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sugar-petals · 4 years ago

Text

hey angel (m)

♡ sub!felix + reader

↳ The JYP Halloween party is ditched on short notice. That means: You have a down-to-celebrate boyfriend in full angel costume on your hands.

words. 5k

tags. domestic au, finger sucking, hickeys, latex, corruption kink, fingering, vaginal sex, footjob, harnesses, cunnilingus, kitten antics, edging, aftercare

★⎡CARO’S NOTE⎦› here goes the cutie on duty 👼

genre. domestic + smut/crack

„So sorry mate,“ Bang Chan’s voice resounds through the speaker. „I thought it could work but… We can’t celebrate tonight. Really sorry, Felix. Changbin and I already got dressed up too, but, you know things got shut down. JYP won’t let us with the Corona rules and stuff.“

„Oh no…“

„Yeah, man. Looks like we’ll have to do it next year.“

„You even prepared the food already, right?“

„We’re handing it out to staff and eat it at home. I know, it sucks. I spent half the morning in the kitchen. I can like keep the pumpkin cookies so you can eat them tomorrow after practice or so.“

„I feel so sorry Chan… and thank you.“

„I’ll be calling Hyunjin and Han now as well. Really sorry we’re cancelling short notice. I hope you’re still having a nice evening bro. Maybe we can make it happen for Christmas.“

„Okay. Cheers mate.“

„Yeah, cheers.“

Felix puts his phone down looking more than deflated in his angel costume, puffs out a big sigh. You can tell he really looked forward to this. Just an hour before, you bothered to sew the wings in place rather than rely on the wobbly back-pack like construction that came with it.

They’re firmly attached to his white top now, and all for nothing. He glued them together by himself with a pack of synthetic feathers ordered on Etsy for a ridiculous shipping cost, along with a little halo that he clipped into his hair. Which, because maybe it really does sense his mood, dangles low and even a bit lopsided over his head.

„It’s the party of the year,“ Felix flops down on the living room couch. “I can’t believe this.“

You sit down opposite to him, starting to clean off the table where masses of cosmetic products and leftover feathers have piles up.

„Next time, Lixie. We can keep the costume. Poor Chan, he organized the living shit out of everything.“

„I’ll just go and shower, get this off, and stuff,“ he points at his face. Felix applied his own makeup with a little help from you here and there, including some golden sparkles. Just yesterday, he bleached his hair. It’s sculpted down to every strand with hair spray now. Felix unties his sneakers with the little gold stars on. Just before he starts plucking off his halo, you get an idea, pick up your phone from the table.

„Wait— Let’s at least make some pictures with your phone, you put so much effort in this. You look so cute. The fans might want to see it as well.“

„Oh! You’re right,“ Felix stops right in his tracks. „For Instagram.“

After tightening his sneakers again and you making sure the halo sights right, Felix walks around your flat in search for a nice backdrop. You follow, quickly flipping through some filters to try, and adjusting the flash on the camera.

After posing at the fridge — strange idea — and in the bathroom turns out a little awkward as well, you decide that such an elaborate costume needs a themed background, and only the bedroom offers just that. You recently changed the duvet to sky blue sheets with clouds on them. The overall interior is mostly clean white as well, with some thrifted vintage furniture. Fairy lights, heavy curtains, a wooden ceiling. Perfect.

„We’ll caption it as… post your own stay-at-home costume, something like that,“ Felix plops down on the bed, acting as if he just took a seat on the cloud in the very middle.

„Sounds pretty good,“ you press release, and the first picture pops up on your screen. „Can you turn a little towards the light? That the sparkles are showing.“

„Yay, I love the sparkles!“

„Just like this, just like this. Don’t move. The sparkles!“

A five-picture series of more snapshots ensues, with you adjusting Felix’s face a few times by hand, even, turning his chin by sheer millimeters to find the perfect angle. He’s stunning.

„I have another idea.“

„Oh?“

„I remember what I wore for Halloween three years ago. The costume must be somewhere. I think it fits together with yours.“

„What, oh wow?“

„What was it again, wait…“

You already begin to sort through your wardrobe, checking each hanger, each drawer, end up where you store your socks, and finally pull out a larger plastic zip bag from the very depths of all that chaos. There it is. Nice.

„Lix, if you’d turn around for me, please.“

He immediately does. Blushing.

„Thank you, angel.“

You pull off your sweat pants, your grey shirt, socks, your bra. Time to dress up. Only your simple black panties stay on. On goes a pair of scarlet stockings, snug and high. Then, a dark red latex skirt that goes in big circles and flounces, down to the mid-thigh.

Added: A tight sleeveless peplum top that admittedly… and deliberately squeezes your boobs a little. Not too much. More important is that your nipples are showing right through, and the cleavage is sweeping, every demon would be salivating at your feet. If an angel does: Remains to be tested.

Around your waist and chest and over your shoulder goes a black harness, pulling everything together. Some very pointed, glossy pumps with thin heels complete the costume. They’re not crafted to be walked on in the very least, their balance is terrible. You’re planning something else with them. Cherry on top: Devil horn headband. Really curved and pointy, too. Can’t go wrong. You click your tongue and take a spin. The skirt flares out perfectly. Ready to go.

„Felix, time to turn around.“

He does. You can tell he didn’t cheat.

„You’re, you’re so hot in this,“ Felix buries his face right in the comfort of his sweater paws, hoping they would not give away his embarrassed little face. But — his voice does, effortlessly so.

„Come on, have a look at me. Real closely, angel, come. You’re allowed to.“

Felix gazes through his fingers with what sounds like a little meep! in a much more high-pitched tone than his usual speaking range. He’s cute.

„Hey pum’kin. Miss Lucifer speaking. Where’s the barbecue?“

Felix and you recently agreed that hell must be one big and extremely hot cave where everyone’s grilling and having a good time. Australia, essentially.

„Welp!“

„Damn right. Infiltrating God’s realm one cloud at a time. Any last words?“

„It’s so intimidating!“

Felix digs himself into a mountain of pillows on the bed, with only his eyes and nose peeking out. You shrug, adjust your horns.

„Hm. Time for my first satanic act I guess.“

„Oh no!“

„Wait just one minute, be a sweet and patient boy.“

You leave Yongbok confused given that you’re quick to hurry to the kitchen. However, what you return with puts a giggle on his lips right away.

„Boom. It is served.“

„Yes, yes, please!“

Poufy black cocoa cupcakes. The ones with the cute little ghost frosting on it, and the melted chocolate inside. Felix finds them irresistable since the last Halloween party, to the point where you bake them mid-July. The current set of cupcakes was meant to be a contribution to Bang Chan’s eerie and delectable buffet. As for now, they’re in deep need of someone hungry since you made a lot of them, assuming a post-workout Changbin would devour at least five or more.

„Good move,“ he admits, a little shaky, and you proceed to tray the cupcakes on the bed — stuffing Felix for a solid ten minutes until there’s chocolate all over his face. What you’ll be quick to confess is that you’ve been deliberately messy feeding him, with all the crumbs in particular.

„Spoiled honey bun,“ you plant a kiss on top of his head.

„These taste so good, I swear.“

Next up is Felix who has to carefully maneuver the sweet treats into your mouth without spoiling your outfit.

„If you get crumbs into my cleavage, I can’t put your face in there later you know.“

Fierce nodding.

„That’s the spirit.“

Under your eagle eyes, he proves to be an obedient little cherub doing his job pretty well. The cakes are delicious in how spongy they are, and the liquid chocolate warms up so well on the tongue, it melts even more. You’re more than pleased and have Felix store away the remaining four pieces only after quite a while.

„I’ll have them for Brekkie, woo!“ is what he’s fast to proclaim, and you agree he’ll need them the next morning. Once you’re done with him, that’s gonna count as a hangover even Chan’s wildest party couldn’t give him.

„We’re talking dinner first, Felix.“

At this point, all the sugar is kicking in. Or it’s the chocolate being some kind of aphrodisiac. Whatever, could be either, you’re feeling like you’re up there at the ceiling, and you’re not the only one. Felix coming back to the bedroom so bouncy and cutieful just gets you even more in the mood.

You sit at the edge of the bed, slanting backward just a little. „You look like you need some more corruption, I won’t lie,“ you pat your lap, beckoning. He can ditch wifi because this is his favorite hot spot waiting for him. Felix sits down looking tiny as ever, eyes full of anticipation and his pants full of… big fat late night erection.

„I don’t mind at all, Miss. I don’t, oh my god…“ he mumbles into his nonexistent Aussie trucker beard, and you’re clear that whatever the skirt did to him, his brain must be doing kangaroo somersaults right now. In the meantime, something very eager is poking right at your lower belly. Captain Boomerang already came fully armed tonight and the Suicide Squad isn’t even anywhere near to be seen.

„Oh hey hey, cupcake. Getting really big there,“ you wipe at the curled little corners of his mouth. Some crumbs come off. His lips already twitch the way you know they want to do naughty things on you. He doesn’t seem to notice. Autopilot Felix has already taken over.

„Don’t hurry with it,“ he stares, mouth half-open, but his little grinds prove him a dirty — in an entirely direct sense — fucking liar. Like he’s literally rubbing himself against your stomach.

„Boy oh boy. You’re not even trying.“

„I’m fucked!“ is what Felix soon realizes with the daggers you’re shooting at him through your hopefully very satanic-looking eyes right now. Alongside catching up with his darn hips doing their own thing.

„You are.“

„I’m sorry for grinding, God help me!“

„He won’t. Cuz I’m here on your cloud. Cue stage number two of my demonic plan. Safeword?“

„It’s chocolate!“

„Mh. Good pick.“

The rest as usual. Tapping the thigh, yellow for pause, towels plus water ready, and always double-checking the lube in case of Jisung putting a glass of vegemite under your bed as his latest practical joke. Yes, it happened. It’s a whole new level of demonic. On the other hand: perhaps Felix’ ass could’ve actually handled it, Made in Australia it is.

„Let’s go honey angel,“ you curl at his hair with a little finger just to tease him a little more. The answer is a little meow, at this point Felix’ communication skills have simplified to kitten vocabulary which always happens when he is nervous and looking forward to something.

Next thing poor Felix knows, his face has entered the scorching satanic abyss that is your cleavage. Literally, you’re burning up. It’s fucking October and Felix has you breaking a sweat from all your horniness (literally, your horns are just that chic) already. Twice the reason to punish the shit out of him. If that can be considered anything near a punishment.

A shower of various „Mh— nh!“ and mewling noises comes to rain down on you while Felix face takes a trip down mammary lane, and that, too, is literal. He’s salivating. So much about rain. Actually, great lubrication. Felix always does things best by instinct.

„Yes, good boy. Great job.“

Now that his mouth is wet already, you’re unceremonious about shoving your fingers right down his throat after he resurfaces. Blushed, hard, and ready to choke himself since he’s already running short on breath. It doesn’t take long until he’s gagging himself stupid and the sparkles under his eyes start running.

„Pretty, pretty,“ you lean down a little, kissing his nose. „Give me all you got.“

„Gh—gch—“

The answer is as slobbery and unintelligible as can be. To a normal human, at least. You’re a demonic top. That automatically means having an Ivy League major in gag noise translation.

„Oh yes, I know,“ you stroke his hair, using your free hand that usually rests at the back of his neck. „Talk to me about it. Exactly what I was thinking. Do go on.“

And he does, louder than ever. If there’s one satisfying sound, it’s this, that heavenly deep voice doing all kinds of nasty acrobatics is making you go crazy. That Felix is absolutely close to cumming in his angel pants is very much clear to you given how the veins and muscles on his neck are having a chaotic Halloween party on their own.

Which includes his tongue taking turns on your two fingers as well. And a wide-eyed Felix struggling, swallowing, holding on to your shoulders with his little feet twitching in their sneakers. Like mad… and you love it. But also — hopelessly sucking and moaning and slurping and squealing until his neck has way too much saliva on it for you not to make it your next target. Felix is so good at this. Way too good.

„Looks delicious,“ you lean in, your hair tickles his ears. And now, you’re busy nibbling, biting a little… and most importantly, giving Felix a wet hickey that will send his makeup artist — my God, you really torture the unsuspecting man almost weekly — into a meltdown. Rowdy and unholy is the look you’re going for.

In the meantime, Felix is still wrapped up trying to hit your fingers at the back of his throat. If his cute bouncy run and rude boner moment didn’t turn you on already, now you would be. The way he’s just sucking in his own spit makes you realize that you won’t ever need a fire brigade for your flat.

You emerge from his neck and raise your brows. Felix is just hard-wired to impress. „Just how much saliva can you produce!“

„Ch… Mnh— Nh…“

Hitting some more complex syntax and consonants there, is he.

„Oh, I get it now. You stayed hydrated during the day. Thanks for explaining, mate. That’s the secret.“

Whether that’s perfectly scientifically correct down to the enzyme theory and shit neither of you can google right now. At least you know that you’re both drenched on either end so that’s that.

Once Felix is so horny from deepthroating your damn hand that he has pull off and yellow-word, you’re already prepared for introducing a new position which you can prepare while he’s gathering himself and wiping off his chin. You hand him a second towel for his neck, and present him a little hand mirror to see how the hickey turned out.

„It’s shaped like, hm,“ he pants, words still slurring a little. „I dunno! It’s really cute!“

„Let me see… No doubt that’s a rice cake hickey. That’s the shape.“

„You’re right!“

And off he goes snapping a selfie with it while you get comfortable on your back, cleaning your own fingers.

„Just don’t upload that one to Insta instead of the cloud shots, we’re not gonna survive another Manager call at 1:15 AM.“

„Can I use your phone for it? That’s where it’s supposed to be on, anyway.“

Felix giggles a little. That cute brat. Always knowing how it’s done.

„Sure babe!“

And voilà, Felix is already occupied setting a good view of his new rice cake-shaped friend as your phone background. Good thing, helps his erection cool down a little, he was about to blow up his poor white pants. The acceptable unfair feat being that he’s just riling you up even more like that on the other hand.

„If you come to mommy now,“ you wriggle one foot in the air, the other splayed on the duvet, knee slightly bent. „Rubbing her pussy and doing your thing, you know how it goes.“

„Angel duties calling! What am I doing!“

At the speed of sound, Felix stores your phone back on the bedside table and crawls over in an instant. He props his chin on your abdomen and blinks.

„Sorry Ma’am. At your service. Never wanna keep you waiting.“

A big smile rouses his cheeks, and you boop them from either side. His peach fuzz is so soft and his eyes are so beautifully dark. You don’t waste any time keeping your skirt down for any longer. Another blink and Felix is already pawing — well, kneading and caressing technically — between your legs. He’s visibly understanding just how wet the whole finger sucking circus has left you now.

„What if I used my heels on your cock, boo. Still no cumming. Just my heels and my lil’ prince.“

Satanic plan stage number three. Felix has gotten to savor it last Christmas and for his birthday, and some time around the holidays in summer.

„I love it yay!“ Felix claps his hands. Baby, baby.

„C’mere then. Just keep on rubbing.“

His arms are fairly long enough. While you’re dragging the slender heels of either shoe right across the outlines on his crotch, Felix, eyes loosely closed, maintains a steady rhythm on your clit with three fingers lined up on the fabric of your panties.

„Oh fucking hell, Felix, shit—“

Whenever you masturbate, that alone would never do. You’d get frustrated after a while. Need more stimulation. But when Felix is on angel duty to keep your pussy soaked, it doesn’t need much to make your clit throb, even with your underwear still on. Guess that God’s little helpers know how to work their magic to make your head spin.

He’s hitting the right spot, with the right moves, and his other hand doesn’t miss out on a single opportunity to stroke at both the in- and outside of your thighs. The touch is so subtle, you twitch. Felix strokes on, delirious himself. His eyelids flutter.

„Fuck…“

Despite the little pause from earlier taking out most of his tension, your heels leave Felix with pants that are even more bulged out. That’s making it easy to direct your feet to jerk up and down at either side. You’d never know either of you would be so into this. Foot fetish and all.

Once he’s edged you to the point of moans, last thing you properly remember is calling it quits with the panties and telling him to line himself up. The heels kicked off, the skirt still on, you decide that unpacking your Halloween treat has been long overdue. You slide his pants down, roll down a pink condom, and grab his cock at the base to glide it all over your wet lips.

„Lix, come fuck me. You got me all horny. Satan is recruiting.“

„With me it’s not sinning,“ he smiles, brighter than the sun and you do right along. It’d be hard not to. Felix truly has the innocence of a virgin, the subtle confidence of an intermediate, the caution of a pro, and the kindness of a real veteran.

„You’re right about that Felix,“ you say, prop your entrance at the very tip, let the wetness do its job. „Come kiss your honey girl.“

And he does. Entering you with care for the right angle, letting your hip do the rest. What’s been circling and sucking your fingers so deliciously is now doing a hot job teasing and pleasing your tongue all over. His lips are amazingly soft and plump, they open so gently and feel electric on yours. A gentle squeeze around your left breast sparks a moan into the kiss from you. It’s Felix massaging your breasts while deepening his penetration, and you can tell the vegemite can stay under the bed today. You can tell Felix is getting more than flustered knowing it was all him who made you this dripping wet.

Even his dick seems to blush in sync. It’s fucking pink and red. Oh wait, that’s the condom. But knowing him and from your viewpoint, it’s still more flushed than before, no kidding. Faithfully pumping in and out of you at its full length now. You wrap your legs around his waist, the thrusts become deeper, shorter, parting you open much more, and filling you out so properly.

„So good. Right there, angel. Just right there. I’m loving that.“

Felix has a great dick. Best handy size, the girth’s comfortable, all nice and bendy, virtually no curve, you can always gyrate on it in any way and even take a complete 180 if you go from cowgirl to reverse (which you’d be doing right now but he’d crush his wings if he were on his back like that so no). Cherry on top, compact but soft balls that don’t steal the show but still do the trick during doggy. They’re whipping up the best cum in the world, so.

The slow kissing goes on and on and Felix tries to walk the tightrope of neither letting your pussy lips suck the orgasm out of him, nor making you cream his cock with shaky legs from all that gorgeous sloppy friction, and the kissing, and his sweet cherry shampoo scent that has your brain in absolute limbo.

With everything hanging by a thread like that, every kiss becomes special and full of a suspense that makes your lips tremble — either set, and Felix can hardly bear it himself.

His little halo is dangling back and forth, and you can tell by his face that all that thrusting has him in serious trouble. And you? Are fucking leaking and groaning, and that little shallow series of first contractions before your orgasm is already preparing you.

The sugar high from the cupcakes is fading, but your adrenaline is sure to replace it. You just want Felix to fuck you more and rock against him, and hold his head, and kiss him. God, his mouth is so warm and inviting, tastes so good like cocoa.

The pace joins yours without any effort, it adapts when your rhythm changes, and it stabilizes everything when you’re currently riding the high of his cock really filling you out so you can clench your muscles around him, feel him and tell him just you wait, I’ll milk you. He’s such a good kisser. You can feel all of your wetness running down your ass like it’s Christmas.

„Felix, I’m overflowing.“

„I’m so sorry,“ he whines into the kiss. „I’ll be washing the sheets.“

„Listen, baby,“ you break the tongue-on-tongue, „you doing laundry is really sexy. But the overflow is the best part. Just look what you’re doing to my body.“

You could ravage him on the spot. He’d probably lose it and cum in two seconds. Holding yourself before the edge is so tough right now.

„Shit… yellow again. Need a moment.“

Felix has to resort to a bit of cockwarming, and you use the little break to rid yourself off the harness. It’s not perfectly comfortable when you’re lying down. You’re about to fling it off the bed that Felix asks to wear it. Oh. Very well. It actually goes as a nice contrast on his white top, and the straps make it easy to adjust to him. And he wants it to sit on him really tightly. Oh again.

You realize—

On you, it’s only a fashion piece. Something random that came with the costume.

On him: It’s kinky.

„Hey hey. You look sexy, pum’kin,“ you pat at his chest. „Look at your waist, wow.“

Your sweet boy. It’s like it’s made for him. So cinched and the exact opposite of his costume. He’s a corrupted, dirty angel now, it’s perfect. With his pink neck and all sweaty face, and his little puppy gaze that will haunt you in your sex dreams because it literally just gets into your pants so much. Oh god, you just wanna cum. You have to distract yourself with chaste images of Felix washing the dishes or writing grocery lists with little hearts and emojis on them but that just makes it five times worse.

The way he puts the harness on with his dick inside you is so mouthwatering and cumworthy, you can’t wait to resume and switch your own brains off on that angel cock. Once Felix is ready to exit phase yellow and resume the session, your hands magically gravitate towards the straps of the harness at this waist.

„Can I?“

„M—hm!“

You have the time of your life grabbing and guiding him by the harness, controlling every thrust. Felix clenches up his teeth from how lavishly his cock is squeezing into your pussy.

„Oh babe,“ you groan out. „Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. Come on, angel.“

He’s not going to take it much longer. Felix is tensing all over, neck to the knees, it’s a huge shock wave in the making. That climax is going to be like a fucking punch into outer space.

„I’m really at my limit, I’m, I’m…!“

„Cum for me, angel,“ you reach to his neck to bring his lips down again. Your mouths going into shaky contact brings a big soaring moan with it.

„Ahn—!“

You lock lips, his face scrunches up, and you can tell that cum worth of three orgasms is currently pooling into the condom. You don’t belong to the mile high club, but going by how far up this feels, you might as well be. Those sweet shivers. And the little whines. It’s all too much for him, this one got him bad. Felix cumming is like the angels really are singing. With bells and harps and all that shit at once.

After pulling out, the ruined condom goes off lightning fast. Felix’ cock gets some much-needed cooling, but his face is on heavy duty. How he does it after almost getting his lights turned off, it’s a mystery, it must have been six whole loads he shot into you. You’d already be collapsing in his shoes. Felix still being able to put his mouth to work is an act of divine intervention. Honestly though, it doesn’t even take half a minute. Sloppy head from Felix is cryptonite, your stamina comes tumbling down. His tongue just knocks you out with an overwhelming rush of pleasure.

“Oh— yes...”

What is gravity? You don’t know what north and south mean anymore. He laps and sucks you through your high and your legs give up their soldier service. All you see it fluffy blonde strands of hair peeking from below your skirt, a glimpse of the harness, the rest is heavy growling and swearing from all of the contractions and Felix getting raw and dirty Down Under with no fears, literally none, to bury his face and move it around and let his tongue loose. Time and again Felix shows you he’s a swallower. Satanic agenda: success.

For tonight, your pussy will be nothing but glitter, cum, and spit. Swollen like crazy, properly fucked, and tipped to the absolute limit. Felix keeps on slicking up his face completely, and then brings you into the afterglow with his fingers. One at a time, barely adding stimulation. Just fetching you where you are and climbing down. Looks like you’ll share the cupcakes, this is a couple hangover in the making. In Felix’ case in particular. It’s like he signed up for testing a mad scientist’s latest designer drug.

„Wow wow… So you served me choco cupcakes and God’s menu,“ is the last thing he can say in his delirium before falling over. He’s so fucked out and went so wild on eating you, a part of the harness came off. Thank god his nose is so small, all that swiping could’ve broken the bridge and whatnot. And his lips, they’re twice as plump. You really have to compliment in on what his mouth has done today because that was some champ shit.

You’re both buffering on the sheets for a solid five minutes until you roll to the side. Towel… water… forehead kisses. Yes, forehead kisses most importantly. After gathering yourself a little, you pamper Felix into a heart rate around 90 rather than 120. And with the onset of exhaustion for the two of you, that’s not too hard after some minutes passing. Whispering sweet nothings and praise is all you do up until 2 AM and after. Felix is somewhere between worlds, one foot in the door of the dreamland, the other soaking up the care and the intoxicating, thick scent of the room that has a lot of cherry shampoo in it.

At some point. You loosen the harness, pull off his shirt with the wings attached. The halo you unsuccessfully try to spot in his hair. Turns out: It flew off. Felix really must’ve made Satan proud if it fell down just like that. Good job. Felix has earned a title of being a dirty angel now, and by the way he’s chugging water now, a wet one on top of that.

Five tons of spit, six, seven, who knows how many he’s afforded for today. A head pat is not enough, it has to be several, and Felix passes out onto the pillows. As good as you can, you wipe him down, bin the condom, get off his shoes and his half-pulled down trousers. After staggering to the bathroom, your skirt and peplum shirt follows, the stockings stay on, they’re cozy as hell. Last but not least, you remove your devil horns. It feels like they granted you the most unknown demonic powers.

Next time Felix is on his way to making you cum again, you’ll be wearing them, and you’ll last the way you did tonight. Meanwhile, Bang Chan is blowing up your phone because Felix pressed send by accident earlier, but you don’t notice. It just keeps on vibrating on the bedstand and Chris will have to riddle over the rice cake selfie for the rest of November.

Felix dozes with an angelic little smile on his lips and puffs his cheeks in his sleep, his makeup wiped and his hair truly messy. Instagram can wait. Maybe you’ll get to brush your teeth a little later, it usually takes some time until you wake up again and topple to the sink. You huddle together, tuck your sweet baby pum’kin into his second favorite spot at your chest. Ah, the glory of Felix little spooning.

As the last signature, you nibble at his ear, call him your cutie pie, and switch the lights off. You have to listen closely but if you do, it’s like Felix is purring in his sleep. Whatever your own dreamland is planning to launch on you tonight, you’re looking forward to it.

PS — oh, my good ole fellas, a last cursed disclaimer. i must insist on the following for obvious reasons. vegemite makes for some terrible strap lube okay 😂🇦🇺

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maatryoshkaa · 4 years ago

Text

young god | chapter 16

chapters: | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11| 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | epilogue |

word count: 14.3k

warnings: graphic descriptions of violence, domestic & child abuse, sexual abuse of a minor, descriptions of mental illness, death, dark themes and foul language. once again, all information regarding psychiatric conditions or courtroom procedures are to be taken with a grain of salt.

description: Han Jisung wrestles with the demons of his past as Kim Seungmin faces his own dilemma in the present, with one last chilling threat from Prosecutor Kang forcing Seungmin to make a final, crucial decision. The clock is counting down as your last chance wears thin, and one unexpected declaration is all it takes for things to change—forever.

watch the trailer here!

16| the prisoner’s dilemma.

Jisung was still frozen in place long after the heavy doors had swung shut and erased your face from his sight. His own hand felt foreign as he held it against his stinging cheek, the dull throbbing drowned out by the words still ringing in his ears.

Your friends want you to stay alive. Your mother wanted you to stay alive.

I need you to stay alive.

Bang Chan was watching him from the side, the detective’s eyes filled with equal parts amusement and wariness. Finally, he spoke. “You deserved that, you know.”

Jisung was silent, but his mind was already replaying the scene over and over again. Your anxious eyes, your voice trembling with the effort to stay steady. The slap couldn’t compare to the pain that had etched itself into your features every time he had spoken harshly, trying again and again to push you away. I know I did.

Chan sighed. “How are you feeling?”

A soft laugh escaped from Jisung’s dry mouth. “Dizzy,” he deadpanned honestly. The adrenaline was beginning to die down, but instead of leaving him sick in the stomach and with a pounding headache like usual, Jisung felt almost...lightheaded with relief. “Like...like a kid that just got told off?”

The detective chuckled, letting out his low, signature whistle. “What’d I tell you? That’s love, mate.”

Jisung looked at him now, incredulous. “Getting slapped in the face?”

“No,” Chan smiled, but for once, his eyes were serious. “Someone who cares about you enough to call you out when you’re wrong.”

Not knowing what to say, Jisung turned away, letting the ticking of the clock on the wall fill the strained silence. He could still feel Chan’s gaze on him, but it was no longer the look of a detective trying to dissect a case file. Instead, it held the same strange softness it had when Chan had pulled Jisung aside at the Third Eye, and asked if he was okay.

“I told you once,” Chan began slowly, “that everyone deserves to be loved, and that you’re no different. Of course, things have...changed,” he continued, and Jisung looked down, throat tight as he waited for Chan to finish. “But I still stand by what I said.”

Before Jisung could reply, the intercom crackled overhead. “The court hearing for Han Jisung and the Miroh Heights Murder Cases will be resuming in five minutes. All attorneys, jurors, and participants in the trial, please report to the courtroom immediately—”

“Detective, you should get going,” a security guard spoke lowly to Chan, who sighed and nodded, pulling himself to his feet. As he passed where Jisung was standing, he stopped briefly.

“You’re a good kid, Han Jisung. Even if you don’t believe it yourself...you had better start to.”

“Chan—”

The detective had reached the door when he looked over his shoulder at Jisung. He had the same old mischievous smile on his face again, but his eyes were sad.

“I hope we can grab another coffee together some time, yeah?”

━━━━━━━━

Seungmin’s head was spinning as he pushed through rooms packed with spectators and reporters until he finally stumbled into an emptier hallway. His eyes gleaned the plaques on the doors, searching for the room number the court clerks had given him after Seungmin had overheard their frantic conversation.

“We can’t just end the case here — the media and people’ll riot.”

“But we’ve lost a witness and the lead prosecutor of the case in one day — how the hell is the trial supposed to continue?”

The clerk wringed his hands. “We need to find out if there were any other prosecutors working with Kang on the case — call them in ASAP—”

And so, here Seungmin was — heart threatening to leap out of his throat, charging headfirst into a case that had been ripped out of his hands months ago. He had stepped into their conversation impulsively, and now a thousand warning bells were going off in his mind.

Kim Seungmin was not impulsive. Kim Seungmin always calculated his plans perfectly, meticulously. It was one of the reasons why he had always been at the top of his class, graduating a year early with honours. Always praised for being levelheaded and thorough.

Still, he thought, there had been one person that had seen right through him.

“You’re stressed,” you blurted bluntly, and Seungmin’s coffee cup froze midway to his lips. You were in his office, one of the many meetings you two had arranged in order to keep each other updated with information regarding Jisung’s case.

“We’re all stressed,” Seungmin replied matter-of-factly, unsure where you were going with this, but you shook your head.

“But you try the hardest out of all of us to hide it. Tell me if I’m crossing a line here, but—” you looked at him, tilting your head. “You seem like the type who’s calm and collected on the outside to...hide the fact that you’re still wrestling with nerves, and insecurities, on the inside. Like a defense mechanism.”

Seungmin fell silent. Instinctively, he felt the urge to laugh it off, but in a fleeting moment, his mind wandered to his coworkers— their condescending gazes at who they thought was just a lucky amateur, a young imposter infringing upon a field with people twice his age. Since his first day at the law firm, Seungmin had felt an unbearable desire to prove himself worthy in their eyes, and the anxious feeling ate away at him every time he touched a case.

Sensing the sudden change in mood, you quickly stammered, “I-I’m sorry, that was so unnecessary—what I’m trying to say is— it’s okay to be nervous. Don’t psyche yourself out with your own expectations for yourself. U-um—”

You trailed off, mortified, but Seungmin let out a small laugh, shaking his head lightly when your eyes widened in confusion. “No, no, it’s just…” You were smart and capable — anyone could see that — but always seemed to second-guess your own abilities. He found it almost endearing. “You really are a psychology major, Miss l/n.”

Seungmin rounded a corner and nearly slammed into someone that had just walked out of the men’s washrooms. Before he could apologise, Seungmin looked up into the man’s face and his gut twisted unpleasantly.

Prosecutor Kang seized Seungmin by the collar before he could walk away, his face livid. The younger man’s eyes darted down either side of the empty hallway, then back at his former senior. He had heard Kang was to be kept at the courthouse until the end of the trial, in case they needed anything from him. There were guards flanking every entrance and exit, so Kang couldn’t exactly escape, but seeing him walk around unsupervised still made Seungmin uneasy.

“S-sir, you can’t—”

“Do you remember what you said? What you promised?” Kang seethed, eyes wild as they raked Seungmin up and down. “‘I can handle it. I’ll find the culprit, and I’ll convict him. Death penalty, no less.’”

Hearing his own words coming out of Kang’s mouth made Seungmin wince and shrink back. Kang caught his discomfort, grinning savagely before jerking his head in the direction of the holding cells, where Jisung was. “You’re taking over the case, aren’t you? Your culprit’s right there. Everything’s been laid out for you, it couldn’t be simpler.”

Seungmin let out a shaky breath, fists clenched by his sides. Before he could open his mouth, Kang pulled him in closer, voice dangerously low.

“I always thought it was fishy, you know — someone your age, already entering the field? So I did my research.” Kang paused, smirking. “You’re a little prodigy, aren’t you? I didn’t know your parents were renowned lawyers, too.”

At that, Seungmin froze, shocked eyes darting up to meet Kang’s. It was true — born into a family of influential law enforcement officials, Seungmin had practically grown up reading about legal matters and judicial affairs. Despite his efforts to keep his parentage discreet as he grew older — hating the way their reputations always preceded his own — the expectations to follow in their footsteps had always remained suffocating. He loved law with all his heart, but his own family had become yet another reason why Seungmin had so much to live up to, and even more to lose.

The older prosecutor chuckled — Seungmin must have looked like a deer in headlights. “You can’t disappoint them, yes? You need to do everything you can to uphold the big family name.” Kang’s voice had a dangerous edge to it, like a blade. “My career might be over, little prosecutor, but I have far more power than you think. I can make sure you never step foot into this profession ever again. You want to prove yourself? To me, to your fellow prosecutors, to your parents? Here’s your chance.”

There was a snakelike glint in Kang’s eyes when he finally let Seungmin go, his words seeping through Seungmin’s mind like poison.

Prove yourself. Prove yourself. A security guard had appeared at the end of the hallway, and without another word, Kang calmly turned on his heel, letting the guard escort him away. Seungmin watched his silhouette grow fainter, feeling sick to his stomach.

Just how many cases...no, how many prosecutors had Kang manipulated for his own benefit?

He took a shuddering breath. Time was running out. Forcing his feet to move, Seungmin finally found the room, barely listening when the clerk quickly explained that the rights to the case were being transferred to him last minute.

“Ten minutes, Prosecutor Kim. You have approximately ten minutes to prepare your case.”

The roomful of law officials were watching him with doubtful eyes — the same doubtful, scornful gazes that had followed him his entire life. Ten minutes. Picking up where Kang had left off would be the smoothest, most reasonable route. Preparing an entirely different argument, however, was suicide.

Seungmin glanced up at the clock, and his heart sank.

━━━━━━━━

The commotion in the courtroom sounded like the buzzing of an agitated beehive, the constant thrumming of hushed conversations and your own erratic heartbeat fueling the tense atmosphere.

Hyunjin, Felix, Woojin, and you had sprinted straight to the courtroom after a rapid search for Seungmin had turned up futile — the prosecutor was nowhere to be seen, but judging from the murmurs you overheard around you, the case had been transferred into his hands with mere minutes to spare. You bit your lip nervously. This should have been good news, but you all knew that the odds — and time — were still against you. Looking the weariest you’d ever seen him, Bang Chan collapsed into the seat next to you. He tried to give you a reassuring smile, but as he turned away, eyes glued to the scene about to unfold, you saw that his features were strained and pale.

With a creak that send a hush rippling through the courtroom, the doors swung open to reveal more familiar faces — the judge, the prosecution, the jury. Your eyes instinctively flickered to Jisung, whose expression was as guarded as ever, and instantly felt a pang of guilt in your chest. The rest of the room, however, had fallen silent before the judge had even spoken. All their gazes were trained on the new prosecutor that had entered the room.

Seungmin felt the stares on him before he even looked up, dozens of eyes weighing down on him as if he were a butterfly pinned to a specimen table. He should have gotten used to the stares by now — this was far from his first court hearing — but when he looked out into the faces of the audience, he still felt the same squeamish anxiety he had always tried so desperately to ignore. Their expressions were dubious, condescending, unconvinced — as if all to say, is this a joke? This kid is the new lead prosecutor?

The judge cleared her throat, pushing her half-moon spectacles back onto her nose. “Thank you for your patience. The court hearing for Han Jisung and the Miroh Heights Murder Cases is now back in session. You may be seated.” She turned to Seungmin, eyes narrowed. “What is the case the prosecution will be presenting?”

Seungmin’s mind was racing as he turned over the envelope in his hands — the envelope containing Kang’s case file — and slid out the papers with numb fingertips. As he did so, familiar words echoed in his mind — words he had been told since he had first chosen to study law, and words he had forced himself to live by ever since.

“You have a big heart, Kim Seungmin — too big. Learn to control your emotions if you want to make it in this field.”

“You have to be cold, quick, and rational. Kindness is a weakness.”

“There is no room for a wavering heart in prosecution.”

He had always taken the words like bitter medicine, beyond determined to prove to his older coworkers that he wasn’t just the incompetent young prosecutor they always made him out to be. Desperate to prove to his family that he was capable, that he wouldn’t tarnish their names. Every step he had taken had been careful, calculated, all so that Seungmin could win their approval, finally escape their suffocating scrutiny.

“Your Honour,” Seungmin began, “as a prosecutor, I was taught that my duty is to defend the rule of law to ensure justice is served, no matter how harsh it may be.”

You watched the young prosecutor speak carefully, his grave expression making your gut twist. Kim Seungmin, Chan had told you once in passing, came from a family of established lawyers — a child prodigy with big shoes to fill, and everything to lose. And now, you realised with dread, his words seemed to be an exact echo of Prosecutor Kang’s.

Seungmin’s stomach was fluttering as if it were his first trial again, heart palpitating with each passing moment as he was seized with the sudden urge to run. Taking a deep breath, his gaze flickered up to meet yours in the audience — your blazing eyes, charged with emotion, your heart always written so clearly across your adamant features. You, who stopped at nothing in order to protect what you believed was right.

Prove yourself. Prove to everyone you’re good enough, strong enough.

He closed his eyes, knowing that he would regret what he was about to say.

“But I was also taught that a good prosecutor is one that uses the law to protect the people.” Seungmin swallowed hard, sliding Kang’s papers back into the envelope and dropping it onto the desk behind him. “Thus, the case I am presenting today is not one that intends to prove Han Jisung guilty of first degree murder.”

The entire room erupted in frantic murmurs, the judge hurriedly banging the gavel to maintain order. Seungmin caught a glimpse of Jisung’s expression — the boy was still looking down, but his face had paled in surprise at the prosecutor’s sudden declaration. Just then, the doors burst open, a red-faced clerk with a handful of padded envelopes ducking in and hurrying to Seungmin’s side.

“What you requested, sir,” the clerk explained quietly, handing him the envelopes, and Seungmin recalled the conversation they had had in the conference rooms, just before the trial had recommenced.

“There are ten minutes remaining until we have to begin,” the clerk informed Seungmin worriedly, seeing the young prosecutor’s tense face. “Is there anything you need from the former prosecution? Since these are special circumstances, I can have them brought to you as soon as possible during the trial.”

Either ten minutes to gather the evidence he needed, Seungmin thought dismally, or ten minutes to build a strong argument from what he—no, Kang—already had.

“Listen carefully.” Screwing his eyes shut, Seungmin continued, “Please fetch me Han Jisung’s camcorder footage — the memory cards — and Yang Jeongin’s Walkman tapes from Prosecutor Kang’s archives. All of them, immediately.”

The knot of anxiety in Seungmin’s chest finally began to unclench, the envelopes’ contents anchoring him in place with a reassuring weight. He turned to the judge, surprised at the newfound authority in his own voice. “The prosecution maintains that Han Jisung is not guilty of first degree murder. We will be presenting all the evidence Prosecutor Kang excluded, and examining the case from all angles so that the jury may form an accurate judgement and verdict.”

“That’s—an entirely new argument,” Hyunjin whispered incredulously beside you. “How did he come up with a case in ten minutes?”

“He didn’t. He’s building his case on the spot,” Chan realised out loud, a small smile spreading on his lips. He leaned forward with a glint of pride in his eyes. “Now that’s the Kim Seungmin I know.”

You watched as Seungmin called up his first witness, who was none other than Kang’s psychiatric expert. “You introduced yourself as the psychiatrist involved with this case — responsible for analysing the defendant’s mental condition, correct?”

The red-nosed man coughed nervously. “Y-yes, uh, well — the defendant was unwilling to speak during the evaluation, so we were unable to gain much personal testimony—”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Seungmin picked up one the envelopes, handing it to the court clerk and motioning for him to project the contents. “The following is recovered footage from a camcorder the defendant was gifted when he was six years old, and developed a habit of carrying around.” He turned towards the psychiatrist. “It’s raw, untampered footage containing experiences from the defendant’s childhood. I want you to watch it and answer a few questions. There is, however, graphic content, and I advise the spectators to view it with caution.”

You saw Seungmin cast a worried look towards Jisung, and you knew how the prosecutor was feeling. After nearly thirteen years of Jisung hiding his past from even his closest friends, it was all suddenly being thrust under the harsh light — in front of a roomful of people who wanted to sentence him to death, no less — but you both knew that this was your last chance.

The projector whirred as the clerk inserted the first memory cards into the computer. The memory cards had been confiscated by Kang before you had gotten the chance to watch them yourself — what you did know about the footage came from the bits Chan had recounted for you after several insistent phone calls, and what Jisung himself had told you that fateful night. Uneasiness stirring in your chest, you watched as the screen came to life, blurry colours and pixelated outlines taking shape.

There was nothing out of the ordinary at first — short clips of chipped action figures on dusty windowsills, or toy cars rolling idly across wooden floors. The footage was shaky, as if the person holding the camcorder could barely support its weight. Jisung had barely been six years old, you remembered, feeling a strange feeling of sadness wash over you. It was as if you were watching a movie you already knew the ending to, and all that was left in your gut was a sinking dread at what was about to come.

As the clerk flipped through the footage, a faint sound pricked at your ears, and you jerked your head up, listening to make sure you had heard right — and sure enough, there it was. Muffled shouting, like it was coming from another room in the house, something heavy shattering on the floor — and judging from the murmurs and faces of the spectators around you, they heard it as well. The camcorder was still pointed at the action figurines, but had frozen stiffly — as if the child holding it was listening, too.

More scenes began to unfold, one after another. A birthday, six lopsided candles glowing on a small white cake. Jisung humming a familiar tune with a woman you assumed was his mother. And clip after clip where the camcorder was pointed at the ceiling of a dark room — Jisung’s childhood bedroom — as the sounds of arguing and yelling echoed through the walls. Slowly but surely, the scenes began to grow familiar.

“February 22nd, 2005.”

The day Jisung had stumbled across another woman in his parents’ bed, and his father had terrorized him until he promised not to tell anyone.

“June 3rd, 2006.”

His face-to-face encounter with his father’s mistress, one that left scars in the form of cigarette burns, red-lipped smiles, and tainted touches.

“December 31st, 2009.”

The day everything had gone wrong.

Stomach lurching, you watched as everything Jisung had told you — his rough voice shaking in your darkened apartment, dark eyes holding nightmares of years long past — took the form of grainy camera footage. His father crashing through the doorframe, hands choking the life from the woman beneath him. Even though the camera quality was poor, the woman’s pleading eyes, rolled up towards the tiny crack in the closet where Jisung had been hidden, seemed to pierce directly through you.

It all seemed to happen in a flash — in the blink of an eye, there were flames licking bloodstained floors clean, the camcorder out of focus as Jisung limped through thick white snow and finally collapsed on top of his mother’s cold body. The gritty screams of anguish and pain seemed to ring in your ears long after Seungmin stopped the footage, and you lifted a shaking gaze to Jisung’s face. His eyes had been cast downwards the entire time, but even from across the room, you could see his violently trembling jaw, the ragged heave of his chest. How many times had he lived through this footage himself — in his nightmares, through half-delirious flashbacks, every time he closed his eyes?

“Thirteen years ago, there was a massive fire on the outskirts of Miroh Heights. The Han house was burned to the ground and left a single boy alive, without any relatives to take custody. Unable to fathom what exactly happened, police filed it away as a gas explosion, and the boy was tossed around foster homes and orphanages until it was eventually forgotten,” Seungmin informed them. He thanked Woojin internally as he spoke — after mentioning several times that Jisung’s past sounded strangely familiar, the police captain had been the one to finally connect the dots between the two cold cases, thirteen years apart.

“There were initial speculations of domestic abuse, but they were never investigated thoroughly. The case was neglected, left cold, and when the statute of limitations expired, it was simply dismissed as another tragedy.” Seungmin nodded at the clerk again, who slid the next memory card in.

This card was filled with what sounded like endless psychological evaluations — disembodied voices introducing themselves as social workers, child psychiatrists, and the like, all mercilessly bombarding Jisung with personal questions. The first half was either entirely black or out of focus, as if Jisung had been holding the camcorder down and clutching it close to his body. They had all given up when the young boy could barely get his answers out, the lingering fear and untreated trauma having locked his voice in his throat.

“He’s a lost cause.”

“Problem kid.”

“Impossible to treat.”

You clenched your fists every time a social worker left the room, muttering under their breath in annoyance. Then, as the clips grew clearer, a child with round, catlike eyes and a pale expression beginning to appear in several of the frames.

Lee Minho.

“At the beginning of this decade, we all know that Miroh Heights went through an economic rift — workers were laid off, young children abandoned on the streets. During these times, child abuse and child trafficking cases also skyrocketed.” Seungmin spoke as the screen flashed, the scene now showing what looked like a filthy, unfinished basement floor.

“We witnessed a rise of ‘suicide killers’ — namely, perpetrators who would kidnap and murder their own family members or vulnerable strangers before ending their own lives. Many were acting on their anger and grief through violence; others saw it as a form of revenge.”

With a wince, you remembered what Minho had told you on the rooftop of the hospital that evening — when he and Jisung had been lured into a man’s home by their own hunger, and woke up to him trying to kill them. The sound of approaching footsteps filled the speakers, the camcorder pointed at an awkward angle and shaking uncontrollably before it clattered to the ground, and the footage cut out.

When the next clip began, it was pointed down at wide-eyed, twelve-year-old Jisung.

“Ah, now this is jus’ perfect. The cops’ll love this, yes they will.” You shivered at the man’s hoarse voice behind the camcorder, flinching as the barrel of a gun was pressed to Jisung’s forehead. “Now, boy — I want you to beg for your life — go on.”

Frozen in your seat, you watched as all hell broke loose — the man pressing the trigger just as Jisung managed to cut the cords free, the camcorder smashing into concrete as Jisung fought for his life. When the lens finally focused again, what you saw made your blood run cold. A twelve-year-old boy kneeling before the mangled corpse of a grown man, cherub-like face drenched with crimson. You heard Minho’s shallow, terrified breathing behind the camcorder as Jisung turned towards him, the look in his eyes sending an icy chill down your spine. It was the exact same look he had given you when you had found him at the diner, screaming out his name as if trying to wake him from a nightmare.

Emptiness.

Even through the grainy film, you could catch the moment Jisung’s consciousness returned to him, soft brown eyes shifting and focusing into a childlike, dazed expression once again.

“Minho, can we go home?”

The footage sputtered to a stop. The visceral scene had been exactly as the coroner had described to you on the hospital rooftop, and yet nothing could have prepared you for it. You only realised how badly you had been shaking when Felix gently nudged you, peering at your face worriedly. When you forced yourself to unclench your fists, you winced at the red half-moon weals your nails had left in your palms.

“Both the defendant and coroner Lee Minho were involved in a kidnapping case, and subjected to extreme violence at the ages of twelve and thirteen. The perpetrator died in the incident. There was no culprit to catch. Once again, the case was buried, under the economic turmoil Miroh Heights was experiencing, by neglectful law enforcement.”

Seungmin turned back to look at the psychiatrist. “Now, I’m no expert in analysing family matters, but I think we can confirm several cases of domestic abuse from this footage alone. Parental neglect. Repeated exposure to violence. Years of sexual harassment. How would you psychoanalyse a patient who has gone through these events?”

The red-faced man was evidently shaken, wiping the sweat from his brow as he stuttered out, “This — this is more than enough to cause severe cases of post-traumatic stress disorder.” His eyes darted around the courtroom nervously, as if the words were refusing to come out of his mouth.

“He looks like he’s scared,” you murmured. “Like he’s still unwilling to talk.”

“Kang must have made some sort of a deal with him,” Woojin replied under his breath, shaking his head. “But it’s all over now — he’s got nothing more to lose.”

“You swore an oath before the trial began,” Seungmin pressed sternly, not taking his gaze off the nervous man. “‘I do solemnly declare that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.’ Tell me the truth, sir.”

Cowering under Seungmin’s hard gaze, the psychiatrist finally caved. “The...the fact that these events took place during the defendant’s childhood is even more significant. Children’s minds are—are molded from a very young age. The majority of your adult behaviour is shaped by what you’ve experienced as a child, you see.”

“Earlier, you mentioned the possibility of sociopathy. You reached this conclusion because of the defendant’s criminal records, and reported behaviour such as —” Seungmin pulled out Kang’s papers, quickly flipping through. “Theft. Pyromanic, destructive, and self-destructive tendencies.” He raised an eyebrow at the boys from the diner attack. “Bordering on multiple personas.”

“U-uh, well — using the information given during the previous trial, those symptoms did correlate strongly with antisocial personality disorder. But with this newfound context —” the psychiatrist lowered his head meekly, “th-the symptoms are actually closer to those of an individual suffering from extreme, untreated, PTSD.”

Exhaling slowly, Seungmin nodded at the judge. “Post-traumatic stress disorder. Let’s re-examine the defendant’s behaviour under this lens, then. How would PTSD explain violent tendencies in a child?”

“They’re a form of an exaggerated startle response — a sudden reaction triggered by something that upsets the patient. It’s a common long-term aftereffect of childhood abuse or trauma. Some patients fall unconscious, some experience panic attacks or seizures. In the case of Han Jisung...it came in the form of repeated violent outbursts.”

You thought back to the man Jisung had attacked, seemingly out of nowhere at the Yellow Wood — the dead man whose girlfriend, Chan had told you, had actually come to the precinct a few days before Jisung’s trial.

“She was crying real bad. I thought she would want him—Jisung—dead, that she would tell us to convict him, no matter what,” Chan had told you, the detective’s face still twisted in confusion. “And she doesn’t want to testify — she’s still dealing with the trauma, and doesn’t want anything to do with the trial. But y/n — the girl was crying for him. For Jisung. Said that the kid stepped in right when her boyfriend was hitting her, and — told her to go home.”

An exaggerated startle response. You remembered it from your classes, a sudden reaction triggered by something that upset the patient. Like domestic abuse. Unsolicited sexual approaches. Or, you shivered, little things — like the colour red. His father, his mistress, his mother, his kidnapper — did Jisung constantly see their faces in the shadows, in strangers that were repeating the same mistakes?

“The witnesses who knew Han Jisung when he was younger,” Seungmin continued, turning to the two injured boys from the diner, “also testified that he often changed expressions ‘like a mask.’ Assuming this is true, why might the defendant exhibit this sort of behaviour?”

“Abused children — or people who have experienced severe trauma — can develop dissociative habits. Disconnecting from past memories, information, or even present experiences as a defense mechanism...which is why the defendant might appear to change moods often, or show drastically different sides of himself in different situations.”

“In other words,” Seungmin said slowly, brow furrowing in concentration, “the defendant experienced so many traumatic events during his childhood, that the untreated aftereffects impaired his emotional development into adulthood. Which would explain why his startle response slowly morphed, on a larger scale, into something extremely violent and dangerous.”

The psychiatrist looked weary and defeated. “Correct.”

Motioning for the man to take a seat — which he did gladly — Seungmin pulled out the next envelope — the coroner’s photos from the Yellow Wood attacks. Wordlessly, he projected them onto the screen, eliciting small gasps of horror and disgust around the room.

“Earlier, Prosecutor Kang argued that the violent mutilation of the victims was proof that the perpetrator performed these gruesome acts and mutilations out of personal enjoyment and depravity.” Seungmin turned to address the judge, voice firm.

“Your Honour, under this new context, I would argue that the photos only serve as further visual evidence depicting the defendant’s mental state at the time of the crime.” He flipped through the images. “Multiple wound sites, messy blood spattering, extreme blunt force trauma. And—if the coroner was telling the truth—a stone from the scene of the crime as the murder weapon. All these signs lead us to believe that the defendant’s actions, no, his judgement, was acutely impaired. This response, these attacks, were triggered due to a pre-existing mental condition.”

The room shifted uneasily as his words sunk in, and the judge fixed her stern gaze onto Seungmin. “Does the prosecution have any evidence that directly refutes the previous claim of first degree murder? To prove that the murders were not premeditated, or intentional, beyond a reasonable doubt?”

Think, Seungmin, think. He racked his mind furiously, trying to recall every piece of evidence that you, Chan, and Woojin had gone through with him. Photographs, diagrams, testimony transcripts — Seungmin’s eyes trailed off to the pile of envelopes the clerk had brought, and landed on the packet containing Yang Jeongin’s tapes.

That’s it.

“Yes, Your Honour.” He cleared his throat, mind racing to connect the dots. “As we all know, the living witness of the Yellow Wood attacks, Yang Jeongin, was attacked at around three o’clock in the morning. He worked several late shifts for delivery companies around the town.” Seungmin nodded towards Jeongin. “What we did not know until recently, however, is that the witness had a hobby of recording himself during these shifts on his own Walkman.”

An alarmed murmur rippled through the crowd as Seungmin shook the tapes out from the envelope, handing them to the clerk. After several tense moments, there was a faint crackling, and the recording began to play.

The first tape held a medley of acoustic songs the delivery boy had mixed himself — just as you had remembered it.

The second tape was empty — the one Minho had stolen from the scene of the crime, and you had eventually recovered from his office.

When the clerk popped in the third, the soft sound of breathing and crunching gravel filled the room, and you shivered. This was the tape you had listened to with Seo Changbin — the tape that had turned your entire life upside down.

“I.N. here! It is currently...2:04 A.M.!”

You glanced at the faces around the room — everyone was on edge, and you felt no different. You could still hear Jeongin’s cry of surprise and pain echoing in your ears, the horrible crash as he hit the forest floor. What was Seungmin thinking? How was a recording of the witness being attacked going to prove Jisung’s innocence? If anything, it was incriminating evidence.

Jeongin’s cheery, oblivious voice continued until you heard the woman’s scream in the distance, muffled under the delivery boy’s distracted humming. Then, a man crying out in guttural pain — the man, you knew now, that had been killed by Jisung in the Yellow Wood. The sounds of leaves crunching and branches snapping under the bicycle wheels grew louder, and you knew that this had been the moment Jeongin had entered the Wood — heading closer and closer towards what would later become the scene of the crime.

“Hello? Is everything okay over there?” There was a small gasp of horror as Jeongin caught sight of the body. “U-um. Is he—do you need help? I can call an ambulance. What hap—”

It happened before you could flinch to cover your ears. The horribly familiar crunch of stone meeting skull, a cry of pain cut off by a deafening whump as the Walkman had slammed against the ground. The entire courtroom seemed to hold its breath as it listened, and only then did it finally hit you why Seungmin was playing the tapes. As the sound of another boy’s jagged, uneven breathing filled the speakers, you suddenly remembered what came at the end of the recording. The first time you had heard it, it had made your heart plummet straight down into the pit of your stomach, sending your entire world crashing down around you.

This time, the fluttering in your chest felt almost like hope.

Han Jisung’s voice, choked with raw, horrified sobs, echoed through the room, and you saw everyone freeze.

“Who—why? Why is it you? Why are you here?”

The crying was muffled by the sound of hands fumbling over Jeongin’s clothing, as if frantically checking for a pulse. Seungmin stopped the tape, turning towards the bewildered jury. “Do those sound like the words of a cold-blooded psychopath?”

The judge waved a hand towards Jeongin. “Can the witness himself attest to this?”

“I...I blacked out pretty quickly,” Jeongin answered slowly, furrowing his brow as if it still hurt to remember. “But the last thing I remembered seeing was...a boy’s crying face over me, trying to make sure if I was okay.”

“Can you identify this boy?”

Nodding, Jeongin pointed to Jisung.

“Furthermore,” Seungmin continued, tapping the cracked silver Walkman, “these tapes were found in Yang Jeongin’s clothing after he was admitted to the hospital. If the defendant had truly attacked Mr. Yang out of cold blood, he wouldn’t have left such incriminating evidence in the boy’s hands. And if Han Jisung had no idea he was being recorded, that rules out the possibility of him faking the recordings as well.”

“Even so,” the judge replied, stern eyes narrowed, “we cannot be sure that Han Jisung did not intend to leave Yang Jeongin to die. There are many murder cases where the perpetrator shows remorse almost immediately, but still attempted to cover up the crime.”

“Of course. However, Your Honour, you may also remember that Yang Jeongin was not found in the Yellow Wood where the attacks had initially taken place...but rather, the doorstep of Glow Cafe.” At this, Hyunjin looked up, eyes narrowed, and Seungmin motioned for the clerk to continue playing the clip. After several moments, you heard the rough sound of cloth scraping against the ground, growing louder and louder — as if something was being lifted and dragged.

No. You could still hear Jisung’s broken breathing underneath the sound, and the realisation hit you.

Jisung was carrying Jeongin’s body.

You had thought the tape had already ended the first time you’d listened with Seo Changbin in his record shop — after Jisung’s voice had made you shove the Walkman away, not daring to believe what you had just heard. For days, it had sat, neglected in your apartment, until you had brought it into Seungmin’s office for him to look at. The next day, it had already fallen into the hands of Prosecutor Kang, but by some stroke of luck, Seungmin must have already managed to listen to it in its entirety beforehand.

“Yang Jeongin was found at around 4 in the morning, when Hwang Hyunjin, the owner of Glow Cafe, was awoken by the doorbell. The ringer of this doorbell was never identified, because any possible fingerprint evidence was already contaminated and rendered useless by the time Mr. Yang was safely transported to the ICU.”

The sound of dead leaves and dirt crunching under the soles of Jisung’s shoes gave way to hard concrete as he reached the main road. There was a soft thump as Jeongin was lowered onto the ground, Jisung’s laboured breathing filling the still night air.

Then the familiar chime of Glow Cafe’s doorbell pierced through the speakers, and you watched as Hyunjin jolted up, mouth falling open in disbelief.

“Yes. It’s exactly what you’re all thinking.” Seungmin turned to face the stunned spectators as the sound of Jisung’s footsteps grew fainter as he ran away, and the tape ended. “The defendant was the same person who saved him.”

The judge cleared her throat unsteadily, grim eyes flickering between Seungmin and Jisung. “Does the defense have anything to say to this?”

For the first time since the trial had started, Jisung lifted his head. He was met with a roomful of mixed stares — apprehension, curiosity, fear — and he felt his tongue immediately dissolve into dust, the words sticking to his throat like congealed poison.

When Jisung stayed silent, Seungmin spoke carefully, “A fair trial wouldn’t be complete without hearing from the defendant himself. In his own words.” His eyes were almost gentle, fixing a steady look on Jisung’s dark, wary face. “Would you like to testify?”

Your heart was hammering in your throat as the silence grew thicker and thicker. After what felt like an eternity, it was finally broken by the creak of the chair as Jisung pushed it back and stood up. To your utter surprise, he stepped up to the middle of the room, wordlessly turning to face Seungmin. Still, the look on his face held the same blank, guarded expression you had seen so many times when your sessions with him had taken a turn for the worse, and you gripped the edge of your seat uneasily, having no idea what to expect from this turn of events.

If Seungmin was as surprised as you were, he did a better job at hiding it. He muttered something to the clerk, who began to project familiar faces and photos onto the screen. The victims, you realised, and the crime scenes. A slim woman in her thirties, her thin lips a smudge of bright red, next to a photo of charred blood and bone. The prostitute.

“Do you recognise this woman?” Seungmin asked, pointing to her picture.

Jisung frowned, furrowing his brow at the picture. Something seemed to stir in the back of his mind, but there was a dull throbbing in his temples that made it difficult to focus. “I—I’m not sure.”

Someone in the crowd made an unconvinced sound, and Jisung shrunk back. The pictures went on and on — a corpse mangled with chemical burns, a man’s body swinging from the rooftop, a bashed-in skull on the forest floor. Each image made Jisung’s head pound, the floor beginning to spin as if threatening to split open beneath his feet and swallow him whole. Did he recognise them? Glimpses of their faces flashed in the back of his mind like jumbled jigsaw pieces, but the more he tried to grab onto them, the more they fell apart. His fingertips tingled with the faint, itching memory of a stranger’s blood — strangers who, in a fleeting moment, had taken the shape of a former tormentor. Father. Mistress. Hurt. Pain.

“I can’t — remember anything,” Jisung choked hoarsely. He remembered blacking out, and waking up. He remembered his nightmares, his flashbacks. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember the faces staring back at him from the screen.

You sound insane, a voice in the back of his mind hissed. As he met the eyes of the jury, he could almost hear what they were thinking.

You really are a psychopath.

Sensing the doubtful whispering beginning around the room, Seungmin hurriedly moved onto the next question. “Let’s — let’s go back to the psychiatrist’s statements, then. Mr. Han, could you tell me what it was like growing up in your family?”

His question was met with silence again, Jisung screwing his eyes shut as the prosecutor’s voice echoed in his head. Family. It was a word that brought ugly memories bubbling to the surface every time, memories made of broken beer bottles and pale, bruised cheeks. His head was aching, a cold sweat forming in his palms as he clenched his fists, stomach churning. No. No. He couldn’t talk about it — wouldn’t talk about it —

“Can you...tell me about your mother’s eyes?”

The abrupt, familiar question, carried by the prosecutor’s softened voice, was what made Jisung open his eyes again, the trembling in his hands stilling. The room around them was shifting with confused murmurs at the strange question, but Seungmin didn’t break eye contact with the younger boy.

The prosecutor watched Jisung’s fists slowly unclench, brow furrowing slightly as he recognised the question, and Seungmin thought back to the conversation he had had with you over the phone after you had woken up in the hospital.

“What’s this?”

“A psychiatric analysis — on Jisung,” you explained, referring to the report files you had sent the prosecutor. “I know it’s not — not much, but...”

“For all we know, it might be the only existing verbal testimony that Jisung has,” Seungmin assured you. “From what I’ve heard, he’s never opened up to anyone before. What I meant was, why are you sending it to me?”

You bit your lip. “Chan isn’t allowed to stand trial, and I — I haven’t graduated yet, so my thesis won’t be taken seriously as evidence. I can’t testify as a psychiatric expert, either. But I thought that — I could at least tell you all the questions that lead me to his diagnosis. In case you get to question him at the trial — he’ll know they’re my questions. Maybe...he’ll finally change his mind.”

Seungmin sighed wearily. “I was removed from the case this morning, Miss l/n. I don’t even know if I’ll be able to step foot into the courtroom, let alone question him.”

And so the questions had been left, buried and forgotten in the back of Seungmin’s mind — until this exact moment, when he had remembered them just in time.

What comes to mind when you think about your mother’s eyes?

Jisung’s vision went black as his senses were flooded with memories, nearly sending him doubling over. His mother’s eyes. The last time he had looked into those eyes, they had already been glazing over, the life in them seeping away as her blood pooled over the broken floorboards of his childhood home. His mother’s eyes. Suddenly, it was as if he was ten years old all over again, shrouded in the shadows of a cramped closet as his father strangled the life out of his mother right in front of him.

Guilt, he wanted to say. Pain. The kind that never goes away. Blinking feverishly, Jisung’s gaze darted around the room — and when he finally found your face in the audience, he felt his heart stop.

You were looking at him with the exact same eyes his mother had, that day.

From your first date to this very moment, Jisung never knew why you had always reminded him so much of her — you two looked nothing alike, after all. Wherever he went, he had always been chased by fragments of the nightmares he wanted to forget, demons of his past that had taken the forms of the man at the Yellow Wood, the red-lipped hooker, Na Jangmin, Park Beomsoo. And yet every moment he spent with you, he caught familiar glimpses of her instead — pieces of the only warmth, and happiness, and home he had ever known before it had all been cruelly ripped away.

For years, the only thing he had been able to remember was that day. How his mother’s eyes had been wide and pleading as she bled out on the floor, desperately shaking her head at him before finally falling limp. The flames and endless smoke seemed to eat away at his happier memories until there was nothing left but ashes and tar.

But you made him remember a time before everything went wrong, when things had been peaceful, when he still had somewhere — someone — to go home to.

For thirteen years, he had been running from the memory, from the feeling, afraid that confronting it would make him relive the pain all over again. But now, for the first time, Han Jisung wondered if he had missed something else among those repressed memories all along.

His mother’s eyes as she shook her head one last time had been warm, not just because they had been filled with pain and tears — but because they had been blazing with one last, unspoken message. The same one he saw reflected in your own eyes now.

When you shook your own head gently, pleading eyes brimming with tears, the message finally rang clear in his mind.

Don’t blame yourself for what happened. Han Jisung, you have to keep on living.

Stunned, he tore his gaze away, only to see Bang Chan watching him with the same expression — then Woojin, Seungmin, Felix, Yang Jeongin. Even Hwang Hyunjin had worry written all over his face — worry for him — and it all suddenly hit Jisung like a punch in the gut.

Why did all these people fight for him?

Why had his mother died for him?

What comes to mind when you think about your mother’s eyes?

“Love,” Jisung breathed, his soft voice filling the empty silence. “Love.” The memories were coming back to him now — not in jagged, gut-wrenching flashes, but slowly. Steadily.

For the first time in his life, Han Jisung was in control.

“Can you tell me about your parents?” Seungmin pressed gently, seeing the tension slowly leave Jisung’s body.

“My parents,” Jisung repeated. His mouth felt like it was trying the words out. He remembered once, when you had asked him the same question, his head had felt like it was on the verge of splitting. Now, the memories felt strangely detached, as if he were telling someone else’s story. “They were happy once, or at least that’s what I’ve heard.” He paused. “My...father...never wanted to get married. They never planned to...have me, but my mother refused an abortion. They — it was a shotgun wedding,” Jisung finished quietly. “And then things got worse from there.”

“What was it like growing up in your family?” Seungmin tried the question again, watching Jisung carefully.

“My old man’s favourite thing to tell me growing up was how I was never wanted,” Jisung gave a weak smile. “I think you can imagine.”

You watched as Seungmin continued asking Jisung your questions, as if slowly coaxing the answers out from the darkness and painting the cold courtroom with the scenes of Jisung’s past.

“My mother was a waitress. The work was tough, but it didn’t pay much. My father convinced her to work more shifts, so that she was around as little as possible. During that time, he…” Jisung swallowed hard. “He had his affairs with other women when she wasn’t home, and beat her bloody when she was. She always tried to hide it from me, too — said the less I knew the better, but I was getting older, and my father’s anger was slowly shifting over to me. And when his...mistresses stayed over, they started noticing me, too.” Jisung fell silent then, and you suddenly thought back to the white burn scars on his arms and legs, the numerous unexplained markings on his stomach bringing tears to your eyes. How many more did he have hidden on his body, painful reminders binding him to a past he tried so hard to forget?

“Your Honour,” Seungmin finally broke the hushed silence, “with all the information taken into consideration, I think we can confirm beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant has witnessed numerous traumatic events during his childhood — and that they more than likely worsened his mental condition as he grew older.” Seungmin turned to Jisung, remembering another question you had written in your report. “How...do you cope with the past?”

Jisung was silent for several moments before answering, his words echoing your last therapy session. “I...don’t….like to think about it, or remember it. Every time I do, I…” he trailed off unsteadily, and he tried again. “E-every time, I...I…”

His throat was closing up again, the words echoing in his mind as if mocking him. How was he supposed to explain the headaches that never truly went away, the dizziness that hit him like a punch in the gut? Or, worse, the gaps in his memories when he blacked out, making him feel as though he were slowly going insane?

Stay silent, whispered a voice in the back of his head. Who will understand you? Who will believe you? He looked back at the roomful of faces, their cold, wary stares piercing through him like knives. You were never meant to live. You should have died on that day, thirteen years ago—

“Han Jisung, you are such an idiot.”

The sudden memory of your voice cut through his thoughts and made him jolt in surprise— but it didn’t stop there, all the things you had once told him slowly growing louder and louder and jarring him awake from his own thoughts.

“You’re not the psychopath they’re making you out to be. I know you.”

He remembered the way you had relaxed and fallen asleep in his arms, even after you had found out they were stained with blood, because you trusted him completely.

“I don’t want you to show me. I want you to tell me. I want to hear it from you, in your own words, Jisung.”

He remembered your face every time he had tried to tell you about his past — your soft, patient eyes and gentle voice, the worry and genuine concern on your face that he had always mistaken for repulsion and fear. You had been shaken, definitely, terrified, even — but you had always been willing to listen to him speak, even when Jisung had been too afraid to try.

“I like you, Han Jisung. I. Like. You.”

He met your eyes across the room then, and felt a small, incredulous breath leave his lips. It was you — it was always you, who had the power to make the walls he had built around himself crumble to dust with a single touch; you, pulling him out of the darkness he had always succumbed helplessly to; you, who had finally woken him from the living nightmare he had been trapped in his entire life.

You reminded him what it was like to live again. You made him want to live again, without fears, without regrets.

“Mr. Han? Could you please describe how these memories make you feel? How you usually deal with them?”

“I don’t know how to,” Jisung breathed out at last. “Every time I try to remember, my...heart starts racing like my chest is about to burst. My head pounds until I can’t see anything, and — it’s like something in there...snaps. And then I...black out completely.”

Seungmin nodded, glancing back to the nervous, red-faced man. “Do you have...anything to add or deny regarding the psychiatrist’s diagnoses?”

“You were right,” Jisung replied simply, but he wasn’t talking to the psychiatrist. He was looking straight at you, and to his own surprise, a smile tugged at his dry lips. It felt like the simple sentence had somehow set him free. “I have trouble sleeping, because I always end up having the same nightmares. There’s missing blank spots in my memories when I wake up in a place I don’t recognise, with no idea how I got there.”

Jisung watched as your eyes widened, recognising his words — he was echoing the same symptoms you had confronted him about during your last therapy session, the ones he had coldly denied out of panic and fear. “I’ve always been afraid to let people get close to me. But sometimes, there are things that — that remind me of times that I’d rather forget, and before I know it, everything begins to spiral out of control.” He gave a small smile to Seungmin, who had stayed silent, surprised at Jisung’s sudden honesty. “That’s it, then. The whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

You watched as Jisung’s eyes flickered around the room, face as open and tranquil as a child’s — and that was what nearly broke your heart. Knowing that somewhere, beneath the prison uniform that was too baggy for his lean, tired frame, was the shell of a child the world had failed, a child that had given up asking to be saved.

“No further questions,” Seungmin said quietly, and Jisung walked back to his seat as the young prosecutor turned to face the judge. “Your Honour,” he began slowly, as if momentarily unable to find the words. “I think we have reason to believe that the attacks were provoked — not exactly by the victims themselves, but from past traumas that were never dealt with properly, and triggered again and again until they spiralled out of control.”

Seungmin raised his voice then, for the entire courtroom to hear, forcing his voice to remain steady despite the fluttering nerves in his body. “The scattered killing patterns were never planned. The correlations between the victims and causes of death don’t show a serial killer’s M.O., they show triggers.” He took a shaky breath.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this isn’t a serial killer case. It isn’t the case of a psychopath on some nonsensical, murderous rampage. This is the aftereffect of a domestic violence case gone cold and swept under the rug over a decade ago — and we can’t afford to let it slip away again.”

The judge fixed Seungmin with a cold, steely look over her glasses. “Prosecutor Kim. Remember that you cannot — should not — let your emotions get in the way in a court of law. You are supposed to assess the case with cold reasoning and logic.”

Seungmin looked down, heart hammering in his throat. The Kim Seungmin he knew would have been ashamed, and apologised immediately. The Kim Seungmin he knew would have thought he was crazy for crossing the line.

He realised, in that moment, that he hated the old Kim Seungmin with a passion.

“Emotions don’t always get in the way,” he found himself saying, eyes flickering to you in the audience, “and they don’t always make you weak.” Seungmin thought of Prosecutor Kang then, and his voice grew stronger. “If anything, they keep you human.”

He looked back up at the judge now, whose face had frozen in surprise. “When did justice become so cold? We’re taught that the law is supposed to protect the vulnerable, not prosecute them.”

The judge looked visibly shaken, mouth opening and closing wordlessly as her eyes darted wildly between Seungmin and Jisung. Finally, with an unfathomable expression on her face, she turned towards the jury, clearing her throat unsteadily.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that concludes the evidence to be presented on this case. You are now to deliberate, and determine whether or not Han Jisung is guilty of nineteen counts of first-degree murder, assault, and arson.

“If you believe that this has been proved beyond a reasonable doubt, then you should find the defendant guilty, and eligible for capital punishment.”

Capital punishment, you thought, the words sweeping a breath of cold across the room. The death penalty.

“The court stands adjourned until the verdict of the jury.”

━━━━━━━━

Over an hour had passed since the jury had stepped into the deliberation suite, and each tick of the clock on the wall made you more and more nauseous. You put your head down, hands buried in your hair as if that could calm the anxiety thrumming through your veins. A few times, you had heard shouting and angry, raised voices coming from the room the jury was in. Each passing minute seemed to make the weight of the situation more obvious, the tension in the courtroom thick and suffocating.

Felix was rubbing your back as soothingly as he could. “y/n, hey, look at me — deep breaths, okay? You’re okay—”

He was cut off when you lifted your head to look at him, cursing the tears already welling in your eyes. You hated feeling this way — you felt so weak and powerless, and just imagining how much of a mess you must have looked made it even worse. You promised yourself you would stay calm, but every thought that crossed your mind kept leading to another until you were exhausted and overwhelmed.

“They could walk out any minute, ‘lix,” you told him, voice wavering as the weight of your own words sunk in. “They could walk out any minute, and end his life.”

You couldn’t even say Jisung’s name out loud, let alone look him in the eyes. Felix watched as you wiped furiously at your own tears, the sight of you so distressed rendering him speechless, and he did the only thing he could think of. Grimly, your best friend pulled you into a hug, and his reassuring warmth in the cold courtroom made you want to break down all over again. Around you, you could hear mixed opinions being exchanged.

“That poor boy.”

“Who could have guessed the case would take a turn like this? But do you believe him?”

“A murderer is still a murderer — he’s too dangerous to be left alive, don’t you think?”

You were beginning to wish you had taken Hyunjin and Woojin’s offer to step out of the room for fresh air when the heavy doors swung open, making a hush fall over the room. The jury filed in just as Hyunjin and the police captain returned and took their seats.

“Order in the court,” the clerk called, and the judge cleared her throat.

“Has the jury reached a unanimous verdict?”

The forewoman nodded grimly. “Yes, Your Honour.”

“Those in favour of sentencing the accused, Han Jisung, to capital punishment, please rise.”

The words sent an icy shock down your spine, the entire room seeming to hold its breath as they watched the jury. You didn’t dare move, as if by doing so, you could prevent the next moments from coming crashing down on you, as if somehow, you could stop the horrible verdict from coming true. It was as if everyone had frozen still, time stopping for what felt like the longest moment of your life.

The ticking of the clock pricked your ears, and you suddenly realised that time hadn’t stopped.

No one in the jury had moved to stand up.

“The jury returns a verdict of not guilty, despite believing that the accused committed the crimes he is charged with,” the forewoman standing at the front of the jury said, and the members behind her nodded. “This verdict was unanimous.”

“They all agree that Jisung killed those people,” you heard Hyunjin’s stunned voice behind you, “but they’re returning a verdict of not guilty? What does that mean?”

“Jury nullification,” both Chan and Seungmin spoke at the same time, and the room turned to look at the younger prosecutor as he spoke up.

“The jury has the right to overturn the law, if they believe the law was used incorrectly—”

A reporter behind you blurted out angrily, “Are you suggesting that the murders were delusional, Prosecutor Kim?”

“Or,” Seungmin continued, his voice growing stronger than ever before as he saw the eyes of the judge and his coworkers widen in disbelief. I must be insane, he thought, but he couldn’t stop the words coming from his mouth. “Or, the jury disagrees with the law the prosecution has chosen to charge the defendant under.” He picked up Prosecutor Kang’s case file from the desk, flipping over the papers. “First degree murder.”

The forewoman nodded. “The law Han Jisung is being tried with was immorally and wrongly applied to him in the first place. We believe he caused the killings, without a doubt, but with the circumstances presented, we cannot convict him of serial first degree murder.”

“The previous prosecutor claimed these charges without making any effort to consider Han Jisung’s past,” one man on the jury added, “All the evidence proves a history of abuse and trauma that lead to an unstable mental condition.”

Their words sounded strangely familiar, and your eyes immediately widened when you realised why. “Those — those are the words from my psych report,” you whispered breathlessly to Felix, “Quoted, word for word. They must have all read your articles — we did it, ‘lix, it really worked.”

“But murder is murder. He should be held accountable,” a spectator protested across the room. He was immediately silenced by the bailiff, but not before Seungmin turned to him with a steady stare.

“‘Murder is murder’,” Seungmin echoed, “‘The world of law is cold.’ ‘The law is harsh, but it is the law.’ Those are the phrases you always hear in court. And those are the same beliefs that cost vulnerable people their lives.”

Hyunjin looked at Jeongin, whose gaze were cast to the floor, eyes stormy.

Seungmin continued, “You lose your empathy, and mark complex cases like these under ‘mass murderer’, or ‘psychopath’ without bothering to truly investigate the gray areas, because you think doing so would be—” his mind flashed to Kang, “a waste of time.” He looked at Jisung now, a boy who had been confined by labels his entire life: problem child, delinquent, murderer, monster. “Han Jisung is worth more than that. There’s more to him than his past, than his abusers, than the mental torment he’s suffered through for years.

“He’s a boy who never got the chance at life he deserved. The system has failed him once, and we cannot — should not — hold his trial like this.” Seungmin turned to the judge one last time, eyes burning with sincerity. “Your Honour. Will you end this vicious cycle of use and abuse, once and for all? Or will you choose, once again, to sweep it back into the shadows?”

She was staring back at him with a look that should have petrified Seungmin on the spot, but he swallowed hard, forcing himself to stand his ground. There was a long, weighted silence. Finally, the judge shook her head slowly, and Seungmin swore he saw the smallest of smiles tug at her taut mouth as she turned to face the rest of the courtroom.

You felt your heart nearly leap out of your throat when the verdict finally fell from the judge’s lips.

“I hereby pronounce Han Jisung...not guilty.”

If you hadn’t been sitting down, you were sure you would have collapsed onto the floor.

The world was spinning around you, the sheer relief washing over you in overwhelming waves and turning your limbs to jelly. In your peripheral vision, you saw Hyunjin’s mouth drop open in astonishment, Felix turning to you with an incredulous smile on his face, Chan and Woojin completely frozen.

You barely registered the judge’s voice as she continued speaking, the rest of her words passing through you as if you were made of thin air. Pardoned on the death of his father and the arson of his childhood home by reason of self-defense. Regarding the Miroh Heights killings, the defendant was unable to understand the significance of his criminal actions due to a pre-existing mental condition. He is acquitted from the death penalty, and will serve no prison time.

However, he will be transferred to a psychiatric institution and closely monitored for the time being. The suitable amount of time he is to spend there will be prescribed on a later date after the case is properly re-examined...

People were talking around you, one of your friends was calling your name, and you swore you even heard a few people clapping, but you weren’t listening anymore. There was only one other person on your mind.

When your eyes found Jisung’s face, he was looking straight at you — with the same look in his eyes that had given you butterflies the first time you met him, and the same look in his eyes you had seen before you had fallen unconscious, bleeding out in his arms.

He was looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

━━━━━━━━

“You had some nerve back there, Prosecutor Kim.”

The courtroom had been emptied out, and Seungmin had been collecting his files and notes when he heard a voice from behind him. At first, he thought he had misheard — people were buzzing outside in the lobby, the commotion so loud it seemed to be humming through the walls — but he turned around, and saw the judge walking up to him.

Bits and pieces of the trial came back to him, and Seungmin cringed inwardly as he met her hard gaze. Just how many lines had he crossed? Years of being careful, meticulous, completely down the drain—

“You had some nerve back there,” she repeated, and Seungmin lowered his eyes. He heard her sigh deeply. “But you’re a fine prosecutor, Kim.”

Stunned, Seungmin raised his head, and realised with a start that she was smiling at him. “I haven’t seen your kind in a while. It was refreshing, to say the least, and it puts me at ease to know that this field still has people like you.”

She tucked her glasses into her robes, turning to leave.

“Never change, Prosecutor Kim.”

━━━━━━━━

“Prosecutor Kang, look this way!”

Kang was blinded by flashing cameras the moment he stepped out from the holding cell. The older prosecutor’s eyes were dark as he was pushed through the mob of reporters and citizens, the guards flanking him making no effort to be gentle.

“Is it true you hid crucial evidence from your own prosecution?”

“Did you bribe your own witnesses?”

“How many other cases have you tampered with?”

“None!” Kang snarled at the reporter, desperation rising in his throat like bile. “Lies—I’ve never wrongfully convicted a single person. These are all—”

“You’re the liar.”

The crowd stopped, turning towards the voice that had shouted over them. Yang Jeongin was standing at the end of the hallway, his hands balled into fists at his sides. Just the sight of Kang was enough to make him tremble like a young child again, words stuck momentarily in his throat. This was the same man he had met in court all those years ago, the man who had mercilessly delivered his father’s life sentence with a snakelike smile on his pale lips. Taking a shaky breath, Jeongin mustered up his courage, and ran up to him.

“Please stop this already,” Jeongin pleaded, eyes searching Kang’s bewildered face for signs of guilt, remorse, anything. Kang didn’t seem to recognise him, and the young boy’s voice was breaking as he fought back tears. “Please tell the truth, just this once. I-I don’t know why you’re doing this, but—it doesn’t have to be this way—”

There was a gasp as a few reporters stumbled, and the crowd rippled forward. Kang was knocked off-balance, tumbling to the ground. He cursed, fumbling to get back on his feet — and saw a hand, outstretched towards him from a hoodie sleeve that was clearly too large for its owner. He looked up into the young boy’s face again, his fox-like eyes widened in concern, and finally realised with a jolt who he was talking to.

Nearly a decade ago, Kang thought — an old fool who had picked a fight with high-ranking company officials, no? And then the crackpot had pleaded with Kang, saying something about a son he had to take care of — a young boy—

Jeongin put his hand on Kang’s arm when the prosecutor didn’t move, and pulled him up. “Mr. Kang, my father—”

Feeling a sudden rage surge through his body, Kang drew his fist back and punched the boy across his jaw.

Jeongin crumpled to the ground, the side of his face already blooming with red. “You brat,” Kang seethed as cries of horror erupted from the crowd, guards seizing him and trying to pull him away. “What do you understand? Han Jisung, your old man — people like them don’t deserve to walk free.”

You had just stepped out of the courtroom when a commotion in the hallway had made you look over, the scene that had greeted your eyes making you freeze. Jeongin had been clutching Prosecutor Kang’s arm, looking up at the older man imploringly — and his expression had been genuinely kind, almost pitying, his mouth opening and closing frantically as though he were pleading with him. You had shaken your head in disbelief, trying to push through the throng of shocked citizens — only Yang Jeongin’s heart was big enough to look his parents’ tormentor in the eyes, and help him.

Then Kang had suddenly struck Jeongin, and now the delivery boy was curling up in pain on the ground as the prosecutor screamed at him.

“They were foolish enough — depraved enough — to violate those laws, and I charged them with what they deserved. It’s as simple as—”

The next thing you knew, you were in front of Kang, palm outstretched, and you had slapped him hard across the face.

The entire crowd fell dead silent, Jeongin looking up at you from the floor in dazed disbelief. Even Kang was speechless as he looked back at you, holding his jaw, eyes about to pop out of their sockets.

“It seems like you know everything about law, Prosecutor Kang,” you said, voice shaking with anger, “but you know nothing about being human.”

Kang opened his mouth, but for once, nothing came out. The hallway was erupting in chaos again as cameras clicked and flashed eagerly. The guards began to drag Kang away before it could get more hectic, your last glimpses of the corrupt prosecutor disappearing behind the reporters’ bobbing heads. As you helped Jeongin up, checking his head worriedly, you felt a hand pull at your own arm. You turned to see Hyunjin, and judging by the look on his face, he had seen everything.

“Is this just going to be a thing now?” The barista asked, side-eyeing you wearily as he held onto Jeongin protectively, “Are you just going to start slapping everyone who crosses you?”

“Maybe,” you muttered mutinously. “It’s faster, and less emotionally draining than negotiating.”

“You’re studying to be a therapist, y/n,” Hyunjin reminded you exasperatedly, and you let out a small laugh, pouting slightly. The barista smiled too, despite himself, and you both looked over at Jeongin. The boy’s eyes were staring over the crowd’s heads, through the lobby doors, and you realised he was watching the officers push Kang into the police cruiser — the man who had ruined his parents’ lives, finally handcuffed and headed where he was supposed to be.

You turned around, and caught sight of another familiar face further down the hallway, standing perfectly still despite the crowd of people rushing past around him.

Lee Minho’s face was turned away from you, his catlike eyes staring at something with the same, unfathomable expression you had come to grow so accustomed to. You remembered how you had once been afraid of the coroner and his strange, standoffish manner, but now, as you watched him from afar, you felt a small pang of sympathy. Minho always carried himself like a ghost, you realised — a shadow lingering in the corners of rooms and corridors, unsure if he was ever wanted.

You quickly excused yourself from Hyunjin and Jeongin and you began to push through the crowd towards the coroner. As you followed his gaze to the holding cell doors, they suddenly swung open, and Jisung stepped out into the hallway. Your steps slowed. The two stood facing each other for several long moments — two childhood friends, two lost children who had found their only sense of family — twisted though it had been — in each other. Minho’s face was hesitant, as if about to turn away, but Jisung had already begun walking up to him. You were too far away to hear what they were saying, Jisung’s back turned to you and Minho awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other.

Then Jisung suddenly closed the gap between the two of them, and pulled Minho into a hug.

You watched as the ex-coroner’s mask finally shattered, the older boy’s face scrunching up like a child’s as he buried his head in Jisung’s shoulder. His entire body shook with silent sobs, as if something in him had finally been let go, a burden he had carried his entire life lifted off his chest.

Eventually, the guards stepped forward, and Minho pulled away. He looked at Jisung with a small smile on his face — the first genuine smile you had ever seen from him — and you managed to catch the words forming on his lips.

“Goodbye, Han Jisung.”

“He’ll probably need to go through a trial of his own.” Chan’s voice made you jump in surprise. He had come up beside you while you had been distracted, Felix and Woojin close behind him. He nodded at you by way of greeting before turning back to where Jisung was standing. “The coroner, I mean. But he’ll likely get around five years in prison, more or less.”

You watched as Minho was ushered away into another corridor, Jisung staring at the empty spot where he had once stood. Before you could reply, he turned around, eyes landing on yours — and all of a sudden, you forgot about the security guards flanking every doorway, the law officials and reporters brushing briskly past you. For a moment, it was as if it were only you and Jisung in the hallway, the entire world standing still around the two of you.

Since the last time you had spoken to him had ended with you slapping him in the face, you decided that it was only right for you to take the first step towards him. Slowly, feeling as if you were in a dream, you made your way towards him, Jisung walking the rest of the way to meet you in the middle.

“Hey, you.” Jisung’s voice was soft, nearly inaudible, not taking his hazel eyes off yours.

You heard Chan chuckle behind you, shaking his head as he threw his arms around Felix and Woojin’s shoulders to steer them away and leave you two in private. The hallways had nearly cleared out, and for the first time in what felt like forever — if you ignored the guards watching a little ways off from the holding cells — you and Jisung were alone together.

There were a thousand things racing through your mind right now, but you couldn’t seem to find the right words to say.

“Five years,” Jisung tentatively broke the silence again, and when you looked back at him in confusion, he continued, “in the psychiatric institute. They told me five years minimum, on watch. But I heard...it’s a nice place.”

His lopsided, sheepish smile was as infectious as ever, making one tug at your own lips. When Jisung saw you smile, he relaxed just the tiniest amount.

“Y-you’re going to be okay?” You finally asked, feeling your voice waver.

Jisung’s gaze softened, nodding. “You saved me.”

“No.” You shook your head firmly. You knew he was talking about Seungmin’s arguments, Jeongin’s witness statements, the article you and Felix had published — but it all might have been for nothing, you thought, mind flashing back to the courtroom, if Jisung hadn’t finally stepped up from his chair and faced his lifelong traumas in the form of one last, truthful testimony. “Han Jisung, you saved yourself.”

He fell silent at that, and you saw his hand instinctively move towards yours for a split second before he quickly stopped himself. Jisung’s arms were floating by his sides, as if wanting to pull you close, but he was holding himself back. He was afraid, you finally realised — afraid that you would push him away, afraid to ever hurt you again. And for some, inexplicable reason, the idea of a rift between the two of you that could never be repaired seemed to hurt even more than a switchblade to the heart.

“For some reason, I’ve been thinking back to our first date,” Jisung cleared his throat, one hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck. He probably looked like a nervous schoolboy in front of his first love, Jisung thought, cringing at himself as he looked away from your curious gaze. Well, he added as an afterthought, that wouldn’t be too far off.

You were his first love, after all.

“I...I didn’t know how you felt that day,” Jisung continued, “or even the days after that, to be honest. I didn’t know if I was doing things right, or—”

“You took my breath away,” you cut him off, the honesty in your own words making your cheeks heat up. You thought back to the diner, to the blond boy who had rendered you speechless with a single heart-shaped smile. As an afterthought, you brought a hand to your rib cage, where a switchblade in that same boy’s hands had once punctured through your lungs, and you deadpanned, “literally.”

Eyebrows raising in disbelief, Jisung gave an incredulous laugh, but his gaze was fixed on the site of your wound. You could still see the deep guilt in his eyes, and, taking a deep breath, you reached for his hand, gingerly placing it where the knife had been. His skin was cool against your fingers, palm rough but familiar. “I’m okay, Jisung. It’s okay. But...why bring that up, all of a sudden?”

“I feel like that now,” he admitted softly, “the same feeling, but with a whole new set of butterflies. Always thinking about you, worrying about you. Wondering how you feel about…”

“Us,” you finished for him, and Jisung nodded slowly. Us. The word hung between the two of you for a long moment, and you took a shaky breath. A part of you wanted to reassure him, to pull him into your arms as if nothing had ever changed. But another part of you pushed that feeling away, knowing deep down that it was too late, that too much had already happened between the two of you to just ignore.

“I don’t know,” you answered truthfully, and you looked down, afraid to see the expression on his face. “I woke up that morning, and you were just...gone. I was so scared for you, I went looking for you...then one thing lead to another, and before we all knew it, the world had turned upside down. I-it might sound selfish, but after all...this, I think I’m going to need some...time.” You finally lifted your eyes up to his face, heart pounding. For a terrifying second, you thought you saw a flash of pain skip across Jisung’s pupils — but before you could be sure, his face broke into a relieved smile.

“You’ve always been like this, you know?” He sighed, one hand reaching up to gently tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. Then, contrary to what you had expected, Jisung visibly relaxed. “Worrying about other people before taking care of yourself. You’re not being selfish, okay? Don’t...worry about hurting me anymore.”

You stared at him, the genuine warmth in his words suddenly making your throat close up with stunned tears. Jisung’s eyes, you remembered, had always seemed glazed over and unfocused — as if his mind was trapped somewhere else, far, far away. But as he looked back at you now, you were suddenly hit by how...clear they had become. He was here, perfectly focused on you, eyes filled with what you could only describe as pure adoration.

“I need time, too,” Jisung continued quickly, “I have...so many things I need to fix, to work on, and get better at—”

You shook your head furiously then, tears spilling onto your cheeks as you held onto his wrist. “W-want to love every part of you,” you whispered, forcing your voice to remain steady. “Don’t...don’t hide any parts of yourself, ever again. Okay?”

Jisung watched you for a long moment, brow furrowed as he gingerly wiped your tears, and finally gave a small nod. He cradled your face in his hands, eyes trying to memorise your features as though you were the most beautiful thing he would ever see. To someone else, you thought vaguely, you might have looked insane. A killer’s hands, they might have said, bloodstained hands. But as you gazed up at Jisung, all you saw was a boy who had gone through hell and came back smiling, a boy who loved you more than life itself.

You heard footsteps approaching, and looked up to see several security guards making their way towards Jisung. “Mr. Han,” one called gruffly, “it’s time to go.”

The sudden interruption made your mind go blank momentarily as any reasonable words — goodbye, take care — immediately dissolved on your tongue. The guards were getting closer and closer, and Jisung turned back to you, stammering.

“If you ever want to—to do this whole...love thing again, start over properly, I—I promise I’ll try not to screw it up. I mean, if you’re sure—and only if you’re sure,” he paused then, sounding suddenly flustered, and for a second, he was your tousled-hair, golden boy from the diner again, soft cheeks flushed like windblown peach roses, eyes unsure yet hopeful as a child’s. This was the boy you had fallen in love with, over blueberry pancakes and Chinese takeout, on seemingly endless nights and through the darkest thunderstorms. Ever since you had made that promise, in a children’s playground beneath the setting sun, you knew that somehow, no matter what fate had left in store, you would always find your way back to him.

Jisung was already being ushered away, the sudden absence of his touch on your skin leaving you feeling empty — but his last words brought a smile to your tearstained face.

“...I’ll be waiting.”

ryu says:

thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to everyone who made it to the end of this series; to everyone who came on this long journey with me, you made it possible and amazing every step of the way. at times, as my first ever series and long-term project, it was both daunting and terrifying, but i am beyond happy and honoured i could experience it with you.

i’ll see you in the epilogue.

953 notes · View notes

smol-and-grumpy · 4 years ago

Text

Golden Cage - Chapter.08

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: She’s a spoiled little princess — at least that’s what people say. Her father is the King of all Kings, the man who everyone fears. Then, along comes Dean Winchester, the one guy who manages to see into her soul, but — — is Dean really who he says he is?

Chapter Warnings: Violence, threats, minor character death, fluff, angst, doubts

WC: 5675

Beta’d by: @deanwanddamons <3

Series Masterlist ~ SPN Masterlist

Become a Patron ~ Buy me a coffee

Dean’s in the bathroom, dressed and ready for the day ahead of him, when he hears furious banging against his bedroom door.

“Be right there!” He shouts out with his mouth still full of toothpaste. Dean spits it out and rinses the brush.

He already took a shower this morning, as he needed it to wake him up. Maybe he also needed it to calm himself down because he was so goddamn hard and there was no Y/N next to him. His cock was aching for the intimacy they shared last night, but he thinks that his heart ached more for the closeness, he just doesn’t really want to admit it. Can’t possibly admit it just yet because he’s a stubborn idiot.

“We’re leaving in ten!” The voice says and Dean knows that it belongs to Ed. Benny had most likely sent him to get Dean. It’s probably not because Benny wants Dean to tag along again, but more because Azazel wants it that way. They’re all not really happy about him being nosy in their operation at all, but Dean can’t really fucking care about that.

And yeah, he wants to be there this morning because he has a fucking blood bath to prevent. He doesn’t even want to think about what would happen if the dude didn’t have the money like he promised he would.

Dean rinses his hands under the warm water and turns the faucet to cool before splashing some cold water onto this face and dries himself off with a washcloth, “I’ll be down in ten.” He calls out and flips his wrists to check his watch. It’s 6.37 AM. It’s way too early for his taste and he’s still so tired.

Last night was fucking amazing, there’s no doubt about it, but Dean has maybe slept two hours, tops. He’s even more grumpy when he doesn’t get his four hours of shuteye and there’s a pounding in the back of his head. He has to be careful that it won’t grow into a full-blown headache.

The lack of sleep is really his own fault, though. Dean really has no one else but himself to blame.

Last night, he waited until she fell asleep. Then, waited some more to make sure that she was in a deep sleep before he scooped her up to carry her over to her own bedroom. He had to do it because there wouldn’t have been a good way to spin a story of how she would wander from his room into hers in the morning when everyone’s up and awake. He’s sure someone would have seen her if he would have let her stay and it pained him that he had to do it, it really did.

God knows how much he wanted to let her stay beside him. How much he didn’t want her to leave his bed at all, but this whole thing is fucked up enough as it is, he doesn’t need to pour gasoline on a goddamn fire.

This whole thing is fucking stupid and risky—

—and yet, he knows in his heart that he can’t possibly walk away from it. From her.

Dean braces his hands on the sink and drops his head. He’s smirking as memories from last night flashes before his eyes. He came fucking twice! Within fucking minutes! It had never happened before and he wasn’t lying when he told her that never wanted to stop fucking her. How could he? It felt super awesome being inside of her wet heat. And the way she came on his dick? Jesus, he’s getting hard again just thinking about it. He’d like to experience it again sometime, would really fucking love to.

The fucking was awesome, he’s established that. But the thing after was also super great? Like, Dean didn’t account for that, if he’s honest.

The way she laid in his arms, the way she curled up against him, the way she fell asleep. It was great and Dean felt a calmness in his heart he never experienced before. He couldn’t stop himself from touching her. Couldn’t possibly stop, no matter how much he would have wanted to. No, there was no stopping because he wanted to memorize every feature of her face, wanted to memorize the bumps and creases of her skin with the tip of his fingers.

Carrying her over to her room was hard for him to do because he had to make sure that she didn’t wake up while at the same time making sure that nobody heard him walking around. He even wore fucking socks so as not to make too loud of a sound.

He laid her into her bed and pulled the cover over her, tucking her in gently, before he kissed her lips one last time, lingered a little longer than he first wanted. It was just so hard to part.

Dean shakes his head to clear out the pictures of her swimming around in his mind and clears his throat after, to get the bittersweet taste out of his mouth, before he pushes himself away from the sink and makes his way out of the bathroom.

Her panties and the shirt she came into his room with are still on the floor. Dean picks it up and stuffs them deep into the hamper, making sure that nobody will find them. He doesn’t think that anyone would search in there anyway.

She didn’t ask any questions last night about why Dean handed her his shirt instead of hers. It was a spur of the moment decision for him. It was just.. when he came out of the bathroom and looked at her shirt, he felt the sudden urge to give her one of his. There was a sudden possessiveness that crept up his spine. Dean can’t really explain it himself, to be honest. He smirked when she pulled it over her head, thought that she looked fucking cute in his shirt, but he tried to not be too obvious about the joy he felt.

Walking over to the door, Dean turns around again to take a last look to see if he left anything behind that could bust him — bust his ass for the things he’s already doing and of course bust him for fucking her. When he’s satisfied that there are no traces, he leaves the room and closes the door. He doesn’t lock it, fears that it would raise suspicion if he does.

Dean walks along the landing, has to pass her door on his way down the stairs, and he almost stalls, almost knocks on her fucking door. Almost. He catches himself on time, reminds himself that he’s running late as it is. Besides, it’s not even 7 AM. She’s most likely still sound asleep. He hopes she is. He also hopes that she’s not too sore.

She did ask him to fuck her harder.

Dean chuckles at the memory, gets flustered too. His ears are burning. He hopes that they aren’t too red because it’s hard to conceal.

Jesus, this fucking girl.

He shakes his head as he makes his way down the stairs and suddenly, there’s another thought popping into his mind. There’s still an issue he has to talk to her about. Wanted to actually talk last night, but when he saw how exhausted she was, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Dean makes a mental note to bring it up as soon as he would meet her. He hopes it’s going to be today.

Dean’s the last one to arrive at the restaurant. Benny and his boys are already inside because even though Dean said he’ll be down in ten, the fucking gang had already left. So much for taking him along.

To say that the incident is making him even more grumpy is an understatement.

He barges into the door to find the restaurant owner strapped to a chair yet again. The man’s sobbing uncontrollably, he is gagged with a tie. The man’s wife is already laying on the ground, a bullet wound through her chest and the middle of her head, which seems a bit of an overkill. It happened just a moment ago because he can see that the blood has only started to seep from under her body.

Dean takes it that they didn’t manage to get the money.

The kids are each strapped to a chair, both of them squirming and crying, both of them have ties around their mouths, too.

And that, pisses Dean off to no end.

“What the fuck is going on?” Dean roars it out so loud that the other men are flinching, “Who the fuck did this?” He gestures wildly at the dead woman on the ground.

Glancing at the men, Dean notices quickly who fired the shots because Benny’s the only guy who has a fucking gun in his hand.

Dean rushes over to Benny, presses up close in an act of dominance, their faces only inches apart.

Benny snorts, “Who the fuck are you to tell me how to fucking do my work?”

Oh, Dean’s angry, alright. He knows everything about how they fucking operate. Bobby made sure to tell him details and this never came up. They don’t shoot women. They don’t fucking kill children.

“I don’t fucking care, Benny, you don’t fucking bite off a hand that fucking feeds you!” He spits out his words into Benny’s face.

The other man snorts some more, “He doesn’t have the fucking money!”

Dean turns away and paces around, still shaking his head. At last, he turns to face Benny again, but from a safe distance, “Then fucking shoot him and not her!”

“We just want to scare him,” Ed chimes in and gets shot down by Dean’s menacing glare. The man quickly shuts his mouth.

“Well, he is scared,” Dean says. His voice is a little calmer now. He had noticed the wet pants around the man’s crotch, “Congratulations! Mission accomplished. I hope you’re fucking proud! And what now?”

“We kill off the boy next,” Benny says drily and the dad whimpers while the boy screams.

“And then?” Dean asks, because he can’t wrap his head around it. It’s not what the family stands for. Not at all.

“Then the dad.” Ed shrugs as if it’s no fucking big deal.

“And the girl?” Dean asks, and he fucking knows that he shouldn’t be discussing any of it in front of the victims, but that’s just how it is, and there’s no way for him to talk to his men in private.

Benny smirks, “We have connections and I’m personally thinking about expanding the family business, branching out, you know.”

Oh, Dean knows. Dean knows exactly what Benny’s talking about, and he’s not happy about it.

“Does Azazel know?”

“Not yet,” Benny shrugs, “But I’ll have a meeting later, I’ll bring up the new business idea.”

Dean looks from Benny to the kids and back at the guy, “I’m taking them with me—”

“—You will do no such thing!”

Benny cuts Dean off before Dean could even finish his sentence. The man’s also in Dean’s hair, inches so close and pushes at his chest, “You let us do our fucking job and you do yours!”

There’s a lot of staring each other down, a lot of quivering lips and steely gazes. Dean sighs before he resigns. Not because he wants to, but because he knows that he has to. He would overstep his duties, and he would make himself suspicious. More than he already is in the men’s eyes.

So Dean does what’s expected of him. He takes a step back and walks out of the room without another word.

Y/N wakes to the sound of soft knocking at her door. She blinks the sleep away before her eyes scan her surroundings. It takes her some time to realize where she is.

She’s back in her own room.

Disappointment clouds her face and she curls up on her side. Her eyes stay open as she stares at the door where someone knocks again.

“What is it?” She calls out grumpily. Today’s not a good day, she can already feel it.

“Madam,” The maid says, “It’s past 1 PM, would you like your lunch?”

What? Past 1 PM? How? She never gets up this late. Has probably never slept past 10 AM in her whole life.

“No, thank you.” She says, “I’ll go into work once I get up.”

“Alright, Madam. Just ring me if you need me.”

“Thanks.”

Y/N sits up in her bed, pulls the blanket aside, and notices that she’s still in Dean’s shirt. And then it dawns on her. That is why he wanted her to wear something for bed, wasn’t it? So that he could carry her back into her own room.

Bringing the shirt to her face, she sniffs at it. Couldn’t really do it last night when Dean was next to her. She smells him. Smells his cologne, his soap, his musk. He probably slept in it the night before, because it doesn’t smell like it has been washed in a while. And strangely, she doesn’t care. It smells heavenly.

The scent of the shirt brings her back to last night and her mind starts to spin. God, they really had sex. Dean’s a great lover, he made her come more than she had with any other man. Even on his dick alone, which never happened. It was totally different from Adam. Adam didn’t really make a big effort if she had to compare, but also she doesn’t know what’s the norm? Was Dean just over-attentive or is that standard?

Jesus, she even forgot to go pee afterward and that’s what she should have done, right? Ellen told her so many times already that she should go pee after having sex so as not to contract UTI. She completely forgot in her blissed-out state.

Dean did that to her. She was incapable of forming one coherent word afterward.

Y/N liked everything about last night. Like how he took care of her, liked how he fucked her. But most of all, she liked how he took her in his arms afterward, how his hands brushed over her face, how the gestures lulled her to sleep.

Getting up, she peels the shirt from her body and stows it away underneath her pillow. Just in case. And she wants to wear it again tonight just because she can. It’s hers now, she won’t give it back no matter how much Dean would want it returned to him.

On her way to the bathroom, she feels something warm running out of her vagina and she hurries to the bathroom, doesn’t necessarily wanting it to drip on the carpet because she would have a hard time explaining it to Ellen. That woman has bat ears and eagle eyes, she would know, Y/N’s so sure of that.

Inside of the shower, she inspects the wetness that runs down her thighs and it keeps running out. God, just how much did Dean come inside of her? Because it’s a lot and it was his second time too, having spilled the first load onto her stomach and pussy.

She turns on the shower, washes herself down there with water before soaping herself up. Her hand rubs at her clit and it somehow hurts a little because it’s very sensitive. It doesn’t help that she actually wants to rub there some more because of the tingly sensation she feels inside of her guts. Dean has really left a lasting impression on her, that much is clear.

After the shower and with no release because it just hurt too much, she walks out of the bathroom frustrated and grumpy. It also doesn’t lift her mood when she sees Ellen in her room. The woman has a key to every door in the house and she’s not afraid to use it.

Ellen’s in the process of stripping her bedsheets and she already notices the edge of Dean’s shirt hanging out from the laundry basket.

“No!” She shouts and runs to the basket, fishing the shirt out, “I want to wear it again tonight.” She says, but then she realizes that she maybe shouldn’t have said it, “I mean, I just pulled it out of the closet and… uh, it’s still good to wear. It doesn’t need to be washed yet.” She stammers, trying to somehow make sense.

The woman looks at Y/N with a frown on her face, “Hun, since when do you care if I wash a shirt you’ve only worn once?”

“Uh, I don’t know? Just— I know that I want to wear it again, okay?” She clutches at the fabric and pulls it out of the basket, proceeds to walk with it to her walk-in closet but Ellen was having none of it.

The woman tugs her back by her arm, “Y/N, show me.”

“Ellen!”

“Do I have to use force on you? Because I’d rather not.”

God, she hates how Ellen goes all mom on her. The woman’s been here since before Y/N was born and when her mother died, she came closest to being a mother figure to Y/N while she also took care of her own child. Ellen knows her better than she knows herself, even knew about Adam, but Ellen didn’t tell. She wonders if she can tell Ellen about Dean? If she should tell? No, that’s probably not a good idea since Dean doesn’t want anyone to know.

“Y/N, I’m asking nicely.” Ellen holds out a hand, waiting for her to hand over the garment.

She sighs and rolls her eyes, “Fine!”

Ellen doesn’t even wait for her to lay the shirt into her awaiting palm, instead, she tears it from Y/N’s grip.

The woman holds it up, frowning, “That’s not your shirt.”

“How do you know?”

“I know every item in your wardrobe, Y/N, and this shirt isn’t yours,” Ellen says and puts the shirt to her nose to sniff at it. Y/N cringes, “Yep, definitely a man’s shirt. What happened?”

“Nothing?”

“Well, I hope that nothing knows what he’s done and that he’s in a lot of trouble if the King finds out.”

“I told him—” Y/N says meekly, “—about Adam.”

“Good, boy needs to know.” Ellen hands the shirt back to her, “Please don’t tell me it’s one of his.”

She doesn’t say anything but also, she doesn’t meet Ellen’s questioning eyes, avoiding them at all costs.

“Dear God, honey! No!” Ellen sighs loudly, “This is not going to end well, and you know it!”

“It’s different!” She shouts, “He’s different!”

“Yeah, tell that to your father when he has the boys balls in his hand ready to cut them off, will ya?”

Oh god, the image of it makes her skin crawl. Ellen is right. Of course the woman’s right, and Y/N hates that she is.

“He doesn’t need to know,” Y/N mumbles softly.

Ellen gestures with her hands and there’s obvious irritation on her face as she rubs a hand over her forehead, “Look, I’m on your side, okay? Just please be careful, and I’m going to get you new pills, I’ll drop them off and hide them in your room in the evening, okay?”

Y/N’s pout turns into a big wide grin as she throws her arms around Ellen’s neck and sprays kisses on her cheek, “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ellen says, “I love you, okay? I just want you to be safe.”

“I know.”

Dean’s sitting at the counter of a roadside diner a couple of hours out of the city. To be honest, he didn’t know where to go at first, just got into his car and thought about leaving it all behind. He knows that he can if he really wants to, knows that he’s allowed if he has a good reason.

While he drove, he thought about the reasons, but he came up empty-handed. Apparently, corruption of his own moral compass isn’t good enough of a reason, and he knows that too. It’s not going to be a reason for them to accept it because he’s been in his game long enough.

But he has decided something for himself on his way out here. After this is all over, he’s going to leave the Bureau. He’s going to leave it all behind, get in his car, and drive. He has the feeling that he’s getting too old for all this bullshit. When he first started, he really had the impression that he could make a difference, that he could help make the world a little safer, but the reality caught up to him pretty fast, and now, after doing what he does for a decade, he knows that the world doesn’t change. When he catches a bad guy, there are at least five more who are going to take that guy’s place. When he closes a case, there are going to be ten more coming up. It’s a vicious circle that keeps on spinning.

He’s here now, isn’t he? He’s going to get this over with and Dean started to think about reasons for him not to leave, and there are some. There’s also a chump holding him back by clawing into his skin. That chump comes in the form of a stunning girl with a beautiful smile. That’s when Dean realizes that he doesn’t have a good enough reason to leave, but has a better reason to stay.

It’s afternoon and the diner is more than half empty. He’s nursing his coffee that tastes more like water with a sprinkle of coffee flavor as he waits.

He knows it’s fucking risky disappearing after what happened at the restaurant this morning. It’s fucking risky to just get in his car and drive away without telling anyone where he’s going, but he needed a breather and he especially needed time to sort things out in his head.

This whole operation is fucking with his mind. Fucking with his grip on morality. He has always known what’s right and what’s wrong, and he’s worked undercover before, but it never involved innocent fucking children for god’s sake!

The bell of the diner chimes and he notices a woman coming in. She walks to the counter and sits next to him.

“You got any news?” Dean asks, but he doesn’t look at the women. Instead, he stares down at his coffee, signaling for the waitress to pour him some more.

“Not much.” His supervisor says, “You know we shouldn’t meet like this, right?”

Dean snorts, “We shouldn’t be doing a lot of things, Naomi. Yet, here we are,”

The woman ignores him.

“We found out that Benny is in contact with Marv,” Naomi says, while she signals for the waitress to bring her a cup as well.

Dean debates on telling her that the coffee tastes like shit, but he decides against it. It’s the little thing he finds joy in nowadays. Instead, he tries not to frown too much as he asks, “Marv?”

“Marv Armstrong. He’s big in the human trafficking business.”

“Oh no,” Dean rubs at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, bringing it together in the middle to pinch at the bridge of his nose. He didn’t sleep nearly enough for such fucking bullshit.

Naomi thanks the waitress and takes a sip from her cup, spitting it right out with a disgusted expression on her face, and Dean has to hold himself together so as not to laugh out loud.

The woman soon regains her composure, even before Dean’s done with laughing, “Try to be there when Benny meets Azazel. We want to know more about it.”

Fucking Christ, first they have a mole in the fucking family, and now this? Dean didn’t fucking sign up for fuckery, did he?

He sighs and gets up from the stool before he fishes out a five-dollar bill from his jacket pocket, “I’ll try.”

“You want to leave so much for a bad coffee?” Naomi grits her teeth but doesn’t look at him.

Leaning down a little, he places the bill on the counter, “Hey, everyone needs money to get by, doesn’t matter how bad the coffee is.”

Dean walks out without another word and hurries to his car. He knows he has to be there for the meeting, but he has to do something else first.

Y/N spends some time working in the restaurant after lunch. After she ushers Ellen out of her room, she gets dressed and puts some makeup on her face in order to hide the dark circles around her eyes. She arrived at the shop hangry, so Garth had made her a delicious burger and fries because he somehow knew that she needed it, and it really did help lift her mood a little.

Garth always knows what she needs and she loves him for it, is thankful that he enjoys working in her restaurant. He never complains about anything and always smiles. Sometimes, Garth is indeed the light of the restaurant and it makes her workdays so much more bearable.

After the meal, she checks in on her other employees to see if they have trouble managing the whole place without her being in as much as before, but apparently, everything seems to be going fine which actually disappoints her a little because it shows that she’s really not needed at all.

Her dad’s right about it, and she hates that he is.

When she’s about to go to the back and continue with her inventory, the bell chimes and her dad walks in with some of his entourage. He walks straight to the counter and doesn’t sit down in his booth like he normally does. She senses that something must be going on.

“Are you hungry, dad?” Y/N asks and looks back at Garth who’s tossing some fries into the oil, “Garth’s making a new batch of fries.”

“No, I already ate,” Her father says, “Is Dean in?”

Well, should he be? She doesn’t know, because she hasn’t heard from him since last night. Her cheeks burn up at the memories.

“I’ve not been here long enough to know.” She says simply. Maybe because it’s the truth and maybe, because she does want to sound like she cares.

God, she does care, though. Where is Dean?

“We’re going to be down for the rest of the day. Send him down when he drops by,” Her dad says and doesn’t even wait for her answer. Instead, he strolls to the back door, his entourage following him.

“Benny is in but I haven’t seen Dean,” Garth chimes in from the back, but she doubts that her dad registered it. It doesn’t matter to her dad what Garth has to say anyway.

Garth’s still smiling and it almost breaks her heart. She watches as Garth just shrugs and continues to whistle a tune while he takes out the fries as if he doesn’t really care if people don’t like him. He’s just being himself and that’s what she admires him for. She wished she could be a little more like Garth.

“Jo, you got this? I’ll be in the back,” she says, as Jo walks back to the counter with an empty tray after having served customers.

“Sure thing,” the girl smiles at her.

Y/N nods with a smile before walking to the back thinking that she’ll definitely miss working in here.

About a half-hour into boring inventory, she hears the doorknob being turned. She has stopped listening to music while she’s in here, it just doesn’t seem safe when she can’t hear her surroundings. Her hand immediately goes to her gun that’s laying on the shelf next to her clipboard, as a precaution.

“Leave it, it’s me.”

Y/N doesn’t have to turn around to know who it is. She’d recognize the hushed whisper anywhere. She’d recognize the smooth bass of the voice, even if her eyes were closed. It’s crazy how the sound of someone’s voice can jump-start her heart in a flash.

She doesn’t turn around, doesn’t know if she’d be able to look him in the eye, because she’s still a little salty that she didn’t wake up next to him, even though she knows that it’s irrational to be salty about it.

It’s absolutely stupid, she knows.

He did the right thing, because how should she explain if she would have gotten caught going out of Dean’s room in the morning wearing only a shirt and panties? There’d be no way to talk herself out of it and it would land Dean in so much trouble. It’s just… her brain is incapable of thinking rationally at the moment, and she’s as far away from being reasonable at this very moment as she can be. It’s probably the princess-effect.

“Dad’s waiting for you.” She says simply, trying to occupy herself as she takes her clipboard and writes something on it. She doesn’t even know what to write, draws stupid circles, and makes up numbers to write on it, hoping he doesn’t see the doodles.

Still with her back to him, she feels him coming closer, feels the broad of him standing right behind her. The heat of his body radiates over to hers. And she smells him too. Smells the soap on his skin, the cologne on his shirt.

God, it clouds her mind.

Dean places a hand on her shoulder, the other hand strokes down her back until it weaves around her waist, fingers span wide on her stomach. He pulls her closer, molding her back to his firm chest, and places a kiss on her neck. She feels the roughness of his scruff, which sends shivers up her spine.

“Have I upset you?” He whispers into her skin.

She tilts her head a little and Dean kisses her temple, leaves his lips there as the grip around her waist tightens.

“Just disappointed that I woke up in my own bed.” She mumbles.

Moments pass before she hears him chuckle next to her ear.

“I’m sorry,” He says and kisses her once more on her cheek.

He breathes out after, and she smells coffee on his breath, wonders where he got one. Wonders if he had one here. She places the clipboard on the shelf, turning around in his grip to meet his eyes for the first time, noticing when she sees him that he looks tired. There’s worry on his face also.

Y/N hooks her arms in the back of his neck and Dean leans down, presses his forehead on hers, “I got something for you,” He says and smirks before he pecks her lips.

Dean’s hand leaves her waist, goes to his jacket pocket and she feels something hard poking at her from in between them. It’s a little box and she leans back to be able to take a look at it. She takes it in her hand, examines it.

Plan B

One Step

The words read boldly on the box, and she looks up at Dean with a frown etched between her eyebrows.

He chuckles and lifts his thumb to rub at the crease, “I shouldn’t have, uh, you know, come inside of you. I’m sorry about that, but you said things that made me forget my own damn name.”

“I don’t need it,” She whispers, holding the box to him and wants him to take it back.

This time, it’s his turn to frown. There’s clearly irritation on his face which she has to laugh at.

“Why?” He asks, but he doesn’t take the box back.

“I’m taking the pill, Dean. It’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

Dean exhales loudly. His hot breath fans over her face. He takes a step back and paces around, before he threads a hand through his hair, “Jesus,” He groans in relief, “It was nagging at me the whole day! Fuck!”

Y/N laughs when she watches him pace around some more and there it was, the realization that dawns on him, the tension that ebbs out of his body. Suddenly, Dean’s on her, wrapping his hands around her and lifts her up, one hand around her waist and one at the base of her neck as he draws her in for a kiss. It’s soft and gentle, tongue only teasing at her teeth, but when she opens up her mouth, he sucks in her tongue.

God, it feels incredible.

He chuckles when he parts and lets her down, but she’s still lost in the moment, still chases his lips with her mouth, her eyes still closed. His chuckle grows into a laugh and he pecks her nose, making it wet.

“Baby, your dad wants to see me,” Dean whispers, pecking her lips once more and she groans out in frustration. His big hands go further down, cups her ass in his palms, and give it a squeeze, “I’ll see you, okay?”

“‘K,” She nods, and licks her lips as he places one more kiss on her forehead.

Dean leaves to walk to the door.

“What’s with that?” She still has the Plan B box in her hand and waves it around.

“Keep it,”

“What?”

“Well, I can’t possibly turn up with Plan B in my jacket.”

He’s not wrong, but still. Now she needs to walk around with it in her purse so she rolls her eyes, making him chuckle as he opens the door to the hallway.

Dean takes a last look back at her, lips curving up, creases deepening around his eyes, “You know, you’re really the only thing that keeps me going. I don’t think I would still be doing the shit I’m doing if you weren’t in it.”

Y/N feels the color rising in her cheeks and Dean closes the door with a last nod of his head.

Chapter.09

Please share your thoughts with me, I’d love to hear your feedback.

#golden cage #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean x reader #dean x you #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fan fic #dean winchester fan fiction #nathalie writes

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dulce-pjm · 4 years ago

Text

stepsisters and squires

word count: 11.0k

genre: fluff, angst

summary: as the story goes, the fairy godmother saved cinderella and sent her to ball. wrong. that was you. you were the one got the dress, the carriage, the glass slippers. but you’re also the one about to screw it all up. so much for happy endings.

warnings: parents slapping their children, swearing, bad dancing?

“Cinderella. Fetch me my ribbons.”

A look of disdain crosses her face before she rolls her eyes, tugging a little harder on your corset.

“Fetch them yourself, bitch. And stop using that stupid nickname.”

You laugh obnoxiously from your belly, only to have the life squeezed out of your lungs when she yanks on the corset strings, nearly cutting off your oxygen. Your giggles are quickly cut off with a shout of pain.

“I’m kidding, Sowon!” You throw up your hands and gasp when she pulls again. “Oh my god, you’re gonna kill me.”

“You’re much too dramatic,” the girl mumbles, though she’s struggling to hide her grin. You ignore her.

“These things really are torture devices, you know. I don’t understand the point of even wearing them tonight, it’s not like I’m getting married!”

“Isn’t the whole point of the ball to get you engaged?” she asks, eyebrows raised. You glare at her in the mirror, but her eyes stay pinned on the back of your dress. Her light bangs barely hang over her eyes, her shiny, loose curls framing her soft cheekbones perfectly. You’ve always been a tad jealous of her natural beauty, but despite your insistence on the fact that she’s gorgeous, she never takes your compliments. You suppose the innocent humility only adds to her charm.

“My mother might say that, but we both know she’ll never pull it off. I’d much rather pig out at the pastry table than pretend to be interested in a lifelong marriage with some boring rich guy.”

“Not even a hot boring rich guy?” she counters. You stop to ponder that for just a moment too long, making your stepsister of several years giggle, the sound sweet and tinkling.

“What is it?” you shout incredulously, only making Sowon laugh harder, desperately holding onto the corset strings in an effort not to undo her hard work. “If I’m gonna have to commit to someone for the rest of my life, I might as well enjoy looking at them.”

“You have no morals,” Sowon says between spurts of laughter, her cheeks and nose tinged bright pink. You’re smiling widely too, her comment sparking the memory of a certain someone.

“Morals are no fun,” you retort, shifting uncomfortably in your gown. “Are you finished back there? I’m gonna pass out if I have to keep this posture any longer.”

“Just finished.” Sowon steps back to admire her work, letting you spin in your deep magenta ballgown. The skirt is covered in lace and intricate floral designs, the sleeves puffed and hemmed at your forearms, just as you prefer them. Makes it easier to eat without dirtying the cuffs. Sowon always takes extra care with your dresses, never failing to make you feel like a princess. It’s another trait of hers she refuses to accept is just extraordinary. Obnoxiously humble as always.

Sowon adjusts a pin in your hair, fashioned into a braided low bun, with just a few stray curls hanging by your ears. You can’t help but smile, excitement tickling at your stomach. Once Sowon gives you the nod of approval, you spring into action.

“Alright, I better go check on Jin- What are you doing?!” She cries in surprise as you forcefully take her shoulders, and move her to your bed. She falls back onto the comforter, barely upright.

“Just stay there!” you shout, dashing towards your dresser. She’s doe-eyed, her brows raised and mouth cutely pouted as she watches you in utter confusion. You rifle through your drawers until you see a suitable piece of fabric, a satin blue ribbon from a previous gown. You snatch it and rush back to Sowon, moving to tie it around her eyes. She throws up her hands before you can, wrapping her fingers around the cloth.

“What’s going on? Are you trying to blindfold me?”

“It’s a surprise!” you whine. “And yes, stupid girl, I’m clearly trying to blindfold you. It adds to the surprise factor.” Sowon forces an awkward smile onto her face, lowering the ribbon to her lap.

“Can’t we do without the blindfold? Since, you know…” You loll your head to the side in confusion before you realize your utter insensitivity. Sowon’s absolutely terrified of the dark, though she’d never let you say that out loud. Ever since she’d halfway divulged the secret to you, you’d made sure there was a lamp full of oil and a box of matches by the attic door every single night, silently creeping through the hallways as to prevent your mother or brother from catching you. To others, it might seem childish, but you knew that years of being locked away in a cold, dim room with creaking walls and leaking ceilings would give anyone nightmares. In your excitement, you’d nearly forgotten her phobia.

“Oh, of course! Just… think you can close your eyes? Please?” You puff out your lip and bat your lashes, making Sowon’s eyes fly to the ceiling for guidance.

“Why can’t you just show me the surprise?”

“It’s not in here!” you huff, gesturing towards the door. “We have to go get it.”

“You want me to walk with my eyes closed?”

“I’ll guide you!” You grab her hands, squeezing pleadingly. “It’ll be fine, just trust me!” Sowon gives you a long look full of hesitance and suspicion, but seeing your genuine excitement, she eventually gives.

“Fine.” You break into a smile, and pull her to her feet, tugging her down the hall. At your request, Sowon squeezes her eyes shut, stumbling slightly as you weave through the halls of the manor, laughing at her yelps every time her foot barely catches on the carpet or a loose stone in the flooring. And she calls you dramatic.

You approach the one room Sowon never cleans, the storage closet you’ve secretly turned into a home for the surprise you’ve been planning over the past few months, ever since the ball was announced. You bring your stepsister to a halt, screaming when she barely opens her eyes for a moment. After checking the surroundings for any stray family members (who certainly would not approve of your endeavor), you unlock the door with the key you always keep on you, letting it swing open with a large creak.

“Here it is!” you cry, finally allowing Sowon to open her eyes. She looks at your project and then stares at you blankly.

“What is this?” You roll your eyes and grab her arm, tugging her into the poorly lit room and shutting the door behind you.

“It’s your dress!” You fling your arms proudly towards the soft pink gown. You’d spent every last penny you could to make it as extravagant and royalty-like as you could, paying for the hem to be decorated with bows and the waistline to be embroidered with pearls. You were especially proud of the sweetheart neckline, a daring fashion choice that you thought would suit Sowon perfectly. “For the ball tonight. I saved up some money secretly and had it made for you. I know it isn’t much but when mother said all that, I had the idea and I just wanted you to have a dress that made you feel as pretty as you always make me- oof!”

Your impromptu rambling is cut off when Sowon nearly tackles you in a hug, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. She sniffles into your neck, and while your mother might have screamed at the possibility of her saltwater tears ruining your clothes, your chest is swelling with pride. You wrap your arms around your stepsister, giving her an affectionate squeeze.

“It’s perfect,” she whispers. “Thank you, Y/N.” You give her a soothing pat on the back before breaking up the hug and stepping away. There will be time for being sappy later, but now, there’s work to do.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s no big deal. Now let’s put it on!” Sowon is smiling brightly, her cheeks practically glowing. Your roles are switched now as you’re the one attending to her attire, helping her pull the gown over her shoulders and lacing up an old corset of yours while she watches you through a large mirror you’ve leaned against the wall. You pretend not to notice the tears escaping past her lashes every few moments as she grins uncontrollably at her reflection. Her joy is contagious, infecting even your cynical mind. Even if you hate these stupid social events, seeing Sowon so excited made you remember that you had reasons to be excited too.

You pin up a few strands of hair and fasten a pearl comb into the crown of her scalp to compliment the dress. The gown you picked hugs her frame nearly perfectly despite the measurements being mostly guesswork. She looks stunning, absolutely regal, like she was made for this lifestyle. You finish up with only a few minutes to spare and step away, allowing her to bask in her own reflection. Now, tears are threatening to pour from your eyes as you take in your work. It wasn’t long ago that the younger girl barely spoke to you, her eyes always filled with fear and sorrow. There was only so much you could do for her under the hawk-eyes of your family, but you’re glad you’d done enough to see her this happy, even if only for a night.

“This is amazing, Y/N, I don’t know how I can thank you, but-”

“Thank me by coming tonight and dancing with a hot boring rich guy! But we can talk about that later.” Your voice lowers to a whisper. “Now, here’s the important part.” She leans in as you explain all of the preparations you’ve made over the past few months.

You tell her of the carriage and coachman ready for her a ten-minute walk away from town on the main road and which door to use to escape without one of your mother’s eyes and ears and catching her. You instruct her to wait exactly five minutes after you leave the room and then to sprint for the exit as fast as her legs would carry her without ruining her outfit. You tell her to stay away from your mother and brother, to avoid the main ballroom until after the first dances, at which time you, your mother, and Jin will move to the dining halls to mingle. And most importantly, you emphasize how imperative it is that she leave before midnight, before the servants lock the back doors and your mother is too tired to stay out any longer.

“Oh, and I almost forgot! Have fun and no matter how great it sounds, don’t drink the alcohol. It goes down like sugar but your head will be spinning in no time.” Sowon looks like her head is spinning now as she memorizes your instructions, nodding furiously.

“Okay, I won’t.” Her hands are shaking with anticipation, but you know her night of fun will quell the nerves. “You’re like a fairy godmother, you know.” You shrug lightly, pretending to flip your hair.

“What can I say? You deserve a magical night.” You smile earnestly before cracking open the door, making sure the coast is clear before you leave Sowon.

“Wait!” she whisper-yells before you can slip away. “What about shoes?” You nearly smack your hand against your forehead, internally scolding yourself for forgetting.

“There’s a box behind the mirror. Treat them well, they’re very fancy. Venetian glass. Custom fit, too.” Sowon laughs, assuring you that she will.

“Oh, don’t forget to tell your squire I said hello,” Sowon says teasingly as you step out into the hall. You rest your hand on your hip, giving her a knowing look.

“You know I won’t.”

“Really? Because that time I found you two it didn’t look like there was very much talking going on. I thought he was eating you ali-” You slam the door before she can finish, your cheeks heating. You can barely make out her laughter behind the thin walls as you scurry away to the front door, a dumb smile across your face.

You’d like to hope you both are in for a romantic night.

“You bitch.” Your mother’s hand smacks across your face and your head is forceful turned to the side. Jin watches you with slight sympathy in his expression, though he makes no move to aid you. He’s too much of a mother’s boy. “You helped her, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you repeat, straightening your spine.

“Don’t play dumb,” Jin chimes in, arms crossed. “You told me that dress was yours two months ago when it was delivered.” You glare in his direction, having hoped he would have forgotten the entire encounter by now.

“You dare lie to me?” You ignore her, instead focusing on your brother, the one person who should be your ally.

“I’m surprised your memory goes that far back,” you sneer. “With your intelligence, you’d think you were dropped on your head as a child.” Your mother gasps, making you hiss as she strikes you again. Jin attempts to mask his feelings with a look of apathy, but the flicker of insecurity that flashes across his features is enough to make you feel victorious.

Your mother presses her fingers to her temples, looking to the heavens for guidance.

“What did I do to deserve such a disobedient child?” You open your mouth to snap a smart reply, but quickly shut it when you notice her hand still raised.

“There’s nothing we can do about it now,” Jin says.

“You’re right, you’re right,” your mother replies, massaging her forehead and scalp. “I’ll deal with you both in the morning. For now-” She glares pointedly at you. “You will stay in my sight for the rest of the ball. You will be cooperative and pleasant and receptive and you will do exactly as I say. You will dance with every man that I pick for you, even if he’s ninety, and you will not eat a single bite unless I say you may. Am I understood?” You nod defeatedly, eyes pinned to the floor as your mother huffs, dragging you out of the small side room and back into the fray.

It’s not Sowon’s fault, you could never be angry with her. How were you supposed to know they were going to announce everyone as they entered? She’d even thought to keep her real name to herself, though you could imagine that upon being asked, she’d panicked. As soon as a ‘Cinderella of Greenfield’ had been loudly introduced to the ballroom, your mother’s eyes had bulged out of her head and her face blanched of color. Within minutes she’d put your panicked expression and stepsister’s surprise appearance together and yanked you away from the crowd, unleashing her anger.

Your face falls further when you realize that this new development means you won’t see the one you’re really looking for, who you’re always looking for, really. You’d like to hope that even if you aren’t dancing with your ‘prince charming’ (a term that would make him cringe and groan), Sowon will at least have her own fun before the clock strikes twelve.

“Fix your posture.” You quickly straighten your spine, folding your hands neatly in front of you. You can already see your mother’s eyes scanning the premises, searching for a new victim- er, suitor. Your brother has already disappeared off to god-knows-where, probably chatting up another girl. You, however, don’t have such luxury when your mother believes it’s taking way too long to get you married off.

Despite your insistence that being single at twenty is in fact not the same thing as being an old maid, your mother pays no attention to your opinions on the subject.

You resist taking a swig from the champagne flute resting between your fingers, instead turning your attention to the dancing couples. The first few times you were allowed to attend these balls, the dancers seemed magical and heavenly and happy, dress skirts spinning in sparkly swirls of color. But the dance floor had long lost its glamour when you realized how political the act of dancing really was. No one danced because it was fun or romantic, they did it to secure their relationships, to sign the contract of their alliance without touching a pen. It was all about appearance and status. Dreams of waltzing with your one true love were crushed once your mother had shoved you into the arms of a man much older and much creepier than you would have ever wanted.

You could say with confidence now, however, that dancing isn’t anything close to a requirement when forming a romantic relationship. It’s honestly pretty boring. Shameless flirting and stolen kisses, however, are much more fun.

Too bad you wouldn’t be doing any of those things tonight.

“I’m sorry, what was your name again?” you ask, making your mother pinch your side. You do your best to ignore the pain.

The man you’ve been talking to for the past several minutes pauses, his sweet smile becoming strained.

“And- Oh, it’s Jimin.” You nod, pretending like you’ll remember it five minutes from now. You feel bad. The guy’s pretty cute, his dashing eye smile and boyish features making his cautious flirting all the more adorable. But it’s difficult to really appreciate his looks when your mind is occupied with other faces and names. Or, well, a very specific face and name.

“My apologies, her mind is always wandering,” your mother intrudes, leaning into your conversation as if she’s the one who’s supposed to be initiating a courtship and not you.

“It’s alright…” Jimin squirms uncomfortably under your mother’s scrutinizing stare.

“We really would love to know more about your father’s business. You are the eldest, correct?”

Jimin’s eyes flash from your blank expression to your mother’s eager one, before, like all the suitors before him, he realizes that this really isn’t the place he wants to be. He gives you an apologetic look before inventing some excuse about seeing a business friend and darting away before your mother can protest.

She turns to you, eyes ablaze.

“You’re acting like a petulant child,” she snaps. “Don’t expect to leave your room at all for at least a week. Keep this up and you’ll be lucky to have a single meal.”

“It’s not my fault!” You know you aren’t helping your case by being defensive, but at this point, you don’t care. You’re bored and miserable and your skin still stings where your mother slapped you. “You keep scaring them away!”

“Watch your tone.” It’s ironic, really. You could smile and flirt and be docile all day long, the only thing stopping your mother’s wishes of a suitor from coming true is your mother herself. She can’t help but question the hell out of every man who walks your way until they’re shaking in their dress shoes, fully regretting ever coming within your vicinity. You’ve never had a courtship last longer than a month, let alone make it past the first conversation. At least not one that your mother knows about.

Your mind wanders again to the vision of a snarky boy you’ve come to care for deeply, his thoughtful, coffee-colored eyes, his pouty lips. You’re grinning to yourself at the memory of his ever-stern expression breaking into a sheepish smile when you push just the right buttons, make just the right remark. There isn’t much you wouldn’t give to be talking with him rather than the men picked out by your mother, but, alas, not all dreams come true.

“Ow!”

Your toes ache when your new suitor clumsily steps on them, his palm sweaty and nervous against yours. He quickly panics at your expression but continues the waltz.

“Oh, I am so sorry!” he whispers, awkwardly twirling you under his arm, just as his foot slams onto yours again. You wince. The poor kid might be your age, but it seems he still isn’t quite used to the lanky limbs puberty gave him. He’s barely even dancing at this point, mostly just stumbling across the floor and stringing you along. You wonder if this is his first ball, because it took a good ten minutes for you to coach him into actually leading you, instead of the other way around.

“It’s really okay,” you assure him, noticing his blonde strands falling into his face. You were scared out of your mind the first time you danced, too, though probably for entirely different reasons.

“I promise I’m not usually this awful,” he insists. “I broke my glasses just before I got here, so everything’s pretty blurry.” You sympathize with him. Awful vision and carefully maneuvered dancing don’t exactly pair well together.

“Namjoon, was it?” He nods, flashing a small, dimpled smile. “This your first time?”

His grin turns sheepish. “Was it that obvious?” You shake your head, but then wonder if he can even tell, if his dancing is truly a reflection of his poor eyesight.

“No, I just hadn’t seen you before. I attend most of these things.” Namjoon relaxes at the casual conversation, glad to be talking as peers and not potential spouses.

“Really? Don’t you get tired of them?”

“All the fucking time.” Namjoon’s jaw drops at your language. You cringe, glad your mother can’t stalk you while you’re dancing. “Er- sorry.”

“It’s fine, really.” The lights are dimming outside and your sympathy for the man only grows. Even your vision begins to fail once night falls. Would it kill them to get better lighting in this place?

“My point is, they get easier. Promise. The nerves will go away eventually, probably quicker than you think.” Namjoon laughs skeptically, his grip loosening in yours.

“Easier said than done.” A smirk creeps across your lips.

“See? You’re already comfortable with me! I’m proud.” He immediately starts blushing and tensing up again, but you’ve made your point and Namjoon is grateful. You knew you could be quite intimidating, that this whole event could be quite intimidating, so you’re always glad to help a fellow straggler out.

The dance ends with Namjoon accidentally knocking his head against yours as he bows deeply, profusely apologizing. You laugh it off and send him on his way, probably to recover from the embarrassment in private. You almost get your hopes up that your mother will let you go, but it doesn’t take long for you to be shoved into a new conversation.

“It’s just- I love her, you know?” The boy is staring at you earnestly, his chin propped in his hands and his shaggy, brown hair anything but styled properly. You’re not even sure why your mother settled for this guy. He certainly doesn’t seem like a rich bachelor looking for a wife.

You lean in, fully captured by his heartfelt story. It only took two minutes before the guy noticed your disinterest and gave up on flirting, suggesting the two of you chat casually over desserts instead. You accepted his offer in a heartbeat, feeling your mother glaring holes into your back as he guided you away, finding a corner table and a heaping tray of eclairs. Now, you were listening to his romantic tale, absolutely astounded at his experiences.

“Yeah, I think I do. But what are you supposed to do? She’s locked in an enchanted tower! With a witch!”

“Exactly!” Taehyung responds, throwing his hands into the air. “The only reason I’m here and not with her is because of my family. If I could just get away from them, I’d think up a way to rescue her, I’m sure of it.” You ponder his dilemma as you shove another eclair into your mouth, treasuring the sugary pastry while you still can. He’d already tried the obvious choice, bringing a rope, but as soon as he stepped inside the tower with his love, it disintegrated in his hands, spoiling the plan.

“Maybe you can trick the witch!” You suggest, words muffled by the dessert you’re chewing on as you blatantly talk with your mouth open. All manners have been abandoned as Taehyung is eating two eclairs at once, equally focused on the matter at hand. “Well, no, maybe trying to trick a magical scary lady is a bad idea.”

You think for a moment longer, taking a few more desserts, before your brain lights up.

“Wait, we’re both idiots!” you exclaim, slamming the table in epiphany. Taehyung leans forward, anticipating your new idea. “Just cut her hair and use it as a rope! Surely the enchantment isn’t that advanced.” Taehyung processes your idea before his lips grow into a wide, joyous grin that stretches into his cheeks adorably. If it weren’t for other circumstances, you’d actually consider courting this guy.

“That’s genius!” he shouts, jumping up from his seat. “What do I do now?” You rise with him, taking his hands into yours.

“You have to go to her. Now.” Taehyung’s face grows solemn with resolve as he takes a deep breath.

“I will! Thank you, really.”

“You can thank me by inviting me to the wedding!” The boy laughs and assures you that he will before he grabs one last eclair, dashing out of the castle and into the night. You can only hope that he’ll be successful in his quest, that he won’t die because the plan went horribly wrong or the witch is waiting for him. You send a silent prayer to whoever is listening, but a part of you just believes he’ll be alright.

Having nowhere else to go, you make your way back to where you last saw your mother, brushing against several shoulders as you weave through the crowd. But instead of your mother, Jin is who you see, pigging out on a plate full of food from the buffet. Your mouth waters at the sight.

“Where’s mom?” you ask tentatively, Jin barely meeting your eyes before returning to his meal.

“Went to talk to someone important. I dunno.” You sigh. For being your older brother, he sure is useless.

Your second great idea of the night begins to grow in the back of your mind, daring to give you hope.

“Oh… Well, if you see her, tell her I’m speaking to another suitor. A very rich and very powerful one.” Jin nods, barely half-listening. Knowing your mother, if she was really talking to someone important, it’d take a while. Giving you plenty of time to do the one thing you really came for.

“Uh-huh.”

You dash off before Jin can think twice, leaving him with his second love, only topped by himself, of course.

Your heart is throbbing in your chest, lungs aching from lack of oxygen as you weave through the ballroom and sprint down the halls, making your best guess as to where to find him. You can see the look on his face now, seeing you all dolled up and exhausted from socialization. He’ll make fun of you to no end, but you don’t mind. You have plenty to tease him about, too.

As you round a corner, you collide with a strong chest, only stopped from falling by a pair of strong arms.

But when you glance up, you’re met with a very different squire than the one you’re seeking, but still a dear friend.

“Y/N? I thought you weren’t coming!” You smile as you steady yourself.

“Are you kidding? I’m always at these things, Hoseok.” You step back, peeking around his shoulder, but you’re only met with an empty hall.

“You’re telling me,” he laughs, a friendly hand still lingering on your shoulder. “What took you so long?” You shrug, still catching your breath.

“Suitors, dancing, my mother… You know how it is.” Hoseok nods in understanding, his kind eyes and warm brown hair a welcome sight after a night full of socializing with strangers. “Why aren’t you in uniform?”

“Ahh, it’s our last night off. Like a reward before we get knighted and swear our lives to the crown and all that.”

“Wait, really? You’re getting knighted?! That’s amazing, Hoseok!” The man blushes, shrugging sheepishly. His stupid humility reminds you of Sowon. The two of them would be great friends, you muse, being all shy about their accomplishments together. But never in a million years would you allow them in the same room, not with Hoseok’s reputation.

“Well, we both are.” His eyes light up at something behind you. His hand spins you around, facing you towards the rest of the ballroom. “But your boyfriend can’t even enjoy his one night to have fun. He’s over there brooding in the corner like he’s on duty or something. Doesn’t matter how many times I or Jinyoung tell him to relax, he won’t listen.”

“Sounds about right,” you muse.

“Go talk to him, will you? Make him lighten up.”

Hoseok winks at you before strolling off, making you roll your eyes. But your gaze quickly returns to the idiot you’ve come to love, looking more like a criminal than a knight as he watches the crowd with narrowed eyes. He looks dashing in his ball attire, his dark hair slicked back and leaving his forehead exposed, only a few strands falling out of place. He’s dressed in a simple suit, a white dress shirt with navy blue slacks and overcoat, but he makes the entire look seem classy and elegant.

Despite his piercing gaze, he doesn’t notice you until you’ve snuck up behind him, trailing your fingers up his arm, leaving goosebumps in your wake. His eyes barely flicker to your before quickly returning and focusing on the dance floor, as if you were never there.

“Hey, squire.” No one notices you fiddling with the collar of his coat, not as the lights are growing dimmer and dimmer. He doesn’t respond, face still fixed ahead.

“Oh, come on, you’re off duty. Hoseok told me. At least talk to me.” Still, nothing. He’s as still as a statue.

“Please? I’m sorry I took so long, I got caught up with my mom, you know how she can be.” It’s like you’re talking to air, having a conversation with yourself. His brows furrow at the mention of your mother though, sharing as much hatred for the woman as you do.

“Yoongi.” He sighs, finally facing you. But upon seeing your face, really taking it in, his expression immediately fills with concern, rather than that smile you really want to see.

“Are you okay? Your eyes are swollen.” Damn it. Rely on Min Yoongi to always see right through your facade, to never save you your pride. “Was it your mother?”

“No,” you lie. “I’m fine, really. I just missed you.” Eager to change the subject, you smirk, eyeing the top of his shirt, left unbuttoned. “Really, Min? How unprofessional…” You reach up and fix it, leaning close enough to feel his breath on your face. You meet his eyes cheekily, seeing the conflict brewing in his mind.

“Where have you been? How’s Sowon?”

“Around. Turning down suitors. And as far as I know, she’s good. Hopefully enjoying herself.” Your hands linger at his collar, fiddling with it as you grow closer and closer.

“You sure they aren’t turning you down? You’re pretty damn annoying.” You feign a gasp.

“Wowww, do all those years of me helping you train mean nothing to you? All those late nights for you to insult me like this?” Yoongi takes your hand before you can slip away in your faux-anger, intertwining your fingers.

“I think you’re glossing over all the years that I protected you from the snakes in the palace garden.”

“Oh please,” you scoff. “That was all just a ploy to get me to hold your hand.” He smirks, fully turning away from the party and towards you.

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“Only because I wanted it to. Now, are you going to keep holding my hand like we’re fourteen or kiss me?” He laughs, eyes flashing to your lips.

It only takes a moment before the two of you have disappeared from the main room and you’re pressed up against a wall, kissing him messily in a quiet hall, far from the other guests.

You’re not stupid enough to go any further, as much as you’d like to, but for now you’re satisfied just to feel his lips on yours, just to be in his presence for a while. Your fingers are running through his hair, ruining his hairstyle as his arms are wrapped around your waist, tugging you close as he kisses you senseless, as if to make up for the lost time.

No matter how many times you see him, no matter how many times you corner him in a dark room with time to kill, your heart always thumps in your chest and your stomach always flutters when he’s nearby. It’s always like the first time you talked to him, nerves racing up and down your spine like the idiot teenager you were back then.

He’s always been the first one you want to talk to in the morning, the last person you want to see before your head hits the pillow. And, of course, he’s the one you always wished was treating you to dates or romantic strolls instead of whatever suitor your mother chose next.

While your mind is racing, hands beginning to wander, Yoongi pulls away all too soon, leaving you reeling.

“Sorry,” he mutters, growing all embarrassed when the tips of his ears turn pink. “I was getting carried away.” You laugh, poking at his blushing cheeks. He jerks away, summoning a scowl that he can’t maintain as you only laugh at him further.

“That’s not very knightly of you,” you tease, glancing over his shoulder to make sure you’re still alone, a habit you’ve developed over years of seeing him in secret. Yoongi shakes his head, glaring at your proud grin.

“I don’t think sneaking off with a squire looks very good for you, either, dumbass.”

“I think you mean running off with a soon-to-be knight! Hoseok told me!” Yoongi scoffs.

“Of course he did. Asshole.” You quirk your brow.

“Wait, are you not happy you’re being knighted?” You affectionately comb your fingers through his hair in an attempt to fix the damage you’ve caused as he shakes his head furiously.

“No, no, that’s not it. I wanted to tell you myself, that’s all. There’s actually something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while, now.”

“What, that you’re finally using your knightly privileges to kill me once and for all?”

“What? No! At least, not yet.”

“You’re gonna get me my own sword?”

“No. I’m-”

“You’re going on a quest to save a girl in a tower?” Yoongi’s expression is incredulous. It takes everything in you to suppress your giggles as you relish in his confusion.

“What are you even talking about?”

“Trust me, it happens.”

“Oh- Okay? Well, what I’m trying to say is-”

“You’re leaving me for Hoseok? It’s okay, I understand. He’s so hot, I would too-” Exasperated, Yoongi claps a hand over your mouth, still keeping you pinned in the corner despite your struggling.

“God, no! I’m trying to tell you I’m gonna marry you, okay?” You freeze, eyes going wide. His hand lowers, letting your jaw drop. “I mean, assuming you want to.”

“Yoongi…” You sigh, a sadness you’re often able to ignore filling your chest and throat. “We talked about this, you know my mother won’t-”

“I don’t care what your mother thinks.” He sighs, face unsure instead of smug or annoyed, as usual. The sight makes your chest constrict. “I’m serious. I’m in love with you and I have been for years, you know that. I’ve been saving up and I can take care of you, at least for a while. But after I’m knighted, I’ll have a steadier income. And then in a few years, maybe we can open that tailor shop with Sowon you’re always talking about. You can do the numbers and Sowon can sew and I know I’m not great with either of those things but I’m sure I can figure out something to help with. I’ll make it work, I promise. You just have to trust me a little.”

For a moment, you allow yourself to hope. To stare into his pleading eyes, to imagine a future with him, a life filled with sarcastic remarks and flirtatious glances and a shop, a place to call your own with the people you love. Out of your mother’s reach, in Yoongi’s arms, happy and content.

But you’re not stupid.

No matter where you go, she’ll follow you. She’ll crush you and ruin you just like she’s done to everyone in her path, spreading rumors and menacing words until you’re despised and cast aside. You’d watched her do it to her own friends, to Sowon in her own house. Once she knows about Yoongi, she’ll do the same to him too. You can’t allow that to happen. You might be afraid of your mother, but you’re far more afraid of what she would do to him than what she would do to you.

“Yoongi, I love you, I really do, but I- I can’t. I won’t.” I won’t hurt you. You almost laugh. In order to spare him from a world of pain, you have to inflict pain yourself.

His face darkens, his expression flashing with hurt. Your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. His grip loosens on you, and the disappointed but unsurprised look on his face is too much to bear.

“Are you serious? Is this really what you want? To let her control you?” Yoongi bites his lip. You wish he’d get angry. That he’d yell and scream and insult you. Instead, his eyes grow glassy and sad, his brow furrowed with concern, making you feel all the worser. You wish you could kiss him until it was all gone, until nothing mattered anymore and you both felt alright again.

“I’m sorry, Yoongi.” You slip away, out of his arms. You’re out of the room and wiping tears from your eyes in a flash. You hurl yourself down the hall, muffling your choked sobs behind your hand. You’re stumbling like Namjoon on the dance floor, ignoring Yoongi calling your name and chasing after you. You know he’ll leave you alone once you make it back to the crowd, once it’s possible your mother could see.

Maybe it was better this way. If you just left each other alone, pretend it never happened. You were nothing but a leech, really. Taking and taking and taking from him and never giving. You didn’t deserve him, not his talks, not his kisses, not his anything. You deserve to grow old miserable with someone you don’t love. You aren’t brave enough to try for something more, not like Yoongi is.

“Y/N?” You nearly run into the girl, her face looking as panicked as you feel. You quickly dab at your eyes, summoning a casual smile. “Are you okay?”

“Hey, Sowon! Having fun?” Not unlike Yoongi, she’s clearly conflicted on whether or not to press you further. You’re grateful when she doesn’t.

“I- um- yeah. I’m leaving, actually.”

“What?” You aren’t carrying a watch, but you know it’s not anywhere near midnight yet, not by a long shot. “Why?” It’s then that you notice that her cheeks are slightly tear-stained too, red from embarrassment. Her hands are shaky, barely holding onto yours. “Did something happen?”

“I really can’t talk about it, now,” she says, voice breaking. “I just have to go.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll talk to you at home, alright?” She nods, her weak smile thankful.

“Alright, see you-”

“Y/N.” Your heart leaps into your throat when you see your mother standing not too far from you and Sowon, her glare murderous and cold. She pretends not to see her stepdaughter, but you know a majority of her fury comes from her presence at the ball tonight.

You shoot your stepsister a look and she’s gone before you can blink, tearing off into the crowd. Wait, is she missing a shoe? Those took up half of your budget!

“I was just looking for you!” You say it awkwardly, the worst acting performance of your life. You’ve done better than this as an eight-year-old. You try to force yourself to forget everything that’s just transpired. All that matters is minimizing your mother’s wrath, if possible.

You aren’t entirely sure why, but she hasn’t dragged you away to a private space to scream at you for your insolence. Instead, she’s forcing a strained smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Your stomach starts to sink. Somehow this feels worse.

“We’ve been summoned. By the royal family.” Your stomach accelerates from a sink to a drop, leaving you nauseous and an anxious feeling itching up your arms and back, choking your throat.

“What?”

“I don’t know why I continue to do these things for you,” she says, wringing her hands, as if to keep them from lashing out. “But it seems I’ve secured you a betrothal. To the Crown Prince.”

“What.”

It had to be a lie. How had your mother, the least personable human you knew, managed to do this? And she hadn’t even consulted you? Not that you’re surprised about it, but the stress and pressure and cruelty of it all is getting to you. What would this even mean? Is it all just a lie to get you alone so she can really yell?

But the look in her eye and Jin’s story support her claim. Your emotions hit you like a train again as the realization sets in.

“Mom.” Your lip trembles, unable to force itself into a smile for her, not anymore. “I don’t want that. Please.” You silently follow up your plea with desperate eyes, frantically attempting to keep tears from further spilling down your face. But her expression contorts, leaving no room for fake smiles and laughter. Her brows are pressed as far down as they can go, her mouth permanently twisted into a scowl. Her hand raises and you flinch prematurely, casting your face downwards.

“You ungrateful little-”

“I’ll be glad to escort you to the royal family.” Your eyes shoot upwards at the sound of the familiar voice. But Yoongi doesn’t even glance your way, looking at your mother with his stoic, knightly expression he’s worked to perfect over the years. Like he didn’t propose to you minutes prior.

“Who are you?” your mother sneers, giving him a skeptical look.

“A knight,” he states plainly. “This is my night off, but considering your daughter’s recent change in status, it’s only practical she receive a change in security as well.” Your mother ponders this before smirking, the pride of your apparent future marriage already fueling her own ego. She nods, forcefully taking your elbow. Yoongi’s eyes barely flicker with fury when he glances at your mother’s hand, knuckles white from her grip, but he’s able to calmly mask it before your mother notices.

“Well, then, by all means, get on with it.” She gestures ahead as if she’s the one paying him to be here and not the palace. He pretends not to notice her blatantly rude behavior, steadily striding back down the hall, leading you to your own doom.

Ironic, really. You’ve just had someone propose to you and now you’re being lead off to another engagement by the very same man. My god, you’re about to be engaged. To the fucking crown prince. What’s his name? Isn’t he younger than you? You can’t even remember, your mind is going too fast, your heart pounding too loudly.

Your mother is hissing instructions into your ear, berating you for your behavior before you’ve even entered the room, but you don’t hear a single word.

You’ve accepted defeat before the battle has begun as you bite your lip to keep it from trembling.

You hate the way Yoongi doesn’t fight it, how you can only watch his backside as you walk towards an engagement you never wanted, too afraid to say no. You want to run away, to grab Yoongi’s hand and never look back. But that leaves too much to chance. You don’t know where you would go, if you could take Sowon with you.

Crippled by fear and indecisiveness, you stay silent.

“Well, I think that settles everything.” You jolt in your seat, yanked from your daze when you’re being pinched harshly.

Jin’s been pouting in his seat the whole time, frustrated he even had to be here in the first place. He should be pleased, he’s about to have all the food and women he wants, and more.

“We’re incredibly thankful at being given this opportunity,” your mother insists. You muster a smile, unable to meet the eyes of the supposed prince, who’s pouting like a petulant child. His features match his seemingly immature personality, boyish and cute. His eyes are large and doe-like, nearly bulging out of his head with each word spoken, each negotiation settled. You’re glad you’re not the only one who feels poorly about this, though the two of you express that emotion very differently.

Yoongi hasn’t looked at you once the entire time. Instead, he’s standing at the door without a sound, just like the knight he’s been trained to be.

“Well, we’re grateful to have negotiated this opportunity as well, Lady Kim. I’m sure your daughter will make a lovely queen alongside Jungkook.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. You hadn’t even opened that can of worms yet. How were you supposed to be a queen? You could barely play checkers without panicking, how would you be able to manage the stress of ruling a country?!

“I’m sure she will, too. Right, Y/N?” All eyes pin on you and your blood runs cold, goosebumps running up your arms and legs.

“I- I’ll do my best,” you murmur, your voice choked and quiet. The king leans forward, brow furrowing.

“What did you say?” You open your mouth to repeat yourself, but your mother beats you to it.

“She said she agrees. She’s really quite the talented socializer, always making friends and connections. She’ll be a beloved queen, I’m confident in it.” The queen smiles softly in approval, gazing at you affectionately. She must think your nerves stem from being in the same room as the prince, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. You’d give anything to be able to sprint away, never looking back.

“I’m sorry, but when did I say I agreed to this?” Jungkook shouts the question, making everyone else in the room jump. Your gaze lowers to the table again as you try to pray yourself out of existence. The queen places her hand over her son’s, sighing disappointedly.

“Jungkook, not right-”

“No, Mom! You tell me to get married and I say fine, as long as I can do it on my own terms. You tell me to find a girl I liked at this ball, who I think I could care for and would make a good ruler, and I did. I found someone and you won’t even hear me out!”

“Enough!” the king roars, slamming a fist on the table. “Your ‘girl’ ran off and all you have to prove her existence is a glass shoe. A glass shoe, Jungkook. That’s not evidence of a queen candidate, it’s footwear!”

“I told you, your stupid guards scared her off! She started panicking and mumbling things about a stepmother and needing to go and your guards kept me from following her! And now this is all I have to show for it.” A loud gasp leaves your mouth and you look up to see Jungkook holding a small heeled slipped, made of Venetian glass. Sowon’s slipper.

“What?” Jungkook leans forward, eyes boring into yours. “Do you recognize this? Do you know her?” Your mouth hangs open like a fish out of water, unable to form words. But your mother has already pieced together this puzzle, what with your startled reaction and Jungkook’s retelling of the story.

“Oh, surely not,” your mother insists. Her hand squeezes yours, nearly crushing it, making you yelp. You barely see Yoongi’s nostrils flare, but he doesn’t move. “She just loves Venetian glass, don’t you, dear?” The question falls on deaf ears when Jungkook starts ranting to his father again.

“I’m not giving up on this,” he states matter-of-factly, almost initiating a staredown with the king himself.

“And I’m not going to be controlled by a teenager who doesn’t understand priorities,” he snaps back, eyes blazing. The queen sighs, massaging her temples, as if this isn’t the first time such an argument has occurred.

“I have an idea!” your mother exclaims, clapping her hands together and momentarily drawing the attention of the rest of the table. Jin is still totally checked out, staring off into space. You wonder if he’s sleeping with his eyes open.

“His Highness should try to find this mystery girl! Put out an ad, let girls try on the shoe, do house visits if you wish.” You gawk at your mother, wondering what the hell she’s playing at. “We all deserve a chance at love, no?”

“Yes,” the king responds. “But-”

“But if in, say, two weeks, this girl doesn’t show or she doesn’t turn out to be a good candidate…” You gasp when she interrupts the king, a blatant show of disrespect, but he says nothing, only listening to your mother’s idea patiently. “Then we move forward with the engagement with my daughter. That way we all get a fair chance at what we want.”

“I… suppose that would fine.” Jungkook looks at your mother skeptically, but he really has no reason to say no. She’s just offered him his chance with his dream girl. Why would he refuse?

To everyone else, your mother seems charitable, maybe even absurdly so. But to those who are privy to full the context of the situation (you, Yoongi, and Jin), she’s anything but. In one fell swoop, she’s managed to seize full control of the situation while making a good impression on the royal family. As long as she has you and Sowon pinned beneath her thumb, she’s won easily.

“Yes, I suppose that is fair,” the king says. “Two weeks, Jungkook. That’s it.” His son nods solemnly, determination filling his eyes.

“Two weeks.”

You say nothing to Yoongi as you leave. You know he understands just as well as you do. You’re getting engaged. Just not to him.

“Wait!” You spin around only to be met with your maybe-future-fiancé, gripping your shoulders with a desperate look in his eye. You catch another man staring at you from the door, but you pointedly don’t meet his gaze.

“Yes, Your Highness?” The prince groans.

“Oh, please, don’t call me that.”

��Oh. Sorry.” Your cheeks heat as your mother glares at you from the side, just out of Jungkook’s view.

“Are you sure you don’t know this girl? She’s about this tall-” He raises a hand to just below his shoulder. “-and she’s blonde and really pretty and she was wearing a pink dress.” You’re about to respond, but he continues his description. “And she’s honestly the nicest, most sweet person I’ve ever met. I don’t think she could hurt a fly if she tried.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair nervously. “I know I’ve gotta sound insane right now, but I’m not claiming to be in love with her or anything like that. I just have to see her again. And by the way she was talking, I’m really worried. She might need help. Even if she hates me and that’s why she ran off, I just have to make sure she’s okay and safe.”

You’re astounded at his passionate speech. You’d misjudged him completely. He might be immature or naive, but never had someone seemed so genuine. Never had someone seen Sowon the way you saw her: the silly, sweet girl with a heart of gold.

You’re impressed.

But your pleasant surprise is spoiled when you catch your mother’s gaze, and a realization hits you.

You’d be stupid to trust this Jungkook idiot. No matter how earnest he was, there was no guarantee your mother wouldn’t contradict you, wouldn’t call you insane and have you institutionalized. She could go home tonight and have Sowon shipped off and killed before Jungkook had a chance, and it’d be all your fault. No one was going to stop this. Not Jin. Not Jungkook. Not Yoongi. Not you.

No matter where you go, no matter what you do, your mother will always be there, always be pulling the strings. To try to resist it would only make things worse. For you and Sowon.

You won’t be selfish. You won’t be brave. You’ll take whatever your mother makes you do, as long as she doesn’t hurt Sowon.

Your eyes meet Yoongi’s, full of unspoken apologies.

“Yes, I’m sure,” you lie. “I don’t know her.”

You turn away before you have to see the disappointment in either of their faces.

Two weeks later, you’re allowed to leave your room again. You’re dizzy and nauseous with the guilt and hunger and exhaustion, but your decision remains firm. It’s not like you could really undo it anyway.

You lug your body downstairs, forcing yourself to smile, to look pleasant. Jungkook is sitting in the foyer, a poorly masked sad expression on his face. You’re sad, too.

“-really am disappointed you weren’t able to find your girl. I suppose some mysteries just can’t be solved, can they?”

“Mmm.”

You gulp. You worry about said girl two floors up, who you haven’t seen in a fortnight, probably feeling upset and betrayed.

But you’d been able to cut a deal. Your silence and compliance in exchange for Sowon’s freedom and safety. Maybe it was reckless and stupid to prioritize your stepsister’s life over yours, but after years living in a household that did the opposite, you figured it was the least you could do.

Or maybe you were the selfish one. Maybe all of this was an elaborate ploy to avoid standing up to your mother, your biggest fear.

Either way, it felt much too late to turn back now.

Of course, to make things more painful, Yoongi had to be here too. Watching as you betrayed yourself and him, maybe even Sowon too. You hated how he attempted to hide his obvious disapproval and hurt, to hide his true feelings for your sake.

He stills looks just as good in uniform as he did in his ball clothes. He’s still dressed in navy blue, but the royal crest is embroidered across his chest and a sword hangs at his waist, his hair slicked away from his face again. He looks dashing. Knightly. Regal.

But you’ve given up the privilege of being able to look at him that way. He’s not yours anymore.

An exhausted look duke stands next to the equally tired Jungkook, blabbering on about logistics and future plans. They’re here to take you away permanently, to begin residing at the palace and training for queen hood and preparing for the marriage. Your mother and Jin will follow soon after, leaving their servants here to be released from work, including Sowon, for which you’re grateful.

“Well, I’ll miss her dearly while you’re keeping her,” your mother croons, her voice so sickeningly sweet you think you might vomit again.

“I’ll make sure she’s treated well,” Jungkook assures her. Another bout of guilt claws up your throat. He’s much too innocent, much too good for you.

“I would hope so.” Your mother wraps an arm around you and squeezes. “She deserves the best, she really does.” At some point, Yoongi’s dropped his stoic look, putting up his hands pleadingly in desperation.

You deserve better, he mouths.

“I don’t.”

“What?” Jungkook’s brow is quirked, a very puzzled expression on his face.

“She’s just humble!” your mother nearly shouts, voice strained and threatening to crack.

Are you going to let her decide for you?

It is my decision.

I love you.

You look away from Yoongi before you cry again. You’ve done enough of that over the past two weeks.

“Well, I suppose it’s time we get going,” the duke pipes up, gesturing to the rest of the guards, who begin trudging to their feet and filing their way out of the room. Jungkook takes your arm awkwardly leading you away from your childhood home. You bite your lip and squeeze your fist.

Is this really want Sowon would want? You don’t know. She ran from Jungkook, after all. If she really thought he cared about her, if she really thought safety or love was possible, wouldn’t she have stayed? Jungkook seemed genuine, seemed caring. So why?

An awful thought occurs to you. An awful, terrible, irreversible thought.

There was only one reason you could think of as to why your stepsister had run, had sacrificed her chance with her prince charming.

She didn’t want to leave you behind.

Your mother would have been furious, would have dragged both you and Jin out of the country if that’s what it took to quell her own embarrassment. She’d threatened it before, and she wasn’t one to do so without the intention of following through. You’d never see Sowon or Yoongi again, not in this lifetime, anyway.

Your stepsister risked everything for you, sacrificed her own happiness for your own, and here you were about to leave her behind in the same way she refused to do to you.

You’re giving up everything you cared about, because, what? You’re scared?

Yoongi loves you. You love him. You’ve longed to be with him, to really be with him, for years. And he gave you a solution. He put in the effort to make it work, put it all on the line to be with you.

And you told him no. Because you were scared.

You don’t want to be scared anymore.

“Stop!” you shout, pushing Jungkook away, his expression riddled with surprise. “Just, stop. I have your mystery girl. Come on.”

“You what?” You sigh loudly, leaving him in the dust as you march back up to your mother, who’s gaping at you in horror and disgust from the large doorway.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” your mother gasps. You ignore the way your stomach clenches and that familiar feeling of wanting to crawl under the covers and never come back out.

“Get Sowon or I will.” You state it loudly, for everyone in the vicinity to hear. She gasps, her face turning bright red with anger. You see the retort forming on her lips, the scream threatening to tear from her lungs, but your spine remains straight and tall.

You resist smirking as a familiar presence eases its way behind you, a gentle hand landing on your shoulder.

“Move aside,” Yoongi bellows. His voice clearly sends shivers down your mother’s spine as she jumps to the side out of fear, but you’re suppressing a giggle when you know that he’s just a big softie underneath.

As you make the final trek upstairs to unlock the door and bring Sowon to her awaiting prince and freedom, Yoongi’s hand never leaves yours, giving you reassuring squeezes every time you hesitate. He’s never been one for passionate declarations or romantic gestures, but his unending honesty and small actions are enough for you to feel loved.

“I’m proud of you,” he murmurs into your ear as you tug Sowon out the door for the last time. You don’t give your mother the dignity of a last glance. You can guess how she appears, face contorted in anger and embarrassment and shock as she realizes she’s been betrayed, that she won’t be able to manipulate her way out of this one, though you wouldn’t put it past her to try.

You do, however, give a single nod to Jin as you go, a silent message of forgiveness. He returns a similar look to you. You know the two of you can never be close again, but you hope one day you can see him again. You both are just doing what you must to survive.

After being peppered with questions and giving thousands of explanations to the guards and Jungkook, you’re finally allowed a moment to breathe. Sowon and her prince are staring at each other sheepishly, both suddenly shy and unsure. He awkwardly shakes her hand just as she goes to curtsy, making the both of them burst into stiff giggles and smiles. You shake your head at their antics, but a part of you hopes they make it past this phase and work out.

Just as you’re about to suggest that the group get moving lest your mother takes all of your heads, you’re being yanked away into the shadows behind Jungkook’s carriage and being met with a knowing smile.

You smirk, looping your arms around his neck.

“Hey, squire.” You lean up to press a kiss against his lips but he stops you with the pad of his finger.

“Knight. I’m a knight now.” He’s grinning cheekily, smile so wide you can see his gums. You shake your head and pat the top of his hair, which luckily isn’t covered with a silly metal helmet.

“You’ll always be a squire to me,” you tease, combing your fingers through his hair. Yoongi feigns a glare before wasting no time in stealing a kiss (or three) from you, the two of you pressed up against the carriage, tucked away from sight just like in the good old days.

“And this- Oh!”

You tear away from Yoongi, your cheeks heating as you see a pale Jungkook staring at the two of you in horror as Sowon stands slightly behind him, sending you a look that says, ‘You really couldn’t wait any longer?’

Your eyes are burning holes into the ground as you silently wonder whether kissing a royal guard while kind of engaged to the prince is treason.

“I am so sorry,” you manage, trying to formulate an excuse, but none comes. Yoongi has returned to his knight like stance, acting like a statue and not a lovestruck idiot.

“It’s, uh… It’s fine.” You glance up in surprise as Sowon slips her hand into Jungkook’s, pulling him in the opposite direction.

“Sorry for interrupting!” she calls over her shoulder as she leads her prince away, not noticing his sheepish grin as he stares at their interlocked fingers. “We’re leaving soon so don’t waste too much time…”

As soon as their forms disappear from view, you’re laughing quietly to yourself. After years of sneaking off with Yoongi, it’s still Sowon covering for you. You don’t know if you’ll ever be able to pay her back for everything she’s done for you, big and small, but today is certainly a start.

“So…” Yoongi begins, his hands finding yours. “Did you think any more on what I asked you the other night?” You laugh, resisting the urge to tug him in for another kiss.

“Well, seeing as my chances with the prince have been completely ruined…” Yoongi groans, fingers hovering above your stomach threateningly. You jolt backwards, only to be met with the side of the carriage. “I was joking! Just teasing! Please don’t tickle me.”

The man you’re hopelessly in love with only rolls his eyes, fumbling with the pocket of his pants.

“And I’m trying to be romantic. One of these days I’ll get my revenge for the amount of headaches you give me.” He produces a small box from his pocket, but before he can ask any questions or see the happy tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, you pull him close, pressing your nose into his shoulder. He laughs, quickly reciprocating the embrace.

“Does that mean yes?” he asks. “Because I don’t have the ring yet, the box was a symbolic thing. Unless you like my grandmother’s ring, in which case-” You scoff. A thousand teasing remarks come to your head, but you decide to cut to the chase, not leave him hanging.

“Yes!” You can’t wipe the stupid grins of either of your faces as you pull apart slightly, staring at each other in pure joy.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Because then this would be pretty embarrassing. For you.”

You’re still giggling as the two of you round the carriage hand-in-hand, garnering a few odd glances from the other knights and guards. But instead of quickly jerking your hand away, creating a normal distance as usual, you proudly march up to Yoongi’s horse, let him help you up and lean against his chest as you sit in front of him. Sowon and Jungkook are long in their own world, chatting away about god-knows-what.

As the caravan of carriages and horses rides away, you don’t look back once. You don’t worry about making it back to your mother in time or planning an elaborate explanation to give her to quell her suspicions. Instead, you fully relish in Yoongi’s warmth, teasing him relentlessly and talking about nothing and everything all at once.

You can’t guarantee that it’ll all be easy, that the royal family won’t be royally pissed at you for keeping such a big secret for two weeks. But as the hope of a long life spent with Yoongi and Sowon becomes closer to the truth than ever before, you think you’ll turn out just fine.

#fanfic #bts fanfic #bts scenario #bts fluff #bts angst #yoongi #yoongi fanfic #yoongi scenario #yoongi fluff #yoongi angst #this ended up being a little bit more about OC and cinderella than i intended #but i think i can live with that lol #enjoy :)

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yespolkadotkitty · 4 years ago

Text

Pero Tovar x mixed race OFC, Isla Han

Thank you @heatherbel for the beta!

Welcome to my next crazy adventure, a Romancing the Stone/Kate and Leopold mash-up. Big love to the really excellent @fleetwoodmactshirts for the original idea and planting the seed for the romanting the stone twist.

There might be quite a lot of British humour in this? Just know that Manuel is a character from the cult classic Fawlty Towers.

Chapter One

Present Day

ISLA: C’mon Lau. Put me out of my misery. Just tell me he won’t be at my office this year.

LAURA: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

ISLA: Don’t pick now to start being modest. At least get someone actually Spanish this time. Last year’s effort was way more Manuel than Antonio Banderas. Just saying.

LAURA: And yet you insist that you weren’t into that…?

ISLA: He was dedicated, I’ll give you that much. My editor wasn’t impressed when he started to strip in full view of the conference room, though.

LAURA: He was worth the money, all right. Should’ve got someone to record it for Youtube.

I snorted and tossed my phone on the sofa. My birthday was tomorrow. Which meant, just like every year since I’d started my bestselling series of novels, I’d get a visit from a guy all trussed up like my swarthy Spanish mercenary, Alejandro.

It had been five years and my friends - Laura was the ringleader - never failed to embarrass me. All the guys they hired were complete bollocks. Dressed in cheap party-shop chainmail and leathers.

Some of them tried a Spanish accent (always terrible).

Others stripped (even worse).

Last year, poor Manuel had done both, exceeding my expectations, and tripped over the chainmail around his legs on his way out, yelping loudly as he fell face first into a waste paper basket.

At least everyone else had been entertained.

I closed my eyes and leaned back on the sofa. It hadn’t escaped my notice that I’d managed to write the man of my dreams into books that had sold well all over the world, and yet I couldn’t find an actual man who held my interest much longer than the time it took for them to say “what you drinking tonight, love?”

It was probably just as well. I’d rather live in my delicious fictional world of Alejandro and his warrior Princess bride as they traversed the globe, saving others in need and having sex on any surface that stayed still for longer than five minutes.

I heard footsteps on the stairs and opened my eyes. My gaze caught on the poster of the cover of my first novel, The Spaniard. I’d had the image blown up to A1 and framed after it had sold a million copies and the artist’s rendition of Alejandro had stolen my breath. He looked the perfect combination of menacing and beautiful, his full lower lip creased in the centre, like the angel who made him had pressed a thumb there to mark a job well done. His inky hair curled, tousled, over his forehead and his chestnut eyes, one marked with a long, wicked scar, blazed out from the page. Little wonder people had been compelled by him and his broad-shouldered form in the layers of chainmail and leathers.

The footsteps came closer and my brother Paul poked his head around the door. “I’m off out. Want anything from Tesco’s?”

“No, thanks.” I did in fact, want some milk, but when Paul said he was going out he could be gone for ten minutes or five hours. God knew what he did when he went on these little sojourns.

“Okay, text me if you change your mind. See you later.”

“See you.”

I listened to him clatter back down the stairs of our shared townhouse and a minute later, the front door slammed shut.

My parents would be appalled if they knew I essentially let Paul sponge off me. But I was lucky; I could afford it. And Paul had been my rock in our early years, when our Dad had several nervous breakdowns and was sectioned. I’d have been lost without him.

Besides, I didn’t like rattling around this big house by myself. There was only so much TV I could watch, and the bright lights of London held limited appeal after a few years.

LAURA: So... will you record the next guy? I mean, not that I’ve hired anyone.

LAURA: Yet.

LAURA: Please?

I laughed, decided not to reply, and instead got up off the sofa and climbed the stairs to my office to continue work on my edits.

*****

London, 1269

“I should have known bringing her here was a mistake,” William Garin groused as he and a fellow mercenary, Pero Tovar, crouched outside their somewhat ramshackle lodgings, waiting for a man to exit.

Pero snorted. “Bringing a woman into any situation is playing with fire, no? Someone always gets burned.”

William sighed, shifting position behind the large hay bales. “Not my sister. I brought her here to protect her from the kind of gobshites we have in Ireland. Not to have her catch the eye of another.”

Pero drew out a strip of dried meat from his belt pouch, offered it to William. The Irishman shook his head.

“Suit yourself, amigo.”

“He’ll be coming out any minute, and you’re eating?”

Pero scoffed. “I can eat and fight at the same time, cabrón.” He finished the dried meat, and took out another strip.

William shook his head, but he was smiling. “Do all Spaniards eat this much?”

“They do when their Irish comrades starve them, and make them sit for hours behind stinking bales of hay to protect their virgin sister, si?”

William clapped him over the head. “I - look alive, Tovar.”

The door to the small, two-storey thatched house opened. Catriona, William’s sister, a comely redhead, peeked outside, then ducked back in.

A tall man, pale-skinned, thick dark hair with a closely trimmed beard, exited, then briefly doubled back to kiss a smiling Catriona.

“Bastard,” William gritted out.

“Patience, amigo,” Pero cautioned. “We see where he goes, and then we plan.” He shoved William’s head down behind the hay bale, letting him up when it was safe. “And now we follow.”

“Eejit.” But William followed Pero’s steady lead.

They tracked the man through the dirty London streets, narrowly avoiding a fishwife emptying a chamber pot out of a high window. Two girls half Pero’s height wheeled a cart of freshly baked pies down the narrow alley opposite, the scents mingling with the more unpleasant stink of everyday life.

The stranger turned, and Pero yanked William behind a rickety butcher’s cart, crouching and ignoring the stocky man’s “oi!”

“He’s stopped looking,” William confirmed, and they tracked him down nearer the big river that snaked through the dogpile of the city.

Pero’s attention was briefly snagged by an enterprising young pickpocket, currently targeting a well to do merchant admiring trinkets with what was likely his mistress. The boy caught his eye, hesitated. Pero winked. Who was he to cut the boy off in his prime?

The stranger disappeared into the mouth of what looked to be an abandoned hovel, and William and Pero darted after him on feet made silent by years of training.

The hovel was dark inside, dank. A light blinked on in the gloom; like no light Pero had ever seen the like of.

“What is this witchcraft?” He muttered.

“Don’t dally, man!” William tugged Pero after him, rushing to grab their quarry.

The Irishman tripped, caught the surprised stranger by the collar - and then everything went black.

******

“Tovar! Tovar!”

Pero opened his eyes, groggy. He lay on a smooth, flat surface. Not unlike the floors of the fine throne rooms of kings he’d served during his years as a sellsword. He smoothed a hand over the unblemished ground, blinked.

“Snap out of it, man!” William grabbed him, shaking roughly. “Follow the bastard!”

A terrible banging, drums perhaps, assaulted Pero’s ears from somewhere outside their strange, smooth grey prison. A pile of rubble was stacked in one corner. Crude art littered the walls; also the same luxurious smoothness there.

“William - where are we, amigo?”

But the Irishman was preoccupied. “Do you not see he’s getting away?”

Pero climbed to his feet, his head aching. Mierda, it was so bright here.

William was already giving chase, so Pero followed his friend as best he could with his head spinning from wherever they’d followed the stranger to - the stranger woo-ing Catriona. Sweet Catriona, who he’d seen grow from a child.

William shoved a rickety door open, and all at once a pillar of light hit them. William stumbled, falling back on to Tovar, who hit the ground with a grunt.

“Ay, cabrón!”

“What in Heaven’s name-?”

They gaped through the doorway. A huge metal pole grew from the earth, a bright light at its apex, streaming down on the ground. Some feet away sat what looked to be a small fort on wheels. But wheels unlike any Pero had ever seen before. The unholy, piercingly bright light shone into the wheeled fort, illuminating a chair inside.

Used for torture, perhaps.

“Where are we, amigo?” he whispered again, to William.

“We’ll make enquiries later. For now, the bastard’s getting away. Come on!”

“Of course, amigo, where you go, I follow,” Pero muttered.

But what other choice did he have?

They ran out of the door, towards the wheeled fort of torture, and into the unknown.

Tagging the Pedro pals: @thirstworldproblemss @jaime1110 @chews-erotically @songsformonkeys @alwaysbethewest @beccaplaying @nelba @synystersilenceinblacknwhite @gamingaquarius @buckstaposition @pedropascallion @soldade @agirllovespasta @pajamasecrets @thegreenkid @cryptkeepersoul @kindablackenedsuperhero @littlemissthistle @alienprincesspoop @keeper0fthestars @f0rever15elf @mrsparknuts @abuttoncalledsmalls @mrschiltoncat @thempiregroovy @dornish-queen @mourningbirds1 @a-seeker-of-imagination @knittingqueen13 @ mstgsmy @roxypeanut @poenariuniverse

#pero tovar x ofc #pero tovar fic #pedro pascal fic #the great wall fic

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viastro · 5 years ago

Text

lowkey | xu minghao

ミ★ synopsis: in which you’ve been pining after your fellow dance member, xu minghao, and he helps teach you the choreo one night.

ミ★ genre: mainly just humor, some fluff, y/n is a dummy, minghao is a softy

ミ★ warnings: none!

ミ★ word count: 3,648

ミ★ pairings: minghao x female reader

ミ★ notes: hi!! it’s been awhile uhh, i think i’ll be writing a lot more since i’m quite literally self quarantined. don’t hold me to that tho cause i’m a shithead when it comes to writing 🙈

You know, you weren’t that big of a fan of dancing when you were a child. The first day your mom brought you to your ballet class, you started crying because they wouldn’t give you the big, pink, fluffy tutu. As soon as the class ended you told your parents you were never dancing again, but look at you now. You’re 21 and you are still, in fact, dancing. To make it even better, you’re dancing different genres and are also now part of the dance team at Seoul University.

While you’ve obviously grown to have a love for the art, your parents still like to tease you and copy the way you used to cry about not wanting to go to dance. The most popular quotes they mock you with are, “Wahh! You can’t make me go to ballet! I’m not even the Sugar Plum fairy, this isn’t fair!” as well as the very special, “I’m not a dancer, for I, am The Rock.” (You had a The Rock obsession, so what?) Even then, you let them have their fun because you were truly a nightmare to get into the studio as a child. The three of you made the conscious decision to only joke about it together and to never bring it up to your dance team.

NEVER.

Especially since the guy you’ve been pining over for a good year is part of the dance team. In fact, he’s one of the aces of the team. There’s four of them: Soonyoung, Chan, Junhui, and last but definitely not the man of your dreams, Xu Minghao. The Uni students like to refer to them as the Four Aces, A4 for short. They’re practically Gods at the University, all the freshmen have a crush on them whether they want to admit it or not. Whenever the big showcase comes up the four of them are a subunit and have their own choreo. It’s pretty epic.

You’re rather close to Soonyoung and Chan since they help you out after practice is over so you can touch up on choreo. Soonyoung’s usually the one you go to to ask for help considering he’s the one who comes up with the choreographies half the time.

“Okay but y/n, make sure to make that move sharper. It shouldn’t be that soft, it has to be aggressive. Yeah, like that!” Soonyoung tells you with a big smile once you correct it. You grin, pushing your bangs off your sweaty forehead. You glance over at the clock to see that it’s 12 am already.

“Let’s continue on Monday, Soonyoung. It’s already really late.” You tell him and he looks up at the clock, shock now displayed over his features. “Holy shit. I didn’t even realize it’s already midnight.” He mutters, making his way over to his bag to pack up his stuff.

“Time flies when you’re with a cool gal like me.” You joke.

Soonyoung looks up and stares at you, no emotion on his face. The room is in pure silence.

“You are hilarious.” Soonyoung says blankly after a beat and you throw your sweat towel at him. He lets out a giggle, dodging said sweat towel. You chug the last of the water in your bottle, before tossing it into your bag. You throw your gym bag over your shoulder and pick up the sweat towel you threw at Soonyoung.

“You’re lucky this bitch didn’t land on your face. It would’ve been a tragedy.” You tell him with a smile, going in for a high five.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll see you later y/n!” You wave bye and head out the door.

“UghhhHHHH!” You screech into your pillow, kicking the bed with your feet at the same time. Seungcheol stares at you as you have a mental breakdown from the chair by your bedroom window. You lift your head up to suck in some more air before slamming your face back down into the pillow to scream some more.

“Y/N... please... I just wanted some ramen.” Seungcheol begs from the chair, flipping himself so that his head is hanging from the end of the seat where your ass is supposed to be. You lift your head up, shooting him the scariest death glare you can muster. He squeaks, closing his eyes and turning away.

“Haha.... Just kidding... go ahead...”

You turn over in bed, now staring at your ceiling. You recall the previous events of your day that has led up to this exact moment of internal self LOATHING.

earlier...

“Soonyoung, can you come look at this?” You call from the floor of the dance studio, he turns and jogs on over you after telling Jun and Minghao to wait a minute. Minghao stares at you and you glance down at the IPad right away. Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god.

“What’s up?” Soonyoung asks as he plops down beside you, back against the mirrors. You show him the competition list, and he lets out a sigh. “God.” He mutters, turning off the IPad and pushing it to the side.

“Guys, we’re competing against Mayhem.” Soonyoung announces to the group and almost everyone groans. Well, pretty much everyone except Wheein. She ends up choking on her water mid-sip and leaves the studio in a coughing fit.

“Literally why. I swear, they have something against us. Not even kidding, they literally wanna eat our ASS!” Jun yells and Minghao pats him on the back. You put your head into your hands, closing your eyes as you realize how much harder Soonyoung and Chan are gonna push the group to make sure we get another win.

So basically Mayhem are your biggest competitor, but they have a vengeance against your group specifically. You’re not sure whether it was because of the time you accidentally walked in on one of their lead dancers using the restroom because she didn’t lock the door, or the time Chan ate the last chocolate donut in the rehearsal room. Either way, they’ve made it their ultimate life goal to beat you guys in every competition.

Too bad they haven’t been able to do that.

“As long as we work harder, it’ll all work out in the end. Everyone, get in formations.” Soonyoung announces, clapping his hands. Everyone makes their way to the middle of the dance studio, but you sit there and pout.

“Y/N, c’mere.” Chan calls over, shooting you one of his dazzling smiles and making a grabby hand towards you. You sigh, unable to say no to one of the cutest men alive.

Guess I'll die.

“Y/N, hit that move harder! Good!” Soonyoung yells as he watches you practice in the mirror. You feel your cheeks get warm after he calls you out in front of the rest of the team.

In fact, you were so embarrassed by the constructive criticism that when it was time to change the formation you accidentally tripped over Minghao’s foot, aka the foot of the guy you’ve had a crush on for the past two years haha !

This causes you to fall forward, about to plummet your face into the hardwood floor, only for Minghao to quickly step forward and wrap his arm around your waist, spinning you around, basically saving you from a lot of physical pain. It was, indeed, one of the biggest cliches you’ve ever been through in your 21 years of living, but did that stop your heart from beating out of your chest when you were looking into Minghao’s eyes? No. :D.

“Are you okay?” He asks breathlessly and you try to find your voice so that you can answer and not look like a buffoon. Alas, you cannot escape from who you truly are. A buffoon. You end up squeaking out a “yes.” and twirl yourself out of his grasp, only to trip over your own two feet so he reaches out and steadies you once again.

“Welcome back.” Minghao jokes at the fact that you’re in his grasp once again and you squeak once more, jumping away from him.

It’s only then that you realize the rest of the team is just gawking at you two. Well, except the rest of the A4. Their facial expressions range between a look of surprise and mischief. Minghao begins to take notice of the silence in the room and ends up coughing into his arm to break it. Everyone starts acting normal to avoid getting on Minghao’s bad side.

“Well.. let’s run it from the top shall we?” Chan says as he casts a smirk in your direction. You stick your tongue out at him and he chuckles, heading over to restart the song. You glance up into the mirror and notice Minghao’s eyes on you, and he gives you a sly grin.

Oh good god.

present

“So.. what you’re telling me is that you not only embarrassed yourself in front of your dance team, but also in front of the guy you’ve been pining after for the past what, year?” Seungcheol asks. You nod your head slowly, and he has half the mind to giggle slightly.

“Motherfucker why are you LAUGHING at my MISFORTUNE!!” You yell, throwing your pillow at his face. Seungcheol dodges the pillow while laughing at your outburst.

Frowning you mutter in tiny font, “It’s actually been two years.”

“I have an idea.” You glance up at Seungcheol with a slight hopeful expression on your face.

“What if... you just talk to him?!” You are now frowning at Seungcheol.

“Are you crazy? After our four years of friendship you think I’m going to talk to the person I’m secretly in love with?! Absolutely insane, love. That would never work anyways, I’ll just admire him from a distance like I usually do.” You explain, sitting up in bed.

Seungcheol stares at you for a moment. Your eyebrows are furrowed as you pout down at your folded hands. Your hair is a mess from slamming your head down onto your pillow for at least ten minutes. You may have passed out for a minute due to that but that’s a secret we’ll never tell. He cocks his head to the side, now thinking about how dumb you are. What you apparently don’t know is that Seungcheol is close friends with A4. He’s heard Minghao complain about how shy he is towards you, and how he just wants “to hold her hand sometimes, maybe even a hug and kiss on the forehead. Perhaps even... a kiss on the lips.”

But I’ll just let her suffer. Seungcheol thinks to himself.

“Whatever you say y/n. I’m gonna start making some ramen myself now since you seem to not wanna get out of bed. Came over for us to have a ramen bonding study session only for it to end up with you being stubborn and threatening to murder me with a hanger. I hate it here. This is Seungcheolphobic.” Seungcheol complains under his breath as he gets up and steps out of your bedroom. You glare at his back, laying back down so that you’re once again staring up at your white ceiling. You grab your white pillow beside you and hold it up, imagining that it’s Minghao.

“Hi. My name’s Minghao, I have nice black hair with pretty brown eyes and a beautiful smile. Not only am I tall, lean and fashionable, but I’m also a multi-talented man. I like to volunteer at the animal shelter for funsies and I have a part time job at a dance studio teaching little kids how to dance. Fuck YOU Minghao. Perfect ass bitch. Literally being my dream man I HATE it here.” You mutter to yourself as you glare at your pillow you’re holding above you.

You scoff, throwing the pillow onto the floor and turning over in bed, now staring out the window. The scent of ramen goes through your nose and you find your tummy beginning to rumble. You hear a new sizzle as you assume Seungcheol is making you both eggs. You sigh, getting up from bed.

“Wallow in self pity later. Have fun with your bestie now.”

“Y/N!” You glance up from your phone to see Chan standing in front of you with a knowing smile that has you feeling a bit nervous. “What...”

“So the incident that happened on Monday-”

“Oh hell no! We aren’t talking about this.” You shut him down real quick, standing up to walk to the other side of the practice room. Chan giggles and reaches out to grab your arm, stopping you from running away to safety.

“Channie! I don’t wanna talk about it please!” You whine and he laughs even more, patting your shoulder to calm you down.

“Alright, alright. I just wanted to let you know that Soonyoung and I have to go to a seminar tonight so we won’t be able to help you later with the choreo.” He tells you regretfully and you raise an eyebrow, heartbeat quickening a bit.

“Then why are you here? Who’s gonna teach me-”

“Chan?” You pause as you hear that familiar voice.

Oh... my god....

“Hi Minghao, I’m just letting Y/N know that you’ll be helping her out tonight since Soonnie and I are busy.” Chan says, and flashes you a sly smile. You almost reach out and choke him but he pulls away.

“Have fun y/n!” He sings and walks out the door, leaving you and... him alone. You glance up at Minghao as he sets down his bag, taking his hat off along with it. Your eyes widen once he looks over at you and you glance down.

“How often do you do these late night practices with Soonyoung and Chan?” He asks, taking off his windbreaker as well and you feel yourself break out into a sweat.

“Um, every week. Soonyoung started helping me once he walked in at like 2 am only to find me practicing for our first showcase in freshman year. It’s been our thing since then, Chan joined in on our late night practices when he was a freshman as well.” You explain, putting your hair up into a low ponytail. He nods with a satisfied look on his face, heading over to plug his phone into the aux.

“What are you struggling on? Is it the part before the change in formation?” Minghao asks and you almost throw yourself off a cliff once the vision of Minghao holding you from last week pops into your mind. He turns to look at you once he notices how you’ve become silent, “I just thought because of what happened on Monday that you were struggling with that-”

“No, no I totally understand why. By the way, I’m so sorry for uh.. falling... on you...” You mutter quietly and he shakes his head, waving his hand as if to say, no biggie!

“But yeah, that one is kind of hard because the formation change is one that we don’t do often, ya know?” You answer and he nods. “Yeah I totally get that, don’t worry.” He responds and you find yourself staring at his black hair, which now covers his eyes a bit.

He’s the only guy who can make a mullet look good, you think to yourself. He glances up at you and gestures for you to go to the middle of the dance floor, to which you comply.

“Alright, so let me play the part right before the formation changes so that I can see you do it. Then we can work on what I see you struggling on and fix it.” You nod. It didn’t hit you until now that the guy you’ve been pining over is going to watch you dance by yourself, analyzing your every move to see what mistake you’d make. Now that it’s hit you, you think you’re gonna shit yourself.

Minghao gives you a thumbs up in the mirror and starts the music. Once you notice the part coming you glance up in the mirror, feeling your stage persona take over and the nerves ease away. Minghao watches you turn from the shy, timid person he knows, to a confident and talented woman as you dance. The change has him in awe as he watches you wink in the mirror when you hit a move nicely. He sees you fumble a bit shortly after before catching yourself, continuing to perform as if it never occurred. He pauses the music once you go to your spot in the formation, and you catch your breath.

“You’re really fantastic at what you do, I could see your stage presence come out and it was really uh, attractive, to see. I noticed the technicality error, and it’s really small so don’t worry. I’ll just run through it with you.” Minghao explains and you nod, feeling your face heat up when he compliments you. What you don’t notice is that Minghao’s full on blushing right now from his slip up, but he turns away before you can take notice of it.

“So you need to watch your footing here, because you fumbled a bit during this part,” Minghao performs the specific move where your feet cross over before going into a spin. His movements are similar to water, usually so soft and gentle but later become sharp, similar to an ocean wave crashing onto the shore.

“Try that.” He tells you after he specifies what made you slip up and you nod. Getting into position, you redo what he did and he smiles, clapping his hands.

“Nice! Okay now,” He does the small body roll and you bite the inside of your cheek, cursing to yourself. You stare at his face, noticing the small furrow to his brow as he puffs up his chest for the next move. Minghao glances up into your eyes as he does this and pauses. Warmth floods your face as he seemingly stops teaching you. She’s so pretty, Minghao thinks to himself as he watches you for a moment. He runs a hand through his hair, breaking the eye contact as he glances down at the shiny wood floor.

“Is there something on my face?” He mutters and you break out of your spell, shaking your head profusely.

“No! No, sorry I just...” You panic, fingers fumbling together as you try and come up with a response that doesn’t mention how handsome he is and how much you wanna run your fingers through his hair.

“You just what?” Minghao asks, cocking his head to the side as he watches you internally freak the fuck out.

“I just... I really think you’re an amazing dancer and you’re really handsome but it’s so much more than that. You’re so passionate and good at what you do, but I’m really intimidated by you and I’ve been crushingonyouforyears so being in a room alone with you is really nerve-wracking.” You quickly explain. He freezes, staring at you with wide eyes. You also quite literally pause.

CUT THE CAMERAS...

DEADASS!!! Did I DEADASS JUST CONFESS IN A FIT OF NERVOUSNESS!!

“I... am so sorry. I’m going to go. You don’t have to like me back, I’m so sorry!” You apologize profusely, tears threatening to spill out of your eyes as you start to back up towards your bag. He reaches out and gently takes a hold of your wrist, pulling you to him in a hug. You freeze in his embrace, and he nuzzles his head into your neck.

“Don’t go. I like you too, y/n.” He mutters quietly.

And this. This is when you start sobbing.

You fall to your knees, covering your face with your hands as you ugly sob right in front of the guy who you no longer have to pine after. He’s staring at you helplessly as you cry into your hands about the fact that you thought your crush was hopeless for years, and how you never expected this to happen.

“I-I’m so sorry. I’ve been really e-emotionally unstable, hiccup, recently for no reason. This is like, the best day of my, hiccup, life.” You explain through your tears and Minghao lets out one of his cute little giggles that sends you over the edge once again. You let out a loud sob and he giggles again, pulling you to him in a hug and rubbing small circles on your back.

“That’s okay, we can keep it a secret from everyone that you sobbed after I confessed to you.” He tells you soothingly and you hit his arm softly, making him chuckle at you.

“How are you so calm right now?” You complain, pulling back regretfully f rom the hug and looking up at him with tear tracks running down your face, along with a bit of snot. How cute, he thinks to himself. He reaches over to his bag from the floor and grabs his towel, wiping away your snot and tears.

“I’m quite literally shitting bricks right now from happiness, but I’m just not showing it because I didn’t want to overwhelm you.” Minghao explains and you bite the inside of your cheek. You glance back up at him and he gives you a small smile, reaching up and patting your head.

“You wanna get back to the choreo?” He asks you and you shrug, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand. Crying made you tired.

“Can we just hug for a bit more?” You ask and he smiles, pulling you back into his warm embrace. You sigh contentedly, nuzzling your head into his shoulder. You both stay like that for a while, letting the recent events settle into your thrumming hearts.

“Does this mean we’re... boyfriend and girlfriend...” (👉👈) Minghao asks shyly, breaking the comfortable silence. Giggling, you reply, “I believe so Minghao.”

He squeezes you even tighter, nuzzling his head further into the crook of your neck.

“Good.”

536 notes · View notes

ears-awake-eyes-opened · 4 years ago

Text

Smashed

(Hayffie ❤️. Sensual angst and relationship building during the 72nd Hunger Games. Raw and vulnerable Effie is without a doubt the most gorgeous muse I’ve ever had. — Thank you for sharing the prompt. Writing this story brought up memories of a young man who died in his sleep in November 2019. I’d known him since he was 5 years old. Someone who has been drinking heavily, which can mean as few as 5 drinks, give or take, on an empty stomach, may need help. Watch for signs of alcohol poisoning, and don’t let them fall asleep unattended. The young man I knew had little experience with alcohol. If someone had been caring for him similarly to how Haymitch takes care of Effie in this fic, then he would likely still be alive. I think about him often.)

***

Haymitch startled awake and clutched his knife. His ears rang with an echo of shattered glass followed by humming. The sounds were muffled but too loud to be the residue of a dream. Dawn hadn’t yet broken, and it took a moment in darkness to remember whose bed he was in. ...The Capitol’s. The penthouse. The same room he’d slept in for 22 Julys but would never stoop to call his own.

This was supposed to be his day to sleep in if he could. The tributes from 11 and 12 had been killed during the bloodbath at the Cornucopia the day before, and he’d spent the afternoon with Chaff. Everything between then and now was a bit hazy. There’d been Vodka shots, and then a *pick-up* game in the betting lounge to see which of them would be the first to be propositioned for sex.

Not ten minutes in, Haymitch was approached by a woman with pale blue hair flowing down her back, a jeweled collar around her throat, and breast implants the size of cantaloupes. “Hey, victor. Wanna get out of here?”

“Not tonight, sweetheart,” he muttered low enough for Chaff not to hear. This was his buddy’s game, not his. The last thing he wanted in the middle of the Games was to be a piece of meat for some Capitol bitch.

A waif like creature with tattooed olive skin and an unusually large ass for her tiny frame sidled up to Chaff soon afterward. ‘I win,’ he mouthed as he walked out the door with his hand already sliding into the back waistband of her pants.

Glass shattered again, shaking Haymitch from his fog covered memories. What the hell?! As the humming grew louder, he dragged himself out of bed and followed the sound into the living room.

Effie sat on the sofa wearing yesterday’s clothes. Her ankles were crossed on top of the coffee table. “I’ll have another, dear!” She called to a red-clad Avox. He stepped out from the shadows and handed her an oversized champagne flute. She dropped her feet to the floor and promptly filled the new stemware from a large, nearly empty pitcher of orange liquid. Her flute overflowed. The liquid pooled on the table, then dripped over the edge to the purple rug. The Avox stood by with a handtowel draped over his arm, but she didn’t call for one so he remained inconspicuous.

“You know...” Effie spoke to the pink wig she’d taken off at some point and set beside her on the couch, “I’ve always thought that rug needed more color. Orange goes with purple like wildflowers on a mountainside.”

She tucked a lock of blonde hair behind her ear, bent forward at the waist, put her mouth to the rim of the glass, and sipped the drink with a loud slurp until it was emptied enough to not spill further. As she raised her head, she caught sight of Haymitch.

All traces of the lipstick she’d worn the day before were gone. Her lips glistened with whatever she was drinking. A thought flashed through his mind of what it would be like to kiss her. He’d wondered before. As she licked her lips, looking at him like she was, he had a hard time thinking about anything else.

Neither of them glanced away nor said a word as he watched her swallow the rest of her drink. The spell broke when she smashed the flute to the floor and started humming again. The tune this time was unmistakable. It was the same melody that played in the arena when images of dead tributes were projected into a darkened sky.

“Effie, what the hell are you doing?”

“I’m having brunch!”

“Brunch? It’s 5am.”

“Mimosas make any meal brunch!”

“I don’t see a meal here, sweetheart. Have you eaten since yesterday?”

“Yesterday we had dinner with the children. You remember. They picked at the food, but they had the decency to use silverware.”

“That wasn’t yesterday. That was the day before. Have you eaten anything since then?”

“I never eat on the first day of the Games. Nothing settles well...”

He’d been too wrapped up in his own miserable sense of responsibility and tension on Day 1 to notice her eating habits or lack thereof.

“...But these mimosas certainly are delicious.” She snapped her fingers and the Avox stepped into the light again. Effie held up the empty pitcher. The Avox took it as soon as he was clear that she didn’t intend to throw it on the floor. “Bring us another round and two more glasses.”

“Hold up,” Haymitch said to the Avox. “Bring a pitcher of water and a plastic cup. Make sure the pitcher is plastic too. And bring some crackers. ...And an empty bucket, thanks.”

“And crepes! With strawberries and cream cheese, chopped candied pecans and a drizzle of maple syrup... and mimosas!” Effie added.

The Avox looked to Haymitch who quietly shook his head. “Let’s start with crackers and work up to the rest. I think you’ve had enough alcohol this morning.”

“Amitch Habernathy! Who are you to tell me what I can and cannot have!”

“Sweetheart, I’m just trying to help.” He went the long way around the rug to avoid stepping on shards of broken glass, and he sat beside her on the sofa.

Through worn layers of makeup, he couldn’t tell if her cheeks were pale or blazing. He raised his hand slowly to her forehead. She held her breath as he touched her. Her skin was clammy but held some warmth. “How many drinks have you had?”

The back of his hand still grazed her forehead as the answer barely escaped her throat, “I lost count.”

He assessed the pile of broken glass on the floor and believed it was enough to be concerned about her. Her body was slight under all those layers of clothes she wore. He’d stared at her enough to know it. Besides, she hadn’t eaten in a day and a half.

As he dropped his hand from her forehead, she caressed along his cheek, his jaw, his neck, then down the front of his rumpled T-shirt. “You’re so pretty,” she said.

She’d never touched him so personally. It almost scared the shit out of him because she felt so good. “I ain’t so pretty. You’re just drunk,” he reminded himself.

“I ain’t so drunk...”

Effie Trinket saying “ain’t” was drunk for sure, but he knew it would be pointless to argue with her.

The Avox brought Haymitch’s requested items in a bucket. They nodded to each other: Haymitch in appreciation, and the Avox in relief that Effie was no longer breaking champagne flutes.

“You’re pretty too,” she said to the Avox. All six of your eyes are pretty. But not quite as pretty as this guy.” Her palm still lingered on Haymitch’s chest, and she whispered to the Avox, “Have you seen him naked? Holy Mary Mother of God, he’s so fine!”

Haymitch wondered if and when Effie had actually seen him naked. He blacked out too often to know. “I don’t think any mothers of gods want to see me without any clothes. Let’s leave them out of this.” Making light of her comment was safer than picturing himself naked with Effie.

The Avox poured water into the plastic cup and left the crackers in the bag instead of laying them out on fine china. Haymitch waved him off with gratitude then handed her the cup of water. “Drink this slowly. It’ll help you sober up, and when you wake up later you’ll feel like a small train hit you instead of a big one.”

“I don’t want to be sober!” What she wanted was to forget all the death she’d witnessed that day, but she took the cup of water and drank anyway. Haymitch’s attentiveness was more intoxicating than the alcohol had been. “...Is this what it takes?”

“What? Water?”

“Me being drunk. Is this what it takes?...” For you to touch me, she didn’t say. She gripped his T-shirt.

“You’re not making sense, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me ‘sweetheart.’ It means you’re pissed off, or worse it means nothing. I’m more than nothing. I want to mean more than nothing!” She let go of his shirt and shoved him. “I don’t want to look at you.”

But her eyes were still on him. Like inlets of a wild sea, he could drown in them if he let himself. She’s even more insane drunk than sober. But he couldn’t look away from her regardless.

“I have to go.” Effie set the water cup down and stood up. The room started spinning, so she plopped back down. “...My shoes are broken. I can’t stand up because my shoes are broken!”

“Your shoes are fine, honey. Do you want to take them off?”

“I love these shoes. Can’t you understand? How can you be so blind not to see that I LOVE them?”

“Okay, they’re great shoes. Maybe they’ll work better if you have something to eat.” He reached into the bag and pulled out a couple of crackers, eating one and handing her the other. “Food will keep some of the alcohol that’s still in your stomach from getting into your bloodstream.”

As soon as Effie ate the cracker, her long-empty stomach craved more. She took the bag from Haymitch and popped a handful into her mouth.

“Go slowly,” he said, “Like with the water.”

“Stop interfering!”

“Fine!” He sat back on the couch and folded his arms behind his head. “Do whatever you want.”

As she chewed the crackers, she bent forward to unstrap her shoes. Using his foot, he slid the table forward so she wouldn’t bang her head on it. She didn’t seem to notice his ‘interference.’

With a bit of food in her stomach and the high heels off her feet, she stood up and managed to remain standing even as the room spun. Haymitch put a leg up on the table, barricading her from walking in the direction of smashed glass. With an unsteady gait, she took the long way around the room. He followed her with the bucket of crackers and water.

As she wobbled through the living room, she unzipped her dress. “Is it hot in here? Or is it just me?”

“It’s definitely you.”

By the time she got to the hallway, she’d slipped the sleeves down her arms, and the dress spilled onto the floor in a puddle of chiffon.

His jaw dropped as she stood there in a baby blue corset, matching panties, and lace trimmed thigh high stockings. “...Holy Mary Mother of God.”

“I thought you said we were leaving mothers of gods out of this.”

“You changed my mind.”

“Oh...” Her stomach lurched, and she felt its contents pushing up against her esophagus. Shit. Throwing up was one thing that annoyed Effie more than bad manners. She commanded her stomach to settle down, but the will of her body to get rid of those last few mimosas and that large handful of crackers was more powerful.

She rushed to her bathroom, and vomited in the toilet. She crouched there in stillness while her guts churned inside.

Haymitch knelt behind her. “I’m right here, honey.” He touched her head gently and gathered her hair up into his hands. He’d never touched it before. Each strand was light and soft like a feather. Why she’d want to cover up this delicacy with wigs, he had no idea.

She threw up several more times until her stomach was empty. By then she was crying. He stroked her hair, feeling dangerously close to the brink of something inescapable. “How about I get you some water and help you into bed, okay?”

She nodded almost imperceptibly, completely defeated. “Everything’s spinning.”

“Put your arms around my neck.”

She did what he requested. He picked her up off the floor and carried her to the edge of her bed. She was very drunk but not unaware of the sensation of his arms. Being there felt warm and safe and insanely good. When he let go, she didn’t like the absence. She cried some more, unable to contain the tears, emptying the contents of her heart as it had been with her stomach.

He poured her another cup of water and sat beside her, drawing small circles on her back while she sipped slowly. “The bucket’s here if you need to throw up again. I know you’re dizzy.”

She shivered. When those shudders turned to shakes, he knew it would be best to get her warm. “When you’re ready, let’s get you under the covers.”

“My corset...” Her throat hurt to talk. “Will you help me loosen it so I can take it off?”

Haymitch had loosened a fair number of corsets in the past twenty years. He didn’t know why he was so affected by this raw and vulnerable version of Effie. His hands trembled untying the laces at her back. He stopped when the corset was loose enough for her to unhook in front. If she couldn’t manage the hooks, then it would be staying on, because if he took off her corset there was no way in hell he’d be able to stop there, not with the way he was feeling.

“What do you need? A shirt? The robe on the hook in the bathroom?”

“The robe is fine,” she whispered.

He stepped away to get it for her, and when he came back, the corset had slipped several inches. There was no avoiding a view of her breasts, and he was only willing to be honorable to a certain extent. He was going to look for as long as she, drunk or not, would let him look.

She was refreshingly different than the woman he’d met yesterday in passing. Effie’s lingerie and the other’s hair were similar shades of blue, and maybe that’s why he thought of the comparison just then. Effie’s breasts were small enough to fit fully in his hands. They were firm from the fastidious care she gave her body, and he vowed right then to never taunt her again about those efforts. Her nipples were pink and upturned. She must be nearly 30, but her breasts probably hadn’t dropped a centimeter from where they’d been at 18. His mouth watered just looking at her.

When he glanced up at her eyes, they were on his, watching him watch her. He didn’t know whether her lack of embarrassment came from pride in her body or her altered brain state. Maybe he’d find out another time, or maybe this would be the only time he’d ever see her breasts bare. Either way, this had to be enough for now because she was still shivering.

He sat behind her and helped her into the robe. She fumbled with the corset hooks until the garment fell away. She tied the robe closed then peeled off her stockings. Bending forward made her more dizzy, so she sipped more water and ate a cracker before sliding under the covers.

Haymitch propped pillows behind and in front of her to keep her lying on her side. Then he lay facing her. He stayed on top of the covers because to climb inside with her, especially now, would be as much folly as unhooking her corset would have been.

Her eyelids were heavy.

“I’m gonna be here if you need anything. I’m gonna wake you up several times the first hour, then maybe once each hour after that. I’m warning you, so hopefully you won’t be as pissed at me. I know you’re tired, honey, but you drank a lot on an empty stomach, and your body has to process it. Throwing some up helped, but the alcohol in your blood could still rise for a while as you sleep. I wanna make sure you’re okay.”

He thought of the thousands of times he’d subjected himself to the risk and certainty of alcohol poisoning. None of those times mattered to him because that was his life. But this was Effie, and for whatever reasons, her staying alive mattered a hell of a lot more to him than he would have expected.

As she dozed off, he listened to make sure her breathing was regular.

The first time he woke her, she hadn’t realized she’d fallen asleep. She touched his face the same as before. “Sometimes I feel like my heart’s going to burst. You know?”

He really didn’t know what she meant by that, but he knew from personal experience that drunk people rarely make sense, even to themselves. He checked her pulse at her wrist. “You’re heart’s gonna be fine.”

When he withdrew his hand she said, “Don’t. Don’t let go.” She fell asleep again with him lightly holding her hand.

The second time he woke her, she teased, “I finally got you in my bed.”

“Finally?? I don’t remember you ever trying.”

“Trying appears differently to different people.”

The third time he woke her, she said, “I want to kiss you.”

“Another time,” he assured her, “When you’re gonna remember it.”

“I’ll remember it now.”

“I don’t think so, and I’m not willing to risk it. Someday when I kiss you, you’re for damn sure gonna remember it.”

The fourth time he woke her, she said, “You’re getting on that train tomorrow, and I hate it. Every time it takes you away from me, I hate it more.”

He was afraid of what she might say next. Soon she was going to forget this conversation, and that reality was a mixture of relief and agitation. Because he wasn’t going to forget.

The fifth time he woke her, she asked, “Why do you keep waking me up?” The bubble had burst.

The sixth time, she pulled her hand away. “Haymitch! Quit waking me up!”

The seventh time was an hour later. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Making sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.”

He lay in bed with her until noon, listening to her normal, even breathing and periodically checking the temperature of her skin with the back of his hand. He didn’t wake her again — because he didn’t want to hear her tell him to leave.

She woke up in the afternoon alone. Her head was throbbing, and the daylight hurt her eyes. She dragged herself out of bed, pulled herself together, and put on a pair of dark glasses.

The dress and corset she’d worn the day before were laying at the foot of the bed. Why didn’t I hang them up? She did so belatedly. I must have been exhausted last night. She’d worked the floor until early morning, making connections, trying to help escorts and mentors from other districts secure sponsors.

She passed through the living room and saw her wig on the couch and her shoes on the rug. Did I take those off here before bed? I can’t remember. I must have had too many drinks. That would explain the headache. She gathered them up and returned them to her room.

Haymitch was eating in the dining room. The Avoxes had laid out a full spread. “How are you feeling?” he asked her.

“Like I was hit by a train.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes. My stomach hurts, but yes.”

“Eat a bit then. It should help.”

She sat down, and looked awhile at Haymitch’s eyes. Almost remembering... something. She took off her dark glasses and looked again.

“I think I had a dream about you last night.”

“You’re dreaming about me, eh?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Still, something danced along the edges of her memory. It was almost... beautiful.

Haymitch smirked like he knew a secret. “What do you remember about the dream?” he asked.

“I licked my lips...” I wanted to kiss you. DID I kiss you? “...And you touched my forehead the way my mother used to when I was sick.” I wanted to touch you too... your face, your neck, your chest. DID I touch you?

“So, in your dream I was your mother?” He teased.

“No!”

“...Holy Mary Mother of God, no?” His grin was big enough now to show the gap between his teeth.

It was rare to see him gleeful. Effie loved it, but... “Wait. Those words were part of the dream somehow. Did I say them or did you?”

“Maybe we both did.”

She eyed him suspiciously. The dream had been sensual, erotic at times. I took off my clothes.. Or did you? You carried me to bed. Did we sleep together? Did we...

“You touched my hair.”

“It’s soft like feathers.”

“In the dream?”

“Sure. Why not.”

She recalled confessions of a bursting heart and wanting him...

Effie’s heart was racing now. She pushed her chair away from the table, stepped into the kitchen and started opening cabinets. To the Avoxes she questioned, “Where are all the champagne flutes?”

Of course they couldn’t answer. Confusion spread across her face. “Haymitch?...”

“You smashed ‘em up real good, honey. Like cannon fire.”

Honey? “In the dream?”

“Nope. On the living room floor.”

“What happened last night?”

“Last night I was asleep.”

“Then what happened this morning?”

Haymitch took his time before answering.

“I demand to know what happened between us this morning!”

“You were drunk. I took care of you.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s ALL?! You try taking care of somebody who’s drunk. It ain’t easy.”

She dropped back into her chair with chagrin. “I feel like I should thank you.”

“You already did.”

“Did I?”

“Yeah. You showed me your breasts.”

“What?” Effie’s face flushed pink all the way through her makeup.

“I figure we’re almost even now, since apparently you’ve already seen me naked.”

“What?! How do you know that?”

“You told my friend here early this morning.” He looked to the red-clad Avox for confirmation. “Right?” The man shrugged his shoulders, and quickly escaped to busy himself in the kitchen. “I recall your words were, ‘Have you seen him naked? Holy Mary Mother of God, he’s so fine.’”

Effie pressed her palms to her cheeks to try to temper the blood rushing there. “So THIS is what mortification feels like.”

“You’ve got nothin’ to be mortified about. You think I’m fine, and I think you’re just about the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” You make me want to do things to you that I’m terrified and thrilled to think about. “See? We’re even.”

“Did you sleep with me?”

“I watched you sleep to make sure you stayed alive.”

The way he said it, all of it, set something warm into motion. It buzzed along her spine and down her arms. The sensation throbbed in her fingers. She felt it pulling her to hold his hand, but other forces kept her frozen. Just reach across the table and hold his hand! Why is that so intimidating?

Full of uncertainty she asked, “What’s going to happen?”

“I’ll get on the train.”

“Haymitch... when you do, I’m going to hate it.”

“...I know.”

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