your door, then it is opened without your permission. You turn and look at the stoic guard who beckons you forward.

“Your father is home,” he says. “He wants a word.”

You nod. You spare one last look at you screen before logging out and shutting down. You are certain it is the last message you will get to send. A warmth fills your chest regardless. You know it will reach Jisung. His laughter and energy fills you with the strength you need to walk steadily out that door and down the hall.

Hi Jisungie.

Thank you for your messages. I just read them all now. It wasn’t easy for me to check them before, but I did it today because it might be the last time I have an opportunity to do so. My father found out about my love affair and seeing as it was with the one person he could not afford to lose, I have no doubt that a reckoning is on its way. I thought he was bad before, but he has only gotten worse over the years. I am sure this betrayal will put him over the edge.

I do not know what is going to happen. I was scared until I read your messages. They truly made me smile. You have always made me a little braver. I think I got less rebellious over the years because I got scared, but now… The worst has happened and I’m still here.

I will figure it out. But in case I never get the chance to talk to you again, I just wanted to say thank you one more time. I miss you too, Jisungie. I think about you so much. I wish I could laugh with you again, the kind of laughter where nothing is all that funny but we can’t stop anyway. Thank you for the times we did.

I am happy to have lived my life because I knew you. I appreciate all the good times so much more because of the hard times. You were a one-of-a-kind friend. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.

Keep smiling for me.

Goodbye.

Your father is behind his desk.

There is no one else in the room. They close the door behind you. You walk calmly up to the desk and take a seat in your usual spot. You sit as straight as you can, perched on the edge of the seat. You are still lower than him, but you feel bigger and stronger than you have ever felt in your life.

Your father draws out the silence, perhaps waiting for you to break down. You stare at each other. When he opens his mouth to speak, you interrupt him. You are uninterested in games and dramatic embellishments, which you know he will indulge. You simply ask, “What did you do to Hyunjin?”

“I would not worry about the Hwang boy if I was you,” your father says spitefully. “You have bigger concerns—”

“And yet I am asking about him,” you snap. “What are you doing with him?”

“What I do with everything when it is no longer useful to me,” he says.

It is the answer you were expecting but it still draws your rage like a magnet. It punches out of you, your eyes wet with tears when you say, “You’re pathetic.”

“How many times must you suffer humiliation at my enemy’s hands before you understand that none of this is a game?” His voice rises as he speaks. “Do you want to be out on the streets? Do you want to be brutalized? Do you want—”

“I would rather die rotting in the sewers with Felix than spend even one more minute under your roof,” you say.

You wonder what surprises your father more: the vicious tone or your blatant confession. It stuns him into silence. You know you have disrupted his script. There is little sense in taunting you with your words if you utter them plainly before he can try.

“I see,” your father settles on saying. He presses a button on his desk and the buzzer in the corridor resounds. “Let’s put that to the test, shall we?”

The door opens and several guards usher inside. You spare them a fleeting glance before your attention narrows to the figure between them.

“Felix!” You stand but cannot reach him. He is surrounded by guards and they will not let you touch a hair on his head.

He moves like he is completely boneless, evidently drugged with something to make him bleary and slow. He thumps heavily onto his knees when they put him there. His eyes are hazy as he looks around the office. They pause on you, flicking up and down, then he smiles through the pain.

The pain. It is not just a drug. He looks like he went a few rounds with a cement wall, his lip split and his jaw bruised. His bandaged hand is soaked through with blood, the rest him as battered. His injuries disappear beneath his shirt and pants but you know it is not a pretty sight. You swallow down the bile in your throat before looking at your father.

“He’s your best asset,” you say. “You can’t lose him.”

“Oh? Can’t I?” your father asks. “Can’t I? Can’t I? You think you know something? You think you can tell me what to do? You, when all you do is destroy what I make? I give you everything and this—this is how you—” His yelling sharpens to a shriek before he starts breaking things. It pulls Felix further out of his haze, his eyes tracking the frantic movements as your father smashes a vase near your feet.

You think about that tiny shard of glass from last time, the miniscule thing that started it all. It makes you laugh even though nothing is funny. Laughter is an emotional output just like crying, so it pours out of you with no regard for the actual gravity of the situation.

It only worsens your father’s rage.

“Does something here amuse you?” he asks, but you are laughing too hard to answer. There is a vein throbbing in his forehead and you imagine it bursting. You imagine all your problems solving themselves as he drops dead from his own rage. The image is even funnier because you truly cannot imagine this man dying. He is a monster. If you stab him, you fear he will just mutate and come back worse.

“You want to laugh?” he snaps. He crosses the room to Felix. “Laugh.”

He holds out his hand and someone places a gun in his open palm. This snaps you out of your delirious giggles, a winded whoosh spilling out of you.

Your father does not execute action himself. He always puts the gun in someone else’s hand. The fact he is pointing it at Felix should tell you that his threat is not serious.

But he has never been this furious, his anger a white hot cascade of fire. Felix is just inches from the barrel of the gun. Even an inexpert marksmen like your father could drive a bullet between his eyes.

So the moment he grips the weapon, you shout, “Stop!”

Your father looks at you with a cock of his head, satisfied with your reaction.

Then he jumps back because Felix rushes to his feet, most of the fog dissipated. Your father’s stupid men did not think for a moment that Felix would repeat a strategy. Just days before he allowed himself to be captured so he could rescue you. It seems he has done that again, feigning the depth of his condition. He swings to his feet and kicks out.

His injuries restrict his movement. He is good at ignoring pain but his body overrides his consciousness. He fights nonetheless, struggling with the guards while you watch.

You look around for something that can help. You snatch a paper weight off the desk and prepare to throw.

Your father is a step ahead of you. Suddenly you are staring down the barrel of a gun, your father on the other end, fuming.

“No—!” Felix says before he is beaten down. With his attention diverted, a guard kicks the back of his legs. His knees buckle and he goes down with a groan.

You look at him then flick your eyes back to your father. You raise both hands and lift a challenging eyebrow.

“You want to do this?” you ask. “Really? After everything?”

“After everything,” your father says. “Exactly my words. A house, an education, unending protection. You want for nothing. All I ask in return is obedience and you cannot even grant me that. You have the audacity to betray me for this animal.” He waves the gun around like the clumsy, ungainly thing he is. It makes a few heads duck, including yourself. You fear this man will kill someone without even trying. It makes it hard to listen, which might be for the best, as he goes on a long tirade about privilege and position and loyalty.

He starts merely angry but it turns downright diabolical.

“And you.” He turns to Felix. “I dug you out of Miroh’s gutter! I made you a bargain! I gave your meaningless life purpose! You are nothing without me. How dare you think to take what is mine. How dare you think you are anything more than a dog. How long have you kept this secret? How am I supposed to trust it is the last? You are a liar. For all I know you are lying about everything. Is that it? Are you a spy, feeding reports back to Miroh? Is that why I can never succeed in my missions? Have you been—”

Felix bursts into laughter. His face scrunches with delight, his cheeks dimpled. The low rumble of his laughing voice sounds real, honest amusement at the proclamation. It fades to a sigh, then he looks up.

You have never seen such a dark glare shadow his features, made all the more horrifying thanks to his bloody injuries. It makes your stomach drop even though it is not directed at you.

“You fail at all your missions because you’re an incompetent idiot,” Felix says. “You couldn’t even control two children. What makes you think you can control Miroh?”

“Have you forgotten our bargain?” your father yells, waving the gun towards Felix again. “You lie and trick your way into my household and still expect—”

“Our bargain,” Felix spits the word and some blood sprays out. He spits the rest on the floor and shakes his head. “I know he’s dead. You killed him a long time ago.”

The room is quiet for a moment. Your father is still holding the gun, though it dangles at his side. He and Felix stare each other down. Although Felix is kneeling, his sinister stare is far more terrifying than your father’s blank gaze. But then that empty gaze turns cold and your father smiles, one of those sharp smiles that opens like a slash across his face.

“Now how would you know that,” your father says, “if you are not a spy for Miroh?”

“One of Miroh’s men told us at the warehouse,” you interrupt. It earns you nothing but a wrathful glare from your father. He gestures to you and a guard puts a threatening hand on your shoulder.

“You will speak when spoken to,” your father snaps. He looks at Felix again. “Oh. Yes. You. Whoops. I very nearly forgot, it was so long ago when I killed your friend. Does that make you sad? Poor little boy. You should have remembered your place. Your kind are born to die for men like me.”

“Men like you,” Felix says. Mourning will have to wait so he laughs because he cannot cry. “You’re pathetic. Not a surprise, though, yeah? Since your father took care of everything before I killed him—oh. Whoops.” He tilts his head and smiles, speaking with the same saccharine tone your father just used to mock him. “It was so long ago. I almost forgot I shot your daddy in the fucking head. Does that make you sad? Poor little boy. You should have remembered your place and stayed behind your walls. You’ll never be a man like him.”

Your father has never looked so stricken. You did not even know his face could contort such a way. It makes him look very human for the few heartbeats that it lingers. You can almost picture a younger version of your father, breaking under the fist of his father before him.

Then he schools himself. Once more, the untouchable monster stands before you. The gun wobbles only a little when he raises it, taking aim at Felix.

“Stop!” you shout. You were just picturing the passing of generations, so maybe that explains why your panicked brain compels you to blurt, “You can’t kill him! I’m pregnant!”

This time every head in the room swivels towards you. Even the other guards do not hide their surprise. Your father stares, jaw agape, and Felix looks just as bewildered. You feel bad because you can see thought flickering behind his eyes, wondering if maybe you are telling the truth. It makes his face change, pain flashing. Panic seeps into his veins.

“Excuse me?” your father says.

You almost trip on the chair. Your knees knock and your voice shakes when you say, “You heard me.”

“I know what I heard.” At least it succeeds in garnering your father’s attention. He forgets about Felix entirely as he stalks towards you, gun clutched in his undoubtedly sweaty hand. “My problem lies in understanding how this can be.”

“Well,” you say slowly. “I can’t imagine you really want me to explain that—”

You father backhands you across the face. You careen into his desk, barely catching yourself.

“It could work in my favour yet,” your father says. “Start fresh. Fix where I went wrong with you. Because you are an irredeemable and entirely lost cause.”

This baby is not even real yet you panic at the thought. It unspools an infinite and horrifying future, this house an eternal monstrosity birthing a new generation of tyrant and monster. Hurting and contorting everyone in the family name for the sake of maintaining that vast estate.

This has to stop.

“Of course I am,” you say. You take a long, steadying breath, then you push yourself upright. You turn to your father and meet his gaze, aware of the gun but feigning complete nonchalance. “I can’t believe it has taken you this long to realize it,” you say. “You lost me a long, long time ago. You want to control everything because you’re scared of losing anything. But you’ve already lost what you were trying so hard to protect and you can never, ever get it back. I will not continue what your father started. I will not be what you have become. I am not like you and I am proud of that. I am proud that I love my friends, and Felix, despite how much you tried to stop me. But I am me and I am not scared.”

You dive at him, a vicious tackle spurred by that hurricane of emotion inside you. You tackle him so quickly that it takes the guards a second to react. The gun clatters to the floor as it flies out of his hand. He throws up his fists to protect his face when you swing down with all your might. What you lack in physical strength you compensate with drive, slamming your fists down without care for where they land, again and again and again.

Then someone grabs you by the collar and yanks. It is one of the guards, pulling you to your feet. Your father shrieks and hollers like a wounded dog, snarling and frothing like one too. He gets to his feet and swings at you.

Felix rises, struggling to reach you. You stretch out your hand, your fingertips touching before you are yanked apart from each other. You cry out, struggling in the guard’s death grip to no avail. Felix is fighting the other guards but his injuries put him at a disadvantage.

You are dragged away from the chaos. Your father picks up the discarded gun on his way.

“Take her outside!” he shouts at the guard, then turns to the mess in his office. “Don’t waste your energy. Shoot the boy.”

“No!” you scream, so guttural you hardly recognize the sound. You cry as gunshots ring in the office, but you lose sight of the skirmish as you are dragged, kicking and screaming, down the stairs and out the front door.

You curse at your father and the guard, bits of your shirt ripping when you fight to escape. You are smacked and twisted, your shoulder popping so painfully that it makes you wail.

“Stop it, stop it!” You are fully sobbing, either from pain or panic. It does no good as you are dragged into the night. The grand driveway is lit like a stage awaiting players, lamps and towers beaming over the pavement. The gate opens to the street beyond. It is pitch black. There are no other houses on this hillside, the estate sprawling across its expanse, so there are no streetlights. A black car is parked on the curb. It feels like a chariot to the underworld, black and swallowed by shadow. You are as good as dead. Felix might be truly dead.

You struggle some more but you are in so much pain. Your father is shouting directions at the guard and it splits his attention. His grip loosens and you successfully break free.

You do not hesitate. You run into the street, straight through the pitch black. If you run far enough, you will eventually reach a proper street leading into the city. You do not even care which direction you go. You just run, ignoring the screaming pain in your muscles as your feet hit the pavement.

A gunshot pierces the quiet night. You stumble to a stop, throwing your hand up over your heart. You touch your chest, expecting to find a bloody wound. But there is nothing, not a single drop. You were not shot.

You spin around and watch the guard fall to the ground, a bullet in his head. Your father turns too, holding his own gun at the approaching figure.

Your knees almost buckle as relief washes over you, Felix storming down the driveway with a gun of his own raised at your father. Felix is badly wounded, but even at his worst he is a far better shot than your father. They both know it too, staring each other down as Felix gets closer and closer.

“Stop where you are!” your father screams, his voice breaking.

Felix ignores him, gun still raised. Your father fires a shot that goes wide. Felix does not even blink as it ricochets off a wall. He walks calmly to the sidewalk where your father stands. He does not smirk or gloat. He just looks at the frightened man who terrorized the world to make himself feel better, and he lines up a shot.

Felix pulls the trigger.

Nothing happens.

His brow furrows before his face twists with fury. The gun has jammed or it’s out of bullets, but either way it is useless. He lowers his arm, the gun dangling from his hand as he stares at your father.

Your father just laughs, a ridiculous and semi-hysterical laugh as he stumbles back but never lowers the gun. Felix is much closer now. Even your father could not miss this shot.

Felix drops his gun and smiles weakly.

“She’s funny, you know,” Felix says. “And smarter than anyone I know. She picks up on things everyone else misses. It’s too bad you can’t see it. But then, you’re not like her.”

“Shut up,” your father snaps. “You have exceeded your uses, boy.”

You realize you are running. Even before the conscious thought reaches your mind, your body spurs you into action. Instinct commandeers control and you hand yourself over to it. Felix looks up just as you emerge from the dark. He sees your face for a split second, enough time for him to realize what you are doing and shout, “Stop!”

Your father’s finger is already on the trigger. A shot rings out and this time it does hit you, sharp and searing as you dive in front of Felix.

The gun hits the ground. Your father looks at you with petrified eyes. Felix catches you, supporting your weight as he sinks to his knees with you in his arms.

“Sweetheart,” he says, touching your face, your neck, your chest. “Sweetheart, look at me. Stay with me.”

The pain is excruciating, like nothing you have ever felt before. You cannot even tell where it is coming from. It feels like your neck and shoulder and heart all at once. It radiates and burns. The pain is so overwhelming that you do not notice the wet, tacky feeling of blood. You see it before you feel it, all over Felix’s fingers as he finds the bullet wound in your shoulder.

“It’s okay,” he says, barely more than a gasp. His chest is rising and falling rapidly. You scream in agony when he grabs your shoulder and squeezes it hard in his fist. “I know, I know,” he says. “It exited clean. There’s nothing vital there. You’ll be okay, sweetheart, I got you. I just have to staunch the blood. We just have to—” His voice breaks on a sob and he looks up at your father, his hand covered in your blood and his rage as red on his face. “We have to get her help. Now.”

Your father’s response is to pick up the gun. He nearly drops it, his shaking hands clammy, but he gets an unsteady grip eventually. He points it at Felix again.

“Are you fucking serious?” Felix shouts in aggravation. “Your daughter is going to bleed to death if you don’t do something. Put the fucking gun down!”

“Get away from her,” your father says. “Get away from her and put your hands up. I’ll get her help.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head then crying when pain lances down your neck. “No, Felix. Don’t.”

Your father will not take another shot at Felix, not with you in his arms. Your father might want to control you, but he does not want you dead. You are the only thing that is protecting Felix now. If he moves, he dies.

“Don’t go,” you beg. “Felix, please.”

“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart,” Felix says. He looks up at your father, venom in his voice as he asks, “Are you really going to stand there and let your daughter die?”

“Are you going sit there and let her die?” your father retorts. “Get away from her and I will save her.”

You feel Felix twitch. He presses his fingers a little harder, stopping a rush of blood. It makes you weep and you plead, “Felix no. Please. I can’t watch that. I’d rather it end like this.”

“Don’t say that.” Felix looks down at you. His bloody hand is shaking, tears spilling down his cheeks as he looks at you. “Nothing’s ending. You’re gonna be fine.”

“It never ends,” your father babbles. He almost drops the gun when he trips over the lip of the sidewalk, stumbling backwards into the street as he stares at you. You stare back, wondering if it is your blurry vision or if he is really crying. All you can see is him wiping his face, the gun trembling in his hand. “It just keeps going,” he says. “Only I can end it.”

He is taking aim again. You cannot tell if he is aiming for you or Felix, maybe some half-baked delirious plan in his twisted mind to put you out of your misery and take Felix with you.

Felix does not have time to attack. He can only curl his body around yours to protect you from the shot.

Then a beam of light shatters the dark. It flies up the street, illuminating your father. He looks in that direction. Everyone is drowning in their sobs and it is all so loud that it takes a second to hear it: the heavy, growling drone of a speeding car, hurtling ever closer. The white of a high-beam headlight blinds your father with lightning hot intensity.

It is the last thing he ever sees.

Felix is as startled as you. You both cry out in horrified shock. He blocks your body to shield you from the sudden and unexpected gore. Noiseless convulsions tremble through your whole body as you stare up at Felix, not understanding what just happened.

You both look over as the car rapidly reverses, disappearing just as quickly as it came. In its wake is your father, or what remains of him.

Just like that, the whole world tilts on its axis.

You cannot comprehend what you are seeing. This man was a towering, nightmarish monstrosity, bigger than life and death, holding the world in his fist. Even he desperately believed in his own mythology. It seems impossible that he could be that nightmare but also be this, a broken and very human body, muscle and gristle and protruding bone, half flattened to the tarmac. A sudden and entirely undignified death, comically animal, and as lowly as everything he ever disparaged.

You and Felix stare at him, at the mess of his ruined dead body on the dark street. It is so, so quiet. The house is so still. The street is empty. You can hear the soft buzz of the floodlights.

You make a hurt noise. Felix looks down with a perplexed shake of his head. But he only has a moment to mind you, his mouth open with some unspoken thought, when you hear the car again.

You both look over, your heart racing and your blood spilling over his hand. He is wearing his most determined face, braced to face an adversary.

You do not know who to anticipate. It makes no sense for Miroh to be here. He would not have known anything unusual was transpiring at this house tonight. How could he know to send someone? Yet it is the only thing that makes sense. The only person who could have taken down someone like your father would be someone just like him.

You are braced for the worst when the car comes to a stop. The dead body looks more grotesque as the headlights flash over it.

The driver does not turn off the engine. You hear the patter of frantic footsteps before the silhouette is illuminated by the car lights. Wide eyes meet yours and your heart stutters. Your tears are halted by the face staring back at you.

“Oh my god,” Jisung says. “That was the bad guy, right?”

Felix reacts first, a bark of laughter made in disbelief as he stares at your startled best friend.

Han Jisung is both the same and different, with a flop of dark hair and big brown eyes, but years have passed, leaving him bulkier and more mature. He pushes a pair of glasses up his nose, the wide frames only exaggerating his eyes, making it very easy to hold his gaze when he looks at you.

“Jisung,” you say, and start crying all over again. “Jisung.” You cannot seem to find another word. You just gasp his name between sobs.

Jisung practically flies towards you, landing on his knees.

“Hey, stranger,” he says, carefully touching your cheek. “You’ve looked better, I’m not gonna lie.”

You laugh even though it hurts, reaching for him with a shaking hand. He takes it despite it being sticky with blood, cupping it safely in his own.

“You’re here,” you say. “How? Why?”

“Of course I’m here,” he replies in a soft voice. “I got in my car as soon as I saw that goodbye message.” He gently squeezes your hand. “You didn’t think I’d let you get away twice, did you?”

Your laugh is more of a sob, in too much pain to truly smile. Felix asks Jisung to help, showing him where to apply pressure. Jisung complies, holding you while Felix tugs off his shirt. It leaves him in a tank top, all his scars and bruises on display. You want to fuss over him too but he gives you no opportunity to linger, using his shirt as a makeshift tourniquet for your wound.

“So your boyfriend is Felix,” Jisung says while he works. “That’s great. I was rooting for you two crazy kids. Felix had a pretty obvious crush on you in high school. I didn’t say anything because you kinda seemed to hate his guts but I guess that’s not true anymore. You had some bigger bastards to hate. Speaking of, that was your dad I got right? I mean, I didn’t even think, I just saw him waving that gun around and I hit the pedal. Next thing I knew—ohhh shit, Felix, you’re really strong, what the fuck, man. Have you been working out—”

Felix scoops you into his arms and stands. His usual unwavering strength falters just a little, his injuries protesting his action. You tell him to put you down because it will do no good for you both to collapse. Jisung stands and helps steady you. They both lay a hand on your back, taking some of your weight as your feet touch the ground and you wobble.

“That’s my girl,” Jisung says. “Oh man, that’s a lot of blood, ha ha ha – AHH. No, it’s fine, we’re okay. Careful—”

“Jisung,” Felix says, looking past you to meet his eye. “Are you okay?”

A more than fair question considering how fast everything just happened. Jisung stops rambling and takes a few deep breaths before he answers.

“Okay, yeah,” he says. “Totally fine. For now.”

“Okay,” Felix says. “Because I need you to take her while I—”

Your ignore their conversation. Your eyes are on your father. You cannot even call it his body; it is a carcass. His lower half is gored but his face is mostly whole. You half-expect his mouth to open with a wailing shout. You are so distracted with the thought, you misstep and your weak ankles give out. You are spared a kiss with the pavement when Jisung catches you. It is a haphazard embrace, throwing his arms around you to keep you upright.

“Can you take care of her until I get back?” Felix asks.

“Uh-huh. Yes,” Jisung says. He puts his growing bulk to use and lifts you into his arms, bridal style. You cannot move your shoulder to lift your arms around him, but you rest your head in the curve of his neck as he carries you to his car.

His car. Hysterical giggles bubble inside you, quashed only by the physical ache of your body. Han Jisung really raced back into your life and annihilated the worst of your demons by driving right at him.

Years of nightmares and beatings and pain. Years of your father lording his power over you and the world. Years of believing he was terrifying and untouchable.

Jisung always said it was that easy. He was just a teenager, lookingat the impossible powers that surrounded his friend but believing whole-heartedly he could save her anyway. You argued and pushed him away, but he knew better all along. Jisung was not cowed by money and influence, not impressed or frightened by men like your father who ravaged the world and gloated about it. Jisung had no power or influence of his own but that didn’t matter. He saw his friend was in a bad situation and he wanted to save you. So he did.

He carefully rests you in the passenger seat. In the time it takes him to circle to the driver’s side, you break down crying. The pain exacerbates it, your body seeking release, but it is sentiment that pours out of your heart.

Jisung gets in, looking very startled. He adjusts his glasses.

“Did it get worse?” he asks, reaching for you with a bloody hand. You look at it, you look at him, very literally stained with blood on your behalf. He is staying composed but you can see the jitters under his skin. He just killed someone for you. It might have been a panicked, spur of the moment decision, but the end result was the same. Even though your father was not a good man, taking a life is a serious burden.

And here he is, placing that weight aside so he can check on you.

“Jisung,” you say. You wish your hands were not so dirty because you want to touch his face or hold his hand. You satisfy yourself with leaning towards him, touching your forehead to his cheek as you cry.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Jisung says. He shifts so your foreheads are touching, his clean hand cupping your cheek. “I got you, okay? It’s over now. Felix is gonna take care of it and I’m gonna take care of you. It’ll be okay. Don’t be scared, all right?”

“I’m not,” you say. “What did I do to deserve you?”

“You’re my friend,” Jisung says. “You don’t have to do anything to deserve it, okay? Look. I know what will make you feel better.” He reaches past you into the glove compartment. You have no idea what he could possibly have in there that will make you feel better while bleeding out of a bullet wound in the passenger seat of his car, the same car he used to murder your abusive father.

He fishes around then pulls out a bag of spicy peanuts, the same flavour you used to eat all the time in high school. Even though he was allergic, he bought them whenever he found them, just because he knew you liked them.

You take them slowly, staring at the familiar packaging. You sniffle.

“It was always going to be you, wasn’t it?” you say softly. You could cry all over again. “You really came back.”

Of course Jisung saved you. You realize now your father could never be bested by Miroh or someone like him. They would be locked in a perpetual stalemate, predicting each other’s every step, giving and taking and killing in a circle of violence with no end. But Jisung is not like them.

Whether the gesture was big or small, whether it was peanuts or a rescue, it was selfless, and someone like your father would never understand that. He never saw it coming.

“Well, yeah,” Jisung says. “My promise was forever, remember?”

You can only nod, bumping your heads together. Jisung wraps you in a hug then kisses your forehead before buckling in and taking the steering wheel.

“All right,” he says. “We can catch up after. Let’s get away from this place. It’s giving me the creeps.”

It is strange looking at your house on a news report. It makes you feel like you are watching someone else’s life.

You are stitched and showered, sitting on the floor of a twin bed motel room. You are still damp from the shower but each little trickle feels like blood, your jittery fingers constantly swiping at your skin.

Jisung sits behind you on the bed, his legs bracketing you, double checking your stitches. Felix said it was paramount to avoid a hospital or any other institution that would identify you. He told Jisung to book a room at a motel on the highway and wait for him, that he would stitch you up himself when he arrived. Jisung took the initiative, boasting some first aid training for his job at the grocery store.

“Usually I’m putting bandages on a cut finger,” Jisung said, hands covered in blood as he fixed your wound, “but this is, uh, similar I guess. Sort of.”

Felix arrived while you were in the shower. Now he is in there, cleaning himself and minding his own injuries while you and Jisung watch the evening news report. The blinds are closed, rain pelting the canopy over the balcony, but you are tucked away from the storm, hidden from the world as it mourns you.

“A devastating house fire is believed to have left no survivors on the premises,” the reporter says, backdropped with a video of an inferno ravaging your father’s house. “Police are still investigating, but among the suspected dead is a prominent local businessman and his daughter.” They show a portrait of your father and an old yearbook photo of you. That girl looks nothing like the battered woman you are now. You really do feel like you are watching someone’s else story end.

“Wow,” Jisung says, watching too. “How does it feel to be dead?”

You rest your head against his knee, sighing as you stare at the television.

“I’m not dead,” you say, staring at the photo of you. That girl might be dead, but you are very alive.

Felix accidentally swings the bathroom door too hard, the thud like a gunshot in your mind. You jump a mile out of your skin, digging your nails into Jisung’s leg unthinkingly.

“Ah ah ah ah—” Jisung grabs your wrist to pry you off.

“Sorry,” Felix says, truly apologetic. He closes the door with a gentle click then approaches. He sits beside Jisung on the bed, laying his hand on your head and looking you over. “How are you?” Felix asks. He pays no mind to the news report but that is likely because he is responsible for the story they are broadcasting. You know Felix would tell you every detail if you asked, but you decide you do not want to know how he moved the bodies around. It is enough to see the walls of that place burning.

He packed a few things first. A stuffed duffel bag sits on the other bed. Perhaps it should feel daunting, that all you have left is a single bag of necessities, but it feels freeing. You are not burdened by the weight of more. Your hands might be shaking and you might be hurt in more ways than one, but you can exhale.

You take Felix’s hands and kiss his scraped knuckles.

“I’m fine,” you say. “What about you?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he says. He looks more tired than you have ever seen him, but he manages a laugh when you pout at him. “Don’t do that,” he says, flicking your bottom lip. “Just some bad bruises, yeah? I’ll be fine.”

You know he is not fine but you respect his desire for peace. You can check his injuries later when he has settled.

“Well then, what about you, Jisungie?” you ask. You turn around to face him. “How are you?”

“Uh, honestly…” Jisung rakes his fingers through his hair then exhales on a shaky laugh. “I’ll let you know when I know. It’s all a bit—uh—”

“Yeah,” you say, taking his hand. “I know.”

You suspect there will be no proper words for a while. You cannot even think of recovery while your wounds throb. There are still gunshots firing in your mind. When you close your eyes, you see a body on the pavement. You expect a knock at the door and a gun in your face, even though there is no reason for that. Miroh is probably sitting back and laughing at the detonation of your father’s house. Your father’s people and investors will scramble over the company tomorrow. That world will turn without you. You will not miss it.

You struggle to sleep that night. You lay on your back to mind your shoulder but that is not your only grievance. Felix lays beside you where he belongs and Jisung is in the other bed, so you are not alone anymore, but your adrenaline will not dwindle. Now that you have a moment of peace, it feels more chaotic than ever.

When you start breathing harder, Felix wraps an arm around you.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers. He does not ask what is wrong. It is more than self-explanatory. You do not need to speak.

You want to roll over and bury your face in his neck, but you cannot move because of your shoulder. You suffice to hold his arm tight, closing your eyes as his protective embrace surrounds you. His heart beats against your body and you let it lull you into a gentle repose.

You do not sleep for long. There is morning light when you wake but it is a bleary, early grey light. Everything smells a little damp from the rain. This is a small motel, meant to serve as a momentary respite for passing travellers. You cannot stay here.

Felix wakes when you do. After a few morning kisses, he rises to use the washroom. Jisung is still fast asleep in his bed, his cheek squished and his hair a shaggy mess on the pillow. You smile, looking at him. There is a gap between the beds but he is close enough to touch if you stretch. You content yourself with looking, thinking about how lucky you are to have him again. It is a light and happy thought, but it darkens very swiftly when you recall what he did to save you. It is going to weigh on him, whether all at once or in pieces.

The weight of trauma will be a heavy burden, but you are alive to carry it. There are others who are less lucky. You think about Hyunjin and your heart strains, recalling his final miserable departure. Your father implied he had Hyunjin killed. If he was not bluffing to antagonize you, then Hyunjin did not stand a chance.

You are sniffling with tears when Jisung blinks awake. He mutters in groggy gibberish before reaching for his glasses. His tired voice is tinged with concern when he asks, “What is it? Do you need something?”

“No,” you say, wiping your tears. “I was just thinking I know where I want to go next.”

It is hard to talk about Hyunjin so you opt for vagueness over specificity. The boys do not question the subject of the cabin when you mention his name. You do not tell them he might be dead. You feel like if you speak it out loud, it will make it true.

It will take a week to reach the cabin by car. Jisung helps you loads the necessities into the back a truck that Felix procured, only questioning its seeming manifestation after the fact.

“I stole it,” Felix answers.

“You stole a car?” Jisung asks. It is a good thing the motel parking lot is empty because he practically shouts it, like stealing a car is the most horrifying thing he has ever heard. You remember how you had the same reaction the first time Felix stole a vehicle.

It makes you laugh when Felix draws his lips into a thin line, shaking his head at Jisung. He turns to you and says, “You two really are identical, you know?”

“What does that mean?” Jisung asks.

“I said the same thing the last time he stole a car,” you say.

“Dude!” Jisung whips around. “You stole two cars?”

“You know I’ve killed people, right?” Felix says dryly.

“Well yeah, I mean, who hasn’t,” Jisung says with a nervous giggle.

You whack him on the arm and shake your head. “That’s not funny,” you say.

“It’s a little funny,” he whispers while you roll your eyes.

Though you want to keep him at your side, it feels selfish to ask Jisung to come with you. He has a life here and he has already done so much to help you. But he surprises you by emphatically volunteering himself, saying he at least wants to help get you there.

“I don’t think I could just walk back into my normal life tomorrow like nothing happened,” Jisung says, tucking you under one arm. “I don’t know what’s gonna happen next. Can’t control it. But I know where I want to be right now. I’ll figure out the rest after.”

So you take to the road, your destination a small cabin far away from your old life. You stop along the way, at first for food and other necessities, mostly stolen by Felix, but then for pleasure when you drive through towns with interesting landmarks. On the clearer nights, you sleep in the bed of the truck.

You still do not stop for a real discussion. You indulge the mental break while you can, all three of you taking the time to literally stop and smell the flowers on the journey.

Bandages still need changing. Stitches need minding. The night before your anticipated arrival, you are in another motel room. You and Felix sit in the small kitchenette, playing cards at the tiny table, while Jisung showers and goes about his nightly routine.

You throw down a couple cards. You look at Felix while he studies his hand. The swelling on his face has gone down which is good for numerous reasons. He has been wearing a baseball cap everywhere, the brim pulled low, to stop people from staring.

There is a hard set to his shoulders. It has been like that for a few days. Even in your father’s house, there were moments Felix would soften, namely when he was curled up in your shared bed and the world seemed far away. Maybe he cannot relax because the world is so immediate now. It is strange that potential happiness can cause as much anxiety as its opposite. Perhaps it is because it is so unfamiliar. Your body only knows how to brace itself.

Felix was raised for that express purpose. Road trips and gardens and motel rooms was not in his training. High school corridors and uniforms once baffled him, the mundanity of everyday life more exhilarating and frightening than a battlefield.

You want to smooth his brow and soften his shoulders. He sits like he is holding a breath and you want to draw it out of him. A part of your stirs with arousal at the consideration, thinking how you could do that. You have always found your humanity in that intimate space. But you are both much too injured to try anything heavier than a kiss right now.

This time, you reach across the table and touch his cheek, with no intention but a soft caress. He blinks up at you, the cards forgotten. You do not know what to say. You just touch him.

He cups his hand over yours, holding it to his cheek. He looks at your shoulder and other bruises. It will take you a long time to heal, but nothing is infected. You do not know how his injuries are faring because he will not let anyone look at them. He claims he is fine. You know he is not.

“I love you,” you say. “I swear it gets stronger every day. Is that crazy? Not a day goes by where I am not grateful for you, just as you are.”

He closes his eyes and swallows. He nods.

“I love you too,” he says in a soft, low voice.

When Jisung leaves to get some dinner, Felix proves you wrong about lovemaking. You are too injured for anything vigorous, but he can still lay you down, can still stretch alongside you. He slips his hand beneath your waistband and touches you with long, careful strokes. You unravel in his arms, your sore spots aching but the pain worth the pleasure. You wrap a hand around the back of his neck and tug him down for a kiss. You kiss him until he sighs and rests his forehead to yours.

“Can I please see?” you ask.

He finally acquiesces. His scars are not too bad, more plentiful than painful. He hisses but exhales when you kiss your way across a couple worse marks.

“We’ll find a way to feel better,” you say, grazing your fingertips along his skin. You recall what Jisung said, about how you did not have to deserve love, you just had to accept it. “You don’t need to prove yourself anymore, Felix,” you say. You dance your fingers down his bare chest to his waistband, kissing his shoulder as he sucks in a breath. “Just be with me. Let me love you.”

“Always,” he says, dropping his head back as you touch him. He cups the nape of your neck, squeezing lightly as you flick your wrist and stroke.

You reach the cabin the next day. It is late afternoon when you find the right place, passing a few other cabins before you find a quaint but charming one in the midst of a meadow. The cabin itself does not flaunt much excess, but the meadow is flooded with flowers, a carpet of colour in the late afternoon light that makes it look like a something out of a fairy tale.

The only problem is the smoke in the chimney. The cabin is clearly occupied.

“Is this the right place?” Felix asks. He and Jisung were admiring the meadow while you stared at the cabin, heart palpitating when you realized it was not empty.

“It is,” you say.

“Maybe it’s Hyunjin,” Jisung says.

“It’s not.” You close your eyes. Hyunjin did not say anything about selling the property when you brought it up. But, then again, there was a lot happening in that final exchange. You made him promise he would try to get away if he could, but it might have been an empty platitude. He knew he was going to die. He knew you would never find out anyway.

The distractions of the past week flutter into nothingness as you reckon with the grim reality of the world your father left behind. You hang your head, swallowing hard.

Jisung and Felix stare at you, their faces falling when they realize what you mean.

“How?” Jisung asks.

“My father chased him down,” you say. “He used him. He discarded him. It’s what he does.”

“What he did,” Jisung reminds you. “And maybe Hyunjin got away. We did! That stupid hot weasel was a bitch but he was resourceful as fuck.”

“Jisuuung,” you say, smacking his arm.

“What? I’m not speaking ill of the dead because he’s not dead,” Jisung argues. “And if he was, he wouldn’t want me to suddenly be all fake and nice to him. I annoy him. That’s how I show my love.” He kisses two fingers and waves it at the sky, then flips his middle finger too. You laugh in spite of yourself, shaking your head.

Felix steps behind you and takes your hand. He kisses your cheek. A breeze blows through his hair, his hat in his other hand. The three of you stand in the meadow for a time, looking at the flowers as you contemplate what to do next.

The front door of the cabin opens. You all turn. An apology sits on your tongue, sorry for trespassing on someone else’s property. The sight of you is no doubt disconcerting. Despite showers and meticulous first aid, you all look very rough, three obviously tired and run down people, a little dusty from the road and streaked with dirt from your hike to the cabin.

You look at the person as they stand on the front stoop. Your brow furrows and the apology disintegrates on your tongue, a bemused question poised to take it’s place.

“Minho?” is all you manage.

You have not seen your first teenage crush in many, many years. He looks older but not too different overall. He is still very striking, even in his homey flannel and jeans, standing on the cabin stoop and looking at you with equal confusion.

“Do I know you?” he asks, which makes sense. You might have had a crush on him, but so did half the school. He was a popular guy. He knew Hyunjin but he only met you briefly.

You want to tell him that. You want to say you are friends with Hyunjin but you find it hard to say his name, especially with Minho gazing at you so innocently. Why is he at the cabin? Was he still friends with Hyunjin? He likely does not know he is dead.

You are spared your turmoil when Felix tugs on your arm, a sharp bid for attention. You look at him, bemused, and he nods his head forward. You look past Minho to the open cabin door as another figure steps into view.

All that twisted pain unspools in your chest. You nearly start sobbing in relief.

“Hyunjin!” You ignore the surprised look on Minho’s face and run right past him.

Hyunjin is standing in the doorway, looking wary until he recognizes you. Then his face breaks into a smile and those long limbs jump the porch steps. You trample a few flowers that have grown over the path, meeting in an embrace amidst sprigs of lavender and vibrant hyacinths. It is a very messy embrace, you and Hyunjin both forgetting you are injured. You crash together only to yelp, your shoulder smarting and his bruised chest just as tender. You laugh at each other then hug gently. When your cheek touches his chest, your eyes water.

“Am I dead after all?” you ask thoughtlessly, the beauty of the terrain and the embrace of your friend momentarily making you think so.

Hyunjin laughs and shakes his head. “I thought you were,” he says. “It was all over the news. I thought for sure—”

“I thought for sure you—” You overlap with him, both of you laughing again. “How did you get away?”

“Nothing special,” Hyunjin says. “I was being watched but they were waiting for final orders from your father. Then word got out that he was dead so they just left. I don’t know if they went to investigate or just abandoned post. I didn’t stick around to find out. I packed my things and disappeared the first chance I got.”

“We made a few stops on the journey over,” you say. “I’m not surprised you beat us.”

“I really thought you were—” Hyunjin shakes his head. “And that it was my—”

“It wouldn’t have been your fault anyway,” you say.

“That’s what I told him,” Minho interrupts, his tone quippy but his lips quirked up in a smile. He wiggles his fingers in a wave when you look at him. “So you’re the friend,” he says. “Nice to meet you.”

“I’m the friend’s friend,” Jisung says, skipping into the scene and waving at Hyunjin. “Hey, man. Missed me?”

He is being playful but Hyunjin pulls him into a hug, very obviously surprising Jisung who almost falls right over. Poor Jisung’s face goes red as a rose. You remember his video about having a crush on his high school rival and can’t help but giggle into your palms.

Felix puts a hand on your shoulder, smiling cordially at Minho. “Hi,” he says.

“This is Felix, my—” You look at each other. You lips move as you look for the right word. Bodyguard is not strictly true anymore. Boyfriend and partner sound so very mundane, but you realize that is what you are now. “Boyfriend,” you say, feeling hot with embarrassment for no good reason. You suspect the little things will have you flustered for some time.

“Boyfriend,” Felix repeats, looking quite delighted for a second. You are certain only you see the flicker of sadness that follows. He blinks, his gaze faraway, but he covers it with another smile quickly enough. “Nice to meet you,” he says.

“I guess I’ll have to make a bigger dinner,” Minho says, playfully dry like the idea is a hardship, but smiling a knowing smile at Hyunjin, clearly very happy for him. “Come on then. Get inside already. You’re crushing the tulips.”

The cabin is one floor with a loft. The main bedroom, kitchen and facilities are downstairs, some extra makeshift bedding thrown together in the small sitting area by the fireplace. The upstairs loft is a small second bedroom, sparsely furnished with a mattress and blankets and little else. The ceilings are low but the space is blessedly private. You think it is some of the finest accommodations you have ever stayed in.

You throw yourself on the mattress, curling up with a pillow and blanket. Felix smiles and leans down to kiss the top of your head. When he pulls away, you take his hand, regarding him imploringly.

“Just gonna take a shower,” he says. “Wanna clean up, yeah.”

You nod. Even though you can see he is struggling with something, you let him go. If he is not in the mood to talk, you will wait. A shower will help him feel better.

He takes his bag and climbs back down the ladder. You mean to wait for his return, but you feel such calm at finally reaching your destination. The laughing voices of your friends float up to the loft, putting you even more at ease. You release a breath and lay your head on a pillow. The next thing you know, you are blinking awake. The sky is a purpling pink, the day drawing to a close. You can smell something cooking downstairs. Your friends are still yammering away. Hyunjin’s relentless giggles at Jisung’s goofy jokes makes you smile.

You climb down the ladder and wander into the main room. Felix was not upstairs but he is not with the others either. He must have finished his shower a long time ago now.

“Where’s Felix?” you ask, an edge of panic in your voice.

“He’s just outside,” Minho says from behind the kitchen counter. “He said he just wanted some air.”

“Oh,” you say, feeling a little foolish for panicking without reason. “Right. Thank you.”

“Don’t worry,” Minho says, winking to comfort you. You smile but nonetheless wrap your cardigan tighter around you, feeling a little embarrassed.

Felix has been glued to your side for ten years. Your instinct now panics in his absence, but you realize his absence is a good thing. He does not need to be beside you at all times. He is free to wander if that is what he wants. You are glad he stepped outside for some air, rather than sitting over you.

You step onto the small porch and look across the meadow. You can see a shape sitting among the flowers at the edge of the field, looking down the slope to the park valley below. You cross the flowers, minding where you step. The breeze parts your cardigan and you tug it closed. It is a somewhat clumsy walk overall. Your last few steps are a proper stumble over a rock. You miss it completely, distracted with what you find.

Felix sits with his back to you. You thought he was wearing a hat, but now you can see it is his hair. He dyed it a shock of pitch black and trimmed the edges. It is a messy, jagged cut that you will certainly have to fix later. You suspect he did not spend much time looking in the mirror.

“What’s this?” you ask. “Is this why you wanted to stop at that drug store?”

Felix looks up at you. The dark hair somehow makes his freckles stand out more. He looks different but still very handsome. You think you might be falling in love all over again, a little flushed inside as you sit beside him on the grass.

“Yeah,” he says. He runs his fingers through his hair, glancing up at the dark locks from beneath his lashes. He sighs. “And I don’t know why. I just…”

You put your arm around him, drawing him close to rest his head on your good shoulder. He falls against you, breathing out again. His shoulders droop, losing some of the tension that has plagued him.

“I don’t know what to do now,” he says. “I know this is all good, but I feel like I’ve done something wrong. Like I’m not supposed to be here. And I keep thinking about Chris. How I—” He rubs his face, then chokes tears. “What am I supposed to do with all this life, especially when I couldn’t give him back his?”

He cries properly now and you let him. There is no right thing to say, not that you can think of, so you just hold him until he has expended the worst of his pain through his tears. He takes a few shaking breaths before he sits upright, wiping his face. You rub a circle on his back.

“And you,” he whispers. “It’s like, I feel everything all at once. You call me your boyfriend and I’m happy, then I see you hugging Hyunjin and I think—he knows how to be a person. I don’t know how to be anything.”

“Felix, you know Hyunjin is gay, right?” you ask. You guarded that secret before but seeing as Minho is here at the cabin, you suspect Hyunjin is not keeping it secret anymore.

Felix stutters on a shaking breath, looking momentarily confused.

“Huh? He is?” he asks, then gets a little weepy again, saying, “That’s nice for him.”

“Oh, baby,” you say. You kiss his cheek and snuggle close to him, resting your head on his shoulder. “I don’t know what to say. I’m a mess too. I don’t know how to do any of this right. But I’m pretty sure grieving your friend makes you more of a person, not less.” You look at each other. You touch his cheek and stroke a thumb over his freckles. You think you have them mapped by memory, every last dot. “You’re not alone,” you say. “I want to be with you when things are bad, not just when they’re good. And you and me, we’ve known a lot of bad.”

He laughs, his breath dancing over your lips with your proximity. You smile fondly.

“I think it’s time we feel some good,” you say. “We’ll figure out what that means eventually. Together.”

He draws you close and kisses you, a sweet kiss that deepens. You cuddle when the breeze blows a little harder, the evening chill creeping into the sunset. Still, you do not move, sharing heat between you and sitting among the flowers until the pink has left the sky and a blue evening blurs into the purple wash.

Minho sticks his head out the door to call you in for dinner. You stand first and offer your hand. Felix takes it, then kisses you one more time. You walk back to the cabin, hand in hand.

Warmth wraps around you like a fuzzy blanket when you step inside from the cold. Hyunjin and Jisung are playfully arguing at the table, Minho standing over them and yammering some nonsense back. You and Felix smile at each other before joining them all at the table. After he has served the portions, Minho sits as well.

There is a moment of silence, everyone looking around the table at everyone else. They all looked flushed with warmth and life, Hyunjin smiling and Jisung beaming at you. Felix puts his hand on your knee under the table, squeezing softly. You look at him with another smile, then a laugh, a sound of disbelief that resonates with everyone. You are here, impossibly but truly. You have no idea what happens now.

“I’ll break the ice,” Jisung says. “Because I have a confession, while we’re all here, and Hyunjin has his hot boyfriend cooking us a meal. Hyunjin, my man, I’m sorry for being the dick of all dicks when we were in high school.” Jisung lays a hand on his heart and dramatically makes his confession. Hyunjin’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline as your goofy friend continues, “Turns out having an arch nemesis is super gay. And I was a stupid repressed bisexual who thought furiously staring at you for seven hours a day was a totally normal thing to do. Sorry, man. Congrats on the hot boyfriend, though.”

“I’m not his boyfriend,” Minho says. His elbow is on the table, chin in his hand. He is grinning at Jisung.

“Come again?” Jisung says.

“Not his boyfriend,” Minho says, laughing. “I’m his friend. He was in trouble and asked for my help. I’m a good friend so here I am, helping him get settled. I’m actually married.” He holds up his hand, proudly displaying a wedding band. He giggles some more. “He’s single, though.” He gestures to Hyunjin.

Jisung looks at Hyunjin who has gone very pink in the face. He glances at Jisung and laughs, covering his mouth to try and contain it.

“Oh. Oh. Oh. Yeah. Cool.” Jisung scratches the back of his neck, then his brow, then his chin. He taps the table and nods his head rapidly. “Awesome,” he says. “Well, I’m really glad we clarified that before I made a really ridiculous confession in front of everyone. That would have been super embarrassing for me.”

You all laugh, genuinely as Jisung soaks it in with a silly little grin. The sound of your collective delight fills the cabin before chatter begins again and you start eating.

You glance around the table while taking a bite. Your shoulder aches, and Felix’s bruises are still healing, and you will not be surprised if a nightmare jolts one of you out of sleep tonight. But you will wake beside Felix, you will comfort each other, and you will fall back asleep. You will wake up tomorrow and try it all again.

You know the times ahead will not always be easy. You are ready to make mistakes and try.

It is not a perfect ending, but it is a perfect beginning.

#skz smut #stray kids smut #lee felix smut #lee felix x reader #felix x reader #skz x reader

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devilfic · 7 months ago

Text

❝right place, right time❞

VIII. whatever keeps you around.

parts: previously / next plot: bruce has a proposal for you. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: surgeon!reader, secret identities, slow burn, brief discussion of slight suicidal ideation/martyrdom, drug (and the injection of drugs) mentions, you will not guess what trope I managed to include in here. words: 6.9k. a/n: plotting this series makes me feel like charlie day pointing at a wall of red string

“…You won’t like it.”

It's clear what you have to do. You'd realized it when Gordon came to you, so of course Bruce did too. If you were going to make this right, you would have to face this head on. "I know what I have to do," you start, "I need to lure him out."

Bruce's expression shifts. Whatever you've said seems to be the wrong answer, "That... won't be necessary."

"What? What else can I do?"

"What did Gordon tell you about Dimitri?"

Your head throbs as you recall the memory, "Uh... he said he believes I'm next on Dimitri's hit list. He also said Dimitri hadn't anticipated me being at the house."

"Right, because Russo didn't want anyone knowing where he was." Bruce turns to his computer and brings up Russo's file, "After his divorce and the death of his son, he holed up and started erasing himself from the internet. As far as his neighbors know, he was constantly alone. You already know how hard it was to find him on your own, and unless Dimitri knew someone keeping tabs, it doesn't stand to reason that he found him any easier. But you, on the other hand," Bruce opens a search engine and types in your name. You're unsettled when the screen fills with results, most of them news articles from the night you'd been held hostage, "your name and face was everywhere after the gang war."

When the reporters had shoved cameras in your face and begged for you to tell them about Batman's heroic rescue, you hadn't thought twice about it, still fresh from the throes of gore and violence in the ER. Friends, family, coworkers: almost everyone you knew had seen it.

It clicks for you then, "If Dimitri planned on killing us both and I was easiest to find, why didn't he come for me first? I mean... it was me and Alex who ruined his life. If he wanted anyone dead more, wouldn't it be me?"

"I wondered the same thing. With the know-how and the right connections, anyone could find where you live just by name alone. Russo, on the other hand, is almost anonymous. It doesn't make sense why Dimitri would target Russo first."

"Do you think maybe it was a warning? Maybe he wanted to scare me."

"If he wanted to warn you, he wouldn't kill the guy in his house where no one checks up on him. Days would've passed before anyone noticed the flies in the windows."

"I don't get it."

"Do you remember how long it's been since you were taken hostage?"

Your mind lands on a weak estimate, "I don't know, a week and a half?"

"It's been over two weeks. According to the wardens, Dimitri stopped being a problem for them after the first few years. Friends with a rough crowd but he rarely got caught up in anything. Didn't have the heart to. So why, after 17 years, does he break out?"

Your stomach drops, "He saw me."

"And realized that while he was rotting away with nothing to live for, you were a hero," the word sickens you to hear, "on the front lines, saving lives, being saved. Your life went back to normal."

You grip the side of Bruce's desk with the sudden urge to vomit up everything you'd eaten today, which, frankly, wouldn't add up to much more than water and crackers.

You'd said it yourself: you'd gotten to live a life that Natalie, Dimitri, and Alex never would. Of course he wanted you dead. "So then I have to lure him out."

"And put yourself in danger? No."

"I’m already in danger, Bruce. What if he goes after the others? My parents? My coworkers? The other cops at the shootout? We have to end it now."

"This isn't the only way."

"It's the best way."

"Last time he had a knife, you could defend yourself. Barely. What if next time, he has a gun?"

"So what, you just want to do nothing?"

Bruce turns away from you. He gnaws on his lower lip, "No, I want to bide our time. Look into him more. I need to know if he's working with the Vipers again."

You watch him as he begins typing away at his computer, but you can't process what he's looking for through the haze of anger that washes over you. You lean on the desk, craning your neck up at his face to make him look at you, to understand how ridiculous he sounds, "We don't have time for that. His grudge is with me. I should meet him now and end this... either he gets what he wants or- or..."

Or what? Your stubbornness peters out. You don't know what. You see yourself standing face-to-face with Dimitri, his knife raised, ready to bury itself into the cushion of your chest. And nothing.

The you in this vision has no weapon.

"You don't think you're going to survive this." Coming out of your mind, Bruce is now looking at you, brows furrowed. He looks... mortified.

You scramble to cover your tracks, "That's not true. I'd have you there."

"But you don't want me there. You want to go alone. You think you deserve it."

"God, what are you? My therapist?" Your words flit out of your mouth in a rush, tongue nearly slipping up to defend yourself. You push away from the desk when you start feeling overexposed.

Bruce follows you, "You're not 16 anymore, this isn't some gang fight where you throw all your chips in because you can't see a year ahead of you. You've made a life. You've got people to lose, you said so yourself. I know what it's like... the survivor's guilt. You relive that day over and over-"

His words are making you feel sick to your stomach again and you lurch forward, finger in his face, "Don't you fucking preach to me-"

Almost as immediately as you'd raised your finger, Bruce snatches your wrist in his hand, yanking you close enough to be imposing, staring down at you with the same power that the Batman had used. It was so sudden that you quickly fall slack, wrist going limp in his grip.

It had completely sobered you of your tantrum, and for better or for worse, you were forced to listen to him, "Stop feeling sorry for yourself and think. You see this ending with you dead because you want to make up for the shit you did. You think that's what Alex wants? For you to bleed out in an alley like she did?" And just like that, the fire roars in you once more, but your other hand can't slap him across the face before he's caught that one too, "No future? What about all the people you've saved? Could still save? Face it now because you may not get another chance: you're alive. Do you want to be or not?"

You want to hurt him, turn his skin red and give it a place among the other bruises that glitter and glare down his torso, and as your hand shakes in his hold, you are forced to understand that you are angry because he is right.

You'd felt this same anger before. When your parents told you Alex was a bad influence on you. When Russo looked you in the eye and told you that you didn't have it in you to pull the trigger. It was maddening. He had clocked your suicide mission before even you had, had seen you in his mind's eye the way you saw yourself: disarmed, a lamb to the slaughter, a sacrifice for the greater good, a speedbump.

You could see Batman tackling him to the ground over your dying body. You couldn't see yourself getting up the next day.

After the frustration leaves Bruce's eyes, he's looking at you with something softer. You feel known, uncomfortably so, as he waits for you to meet him there.

And when you do, you hate how you collapse into him. Even more, you hate that he takes you up into his arms, holding you steadfast, as understanding as you needed him to be with all your fear of admitting it. The solidness of his body reminds you of the night he'd first held you, and that just makes you cry harder.

It feels different from last time. Where there was armor is now warm skin, the likes of which you hadn't felt in a while. If you had told your past self you'd one day be standing in Batman's cave, hugging Bruce Wayne and crying over the permanence of your mistakes, you might have diagnosed yourself with head trauma.

You screw your eyes shut in a vain attempt to put the tears to rest, your freed hands practically clawing at Bruce's warm back for some purchase, some stability. He doesn't seem to mind. He just holds you closer.

After a few minutes, you force yourself to speak, sniffling away the last remaining tears you'd allow yourself to shed, "You said I wouldn't like it. Your plan. What is it?"

"To disappear."

You wrench yourself back. Bruce is dead serious. "What?"

"I've considered it from all angles-"

"What do you mean, 'disappear'?"

"All but one of the prisoners Dimitri broke out with are still missing. How do we know they're not all working together? How do we know that you luring him out won't draw them out too? You were the easiest target before, not anymore."

"Say what you mean, Bruce. What do you want me to do?"

"I want to hide you here," he winces as he says this, as if aware of his words only now that they're out in the open, "with me."

"You're shitting me."

After a while, Bruce's face hardens, "I told you you wouldn't like it."

Liking it or not liking it was nothing. You'd advanced past "like". You were firmly out of your depth here.

You slip out of Bruce's hold and he lets you, standing rather awkwardly as you rub a hand across your mouth. Despite earlier, it now feels uncomfortably dry. You glance at Bruce and then at his screen, the tab with your name and face plastered all over it hovering in the background. "You want me to disappear off the face of the earth while you track him down. Leave my home, leave the people I care about, abandon my job. You want me to hide."

"I don't know how else to protect you. Not until we figure out what we're up against." Bruce watches you spin away, scoffing into the air, "You noticed it when you fought him off, didn't you? Something was really wrong with him."

You see flashes of Dimitri's feral stare, the way he staggered and swung. He was like a rabid animal in a cage. "Of course there was, he was trying to kill me."

"Beyond that," Bruce insists, "he wasn't right. I've seen it before. He was on something."

"Most people are these days. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd... I don't know, gotten his hands on drops or something-"

"It wasn't drops. Gordon told me."

"The detective?"

"He said they found a syringe with traces of venom in it. Dimitri's shooting up. That's why he was so strong."

Your mouth drops open in disbelief, "Venom? Great. Somehow worse than Drops."

"If he's on that drug, he's definitely addicted. It also means you won't stand a chance against him. This is why I'm telling you to stay here," Bruce steps forward, eyes imploring yours. You're dumbstruck by the heavy earnestness there, "stay in the tower. Hide here for a few days. Let me handle this."

"If he's on venom, it means he doesn't think he can handle you on his own," you wring your hands, flitting through images of the Dimitri you remember, "he was always really small. Even at fourteen, he hadn't really sprung up. He was scrawny and small and couldn't defend himself. Suddenly Gordon's saying he's almost twice the size of what I remember. Have you ever fought someone on venom?"

"Once or twice, somewhere between fixes. Why?"

"General has this kind of... sedative that we use when we get patients dealing with the effects. It's not perfect, but it does help calm them down enough to help them. Maybe we can use it to help him."

"The strain is constantly changing," Bruce watches you deflate and clears his throat, "but if I can get that sedative, I can use it as a base to make a new one."

"You need clearance to get your hands on that stuff. I'm going with you."

"What part of disappear do you not understand?"

"One, I never agreed to do that, and two, if Batman gets caught stealing from a hospital, that'll make you public enemy number one. You need my help, so let me help you."

Bruce is looking away, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth even as you zero in on him. You're getting flashbacks of that same Bruce from when you'd first met him here in this tower. All tender-eyed, even as he tries to put on a face for you, "And I need a drink," you rub your temple next, catching a glimpse of Bruce watching you from his peripheral, "You've got those, don't you?"

It turns out Bruce has plenty. There's a whole cellar full of them, the kinds you see in MTV Cribs with the low recessed lighting and mahogany shelves gleaming with polish. It makes sense for him to have it, but less so when he tells you he doesn't actually drink any of it.

"You weren't drinking at the party, either. Even though everyone else thought you were." You brush your hand along the shelves, careful not to knock any bottles loose. "Is that a trick to keep people spilling secrets? Or to keep from spilling your own?"

Bruce hovers near the entrance with his arms folded and back pressed to the wall, carefully watching you peruse his selection, "Maybe I don't like the taste."

"That's good. Men in Gotham die from alcoholism at a higher rate than any other city in the state."

"Really?"

"Really. You don't smoke either." Bruce blinks at you, "Just get shot at. And stabbed."

He says nothing.

Your hand lands on a red aged older than your mother and you stand to the side, looking expectantly at him. You're afraid that if you try to pick it up, you might knock down the whole row.

Slowly, Bruce pushes himself off the wall and glides over to you, grabbing the neck of the bottle in one hand and looking to you for approval. You try not to shrink yourself when you nod.

You follow him out of the cellar, flinching when the lights dim behind you and the door rolls shut all on its own. He guides you to the kitchen where night still hangs over Gotham outside the window, but the time on the stove clock warns of early morning soon.

Bruce pulls out two glasses and fills yours with wine and his with cranberry juice from the fridge. You could almost laugh at the pairing.

Once he slides your glass to you, you take a seat at the island and take a sip, "I need to ask you something. I get now why you refused me at the station, but then you came back. Why did you change your mind? I mean, neither of us knew Russo would be dead when we got there. Were you just going to let me hate you?"

"Yes." His simple response draws a quick, stifled laugh out of you.

"Are you always this... chaotic?"

Bruce leans his elbows on the countertop, hunching in on himself, "I always meant to tell you who I was. I just didn't know when. And I didn't mind if you hated Bruce Wayne, but... you trusted Batman. I didn't want to break that trust. Even if it meant telling you earlier than I planned, I wanted to give you some closure."

You think about the fear that had paralyzed you back then, thinking that Bruce Wayne was some big, bad criminal hiding behind polite society. Then you think about the real man, hiding behind a mask. You fidget uncomfortably, struggling with feeling somewhere between grateful and nauseous. Your eyes catch the stitches on his shoulder and you itch to wipe away the dried blood that had dribbled from the cut, "You said you were looking for Dimitri when you got that. Did you..."

Bruce catches your eye when you fail to finish your question. "No," he answers solemnly, "which is only part of our problem." He stands to his full height, flexing bruised knuckles against the counter, "I ran into one of the guys that broke out with Dimitri tonight. That's who gave me this. Dimitri isn't working alone."

You frown, "Is he trying to shake you? Why leave clues at all?"

"Because these people want me dead. The guy from tonight? I booked him a year ago for trafficking women. Earlier led me to a fringe group of Falcone's."

"You've been looking for Dimitri all day?"

"I haven't stopped since we found Russo. I couldn't."

You rub your arms, feeling the room grow chiller by the second, "So... so he's leaving clues to people who hate you. To keep you occupied." Bruce nods. "So he can get to me?"

"After last night, he knows the Batman is on your side."

"Dimitri wasn't out when you got on the scene. Do you think maybe he's taking venom because these guys warned him about you?"

Bruce smirks, rolling his eyes as he takes a sip from his glass, "As a precaution, sure. And now he has reason to believe I know you. If he's going to go after you, he's going to shoot up each time."

"That stuff is nasty. You're big and scary when you're on it but as soon as the effects wear off-"

"You deflate like a balloon. It's also stupid expensive, so he's either got real generous prison pals or he's being used. It's why I need to know if he's working with the Vipers. They might be supplying him."

How you'd gone from an ordinary surgeon to a detective in the span of mere weeks was beyond you. You're beyond just treading water. You're diving into the abyss.

Your brain struggles to make real what is before you. Bruce, still shirtless, drinking delicately from a glass as he watches the night sky shimmer from the kitchen window. And you, sitting across from him, cracking open one of his family's expensive bottles that, frankly, puts your pantry vinos to shame. Playing vigilantes like schoolchildren. Except the blood on you both is very real.

Your arm throbs at being remembered for once tonight. Bruce notices you touch it, "You need to get some rest."

You know he's right, and you're not arguing for the sake of arguing when you say, "I can't sleep yet." But he can tell there's more on your mind as he waits silently, almost egging you on to lay yourself bare. You swear you're not arguing just for the sake of arguing, "And I don't want to disappear. I want to be alive."

Bruce says nothing. The silence isn't humiliating like you'd think it be, even if the first few seconds leave you feeling just as laid bare as you thought you would. No. It feels acknowledging. Understanding, even.

For the first time, you look at Bruce and feel like you understand him. If he was really Batman, then he would know better than anyone why you would want to put yourself in danger. But beneath that, with the meager knowledge of who Bruce Wayne is, you also think you understand him too.

He'd mentioned the survivor's guilt. While he'd played a much more innocent role in the whole ordeal, you couldn't imagine the weight on one's chest knowing that two people you love didn't get to go on but you did. It's a lot to ask of a child barely coming to understand the mortality of one's own keepers.

The choice to be alive for someone like that is a deliberate choice. Constantly made every morning.

"There is another way," Bruce muses, "but you'll like it even less."

"Don't leave me hanging."

"We could go public."

"What?"

"You said disappearing would mean abandoning your life. And it would. No one could know where you went, who you were with, but there's always the chance someone might slip up. It's the safest option but it's not what you want. So don't hide." Bruce's eye contact is deep and unwavering. Compared to earlier, he seems to trust you're willing to listen this time, "Be mine."

For the nth time tonight, you are rendered nearly speechless. Nearly. "Are you fucking with me?"

Bruce's eyes narrow, "No."

"Did you just... proposition me?"

"I made a proposal."

"You're asking me to date you."

"Publicly. Batman has more enemies than allies, but Bruce Wayne has the people. If you and I are publicly linked, it tells everyone looking for you that the world is watching. It makes you more visible, as well as anyone who comes after you."

"You haven't slept," you reason, "clearly. And you're delirious."

"I haven't slept, no." But he looks fairly sober for someone who hasn't slept in a day. He is a different breed, this Bruce Wayne.

You peer out the kitchen window and see the black sky dipping into a blue horizon, "Then sleep on it and come up with something better."

Bruce rounds the island until he's standing beside you, looking down at your barely touched wine, "There's some spare rooms upstairs. You can take your pick." It dawns on you that you may not be going back home any time soon. "You know your way around."

You suppose you deserve that dig.

Then he's leaving you, glasses abandoned, home for you to explore. You don't realize how thick the air had gotten with him right next to you until he's gone.

You half-expect Alfred to pop up somewhere nearby, but there's nothing. This far up, there is no city to listen for, no neighbors slamming doors. You are in a cold house all alone. You suddenly wish he'd stayed to keep you company, even if the weight of it was beginning to take its toll on you. Left alone, you only had the sunrise.

You watch until the sky has all but chased the night away, and then you head upstairs.

You didn't think you'd get much sleep in a stranger's bed, but you're being roused by a sharp, successive rapping at your door several hours later. It jolts you awake, kick-starting your heart, and you clumsily tumble out of the million thread count sheets to open the door.

Alfred stands there fully dressed for the day, one hand tucked in his pocket and the other still raised to knock. Upon seeing you, he lowers his fist, "Morning," he starts, looking away as soon as he meets your eyes, "breakfast is ready. Come get it before it's cold."

He does not give you a choice in the matter. He's already limping toward the staircase without another word.

After you get your heart to settle down, you follow after him, preening yourself as you pass hallway mirrors and portraits of the Wayne family through the generations. You hadn't come down this hallway when you'd found the terminus elevator, so you stumble to a stop in front of a portrait of a young Bruce grinning ear to ear.

It startles you. His eyes are soft, a gentle humming blue untouched by wrinkle or darkness. He must've been especially young here. Glancing at a nearby portrait of his parents, you find him the spitting image of his father. You look around and realize there are no portraits of Bruce at this age.

Bruce. He might be at breakfast, and the mere thought of having to discuss what occurred last night almost turns you right back around to the guest room, but your stomach rumbling begs you not to. You still walk quietly, peering around corners in case your stomach changed its mind.

You find you're cautious for naught when the only person standing in the kitchen is Alfred, chopping up fresh fruit.

"I hope you don't mind that I moved your things," he gestures with his paring knife to your surgical tools neatly congregated on the counter, "I cleaned them too."

"Oh. You didn't need to do that."

"There was blood, so I'm afraid I did." Alfred places a bit of pressure on "blood", and you quickly take note of his short tone.

Still, all the same, he then gestures to the island and implores you take a seat in front of an empty plate. Without asking, he begins pushing steaming hot food onto your plate, "Tea or coffee?" He asks, barely looking up at you.

"Uh, coffee is fine. Thanks." You watch Alfred pour you a mug and wonder if the awkwardness with him is any more preferable to the awkwardness with Bruce. Alfred is passive-aggressive, Bruce is... aggressive. You remember how the latter had left off your night together and find yourself feeling warmer toward Alfred. "How long have you been up?"

"Since 6, although I woke a few times through the night."

You wince, "Sorry."

"No need to apologize. I did think Bruce had invited you over under different circumstances, so... not as alarming, all things considered." Your grip on your fork slips and it clatters to the marble. Alfred barely reacts.

"He needed stitches." Is all you can get out.

"Yes, I'm well aware."

You glance up at him, "You saw?"

"When he first arrived home, yes. I was the one who helped stop the bleeding."

You stare at the coffee sweating in your cup, recalling something Bruce had mentioned last night, "Bruce said you were the one who used to stitch him up."

"Yes."

"If you were there, why-"

"It's what he pays you for, isn't it?" Alfred almost snaps back at you, slicing a strawberry into quarters with more edge than needed.

You recall something else next. The softness in Alfred's face the day you first came here, arguing with Bruce in the very room next door. You'd wondered what it had all been about.

"I've done alright, haven't I?"

"He said something else too," you start, careful as you choose your next words, "about how much you worry about him." You fiddle with your mug, pretending not to feel the heat of Alfred's eyes on you, "I think the reason he hired me is because he was worried about you."

You just catch the tail-end of Alfred's frown, "Worried about me? Why?"

You probably aren't close enough to either of these two to laugh about this, but you do anyway, "Isn't it kind of obvious?"

"Nonsense. We always discussed... if it would come to it, that if he were to pursue this life further, that he would recruit professionals who might aid him in his work. It was the natural thing to do."

"Maybe, yeah. But would he have really needed me if you weren't already doing everything else for him? You've taken good care of him this long. I mean, the aftercare you gave his bullet wound was exceptional. I accused him of talking to other doctors."

Alfred busies himself with scraping his strawberry halves into a bowl, "It's basic knowledge. You learn that kind of thing in the service."

"Or when you invited me to watch you two spar. You know his body probably better than he does. You're fantastic, Alfred." You couldn't say you weren't also trying to butter him up to better his feelings toward you, but you were speaking truth all the same.

In a very British way, he rebuts your compliments and spoons some fruit into a glass, beginning to layer some yogurt over top them, "Regardless of reason, you are here now, and I'll have you know that every part of your contract covers this. Wayne Enterprises will exhaust every possible legal tool at our leisure if you speak of any—any—of this to anyone. Master Bruce's identity is safely guarded, and regardless of his trust in you, I will not hesitate-"

"Whoa, whoa, hey. I would never tell anyone. Not after all Batman has done for me." You press a hand over your heart for emphasis, "He is just as much my patient as Bruce Wayne is, and he didn't have to pay me to take care of him."

Alfred still stares you down like a guard dog, paring knife still clutched in his fingers. After a moment, he looks away from you and points at your plate, "Eat. It's getting cold."

So you do. It's good so you say as much, counting any point toward his affection as a good thing. If you could get Alfred to trust you, you'd call that a win.

The tension in the air dissipates over time, and after you've licked your plate clean, you and Alfred are sharing coffee together. "Bruce isn't joining us?"

"I've stopped expecting him to be awake this early." You glance at the clock that reads 10:12. "He has adopted a near-fully nocturnal lifestyle."

"The night that he crawled through my window, he was there at the hospital the next morning like nothing happened. He doesn't do that often?"

"Before last year, it was a rare occurrence. While he's dedicated himself to his role more recently, if he can avoid it, he will."

You think back to what knowledge you do have on Bruce's charity work and his friendship with the Mayor. You'd worked shifts just as long, but you couldn't imagine showing up to work mere hours after getting shot in the stomach and having to put on a brave face about it. You almost feel bad for calling him out on it in front of everyone.

But then again, if you hadn't, would you even be sitting here?

You swirl the last vestiges of coffee in your cup, trying to picture a world in which you'd gone and found that empty office to nap in instead of toddling behind Rudy and Em and Alfred and Batman. The Batman.

The novelty of it brings a fresh wave of dizziness over you. You had been exposed to so much information over the course of the last 12 hours that it hadn't fully settled in on you what Bruce was. You didn't think that your brain would process it even if he was standing in cowl and cape right in front of you.

"I suppose you'll be staying with us for the near future, if Bruce has anything to say about it," Alfred stands from his chair beside you and puts your dishes in the sink, "shall I inform your security detail or would you like to?"

You don't know what to say to that. "I'm... I think I should talk this over with Bruce first. It may not need to come to that."

The butler shrugs. "I'll be attending to some house duties for the rest of the morning. Should you stay for lunch, let Dory know, hm?" You give him a weak nod and watch as he makes his way from the sink and heads down another hallway out of sight.

Not too long after Alfred leaves you, you hear the doorbell ring. Bruce hadn't mentioned to you that any guests would be here today, but then again, the two of you had had more important things to discuss last night. You check your reflection in the glass of the kitchen window, wondering if there were any hidden doors in the bookcases that could hide you from whatever Wayne Enterprises exec that was coming to talk business, but you wouldn't trust yourself not to break something in the process.

You hear two pairs of footsteps approaching from the elevator and turn to see who it might be. You first recognize Dory, fluttering between frantic small talk and making sure not to trip in her kitten heels as she guides her guest into the living room. You stiffen as soon as you see him.

Detective Gordon catches your eyes instantly, his own widening. Dory says something about going to fetch Bruce before she quickly ascends the stairs, leaving you and James staring at each other across the distance. In one hand is a notepad and pencil, and the other fixes his tie, almost as if at a loss for words. He greets you, hesitantly leaving where Dory had left him to approach you, "I saw the boys out front but... I didn't expect to see you here."

"Me neither." You reply. "Is everything okay?"

James glances up at the stairs as he passes underneath, "That depends. I followed up on your request."

Shit. Of course a cop would do their job when you least expect it. You slip out of your chair and rush to meet him halfway into the kitchen, "Did... did you find something?"

"I can't say much right now. I'd like to talk to Mr. Wayne, but-" The sound of Dory's heels clacking against the wooden stairs makes James lower his voice, "-you being here complicates things."

Bruce is wearing a shirt this time, thankfully, though you're not expecting him to look as put together this early after what Alfred had said. He towers behind Dory's much smaller frame in a pair of loose black pants and a matching turtleneck, looking in a fashionable state of undress as he pads barefoot into the room. With hair slicked back and stubble freshly shaved, he doesn't look like someone caught unaware. He's fixing the sleeve of his sweater when he extends a hand to Detective Gordon, bright smile and all, "Detective James Gordon, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Mr. Wayne, I'm sorry for dropping in unannounced. If this is a bad time, I can come back." James gestures to you.

Bruce's look at you is empty, devoid of any detectable emotion or thought. It strikes you as unsettling, the same way a cashier at the end of their shift isn't really looking at you, "Oh, no. I was just on my way to work when I felt unwell. I called my doctor over but it was nothing to worry about. A little stomach bug, is all."

You do look like you'd just come over in a rush. You're still in your lounge clothes from the night before, and your medical supplies are still in the kitchen where Alfred had left them. James seems to notice, but he doesn't look any more relaxed. "That's good to hear. I don't want to keep you too long, but truth is, I have some questions I'd like to ask you if you have the time."

"Is something wrong?" James glances between you and Bruce, something the latter doesn't miss, "is it sensitive?"

"It's about the party you threw here the other night, Mr. Wayne. For Mayor Reál. I hear you invited quite a few Gotham politicians to celebrate the passing of the mayor's new bill, correct?"

"That's correct."

"And I understand you're quite invested in Gotham politics in general, much like your father."

"I am. My mother and father were very interested in the city, and Mayor Reál breathed new life into that for me after the election. I do what I can to support the cause."

"And that cause is...?"

Bruce takes the skeptical tone on the chin, smiling wider, "A safer, fairer Gotham. For everyone."

This Bruce was nothing like the Bruce you had all to yourself. He taps into that persona from the party with ease. Watching him is like watching a performance. "That's good, good. I notice you try to make an effort with charities in the city, donations and the like. You recently donated a new wing to Gotham General."

"I did. Increasing access to medical care for the citizens is important to me. My doctor, a talented surgeon at General, knows this well." You flash a timid smile when both Bruce and James look to you.

"And you also financially support politicians in Gotham."

"Occasionally. Anyone I feel has Gotham's best interests in mind."

"And have you found members of Gotham's political parties to be unusually forward in requesting your support, Mr. Wayne? Perhaps a little too pushy, maybe."

Bruce wears confusion well, "Not necessarily. I'm not easily pressured into doing things I have no interest in."

"Of course. How about any attempts to win over your support? Publicly or otherwise."

"I'm not sure what you're asking, detective. I'd love to help, but I don't think I have the information you're looking for."

James nods, holding his chin high, "My apologies. I should've been clear from the beginning. My question is: have any politicians or members of law enforcement offered you anything in exchange for your financial or public support? I have reason to believe there may be someone with high clearance exchanging confidential information with civilians. Especially ones who can pay. I'm just looking for a lead."

James frames his question well, even though any fat cat familiar with the cops could see the hidden question. Bruce frowns, tilts his head, shaking it slowly, "That's awful. I don't currently know of anyone doing such a thing, to me or anyone else. But I can keep an eye out. I can only imagine how dangerous that might be."

"Exactly. We'd like to nip it in the bud as soon as possible."

"Of course. Do you have a card? Perhaps I can contact you if I hear anything."

James fishes out his card and hands it over, "I don't want to put you in a bad position, only pass along what you know if you feel safe enough to do so."

You notice Bruce is flicking the business card between his fingers as a fidget, though he keeps his attention respectfully on the detective. "Absolutely. Thank you, detective. Dory can show you to the door."

The detective nods and follows Dory out of the room. As soon as the two are out of earshot, Bruce's expression softens as he presses his back into the counter. You wish you could sink into the floor. "To be fair," you begin, "I didn't think he'd find anything."

Bruce side-eyes you, "That was you?"

"I thought my criminal boss was going to blackmail me to keep his secrets."

"Criminal boss." You think he's trying to mock you, but his eyes are surprisingly guilty when he looks at you, "Alfred wasn't kidding. I really didn't handle this well."

"No, not really." You don't mean to kick him while he's down, but you can't lie either. Even now, you were still making meaning out of this whole thing.

By all means, you've gone from knowing nothing about him, to understanding even less, to fearing him, to this. With Batman on the other hand, you'd felt nothing but loyalty and trust in him up until the very last second. Now they were both the same person, and the meager hours of sleep you'd gotten hadn't cleared all that up just yet.

You wonder who you're supposed to see now. Batman or Bruce Wayne? Why was the line separating them blurring the more you thought of them?

"So, did you ever come up with a better idea?"

Bruce does not offer one. You'd dreaded that.

"You already know what I think. No matter how we go about this, there's going to be something. So what do you want to do?" Bruce's eyes follow your ever minute expression, laser-focused on you. "Whatever you choose, I will keep you safe. I promise you."

He feels so staunchly Batman in this moment, even with the soft voice of Bruce, watching over you. Through all your uncertainty, this you believe him on.

And you're exhausted, you find. Your arm is beginning to throb again. You crave the reprieve of a bed but not your own, to your surprise.

"I'm going to trust you, Bruce," your voice wobbles as you say it out loud, "I'm going to trust you like I trust Batman."

Bruce holds eye contact with you for a few moments, "Okay."

"Can I ask... why are you dressed so nice?"

"We're going to get the sedative."

"You're going as Bruce?"

"It's the middle of the day. Yes, I'm going as Bruce. I'm not letting you out of my sight."

You fluster, suddenly reconsidering this entire plan. You'd pictured Batman skulking on the rooftop while you Mission Impossible'd your way into the medicine cabinets for what you needed. Walking in with him—the real him—would draw attention you didn't need, "You're only going to make me look suspicious."

"I'm your patient, and more importantly, I'm a donor."

"You will stick out like a sore thumb."

"That means when people are looking at me, they're not looking at you." You open your mouth to argue but he's already cutting you off, "Do you want me to drop you off at your place or do you want me to send someone to get your things?"

You're aware of what he's really asking.

You heave a sigh, "Drop me off. I can't promise Judith won't hurt someone if she finds a stranger in my house."

a/n: mj stop having the reader move in with bruce when their life is put in imminent danger challenge impossible

#bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne scenarios #bruce wayne fic #bruce wayne #batman x reader #batman scenarios #batman fic #batman angst #batman fluff #the batman #battinson x reader #battinson #dc #mjwrites #bw; rprt

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formulawolff · 7 months ago

Text

viii. shining bright in suzuka - t.w.

pairing: female driver! x toto wolff

word count: 3.0k

warnings: this chapter is a lot milder, so my apologies. cursing, banter, teasing, references to sex, toto being flustered as fuck, discussion of hickeys, references to oral (f! receiving), yadayadayada

prev. | next.

“jet lagged, are we?”

an elbow nudges shoulder, prodding you awake, “wakey, wakeyyyyy.”

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

peering from under your hood, you make out alex standing over you, a smirk painting his lips, “what time is it?”

“around 9 i think,” pulling his phone out of his pocket, he checks the time, “well, more like 9:30. what time did you fly in last night?”

“too late,” you grumble, rubbing your heavy lids, “way too late.”

“how long was your flight? because you look absolutely miserable,” although alex’s question is innocent, you hold your tongue.

while you didn’t necessarily want to lie, you almost had to.

“about twenty hours.”

“yikes,” alex shakes his head, his focus directed on his phone, “sucks to suck.”

“where did you fly out from? monaco? did lily come with you?”

“maybeeee,” his voice crescendos, his smiling growing, “but yeah, she came with. she’s sleeping right now though. or getting ready. i’m not sure. but she’ll be here shortly.”

“yayyyy!” kicking your feet, you fish your phone out of your hoodie pocket, “she’s my favorite golfer, you know that?”

“she can’t be your favorite,” he shakes his head, thumbs fiddling with the screen, “she’s my favorite golfer so that means you have to pick someone else. i’m her number one fan, actually.”

“okay fine,” you huff, “i’ll be her second number one fan.”

alex’s girlfriend, better known as muni “lily” he, was a professional golfer. she was undeniably gorgeous, with luscious, thick hair, a slim build, and beautiful, bright eyes. they reminded you of a sunlight shining through a forest, a rich,earthy hue. in addition to her stunning features, she was a kind, bubbly individual, quickly bonding with you over your shared status as professional athletes. she was hilarious as well, often getting you to crack a smile in the paddock after a rough lap or after being grilled in a press conference.

her relationship with alex began after she watched a season of drive to survive on netflix. from there, the two connected over instagram, sharing conversations over their shared interests. that aspect always made you giggle, as she was the ultimate fangirl. her support for alex was adorable, and he was so in love with her.

that was something you admired about alex. his fierce love for lily and his ability to be able to share it with the world, the two posting one another often across their social medias.

if only you could tell the world about toto.

fuck, if only you could tell your parents you had met someone.

however, your relationship status with the team principal was complicated.

extremely complicated.

the time you spent with him in brackley was pure and utter bliss. since you had time to waste, you mostly spent it in his bed, cuddling one another, relishing one another’s presence. he was able to explain some more about his divorce with susie some, relieving your lingering anxiety over the matter.

when the two of you weren’t talking, cuddling, or sleeping, you found your bodies intertwined, his name flowing from your lips. notes of purple, blue, and pink painted your shoulders, breasts, collarbone, and thighs. fuck, there was probably even on one of your ass cheeks. you were so sore, your walls stretched, inner thighs aching.

hopefully it wouldn’t affect your ability to race.

you prayed to god it wouldn’t.

there was one thing you couldn’t get over, even if it was a little ridiculous.

how was he able to maintain that pace in bed? it was honestly impressive how high his libido was. and his stamina? oh fuck. you were the one who had to tap out nearly every time. yet, he was so gentle with you afterwards, placing soft kisses on every inch of your skin, assuring you that he would massage any sore muscles, offering to make you food if you were hungry.

one night, he even sang you to sleep. it was a german tune, so you didn’t quite understand the words. but the gesture was enough to have you melting in his arms, falling asleep only minutes after he started. every morning, you’d wake up to his head between your thighs, toto utterly devouring you until he was satisfied.

you couldn’t express how grateful you were to finally have some time alone with him, where you didn’t have to worry about missing flights or meetings. where you could kiss him as many times as you wanted. where you could just lay with him, your head on his chest as he replied to emails. he didn’t answer a single work-related call in that time, all of his attention focused on you.

as you sat with alex, you couldn’t help but wonder.

what was the label you could place on your relationship with the team principal?

meanwhile, toto wolff stood in the mercedes paddock, mingling with george and lewis. a team member approaches toto, tablet in hand.

“mr. wolff, we’ve comprised a report of the necessary adjustments needed for this weekend’s race.”

“beautiful,” lewis hamilton finds himself arching a brow as he notices the grin plastered across his team principal’s face, “here, let’s go over here, and you can discuss it with me further. excuse me, you two. we’ll talk more later.”

as the team principal strolls away, lewis turns to his fellow driver. the other brit appears just as shocked, eyes wide, lips parted.

“what the fuck happened over our break?”

“he’s been so smiley today,” lewis folds his arms across his chest, “do you think he got laid?”

“toto?” george tuts, “surely not. he doesn’t have the time to get laid. he’s always complaining about this meeting, some press conference, a mercedes showcasing. his schedule is packed so tightly, you have to make an appointment to speak with him for more than five minutes.”

“come on, mate,” lewis nods over the team principal, noticing the prominent mark on his neck, just barely peeking out over his collar, “george. he has a hickey. he has a fucking hickey.”

“surely no– oh my god,” george’s arms drop to his sides as he glances over, also taking note of the mark, “holy shit. he did get laid.”

“but who?” lewis presses, “who in their right mind would fuck that man? a recent divorcee? i pray for whoever the poor girl was.”

“the man’s a billionaire,” george waves a hand, “i’m sure there are models practically throwing themselves at him in monaco. perhaps he met a girl at a club or something. i wouldn’t think too much of it. although, it would probably be best if you mentioned the hickey. the press would be all over that.”

“what the fuck am i supposed to say?” lewis hisses, “should it be something like, ‘oh mate, i think you need to take a look at your neck. you have something there.’ or what?”

“wait,” george’s brows furrow, “he was in brackley. he responded to one of my texts saying he was working from the headquarters over break–”

“he fucked someone from mercedes?” lewis’ eyes widen, a hand flying to his mouth, “oh fuck. who could it possibly be?”

“well first things first,” george clears his throat, “you need to mention the hickey. then we need to focus on the practice laps. if we do well and he’s in a good mood, we’ll casually bring it up. we’ll say something like, ‘oh we’ve noticed you’ve been wearing that cheeky grin lately. is there something behind that? are you seeing someone, perhaps?’ we’ll be real smooth with it, so that he doesn’t suspect anything. if we perform poorly, i don’t think he would want to discuss it.”

“well no shit.”

“oh god,” george straightens his posture, “he’s coming back over here. you better say something!”

as the team principal grows near, the british drivers engage in conversation, discussing their performance from the last race. toto clears his throat, running a hand through his hair.

“i hope i’m not interrupting anything between you two.”

“oh no,” lewis bears a quaint smile, “we were just talking about the fia’s decision regarding that williams driver.”

“the american girl?” toto inquires, maintaining his composure, “she really did a number on you, george.”

“just like someone did a number on your neck,” lewis chips in, teasing lightly, “what were you up to these past couple of days? up to no good?”

“what are you–” toto’s eyes narrow, yet the realization washes over him as he takes in the smug expressions across his drivers’ faces.

the hickey was visible. the one on the left side of his neck.

“i-i don’t know what you’re rambling about.”

“mhmmm,” lewis puckers his lips, “tell me toto, did you get laid recently?”

inhaling a sharp breath, the team principal puts up his hands, in a vain attempt to cease their speculations.

yet, he was well aware there was no stopping those two.

the teasing was going to ensue the entire weekend. and they were going to be relentless, pressing each and every little button until he gave in.

“what happens in my personal life is none of you–”

before he can finish, lewis puts up a hand, “toto we’ve gone on holiday with you. we’ve had weekends in monaco together. we spend nearly every waking minute together. whether it’s at brackley, in the paddock, or addressing the press, we’ve spent a lot of time together. now, we’re being merciful here. who is the lovely lady?”

“that is none of your–”

“fine,” george interjects, “we’ll drop it for now. but when this weekend is over, you better believe we’ll be on your ass about it. we’re going to find out who this woman is. one way or another.”

although, the british drivers did not have to look very far.

you were simply a few paddocks down, filming a tik tok with lily.

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

“fuck yes!”

“great job! great fucking job! we’ll see you in the paddock!”

adrenaline courses through your veins as you lay off the gas, practically gliding towards the paddock. stopping the car, you climb out, pumping your fists as the pit crew swarms forward, patting your back, cheers ringing all around.

amidst the crowd, james makes his way through, opening his arms for an embrace.

you collapse into it, his hands rattling along your helmet, “way to redeem yourself, american girl!”

“pole position for tomorrow isn’t too bad, huh?”

“not at all!” james’ eyes are alight with joy, “that will shut everyone up, yeah?”

“i think so,” the words are breathless, “fuck, that was intense.”

“you can sleep a little easier tonight,” james remarks, patting your helmet once more, “although, i would be on guard. those redbull boys are going to be on your ass.”

sliding your helmet off, your lungs take in the fresh air. your knees buckle momentarily, the limbs feeling a little like jell-o. graciously, you accept a water bottle from james, taking a swig. hairs cling to your forehead, the other ends sticking up in every direction.

“fuck, i’m tired.”

“well, i don’t have anything for you,” james’ tone is laced with sympathy, “you’ve had a long few days. when you leave, just keep your head down, hood up. this is one of the only times i’ll let you avoid the press. if they antagonize you, just make some bullshit up. i can handle the rest.”

“are you sure you want me to do that? that may just create more headlines,” unzipping your suit halfway, you slip your arms out, grateful for the coolness of the spring suzuka climate.

“i’m sure,” james rests a hand on your shoulder, “you deserve some rest. alex informed me you had a long flight. the jet lag can persist if you’re not used to it. you look exhausted.”

“i still haven’t adjusted to all of the traveling that comes with this sport,” you exhale, bringing your helmet under your arm, “thank you, james. you’re the best.”

“of course. it’s my job to be the best, you know,” he shoots you a wink, “now go! our little star needs her beauty rest!”

“little star. that’s a new one,” you roll your eyes playfully, “okay, okay. i’ll go.”

spinning on your heel, you turn to leave, strolling out of the paddock. making your way through the team headquarters, you wave to all of the members, grinning as they congratulate you, shouting a variety of inaudible or incoherent words of praise. within minutes, you’re able to locate your belongings, closing the door to the room.

wincing, you tug the legs of the suit off. fuck, were more sore than usual. underneath the fabric, your muscles tingled, buzzing from the adrenaline. if you were hurting this bad now, god only knew how much more intense it was going to be in a few hours.

slipping into a hoodie and some leggings, you pull the hood up, throwing your book bad on your shoulder.

now, it would only be a short walk to your motorhome, where you could shower and sleep.

thank fucking god.

glancing at your phone, you briefly picked through your notifications. there was really nothing too serious. a few texts from your parents, congratulating you on the pole position.

however, there was one message awaiting your response.

congratulations, my golden girl. can i swing by your place in a few? i just have to wrap up with my team and then i’ll be on my way. you should have time to shower, so do not rush.

also, lewis and george will not stop pestering me about the hickey on my neck. they’ve been up my ass all fucking day. i’m only seconds away from reporting them to the fia and have them disqualified. LOL or however the fuck you say it.

p.s. you’re going to get the biggest smooch. ever.

at his poor use of lol, you let out a laugh, your thumbs gliding across the screen, typing a response.

when you’re on your way, let me know so i can leave the door unlocked for you. maybe i can give you some concealer so you can cover it up tomorrow lmfaooo. my bad, my bad. see you soon, hottie. <3

p.s. i can’t wait to get the biggest smooch ever.

before you know it, you’re at the front door of your motorhome, sliding the key into the lock. turning it, you swing the door open, trudging inside.

throwing your belongings on the counter, you groan as the pain seeps into every crevice of your body, desperate for some relief. hopefully a hot shower and toto’s hands would ease some of the ache.

on the other side of the track, a team principal paces, oh so impatient.

“are we all done here?”

“yes sir,” a team member responds coolly, “we’re finished.”

“okay good,” he nods. waving his hands, he dismisses his team and crew, “all right! see you all tomorrow. bright and early!”

as the members disperse, toto bites his lip, tapping his foot lightly against the carpet.

why was everything taking so fucking long?

“why are you in such a rush?” lewis’ voice pulls him from his thoughts. thoughts about you, nonetheless, “have somewhere to be?”

“lewis,” toto’s voice is dangerously low, “quit it. stop that shit right now.”

“i’m just saying,” lewis shrugs, “it’s sort of odd you’re usually the last to leave, but now you’re chomping at the bit, ready to get out of here. is there someone waiting on you?”

actually, there was.

the girl he was beginning to fall head over heels for was waiting for him. perched in her bed, more than likely. more than ready to be swathed in his loving arms.

she had him wrapped around her little finger, there was no denying that.

especially when she had him pulling shit like this.

peering around, the team principal ensures that there were no cameras or mics lingering about. netflix was in their early stages of shooting the 2024 season of drive to survive, so there were cameramen and production crew milling about the paddocks throughout the day.

thank god they didn’t catch the entire hickey debacle on camera.

that alone would have ended his career.

“perhaps i am seeing someone,” toto hisses pointing a finger at the british driver, “but that is none of your concern. i will see you tomorrow, lewis.”

“can you at least tell me who she is?” his bottom lip juts out, forming a pout, “come on, toto. you’ve been so open with me all of these years and this is where you draw the line?”

“all you need to know is that she’s a professional athlete,” that was half the truth, at least. hopefully enough to keep lewis at bay for the time being.

“an athlete?” lewis’ brows raise, “what sport?

“horseback riding.”

close enough.

“hmmph,” lewis purses his lips, “well, if you want to tell me more, i’ll be all ears. i’ll see you tomorrow, toto. hopefully we have a hell of a race.”

“hopefully,” the only thing on toto’s mind was getting to you, before the cleanup crew started their rounds, “i will see you in the morning, lewis.”

the driver bids another farewell before catching up with george, exiting the paddock. however, he glances over his shoulder one more time, mouthing something to george before the two continue, disappearing from his line of sight.

fuck, that was unbearable.

borderline miserable.

lights glitter all around as the team principal makes his way to your motorhome, concealed by the hood of his jacket, thankful for the brisk evening air. if he didn’t have a jacket, he would have been fucked.

however, it was sort of difficult for the team principal to blend in. especially with his stature and size.

as he strolls up to the door of your motorhome, he takes once last cautious look, ensuring that there was no one watching.

yet, what the team principal forgot to account for was the production crew of drive to survive.

and they managed to record the entire encounter as you opened the door, greeting the team principal with open arms.

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

taglist: @toldyouitwasamelodrama @kravitzwhore @persona1lies @pucksandpower @k3ira13 @prettiest-at-the-party @martwll @annewithaneofthegreengable @zoeyjadetice2010 @sinners-98-world @danielricciardotr @laura-naruto-fan1998 @whoisss @nebarious @joalslibrary

if you would like to be added to my taglist, please let me know! thank you for all of the support thus far! <3

#toto wolff #toto wolff x reader #formula 1 #f1 #formula one #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #max verstappen #toto wolff x you #toto wolff x y/n #female driver au #george russell #lewis hamilton #f1 racing #formula one fanfiction

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writer-in-theory · 7 months ago

Text

tying you to me — masterlist.

Summary: From play weddings in the suburbs of Las Vegas to lavish hotel rooms in New York City, Spencer and Reader find their way back to each other every time. Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader Content Warnings: Smut in later parts (18+ only), Discussions of schizophrenia, Bullying, Allusions to abuse/neglect (the Reids), Canon-typical violence, Cheating A/N: This is a rewrite of a wip series called "the way i love(d) you" that can be found here. Huge thanks to @serenity-lattes and @reidsaurora for listening to me rant about this thing and helping me figure it out.

Playlist

i. i dared you to kiss me

ii. just like a folk song

iii. i'm only me when i'm with you

iv. hear it in the silence

v. mastermind

vi. so you could take it off

vii. it's fearless

viii. dancing with our hands tied

ix. the afterglow

x. champagne problems

xi. how did it end?

xii. i almost do

xiii. enchanted to meet you

xiv. false god

xv. the very first night

xvi. i can see you

xvii. the alchemy

xviii. your ivy grows

xix. high infidelity

xx. alive from the dead

xxi. just say yes

xxii. invisible string

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #dr spencer reid #criminal minds fic #fanfic series #grey writes in theory

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delicatebarness · 6 months ago

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winters widow | chapter viii

Summary: After Lord James' revelation, there isn't much more time before the wedding. However, someone in the realm has other plans for House Barnes' big day.

Warning: Arranged Marriage. Implied Sexual Assault and Violence. Disturbing Imagery. Emotional Distress. Mentions of Physical Restraint.

Word Count: 1836

Spotify Playlist | Pinterest Board | Support: Ko-FI

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

A/N: I'm back, adding more trauma into my character's lives. - Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as mine. - B

With the recent revelation of Lord James’ true feelings, your hearts brimmed with a renewed sense of joy and anticipation as the wedding approached. Every waking moment was filled with preparations and each task was imbued with the excitement of the life you would lead as Lady Barnes.

About a month and a half before the wedding, on one crisp morning, you found yourself mulling over the details of the wedding’s feast. You had been presented with several options from the kitchen staff for the menu, and you were particularly taken with a few dishes. Unable to come to a definite conclusion, you decided to seek Lord James’ opinion directly.

With a basket of sample dishes in hand, you made your way to the council chambers. As you approached the large wooden doors, you hesitated briefly, hearing the low murmur of voices inside. With a deep breath, you pushed the doors open and stepped into the room. The eyes of the council members turned to you in surprise.

“Pardon the interruption,” you began, a flush of heat spreading to your cheeks under their scrutinizing gazes. “I just need to speak to you, Lord James, about the feast menu.”

Seated at the head of the table, Lord James raised an eyebrow in mild amusement. “My last, this is a rather… unexpected visit. What is it you need?”

You pressed on, holding up the basket, unfazed by the curious, disapproving looks from the advisors. “The kitchen staff prepared some samples for the wedding feast, and I wanted to hear your opinion on them.”

With a stern expression, an advisor cleared his throat. “My lady, we are in the middle of a crucial discussion regarding our defenses.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” you exclaimed, the realization of what you walked into, and what you heard back in the stables a few weeks back, dawned on you. “I didn’t realize… I’ll wait outside.”

Before you could retreat, Lord James spoke up. “It’s quite alright,” he said, indulgence and authority laced in his tone. “We could all use a brief respite. Bring the samples here.”

The tension in the room eased slightly as you approached the table. Placing the basket in front of Lord James, you began to explain the dishes, excitement bubbling over.

“This is a roast pheasant with a honey glaze,” you stated, pointing to the first dish as you read from a note. “And this is a spiced venison stew. Oh, I also thought a variety of fruit tarts would be nice for dessert. What do you think, my lord?”

Lord James nodded appreciatively as he sampled the dishes thoughtfully. “They’re excellent choices, my lady. I believe our guest will be quite pleased.”

The advisors, though initially taken aback by your interruption, seemed to relax as they watched the exchange between you and Lord James. A few even allowed themselves small smiles as you offered samples to them.

However, one advisor, a grizzled man, sneered. “This is hardly the time for such nonsense. Women should know their place and stay out of men’s affairs.”

The room fell silent, the air thick with tension. Lord James had been silently brooding at the head of the table, his eyes piercing when suddenly, he rose from his seat. How voice cold and unwavering. “Speak ill of my betrothed again, and you’ll learn just how fiercely I will defend what is mine.” All eyes were on Lord James as he continued, the room remaining still. “She is the future of Winter’s Reach and this House. She will have your respect.”

The advisor blanched, realizing his mistake. “My lord, I meant no disrespect,” he stammered, bowing his head.

For a moment longer, Lord James’ eyes remained fixed on the advisor before turning back to you, his expression softening. “Thank you for bringing these samples, my lady. Your input is always welcome.”

A surge of happiness coursed through you with Lord James’ approval. “Thank you, my lord. I’ll let the kitchen staff know.” You began to leave but paused, glancing back at him. “And thank you for your patience. I didn’t mean to disrupt your council.”

“Think nothing of it,” he replied, a warm smile tugged the corners of his mouth.

You couldn’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment as you exited the council chambers, the doors closing softly behind you. The preparations for the wedding were falling into place, and with Lord’s genuine affection now clear, the excitement for the future only grew.

The weeks leading up to the wedding passed in a blur, Lord James had been showing a newfound tenderness, and your heart swelled with hope. The incident in the council room was long behind the two of you, but the respect Lord James had commanded in your defense remained a vivid reminder of his feelings.

You found yourself drifting into a deep sleep, one particularly cold night, wrapped in the warmth of thick pelted blankers. Dreams of your wedding and the future, danced through your mind, filling you with a sense of peace and contentment.

Suddenly, you were jolted awake by the sounds of distant screams and the acrid smell of smoke. Throwing the blankets and rushing to the window, panic gripped your heart. Flames licked at the night sky, chaos illuminated outside. As you tried to make sense of the scene unfolding below, your mind raced. The once peaceful courtyard of Winter’s Reach was now a battlefield of shadows and fire.

Grabbing a clock, you hurried to the door without hesitation. However, just as you were about to pull it open, it swung inward– revealing a figure cloaked in darkness. Your heart pounded in your chest causing you to gasp and stumble back.

“Who–” you began, but the words caught in your throat as the figure stepped into the light of your chamber.

The figure, tall and menacing, his unfamiliar face twisted into a sinister smile. You could tell by the roughness of his attire and the cold gleam in his eyes that he was not a knight of Winter’s Reach.

“Well, well,” he said, malice dripping from his lips. “Look what we have here.”

Before you could react, he lunged forward. He grabbed your arm with a vice-like grip and panic surged through you as he dragged you back into your chambers. The door slammed shut behind you.

“Let go of me!” you screamed, struggling against him, yet his grip only tightened.

“Quiet,” he hissed, a cruel smirk played on his lips. “We wouldn’t want to cause a scene now, would we?”

Your heart raced faster as you looked around desperately, trying to figure out an escape route. His presence was overwhelming, a suffocating sense of dread filling the room.

“What do you want?” you demanded, you tried to keep your voice steady however your voice came out in a whisper.

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. “Just a little fun,” he whispered. “I didn’t think I’d come across a little doll like you tonight.”

His words sent a chill down your spine. The realization of his implication fueled your determination to fight back.

You twisted in his grip, a burst of adrenaline helped you to free one arm. But, before you could do anything more, he threw you onto your bed with brutal force. The break knocked out of you on impact, and before you could recover, he was on top of you, pinning you down.

You screamed in refusal, trying to push him off, but he was too strong. He tore at your nightgown, the sound of ripping fabric under his hands filled your ears. You fought with everything you had, you scratched and clawed at him, but it was no use– he pressed his weight down on you, suffocating and overpowering.

“Firey one, aren’t you?” he sneered with his face inches from yours. A foul smell came from his breath and a wave of terror coursed through you from the look in his eyes.

Your desperate struggles grew weaker under his oppressive weight and the night continued to unfold in a blur of terror and helplessness. The chaos outside became a distant echo as the events within your chambers consumed you.

The battle had been fierce, but now that it was over Lord James hurried through the smoke hallways of Winter’s Reach. His heart pounded with worry and fear, his thoughts consumed with finding you. As he neared your quarters, he quickened his steps, dread clawing at his chest.

He noticed something amiss as he approached– the door to your chambers was slightly ajar. Panic surged through his body as he called out your name, pushing the door open. He received no response.

The sight that greeted him froze him in his tracks.

Sat on the floor, in the corner of the room, there you were. Your nightgown was torn, barely covering you. Your hands clasped together, muffled words leaving your lips– eyes distant, lost in a world of your own making.

Lord James’ heart shattered into thousands of icy shards as his eyes swept the room. His gaze locked onto the disheveled bed, its pristine white sheets now marred by a stark, crimson stain. The sight seemed to freeze time around him, every small detail etching itself into his mind with painful clarity. Your room, once your sanctuary, now bore the scares of unspeakable violence.

“Gods, no,” Lord James whispered urgently, rushing to your side. Dropping to his knees beside you, his hand reaching out to touch your trembling shoulder. “It’s me, I’m here. You’re safe now, my love.”

You recoiled in terror as he tried to embrace you, pushing him away with unexpected strength. Your body shook as you cried uncontrollably. Lord James felt his heart breaking at the sigh of your fear.

“No! Get away from me!” you cried, your voice raw with panic. “Don’t touch me!”

The agony in Lord James’ eyes matched yours as he froze. Yet, despite your resistance, he refused to leave you alone in this moment of despair. He tried again, gently, his voice steady and soothing.

“It’s okay, my love. It’s me, it's James,” he repeated softly, moving closer. “I’m here. You’re safe now. I promise.”

Your sobs continued, you struggled to comprehend what had happened as your body trembled. Slowly, cautiously he reached out to wrap his arms around you, pulling you into a gentle embrace.

“I’m so sorry, my love,” he murmured against your hair, his voice thick as tears spilled over his cheeks. “I should have been here to protect you. I swear to you, I will find whoever did this. They will pay for what they’ve done.”

Tears soaked his chest as you clung desperately to him. He held you tighter, murmuring comforting and reassuring words as he rocked you gently. Your resistance softened gradually and you began to lean into his embrace, seeking solace in his arms.

Together, in the silence of your chambers, Lord James vowed to stand by you, protect you, and help you heal.

---

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kckt88 · 2 months ago

Text

Scorched Hearts VIII

Summary:

'We loved with a love that was more than love - Edgar Allen Poe'

Valaena reminisces about the plan that lead her and Aemond to where they are now, and the two discuss returning to Westeros.

Warning(s): Angst, Drama, Language, Fluff, Memories, Uncle/Niece Incest, Kissing, Smut, Fingering, Lactation Kink, P in V, Moon Tea.

AEMOND x O.C Niece

Word Count: 5098

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated, do not copy/post to other sights without my permission.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9 @killua2dot0 @msassenach @xcharlottemikaelsonx @moonnicole

As Aemond slept peacefully beside her, his arm draped protectively over her waist, Valaena's thoughts drifted back to the night that had changed everything—the night they had made the plan to die.

She could still feel the warmth of the fire in their small cabin, the flickering flames casting shadows on their bare skin as they lay entwined on the floor.

The memory of the cuts on her palm and lip, now healed but still symbolic, stood out clearly in her mind.

They had married that night, in the old way of their house, binding themselves to one another with blood and fire.

Aemond had kissed her, a mixture of passion and pain, sealing the vow that would make them one soul, one life, forever.

His voice from that night echoed in her ears now as she absentmindedly stroked his hair, recalling the gravity in his tone when he told her, ‘There is only one way for us to be together’.

He had asked her to trust him, and of course, she had. She always trusted him.

Even though his plan was dangerous—unorthodox and bound to hurt those they loved—what choice did they have?

Running away would have been futile. People would search for them, and eventually, they would be found. They had to disappear completely.

Their deaths would free them, but more importantly, it would allow Rhaenyra the freedom to claim her birthright without the heavy chains of their forbidden love.

Still, the plan weighed heavily on Valaena's heart.

Aemond had gone silent for a long while that night, deep in thought, before he proposed the idea of meeting in the skies.

‘They’ll think we fought and killed each other’ he had said, his voice low but certain.

She remembered the uneasy feeling that settled in her stomach at the thought of such a deception.

She had asked how it would work, and Aemond, ever calculating, had already thought ahead.

He told her of Borros Baratheon and Otto’s plan for him to offer his hand in marriage in exchange for the Lord of Stoms End’s support, he also mentioned how Rhaenyra would surely send one of her envoys.

It was perfect—she would be the one to offer to come on her mother's behalf, and their charade could begin.

To make it convincing, they had to pretend to hate one another.

Aemond had played his part well, and his harsh words at Storm's End had stung more than she'd expected, but she knew it was necessary.

He had spent weeks afterwards begging for her forgiveness, hating himself for the cruelty, but Valaena had understood.

They both had roles to play.

Their final act had come with their dragons, a clash in the sky that would seal their fates in the eyes of the world.

She could still remember the practice flights they took over the Narrow Sea that night, the thrill of the dragons racing one another, their flames lighting up the night.

It had been almost like a game to Vhagar and Silverwing. The plan had worked, but it left behind devastation in its wake.

Valaena's thoughts darkened as she remembered saying goodbye to her family. She could only hope that her mother would one day forgive her for the pain she had caused, for the grief Rhaenyra must have felt for believing that her daughter was gone.

But at the time, there had been no other way. Aemond had been right—everyone had to believe they were dead if they were to ever have a chance at freedom.

The first weeks of their new life had been difficult, almost unbearable at times. The only money they had was what Aemond had managed to steal, and they had to avoid populated areas of Essos to keep their secret hidden.

She had been with child and time was against them. They needed to find a place to settle before their babe came and there were times they had to stop and let the dragons rest, taking shelter against them and huddling together for warmth.

Sometimes Aemond would venture off in search of food and he would be gone for what seemed like hours, only to return with whatever he could find or in some cases steal.

No matter what he made sure she had something to eat, he didn’t want any harm coming to her or the babe, luckily the dragons were capable hunters and often Vhagar and Silverwing would share their spoils with them albeit a little charred.

She knew this wasn’t what Aemond had envisioned when he suggested that they fake their deaths and flee together, she knew he resented himself for how they had to live, and he felt like he was failing in his duty to her and their unborn child.

But she made sure to tell him every night that she loved him and no matter what, they were together and that’s all that mattered to her.

Finally, after many weeks of travel, they ended up finding sanctuary in Qarth.

The Prince of Qarth had been eager to welcome them, especially once he learned they possessed dragons. Aemond had struck a deal—protection for the city in exchange for a manse, food, and security.

The dragons, Vhagar and Silverwing, would guard the city from poachers and pirates, and in return, they would have everything they needed.

Valaena smiled faintly as she remembered the birth of their son. She had cried for her mother then, wishing desperately that Rhaenyra could have been there, but Aemond had been steadfast by her side, holding her hand through every moment of pain.

They had named him Rhaegar, after Rhaenyra, a silent tribute to the family they had left behind.

Elaena, their second-born, had been named for Aemond’s beloved sister, Helaena, and their youngest, Daenys, after the prophetic ancestor of their house. The names were a reminder of the legacy they carried, even in their self-imposed exile.

Now, as Aemond shifted in his sleep beside her, curling his body around hers, Valaena looked down at him, stroking his hair with tender fingers.

She wondered what would await them when they returned to Westeros. Would they be forgiven? Would the world even accept them, after everything they had done?

Her heart ached at the thought of seeing her mother again, of reuniting with her brothers. But the uncertainty of their reception weighed heavily on her mind.

Aemond had been right—they had built a good life here in Qarth, far away from the reach of Westeros.

But it wasn’t home. Not truly.

As she gazed at Aemond’s sleeping face, his features soft and peaceful, Valaena knew that they couldn’t hide forever.

One day, they would return. And when they did, they would face whatever awaited them together.

Just as they always had.

Valaena stood on the balcony of their manse, looking out over the lush garden where Rhaegar and Elaena played with their dragons.

The hatchlings flapped their wings excitedly, snapping at one another playfully as the children giggled.

Nearby, a maid sat nervously cradling baby Daenys, her eyes wide as she watched the dragons with wary fascination.

Valaena smiled, but her mind was far away, filled with memories of a time long gone. The warm breeze tugged at the strands of her dark hair, and she sighed softly, lost in thought.

A familiar presence approached from behind. She felt Aemond’s arms encircle her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder as he gently pulled her back against his chest.

His breath was warm against her skin as he asked softly, “What are you thinking about?”

Valaena smiled, leaning into him. “Us, when we were younger and how I used to have such a crush on you when I was a child.”

Aemond chuckled, a low, warm sound that vibrated through his chest. “Really?”

She laughed, remembering. “Oh gods, yes. You were so beautiful and so perfect with your wavy hair and freckles. I used to follow you everywhere. I was so in awe of you.”

“Is that why you used to give me sweets?” he asked, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

Valaena nodded, her eyes sparkling with nostalgia. “Yes. I thought if I shared them with you, then maybe you’d like me. I’d steal them from the kitchens, and I’d always leave the best ones for you.”

Aemond pressed a tender kiss to her shoulder, his voice softer now. “I always liked you. I was just too shy to say anything and too awkward to show it.”

Her heart swelled as she remembered those days. “I used to hide on the ramparts and watch you train. The way you practiced, always so focused, so determined. It used to break my heart to see you alone while the others sparred together.”

Aemond tightened his hold around her waist, his voice tinged with emotion. “But with you, I never felt alone again.”

Valaena turned slightly to look at him, her gaze filled with warmth. “Do you remember the first time you realized you loved me?”

Aemond paused, his single violet eye looking distant for a moment as he thought. Then, with a soft smile, he said, “I think I loved you even before I knew what love was. There was always something about you—"

Valaena's eyes shimmered with affection. She had loved him for so long that she couldn’t remember a time when she didn’t.

Now, standing here together with their children playing in the garden, the weight of what they had built together felt more precious than ever.

"If we return to King's Landing-" she began, her voice quiet, "-and things go bad—if I have to choose between you and my mother—I’ll choose you. Always"

The words hung between them, heavy and full of meaning.

She felt Aemond's breath hitch, and then, to her surprise, he buried his face in her shoulder. A soft, muffled sob escaped him.

Valaena turned quickly, concern flooding her face. “What’s wrong?”

Aemond looked up at her, his eye misted with emotion. His voice was thick with unshed tears as he spoke. “Just hearing you say that. It means more to me than you’ll ever know.”

She reached up, cupping his face gently, her thumb brushing over his cheek. “It’s true, Aemond. You are my heart. My everything.”

Aemond’s hand trembled slightly as he brought it up to hold her face. “I love you so much, Valaena. More than I can ever put into words.”

She leaned in, and their lips met in a slow, tender kiss, a moment of pure connection that washed away the uncertainties of the future.

They had faced impossible odds before and survived. Together, they were stronger than anything the world could throw at them.

As they broke apart, Aemond rested his forehead against hers, his voice a soft whisper. “We’ll face whatever comes together and I will always choose you too.”

Valaena smiled, her heart full as they stood together under the stars, knowing that no matter what awaited them in Westeros, they would never be alone as long as they had each other.

Aemond stood in the training yard, wooden sword in hand as he guided his son Rhaegar, through a series of basic sword movements.

The boy’s silver hair clung to his forehead; his little brow furrowed in concentration as he mimicked his father’s motions.

Aemond’s voice was calm and encouraging as he praised Rhaegar’s efforts, his pride evident with each swing of the boy's sword.

“Good, Rhaegar. That’s it—move your feet like we practiced,” Aemond said, stepping aside and gesturing for Rhaegar to try another strike.

The boy followed, his small hands gripping the wooden sword tightly, his face lighting up at the attention.

As the sun bore down on them in the scorching heat, Aemond called for a break. A young maid quickly rushed forward with water, offering cups to both father and son.

As Aemond took a long drink he felt a gentle nudge at his side and looked down to see Elaena, his daughter, standing with a wooden sword clutched in one hand, and her thumb in her mouth.

“Me try!” Elaena mumbled around her thumb; her big violet eyes wide with determination.

Aemond smiled warmly, giving the maid the cup. He took a step back, raising his wooden sword again.

“Alright, my little warrior. Let’s see what you can do.”

Elaena hefted the wooden sword, struggling a little with its weight but managing to lift it up. She swung it at Aemond with all her might.

Aemond blocked it with a mock gasp, tapping his own sword gently against hers.

“Oh no, Elaena strikes with deadly precision! How will I ever defeat such a seasoned warrior?”

Elaena giggled, encouraged by her father’s playful tone, and took another swing.

This time, Aemond dramatically dropped his sword and collapsed to his knees, holding his chest in mock agony. “Oh no! She got me!”

He fell onto his back, playing dead as Elaena squealed and dropped her sword, rushing to his side. She knelt next to him, shaking his shoulder with concern. “Oh Daddy. I just playing”

Aemond stayed still for a few seconds, then suddenly opened his eye with a mischievous grin.

“Got you!” He grabbed Elaena and pulled her down, peppering her face with kisses as she shrieked with laughter.

“Daddy, nooooo! Stop!” she giggled, squirming in his arms.

Just then, Rhaegar joined in, trying to tackle his father. Aemond caught him in one arm and held both of his children close, rolling with them in the sand as they all laughed together.

Their joyous sounds filled the air until a voice interrupted.

“And just what exactly is going on here?” Valaena’s voice rang out, teasingly stern as she approached from the manse.

Aemond looked up from the ground, a grin on his face. “I’ve just been defeated by the most fearsome warriors in the realm,” he declared, still holding onto Rhaegar and Elaena.

Valaena laughed, crossing her arms. “Is that so? Well, I do hope they take mercy on me.”

Elaena giggled sweetly. “We will, Mama.”

Valaena knelt down, brushing some sand from Elaena’s cheek. “That’s good to hear, because Daenys is having a nap and it’s time for both of you to bathe, besides I’m sure there’s a little girl under all that sand somewhere.”

A maid named Lirri stepped forward, ushering Rhaegar and Elaena inside for their bath.

Aemond watched them go with a fond smile before hauling himself off the ground, brushing the sand off his jerkin. “Time for my training now.”

A guard named Arro, approached, and a squire rushed forward to hand Aemond his steel sword. Valaena stood to the side, watching as Aemond and Arro began their sparring session.

Their swords clashed with precision, each strike powerful and deliberate. Aemond moved like a predator, swift and calculating, dodging Arro’s attacks with ease.

Before long, Aemond had Arro pinned, his sword at the man’s throat. Arro yielded, and Aemond stepped back, offering him a hand.

“Good effort,” Aemond said. “But remember to disperse your weight more evenly and open up your stance.”

Arro nodded, grateful for the advice. “I’ll learn for next time.”

As the squire returned the weapons, Aemond shrugged off his jerkin and pulled off his sweat-soaked cotton shirt, revealing the hard lines of his muscled torso.

The heat of the day had left him glistening, the sweat running down his skin. Valaena noticed the young maid staring at Aemond with wide eyes, her gaze shamelessly lingering on his lithe, powerful form as she handed him another cup of water.

Valaena’s lips curved into a knowing smile. She stepped forward and, without warning, kissed Aemond.

He was taken by surprise for a moment, the cup slipping from his hand and falling into the sand as his arms wrapped around her, deepening the kiss with passion.

When they parted, Aemond’s breath was heavy, his eye dark with desire. “You need to bathe,” Valaena said, her voice soft but firm.

Aemond grinned. “Only if you join me.”

Valaena’s smile grew as she nodded. “I wouldn’t dream of missing it.”

Valaena sat nestled on Aemond’s lap in the warm bath, her body pressed against his as she delicately ran a sharpened blade over his chin.

Aemond had his eye closed, his head leaned back, arms draped lazily over the edges of the bath. The heat of the water and Valaena's gentle touch had relaxed him completely.

With each careful stroke, she shaved his face with expert precision, the intimacy of the act bringing them closer in the quiet moments of the evening.

As she worked, her thoughts drifted to the uncertain future, and she broke the comfortable silence between them.

"I’ve been thinking about our return to Westeros," she said softly, her voice thoughtful as the blade moved over his skin.

Aemond hummed in response, his lips barely twitching. His relaxation remained unbroken, though her words stirred something deep inside him.

"I wish to wait a little longer," Valaena continued, focusing on the task at hand. "Daenys is still so young to be traveling such a long way, even on dragon back."

Aemond opened his eye and lifted his head slightly, his gaze meeting hers as he shifted in the water. “It’s alright,” he said, his voice a deep murmur. “Whenever we’re ready.”

Valaena smiled softly, relieved at his understanding. She tilted his head gently, guiding the blade along his jawline, her hands steady. “I admit," she said quietly, "I do fear the reaction to our return. After all, we’ve been dead for five years.”

Aemond took her hand as she paused, bringing it to his lips and kissing her fingers gently. His touch sent warmth through her, and he reassured her in that soft, steady way only he could.

"It’s expected to cause shock-maybe anger," he admitted. "But I’m sure your mother will be glad to know you’re alive."

Valaena couldn’t help but chuckle lightly at the thought. "I just hope she doesn’t have your head sliced off before she realizes how glad she is."

Aemond smirked, his amusement evident as he relaxed back into the bath. “I trust that my wife will advocate for me.”

With the final stroke, Valaena finished shaving him and carefully wiped the blade clean. “I will cast myself between you and the blade if I have to,” she promised, her voice serious despite the lightness in her eyes.

Aemond’s lips quirked into a smile. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” he said, his tone affectionate as he gazed up at her.

Valaena set the blade aside and cupped his now smooth face in her hands, leaning down to kiss him.

The kiss was soft at first, her lips gently brushing his, but it quickly deepened as Aemond’s hands slid down her back, gripping her waist beneath the water.

She felt him, hard and ready beneath her, and the intensity of his touch sent a shiver through her.

Valaena broke the kiss for a moment, her breath warm against his lips as she whispered, “Go slow.”

She moved her head to side as Aemond began pressing gentle kisses to her neck.

“My sweet wife. My Valaena” muttered Aemond.

“My husband. My love” gasped Valaena.

“Your mine. Forever” said Aemond.

Valaena lifted her hips and reached down to take hold of Aemond’s hard cock.

After teasing her husband with a few slow strokes, Valaena slowly lowered herself onto his cock.

“Y-You must tell me if it hurts” whispered Aemond.

Valaena nodded and shut her eyes tight, taking a deep breath as she slowly lowered herself.

“Your doing so well-” muttered Aemond trying to control himself.

“I-It h-hurts-“ whimpered Valaena, the burning sensation bringing tears to her eyes.

“-I can pull out-” offered Aemond.

“N-No just give me a moment” replied Valaena softly as she took the rest of his cock.

Aemond groaned loudly when Valaena was fully seated in his lap, his hands grasping his wife’s hips tightly as she began to move.

Valaena wrapped her arms around his shoulders for support as Aemond began to gently meet her thrusts.

Aemond moved one of his hands to gently caress one of her milk swollen breasts.

“Valzȳrys” breathed Valaena (Husband).

Aemond bent down to lick her nipples, going back and forth between her wonderful, enlarged breasts.

“Oh” muttered Valaena, as pearly white liquid began to leak from her.

Aemond ran his tongue over the milk that had dripped from his wife’s rosy nipples and delighted in the sweetened taste.

“Hmmm” moaned Aemond as he continued to lick and suckle at her breasts, gorging himself on her milk, as his wife gently rode his cock.

His tongue swirling around her stiffened peaks, his teeth scraping against her skin, the sounds of him swallowing.

It felt so good, it felt-

“-A-Aemond” gasped Valaena.

“What is it my love”.

“Don’t stop-please, oh gods-don’t stop” exclaimed Valaena as she arched her back, her cunny clenching around Aemond’s cock as she unexpectedly climaxed.

“Did you just-peak?” asked Aemond smirking as he released her nipple with a soft pop.

“Yes, it has been some weeks since we've properly laid together-” replied Valaena, her cheeks tinged pink.

“Ñuha jorrāelagon, ñuha dāria-” whispered Aemond as he seized her lips in a kiss, the taste of milk upon his tongue (My love, my Queen).

The water began splashing over the edges of the tub as the force of Aemond’s thrusts increased.

Aemond loved fucking Valaena. She was so perfect. He loved her mother’s body and would never tire of feeling her wet heat wrapped around him.

Valaena rolled her hips in time with Aemond’s thrusts. Her loud moans echoed around their bathing chambers.

“A-Aemond. Yes. Yes. H-Husband” whined Valaena as Aemond shifted slightly and began thrusting deeper inside her.

“I want to stuff my cock deep inside your cunny and never leave” moaned Aemond.

“Aemond. P-Please” cried Valaena as she felt Aemond’s fingers against her pearl.

“Take it. Take all of me” groaned Aemond, his face pressed between her breasts.

“A-Aemond. Oh god. Please” moaned Valaena, as she writhed against him.

“I know your almost there. Let it happen. Come for me again-” whispered Aemond, his tongue moving across her nipple as he rubbed her pearl.

Valaena arched her back and let out a scream as her pleasure erupted as Aemond began fucking her a little harder.

He was almost there just a little more-

Aemond held Valaena tight to him as his cock throbbed, spilling rope after rope of his seed.

“My love. My sweet” exclaimed Aemond as Valaena sagged against him.

Valaena took the cup of moon tea from Lirri, the bitter scent already making her grimace before it even touched her lips.

With one swift motion, she drank it all in one go, wincing at the foul taste as it burned down her throat. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her expression sour.

"You ok, my lady?" Lirri asked, her slight accent tinging the words with concern.

Valaena nodded, offering a weak smile. "I’m fine. It just tastes foul. Gods, I hate drinking that stuff."

Lirri, standing beside her, gave a shrug. "Then don’t drink it."

Valaena chuckled softly, shaking her head. "As much as I enjoy carrying my husband’s children, I think I’d like to wait a little while longer before I have another." She let out a breath, looking down at the empty cup.

Lirri raised a brow, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Your husband, he is virile man, he have you many times-"

Valaena laughed, louder this time, her amusement clear. "Yes, I guess you could say that." She smiled fondly, thinking of Aemond.

Lirri nodded with satisfaction, continuing with a grin. “My lord, he is like great stallion. Always ready to mount world.”

Still giggling, Valaena shook her head. “That’s one way to put it.”

Lirri’s expression turned more serious, though her tone remained light. “My lord he is good lover, yes? It make you smile”

Valaena’s cheeks warmed, and she bit her lip as she thought of Aemond. “He’s-quite skilled,” she admitted with a soft giggle, her tone laced with affection. “But don’t tell him I said that. It’ll go straight to his head.”

Lirri laughed, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “I think he already know, my lady.”

Valaena leaned back, letting the laughter fade as she gazed out the window at the sunny garden. “Yes,” she said softly. “He probably does.”

Lirri’s eyes flickered with admiration. "Many girls think he very beautiful. They say his hair is like the moon."

Valaena nodded, a smile tugging at her lips. "Don’t the Dothraki believe the moon is a goddess?"

"Yes," Lirri confirmed, her tone reverent. "She is wife to sun. Together they watch over all life."

Valaena looked at her, curious. "Do you miss the Dothraki?”

Lirri hesitated, her gaze turning distant. "Sometimes, but then I remember the Khal and his cruelty." Her expression hardened. "He no deserve to ride in night lands. I thank you and my lord for saving me."

Valaena’s eyes softened, guilt stirring within her. "I wish we could have saved your children."

Lirri’s hand reached for Valaena’s, squeezing it gently. Her smile was kind, though tinged with sorrow. "I will see them again when great stallion come for me. And together we will ride in starry Khalasar."

“What about Arro?” she asked, her voice lighter, hoping to bring a smile back to Lirri’s face.

Lirri’s expression warmed, a hint of affection flickering in her eyes. “Arro is kind man,” she said quietly. “He lost wife in a village raid”

Valaena nodded, recalling the memory vividly. “I remember that day. Aemond had found him lying amongst the ruins, barely clinging to life.”

Lirri’s voice was soft but steady as she said, “I’m glad my lord save him-he means great deal to me”

Valaena smiled, touched by Lirri’s strength and resilience. She felt the weight of their upcoming journey pressing on her mind. "Me and Aemond will soon return to Westeros."

"Your homeland," Lirri said, her eyes bright with curiosity.

"Yes," Valaena confirmed. "If you do not wish to come with us, then I’ll make sure you have enough money to live on."

Lirri smiled, her eyes softening. "I have no wish to stay alone. I love your children like they are mine. I want to come home with you."

Valaena’s heart warmed at her words. "As long as you’re happy."

"I am very happy, my lady," Lirri said with a firm nod.

As they shared a quiet moment, both women noticed a young maid, Mira, walk past carrying a tray of food.

Lirri leaned in closer to Valaena, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Watch that girl. She look at my lord in way she should not."

Valaena’s brow arched slightly, her gaze following the maid’s retreating figure. "I trust Aemond."

Lirri nodded, her expression stern. "Yes, your husband is good man. He does not look for others. But Mira, she want my lord to bed her."

Valaena scoffed lightly, the very idea absurd. "Aemond would never."

Lirri’s eyes darkened with certainty. "But she will try. She like many women who try to take husband for own self."

A flicker of irritation crossed Valaena’s face, but her confidence remained steady. "She won’t get what she wants from Aemond."

Lirri smiled, a hint of danger in her tone. "She bad girl. I shall cut her throat for insult to you and my lord."

Valaena chuckled, shaking her head. "That’s very nice of you to offer, but I shall deal with her myself."

Lirri grinned wickedly. "Then I clean blood."

"I’m not going to kill her," Valaena replied, her amusement growing.

Lirri's eyes twinkled as she teased, "You should feed her to the big grumpy dragon."

Valaena laughed, shaking her head. "Vhagar prefers much larger meals."

Both women shared a laugh, their bond strengthened by shared loyalty, as they returned to watching over the peaceful grounds of the manse.

In the stillness of the night, Valaena was jolted awake by the sound of faint screeching.

Her heart leapt into her throat, and she quickly rose from the bed, her bare feet padding across the cool floor as she rushed toward Daenys' cot.

She peered inside and saw her daughter still fast asleep, completely undisturbed by the commotion.

But something else caught her eye—the remnants of broken eggshell at the foot of the cot.

Her breath caught as her gaze shifted to a small, crimson creature nestled protectively against Daenys.

A dragon hatchling. Its tiny body shimmered like dark red rubies, and its wings, still delicate, were curled around the sleeping baby.

The hatchling’s curious eyes were already fixed on Valaena, watching her with sharp intelligence.

A soft gasp escaped her lips as she reached her hand forward slowly. The hatchling tilted its head sniffing, before nuzzling against her palm.

A smile spread across her face as the tiny creature accepted her touch before returning to its protective stance, curling around Daenys with an instinctive sense of guardianship.

Valaena straightened up, excitement pulsing through her as she hurried back to the bed.

She shook Aemond gently, but he awoke with a start, his hand reaching for his sword.

She quickly shushed him, her voice a soft whisper. "Come look."

Still groggy, Aemond allowed her to lead him to Daenys' cot, where he saw the crimson hatchling curled beside their daughter.

A wide smile spread across his face, eyes filled with pride and wonder. "Her egg hatched," Aemond whispered in awe. "She has her dragon."

Valaena could see the significance of the moment in his expression. She knew how deeply this mattered to him—that their children would be seen as true Targaryen’s, bonded with dragons as they should be.

His own memories of being mocked for not having a dragon at a young age still lingered. But their children would never know that pain.

They would never stand on the ground, watching others take flight, yearning for the skies.

Aemond wrapped his arms around Valaena, pulling her close. She rested her head on his shoulder, her heart swelling with affection as they watched the tiny dragon fall asleep beside Daenys, who had unconsciously clutched the hatchling's tail in her little hand.

In that quiet moment, their world seemed at peace. The crimson dragon, small but fierce, was a promise of their family's legacy.

Their daughter, already tied to a creature of fire and blood, would carry the strength of her ancestors.

And together, they would soar.

TBC

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