#and yet. despite everything. it’s still them

[awrkive]

NEIGHBOR BLUNDER, pt. 4 — JJK

in hindsight, you should have seen it coming. had always known your luck – or lack of it, thereof – and the universe's meticulous plan of your downfall made it easy for you to get tangled up in a series of unfortunate events, which presents itself as the neighbor that lives across from you, jeon jungkook.

PAIRING jungkook x (fem) reader

GENRE r18+ (fluff, angst, smut) MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

CHAPTER WORD COUNT 17.1K words

CHAPTER WARNINGS/MISC neighbor!jk, bsf!jimin, accountant!oc software engineer!jk, jk and jimin are chaebols lol, minjoon boyfriends <<<<3, mature language, alcohol consumption, misogyny 🫤, club fight... but also lots of screaming into your pillow moments part 2, oc goes twenty different emptions in like..one hour (my babyy😖) and uhhhhhh the biggest warning of them all: jungkook pov and the ending😖

NOTES pls pretend you didnt see that post earlier,, it was a testament to my failure lets forget about it anyway WE ARE SOOOO SOO BACK!! hope you guys enjoy this one and as usual, let me know what you think and lets chat!!

[ SERIES MASTERLIST ] // [ MAIN MASTERLIST ]

“I’m coming home!” Were Jimin’s first words as soon as you answer his facetime invite. 

With eyes barely open, you push your face deeper in the plush of your pillows, groaning. 

“Jimin, it’s six am.” 

“And?” Jimin dismisses. “We ought to celebrate!” 

“I’m not even up yet.”

“So, you hate me.” 

You let out a grumble, this time snapping your eyes fully open to see Jimin’s brow arched your way, his attitude reaching you even when you're a thousand miles apart. Classic Jimin. 

“You’re a drama queen, and for the record, I got everything covered. Octagon, VIP area, 1 am. Dress slutty. Have fun, loosen up. Go crazy.” 

“O– kay ,” Jimin says, chuckling in amusement at your flat tone with your deadpanned face. “God, I just can’t wait to go back. You will not believe all of the shit I’ll be telling you once I get there.” 

You prop your phone on your nightstand and begin to stretch on your bed. “You better tell me you have Italian men’s IGs to refer to me.” you joke. Sleep is slowly starting to fade away from your system. Glancing at the wall clock from across the room, you take note it’s almost time to get ready for work.w

“Please,” he rolls his eyes. “As if you’re gonna respond when they do send you a DM.” 

That earns an abrupt laugh from you. “I do respond, though.” you giggle. You stand up from the bed, carrying the phone with you as you head to the living room to prepare your breakfast. 

“Babe, you’ve responded to two out of ten men I referred to you, and you ghosted two, by the way.” 

You look at him in shock. “What, you supported me!” 

“Still, though… ugh, the Wooseok guy still asks about you, by the way. It was literally so awkward when we met at that– I forgot, but it was a party.” 

You cringe internally, and it probably translates to your face because you hear Jimin laughing from the other side of the line. Shaking your head, you tell Jimin, “Nope– not gonna feel sorry. He was weird as fuck, and I genuinely think – still to this day – that he’s a fury.” 

Jimin’s expression morphs into distaste. “Yeah, no, I wouldn’t be surprised if that was true based on the stories you told me but I swear to you he felt like a normal person to me when we first met.” You and Jimin both gave each other a knowing smile; pursed lips and a scrunched nose, already getting where both your heads are at. But Jimin swerves to the next subject smoothly, “Anyway, I see your apartment’s all fixed, considering you’re there.” 

You light up at the mention and nod. Looking around, you can’t help the smile that spreads over your lips, thinking that finally, it’s all okay now. Like nothing even happened.

“Oh, yeah. It actually is.” you say, enthusiasm apparent in your voice.

“You know you could’ve stayed at my place, right?”

You give him a dismissive wave of your hand, despite smiling still, appreciating the offer regardless. You know you could’ve and that he wouldn’t have minded, but, “Yeah, no, I didn’t want to impose.”

That earns an instant eye roll from Jimin, followed by a scoff, “You’re literally my blood sister.”

“I know! But remember when I had to stay over at your place for three days earlier this year because of some gas leak…” you bring it up, “I swear this complex is out to get me.”

“You need to move out.”

The impassive look you give him is almost warranted.

“And you need to give me a new job for that.” 

Jimin snickers. “... which would be quite ironic because I don’t even have one in the first place.” 

You know it’s a bummer subject but since he mentioned it, anyway, you decide to ask, “How’s the training going, by the way? Pretty sure Ms. Lim has blown up your phone over the course of your absence.” Ms. Lim is the PR head of their company, and Jimin instantly sours at the mention of her name. 

With a grimace, he completely shuts down the subject. “I don’t even wanna talk about it.” 

You give him a sympathizing smile before Jimin picks up the conversation with a more not-so-bummer subject. He asked you how work has been, and he told you all about the places he and Namjoon went to in Italy. He asked about your thing with Taemu, and you could only give him a sheepish smile, one that he chastised you for because “how dare you keep slutty information from me!” . You almost feel bad because it wasn’t that at all, but because you didn’t want to dig deeper into your own grave, you decided to change the topic and talked about how you two are going to spend the night later on when you meet, and soon, you had to end the call so you can catch your bus. 

Jimin has always told you you’re a bad liar. You couldn’t lie even if your life depended on it. But you do it, anyway, even though many instances have already proved the notion right, and one of them presents itself now.

“Sol, I have a question.” You feel bad for your lip as you have to nibble on it for what seemed to be the nth time for the day, treading on your thoughts lightly as Sol turns to look at your side to acknowledge you.

She casts one last glance on her computer before saying, “Is it controversial?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, ask Junhwi,” that earns an eye roll from you instantly, making Sol snicker a quiet laughter. “Kidding. What is it?” 

You’re currently on your lunch break, and what’s the harm in talking about a few things in your head that’s been keeping you up all night these past few days?

“Okay…” you begin, making sure to look around and confirm nobody’s listening. They probably are not and couldn’t care less either. “So this happened to a friend.” you say, as if putting out a disclaimer, gauging Sol’s face for a reaction. 

There wasn’t much. She just raised an intrigued brow, “Uh-huh.”  

How do you even begin? 

“So… she’s kind of talking to this guy,” you start, furrowing your brows, actively thinking about your choice of words. Your friend hums and you continue, “Then one time, this guy sort of like– she’s not exactly sure, but he kind of… tried to kiss her?” You didn’t mean for that to sound so unsure.

With the way Sol’s brow has arched way more at that, you imagine she’s noticing your hesitance in speaking about this in the first place.

“How do you kind of try to kiss a person?”

“Like, they were hugging. Or whatever–” you try to not let yourself be too descriptive, but in the process of that, pictures of that night come flashing in your head. Against your better judgement, there’s heat that creeps up in your cheeks when you get your next words out, “The guy just, uh, swooped down for a kiss. I mean, he was supposed to go for a kiss. But then the girl– my friend– dodged it. So basically, nothing happened.” 

“Why? She doesn’t like him?” 

“That…” Sol probably didn’t mean to but she definitely catches your tongue with the question. You lean back, blinking at her. “I… hah . That’s the… thing. I think… she likes him. But she’s not sure. I think she’s having second thoughts… but to be honest I think she has a crush on the guy but she’s trying to pull herself away from it but then she can’t do it because things are starting to feel a little different.” You let out one heavy puff after you spit the monologue out in one breathing. If Sol was already looking at you weird a few seconds ago, you’re now convinced you’ve unknowingly grown another head behind you. But you continue anyway. “... what does all of that mean?”   

“O… kay,” She says, sounding a little uncertain. She turns her body to you now completely. With the way she scoots her chair closer to you, leaning forward and hunching to be in your earshot, you realize she’s actually just become more invested. “Babe, you have to walk me through this like I’m five. So you and this guy are talking, you have a crush on him, and then he tried to kiss you, but you dodged it. Right?”

“Yeah! Something like that–” and upon realizing that you walked into a trap without even that much effort coming from her, your eyes widen while your friend just grins at you like she knew that was coming. You shake your head vehemently. “Wait, no, no, no. It’s not me.” 

Sol rolls her eyes. Your shoulders deflate. 

You see, Jimin is always right about everything. When he told you you suck ass at lying and you should never try it, he was just looking out for you. And why are you so surprised when these past few weeks, all your lies have blown up right in your face? And at the most inconvenient times and places too, at that – if seeing Jungkook at Jimin’s mom’s birthday party and seeing him in your company’s elevator is anything to go by.

“Alright, it’s me.” you say with a defeated tone. 

Sol stares at you with her squinted eyes. “You whore. Who’s the guy?”

And how are you supposed to say it’s Jeon Jungkook, the one who’s like seven floors above you, the son of the president of the very company you’re currently working in right now, and the interim CTO as of the moment and then expect her to believe you? 

So you shrug, shaking your head. “It’s not anyone you know.”

“Well, thank god! I don’t know anyone who’s decent enough to date any of my friends!” You’re about to thank the heavens when you thought she wouldn’t dig too much into that, but then she adds, “Show me a pic.” She excitedly huddles closer to you, looking right at your phone on your desk.

Well, no. 

“Nah, that’s not relevant to the issue at hand. And… the whole thing’s not even serious–” A blatant lie, but you carry through, “And the… almost-kiss happened, like, two days ago and I’m still–” you cut yourself off with a pained groan, which makes Sol look at you with concern. You purse your lips into a thin line, then. “We were actually drinking at his place together. So we were both kind of drunk? Though that was me mostly. I’m thinking, maybe, I misjudged the whole thing or worse, I just imagined it.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. That’s way too elaborate and your feelings about this feels way too real to just come from an imagination. You said he tried to kiss you, right?” She grazes you with a gentle nudge on the arm. 

“Maybe?” 

“What do you mean, maybe?”

“I don’t know. It was just weird. I swear he tried to kiss me, but I could be wrong. I couldn’t think of reasons for him to try to do that. And I don’t even know why I avoided it in the first place.” You say with a frown, and then sighing when you realize your own thought process doesn’t make any sense.

“Well, what happened after?” 

You grimace. “I told him we should probably sleep,” You remember him carrying you to his bedroom – and as per your shameless request, at that. You intentionally leave that out because even you cannot comprehend what it meant. Why did Jungkook do all that? And did he , really? Or you just somehow deluded yourself into thinking that there is more to his actions rather than what they really are on the surface? “He was just like… he laughed it off, then that was the last of it. I slept in his room alone, and the morning after, I went out because he wasn’t there anymore. Went to work early.”

Sol gasps. “Oh brother…”

Your heart begins to hammer at her tone.

“What.”

“He hasn’t reached out after that night?” 

You wince, and not because of what she thinks it’s for.

“He actually did,” Sol looks at you in question, rightfully so. You nibble on your bottom lip before elaborating, “So a few days before that happened, he bought me a couch cushion. And then he texted me if I wanted it because I didn’t bring it with me when I left his apartment.” 

You can see Sol’s confusion beginning to draw on her face. “I’m sorry, he bought you a what?”

“A cushion.”

It takes her a few seconds to form a response. “You know what, I’m not even gonna ask why. But you know what I’m very certain of right now?” 

“... what?”

“You should’ve married him on the spot.”

“What?”

Sol snickers an overjoyed laugh, clearly pleased with herself at your incredulous reaction. “No, it totally makes sense, trust me. But okay. Then what happened after? What did you say to his text?” You stare at each other for awhile, with Sol smiling brightly, obviously expecting you to say something good. You grind your teeth to avoid cringing as you brace yourself for what’s to come, and as if realizing that from your face, Sol frowns. “Oh my god, don’t tell me you haven’t replied to him!”

You can’t help but wince. “Would you hate me if I confirm that?”

“Oh my god.”

“Yeah…”

“Well, damn. I can’t help you.”

“Ugh…” You groan, bringing your palms to your cheeks, pouting at her, feeling sort of defeated at this point. 

Sol dramatically holds one hand out, giving it an upward flick as if to tell you you’re being ridiculous for not seeing a point so clearly soon. “Obviously, this guy likes you! That man wants to fuck you ten ways to Sunday but also wants to wife you up and pay your mortgage in straight cash as well as your water and electricity bills. And he’d most likely set up your nonexistent kids’ trust funds the first month into the marriage because he just wants to make sure.”

Your jaw drops. “Okay…? Now you’re doing too much.”

She rolls her eyes in response, as if what she said is a totally normal response.

“You’re dense, it’s crazy. You couldn’t think of a reason why he tried to kiss you? Listen, why would you want to kiss someone? Because you like them. Of course he likes you! And he asked you about the cushion because he probably didn’t want to bombard you with questions about what happened the previous night. It shows he still wants to keep whatever it is you have going on.”

You sigh, seeing her point. “I… know.”

“You don’t wanna make a move? I mean, you seem to really like him.” Sol says, looking at your face. You give her a slight nod, feeling that there’s no use denying that. 

But…

“I can’t, though.” you say, pursing your lips. 

Frowning, Sol tilts her head in genuine confusion. “Why?”

“Because he’s…” you try to think of any adjectives to describe Jungkook. He’s… charming. Kind. Smart. Funny, in his own little way. So down to earth. Handsome. Pretty. Tall. Really… big– muscly in all the right ways. But those things are not helpful to justify your case on why you don’t want to pursue… whatever it is you two have going on. Because as much as the sole memory of him holding your waist while he leaned down to your face caressing your cheeks in the way he softly did, his cologne wafting your senses into dysfunction, he’s still someone that you just can’t get involved with. “He’s just really out of my league.”

A few beats. Then, Sol raises her eyebrow.

“That’s it?” Sol asks, “That’s the big reveal?” 

“... Yeah?”

“Honey, a man can never be out of any woman’s league.” 

“I–” you crack a chuckle, rolling your eyes but smiling anyway. “I know what you mean. But he’s genuinely really out of an average person’s league, I’m telling you.”

“What, does he have a Nobel prize or something?”

You laugh, nudging Sol. She mirrors your laughter.

When you settle down into silence again, you tell her, “He’s a… he’s really nice and sweet, though he doesn’t have a Nobel prize–” you roll your eyes playfully when Sol laughs again. “But yeah, I don’t know. I’m still… confused about my own feelings. I’ve always had a crush on him ever since I first met him, and I just always kind of shrugged it off? But ever since that night… I’ve been feeling weird. And I haven’t talked to him, haven’t replied to any of his texts yet. You know how non confrontational I am and it gets really bad, but I just genuinely don’t know how to approach this. The whole thing is confusing.”

Sol gives you a sympathetic smile. “I get that.”

Nodding, you continue speaking your thoughts, “You know the thing about nice guys… it’s that, they’re so nice that you can’t figure out if you just put yourself into a deep psychosis where they care about you more than they do with other people. And it’s like, yeah, it’s nice that he’s sweet, but what if he’s just like that with everybody?”

“You mean you think he also tries to kiss everybody?” Sol quips.

You chuckle. She got you there. “Come on.”

“Okay, I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it!” Giving you a gentle pat on the shoulder, Sol gently says. “I think what you need to do right now is just be honest to yourself first. Really try to figure out if you like this guy romantically or not.”

“That’s the thing, I just genuinely don’t know. I like the idea, maybe?” 

She nods. “Then just enjoy the flow for the meantime? I do think there’s something in there, though.” 

“Really?” you didn’t mean to perk up at that but you did, anyway, making Sol smile, even though she doesn’t point that out.  

“Of course I won’t know completely. Unless you show me this guy…” 

You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m sorry about this gossip turned into bummer stuff. I know it’s depressing.” 

“I don’t mind,” She shrugs coolly. “You listen to my boy problems all the time. And Jimin can suck on my plastic dick but you’re my best friend too.” 

Your laughter becomes louder, but you tone it down just as instantly, slapping Sol lightly. 

“Anyway, speaking of the devil, he actually invited you to come along later. We’re going for drinks at the Octagon.”

“Ohh,” Sol says in intrigue. But then she pouts sadly. “I wanna go. But Junhwi and I have a thing later,” You’re quiet for a while. When Sol sees your expression– your very bad attempt at a neutral expression– she rolls her eyes, knowing what you’re probably thinking. “Don’t even start.”

“What! I didn’t even say anything.” 

“It’s a work thing.” 

“Sure.” 

“I don’t like the way you’re looking at me.” 

You laugh. “Whatever, Sol.” 

She rolls her eyes again. “Whatever, too. Drink your hearts out, by the way.” 

You shrug. “Nah, I’m probably not gonna drink that much.”

“Jimin, I’m starting to feel dizzy”

Jimin laughs, stepping closer to you while still swaying his body to the music playing in the club. He looks at the tequila in your hand – your third one for the night in the span of an hour… and thirty minutes? He tried to stop you from getting it, but you swore you can handle it and you can, you know you can, but maybe you’re not too sure about that anymore as you’re beginning to feel a little light on your feet.

“What happened to you saying you weren’t in the mood for drinking tonight?” He arches a brow. 

You groan, sounding more like a whine. “What’s up with these tequilas! If I get alcohol poisoning, is the club going to pay for it?” 

“They won’t. I’ll have to haul your ass to the ER myself.” 

“You can’t even do that because I know you’re three drinks away from tripping on your face.” 

Jimin rolls his eyes playfully. “No, I’m not. Unlike you I don’t have the tolerance of a freshman college girl,” He gets a hold of you when he’s closer, linking your arms together to guide you to your table, where you left Namjoon as per his insistence for you to enjoy yourselves on the dancefloor and catch up. Jimin said his boyfriend is actually leaving soon the next two days, so they’re making it count every hour, you guess. “Come on, I need to introduce you to someone. I’m pretty sure he’s arrived now.” 

You halt on your steps and look at Jimin alarmingly. “Who is it? I told you I’m hitting it off with Taemu these days.” The lie sits heavy on your tongue but Jimin calls bullshit right away.

“Is the hitting it off in the room with us when you just told me you literally do not care like just awhile ago?” 

You let yourself follow Jimin’s steps as you mumble, “Fine.”

Maybe the tequila had let your tongue slip that information. Great. Now you can’t use Taemu as a shield when Jimin asks about your lovelife.

But anyway, it’d be good, right? Meeting other people tonight? It’s been long since you dated somebody. And it would definitely be good for you if you talk to them as soon as now to forget certain things. Certain things like a certain somebody with the long, fluffy, brunette hair whose eyes speak the language of the moon and whose smile gives you the feeling of seeing ten puppies and twenty kittens all at once but at the same time makes you want to whip all your hair out because he casually does things like make your heart hammer in your chest at an abnormal pace by one, brief touch and then try to kiss you and laughs it off when you dodge it and tell him you’re sleepy. Like he doesn’t mind that you may want things to go… slow.    

But fuck. You’re supposed to avoid thinking about him. Not tonight. Not when Jimin’s apparently introducing you to somebody.

You’re not into rebounds or shit like that, and you’re not cruel to use somebody to move on from someone else – but maybe it’s only a matter of time before you dig your own grave too deep by prisoning yourself in the specific thoughts of a certain someone and you’d find it too late to move on.

So, yeah, it’d definitely be a good thing to meet and talk to other people right now.

And you’re sure whoever Jimin is having you meet with tonight is nice, anyway. 

From afar, you can see your table and the familiar figure of Namjoon’s figure facing towards your direction. You’re about to wave so he can see you and Jimin approaching but you notice another frame across his seat. Namjoon and the unknown person (who is judging from the back is definitely a man) is presumably the one Jimin is meaning to introduce you to, and your best friend mentions it right away beside you. 

“Oh, that’s him!” Jimin yelps, excitement filling his words. You look at him and before you realize it, you’re already near the table. You’re just about to ask who it is, forgetting to do so during your walk, when Namjoon suddenly gestures to you both in recognition; dimples showing even in the dim lighting as he smiles at you two. He glances back at the guy in front of him, who as a result, turns his body to look in your direction.

And what. The. Actual. Fuck.

How many times – how many fucking times are you going to see Jeon Jungkook in the most inconvenient places? 

Can you somehow make yourself disappear at the speed of light? Did Einstein ever figure that out and the US government just fabricated a lie that he implied that very act was contrary to the law of Physics so people don’t attempt it? 

Because as of now, you could have used that trick. 

Jungkook looks stricken in his seat for a solid beat until Jimin comes crashing into him, greeting the man enthusiastically.

“Jeon Jungkook, the man himself!” Jimin says, spreading open his arms, grinning widely. You can see Namjoon smiling at both of them, and you watch as Jungkook stands up from the couch to meet Jimin’s half-hug. Jimin pulls back a little. “I thought you wouldn’t make it tonight.” 

Jungkook chuckles, giving Jimin a light pat on the back. “Nah,” he says with a grin. “I wanted to make time to see you.” You try not to linger on the way his biceps subtly flex under the slim long-sleeve tee he’s wearing, its sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing a hint of the veins tracing his forearms. It draws your attention to your ensemble – a sparkly cropped halter top that leaves much of your midriff exposed, paired with a mini skirt. You’ve seen each other in towels before, sure, but somehow, being around each other like this feels different… no?

“This is __,” Jimin says, gesturing to you and looping an arm through yours to pull you closer. “You know her.” 

Your eyebrow shoots up, and you instantly look at Jimin in quiet surprise. Before you can say anything, Jungkook lets out a deep chuckle. The sound drawls your gaze back to him, and for a second, your eyes meet. 

“I’m Jungkook, by the way,” he extends a hand towards you. His voice is… quite charming when he adds, “I heard a lot about you.”

You hesitate for a moment before taking his hand, unsure if it’s just the alcohol coursing through your system or something else entirely, but the second his sizable hand engulfs yours; a warmth shoots straight to your cheeks. His grip is firm yet gentle.

You swear the handshake lingers a beat too long. 

“Good things, I hope?” you quip, managing a small smile despite the odd flutter in your chest. 

“Lots of good things.” Jungkook replies with a nod, his gaze steady. 

“Yeah?”

His eyes don’t waver, and somehow, you find yourself holding his stare longer than you intended until he arches a brow slightly, the subtle expression earning a small, involuntary tug on your lips. Jungkook doesn’t miss that and mirrors the gesture just as indiscreetly, head dipping in a barely-there nod to respond to you. 

“Yeah.”

“I’m glad, then,” You turn to look at Jimin to avoid letting the moment stretch further, unintentionally picking your voice up an octave higher – a small nervous habit because there was something that flashed on Jimin’s face witnessing both your and Jungkook’s interaction. “Anyway, I’m so glad we finally met! Jimin’s always mentioned you to me and all that stuff. Hey, Jimin, this is great! Joon, you guys know each other?” You say, desperate to divert the attention and glancing at Namjoon. 

He nods with an easy-going smile. “Yeah, we went to the same post-grad uni together in Cali.” 

Jimin perks up and slides over beside Namjoon, who immediately drapes an arm around him in a half-hug, letting him lean against his shoulder. “Jungkook’s actually the one who introduced us.” Jimin says, glancing fondly at Namjoon.

You blink in surprise. “Really?” Awkward as you may feel about the whole thing, you’re also genuinely surprised about the new information. You think you remember Jimin saying somebody introduced someone to him when he and Namjoon started, but you didn’t think it was his cousin.

“Yep,” Jimin nods, and Namjoon chuckles softly beside him.

The two of them are now comfortably seated on the couch, leaving the only open spot directly across from them. Before you can decide whether to sit or keep standing, Jungkook gestures subtly toward the available seat, his expression unreadable. You step forward hesitantly, only to realize he’s following right behind you.

Suddenly, you’re hyper-aware of his proximity. Fuck. Even though he isn’t sitting that close, the scent of his cologne – clean, warm, and annoyingly alluring – wraps around you like a second presence. Why does he always have to smell good? You try not to fidget as you glance back at Jimin.

Your best friend grins as he leans on his elbows, looking between you and Jungkook. “I’ve always wanted you two to meet, you know? This is perfect! I was trying to keep it a surprise.” 

“Oh, it’s a surprise alright.” you mutter, forcing a laugh. 

“Pleasantly surprised.” Jungkook adds, his tone light, though the way his lips quirked upward makes your heart race.

Jimin laughs and there’s a tinge of evilness to it, and you know full well he did this intentionally.  Why, you don’t even know. He’s just like that for no reason. You’re gonna kill him. 

“You’re still staying at Hannam, right, Jungkook?” Jimin asks suddenly.

You freeze on the spot, and you hope no one notices.

Jungkook takes a moment before answering, his voice calm and casual. “Yes, still there. Why?” 

Wait… what?

Jimin nods. “Surprised you’re managing there. Thought you wouldn’t last a month.” 

Namjoon laughs. “Yeah, Yoongi hates that place.”

Beside you, Jungkook lets out a soft laugh. “Nah, it’s fine for now.”

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, trying not to let your surprise show. He’s lying – and you know you told him straight up to not tell Jimin about you two knowing each other yet, but you didn’t know he’d make good on his promise. It’s a small thing, but it makes your chest tighten in ways you’re not ready to unpack.

Surprisingly, the conversation starts to flow easily among the four of you. Jungkook asks Namjoon about his work in Italy, and at first, you find it hard to engage in it casually because you can’t shrug off the fact that you’re in such a casual setting with your co-worker– and not just a regular co-worker at that, but an executive at your company; but the relaxed atmosphere starts to chip away at your tension. Jimin cracks a joke, breaking any unease, and soon you’re laughing along, listening as he shares his own experiences in Italy as well. Jungkook jumps in with his own joke you can’t even recall now, and the sound of his laugh is infectious enough to make you smile.

Switching between fruit punch and water helps ease the lingering buzz of tequila in your system, though it doesn’t fully clear your head.

“Fuck,” Jimin suddenly hisses, grabbing everyone’s reaction. “Need to go to the bathroom.”

The words feel like confetti in your ears; the sun is up again, and the gates of heaven open upon you.

“I’ll come with you!” You blurt out, sounding overly enthusiastic. You feel the stares of Jungkook and Namjoon but you choose to ignore them, focusing on Jimin instead. 

Your best friend sends you a suspicious look, but after a pointed stare and a forced smile on your end, he relents. “Alright.” 

When you stand up, you make a misstep and you stumble a little on your feet. 

Concerned sounds erupt from both Namjoon and Jimin, but before they can do anything, an arm shoots up around your waist, with another one wrapping around your wrist to steady you. 

It’s Jungkook. The warmth that suddenly surrounds your skin is Jungkook – seated by the edge of the same couch you’re on, he managed to quickly catch you mid-fall.

“Here.” He murmurs, almost a whisper, helping you stand up straight. 

You blink, stunned at the warmth that envelopes you at that moment.

“T-thanks.” you stammer when he lets go, the sudden absence of his touch leaving your skin colder than you expected. You shake off the feeling, glancing at Namjoon and Jimin to gauge their reactions, but they just look like usual when they see you’re okay. 

“It’s fine,” Jungkook smiles gently, sipping from his drink. A non-alcoholic beer, you suppose. He gestures to the cleared space in front of him, and you awkwardly stand up, taking a few steps while trying not to graze him. He’s polite enough to avert his gaze, sparing you further embarrassment when you quite literally have the front of your body going all up on his face while you maneuver past the table. 

“Careful next time!” Jimin teases lightheartedly, interlocking his arms around you when you get near him. “We’ll be right back.” he adds, glancing at the guys as you both walk away.

Once you’re out of earshot, you pull Jimin at a corner and grab his arm tightly.  “Oh my god, Jimin,” You start, looking around one more time. “That was my freaking boss!” 

As if not understanding the weight of the situation, Jimin rolls his eyes. “He’s not your boss, he’s just some guy.” 

“Some guy who happens to be an executive at the company I work in? This is the most awkward night of my life!” 

“Babe, I know that. But just try not to think so much about it. It’s just Jungkook – we’re all out here as friends. You and he didn’t meet here as coworkers or whatever. It’s not a big deal.”

“To you , but to me this is just… not…” you trail off, fishing for the right word. “.... appropriate.” 

A groan escapes Jimin’s mouth at that, and you know your wording was a bit exaggerated but you can’t help it. This whole thing is insane. You can’t believe you’re meeting and you’re hanging out with Jungkook in the presence of his cousin who also happens to be your best friend. 

“Okay, you know what? Try to think about it like this: that guy right there–” he points to the general direction of your table, then looks at you seriously in the eyes. “That’s not your interim CTO. That’s just a guy I grew up with very closely who I used to order around when he was a baby.” 

“Jimin.” you roll your eyes at him.

He insists. “No, really, that’s true! Just think of him as some sort of friend, please? I’ve been really wanting for you guys to meet and anyway, it seems like you like him and he likes you! Why worry about anything?” He takes your wrists and gives you the best puppy eyes ever he always sports when he wants something, and this time you let out a defeated sigh.

Thinking of Jungkook as Jimin’s younger cousin does help put things into perspective– it’s a bit of mental gymnastics, sure, but it works. Suddenly, the idea of meeting him in a nightclub doesn’t seem so strange. And you really do appreciate Jimin’s excitement about your meeting. After all, as he put it, having his Favorite Person On Earth (which, according to a very reliable source: you) and his Favorite Cousin meet is a big deal for him.  

“Okay, fine. But just know if this happens to you – like imagine meeting up with Ms. Lim at a nightclub – I’ll be laughing at your damn face.” 

Jimin snickers a laugh, and you both continue your way to the restroom. 

“But you know what I think?” he suddenly says, breaking the silence.

You raise a brow at him in curiosity. “What?”

He grins mischievously. “What you said earlier – it’s inappropriate but hear me out. Jungkook is exactly your type.”

“Excuse me, what? ”

“No, okay, listen!” He raises his palms as if to plead his case and begins listing every trait that apparently aligns Jungkook with your type. “He’s a tech guy. He would usually wear glasses – and don’t even try to deny again that you don’t have a thing for it, girl – and he’s objectively attractive, as far as straight men go.” 

With every word, your jaw drops a little more.

“What are you even talking about?” You ask, utterly dumbfounded.

Jimin squints at you, feigning suspicion. “He has my genes, __, you don’t think he’s attractive?” 

“First off,” you start, rolling your eyes, “that would mean I find you attractive, which is gross and absolutely not true. You’re like my brother,” Jimin only laughs, clearly entertained, so you double down. “Second I don’t exclusively date tech guys, okay? Jesus Christ. And I definitely don’t have a thing for men in eyeglasses. What is wrong with you.” 

Jimin just stands there, squinting his eyes more at you with that infuriatingly inquisitive expression. You do your best to hold a neutral face under his scrutiny.

“You got that pondering look,” Jimin concludes with a victorious smirk. “You’re totally thinking about it!”  

You gasp, scandalized. “You’re unbelievable, Jimin. That’s your cousin and my boss!–”

He bursts out into laughter. “I’d say something about how defensive you’re getting, but I’m too drunk and really need to pee.”

You swat at his arm, following his steps anyway. “You’re such a bitch sometimes, you know that?” 

Your best friend throws you a teasing glance. “For the record, Jungkook’s only thirty. Not that old, in case you were wondering.”

“Oh my god, for the last time, I am not thinking about your cousin!” You swear you’re gonna kill him, and then yourself. 

“Boohoo. What, you can’t date your friend’s relatives?” Jimin muses with a teasing tone.

“Yes, Jimin, it’s called boundaries,” you snap. Jimin still wouldn’t drop the malicious gaze, making you groan. Just how far is the restroom here? “Seriously, that’s completely unethical. I would never date any relative of yours, let alone if they’re my boss.”

Jimin starts cackling, clearly enjoying how worked up you are. “ Unethical ? Come on, you’re gonna get punished for premarital sex, anyway. Might as well date your boss while you’re at it.”

You hate that he’s so damn funny, even when he’s being a complete pain. Despite yourself, you can’t help but laugh at his ridiculous retort.

“Fuck off. I hope your bladder explodes.” you mutter.

Jimin’s laughter echoes around you, but finally, the restroom comes into view.

“Relax,” he says between chuckles. “I’m only joking. Jungkook h—”

Before he can finish, someone barrels into you – quite hard that you almost fall on your feet.

Instinctively, you let out a hurried, “Oh! I’m so sorry—” 

“Watch where you’re fucking going, bitch.”

The words take a second to register. Your shoulder throbs where they collided with you, but before you can react, Jimin steps forward.

“Excuse me?” your best friend snaps, his tone sharp.

The stranger doesn’t miss a beat, sneering as he looks you up and down. His gaze lingers far too long on your chest, making your stomach churn. 

“I said what I said.” he replies, completely unapologetic.

“Hey, that’s not cool, man. Just apologize to her, you hit her pretty hard.” Jimin says, positioning himself slightly in front of you as though to shield you from the man.

“What are you, her boyfriend?” The man scoffs. “The little princess slut needs her knight and shining armor—” 

Your patience snaps. “What the hell did you just call me?” You demand, stepping around Jimin.

The man smirks and takes a step closer. “What are you gonna do about it, slut?”

Jimin grabs your arm, trying to hold you back.

“Back off, man. I’m calling security.”

The tension in the air crackles, and you can feel the adrenaline surging in your veins. “Let go, Jimin,” you mutter, pulling free from his grip. You take a step forward, looking the man dead in the eye. “You think I’m scared? You get all up in our personal space calling me names and you think we’ll run for our lives after, huh?”

You watch as the smugness gets wiped out of his face instantly. He doesn’t form a response right away, just gawks at you as if he can’t believe you’re facing him off. Your brows shoots up at him.

This is the problem with assholes. They think they can intimidate you, especially men, but when confronted, they go back to their shells looking dumb as fuck. 

“You slut. Do you know who I am?” The man raises his hand, shoving your shoulder hard enough to make you stagger.

At this point, you’re fuming. What the fuck is this guy’s problem? 

Before you can retaliate, Jimin lunges forward, pushing the man back, just as he forceful as he did to you. “Don’t fucking touch her!” Jimin yells, his voice rising above the growing murmur of the crowd. “This is straight-up harassment and you can fuck off when the security kicks you out of here. Fuckin’ pussy.” With that, Jimin tugs your arm, already turning on his heel to go to the opposite reaction, ready to leave. But all of a sudden, the other guy goes for a punch, and it lands right on Jimin’s cheek. 

You gasp audibly.

Onlookers get more intrigued, and you don’t have it in you to think straight when your brain decides to go in between two men fighting. In the hopes of getting Jimin out of the way, you step in only to get elbowed on the jaw by the stranger when your best friend swings at the guy back; your reflexes not fast enough to avoid it

You can’t focus on the pain when panic arises upon the growing scene before you.  

“Jimin, stop!” You exclaim, trying to grab the back of his shirt. But the stranger only retaliates, and the whole thing is starting to blow out of proportion. 

“Hey! What is going on here?” 

You whip around to see Namjoon striding toward the commotion, his expression a mix of concern and frustration. Relief floods through you as he reaches you just in time to pull Jimin away. Two security guards arrive on the scene, stepping between Jimin and the man to break up the fight.

“What is your problem, man?” Namjoon scowls at the guy, wrapping his arm around Jimin. You hurry to them and help him assist your best friend, holding his shoulder.  

“Ask him and that fucking girlfriend of his. It’s that bitch’s fault! Do you even fucking know who I am?” 

Your eyes widen at the accusation. 

You gape at him, incredulous. “Are you kidding me? You ran into me, started cussing me out, shoved me two times and punched my frie—” 

“Enough!” one of the security guards cuts in, his tone firm. He turns to the man. “Mr. Yang, please step aside so we can sort this out.”

Jungkook appears just then, his gaze scanning the scene with confusion. “What the hell happened here?”

“Jungkook.” you sigh at the sight of him, getting a second rush of relief upon seeing both him and Namjoon here.

Jungkook steps closer to you, looks at your state, and instinctively hovers an arm around your waist, concern growing on his face. “Are you okay?” 

“I��m fine,” you say quickly, glancing at Jimin. “But he’s not.”

“Jimin got into a fight,” Namjoon explains, his voice tight. “I’m taking him to the hospital. Can you handle this?”

Jimin groans in Namjoon’s arms. “Oh my god, Joon, I’m literally fine—” Jimin rolls his eyes when his boyfriend only looks at him with a deepened frown. 

Namjoon looks at Jungkook again. “Can you take care of this for me, Kook? I’ll drive both of us to a hospital nearby. __, I’ll take Jimin there first before driving you home. Is that okay?” 

Although not unusual, your eyes widen at the offer. You quickly shake your head to decline. 

“Oh, no. It’s fine. I’ll grab a taxi or something… just please take Jimin to the hospital first.” 

“Don’t be silly, it’s dangerous–” Before Jimin could say the words, Jungkook speaks.

“I’ll take her,” All three of you look at him and he doesn’t even faze. “I took my car and I didn’t drink tonight so I’m okay to drive. __, just tell me your address.” 

Your head shakes vehemently. You’ve already been a big nuisance thanks to that asshole back there who’s talking with security.

“It’s okay, Jungkook. I really don’t want to bother–” 

“It’s not safe for you to be alone right now, __,” he says with a frown, and he sounds so sincere that it makes you bite your lip to prevent saying any protest again. He does have a point. “Joon, you can go. We’ll talk it out with security in the meantime.” 

“Alright, thanks, man.” Namjoon pats his shoulder. “Take care of her, okay? She drank a lot.” He informs Jungkook who just nods. And then off they go after Namjoon talked for a while with the other security.

You want to face-palm yourself. 

Soon, a man in uniform approaches you and Jungkook. As if in reflex, Jungkook steps closer to you. 

“Mr. Yang said you said some – what he called, “abusive language” – to him, Miss. Is that true?” 

Your eyebrows crease in confusion as you look at “Mr. Yang” in disbelief. 

“No, I didn’t. He was the one who started calling me names and swung at my friend first.” You defend, upset.

The security just looks over at you impassively with an almost monotonous voice, as if talking to you is a nuisance and taking too much of his time. “He said your friend threw the first punch. Mr. Yang is a valued customer—” 

“I’m sorry, but aren’t I and my friend customers too? We–”

“There’s no going around it, miss. Your friend started a fight and you initiated a commotion which is prohibited in this place, especially in the VIP area. Mr. Yang is currently talking to his lawyers to press charges against you and your friend.” 

Press what now?

“Press charges?” Jungkook can’t help but butt in. He changes his stance beside you and you see exactly how the security backs off a little, the boredom on his face while talking to you seconds ago slipping when Jungkook continues to say, “Did you hear what she said? Mr. Yang started the fight with verbal intimidation and made it physical. The other guy, her friend, just retaliated. How are you purposefully glossing over that detail?”

“Sir, Mr. Yang just told the story–” 

“You mean his side of the story. Aren’t you supposed to ensure everyone’s safety here? Or does being a valued customer excuse harassment and violence?”

The security completely falters under Jungkook’s stare and words.

And you grow livid. 

“Excuse me, sir,” You start, stepping out to get closer to him. You keep your voice leveled when you speak further, “I’m gonna tell you this more time. He, Mr. Yan or whatever his name is, started the whole thing. He bumped into me hard and I have the shoulder pain to prove you that. I said sorry, even though he should’ve said it too, but then he didn’t and started to cuss me out instead and called me names . My friend stepped in because he was trying to intimidate me physically and verbally. He threw the first punch, and my friend just retaliated,” you said with conviction, not shaking even once. When the security opens his mouth to say something, you beat him to it. “And tell your valued customer that if he wants to press charges, I’ll be speaking to my lawyer, too. And I’ll be filing a complaint against this establishment for failing to handle the situation appropriately.”

You don’t look back as you turn on your heel and head straight to your table. Jungkook’s footsteps follow closely behind, and you hear him call your name, but you don’t acknowledge it. Instead, you grab your purse and head toward the stairs leading to the ground floor, your mind set on leaving.

It’s been a long time since you felt so blatantly underestimated by a man. It happens at work occasionally, but having a woman supervisor helps that situation a bit. Still, though, you can’t help but be bitter whenever it happens. No matter how vocal you are, no matter how often you advocate for yourself, there’s a grim inevitability to it. They’ll still see you as less, as though your words carry less weight, your stance holds less power.

The thought burns at you, frustration rising like a heat wave under your skin, and there’s a dull sense of helplessness that settles heavily in your chest.

“__, hey. Stop walking so fast.” You hear Jungkook say behind you but despite his words, he still manages to catch up. 

“You can go, Jungkook. I’m calling a taxi.” You say, voice leveled. You know it’s irrational but you can’t get out of your head the image of the security backing off when Jungkook began speaking to him. As if his opinion matters more than yours. The anger is misplaced, you know, but you just need a little bit of space. 

“I told Jimin I’ll take you home, so I’ll take you home.” Jungkook insists and his voice is firm as well, but there’s softness around the edges. You feel it in the way he gently takes ahold of your wrist to halt you from walking. At this point, you’re already outside the establishment. 

“I don’t want your help.” 

He physically recoils, and you feel instantly bad just right after you say it.

Okay, maybe that was too much of an overreaction. 

Still, though, while Jungkook lets go of your hand, he doesn’t relent. 

“I’m not trying to be insistent for no reason, __. I want to take you home because you’re drunk and I don’t know if you’re safe especially when a guy just harassed you back there.” 

Pressing your lips into a thin line, you turn your gaze away, feeling the telltale tremble in your body that comes right before tears. Your eyes sting faintly at the corners, but you force a sharp, steady breath into your lungs. As much as it stings to admit it, Jungkook has a point.

You’re surprised you’ve managed this far with your mind clouded by too much tequila. And while you keep telling yourself you’re not afraid of that jerk back there, the thought of walking out alone at this hour leaves a knot of unease in your chest.

Turning on your heel, you avoid Jungkook’s eyes when you look at his general direction and say, “Okay.” 

“Okay,” he repeats, gauging your face. “My car is right there.” He says, pointing toward the opposite direction. 

The walk to the parking lot is quiet and tense, so to speak. You avoid walking beside Jungkook and he may have understood that you want space in the meantime, as he lets himself walk ahead of you, only looking back occasionally to check if you’re still following. 

When you get inside the car, Jungkook begins the engine as soon as you both settle yourselves in your seats.

“I’m sorry.” He suddenly says in the middle of the road. 

You look at him, eyebrows furrowed. “For what?” 

“I’m just sorry.” 

You let out a sigh.

He’s just trying to be there for you, for some reason. He doesn’t need to, but somehow he does.

You look away, fixing your gaze at the scene on the window pane. “I’m just… I just feel angry. That asshole was calling me all sorts of uninspired, misogynistic names and even pushed me twice. And then the security came to me with that bored expression and impassive tone telling me all about that guy pressing charges, not even bothering to hear me out, completely negating me, then you stepped in and suddenly he’s scared? Apparently, your words matter more than mine, and all because I don’t have a fucking penis. How fucking stupid,” You say in one breathing frustration reeking. You take a sharp breath again and massage your temple. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean– it’s not your fault, Jungkook. You don’t have anything to be sorry for. I’m… being mean and taking everything out on you. I just… the whole thing was just really fucked up and men irritate me.” 

Jungkook glances at you and back at the road again. “I… understand. I’m still sorry for stepping in. I didn’t mean for it to look like I was… doing things for you. I was just really surprised when he said the guy is pressing charges.” 

You throw your head back on the seat. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t… think you were trying to be a hero or anything. It’s just really annoying when men only listen to men. It’s fucked up.” 

He hums. “Do you wanna press charges? You can also file a lawsuit. You could.”

“A lawsuit? We’re gonna end up in civil court and I’m most probably going to lose. When I said earlier I’m talking to my lawyers, that means all the law students I barely know of in my department,” you think that was funny, but Jungkook just looks at you for awhile with furrowed brows.

Okay, well, no that was not really funny. It was quite depressing.

“If you want, and I don’t want you to take this the wrong way– I can help you with it. Get you a lawyer or something. He also assaulted Jimin, so you definitely have a case.” Jungkook says as if he’s offering you some street food along a store you passed by randomly. You notice the caution in his voice though, the way he worded his suggestion, completely putting it out as if it’s up to your choice. 

You appreciate that. You don’t like it when people step in for you, fight your battles for you . You have a backbone of your own and you can defend yourself in most circumstances – and you believe Jungkook’s pure intentions of just… offering some kind of… genuine help. Because he’s your friend and you would do this to a friend as well.

It’s not charity, you tell yourself.   

“Thanks… I’ll tell you when… I want it.” You offer him a small smile. 

“You sure?” You nod your head. Jungkook doesn’t look like he’s entirely convinced, but he drops the subject anyway. “Alright.” 

The car ride was as quiet as it could be, and the stillness of dawn makes you think about the turn of events earlier. It wasn’t ideal, the way everything turned out. You don’t feel any ounce of remorse about what you said to that asshole because he deserved it for being a dick unprovoked, but too much alcohol clouded your judgment and you and Jimin could’ve acted… entirely differently in the situation.

As you rest your head on the window again, you feel a pang of regret. 

It’s always so… hard to deal with the consequences of your actions. There’s a part of you who wishes you didn’t throw more wood into the flame leading to the fight. Some part is guilty of bringing Jimin into a physical fight. Then, there’s embarrassment. 

You’re not a violent person and you try to stray away from violence overall if you can help it. While Jimin has always been protective over you especially when you go out at night for obvious reasons, you rarely get into physical fights. It didn’t help that Namjoon was there, too. As well as Jungkook. The two knew you both drank a lot, especially you. Jungkook was there beside you when you were flatly getting negated by the security, getting threatened by pressed charges for being unruly. 

It was embarrassing. And even more so when you snapped at him moments ago, despite him doing nothing wrong.

You feel like absolute shit. 

“Sorry you had to deal with… all of that.” You murmur, swallowing the lump in your throat.

Jungkook’s voice, laced with genuine confusion, cuts through your thoughts. “What?”

“For everything, I guess,” you continue, forcing a smile that feels off. “Bet you didn’t expect to drive a drunk woman home after she and her best friend got into a fight.” It sounds like a joke, but it’s a hollow one. Every moment with him tonight feels like you’ve just embarrassed yourself over and over.

You hadn’t realized how close you were to your complex until Jungkook suddenly stopped in the familiar parking lot. You’re about to unbuckle your seatbelt, but your head’s a little dizzy, and you fumble with it a little. Just as you start to move again, Jungkook speaks.

“I don’t mind doing anything for you, __. I hope you know that by now.”

The words stop you mid-motion, and you glance up at him, regretting it immediately. His gaze is intense, and no matter how much you will yourself to look away, you can’t. He lowers his eyes to your hands before leaning in slightly, unbuckling your seatbelt from your waist down with ease. His scent fills the air, making your breath catch in the briefest of moments. “Wait for me.”

You’re a little confused but stay still as Jungkook gets out of the car and walks around. When he opens the passenger door, he offers you his hand. “Can you walk just fine?

You don’t know how you manage to form an answer somehow. “I– yeah. Sure,” you stand up from your seat and get out of his car, but despite your words, you feel the gentle pressure of Jungkook’s hand on your lower back, guiding you. Nibbling on your bottom lip, you mumble a soft, “Thanks.” 

He hums in response. 

The walk to your apartment isn’t long, but it felt like it dragged on forever with Jungkook so close by your side. The chilly air didn’t help either when you’re not exactly dressed for it. When a gust of strong wind blew, you felt yourself shiver, and Jungkook must have noticed because, without a second thought, his arm moved closer, closing the hairsbreadth gap of his skin and yours, now wrapping around your waist to shield you from the cold. 

You didn’t expect it, and neither did he. 

He makes a move to pull away, about to put distance between you, but when you glance at him, maybe with a hint of alarm or desperation, he seems to understand. Jungkook keeps his arm around you as you both continue walking.

Did your face scream “Please don’t take your hands off me” ? Because even now, as you’ve arrived at your apartment, taking the steps towards your apartment units, he still doesn’t let go.

Even when you reach your porch, his arm is still there, holding you close.

“We’re here,” you say to break the silence. You look up at him, and you spent the entirety of the last five minutes or so trying to avoid looking in his direction that you just now discovered he’s been sporting an easy-going look on his face, as if the whole thing is as… natural as it gets. “T-thanks for driving me home, Jungkook.”

He nods, “You’re welcome.” 

You take a step back, and just as the distance grows between you, you feel a strange hesitation, as though part of you doesn’t want the moment to end. Jungkook’s hand lingers for a second longer on your back, like he doesn’t want to let go either.

You give him a small, reluctant smile, and he returns it just as gently, looking so serene with his casual fit and his soft hair, hands now buried in the pockets of his jeans. His presence feels magnetic like neither of you is ready to say goodbye yet.

“Good night,” you say, giving a timid wave.

“Sweet dreams, __.” He smiles, and the sound of his chuckle makes your heart flutter. It’s so light, so easy – like everything feels right in this moment. Like everything that happened earlier was merely not part of reality. He makes you feel so… safe and warm. 

God, have you seriously deluded yourself into thinking you didn’t like this man in a very non-platonic way? 

You turn, about to reach for your keys, but then you hear his voice again, calling your name. You almost spin around too quickly, feeling a bit embarrassed by the sudden motion.

It’s like you were completely expecting him to just call you.

Your eyes meet his in a gentle stare, his voice soft and warm like honey when he asks, “Can I come inside?”

Jungkook asks, letting the words slip out before he can second-guess them. He’s been bothered since the car ride – by the way your jaw flexed, the way your fingers kept pressing into your shoulder like it ached. You never said anything, of course. You wouldn’t. 

Of course you wouldn’t. Jungkook knows by now that you don’t particularly like it when you’re being… doted on.

But still. It’s late – around 3 a.m. and creeping into morning – and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep knowing you’re the least bit comfortable.

He just wants to know if you’re okay.

You open your mouth to speak, but then suddenly, a clink echoes in the quiet of the dawn over the complex.

“Wha– aw!” You wince as your keys slip through your fingers, landing directly on your foot with a dull thud.

“Hey,” Jungkook automatically sinks down on one knee to pick up the keys, arm shooting right up around your waist to keep you grounded when he saw you were about to trip. His brows knit together as he looks up at you, wincing in discomfort. “You okay?” 

You lift your foot slightly, balancing yourself against his shoulder. “Yeah, I’m fine— just buzzed. Sorry,” you mumble, but the words slur together. Jungkook had noticed you’d been drinking way before he arrived at the club, but now he realizes just how hard you’d been fighting off the dizziness. “I need to get out of these shoes.”

Jungkook stands back up on his feet, handing you the keys. He stays close, keeping his arm around you, hovering just enough to catch you if you fall out of balance again. 

He watches as you try to unlock the door, but your fingers fumble over the keys, switching between them absentmindedly. With each failed attempt, your frustration grows, your huffs becoming more pronounced. Jungkook waits patiently, standing beside you, until he hears it—

A sob. 

“I’m sorry,” your voice trembles. “I–I can’t find my keys,” you try to get the words out in between your silent cry, and Jungkook is so surprised to see the tears dropping down your cheeks that he doesn’t fully process the whole thing together. “And— and my jaw and my shoulder and my toes hurt. And I’m drunk. I don’t know. I’m really—” you’re interrupted by another snob, so you quickly wipe away at your eyes, turning away from Jungkook. “I’m really drunk.” 

Jungkook gently calls your name, and he doesn’t know what comes over him. It almost felt like reflex when he reached for your face, cupping your cheeks; your tears wetting the palm of his hands. Jungkook catches them with his thumbs before more of them even fall, your skin warm beneath his touch. When you look up at him, your glassy eyes reflect the soft glow of the streetlights, and you look so heartbreakingly sad that Jungkook feels an almost physical pain to his gut. 

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you inside, yeah? I’ll take care of the rest. Do you want me to do it for you?” He doesn’t expect it, but you nod your head, quietly sniffing when Jungkook continues to wipe your tears with his thumbs, soothing you in the best possible way he knows he can. 

You hand him the keys, and his fingers linger against your cheek just a second longer before he turns to the door, finding the right key with ease. He doesn’t say anything about your tears, doesn’t press you to explain. You wouldn’t want to tell him things right now, not when you’re obviously feeling quite… vulnerable. He doesn’t know if it’s just all your mixed up feelings dwindling down into sadness – because you did go through a lot tonight. 

Jungkook has never seen you cry before, but when he saw the tears falling from your eyes, it left a dull ache that settled deep within his chest. You’re always so full of life, so quick to smile, to joke, to fill the space around you with something bright and wonderful. Seeing you like this, shaken and unguarded, stirs something deep in him. Something instinctive.

So he knows by now you don’t like getting taken care of, in a way, but Jungkook lets himself act on the want  and need to do it, anyway. Even if you pull back away from him again the next day. At least he gets to be sure you’re okay. 

He unlocks the door and looks back at you.

“Thank you, Jungkook.” Your voice is steadier now, in Jungkook’s relief, but your tear-streaked cheeks still twist something inside him.

“It’s fine,” Jungkook says softly and keeps a careful arm around your waist when you push open the door, seeing that you’re still walking a little wobbly. He watches you closely, especially your shoulders and face. “Your body still hurts?”

You give him a small, tired smile. “Uhm, I think it’ll go away soon. But I need to ice my jaw.”

When you cross over the threshold, you pause, hesitating.

Jungkook was just about to ask you if you really want to let him in because you didn’t explicitly say he could – but when you turn back to look at him, your eyes are clouded with worry. “Please don’t judge me if my place is messy and if I pass out because again, I’m really drunk. It’s not super obvious right now but I already cried in front of you for no particular reason and I’m embarrassed about that so if you want to, you can totally just leave and I won’t bother you ever again. I’m sorry that you had to do all this. This all seems like a huge bother and I’m taking so much of your time—”

Jungkook blinks.

“__.” 

The way you jumped from one thing to another, the way your eyes darted everywhere but his – it’s a dead giveaway. Drunk you is a whole rollercoaster, and Jungkook doesn’t even try to fight the small, exasperated smile tugging at his lips.

God, he just… he just wants to hold you through it all.

“It’s okay,” his voice is warm. “Don’t be sorry, hm?” 

You bite your lip and it takes you a while to respond before you say, “... Okay.” 

The living room welcomes you both and Jungkook takes a quick look, smiling at the sight.

“You have a nice place.” 

“I know,” your voice is thick with the remnants of the night, your steps slightly uneven as you move towards the couch. “It was even nicer before, but they had to repair it a week ago because of the…” you trail off, distracted, your fingers fumbling with the strap of your heel as you settle down.  

Jungkook nods understandingly, quietly watching. He sees you maneuvering your legs to better see your shoes, and the action makes your skirt ride up, catching his attention for a split second. He decides to redirect his focus. 

“You have ice?”

“Freezer,” You murmur, lips pressed into a thin line and brows furrowed in frustration. You let out a small hiss when the strap doesn’t successfully come off your ankle. Jungkook can tell you’re distracted, even when you add, “Oh, you don’t have to ice me, by the way, I can just—” 

Before you can finish, Jungkook walks over to your direction. In one swift motion, he kneels before you, his hands effortlessly replacing yours. His fingers are warm as they brush against your ankle, and he feels your breath hitching when he unfastens the strap and slides your heels off.

“What did I say, __?” He keeps his voice quiet and firm, “I don’t mind doing things for you.” He gently sets both your feet down then places your shoes next to it neatly. “I know you don’t need my help. But just this one night, okay? Can you let me do that for you?”

The weight of his sincerity presses against your chest, rendering you momentarily speechless. His eyes hold something deep, something unspoken, something that makes warmth bloom low in your stomach.

You blink at him. 

“Oh. Uh… okay.” you breathe, looking up at him slowly as he rises to his feet. “Sorry.”

It sounds sheepish and Jungkook feels the sudden urge to… he doesn’t even know now. He’s never been in the position of feeling so many different things all at once. He felt a little piece of his heart get shattered when he saw you cry earlier but now it’s warm again at the sight of you so… soft. And kind of small. 

Jungkook exhales softly, the corner of his lips quirking as his palm finds your cheek. It was maybe some sort of self-indulgence when he leans down and strokes your skin, thumb tracing delicate circles. He watches as your lashes flutter under his touch. “No saying sorry. Let me take care of you.”

He lets go of you, a slight feeling of disappointment washing through him when he had to break away from the physical contact, but your body hurts and he wants to help soothe it a little bit. 

Moving toward the kitchen, he doesn’t take too long going through your freezer and returns back shortly with an ice bag and a glass of water in hand. He offers the latter first, waiting patiently as you drink before settling beside you on the couch.

“Where does it hurt?” Jungkook asks. You move a little to the side to give him room, and he doesn’t really think too much about it when he drapes his free arm around the backrest of the couch, unconsciously crowding you in.

“H-here.” You tilt your face slightly, pointing to the right side of your jaw. Jungkook hums in acknowledgment before pressing the ice against your skin with meticulous care. You flinch at the initial cold, and he murmurs a soft apology, adjusting his touch until the chill soothes rather than shocks.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

The silence between you lingers, but it isn’t awkward – it’s something softer, something unspoken that settles comfortably between you both. And it gives Jungkook the perfect excuse to take you in wholly.

From this proximity, every delicate feature of yours demands his attention. The way your long lashes flutter under the glow of the fluorescent light, casting faint shadows against your flushed cheeks. He notices the subtle scatter of glitter on your skin, remnants of your makeup catching the light just right, making you look like you’re glowing – no, like you’re shining. Ethereal.

Then, his gaze traces the gentle slope of your nose, following its path down to the perfect dip of your cupid’s bow – sharp, delicate, almost frustratingly beautiful. And then, of course, there’s your mouth. Jungkook has always been drawn to it. The soft, glossy curve of your lips, the way they pout ever so slightly even when you aren’t speaking. They look inviting, almost begging to be kissed, and for a brief, reckless second, he wonders what it would be like to be the one to answer that silent call.

God, you’re so pretty. It almost hurts.

Jungkook swallows hard. He shouldn’t be thinking about that. Not now.

“Jimin tells me I’m either an annoying or quiet drunk,” you suddenly say, snapping Jungkook out of his trance. “I think I’m being a little bit of both tonight.” 

He finds himself chuckling at your words. “I’m alright with both.” 

You let out a quiet huff, and he readjusts the ice, noticing the slight tension in your shoulders.

“Your shoulder still hurts?” Jungkook asks, his fingers hovering just above your bare skin.

You nod, and when he gestures to the ice bag, you take it without hesitation, pressing it back to your jaw. There's a quiet curiosity in your eyes as you glance at him, but you don’t say anything. Jungkook shifts beside you, sitting more upright.

“Lean in for me,” you scoot closer. Jungkook guides you against him, settling you between his arms. You’re unusually quiet, pliant in a way that makes something stir in his chest. “This okay?” he murmurs into your hair, trying – failing – not to focus on the warmth of you against him, or the way your scent lingers in the air between you.

You hum in response, a soft, content sound.

Jungkook smiles against your head.

”Let me know if this hurts or not, alright?” You nod against him, and Jungkook lets his fingers trace over the curve of your shoulder, searching for the tension. The neckline of your top makes it easy for his hand to settle against your skin. “Here?” he murmurs, pressing gently.

The soft gasp you let out catches him off guard. It’s barely a sound, but he feels it – feels the way your body reacts beneath his touch. His breath hitches for just a second before he swallows, grounding himself.

“There,” You sigh softly. Jungkook watches as you close your eyes, indulging in the feeling of him hitting the right spot. 

He watches, almost entranced, as your face softens with relief.

Massaging sore muscles is nothing new to him – he’s done it for himself countless times after boxing, approaching it with the same methodical precision every time. But this? This feels different. The quiet sounds you make, the way you lean into his touch, like it’s the most natural thing in the world – he has a feeling they’ll linger in his mind far longer than they should.

He steadies his voice. “No swelling or bruising, so that’s good,” he murmurs, fingers working over your shoulder, relieved to find that himself.

You may not have wanted his help tonight, but Jungkook can’t shake the thought that the stranger at the bar deserves consequences. Maybe he should talk to Jimin about it.

He files the thought away – until your voice pulls him back.

“Where’d you learn this?” you ask, your tone lighter now. “It feels good. And I think you’re actually making me feel better.”

Then you grin at him – soft, a little dazed – and Jungkook just melts.

How you always get him to feel twenty emotions at once. 

“I box sometimes. My trainer taught me this.” Jungkook tells you, something he realized he hasn’t shared with you yet. Which he loves doing. 

“Oh. You box?” You inquire, craning your neck to look at him with curious eyes. 

Jungkook smiles down at you and nods. “Sometimes. It’s just a little hobby I picked up a while ago.” 

“Ohhh. That’s really cool.” Then you yawn, shifting even closer. “I envy people like you. I ran a 5k once and couldn’t move for two days.”

“I like moving,” Jungkook responds truthfully. Absent-mindedly, he also lets himself fall back on the couch until you’re both very lax against the sofa. “I sit a lot with my job. So I feel the need to balance it out.”

“I guess that makes—” It’s drowned with another yawn. Jungkook looks down at you as you curl up against him. “Sorry.” You smile at him, prompting Jungkook to chuckle before taking the ice bag from your hand. His hand travels from your shoulder to your waist as he stretches his other hand out to place the bag on the coffee table across from you.

“You’re sleepy.” 

“I’m so drunk.” 

“You’re a sleepy drunk,” Jungkook grins when you don’t argue. “Your shoulder okay now?” 

You jut your bottom lip out. “I think you need to massage it a little bit more…” 

Jungkook takes note of the playful tone lacing your words, finding himself chuckling at the thought of you just liking the massage. He doesn’t really mind.

“Alright. But don’t sleep on me just yet.” Jungkook says, resuming his rubbing on your shoulder joint. He knows that soon, you have to change out of your clothes, remove your make-up, whatever women do before going to bed. 

“I know…” you trail off.

As minutes pass, Jungkook forgets all about the massage, his hands alternating between gentle caresses and light squeezes over your shoulder. His touch grows slower, more absentminded, and at some point, he realizes the weight against his chest has shifted— you’ve fallen asleep on him.

He stills for a moment, absorbing the warmth of you pressed against him. It’s… nice. More than nice. A quiet contentment settles over him as he carefully brushes his fingers through your hair. When a few strands fall across your face, he instinctively tucks them away, only for you to stir slightly at the movement. Jungkook freezes, but instead of waking, you burrow deeper into him, your face pressing against his chest, your breath warm through the fabric of his shirt.

A small smile tugs at his lips. He takes a moment just to look at you – your peaceful expression, the way your lips part slightly in sleep, the soft rise and fall of your breathing. You’re not new to falling asleep on him; it happened just last week at his place. And just like then, he thinks you look impossibly adorable. Mostly pretty. Even prettier now. He isn’t sure how that’s possible, but somehow, you make it look effortless.

Jungkook exhales, shaking his head lightly. You have no idea, do you?

He lingers a second longer before deciding he should move you somewhere more comfortable. He doubts you’d want to wake up on the couch, still in your clothes from the club, make-up untouched. You didn’t exactly give him permission to enter your bedroom, but he figures you’d prefer that over being left out here without a blanket.

Carefully, he lifts you into his arms, cradling you effortlessly as he navigates your apartment. The layout is similar to his, but everything feels distinctly you – cozy, warm, lived-in. He nudges your bedroom door open with his foot, relieved to find it unlocked, and gently lays you down on the soft mattress. He debates for a second whether he should help you change into something more comfortable but quickly dismisses the thought. Boundaries.

Instead, he simply pulls the green comforter over you, tucking you in with quiet care. He’s just about to step back when you shift slightly, a small murmur escaping your lips.

“Kook?”

Your voice is faint, laced with sleep, and Jungkook immediately moves closer, sitting at the edge of your bed. He doesn’t expect it when your hand reaches out, fingers grazing his cheek before resting there, your touch warm and featherlight.

“Are you real?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper, dazed and dreamy.

Jungkook’s heart stumbles. He swallows, then gently takes your hand in his, pressing it against his skin. “I am.”

You hum in satisfaction. “Good.” Then, in a move that completely disarms him, you squeeze his jaw slightly, fingertips lingering in something almost like admiration. Your gaze, still hazy with sleep, flickers over his features before you breathe, awed, “You’re so pretty… how?”

Jungkook exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head at your sleepy honesty. Because this isn’t the first time. You’d said the same thing that night at his place, too.

Does that mean you really think so? Or is it just a drunken habit of yours?

But none of that really matters when he finds himself murmuring, with quiet certainty, “You don’t know how it feels looking at you, __.”

There’s no response, and when Jungkook glances down, he realizes you’ve already drifted back into sleep. He stays there just a moment longer, taking in the peaceful sight of you, the way the dim light makes your features look even softer.

You look like a dream. And Jungkook isn’t sure if he ever wants to wake up from this.

There’s a thundering ache in your head when you start gaining consciousness after you wake up, eyes squinting at the light coming through the windows. 

You pat around for your phone and turn it on when you find it somewhere nestled between the tangled sheets, seeing Jimin’s texts on the lockscreen. 

cuntress #1 [8:00am]: did u get home safe cuntress #1 [8:05am]: i got discharged from the hospital btw joon was just being dramatic i only got cuts  cuntress #1 [3:10pm]: i trust that jungkook drove u home well and alive but if u dont respond in the next 30mins i’ll send a raid team

“Jesus,” you said after reading Jimin’s last text. You glance at the time and see it’s 3:20pm. “Fuck.” Slapping a hand on your forehead, you realize just how much you slept. 

Before agonizing over that, you reply to Jimin first before he actually sends a raid team. You don’t ever know when he’s serious.

You [3:21pm]: dont send a raid team what the fuck

You open the camera app to snap a picture of yourself, but you nearly doubled over when you saw your reflection. That’s why your face felt so sticky, because you still have your make-up and clothes on from last night. 

You groan but take a quick picture to send Jimin anyway. 

Throwing away your phone on the mattress, you throw your feet over the floor to initially go straight to the bathroom, but then your eyes catch sight of the glass of water with a pill of Advil beside it. 

Oh. 

Ohhh. Right. Jungkook was here last night… he asked if he could come inside your apartment and you must’ve said yes because you can remember him sitting on your couch, icing your jaw, then massaging your pained shoulder for a little while before… 

That’s when your memory doesn’t serve you well. 

You don’t know how you got into this bed at all. 

You take the glass of water and Advil, anyway, popping the pill into your mouth and drinking. You were just standing up when your doorbell rings. 

Confused, you wonder who it might be. You aren’t expecting any visitors, that’s for sure. But then you remember Jimin’s words and suddenly grow nervous that he might have actually had a raid team come your way. Whatever the hell that meant.

As you step in front of your door, you hesitantly twist it open, only to be met with none other than… Jungkook. 

“Thank god,” you let out a sigh of relief. Jungkook raises a brow, rightfully confused. You give him a dismissive wave. “I thought you were Jimin’s raid team.” 

“A what?” Jungkook asks, obviously baffled. 

“Don’t worry about it,” you say as you take a look at him. He’s in his white button down minus the tie and trousers. It’s funny though because he’s wearing his sliders… so you assume he probably just got back home from the office. It’s only then that you notice the pot in between his hands. “What’s that?” 

Jungkook glances down. “Porridge. Thought it’d help with the hangover.” 

Your eyes widen at the mention.

“Oh, that’s really thoughtful. You didn’t have to…” you trail off but Jungkook only smiles and extends it to you.

When you take it in your hands, Jungkook says, “It’s still hot, so be careful.” 

What you wanted to ask was if he cooked it himself – which looked like he did, but what came out was: “You just, uh, got back from the office?”

He nods.

Then, you stand there for awhile, finding yourself a little awkward just waiting for the other to say something until you both speak at the same time. 

“I’ll get going, then—”

“Do you want to come in—”

You both stop speaking, looking at each other in surprise until Jungkook chuckles. 

“You were saying?” He asks.

You shake your head. “I asked if you wanted to come inside but you must be busy. Thank you for the porridge, though. I really appreciate it.” 

“I’m not doing a lot today,” Jungkook says with a dashing smile, inserting his hands in his pockets. “Are you inviting me over?” He adds with a teasing lilt to his voice.

You shy from his gaze. “If you want to… we can share?” You raise the pot in your hands, giving him a timid smile. 

“I’d love to.” 

Basically, it’s the second time Jungkook will be inside your home. But you weren’t completely sober a few hours ago when he did it for the first time, so technically, it did not count. Now that you’re free from the daze of alcohol, though, with a raging hangover as a testament to that, you’re nervous as you lead Jungkook along the way.

“You woke up just now?” Jungkook asks.

“Yeah…” You place the pot on the dining table and realize for the second time you’re still wearing the clothes from last night, probably looking like a mess right now. You’re thankful Jungkook doesn't mention it. You saw your smudged makeup earlier while taking a picture for Jimin, and you definitely don’t look your best. “Sorry, I just need to change out of these clothes first. Please sit here.” You gesture toward the chair you pulled out, which Jungkook gladly came towards. When he sits, you offer him a small smile before heading to your bedroom.

In swift motion, you strip yourself off the skimpy outfit you’ve been in since the last twelve hours or so, hastily removing your make-up with a quick wipe and rinse, pulling your hair in the neatest ponytail you can manage and finally change into the first decent shirt you find in your closet and paired it with some denim shorts.

When you return to the dining area, you see Jungkook setting down some bowls on the table. You head toward him, about to express your thanks, but he turns around and, with a slightly surprised tone, says, “You’re wearing my shirt.”

It doesn’t sound accusatory, in fact, Jungkook is smiling at you, eliciting a warm feeling within your chest. 

His words don’t register as quickly as they should have, but when you glance over at the shirt you’re wearing, it’s indeed his. It occurs to you it was the shirt he lent you awhile ago when you stayed over at his place. It must’ve ended in your bag when you were packing up for your return to your own place.

Heat rises to your cheeks as embarrassment sets in. You remember saying you’d return it ASAP, but here you are, casually wearing it at home. “Oh, I'm sorry. I didn’t even notice— I'll go change—”

“It’s fine, __. You can keep it, or not, if you don’t want to,” Jungkook muses. “You don’t have to change out of it.” 

His casual response only makes you feel more flustered under his gaze.

“... Thanks,” you manage to say. After a pregnant pause, you clear your throat and gesture at the food on the table. “Should we eat? Or… I mean, do you even want to eat right now? I know it’s only, like, three pm…”

“I didn’t eat for lunch, so this will do. I make a really good hangover porridge.” Jungkook says with a chuckle. 

“I can’t thank you enough.” 

Jungkook hums softly, and a comfortable silence settles between you as the sound of your spoons clinking against the glassware fills the air. After your first bite, you can't help but compliment him on the porridge – it’s definitely the best hangover cure you’ve ever had. You can't help but think that he's just good at everything, like always.

It’s as if he doesn’t not know how to do something. You almost fear he's getting close to being perfect, and what’s even more surprising is that he does all of this for you without you ever having to ask. And when you mention it, he acts like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

And that kind of freaks you out.

But, at the same time, it also makes you feel guilty.

“I’m really sorry about last night…” you start. You don’t remember every detail, of course, but you can vaguely remember the fight that broke out and how Namjoon had to interfere with the security. And because you were drunk, Jungkook had to drive you home and take you inside your own home because you probably were so wasted. It’s not your proudest moment, and the apology is something from your heart when you continue, “Jimin and I pregamed at his place before we went to the club, so even before you came to our table we were already drunk off tequila that time. Not a good reason, of course. So I’m really sorry for causing you a lot of… inconvenience— anyway, did I uh— say or did something last night?” you turn meek under his gaze, nerves wracking. Jungkook’s brow shoots up, and when he doesn’t instantly say no, you sigh. “Oh my god, I did.” 

“No, you didn’t,” Jungkook quickly denies, interrupting the impending spiraling thoughts in your head. The only vivid pictures in your head right now were the events in the club, even the moment when Jungkook drove you home is blurry, and you could only tie fragments together poorly. “Don’t worry about it. You were drunk and you fell asleep on me when I helped you with your shoulders. I brought you to your bedroom.” 

You stare at him, trying to see if he’s purposefully missing out on some detail. But Jungkook’s expression is as neutral as it gets, just looks at you like how he usually does. Soft, fond. Something like that. You can’t even pinpoint it. 

“Well, I’m still sorry anyway,” you let out a heavy breath. “Jimin tells me I’m a super annoying drunk and he’s right and he should’ve really stopped you from volunteering to take me back home.” 

“You really like saying sorry, don’t you?” Jungkook teases, but there’s something to his tone that says he’s being half-serious. “I really don’t mind. I wanted to take you home, and we’re neighbors, anyway.” He shrugs. 

You nod your head. “Why… I don’t remember much about last night but why did you lie back there? To Jimin? When you said you’re still staying at Hannam.” 

Jungkook halts from eating and silence stretches out until he says, “I had a feeling you wanted me to.” 

You purse your lips. “I can’t even say I didn’t because I really did want you to,” you sigh again. There were so many things you did last night that you kind of regret now. It’s really just endless favors from Jungkook now, huh? You hate feeling… indebted. And you hate that you feel like you’re bothering him so much. “Things got so hectic and I didn’t have time to tell him about, uh, how we know each other and all that and I… I still haven’t told him, you see.”

“You know,” Jungkook starts, and you adjust yourself on your seat because he sounds serious this time, not like the usual easy-going, lighthearted tone he always uses with you. “I’m okay with whatever you wanna do. It’s your call. But I’m not sure why you’re trying to hide it from him. I don’t think he’s going to care that much that we already knew each other even way before he introduced us.” 

You swallow the lump in your throat. 

The thing is, you know Jimin is not gonna care – you know that well. But Jungkook also doesn’t know that you already told Jimin about him the very first day you met him. Jungkook doesn’t know that you told Jimin about this crush that you have on this new neighbor. And you’re not ready to tell Jimin that guy – the neighbor, unit 446, was actually his cousin. 

Maybe you’re overcomplicating things too much, but you’ve always been afraid of confrontation unless you have a solid, fool-proof plan backing you up. You’re gonna tell Jimin eventually, just not now. But…

“I feel bad about it. Sorry– if you wanna tell him, you can—”

“Hey, I’m not doing anything you don’t want me to do.” Jungkook cuts you off, looking at you sincerely.

You frown. He’s way too nice.

“You’re so…” you trail off, realizing that you don’t really know what to follow it up with. Jungkook is so… nothing. Blank. You come up with a blank. And not because you feel that way about him – it’s mostly because there’s so many things to describe him with. 

And all you can think of is that you have the urge to come up to him and wrap your arms around him and thank him for being this patient even though you don’t feel like you deserve it. 

Jungkook leans in, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “I’m so what?” 

It’s just going to be a friendly hug. You think to yourself. Yep. Just a friendly hug and nothing more. Friends can hug, right? Like, no malice whatsoever. Jungkook is not gonna think you’re trying to make a move on him; it’ll just be you expressing your gratitude. 

So you go for it, throwing your inhibitions away.

Who even cares at this point.

“Can I hug you?” you blurt out, nervously staring at Jungkook, feeling your cheeks heat up at the way he’s looking at you right now.

His smile widens, and you don’t fully expect it when he responds with a simple, “Yes.” 

You stand up from your seat and round the table to go over Jungkook who pulls himself back and stands, arms opening up to welcome you when you unceremoniously wrap your own around his waist. 

“Sorry,” you say when you bump roughly against him, but Jungkook only chuckles, and you feel the vibration through his chest when he does. His arms circle around your shoulders, making you snuggle against his chest. Probably self-indulgence at this point because his chest is so… big and warm and he smells good and he’s actually letting you hug him so… why not? “This is nice.” you say after awhile.

Truthfully, you initially planned the hug to be just a quick one, but it feels way too tight to let go. And you really don’t want to break away… and by the way Jungkook doesn’t say anything against it, you assume he’s just as into this as you. Probably. 

“I know.” 

You hide your smile against the fabric of his dress shirt. 

And somehow, you stay like that for longer than what… thirty seconds? Just hugging in the middle of your dining table without saying anything. 

You tighten your arms around Jungkook, and you almost let out a sigh of relief when Jungkook begins caressing your back.

“You’re really small.” Jungkook says suddenly. 

“Can you not ruin this moment, please.” 

He chuckles, and you feel him resting his head against the crown of your head. 

And the moment suddenly feels way too familiar…

“Jungkook,”

“__,”

Jungkook chuckles against your hair, squeezing a little on your shoulder. 

“You first.” 

You shake your head. “No, you first.”

“Ladies first.” 

You frown, even though he can’t really see it. “Really?” you deadpan.

“Really.” 

The lightheartedness of the moment doesn’t really deter you from the sudden melancholy that washes over you.

Truthfully, you feel conflicted. You have been for a while now. You don’t know exactly what you feel about him, and Jungkook’s actions don’t help. Sometimes, it feels like you can’t breathe whenever he’s near because you’re so mesmerized, but there are also times – a lot of times in fact – that you feel like he’s your safe space. Like right now. It sounds deluded even in your head but you think his arms feel a little too… home-y. Like you belong right there. 

Then there’s the guilt of being this… way. You’re so confused you don’t even know what you’re doing at this point. You push and pull. He almost kissed you and you swerved just in time to make up some lame excuse about being sleepy. He took you home because you were drunk and brought you hangover porridge right after he got out of work because… because what? 

“Why?” you whisper, the sound barely there. Like you didn’t even mean to let it out. 

“What do you mean, why?”

You shut your eyes close. “Why do you… why do you do this?” 

The question feels weighted, and it is. You can’t see Jungkook, and maybe you’re thankful for that because there’s vulnerability in your uncertainty that you don’t want to show him. 

You feel him pulling up his chin from the crown of your head, and when he lets go of your shoulders, you only tighten your hold around him. Partly because if he breaks away from the hug, he’ll look at you and see you. 

“You do these… things. You’re so nice. And you’re so sweet. You take care of me as if–” you stop yourself. “I don’t know, Jungkook. You confuse me. Why? Why do you do this?”

“__, can—” Jungkook tries to let go again, eager to make you look at him. 

“No. Listen, it’s taking everything in me to be calm right now. I’m embarrassed and I don’t want you to see my face.” 

You hear Jungkook letting out a sigh. 

“Why do you think so?” He says after awhile, finally setting his arms around you again. But this time, the other one is around your waist, and you try to not think too much about how he’s gently rubbing your waist right now.

You really don’t like the fact that you like it too much when he does that. Even hate it more that he himself seems to like doing that. 

“I can think of a few reasons.” you tell him.

“What are those?” 

Thank god you’re having this conversation without seeing each other’s faces. You’ll combust if it was the other way around.

“Well, maybe… you’re just inherently kind and you just like helping people.” You lamely say, and even you don’t believe that. 

Jungkook lets out a chuckle anyway, disbelief painting his voice when he responds, “You think I do this to everybody?” 

“I wouldn’t know.” 

“It’s nice you think of me like that. But no. I don’t do this to everybody, __. I don’t offer my place when someone’s apartment gets flooded, and I don’t cook them hangover porridge right after I get off work.”

You bite your lip. “Okay… then you’re just a really good friend, then.” 

Jungkook stops rubbing your waist. And you feel him freezing.

His tone is almost incredulous when he says. “You think it’s because you’re my friend.”

That makes you break away from the hug quickly. You take offense at the disbelief on his face, and you make sure to glare at him for that. 

“What do you mean by that? Are you being a snob when we’re literally hugging—”

“No, __, god—” Jungkook cuts you off. He grabs you closer again. Gentle. Putting his hands on your waist, he looks into your eyes with a deep sense of sincerity and eagerness. “You really think I do things like this to my friends?” 

You try to look away, but Jungkook’s hand travels from your waist to your cheek, making you look at him. You feel trapped, but there’s no feeling of suffocation from it. You like it, in fact.

“Well. Jimin would let me stay at his place whenever. Just not in his bedroom, though.” 

“Fair,” Jungkook says. His eyes cast their gaze down from your eyes to your lips. And you’ve been in this position before, but unlike last time, you don’t particularly feel like running away. “I’m glad you’re my friend. But I was thinking that… by now you must’ve realized I don’t only see you as that.” 

Maybe somewhere in your heart and mind, you expected that. Maybe you didn’t. Maybe you can still play dumb right now and tell him you don’t know what that means but for the record you’re not playing dumb, you are just this dumb and you don’t even mean that in a self-deprecating way. Just self-aware. 

But Jungkook’s words couldn’t be clearer. 

He likes you – is what he meant.

“Is it weird that we’ve only really known each other for a month… but I can already see the wheels turning in your head,” Jungkook muses when you don’t say anything. A small smile tugs at his lips, then, “You don’t have to say anything soon. If you’re not comfortable with this, I can stop. You just have to tell me.” 

You open your mouth. “I— I…”

But you find yourself drawing a blank.

“I like you, __, if it’s still not obvious.” Jungkook reiterates, more explicitly this time.  

Oh my god. 

You open and close your mouth like a fish in a tank, finding words to be unavailable in your head at the moment.

You feel Jungkook shift on his feet. “You can think about it. I’m not gonna push… but I’ll be here if you want me to.” 

“Jungkook.” You finally say his name, but it feels like the air has thickened around you.

Your fingers instinctively bunch the fabric of his collar, pulling him just a little closer. It’s not enough to throw him off, though; he remains steady, his gaze locked on yours, patient as always.

Always so patient. It makes your chest tighten.

“Yeah?”

The words are there, swirling inside you, desperate to break free. You know exactly what you want to say to his confession – you’ve imagined it, thought about it. It would be so easy, so fucking easy to say it. To tell him you feel the same way, to let him know you want this just as much. The words are right there on the tip of your tongue, practically begging to spill out.

But all that comes out is a soft, unsure, “Can you wait for me?”

It’s not what you wanted to say. It’s not enough. But it’s all you can manage.

Because even though it feels easy, even though you can almost taste the possibility of it, you know deep down that you’re not ready. Not for this. Not for the weight of it all – a relationship, a commitment you’re not sure will work. 

It’s like standing on the edge of a cliff, nature pulling you in for a dive, the wind howling in your ears. You can feel the adrenaline, the rush, the pull to just jump. But you’re unprepared, no harness to catch you, no guarantees. You know that falling means you’ll crash. You’ll hurt.

“I will.”

Jungkook’s voice is calm, almost too calm, and he smiles at you. It’s gentle, the kind of smile that makes everything feel... safe. And for some reason, despite the fear swirling in your chest, you believe him.

You decide, against everything in you that’s scared shitless, to trust him. To trust that maybe, just maybe, he’ll be there when you’re ready just like he promised.

all right reserved © awrkive, 2025. no reposts, modification, and copying allowed. if you enjoy my work/s and have the extra means, please consider supporting me on ko-fi <3

[doberbutts]

With this latest round of discourse being "trans men shouldn't complain about being kicked out of women's spaces", I felt the urge to write up a relatively long post regarding the topic, as I feel it is a long tangled mess and involves a significant amount of people simply talking past each other.

To begin, what is a woman's space? I ask this, because "women's spaces" often fall under one of three categories: medical services, social services, and social gatherings. Of the three, trans men need access to nearly everything if not everything included within "medical services" and "social services". These things often need to be considered co-ed anyway, but are still considered "for women" and often are labeled things like "women's health" or "women's defense". Social gatherings- things such as book clubs, concerts, festivals, and other similar outings- can have a nuanced and complicated history when it comes to the inclusion, or exclusion, of trans men.

As an example- I am a binary, gay trans man who has not yet been sterilized. If I become pregnant and need to seek out social services, I must do so via my provider's "Women and Babies" department. I am neither of those things, and yet regardless of whether I am completing or terminating the pregnancy, I must label myself a woman in order to receive care. If I wish to have a pap smear, receive birth control, or investigate my chances of ovarian and cervical cancer, I must do so via the "Women's Health Clinic". I am not a woman, but I must label myself as one in order to discuss sterilization options. Many trans men who have had their gender markers changed prior to sterilization have reported difficulty even booking an appointment, as well as difficulty convincing their insurance to pay for this appointment due to a discrepancy with gender markers vs gendered care. Many have discussed the realities of being a pregnant man, whether they remained pregnant until their child was born, or whether they terminated said pregnancy with an abortion.

It should come as no surprise that the statistics for trans men receiving quality gynecological care are abysmal. It should be equally unsurprising to hear how many trans men have died from botched abortions, untreated miscarriages, infections and cancers of the uterus and cervix and ovaries, and complications during pregnancy or birth. We belong in this space, despite it being labeled "for women", and the only thing pushing us out has done is quite literally what's been killing us.

This is, of course, not even taking into account the numbers of trans men who have been forced to become pregnant via their husbands or families as a means to detransition them, and those who have become pregnant as a result of corrective rape. There is a saying among trans men of my age- it isn't "we all know a guy this has happened to", it's "which of us haven't experienced this? who among us doesn't fear this? who will it happen to next?"

Which brings me to my next point: women's social services. As with women's medical care, nearly everything labeled "for women" as a social service must be inclusive to trans men. Shelters for domestic violence survivors, rape crisis centers, self defense classes, family planning, these are all things that honestly should already be co-ed. But, many times, they are exclusively targeted towards women. I understand why, I do. But with trans men being statistically more likely than cis women to experience the need for these services, it seems a cruelty to close their doors to a vulnerable demographic reaching out for help.

Where should trans men in crisis go? Shutting the door to us without addressing the reason we need to access these resources gives us a single ultimatum: detransition, or die. Go back to being a woman, or die knowing the likelihood that a woman's name will adorn your headstone, and "daughter, wife, mother" will be said in your obituary. Much like the medical services, this incomplete answer has lead many trans men to their deaths. Whether by their own hands, or by their attackers'.

But there are other social services out there that perhaps are not as dire. Women's scholarships, colleges, all girls schools. Girl Scouts, women's sport leagues, gym memberships. Trans men don't need access to these, right?

Well... is the trans man in question out? Has he been living as a man, or is he still closeted? Is it safe for him to come out? Does he pass, or has he just bought his first binder and given himself his first buzz cut? Is he living under the control of his parents, or is he able to freely decide for himself the type of person he'd like to be and the type of life he'd like to live?

You see, I was a Girl Scout once. And, if we are to believe to our core that trans men are men even before they know the words "transgender", this means I was a boy in a girl's space. I didn't know that being transgender was an option for me at the point where my troop disbanded, and another leader to replace the first within my local area was not found until after I had aged out.

But also... I was in 7th grade when my troop disbanded. Two years later, I would learn the word "transgender", and suddenly everything would make sense. Two years later, I would come out to my parents and my sisters. To put this into perspective, I graduated high school in 2010. The Boy Scouts officially allowed cisgender girls and transgender people of all genders to join all programs in 2019.

I was not expelled from my Girl Scout troop. My leader simply stopped showing up to meetings, and my troop disbanded to go our separate ways when leadership could not find someone quickly enough to replace her. But... if this had not happened, I would have been a recently out transgender boy in a girl's social service, still wearing push up bras and frilly shirts because that's all my parents would buy me until I became an adult and moved out and had a job with my own money to re-purchase myself a wardrobe. Indistinguishable from any of the others, outside of what went on inside my own mind.

I would not have been accepted into the Boy Scouts, if Girl Scouts had been taken from me as abruptly as it was from a different transgender boy in the same state I was born and raised. Which would have left me with... nothing. Neither. And the only reason I even joined the Girl Scouts was because I had wanted to join the Boy Scouts and the local troop had refused to allow me, because they had labeled me a girl.

I don't believe I'm the one that coined Schrodinger's Gender, but I do reference it often. In this situation, one is both a boy when it hurts, and a girl when it hurts. Even if that gender label changes by the second, the point is to use your gender and your assigned sex to hurt you.

But then, why do these services even have to be gendered to begin with? After all, Boy Scouts just updated to be The Scouts, and has removed (on paper) the insistence on gendering.

Well... I certainly agree that the majority of gendering these services is at this point a concept that needs to be reformed, but I'm unconvinced that we will be able to completely integrate without addressing the reason they were segregated by gender in the first place.

Women's gym memberships are gender segregated for two reasons. Women and girls- and anyone labeled as women and girls, regardless of true identity- are frequently not afforded the same access to resources as cisgender men and boys. Women and girls- and anyone labeled such- are frequently at high risk of predatory sexual behavior and physical violence. Both of these problems are symptoms of a larger system of misogyny at play, and both of these problems directly affect trans men especially those who have not transitioned in a way that makes them pass for cis men.

Regardless of the truth of my identity, the reality is that I was seen as and treated as a girl when it came to physical fitness, and thus barred from the same activities freely offered to the boys. Regardless of the truth of my identity, I have experienced predatory sexual behavior from cis men as young as 8 or 9 years old, continuing past when I came out and began to transition socially.

If the problem is not addressed, cis women cannot re-integrate with cis men. But, additionally, if the problem is not addressed, the choice still remains clear for trans men. Detransition, stay closeted, or go without.

A common complaint of trans men is the invisibility and erasure our demographic faces. It should be easy to see why this happens. The problem of a misogynistic society is one that continues to this day, and without addressing the problem we cannot hope for success in creating a more inclusive space. At the same time, trans men are being pushed out and isolated as they realize they must make a choice.

As for social gatherings, such as a woman's retreat or a woman's music festival? Of course, it may sound odd to say that a trans man should feel welcome there. But the truth of the matter is the majority of the trans men asking for the ability to stay are trans men who have been within that space for years already, prior to coming out, prior to realizing some things about their genders, prior to taking their first steps as men.

I'm pretty good friends with an older butch who told me that I am the first person they ever told that they were a nonbinary man. This person is in their 50s. They're married. But the wife doesn't like it, and they love their wife too much to cause friction in the relationship, so they keep it to themselves, and they keep quiet, and they don't say anything about being transgender, but in their head they aren't a woman. This person is not a woman, by their own insistence. Should this person be forcibly ejected from their local lesbian community, which they and the wife helped form decades ago? Should they divorce their wife, since that would make her not a lesbian anymore?

What harm is it, truly, to allow this person to stay? Social isolation kills people. The trans man suicide statistics are just as abysmal as any of the others I've mentioned here. Forcing someone to burn 20, 30, 40 years of their lives and their friends and their achievements because they are finally living as themselves is a deeply hurtful and isolating experience.

The majority of trans men asking to be included in these spaces are not trans men like me- who never really jived with the idea of womanhood and distanced ourselves as much as possible the moment we saw the opportunity. They are men like my friend, often existing outside of the binary, often with a deep love and appreciation for womanhood despite realizing that perhaps the label does not fit them as well as they once thought. They often have many years of connection, entire lives spent intwined in these spaces.

What good does it do to chase them out? What harm does it to do let them stay?

[handlemehyuck]

ohmygod 🥺 printing this out to hang up on my bedroom wall. thank you so much 🥺🥺 i’m listening to hold on as i write this. it’s a song i’ve never heard before, but i’m loving it. it’s def my style and feels well aligned with this piece, so thank you for the beautiful rec 🤍

it makes me so happy to read what you liked about this piece and everything that stood out to you, especially how i chose to build the environment yet still feeling grounded despite the minimal details.

i’ll always include consent in any fic with physical intimacy i ever write. i see so much beauty in that moment. i look forward to writing it in more ways, and i’ll always find it incredibly sexy too.

originally, it was titled golden hours. my friend and i had a conversation about the kind of lover we think jeno and jaemin will be. they brought it down to two simple lines for each man, and my final title happens to be my friend’s line for jeno. it resonated with me, and i’m fascinated by the way one chooses to metabolize feelings—how they work through them and shed the weight. i’m fascinated by the need and desire for help but having a hard time asking for it. i love the idea of having an attentive partner who wants to help and turn it into something pleasurable—take that ball of stress and sculpt it into something beautiful and intimate, fun and sexy, connective, euphoric.

the title does have a dark hue, and i actually wondered if it wasn’t the right choice at first, but it spoke to me—made more sense than golden hours.

thank you again for this detailed response. it brought me so much joy 🥹✨✨

take what you need from me . lee jeno

・❥・ cockwarming (reader falls asleep during) + light fingering 18+ mdni fluff, stress relief, jeno x female reader 1.2k

thinking about cockwarming with boyfriend jeno, and its presence in your nighttime routine—the hints he receives in texts throughout the day, and that’s how this all started: your stress.

one evening, the energy that joined your arrival back home weighed down your shoulders, clouded your gaze, and kept your lips in a tight line when you approached your boyfriend after kicking off your shoes. so he took your hand, led you to your bedroom, and started undressing. every article of clothing shed enhanced the light in your eyes, straightening your posture with intrigue. when he was naked and perched on the edge of your bed, his fingertips flicked the buttons of your blouse, “may i?” the permission was easy—immediate, and he began undressing you slowly, taking his time, each movement made with care; there was no need to rush. once you were naked too, he leaned forward to kiss the stripe of skin beneath your breasts, squeezing your waist as the gentle ministration started the heavy task of clearing your head.

“i want to try something.” you watched with curiosity and awe as jeno pushed himself back until he was leaning against the headboard, muscles flexing, slivers of sunshine brushing his skin in a perfect glow. your lips parted at the sight, instinctually moving forward and taking his outstretched hand. you knew what this was. you had mentioned it before, when you were on his lap in the living room. it was a sunday night, serenity in the air and you half-dressed after a shower. he didn’t bat an eye, said you should try it while tracing your delicate lines of ink, wondered aloud if you already had. only a couple of times. with the wrong person, but a seed of something was still planted: closeness—a complete union.

your knees sink into the mattress, distance closing as you approach his waist, cock hard against his taut stomach, but his eyes are gentle and soft. jeno smiles at you, something reassuring as your legs widen to accommodate the width of his thighs. a guiding hand placed on your hips as you sink down.

the stretch is familiar. his hands on your thighs are warm. your locked gazes send a chill down your spine. for a moment, all you do is watch each other, feeling his length exactly where you want it, loving the warm buzz of need but knowing you won’t give in. you tilt your head, eyes closing as the waves of sweet euphoria lap at the edges of your mind, begging for a total flood. jeno draws you closer. your chests collide. your head dips, lips meeting his skin, grazing his neck, and sucking your favorite spot behind his ear—the place that always pulls a delicious sound from his lips. his strong arms hold you in a soft possession, fingertips kneading over your shoulders and down your back, searching for the spot that wakes you up in the middle of the night.

the feeling of your body going slack in his arms is electrifying because jeno knows what it means—how significant it is to be trusted completely, reminded of a moment so early on it feels like a lifetime ago when he told you: take what you need from me. he remembers the surprise that shifted your features. it widened your eyes, parted your lips, and warmed your cheeks. in that moment, his words meant a million things. neither one of you could know exactly where they’d begin and where they’d end, if anywhere at all. in the moments you feel like you’re taking too much, all jeno experiences is satisfaction and safety in your heart as the man you decided was worth letting in, letting yourself be known by, letting yourself connect with, and fall and tumble into something so intertwined you don’t doubt it’s cosmic.

jeno knows you’ve fallen asleep and readjusts himself ever so slightly, propping up another pillow behind him before closing his own eyes to focus on the rise and fall of your chest. the beat he feels against his own is recognized by his heart, and his breath matches yours.

you wake up to the sound of your name mumbled against your skin, an apologetic tone. “baby, i’m so sorry. i’ve got to piss.”

you hum, amused and start to lift yourself, but jeno stops you, catching you in a blissful kiss. his thumb teases the side of your breast, hardening your nipples. no fair. when he pulls away, you kiss his nose and finally disconnect with a sigh. one that melts into his own.

he’s still taking his time, and you lay propped up on your side to admire all of his solid lines, finding the soft and round places with ease. “are you sure you have to pee?”

“my leg’s asleep.” his smile is lazy, eyes shrinking to crescents. a light laughter follows, spilling a similar glow to the sun’s throughout your bedroom, its light gone until morning.

“should i stab it with a pen?” his expression sends you into giggles, and you settle for gentle squeezes along his quad muscle. “not my jen, i could never.” you fall onto your stomach and pepper kisses just above his knee. “better?” jeno hums, encouraging you to keep going.

you kiss his body until jeno stops you, groaning about the damn bathroom again, knowing his hard on will create an unfortunate struggle. “don’t go anywhere.” like you ever would.

you coo loudly, embarrassing him as he waddles through your closet and into the attached bath. “shut up!”

you turn to lay flat on your back, drawing a fingertip up your abdomen and through the valley between your breasts, completely immersed in euphoria. “don’t you dare come back in here without washing your hands.”

“who do you think i am?” the faucet turns on for a full 30 seconds - yes, you count them - before your boyfriend is back and standing over your body. he admires you: the curves he’d recognize with his eyes closed, your blissful expression, the swell of your chest, faint bruises from the weekend decorating your hip. “should we make love, baby?”

“please,” his thumb traces your lips, and you watch his face with wide eyes, eager not to miss a thing.

“you always ask so nicely, doll.”

“jen,” you moan as he pops his thumb into your mouth. your tongue circles it on instinct, satisfied, he draws it out. “please don’t make me wait.”

“i wasn’t going to,” he kisses your nose and then your forehead. sinking into the mattress, his knees entrap you this time. his thumb is coated in your saliva, not that he needs the help—your folds are already soaked. “mmm, always ready for me too.”

“you make it easy, jen.” you squirm beneath him, close to steering his thumb exactly where you need it.

he’s being playful, knowing there’s hours ahead of this, and you’ll be orgasmic until the sun rises. it’s one of the reasons why he has a thing about middle of the night lovemaking. he can only see so much of you in the moonlight. the shadows are exciting, lines of light find you in the lewdest places. but, his favorite part is watching you clarify—his love all over you as the sun stretches and yawns before you’re completely coated in light. light that sticks to your swollen lips, messy hair, bruised skin, the place where your bodies intertwine, his hand around your neck, your eyelids fluttering when his name is the only thing left to say because you know it makes him cum.

[kcsplace]

Ice and Mav get together shortly after the events of the first film, teaching together at Top Gun and then going home together. They're insanely, crazily, never-getting-over-this in love with each other.

But always in the back of Mav's mind is Ice's ambition for his career, knows those shoulders should bear stars, and that being tied to Mav, or worse, anyone finding out about them, hell even gossiping, will turn Mav from albatross to anchor and Ice would be lucky to stay in the Navy at all, let alone advance and climb the ladder the way he wants, the way he deserves.

The way, in Mav's opinion, the Navy needs.

So, despite it tearing his heart from his chest, despite it nearly killing him, he breaks up with Ice, leaving behind the man he loves and the secret vows they whispered to each other when nobody else could hear.

Time passes. Deployments come and go. Suicide missions are survived. Orders are generally followed.

And Ice advances, promotion after promotion filling his file, the man becoming a part of the Brass as though born to it, a natural leader, a man those under his command want to follow, want to impress, want to emulate.

Nobody has ever met Kazansky's wife but he's worn a wedding ring for years, decades even, but he always attends events alone. His staff begin to wonder if he's a widower but they sure as shit aren't asking about it. Fair he might be, but the Admiral is also firm about one rule: personal life is private.

Nor do they ask about why he always steps in for a Captain Mitchell, winkling him out of whatever trouble he'd gotten himself into this time, the man a menace as much as a hero.

They chalk it up to the mural that graces the halls of every command that the Admiral has ever led, the Layton Rescue, a feat so heroic it's whispered about in the halls even to this day.

But never is it mentioned to the Admiral.

Not until The Mission.

Not until said Captain ends up on their doorstep, not until he walks into the Admiral's office like he belongs there despite his lack of appointment. Not until ice's aide, scurrying after the man, the myth, the menace, almost crashed into the Captain's back at how he stops short in the doorway.

The aide's blustering attempt to apologize to the Admiral stop short as he hears the Captain speak, the man gaping at the ring that encircles the Admiral's finger and asks "you still wear it? You kept my ring?"

When the aide tries to recount the story later to an agog staff meeting, he can't for the life of him capture the depth and rawness of emotion in the Admiral's voice, the distraught yet fond expression on his face as he spoke.

"I kept everything."

[leilawanderingaround]

Imagine Phainon abandoning his duty as the deliverancer for your cause...

They said geniuses hailed from the grove are nothing but a bunch of people who have lost their mind. One of them includes you.

The one who has angered the gods- they called you. Only it was enough to make Phainon curious. Surely you can't be that bad.

Arrogance, ambitious, heartless towards others, obsessive with forbidden knowledge. They scorn your existence, wishing for your demise yet follow your every order. Because they know it was the only way for you to stay alive.

"They shouldn't be alive to begin with"

"It was only by Cerces's grace that they still stand."

"The black tide failed to take back its creation again I see"

He imagines you to be this cold and fearsome leading figure, similar to that of Aglaea. But to his surprise, you were very... what to say... skittish?

You ignore him despite his ongoing attempts to talk to you, choosing to stay silent whenever he asked a question. Walking past him whenever you two cross paths. Or often locking the door of your study so he couldn't go in, and is even willing to skip meals just to avoid him.

"Reckless genius" he scolded inside his head as he found your door remained locked again during dinner time.

It's not like he come baring any ill intents. While yes, it's Aglaea's order to gather information. He doesn't plan on violating any rules or put anyone in harm way.

He just wished to learn more about you.

Anaxa- one of the few that you tolerate enough to barely talk to due to similar beliefs, have many time told him to drop it.

"They is not the type to bend easily. That idiot would rather die than have a proper talk to a Chrysos Heir like you" the sage said. "Best not to bother them..."

Too bad Phainon's patience has run dry at this point.

______

"So you found it..." Phainon could feel the gun's barrel pressed against the back of his head. The hero stays frozen, hands gripping the scroll tightly. His mind reeling from the information he just learned from all the scrolls inside your study. " I told you not to bother them. And you choose to ignore my warning"

Anaxa could feel the cold sweat running down his spine. He knows that the chosen ones have been sent here by the golden seamstress to find information about you but he never expected that he would be this reckless to just break in entering in board daylight, choosing the only day in the week when you weren't there to confront him.

"Did you know about this?" Phainon's voice sends tremble down Anaxa's arm. The sage swallows roughly before nodding.

"I am their partner in crime after all..." Anaxa said. His finger pressing slightly on the trigger but not enough to fire. He would like to avoid murder the deliverancer if possible. But if he insists on tattling to his allies, Anaxa wouldn't mind going down with him today just to ensure that you stay safe.

"All for you. Only for you." The sage thought as Phainon turn around. He wouldn't have anything if it wasn't for you. It's only right if he returns everything to you, for you.

"So you are saying that all we have been doing is all futile." Phainon's mind began racing. How many times did they do this? How many people have suffered and died just to continue this cursed cycle to continue? Has all he has done have been for naught?

"That I can't say..." Anaxa let out a breath he had been holding. The sage doesn't know the full extent of your research on the prophecy after all. You're not very willing to share, even with him- your closest confidant.

In a flash, Phainon turned around and promptly knocked Anaxa out cold on the floor before wending out of the room to find you. The one who could answer all of this.

_____

You knew he would come, you were waiting. Your arms crossed in front of your chest. You let out a sigh as the hero steps into your house after breaking the door down.

He stand in front of you, staring down. His blue eyes missing its usual warm gaze. Phainon's hands come to your shoulders, squeezing hard enough to bruised.

You have to stop yourself from groaning as you stare at him. Your heart beats like crazy inside of your ribcage.

" It doesn't matter" you thought. You could just start over the next cycle. And you won't fail again. But for now, you are willing to die.

Instead of the strike that you were hoping for, Phainon pull you closer, hugging your form. His hands trembling with unknown feeling.

"What do you need?" He ask. "To stop all of this... To safe everyone"

You were bewildered. What's happening here? You try to use your hand to push the hero away yet he hold you even closer, close enough that it was hard to breath properly.

"You need the core flames right? I will take them for you. I will bring you whatever you need. After that, we can get out of this together. Out of this cursed world..."

That day Phainon- the deliverancer disappeared. And someone don the mask of the Flame Reaver appeared.

[aspenmissing]

Okay okay okay. That angst one put my head in a space (a good one don't worry). And it gave me an idea.

Reader ends up protecting their love. They may be super hurt (angst) but they don't die (comfort). Hurt/comfort is also another trope I'm a sucker for hehe.

I'm thinking all our fellas and anyone else you'd like 💕

I hope you're having a good day!

ᴡᴏᴜɴᴅꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇᴀʟ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx || ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ/ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 9129 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ɴᴇᴀʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ꜰɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ, ᴇxᴘʟᴏꜱɪᴏɴꜱ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ᴏʜ ᴍʏ, ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ ʏᴀʀɴ! ꜱᴏ ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜ! ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ʙᴇ ᴀ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴏɴᴇ ᴍɪꜱꜱʏ!! ᴀɴʏᴡᴀʏ, ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴡɪꜱʜ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀ ᴠᴇʀʏ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ᴅᴀʏ/ɴɪɢʜᴛ! :ᴅ <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx/ᴘᴏᴡᴅᴇʀ

JAYCE

The night was thick with tension, the moon hiding behind a veil of dark clouds. The clash of steel echoed through the alleyway, the faint glow of Piltover’s lights casting long shadows on the cobblestones. Jayce’s breath came heavy, his eyes flickering to the side as he noticed the approaching threat—figures cloaked in the unmistakable shadows of Zaun's underbelly.

He didn’t have time to react, not when he heard the soft footfalls behind him.

“Jayce, move!” you called out, urgency in your voice. But before he could even turn, the first strike came.

A sharp pain lanced through your side, and you barely had time to register it before you staggered forward, blocking the blade meant for him. The force of the blow sent you crashing to the ground, your knees buckling beneath you as your blood pooled beneath you.

"Y/N!" Jayce shouted, his voice ragged with panic. His hand went to his hammer, his muscles tensing as he prepared to swing it, but he was too slow.

You forced yourself up, wincing from the pain, but you couldn’t stand, not with your vision blurring. "Go... you need to get out of here," you murmured, your voice ragged, each word a battle.

His eyes were wide with disbelief, hands shaking as they hovered over you. Jayce had never been one for showing weakness, but seeing you hurt—really hurt—had shattered that, leaving only raw, unfiltered fear.

"You’re not leaving me," Jayce said firmly, his voice full of determination. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

You shook your head, trying to push yourself to your feet, though the pain from your wound was unbearable. You couldn’t let him see you like this, not when the danger was still so near.

The enemy was closing in, and Jayce’s gaze flickered between you and them. With a low snarl, he swung his hammer to his side, holding it tight as he stepped forward, ready to fight.

But before he could strike, you reached out, grabbing his wrist with what little strength you had left.

“I’ll be fine,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the clashing of steel. “You... you need to fight.”

His face twisted with indecision, guilt gnawing at him, but he knew you were right. His duty to Piltover, his duty to protect, wouldn’t allow him to hesitate. With a heavy breath, he nodded, his jaw clenched, eyes burning with a quiet promise.

“I won’t let them get away with this,” he muttered, his grip tightening around the shaft of his hammer.

Without another word, Jayce turned towards the enemies, his focus absolute. The air seemed to vibrate as he raised his hammer high, his movements swift and powerful. He charged, unleashing the full force of his might as the heavy clang of his hammer rang out, knocking back the attackers with a shockwave that echoed through the alley.

As the battle raged on, you slowly slumped to the ground, your body shaking from the pain, the world around you growing darker. Despite everything, you managed a faint smile. At least you’d done what you could. You’d protected him.

But you weren’t going to let go yet. You still had a fight left in you.

=

The faint sound of soft breathing reached you first, like a distant rhythm, almost too delicate to grasp. It was a steady pulse, steady enough to lull you into a sense of warmth, despite the dull ache that still throbbed beneath your skin.

Slowly, your eyes fluttered open, but the world around you was a blur. A soft light filtered through a crack in the curtains, bathing the sterile room in an almost peaceful glow. You tried to move, to stretch out, but the sharp pain in your side sent a jolt through you, and you winced.

“Y/N?” A voice, familiar and comforting, broke through the haze of your consciousness. You blinked, your eyes finally adjusting to the dim surroundings.

Jayce sat beside your bed, his broad hand gently wrapped around yours. His grip was warm, but there was an unmistakable tension in his fingers, as though he hadn’t let go since the moment you’d fallen unconscious. His face, usually so composed, was lined with exhaustion, his eyes red-rimmed from sleepless nights spent by your side. There were faint bags beneath his eyes, a sign of the worry that had consumed him since the attack.

For a moment, he didn’t speak, simply watching you, his lips parted in disbelief as though afraid you might slip away again.

“Jayce…” you whispered, your voice rough, but still carrying a weight of longing as you tried to meet his gaze.

The moment you spoke, he let out a shaky breath, relief flooding through his features. His thumb brushed over the back of your hand, tender and careful.

“Y/N,” he finally said, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re awake. I thought… I thought I’d lost you.” His words caught in his throat, and his gaze faltered for a moment before meeting yours again.

You tried to smile, but it faltered at the edges as the pain settled back into your body. “You’ve got to stop looking at me like that,” you said softly, trying to lighten the mood, though it came out weaker than you’d intended. “I’m fine.”

Jayce’s expression softened, though a flicker of guilt remained in his eyes. “You nearly died,” he murmured, leaning forward slightly, still holding your hand with the same quiet intensity. “If you hadn’t stepped in…”

“Don’t,” you interrupted, squeezing his hand gently. “I’d do it again. I couldn’t let them hurt you.”

He stared at you for a long moment, the weight of your words settling between you like an unspoken promise. Then, he shook his head slightly, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “I don’t want you to risk your life for me again. Not like that. You matter too much, Y/N.”

You let out a small laugh, a little breathless from the effort. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Jayce.”

His eyes softened, and a small, weary smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “I’m not trying to. I just…” He paused, the words caught in his throat once more. “I couldn’t bear it if I lost you.”

You squeezed his hand again, your grip a little stronger. “Then don’t. I’m not going anywhere.”

The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a long moment, the only sound the soft rustling of the sheets as you slowly began to gather your strength. Jayce’s hand remained in yours, warm and steady, a reminder that even in the darkest of moments, you weren’t alone.

And in that moment, with the steady rhythm of his breathing beside you and his presence grounding you, you knew that, despite the pain and the battle that lay ahead, you would fight for him as fiercely as he would fight for you.

VIKTOR

The lab was a chaotic wreck, smoke billowing in every corner as the faint crackle of sparks lingered in the air. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burnt metal and chemicals, a lingering reminder of the disastrous experiment gone wrong. Viktor's heart hammered against his ribcage, not from the explosion itself, but from the horrifying sight before him—Y/N.

There, against the far wall, slumped and covered in blood, you fought to stay conscious. The blast had thrown you across the lab, your body battered, a deep gash running down the side of your face, and your clothes were scorched and torn. Blood dripped from your lips, but you were still breathing, still hanging on.

Viktor’s hands trembled, his breath ragged as his gaze locked on you. Panic shot through him, twisting his gut. He had been so absorbed in his work, so focused on his experiment, that he hadn't seen the disaster unfolding until it was far too late. You had saved him. You had been the one to throw yourself between him and the blast, taking the brunt of the explosion in order to protect him.

"Y/N!" he cried, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper over the deafening ringing in his ears.

He staggered towards you, mind clouded with panic. Kneeling beside you, he could barely recognise your face, so covered in dust and blood. But he recognised the way your eyes flickered as you tried to speak, to reassure him. You were still conscious, still trying to be strong for him, even though your body was breaking.

"You—" you gasped, reaching weakly for him, "You… have to leave… it's too dangerous, Viktor."

His eyes flared with emotion, shaking his head. "No, not without you." His voice was firm, though his hands trembled. "I’m not leaving you, Y/N. Not like this."

Viktor’s thoughts were a blur, a storm in his mind, but all that mattered was getting you out. He pulled you into his arms with a strength born of desperation. But you were heavier than he had realised, your body far more fragile than he had ever wanted to acknowledge. Without a second thought, he dropped his cane to the floor, his fingers digging into your sides as he dragged you.

It hurt. The strain was overwhelming, pulling at his limbs, but he didn’t care. His pain meant nothing compared to the fear that gripped him, watching you slip in and out of consciousness, your body slipping from his grasp.

“Stay with me, lásko” he whispered, his breath ragged, the urgency in his voice making his words sound almost frantic. His hand slipped under your arm, lifting you slightly, but the weight of your body pressed against him like a burden, and his body screamed in protest. (Love)

But none of it mattered.

All he could focus on was getting you to safety, away from the destruction. His hands were slick with sweat, his heart racing faster than it ever had before, and he could feel his muscles screaming in agony, but he pressed on.

"Help!" Viktor shouted hoarsely, the words tearing from his throat as he staggered down the hallway, dragging you inch by inch, desperation fueling him.

Your vision blurred, your mind unable to stay focused for more than a few seconds. The pain was unbearable, the exhaustion overwhelming, but you tried to smile through it.

"Viktor... I..."

But your words faded as darkness began to close in. You tried to fight it, to stay awake, but it was too much.

The last thing you heard before your mind went silent was Viktor’s frantic shout:

“Stay with me, Y/N! Don’t you dare close your eyes!”

And then everything went black.

=

You slowly stirred, the soft beeping of medical equipment reaching your ears first. The faint scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, and the cool, sterile environment felt so different from the chaos of the lab. Your body ached, every muscle screaming in protest, but it was a dull, distant pain compared to what you had experienced earlier. You blinked, trying to make sense of your surroundings, but your vision was blurry, and the bright lights above made your head spin.

A soft voice broke through your foggy thoughts, calling your name. "Y/N? miláčku, can you hear me?" (Sweetheart)

You turned your head, trying to focus, but it took a moment for your surroundings to come into view. There, sitting by your bedside, was Viktor. His face was pale, a few days' worth of stubble along his jaw, and his eyes were red-rimmed as though he hadn’t slept in hours—maybe longer. His gaze was fixed on you, filled with a mix of relief and worry.

“Viktor…?” you croaked, your voice rough and weak.

His eyes softened, and a small, relieved sigh escaped his lips. “You’re awake. Thank the gods…” He gently took your hand, his touch warm but trembling. “You’ve been unconscious for several hours. You’ve had some serious injuries, but you’re going to be alright. The doctors here—they’ve done everything they can.”

You blinked slowly, taking in his words, trying to make sense of everything. The memories started flooding back. The explosion… the wreckage of the lab… and then, Viktor. He had… he had dragged you out, hadn’t he?

The realisation hit you like a tidal wave. You tried to sit up, but the pain in your body made you wince, and you quickly collapsed back into the bed. You grimaced, rubbing your forehead as the memory sharpened. Viktor didn’t pick up his cane—he had been dragging you without it.

The panic surged within you as you turned your eyes to him, your voice breaking through the haze. “Viktor… your leg…”

Viktor’s face went still, and for a moment, you could see something flicker in his eyes—a fleeting moment of hesitation, a deep sadness that he quickly masked. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, but it was enough for you to realise what you had missed. His cane, the one he always had by his side, was nowhere to be found.

Your heart raced. You could feel your chest tighten, panic surging through you as the weight of what had happened hit you.

“Viktor… please tell me… you didn’t—" You struggled to sit up again, reaching for him, but he gently pushed you back down, his fingers trembling around your wrist as if afraid you might hurt yourself further.

“Y/N, please…” His voice cracked slightly, betraying the concern he was hiding. “Don’t strain yourself. You’re in no condition—”

“No!” you interrupted, the desperation in your voice clear as you pushed his hand away. “Viktor, your leg—where is your cane? You didn’t—”

You could barely form the words, the shock and worry building in your chest, your heart racing with the fear that he had once again put himself in danger for your sake.

Viktor’s jaw tightened, and for the first time since you woke up, he looked away from you, his eyes cast down, avoiding your gaze. It was enough to tell you everything. He hadn’t just dragged you out of the wreckage—he had done it at the cost of his own well-being.

“I couldn’t…” he murmured softly, almost to himself, as if trying to justify it. “You were fading. I… I couldn’t leave you behind.”

You stared at him, your breath catching as the full weight of his actions hit you. “Viktor…” You shook your head, disbelief and frustration battling within you. “You didn’t have your cane. You’re already suffering—how could you do that to yourself?”

His eyes lifted to meet yours again, this time a raw vulnerability in them. “I had to get you out. I had no choice, Y/N.”

“But you do,” you whispered, your voice shaking. “You always have a choice. You could have asked for help… or waited—anything but pushing yourself like that.”

He let out a bitter laugh, his lips curving into a wry smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I didn’t have the time. You were hurt, and I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you.”

Your heart ached at the rawness of his words, at how deeply he cared. But the guilt that twisted in your chest was unbearable. He had risked himself—again—for you.

"Viktor," you said softly, your voice full of sincerity and the softest plea, "you mean everything to me. But you need to take care of yourself too."

He looked at you, his eyes softening, the walls he had carefully built around himself faltering ever so slightly. He took your hand in his, his fingers cold but strong as he gently squeezed. "I don’t care about myself, Y/N. All I care about is you."

You gazed at him, your heart swelling with affection for this brilliant, self-sacrificing man. "Then let me take care of you, Viktor. For once."

He hesitated, his lips pressing together in an unreadable expression. Then, finally, with a slow, almost reluctant nod, he gave in, and for the first time, the weight of his burden seemed to lift, if only a little.

"You’ll always be my priority," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

As you lay back into the bed, your hand still holding his, you realised something deeper than ever before. It wasn’t just your lives that were at stake—it was your hearts, both of you willing to sacrifice everything for the other.

JAYVIK

The alley was dark, the sound of footsteps echoing against the brick walls, their shadows stretched out long in the evening light. Y/N felt their eyes on her before she heard the faint whisper of voices approaching from behind. They had been trailing her for hours, intent on getting something—anything—from her.

She had known it was coming, and still, her heart pounded in her chest. She had always been a protector, but tonight, the roles would be reversed. Tonight, she was the one who needed protecting.

Jayce and Viktor were only a few streets away, busy with their own work, but Y/N knew she couldn’t drag them into this. She’d dealt with the dangers of Zaun and Piltover long enough to know that some things were better kept in the shadows.

The voices drew nearer, and she couldn’t ignore the growing sense of danger. They were getting closer.

"You know, it’s not wise to keep secrets, miss," a man’s voice sneered from behind her.

Y/N tensed, recognising the threat. She wasn’t going to give them what they wanted. No matter how many times they asked, she would never reveal Viktor and Jayce’s plans or their secrets.

"They’ll find out eventually," another voice said, deeper and more menacing.

Y/N clenched her fists. She wouldn’t cave. She couldn’t.

The first man lunged at her, grabbing her by the arm and twisting it behind her back. She struggled, but he was stronger, and another person moved in quickly, wrapping their arms around her to hold her still.

"Tell us what we want to know," the second thug growled, pressing the cold edge of a blade to her throat, "and maybe we’ll let you walk away."

Y/N felt her breath catch. The blade was close, but she refused to show any fear. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, trying to ignore the terror crawling up her spine. "You’ll have to kill me first," she spat, her voice unwavering despite the rising panic inside her.

The thug with the knife grinned darkly. "Stubborn," he muttered, shoving her back into the wall. The impact knocked the air out of her, and she gasped, her vision momentarily swimming as she tried to regain her balance.

The attackers wasted no time, each taking their turn to strike at her with words and fists. One of them slammed a knee into her stomach, forcing a sharp breath from her lungs, and another punched her in the ribs, sending searing pain shooting through her chest. They weren’t just after information—they were intent on breaking her spirit.

"Just tell us what we want, and it’ll all stop," the man holding her grunted, tightening his grip on her arms, making it impossible for her to break free.

She barely managed to lift her head, her vision blurred from the blows, her face already bruising. "I... won’t... tell you anything," she forced out, her voice shaky but resolute. "Not for you... not for anyone."

The thug with the knife pressed it to her side this time, digging the blade into her skin. "You’re a tough one," he sneered, "but you’re going to break eventually."

Y/N winced as the blade cut deeper, the sharp pain searing through her side. Blood began to trickle down her waist, staining her shirt. The agony of the wound made her feel faint, but she didn’t give them the satisfaction of crying out. She was stronger than this.

Suddenly, the sound of a cane tapping against the cobblestones broke the tension, followed by a cold voice that cut through the air like a blade itself.

"Enough."

Viktor’s voice was calm, but there was a sharpness to it that none of the thugs expected. His cane clicked again against the stones, a sound that felt like an ominous warning. He stepped into the alley, his usually mechanical grace replaced by a determined, almost human fragility. Jayce was a step behind him, his posture brimming with energy and readiness, eyes scanning the scene for threats.

The attackers, still too focused on Y/N, barely took notice of the two men standing before them. Viktor’s gaze was locked onto the thug holding Y/N, his face unreadable. "Let her go," he commanded, his voice low and deadly.

The thugs laughed, the sound echoing off the walls. One of them scoffed. "And what? You’re going to stop us with your little stick?" He waved his knife tauntingly at Viktor, thinking he was a threat to be dismissed.

Viktor’s face remained impassive, though his grip on his cane tightened. "Perhaps you don’t realise who you’re dealing with," he said coldly.

Y/N managed a weak laugh, feeling relief surge in her chest as she saw them arrive. Viktor. Jayce. They were here.

But the moment of relief was short-lived.

The thug holding the knife turned to Viktor, making a quick move to strike. But before the blade could reach its target, Jayce lunged forward, his hammer swinging with brutal precision. The first thug was thrown into the wall with a sickening thud, his body crumpling to the ground.

Viktor, far less physically imposing but no less dangerous, didn’t hesitate. With quick thinking, he rushed forward, using his cane as an extension of his reach. He jabbed it sharply into the throat of the next attacker, the force causing him to stumble back, gasping for breath. But that wasn’t enough to stop them.

=

In the chaos, one of the remaining thugs turned to Y/N, knife flashing in the dim light. His focus was on her, thinking her incapacitated enough to be easy prey. Before she could react, he slashed across her side again, cutting deep.

Pain exploded in her chest as the blood started to pour from the wound. She gasped, her body buckling beneath the intensity of the injury. The world tilted and spun, her knees giving out beneath her as she crumpled to the ground.

"Y/N!" Viktor shouted, his voice cracking in a rare moment of panic. He rushed forward, dropping his cane as he knelt beside her, his hands trembling as he tried to stop the bleeding. "Stay with me. Please."

Jayce dealt with the remaining thugs in a blur of motion, but Viktor didn’t notice. His focus was on Y/N, his heart racing. He had failed her in the one moment when she needed him most.

Y/N’s hand reached out, trembling as it brushed Viktor’s arm. "Don’t waste your time on me..." she whispered, her voice weak, strained from pain. "You’ve got bigger things to worry about."

Viktor’s heart tightened. "I won’t let you die," he muttered, more fiercely than he'd meant.

Jayce helped Viktor lift Y/N, his voice filled with an uncharacteristic urgency. "We need to get her out of here. Now!"

Y/N's body felt heavy in their arms, and her vision was fading fast. The pain from the wound was like a fire consuming her, and with every breath, she felt further away from the world. But through the haze of darkness, she managed to whisper, her voice barely audible.

"Promise me... you won’t let them get to you again."

Viktor tightened his grip on her, his expression one of rare vulnerability. His usual composure had cracked, and his voice was hoarse with emotion as he promised, "I swear it."

But before Y/N could respond, her head lolled weakly, her vision blurring even more. The last thing she heard, muffled by the ringing in her ears, was Jayce’s voice, full of desperation.

"We’ll get you to safety. Stay with us, Y/N. Just stay with us."

Then, without waiting for another moment, Jayce scooped her up in his arms, his legs moving faster than he ever thought possible as he sprinted towards the nearest medical facility. Viktor followed close behind, eyes still fixed on Y/N, his worry growing with every step.

=

When Y/N woke up, she felt disoriented, as if she had just emerged from a fog. The sterile smell of the medical room filled her senses, and for a moment, she didn’t know where she was. Her body ached in places she didn’t know could hurt, and the sharp, searing pain from her side reminded her of everything that had happened.

As her eyes fluttered open, the soft light of the room was blinding. She squinted, trying to adjust, but a voice—one that made her heart skip a beat—cut through the haze.

"Y/N?" Viktor's voice, familiar and calming, but laced with something she couldn’t quite place. Concern. Relief. "You’re awake."

She turned her head slowly, meeting Viktor’s gaze. He was standing beside the bed, his face lined with exhaustion, though his eyes were filled with warmth. He looked... human, vulnerable in a way she hadn’t seen before. His hand rested on the edge of the bed, but he didn’t touch her yet, as if afraid she might shatter at his touch.

Jayce, however, was lying next to her, his presence a comforting weight beside her. He had settled beside her on the bed, his hand resting gently on her chest, wanting to feel the rhythm of her heartbeat. He had been silent, his usual boisterous nature replaced with something more fragile, as if afraid that even the smallest movement might cause her to slip away. When her eyes met his, he let out a breath, his face softening with relief. He had been watching her like this for what felt like an eternity.

"Good to see you’re back with us," Jayce said quietly, his voice rough, as if he hadn’t spoken for hours. There was a layer of worry beneath the words, the tension in his shoulders telling its own story.

Y/N’s lips parted, but her voice felt weak, and her words caught in her throat. She tried to speak, to ask about the others or to explain that she was fine, but her body didn’t quite respond the way she wanted it to. Instead, her eyes met Viktor’s again, and she gave him a weak, half-smile.

"I told you," she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. "You won’t let them get to you... not again."

Viktor’s hand finally moved, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. His expression softened, but there was an underlying tension in his eyes. "I promised," he said, his voice almost a whisper, as if he was still grappling with the reality of what had nearly happened.

Jayce shifted slightly, his hand remaining on her chest as if to reassure himself that she was really there, really awake. His thumb gently traced the outline of her collarbone, the gesture almost absentminded, as if grounding himself in her presence.

"We’ll let you rest now," Jayce said softly, his voice steady but full of the weight of everything he hadn’t said yet. "But the next time someone tries something like this, they’ll have to deal with us."

Y/N let her eyes flutter shut for just a moment, relief washing over her as she let the warmth of their presence fill the space around her. They were here. They would protect her. And in that moment, despite the pain, she finally let herself rest, knowing she had the strength of Viktor and Jayce by her side.

As her world faded back into the comforting embrace of sleep, she felt Jayce’s hand on her chest, his steadying touch grounding her even as she drifted off again. The last thought in her mind, before the comforting embrace of darkness, was simple: She was safe.

VANDER

It had been an unusual day in Zaun, with the cold air biting through the usual smog and grime that made up the city. For once, snow had settled across the rooftops, making the streets look like something from a distant memory – a place not defined by constant industrial noise but by a rare, peaceful hush.

You and Vander had decided to take the kids to the lake, a frozen stretch of water that had miraculously solidified enough for skating. The kids were excited, their faces glowing in the cold as they skated and played. Even Vander, usually so composed, was caught in the joy of the moment, his laughter booming across the ice.

You stood nearby, leaning against the rail of the frozen lake, your coat wrapped tightly around you. Your eyes drifted between Vander, who was watching the kids with an almost protective gaze, and the younger ones, who had already fallen over more times than they could count, laughing all the while.

Powder was the first to speed off across the ice, her usual sense of chaos driving her to skate as fast as she could, arms flailing as she tried to keep balance. Powder was being kicked up behind her in the crisp air as she laughed, unaware of the thin stretch of ice up ahead.

“Careful, Powder!” you shouted, but it was too late. She skated towards the weak patch of ice that hadn’t fully frozen, the frost cracking beneath her feet. She didn’t notice it in time.

Before Vander could even react, you dashed forward without thinking, shoving her out of the way. The ice splintered beneath you with a violent crack, and before you knew it, you were plunging into the freezing cold water below.

The shock was immediate, ice-cold water rushing around you, drowning out all sound as it soaked through your clothes and chilled you to your very core. Your breath was stolen from your chest, panic setting in as the cold gnawed at your body. You couldn’t focus; all you could hear was the roar of the freezing water in your ears.

But amidst the swirling chaos, the thought of the kids surged through your mind. You had to make sure they were alright.

With all your strength, you kicked your legs, trying to keep afloat, but the icy grip of the water made it nearly impossible. The world around you spun, your limbs growing heavy with the cold, and before you knew it, your vision began to blur.

“Y/N!” Vander’s voice sliced through the haze. You could barely make him out on the ice above, his figure twisted with fear. But it was too late to reach him.

The last thing you remembered was the sensation of a strong hand grabbing hold of you.

=

You awoke with a jolt, the warmth of a fire pressing against your skin. The comforting scent of familiar spices, the sound of crackling wood, and the steady thrum of Vander’s heartbeat beneath you told you everything you needed to know.

You blinked slowly, your body trembling uncontrollably. The chill still lingered deep within you, and the cold had left you so weak you could barely move. Every inch of you ached, and you could feel the remnants of the cold creeping into your bones.

Vander’s worried gaze met yours, his hand pressing against your forehead, checking for any sign of fever. He looked half-relieved and half-furious, but his voice, when it came, was gentle.

“Easy now,” he murmured, holding you close, the heat of his body seeping into yours. “You’re safe. You’re back at the Drop. The kids are alright, they’re waiting outside.”

You could barely nod. The tremors shaking your body wouldn’t stop, but the warmth of the blankets wrapped around you and the fire crackling nearby slowly began to help. Vander’s hands were firm yet tender as he helped you sit up, making sure every movement was gentle as he rubbed warmth into your skin.

“I should have been quicker,” he muttered under his breath, a rare hint of guilt in his voice. His hands cupped your face, his eyes searching yours. “I wasn’t fast enough.”

“Vander…” you whispered, your voice hoarse, the words a struggle to get out. “You… you got to me. I’m fine. Just... cold.”

“You scared the hell out of me, Y/N.” His voice was thick with emotion, his thumb gently brushing across your cheek as if grounding himself. He leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Your eyes fluttered closed, exhaustion pulling at your senses. The heat of the fire, combined with Vander’s presence, finally began to melt the ice that had clung to your body.

“I couldn’t... let her fall in,” you whispered, your words fading as your body fought against the weakness that overtook you.

Vander’s expression softened as he wrapped you more securely in the blanket, his large frame hovering protectively over you.

“I know,” he replied quietly, his voice full of gratitude. “But you’re too important to me. To us. You can't risk yourself like that.”

Outside, you could hear the soft chatter of the kids, their voices muffled by the walls, but you knew they were all safe. Vander’s arms tightened around you, and for a moment, the world seemed to quiet. The fire crackled, the warmth of Vander’s embrace slowly thawing the chill from your body.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice low and full of emotion. “For everything.”

You gave him a small, shaky smile, your heart still hammering in your chest but now feeling lighter.

“It’s what I do, love. Always will be,” you whispered, allowing yourself to rest, safe in his arms, as the warmth of Vander enveloped you.

SILCO

The night air in Zaun was thick with tension. The flicker of neon lights barely illuminated the alleys, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch far beyond the reach of the city’s forgotten hopes. Silco, as always, stood at the edge of a rooftop, watching the underworld below with cold eyes. His hands rested on the railing, his mind sharp and calculating, plotting his next move.

Y/N stood a few paces behind him, her eyes scanning the dark streets, always alert. She had been with him for years, ever since the first time she saved him from a stray bullet, but it wasn’t just loyalty that kept her by his side. She admired him – his ambition, his fierce will to change the fate of Zaun. He was everything to her, even if he often kept her at arm's length.

=

Tonight, however, things were different. The atmosphere felt off, and Y/N’s instincts screamed that something was coming. Silco noticed her tense posture, his eyes narrowing.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice low, but unmistakably commanding.

“There’s something in the air,” she replied, her gaze fixed on the street below. “I don’t know what it is, but we’re not alone.”

He didn’t reply immediately, his mind already calculating their next move. But before he could act, a sudden noise broke through the silence—shuffling footsteps and muffled voices. A group of men emerged from the shadows, weapons in hand, their eyes fixated on Silco.

Without thinking, Y/N moved in front of him, her body instinctively shielding him from their view. “Get back,” she ordered, but Silco remained still, his usual calm composure unshaken.

“You know what to do,” he said, his voice cold. “We don’t back down.”

The tension escalated in an instant. A shot rang out from the enemy’s side, aimed straight at Silco. Without hesitation, Y/N threw herself into its path.

The first bullet tore into her side, and she staggered, but before she could even react, a second one struck her stomach. The impact knocked the wind from her lungs. She gasped for air, choking on the blood flooding her throat, her vision blurring with each heartbeat. Her legs wobbled, but she fought to stay upright, to protect him.

She could barely hear Silco’s voice through the ringing in her ears, the cold edge replaced by something close to panic. “Y/N!” he shouted, but there was no time to respond.

Another shot came from the dark, but Silco was quicker, taking down the attackers with brutal efficiency, his rage fuelling each strike. Yet, even as the threat was neutralised, his eyes were on her, his heart racing.

Y/N sank to her knees, the cold grip of death pulling her down. Blood poured from her wounds, pooling beneath her as she gasped, her breath coming in shallow, erratic bursts. She coughed, choking on the blood that filled her lungs, her hands desperately clutching at her abdomen. She tried to speak, but nothing but a ragged, broken wheeze escaped her lips.

“Stay with me, Y/N,” Silco whispered, his voice rough with the weight of his emotions. He dropped to his knees beside her, his hands trembling as he carefully lifted her into his arms. Her head lulled against his shoulder, her blood staining his jacket. His eyes, usually so cold, were filled with something far more dangerous now—a mix of fury, helplessness, and guilt.

“I’m fine,” she gasped, though her voice was barely a whisper. “Just... just a scratch.”

Silco’s face twisted in fury. “You’re not fine,” he snarled. His eyes scanned her wounds—the blood was flowing too fast, too much. The sight of her like this, so fragile, shattered something deep inside him.

Her body jerked as another wave of blood rushed up her throat, and she coughed violently. She could feel herself slipping away, but she wasn’t ready. Not yet.

“You… you have to live,” she whispered, her voice barely a rasp, each word coming with a new struggle. "You need to finish this... for Zaun."

Silco’s heart twisted as he looked down at her, his hand shaking as he brushed the hair from her face. “I didn’t ask for this,” he murmured, bitterness and sorrow in his voice. “I didn’t ask for you to throw your life away for me.”

Y/N smiled weakly, her fingers brushing against his chest as she gasped for breath. “But you’re worth it... Zaun needs you… and I need you.”

For the first time that night, Silco’s face softened, his grip tightening around her as if he could keep her from slipping away. His gaze hardened once more as he stood up, carefully cradling her against him.

“There’s no time,” he muttered to himself, his mind already moving with cold efficiency. “We’re going to Singed.”

Y/N’s eyes fluttered closed, her body too weak to fight the darkness creeping in, but she managed to nod. She trusted him—she had to.

=

The world around them seemed to blur as Silco moved with calculated haste, carrying her through the dimly lit streets. The way he held her, so gentle yet firm, spoke volumes of how much he truly cared—even if he wouldn’t admit it aloud.

As he arrived at Singed’s lab, Silco kicked open the door with a fury born of desperation. “Fix her.” he commanded, his voice strained with an edge of panic that betrayed his usual calm.

Singed, ever the calm scientist, looked up slowly, his gaze flickering from Y/N’s bleeding form to Silco’s face. He didn’t need to ask what had happened.

Without another word, Singed sprang into action, quickly preparing the necessary tools. “It’s not going to be easy,” he said, already moving to stabilise Y/N, his cold hands working efficiently.

Silco watched with an intensity that bordered on obsession, unable to tear his gaze from her. Every second she didn’t wake up was a second too long. His mind screamed at him for letting this happen. She had sacrificed everything for him, and he would make sure it didn’t go to waste.

As the procedure continued, Silco’s mind raced. There was no more time for doubt, no more time for mistakes. He would make Zaun his—and he would make damn sure Y/N was there to see it.

The shadows of the night no longer felt so daunting, for Silco knew one thing for certain now: she would live. He wouldn’t allow anything else.

=

The soft beeping of a monitor filled the sterile, dimly lit room as Y/N’s eyelids fluttered, her breath shallow but steady. Her head throbbed, a dull ache that seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat. The sharp scent of antiseptic stung her nose, and for a moment, everything was a haze—a distant memory of pain, blood, and Silco’s desperate voice.

She shifted slightly, the weight of something heavy pressing against her chest. A groan escaped her lips as she tried to open her eyes fully, but the world around her was blurry, and for a second, panic rose in her chest.

“Y/N,” a voice rasped, low and familiar.

She turned her head, the movement slow and painful, but her gaze landed on Silco. He was sitting beside her, his eyes dark with worry, his usual calm masked by something more… human. His hand was gently resting on her own, his grip tight, as if afraid she might slip away again.

“Silco…” she murmured, her voice hoarse, like she hadn’t spoken in days. Her hand twitched, and she tried to sit up, but the sharp pain that shot through her side stopped her.

“Don’t move,” he said, his voice more forceful than she was used to. His eyes never left her face, scanning for any sign of distress. “You’ve been through hell, Y/N. You need to rest.”

She tried to speak again, but her throat felt raw, the words caught in her chest. She coughed, the wet sound frightening her, and for a brief moment, her mind spiralled back to the feeling of drowning in her own blood.

But Silco was there. He was always there. His hand tightened around hers.

“You’re alive,” he murmured, as though saying it aloud somehow made it more real. “I didn’t know... I didn’t think—”

“Didn’t think I’d make it?” she interrupted weakly, her lips curling into a half-smile despite the pain.

Silco hesitated, his usual control slipping for a moment as he looked away, his jaw clenched. He wasn’t ready to say the things he truly felt—he couldn’t. He had never been able to.

“I… I couldn’t lose you,” he said quietly, as if the words were forced from him. “Not like that.”

Her fingers squeezed his, a tired but determined smile forming on her lips. “I wasn’t going anywhere, Silco. Not without you.”

He said nothing, but his eyes softened ever so slightly. His fingers brushed the hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear with a tenderness that belied the steel of his character.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the silence settle between them. She could feel the steady rhythm of her heart, the pulse of life slowly returning to her veins. It was slow, painful, but she was alive. And that was all that mattered.

After a few moments, she finally spoke again, her voice quieter now, though still filled with that underlying strength that had always drawn him to her.

“You... you saved me,” she said, her eyes searching his face. “But we still have work to do. Zaun... It’s still waiting.”

A flicker of something dark passed through Silco’s eyes, a shadow of the ambition that had driven him for so long. His grip on her hand tightened, but his voice remained calm, measured. “Zaun will wait. You come first.”

Y/N’s gaze softened, though she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his body coiled with barely-contained urgency.

“We’ll make them all pay,” she said, her voice firm despite the weakness in her body. “I know you won’t rest until you’ve burned everything to the ground to build it again.”

Silco's lips curled into a slight smirk, but there was something more in his eyes now. A fire, perhaps, but one tempered with the knowledge that the journey ahead would be different. Not without its sacrifices. Not without the cost.

He leaned in, his forehead lightly resting against hers. “I never asked for this,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “But now that I have you… I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you here.”

Y/N exhaled slowly, her fingers brushing against his, a faint laugh escaping her lips despite herself. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Silco.”

For the first time since her injuries, he allowed himself to smile—a small, quiet thing, but real. And for once, the harshness in his gaze softened.

JINX/POWDER

The moon hung high above Piltover, casting an eerie glow over the crumbling rooftops. The sounds of the bustling city below faded into the background, and all that could be heard was the soft hum of Jinx’s excitement as she fiddled with a makeshift bomb. Her hands were quick, her eyes wide with that chaotic sparkle, and the grin on her face grew wider with each passing second.

Y/N stood behind her, watching cautiously. She had always been the one to protect Jinx, to guide her through the madness, even when Jinx's schemes seemed a little too dangerous. It was a constant battle to keep the young woman from going too far. She had become something of a mother figure to her, even if Jinx never fully recognised it.

"Careful, Jinx," Y/N warned, her voice steady, but the concern in her eyes was unmistakable. "You’re too close to the edge, and that bomb’s unstable!"

Jinx snickered, her voice high and gleeful, "Relax, Y/N! This is going to be epic!"

Before Y/N could say another word, there was a sudden, deafening bang. The explosion rocked the rooftop, and debris flew in all directions. Jinx's grin faltered for a moment as she lost her balance, stumbling backwards.

"JINX!" Y/N screamed, lunging forward to catch her, but it was too late. Jinx's feet slipped from the edge, and the next thing Y/N knew, she was diving after her, arms outstretched.

The wind whipped around them as Y/N grabbed hold of Jinx, pulling her close. Time seemed to slow as they fell through the air, their bodies tumbling toward the unforgiving streets below. Y/N tightened her hold, turning her back so that she would hit the ground first. Her body slammed against the cold stone, the impact jarring her bones. Pain flared through her chest, but she ignored it, focusing only on the young woman in her arms.

Jinx groaned in pain, but she was alive. Y/N’s heart hammered in her chest as she held her protectively. The air around them was thick with dust, and they both lay motionless for a moment, the world spinning around them.

“Y/N…” Jinx’s voice was barely a whisper, filled with confusion and pain. “Y/N, are you okay?”

She could feel the stillness in the air, the strange lack of movement from Y/N. She shook her gently at first, calling her name softly. “Y/N… hey…”

No response.

Jinx's heart skipped. She shook Y/N harder, panic rising in her chest. "Why aren’t you talking to me? Y/N, please, come on, answer me!”

But Y/N was deadly still, her body lying limp beneath her. Her chest wasn’t rising and falling as it should, and Jinx’s stomach dropped. The young woman’s hands trembled as they hovered over Y/N’s form, the terror building like an insurmountable wave.

"Y/N, please!" Jinx's voice cracked, her desperation growing. She tried to sit up, but her body ached, her wounds reminding her that she wasn’t as unscathed as she hoped. She barely registered the pain, too focused on the unmoving figure beneath her.

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

Y/N had always been her protector, the one who made sure she was safe, the one who held her when the world felt too much. And now, Y/N was silent, still, lifeless. The world felt like it was shattering around her.

“Y/N!” Jinx choked out, her voice weak as she shook her again, but still, no answer came.

The only sound was the distant rumble of the city, and Jinx's ragged breathing. Fear clawed at her throat, suffocating her.

It wasn’t until the minutes felt like hours that she realised—Y/N wasn’t just quiet. She was unconscious, her breathing shallow, but present. Barely clinging to life, but still there.

And in the stillness of the night, Jinx could only clutch Y/N tighter, her eyes welling with tears that she didn’t know how to shed. The silence between them was deafening, but Jinx couldn’t bring herself to speak. She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to fix what had happened.

The night was heavy with a storm neither of them could escape. And all Jinx could do was hold onto Y/N, praying she wouldn’t lose the one person who always managed to hold her world together.

=

Y/N's eyelids fluttered open, the dim light of the room making her head throb. The sensation of tight bandages wrapped around her body sent a dull ache through her limbs. She tried to move, but a sharp pain reminded her that her body wasn’t quite ready for that. She groaned softly, her voice hoarse from the fall, and shifted her head slightly, her vision clearing.

Her surroundings were unfamiliar—she was no longer on the streets or the rooftop. She was in a small, dimly lit room. The soft, comforting scent of herbs and medicine hung in the air, and the sound of slow, steady breathing came from beside her.

Turning her head, Y/N saw Jinx curled up beside her on the bed, her body drawn in close, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, holding onto Y/N’s hand with a quiet desperation. Her eyes were closed, but the furrowed brow and the tightness around her mouth spoke volumes of the worry that hadn’t left her since the fall. She was alive. And that was all that mattered.

Y/N’s lips parted, and though she tried to speak, the words caught in her throat. She felt weak, her body still fighting against the pain, but just having Jinx there made her feel like maybe she could fight back. At the slightest sound, Jinx stirred, her eyes snapping open, instantly searching for any sign of life from Y/N.

“Y/N!” Jinx’s voice cracked with relief, and in an instant, she scrambled to sit up, her grip tightening on Y/N’s hand, as if afraid that even a slight shift could pull her away. “You’re awake! I thought… I thought I lost you for good…”

Y/N blinked, her voice soft and raspy. “What happened…?”

Jinx bit her lip, her eyes flicking nervously as she let out a shaky breath. She shifted so she was sitting beside Y/N, the worry in her expression deepening. "After the explosion, Sevika found us. She must've heard the blast from a few streets away. She came running, and—" Jinx hesitated, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. “—she didn’t exactly come to help.”

Y/N frowned in confusion, her mind struggling to piece things together. “What do you mean?”

Jinx’s expression darkened, her voice dropping to a whisper as she looked away, clearly conflicted. “She saw us, saw how badly hurt you were, and… she brought us to Singed. That sick bastard.” She squeezed Y/N’s hand a little tighter, her fingers trembling. “He injected you with shimmer, Y/N. I tried to stop him, but…” Jinx trailed off, the pain in her eyes too much to hide. “You were barely breathing, and he said it was the only way to save you.”

A chill ran through Y/N at the mention of shimmer, but it was more from the thought of what had happened than what would happen to her. She had seen the damage shimmer caused, twisting people into monsters, but right now, it didn’t matter. What mattered was Jinx—Jinx had been the one she’d almost lost.

"And you…?" Y/N murmured, her voice soft, still weak. "Are you okay?"

Jinx’s eyes widened, her breath catching as she looked at Y/N, a flicker of disbelief crossing her face. “I—You’re the one who nearly died!” she snapped, her voice cracking as her emotions swelled. “And you’re asking if I’m okay?!

Jinx’s voice wavered, and she quickly wiped at her eyes, trying to hide the tears threatening to spill. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you, Y/N.” Her hands gripped Y/N’s tighter, as if trying to make sure she was real, that she wasn’t going to slip away again. “You’re the one who saved me, the one who—” Her voice cracked again, and she stopped herself, unable to say more, her words too tangled in the whirlwind of emotion she was trying to keep under control.

Y/N’s chest ached, a different kind of pain, something deeper. It wasn’t just the physical agony from the fall, but the weight of knowing how much Jinx had been hurting, how close she had come to losing everything. “Jinx...” Y/N whispered, her hand reaching up to cup Jinx’s cheek, her thumb brushing gently over her skin. “I’m not going anywhere. You’ve got me. Always.”

Jinx swallowed hard, her eyes shining with unshed tears, though she refused to let them fall. “I thought… after the explosion, when you fell…” Her voice faltered as she leaned her forehead against Y/N’s, her breathing shaky. “I thought I lost you, and I… I don’t know how to handle that. You’re the only one I have, Y/N.”

Y/N could feel the pain in Jinx’s words, and it made her heart ache in a way she couldn’t explain. “You have me,” Y/N repeated, her voice steady despite the strain. “And I’ll always have you.”

The silence between them was thick, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was an unspoken promise, a reminder that no matter what happened, no matter how dark things seemed, they would always have each other.

Jinx pulled back slightly, her tear-streaked face breaking into a small, shaky smile. “You really are insane, you know that? Jumping after me like that... you nearly got yourself killed.”

Y/N chuckled softly, despite the soreness in her chest. “I’d do it again if it meant saving you.”

Jinx’s smile softened, and for a moment, the storm inside her seemed to quiet, just a little. She didn’t say anything else, just nestled herself closer to Y/N, the quiet comfort of being together in this moment enough to fill the space between them.

She let the silence settle between them, letting herself rest in the quiet comfort of Jinx’s presence. It was a peace she hadn’t known in what felt like forever, a peace that was fleeting but precious. And though the world outside was waiting, ready to test them again, Y/N knew that no matter what happened, they would face it side by side, just as they always had.

[moonlitstoriess]

I have a request if it's possible. Could you write a fanfic or a oneshot about Azriel and the reader being a ballerina and also a shadow singer

When Shadows Waltz- Azriel x fem!reader (oneshot)

Summary: Y/N, a ballerina and Shadowsinger, has spent her life balancing grace and darkness. But when whispers of doubt and cruel words make her question her place, she hides her insecurities from Azriel, not wanting to burden him. Yet, he sees everything—and he won’t let her fall. With patience, love, and a bit of humor, he helps her realize that her shadows don’t ruin her dance—they make it unforgettable.

See masterlist

Warnings: angst, fluff in the end, protective az🤭, mentions of insecurities, some bullying

A/N: Thank you for the request! I didn’t know if you wanted angst or fluff so I incorporated both, hope you enjoy it🥰

The mirrors in the studio reflected everything. Every movement, every misstep. Every flaw.

Y/N stood at the center of the room, her pointe shoes silent against the polished floor. The dim glow of the chandeliers cast long shadows, and hers twisted unnaturally, curling and flickering like smoke. No matter how hard she tried to suppress them, they never truly left her alone.

She exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders back. Focus.

With practiced precision, she lifted onto pointe, extending her arms in a graceful arc. The motion should have felt effortless, but something was off. Her balance wavered, the weight of unseen eyes pressing against her skin. Not good enough. Not perfect.

Her foot barely faltered, but the mistake rang loud in her mind.

She could still hear the whispers from earlier that day.

“A Shadowsinger dancing ballet? It looks unnatural.”

“She doesn’t belong in a world of elegance.”

“No wonder they only talk about her being Azriel’s mate—what else is she known for?”

Her fingers curled into the fabric of her practice dress. She hated how easily those words found cracks in her armor, how they settled like poison in the back of her mind.

They didn’t matter. They shouldn’t matter.

But they did.

A quiet knock at the door startled her, and before she could gather herself, the very person she didn’t want to see her like this stepped inside.

Azriel.

His shadows slithered in behind him, merging with hers so seamlessly it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. His piercing hazel eyes took her in—her stiff posture, the tension in her hands, the exhaustion she hadn’t even realized was etched into her face.

She tried to smile. “Hey.”

Azriel didn’t return it. He simply tilted his head, studying her with that sharp, all-seeing gaze. Then, softly—so softly it made her chest ache—he asked,

“What’s wrong?”

Y/N forced a small smile, hoping it would be enough to make him drop the subject. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Azriel didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His stare remained steady, unreadable—but she knew better.

He always saw through her.

A slow tilt of his head. “Try again.”

She sighed, crossing her arms. “How can you even tell something’s wrong? You just got here.”

His lips quirked slightly, but the look he gave her was pure come on now. “You’ve been my mate for nearly a year, love. You really think I don’t notice?”

The warmth in his voice curled around her like a soft ribbon, and despite herself, her heart gave a little flutter. Cauldron save me.

It was so stupid—the way he could unravel her with just a few words, how easily his presence melted through her walls. Even now, with his scarred hands tucked into his pockets and his wings resting at his back, he radiated quiet strength. Calm. Steady. Hers.

And yet—

She still couldn’t bring herself to tell him.

So she smiled a little wider, making sure it reached her eyes this time. “I’m fine, really.”

Azriel didn’t believe her. She could tell by the way his shadows curled around his boots, restless. But she wasn’t giving him the chance to push further.

Before he could open his mouth again, she smoothly changed the subject. “I have my audition tomorrow.”

That worked. His head straightened slightly, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. “For the seasonal performance?”

She nodded, feeling something close to excitement creep past her unease. “It’s a huge opportunity, Az. If I get the role, I’ll be one of the principal dancers for the entire winter season. The main performance is the biggest of the year—leaders from all over the place will come to watch. I need to represent our court in the best way possible.” She hesitated, then admitted, “Your family will be there.”

Azriel’s expression softened. “And you want to impress them.”

“I need to impress them.”

His brows pulled together slightly, but before he could argue, she rushed on. “Feyre is an artist, Nesta trained with Cassian and is basically a Valkyrie now—everyone in your family has accomplished something incredible. I want to prove I belong.”

Azriel stepped closer, lifting a hand to cup her jaw. His touch was featherlight, reverent. “You already impress them, Y/N.”

Her breath caught as he leaned in, brushing the softest kiss against her lips. “You’re more than enough.”

The words should have settled in her chest like a soothing balm. But instead, the weight of her insecurities pressed heavier.

She managed a small smile, even as she whispered, “I still want to get the role.”

Azriel exhaled, his thumb brushing over her cheek. “You will.” His voice was quiet, certain. “Trust me, you will.”

And for a fleeting moment, she let herself believe him.

Y/N let herself sink into the warmth of Azriel’s touch for just a moment before pulling away, forcing herself to focus. “I just need everything to go right,” she murmured, mostly to herself.

Azriel tilted his head slightly. “It will.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “You sound so sure.”

His lips curved, but his eyes held nothing but certainty. “Because I am.”

Cauldron, how was it so easy for him? To have that unwavering belief in her, even when she wasn’t sure she believed in herself?

Azriel reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers, his grip firm yet gentle. “Come,” he said, leading her toward the small bench by the wall. “Sit with me for a bit.”

She sighed but followed, letting him tug her down beside him. He didn’t say anything at first, just ran his thumb in slow circles over her knuckles. The silence was comfortable, but she knew he was waiting—for her to speak, to confess what was really on her mind.

And she wanted to. She really did.

But the words refused to form, stuck somewhere between pride and fear. If she said them out loud, if she told him about the whispers, the doubt clawing at her chest, then it would make it real.

So instead, she leaned her head against his shoulder and whispered, “I just hope I don’t mess it up.”

Azriel’s wings shifted slightly, his shadows curling around them both like a protective cocoon. “You won’t.”

She sighed, not bothering to argue. He’d just contradict her again with that quiet, unshakable confidence.

After a moment, he spoke again, his voice softer this time. “Do you want me to come watch?”

The question made her heart lurch. “You—you’d come to the audition?”

He turned his head, pressing a kiss to the top of her hair. “Of course.”

Something in her chest squeezed painfully, caught between joy and hesitation. “You don’t have to.”

Azriel huffed a quiet laugh. “I want to.” Then, as if sensing her uncertainty, he added, “But only if you want me there.”

She did. She really did. But—

Y/N swallowed. “I think I’ll be too nervous if you watch.”

Azriel didn’t seem offended. If anything, amusement flickered across his face. “You dance in front of hundreds of fae, but I make you nervous?”

She groaned, shoving his arm. “Don’t say it like that.”

He chuckled, pulling her closer. “Fine. I won’t watch. But I’ll be waiting outside.”

Y/N lifted her head, meeting his gaze. “Really?”

Azriel nodded. “Really.” Then, smirking, he added, “Unless you change your mind and want me front and center.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips. “I think I’ll survive without that pressure, thanks.”

Azriel just hummed, clearly unconvinced. But he didn’t push. Instead, he leaned in, brushing his lips over her cheek, his voice a murmur against her skin. “You’re going to be incredible.”

Y/N closed her eyes, soaking in the warmth of him, the quiet reassurance in his touch.

She wanted to believe him.

But deep down, that familiar doubt still lingered, whispering that maybe, just maybe—

She wasn’t enough.

The sun had barely risen, but Y/N had been awake for hours.

The studio floor had long since warmed beneath her relentless movements. Every turn, every extension, every landing had been drilled into perfection—had to be perfect. She refused to stop.

Azriel had been the one to come and go, appearing like clockwork with food in hand, a quiet reminder in his eyes. “Eat,” he’d say. “Sit for a moment.”

She’d obey, just for a second. Just long enough to take a sip of water, a bite of fruit. But her feet would pull her back onto the floor before she even realized it. Again and again.

At first, Azriel had tried. Tried to coax her into resting, tried to make her breathe. He’d leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching as she pushed herself past exhaustion. A few times, he’d even taken her hand, pulled her to him, murmured against her ear, “Enough for now.”

She never listened.

Eventually, he had sighed, shaking his head as he stepped in front of her. She barely had a moment to react before his lips found hers—a slow, lingering kiss, warm and full of something dangerous. Something that made her knees weaken more than all the training ever could.

When he pulled back, his eyes were softer, but his voice was firm. “Food is packed for you to take in.” He brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I have some things to take care of, but I’ll be there when you come out of the audition.”

Y/N blinked up at him, caught between nerves and something unbearably sweet. “Promise?”

Azriel exhaled, pressing another kiss to her forehead. “You think anything could keep me away?”

Her heart stuttered, warmth spreading in her chest.

Then, with one last glance—one that said please, don’t run yourself into the ground—he left.

Silence settled over the room, broken only by her own breath.

Two hours later, she was sitting on the floor, hair damp and body strained as she stared into her reflection.

An hour later, the auditions would begin.

That realization sent a fresh wave of nerves crashing over her. With a deep inhale, she shook it off, forcing herself to move.

She needed to clean up, get dressed. She needed to leave.

She grabbed the food Azriel had packed, tucked it under her arm, and stepped out the door.

It was time.

Velaris was bathed in afternoon light, the streets alive with warmth and chatter. But Y/N barely noticed any of it.

Her steps were steady, precise, each movement measured like a dancer counting beats in her head. But inside? Her heart pounded, a nervous rhythm she couldn’t quite shake.

She had walked these streets a thousand times before, had spent her life weaving through Velaris’ twisting paths, but today, everything felt off.

Maybe it was the way her shadows curled around her ankles, clinging like wisps of smoke. Normally, they stayed quiet, hidden. But today? Today, they coiled and flickered in the late afternoon light, shifting uneasily as if they could sense her nerves.

She forced herself to breathe, to smooth her expression into something neutral. Calm. Steady. No one else could hear the thoughts racing through her head.

But they could see her.

She felt the stares before she even registered them. Passing merchants, nobles, fae of all kinds—glancing, double-taking, murmuring behind their hands. Some were subtle about it, a flick of the eyes before looking away. Others… not so much.

She supposed she must’ve made quite the sight.

A ballerina dressed in soft pastels—pink tights, a flowy white wrap skirt, a delicate shrug over her leotard—strolling through the streets, framed by shadows as dark as night.

It was almost comical.

She had heard the whispers before, of course. Had caught snippets of conversation when people thought she wasn’t listening.

A Shadowsinger, really? In ballet?

Shouldn’t she be in Illyrian camps instead?

Those shadows make her look unnatural.

She doesn’t belong on that stage.

She clenched her jaw and kept walking.

Azriel would have torn them apart if he’d been here to hear it. He’d spent months convincing her that none of it mattered, that she belonged just as much as any other dancer.

She wanted to believe him. But with every lingering stare, with every quiet murmur as she passed, doubt curled around her ribs like a vice.

By the time she reached the towering glass doors of the audition hall, her chest was tight, her palms clammy despite the cool breeze.

She exhaled sharply, shook out her hands.

It’s fine. You’re fine.

She pushed open the doors and stepped inside.

The waiting room was already full.

Dancers lined the benches, stretching, warming up, adjusting their satin slippers. The air buzzed with quiet tension—whispers of last-minute corrections, murmured prayers, soft hums of concentration.

The floor-to-ceiling windows bathed everything in golden light, making the polished wooden floors gleam. At the far end of the room, a set of doors led to the main audition space, where the judges were already seated, watching the first few candidates perform.

Y/N barely had time to take it all in before she felt it—the stares.

It was subtle at first, the way conversation dipped when she walked past, the way dancers exchanged looks, eyes flicking from her delicate pastel ensemble to the dark tendrils of shadow trailing at her feet.

She swallowed, lifting her chin.

Just get to the changing rooms.

She weaved through the crowd, passing the line of dancers already dressed in pristine costumes. A few were adjusting their hair into perfect buns, fixing smudged makeup, stretching out their limbs. Others were simply watching her.

She could feel their judgment.

It’s funny, isn’t it? she thought bitterly.

A girl like her—draped in pinks and creams, with ribbons laced up her ankles—moving with the grace of a trained ballerina, while shadows slithered at her feet like something out of a nightmare.

Like she was some contradiction that shouldn’t exist.

She tried to act indifferent. She forced herself to walk like she wasn’t being scrutinized, like the weight of their judgment wasn’t pressing into her spine. But inside, her stomach twisted.

She barely let out a breath when she finally reached the changing rooms, slipping inside.

Alone at last.

She pressed her hands against the counter, staring at her reflection in the large mirror.

Her face was composed, expression calm. But her hands—her fingers trembled against the polished marble.

Her shadows curled tighter around her, as if sensing her unease.

She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply.

Just a few more minutes.

Then it would be time.

Y/N sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her posture straight despite the way her stomach twisted in knots.

Dancers came and went, each vanishing through the grand doors at the end of the waiting room before reappearing minutes later—some with relieved smiles, others fighting back tears.

Her turn was coming. Soon.

She tried to focus on steadying her breathing, on keeping her shadows from shifting too visibly around her. They were curling tight at her ankles, slithering up her arms like they, too, could sense her nerves.

And then—

“Are you lost?”

The voice was sweet. Mocking.

Y/N turned, already knowing what she’d find.

A group of three female dancers, all in the same pristine white audition attire, stood together near the mirrored wall. Their leader—a tall, elegant blonde—tilted her head, expression full of exaggerated pity.

Y/N forced a calm smile. “No.”

A few of the other dancers nearby had already started whispering.

The blonde raised a brow, looking her over slowly—lingering on her darkened shadows. “You? Ballet?” She let out a high, amused laugh. “I think you might have the wrong building, sweetheart.”

The other two girls behind her giggled.

Y/N kept her shoulders relaxed, her face carefully neutral. “I’m here for the same reason as you.”

The blonde blinked, as if that was the funniest thing she’d heard all day. Then she let out another sharp laugh. “Oh, darling. No, no—you can’t be.”

Y/N clenched her jaw.

“Oh, don’t look so serious.” The girl smirked. “It’s just… well.” She gestured to Y/N’s shadows, which had curled tight at her feet like wary animals. “You don’t exactly fit, do you?”

A sick feeling churned in Y/N’s gut.

The girl leaned in slightly, voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Did you hit your head? Or do you just have some kind of delusional sickness?”

More laughter. More murmurs from the surrounding dancers.

Y/N’s throat felt tight. Don’t react. Don’t let them see it.

She tried to respond, tried to form a retort—but her mind was suddenly blank.

Her shadows flickered uneasily. The blonde just smiled wider. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said softly, like she was so concerned. “It’s not your fault, really. You just weren’t made for this world.”

Y/N felt her hands clench in her lap, her thoughts growing darker, heavier.

And then—

“Y/N.”

Her head snapped up.

A staff member stood by the grand doors, scanning the room with a clipboard in hand. “You’re up next.”

Her heart stopped.

For a moment, she was frozen in place.

Then—slowly, unsurely—she stood.

She could feel their eyes on her as she walked toward the doors. Could hear the hushed snickers, the barely concealed whispers.

Just as she passed, another girl murmured under her breath, just loud enough for her to hear—

“Maybe she’ll trip and vanish in those shadows.”

Her stomach clenched.

But she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

She stepped through the doors.

The audition stage was massive.

Golden chandeliers hung high above, their light casting a soft glow over the polished wooden floors. The room stretched wide, with sweeping archways and tall, pristine windows that overlooked Velaris.

And at the very front—seated behind a long, curved table—sat the panel of judges.

Five in total.

Their expressions were unreadable as they observed her, hands folded, quills poised.

Y/N swallowed hard.

The reality of it all hit her at once.

This was it.

Her entire career—her dream—was hinging on the next few minutes.

She forced herself to stand tall, to ignore the way her nerves coiled deep in her stomach.

“Whenever you’re ready,” one of the judges said, voice clipped and professional.

She nodded.

The music began.

For the first few moments, everything was fine.

Her muscles knew the movements. She had drilled them into her body a thousand times over. Her limbs extended with precision, her turns were smooth, her leaps controlled.

But then—

The whispers came back.

Not real, but in her head—echoing, clawing.

You don’t belong here.

Those ugly shadows—

Maybe she’ll trip and vanish—

You just weren’t made for this world.

Her rhythm faltered.

Her mind spiraled.

No, no—focus, keep going—

But the doubts were crushing her, strangling her.

And then—

Her foot landed wrong.

A sharp twist of her ankle.

A gasp.

And she was falling.

Hard.

The music cut out instantly.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence.

Y/N stayed where she was—knees against the polished floor, hands shaking, breath ragged.

She didn’t dare look up.

Didn’t dare face the judges.

But then—

“That will be all.”

The cold, detached voice sliced through the air like a knife.

Her head snapped up, eyes wide. “No—please—”

One of the judges, an older fae male, raised a hand. “There’s no need,” he said, his voice edged with boredom. “We’ve seen what we need to see.”

Her chest tightened. “I—please, I’ve been training for five years—”

Another judge, a stern-looking female, scoffed. “And?”

Y/N’s throat burned.

The older fae leaned forward slightly. “Just because you are the Spymaster’s mate,” he said coolly, “and the High Lord’s sister-in-law, does not mean you own this place.”

The words hit her like a slap.

“No, I—” She swallowed, scrambling to find the right words, to fix this—“I don’t think that, I just—”

“You are not fit for this stage,” another judge interrupted, eyes cold. “You have neither the discipline nor the grace required to perform at this level.”

Her heart shattered.

“We will not be moving you forward.” The older judge’s voice was final.

She couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t move.

“Thank you for your time,” the female judge added, already looking away. “You may go.”

She had no choice.

Numbly, she stood.

She turned.

And she walked.

The moment she stepped back into the waiting room, the whispers started again.

A few of the dancers gave her long, smug looks.

She kept her head down.

She ignored the snickers, the cruel, whispered comments.

Her hands trembled as she grabbed her bag.

Then she turned and all but ran to the changing rooms.

The second the door shut behind her, she let out a shaky breath.

Her mind was spinning. Her heart ached.

What have I done?

Her fingers curled into fists.

She had ruined everything.

She had humiliated herself in front of the most prestigious judges in the city. She had proven every cruel whisper, every doubting stare right.

Her own hatred curled deep inside her, sharp and suffocating.

And then, a single thought struck her.

Azriel.

He was waiting outside.

Waiting for her with that quiet, steady patience. Waiting for her to walk out with a hopeful smile. And she—she had nothing to give him but failure.

Y/N took a deep, shuddering breath.

Then another.

She had exactly five seconds to fix her face before she walked out of this building.

One. She straightened her spine.

Two. She swallowed down the lump in her throat.

Three. She pulled her shoulders back, forcing her body to relax despite the tremors running through her veins.

Four. She curled her lips into the most dazzling, effortless smile she could manage.

Five. She stepped outside.

The cool evening air brushed against her skin, a sharp contrast to the suffocating weight pressing down on her chest.

And there he was.

Azriel stood by the entrance, his wings tucked neatly behind him, his scarred hands loose at his sides—but his entire body radiated the quiet, lethal stillness of a male always waiting, always watching.

The moment his eyes landed on her, something in them shifted.

His shadows stirred.

She knew he felt it. Knew he sensed something was wrong.

She forced herself to smile wider. “Hey, you.”

Azriel’s gaze flickered over her, his expression betraying nothing—except his shadows, which curled tight around his shoulders like wary sentries.

Then, his voice, low and steady: “Why did you close your side of the bond?”

Her breath hitched.

Shit.

She hadn’t expected him to catch onto that so fast.

She let out a soft laugh, waving a hand dismissively. “Oh, that? I just didn’t want to worry you with my constant overthinking.”

His eyes narrowed the slightest bit.

She pressed on, slipping seamlessly into her usual teasing tone. “You know how my mind gets—I was obsessing over little things before the audition, and I figured you didn’t need to deal with that.”

Azriel didn’t respond right away.

Instead, he watched her.

Watched her too closely.

For a second, she thought he might call her out on it—might push past the weak excuse and demand to know the truth.

But then, with a quiet exhale, he reached for her bag. “Nonsense,” he murmured, effortlessly taking it from her grasp.

She let him, knowing better than to argue.

Then, before she could react, his arms were around her—one hand pressing against her back, the other coming up to cradle the back of her head as he tucked her into him.

Y/N nearly broke.

The warmth of him, the quiet strength in the way he held her—it nearly shattered her.

But she couldn’t let it.

She wouldn’t let it.

So instead, she melted into him, resting her cheek against his chest and breathing in the familiar scent of night-chilled wind and cedar.

Azriel pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his lips lingering for just a second longer than usual. “Promise me you won’t do that again.”

She blinked. “Do what?”

His grip on her tightened. “Close your side of the bond like that.”

Y/N swallowed hard.

“I was ready to break in just to make sure you were safe,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “Don’t do that to me again, love.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. He can’t know. He can’t know.

When she finally spoke, her voice was light. Playful. “Az, you’re being dramatic.”

His arms didn’t loosen.

She tipped her head back just enough to meet his gaze, mustering up a soft smile. “I’m fine. See? Perfectly fine.”

Azriel studied her.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, he exhaled through his nose and finally, finally released her—though his hand lingered on the small of her back as they started walking.

They moved in comfortable silence for a bit, the cool night air wrapping around them.

And then—

“So,” Azriel said, his tone light, casual. “How did it go?”

Y/N froze.

Only for a fraction of a second.

But he noticed.

Of course he noticed.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, but she forced her body to remain loose, her expression to remain bright.

Then she laughed, shaking her head as if amused. “Oh, it went great.”

Azriel glanced at her. “Yeah?”

She nodded eagerly. “Yeah. I can’t wait to see the results. They said the decisions will be out in two weeks, so…” She trailed off, shrugging. “Now it’s just a waiting game.”

Azriel was still watching her.

She felt his eyes on her, felt the way his shadows curled subtly closer.

She knew what he was doing—trying to read her body, her breathing, her heartbeat.

So she made sure they all remained steady.

She had years of training in deception. She could fake confidence, fake nonchalance—hell, she could fake a damn performance if needed.

And right now, she needed Azriel to believe her.

Because if he didn’t—if he so much as suspected—

Az hummed. “So they didn’t give any immediate feedback?”

She shook her head. “Nope. Just the usual ‘thank you for your time, we’ll be in touch.’”

His brows furrowed slightly. “That’s standard?”

“Very,” she assured him.

Another hum. “And you feel good about it?”

She beamed. “I do.”

Azriel didn’t speak for a long moment.

Y/N’s stomach clenched.

Please let this work. Please believe me.

Finally—

“Well,” he said, his voice softer now. “Then I guess we wait.”

She let out a small breath of relief, nodding.

Azriel gave her a sidelong glance. “But just so you know…”

She raised a brow. “Hmm?”

His free hand reached for hers, fingers threading together effortlessly.

“I don’t need to hear the results to already be proud of you.”

Her throat tightened.

Her nails dug into her palm.

She forced herself to smile. “You’re sweet.”

Azriel only squeezed her hand. “You’re mine.”

For a split second, the weight in her chest almost lifted.

But then she remembered—

The failure.

The fall.

The cold, dismissive words of the judges.

You are not fit for this stage.

And just like that, the crushing guilt came surging back.

So Y/N just held onto his hand a little tighter.

And she kept smiling.

Azriel insisted on making dinner, saying she should relax after the audition.

And so here he was, moving around the kitchen like it was his second home, the rhythmic chopping of vegetables mingling with the sizzle of something cooking in the pan. Y/N sat at the table, silently watching him, trying her best to keep her expression neutral. She didn’t want him to see through the mask she was wearing, didn’t want him to know how much she was falling apart on the inside.

“You’re being quiet,” Azriel said, not looking up from his work.

Y/N smiled tightly. “Just tired.”

He paused, his gaze flickering to her from over his shoulder. She caught the way his brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t say anything—just went back to what he was doing, humming softly as he worked.

Azriel was always calm, always steady, and she found it both soothing and maddening. He could sense things—things she wasn’t always ready to confront—and she hated how well he knew her. But tonight, she wouldn’t let him see. She couldn’t.

She reached for her glass of water, her hand trembling just slightly. She was sure he’d notice. But he didn’t. He was focused on the dinner, and for a moment, she let herself relax into the normalcy of the moment, the small relief of not having to pretend she was somewhere else, someone else.

When he finally brought dinner to the table, Y/N forced herself to smile and thank him. She even complimented him on the food, but she could feel him watching her, his eyes scanning her every move, trying to figure out what was wrong.

Azriel didn’t ask any questions yet, but Y/N could sense the storm brewing behind his calm façade. He always knew when she wasn’t okay.

They ate in silence for a few moments, the clink of silverware the only sound between them. Her mind was elsewhere, far from the meal in front of her, as the words from her audition echoed through her thoughts.

“You’ve been quiet all evening,” Azriel said again, this time his voice much softer.

Y/N blinked and met his gaze. He was studying her, his brow slightly furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. He was worried—she could feel it, even if he didn’t say the words out loud.

“I’m just thinking,” she replied, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.

“About the audition?” he asked, his voice casual but with an undercurrent of concern.

Y/N hesitated. Should she lie? Pretend that everything was fine? Or should she admit it—admit how awful it had gone?

But before she could answer, he reached across the table, his hand covering hers. His thumb brushed along her skin, warm and reassuring.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said quietly.

She sucked in a breath, her heart pounding in her chest. The warmth of his hand almost made her break, almost made her say it all, but she couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

“I’m fine, Azriel,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “Really.”

He didn’t believe her, she could see it in his eyes, but he didn’t push. Not yet.

He nodded slowly, his eyes not leaving hers. “If you say so.”

But there was an edge in his tone—one that made her heart sink a little further.

Dinner passed quietly after that. They talked about trivial things, Azriel asking her about her plans for the next few days, but it all felt distant to her. As if the words were just background noise, and her mind was somewhere else, drowning in everything she was trying to bury.

Finally, when the meal was over, Azriel cleared the table, his movements sharp, precise. Y/N stayed seated, her fingers picking at the edge of her napkin, twisting it nervously.

“You know,” he said, his back still to her as he loaded dishes into the sink, “you don’t have to keep things from me.”

Y/N’s chest tightened. She looked down at her hands, trying to keep her face composed.

“I’m not keeping anything from you,” she said, her voice a little too high.

Azriel paused, his back still turned, but his posture was stiff now. “You’re lying.”

Y/N bit her lip, her heart thudding in her chest. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t break. Not in front of him. Not when he had already given her everything—his trust, his heart. She couldn’t disappoint him.

“Azriel,” she started, her voice trembling just slightly. “Please, just… don’t worry about me. I’m fine. I swear.”

He turned to face her, his expression unreadable, but his eyes… they were full of that quiet, relentless concern that always seemed to follow her.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time, Y/N.” His voice was almost a whisper, like he was afraid to push her too far. “Not with me.”

For a heartbeat, they just stared at each other, the space between them charged with unsaid words.

Finally, Y/N forced a smile—one that she hoped was convincing enough to fool him. “I know,” she said softly. “But right now, I just need a little time, okay?”

Azriel didn’t respond at first. He studied her for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether or not he should press her further. But then, with a soft sigh, he nodded.

“I’m here when you’re ready to talk,” he said quietly.

Y/N smiled again, though this time it felt more like a mask than anything real.

“I know.”

But inside, the walls she’d spent so long building were crumbling, piece by piece, and no matter how hard she tried to hold them up, she knew it wouldn’t be much longer before they all came down.

She just hoped Azriel wouldn’t be the one to see it happen.

Not yet.

Not while she was still pretending.

The next evening, when Azriel came home, he was expecting nothing more than the usual quiet, the calm of his home and his bondmate waiting for him. What he hadn’t expected was to find Y/N sitting on the couch, her posture rigid, her eyes staring blankly at the wall.

His heart immediately sank at the sight. Something was off—he could feel it in his chest, that strange, unsettling tightness that always came when Y/N was hurting. He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him softly, not wanting to startle her.

“Y/N?” His voice was tentative, but there was an underlying current of concern.

She didn’t respond right away, and the silence stretched between them like a fragile thread. He walked closer, his eyes scanning her face. She looked… exhausted, drained, as if the weight of the world was pressing down on her. He crouched beside her, tilting his head to catch her eyes.

“Love, are you okay?” he asked softly.

Y/N blinked and finally turned her gaze to him. There was something in her eyes—something that made him take an instinctive step back.

“I’m fine,” she said, the words too quick, too rehearsed.

Azriel studied her for a moment longer before sitting down next to her, his tone shifting, more serious. “You don’t have to lie to me, Y/N. What’s going on?”

She didn’t meet his eyes again, her gaze dropping to her hands, folded neatly in her lap. The stillness in her was unnatural, and the shadows around them seemed to pulse with tension. Azriel’s brows furrowed as he let out a quiet sigh, his instincts kicking in.

He didn’t press her at first—he’d learned by now to give her space—but the questions came slowly, each one a little heavier than the last. “How was your day?”

“Fine.” Her voice cracked slightly, but she recovered quickly.

“Did you think about the results?”

“Not really, as I said the audition went well” she answered too quickly, her voice tight.

Azriel paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. She was hiding something, and the silence between them was thick with the knowledge that he wouldn’t be satisfied until he got the truth. “Really?”

She nodded, but her breath hitched ever so slightly, the only sign that something was wrong.

Azriel’s gaze softened, but his suspicion grew, and it was in that moment, when the quiet stretched on just a little too long, that the final thread snapped. He couldn’t hold back anymore. He had to know. He had to confront whatever this was.

He leaned in slightly, his voice hardening with a cold edge. “That’s why you tripped and fell during your audition yesterday?”

Y/N froze, her eyes widening, her body stiffening. The breath in her lungs caught. She hadn’t expected him to know that. Hadn’t expected him to have seen through the lies she’d told herself, the façade she’d built to protect herself.

“How do you know that?” Her voice was small, trembling with the weight of the question.

Azriel’s gaze darkened, his anger simmering just below the surface. He didn’t let her answer before he spoke again. “I knew something was up the moment you stepped out of those doors. I couldn’t just sit around pondering what was wrong with you. My shadows did their job well and brought me all I needed to know.”

Y/N’s mouth fell open in disbelief. “From the… the start?”

Azriel’s jaw clenched, his fists tightening in barely contained rage. “Yes. From the moment those bastards bullied you.” His words were venomous, and Y/N could see the raw anger in his eyes. “I know exactly what they said. The venom they spilled at you…” His voice trailed off, trembling with rage.

Y/N stood up abruptly, her hands shaking. “You had no right!” she exclaimed, her voice rising in anger and desperation.

Azriel stood, his body tense with rage, his eyes dark as shadows swirled around him. “No right?” He took a step forward, his voice rising with every word, a dangerous edge creeping in. “NO RIGHT?! Those bastards were bullying you, Y/N, and you didn’t say a thing?! You didn’t tell me what they said, didn’t let me help you—didn’t let me protect you?”

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her shoulders shaking. Her voice cracked, the raw emotion spilling out in a flood of hurt and frustration. “I couldn’t, Azriel! I couldn’t—don’t you get it? I couldn’t bring myself to tell you! I’ve been… I’ve been hiding this from you because I didn’t want to burden you. I didn’t want to be weak. I didn’t want to show you how broken I am. How useless I am…”

She stumbled backward, shaking her head in a frantic movement, her chest tight as she gasped for breath. “I’m just… I’m just not good enough! I’m not strong enough! I fail, every time. I failed at the audition, Azriel! I’m never going to be good enough for this world, for you! Don't you see the stares? Hear the whispers? No one thinks I'm worthy enough, no one..."

Her words came in a rush, all the broken pieces of herself spilling out in one chaotic moment. “The shadows—the way they looked at me, the way they whispered behind my back. They were right, Azriel. They were right about me. I’m nothing, I’m just…” She choked on her words, her knees buckling as she collapsed onto the couch again, her face buried in her hands.

Azriel’s heart clenched painfully in his chest as he stepped forward, his anger now replaced with an aching sadness. His voice was gentle but firm as he knelt beside her, reaching out to take her trembling hands in his. “Don’t you ever say that about yourself. You hear me? Don’t you ever say that again.”

Y/N shook her head violently, her tears pouring freely now. “I’ve failed so many times, Azriel. Every time I try, I trip, I fall, I let everyone down. The shadows—they don’t even care about me. They—”

Azriel grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to look at him, his eyes filled with a depth of emotion she hadn’t seen before. His voice was a low, raw growl. “They were wrong. Every damn thing they said was wrong. You are good enough. You are strong enough. And I’ll be damned if I let you talk about yourself like this again.”

Y/N gasped, her heart pounding in her chest. Her lips trembled as she tried to speak, but all that came out was a broken sob.

Azriel’s jaw clenched, his gaze searching hers, desperation in his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you trust me?”

She pulled away from him, her hands shaking as she wiped at her tears. “Because I couldn’t bear the thought of you seeing me like this. Of you seeing how weak I am. I thought I could handle it, that I could be enough on my own, but I’m not. I’m not…”

Azriel’s gaze softened, and he cupped her face in his hands, his thumb brushing over the tear tracks on her cheeks. His voice was soft but unwavering. “You are enough, Y/N. Don’t ever believe otherwise. You are stronger than anyone I know, and I’m so damn proud of you. Don’t you dare let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Her sobs subsided, but the rawness of her insecurities still lingered between them, like an invisible barrier. Azriel leaned forward, his voice low but firm. “Names.”

Y/N shook her head, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “Please, Azriel. Don’t do this.”

“I already know who they are,” he replied, his voice calm but insistent. “But I need to hear you say it. Confirm it. Please.”

She hesitated, then, with great reluctance, she whispered the names of some of those she knew of who had bullied her previously, each one a dagger to her heart.

Azriel nodded, his face unreadable as he absorbed the information. When she finished, he reached for her, pulling her into his arms once more. She let herself sink into him, her heart breaking, her trust growing just a little bit stronger with each passing moment.

“I won’t let them get away with this,” he whispered fiercely into her hair, his voice promising more than words could say. “But I need you to promise me something.”

“What?” she whispered back, barely able to speak through the tears.

He pulled back, cupping her face, his expression firm. “Swear to me that you won’t hide anything from me again. No more lies, no more keeping things from me. Keep the bond open, always. Promise me, Y/N.”

Her eyes met his, a flicker of hesitation passing through her, but in the end, she nodded. “I promise.”

Azriel’s face softened, but the resolve in his eyes remained. “And don’t you ever doubt yourself again,” he whispered, pressing his forehead against hers. “You’re worth everything, Y/N. Don’t you ever forget that.”

As the two of them stood there, lost in their embrace, something shifted between them. The pain, the secrets, the walls—they weren’t gone, but they were no longer insurmountable. And for the first time in a long time, Y/N allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, she was enough.

The days that followed the confrontation were quieter, more contemplative, but no less intense. Y/N struggled with her shadows, each day finding new cracks in her confidence, but each day, Azriel stood by her, watching in the background, patiently waiting for her to let him in.

It started with the small moments, those subtle acts of care that made her feel seen without being smothered. She had always been strong, had always prided herself on standing on her own, but now, after everything, the thought of dancing again seemed like an insurmountable mountain. The audition failure had knocked her harder than she’d let on. And the cruel words, the judgment she’d faced, were still echoing in her mind. She wasn’t sure if she could go back to the barre, could go back to the thing that had once been her escape.

But Azriel wouldn’t let her hide from it.

“You don’t have to do this all at once,” he’d say quietly, stepping into the room when he sensed she was lost in the shadows of her mind, the world outside muted in her silence. “Take it slow. But don’t quit. Don’t let them win.”

Y/N would look at him with that guarded expression, not wanting to admit how much she wanted to run. Not wanting to show him how weak she felt.

But he was patient. He’d never push too hard, never rush her into something she wasn’t ready for. Instead, he’d talk to her about anything else—about the weather, about his training, about the little things that made her smile—until, gradually, the conversation would shift, and the quiet moments would fill the space between them.

Then one day, when she was too tired to pretend she wasn’t aching, he sat across from her as she wrapped her shoes.

“You still want to do this,” Azriel said quietly, watching her with a gaze that spoke volumes. “Don’t hide from it.”

Y/N didn’t look up. “I don’t know if I can,” she whispered.

Azriel stood, moving closer without a word. He didn’t touch her, didn’t crowd her space, but his presence was soothing, a gentle reminder that she wasn’t alone in this. His shadows, ever loyal to him, surrounded her, their warmth seeping into her own. “You can,” he replied simply, his voice carrying that deep, unwavering certainty that made her chest tighten.

His words weren’t demanding, weren’t pressuring. It was more of an invitation.

Slowly, Y/N laced her shoes, her hands trembling just slightly, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Not with him standing there, not with the strength in his eyes watching her like she was the only thing that mattered.

“Let me help you,” Azriel said, his tone low, intimate. “Let me help you heal, one step at a time.”

She didn’t answer immediately, but she didn’t need to. His quiet persistence was enough, and it settled into her bones, wrapping around her like a familiar cloak.

And so, the days passed. Each one a little easier than the last. Azriel’s presence was constant—he didn’t force her, didn’t push her, but his quiet admiration, his praise when she succeeded, built her back up in ways words alone couldn’t. Every small improvement, every hesitant movement, was a victory in his eyes.

Whenever she danced, whenever she felt the weight of doubt try to settle in, she’d sense his presence in the room. He was always there, hidden in the shadows, watching, waiting. His shadows moved with hers, always in sync, always intertwined in a dance of their own, a silent exchange of trust and understanding.

His admiration for her wasn’t in loud declarations or grand gestures. It was in the little things. In the way his shadows would curl around her when she hesitated, steadying her when she almost fell. In the way his eyes softened every time she let herself lose control, the way he made sure she always felt seen, even when she thought no one was watching.

One evening, after another failed attempt at perfecting a pirouette, Y/N huffed in frustration, stepping back from the barre. Her muscles ached, her body exhausted from the constant battle to get back to where she once was.

Azriel didn’t speak right away. Instead, he walked up to her, his gaze unwavering. He was always watching, always noticing.

“You know,” he began, his voice low, teasing just slightly, “your shadows were in perfect sync with mine tonight.” He smirked, his eyes glinting with a playful edge. “It’s almost like they know what you’re capable of, even if you don’t.”

Y/N looked up at him, her breath caught in her chest. She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

“I’ve been watching you,” he continued, his voice softer now, more earnest. “You have something no one else does, Y/N. Your strength—your heart—it’s what makes you beautiful, and it’s what makes you powerful. And every time you step back into that studio, you show me a little more of who you are.”

His words were simple, but they struck her in ways she couldn’t explain. She felt her heart pound in her chest, the raw emotion of his praise and support slowly melting away the remnants of the fear and doubt that had clouded her for so long.

Y/N took a deep breath and nodded, her gaze meeting his, no longer afraid to hold it. “I’ll try again,” she said softly.

Azriel’s smile was small but full of pride. He stepped back, his shadows still lingering around her. “I know you will. And when you do, I’ll be here.”

Every step she took, every movement she made, she could feel his presence at her side, not as a crutch but as the support she didn’t know she needed. And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel so alone in the dance.

The healing was slow, but it was real. Each moment, each word, each look from Azriel was a step toward rebuilding the confidence she had lost. She wasn’t just getting back to where she was—she was becoming something more. Something stronger. Something she didn’t think was possible. And with Azriel by her side, she knew that, no matter what came next, she wasn’t going to give up. Not anymore.

Azriel paced through the streets of Velaris, each step heavy with anger. His thoughts churned, his mind unwilling to leave the image of Y/N from earlier that morning. She had smiled, but it hadn't reached her eyes. She was trying to hide it again, pretending like everything was fine when it was anything but.

His shadows swirled around him, agitated by his own tension. They could feel his fury, his frustration, and his desperate need to protect her, even if she didn't fully understand it herself.

She had tried to hide it from him. She thought he didn't know about the insults— the cruel words those judges had spat at her.

She thought he couldn't see it in her eyes, in the way she held herself, the way she moved now as if she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.

And it made him seethe with rage.

The anger that had been simmering inside him ever since she had confided in him about what happened during the audition was reaching a boiling point. He had promised her. He had sworn not to act. But how the hell was he supposed to keep that promise when the world-these people-had done this to her?

He clenched his fists, feeling the ache in his bones, the frustration gnawing at him. The female he cared about, the one he loved, the one he wanted to see succeed, was broken in ways that no one could understand. No one except him.

And all he wanted to do was rip apart the world that had done this to her.

He felt the weight of his own limitations pressing down on him. He was a warrior, a spymaster-he was trained to eliminate threats, to take down anyone who stood in his way. But this... this was different. This wasn't some battle he could fight on a battlefield. It was a war waged on the heart, and it made him feel helpless, more than he had ever felt before.

He was so fucking angry. Angry at them for humiliating her. Angry at himself for not noticing sooner. Angry that she thought she could bear this burden alone, hiding it from him.

But that was going to change. He couldn't keep his promise. Not when he knew what they had done. Not when he knew the damage they'd caused. He could feel it in every fiber of his being-this deep, primal need to protect her from everything that wanted to break her down. He was done standing by.

Done pretending that he didn't see the cracks in her.

Done watching her hide from the truth.

He was going to make them pay. Every last one of them.

The judges' gathering was held in the home of one of the higher-ranking members, a large, lavish place that screamed of power and authority. As soon as Azriel winnowed himself in, the room fell silent. His presence was enough to make everyone freeze. He could feel their eyes on him, the shock radiating from their faces. They weren't expecting him, weren't prepared for someone like him to walk in.

They had no idea what they were dealing with.

eyes cutting through the air like a blade. He didn't say a word, his silence hanging heavy in the room, suffocating. He could feel his shadows coiling tighter around him, his anger leaking into the atmosphere like a dangerous storm.

"Spymaster," one of them said, his voice barely a whisper, fear seeping through.

Azriel didn't respond. He took a step forward, the air growing colder with every inch he moved. "You know why I'm here," he said, his voice low, dangerous, a growl rumbling in his chest.

The head judge, a man whose face Azriel recognized all too well from the reports, shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I don't-"

"You don't?" Azriel interrupted, his voice laced with venom. "You don't remember insulting her? Belittling her? Telling her she wasn't good enough?”

The room went silent, the judges exchanging nervous glances. None of them dared to speak. They all knew exactly who he was talking about. They all knew exactly who he meant.

"Y/N," Azriel spat the name like it was poison, but the force of it sent a shiver down their spines. "You remember her, don't you?"

They swallowed hard, eyes darting around as if trying to find an escape. But there was no escape. Not from him.

"You made her feel like she wasn't worthy.

Like she wasn't good enough to be there," Azriel continued, his voice rising with each word. "You made her doubt herself. And I swear to the gods, if I hear any more of that bullshit from you, you won't live to regret it. If you ever so much as think about doing that to her again, I will make sure you regret it with every breath you take."

The judges were visibly shaken now, the threat clear in Azriel’s voice, but still, they tried to deny it. “We— We were just doing our job,” one of them stammered.

Azriel’s cold smile made the hairs on the back of their necks stand on end. “Your job? Your job was to make her feel small? Your job was to crush her spirit? Tell me, what part of that is ‘just doing your job’?”

One of the judges tried to stand up, but Azriel was faster. In a heartbeat, he grabbed him by the throat, lifting him off the ground. “You’re going to listen to me very carefully, and you’re going to do exactly what I say,” Azriel growled, his voice dripping with menace. “You’re going to redo the audition. Only for her. You’re going to send a letter, and you’re going to call her back here. And when she walks through that door, you’re going to praise her performance. You’re going to tell her she has what it takes. You’re going to give her the chance she deserves.”

The man was gasping for breath, his eyes wide with panic as he choked on his words. “Y-yes… yes, we’ll do it,” he croaked, but Azriel wasn’t done yet.

“You better,” Azriel hissed, tightening his grip just enough to send the message. “And if you don’t… I will come for every one of you. I’ll start with your families. Your children. Your wives. I’ll make sure every single person in this room knows exactly what it means to cross me.”

The man whimpered, his hands clawing at Azriel’s wrist in a futile attempt to break free. “We… we’ll do it. Just let me go…”

Azriel’s eyes darkened, his expression chilling. He released the man, letting him crumple to the floor, gasping for air. He turned to the others. “Do you all understand?”

They nodded, fear and desperation written across their faces.

Azriel’s gaze swept over them one last time, making sure they understood just how close they had come to losing everything. “If any of you try to play this off as something else, if you try to twist the truth, I will come back. And next time, I won’t be as merciful.”

He turned, leaving them in the silence of his threat. As he stepped out of the house, his shadows coiled around him, a dark presence that was both comforting and deadly.

He had kept his promise to Y/N. For now. But Azriel knew there was no stopping the fury that had been unleashed. He would protect her. He would always protect her. And anyone who tried to hurt her would regret it—deeply.

Feyre’s studio—her space in Velaris—was warm, filled with the scent of fresh paint and the faintest trace of lavender from the candles she had lit. Sunlight streamed through the wide windows, casting a golden glow over the half-finished paintings scattered across the room. It was peaceful. A quiet retreat from the weight of the world.

Y/N ran her fingers over the rim of a cup of tea, listening as Feyre hummed while mixing colors on her palette. They had been talking about nothing in particular—just idle chatter about a new piece Feyre was working on, how the city had been lately, and Y/N’s attempts to distract herself from the gnawing disappointment still lingering in her chest.

She had been getting better. She had been trying to move on from the humiliation of that audition. Feyre, as always, had been patient and kind, giving her space to talk but never pressing when she didn’t want to.

Y/N was about to respond to something Feyre said when the door swung open, and a familiar, commanding presence filled the room.

Azriel.

Her heart skipped, a warmth blooming in her chest the second their eyes met.

“High Lady,” he greeted Feyre smoothly, giving a respectful nod.

And, Cauldron boil her, Y/N knew she was hopelessly in love with this male the moment his expression shifted. The moment that cold, unreadable mask softened as his gaze found hers.

She went all mushy, as Feyre had put it before, whenever he did that. She hated how accurate it was.

“Az,” she breathed, already moving toward him before she could think twice about it.

He caught her the second she was within reach, his arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her into his chest. Y/N melted into him, pressing her face into his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of night-chilled wind and cedar.

Home.

She felt his lips press a kiss to the top of her head before he pulled back slightly, his hazel eyes warm with something unreadable. “I missed you.”

A smile curled on her lips. “Where were you all day?”

Azriel hummed, running a hand down her back as he gave a nonchalant answer. “Handling some things.”

“Secret spymaster things?” she teased, tilting her head up at him.

His lips twitched, but he didn’t confirm or deny it. Instead, he leaned down, brushing his nose against hers before pressing a soft kiss to her lips. “You didn’t need to miss me. I’m always here.”

Y/N sighed, wrapping her arms around his neck, enjoying the quiet moment of just them. “Sap.”

He chuckled, pressing another lingering kiss against her temple. “Only for you.”

Feyre, being the saint that she was, took that as her cue to excuse herself. “I’ll just—give you two a moment,” she muttered, already heading toward the back of the room.

Y/N barely acknowledged her leaving. She was too busy soaking in the rare gentleness of the male before her.

But then—

A hesitant voice called out from the hallway. “Uh…Az?”

Feyre had just returned, but she wasn’t looking at them. She was looking past them, toward the entrance of the studio, her brows raised in confusion. “Did you bring… all those females into my hallway?”

Y/N blinked, pulling away slightly from Azriel’s hold.

Feyre continued, looking increasingly concerned. “I mean, I don’t want to sound judgy, but they’re bound in your shadows. And there are like… fifteen of them.”

Y/N froze.

She turned fully, stepping out of Azriel’s embrace to look at him properly. “What?”

Azriel sighed. Not in regret. Not in guilt. But in the sort of way that said, I knew this was coming.

And then, he turned to her with a small, knowing smile. “Yes.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped.

Azriel took her hands, his thumbs running over her knuckles. “And they will all apologize.” His voice lowered, his lips brushing against her forehead. “They will beg on their knees for your forgiveness.”

Feyre choked. “Forgiveness? What—what the hell is going on?”

Azriel, ever so casually, replied, “Nothing you need to worry about.”

Y/N’s heart hammered in her chest. “Az,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, shaking her head. “No. Please.”

His hands cupped her face, his thumbs tilting her chin up as he leaned in, pressing another soft, deliberate kiss against her lips. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t desperate. It was firm. Resolute.

When he pulled back, his hazel eyes burned with unwavering determination. “No,” he murmured against her lips. “You need this.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

Azriel turned to Feyre, his voice returning to its usual icy calm. “Stay here.”

Then, without another word, he led Y/N to the hallway.

And there they were.

Fifteen females, all bound by thick, writhing shadows, their wrists locked together, their ankles bound. Some of them were trembling, silent tears streaking their faces. Others looked frozen in fear, their lips parted, as if they wanted to speak but couldn’t.

Y/N could barely breathe.

Azriel didn’t hesitate. His shadows curled tighter around the females as he spoke, his voice dark, merciless.

“Now,” he said, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Get in line.”

The shadows obeyed, shifting, forcing them into a single row.

Azriel stepped forward, his wings partially flaring as a cruel smirk played at his lips.

“One by one,” he drawled, “each of you will take turns begging for my mate’s forgiveness.”

Y/N stared at him, shock rippling through her entire body.

And she had no idea what to say.

The air was suffocating.

Y/N stood frozen as the first female, the moment Azriel’s shadows slithered away from her wrists, collapsed to her knees in front of her.

The thud of her body hitting the marble floor echoed through the hallway.

“I—I’m sorry,” the female gasped, tears streaming down her face, her voice breaking with desperation. “Please—please, I take it back. I take it all back.”

Y/N’s breath caught. Her fingers twitched at her sides, her gut instinct screaming at her to take a step back, to shake her head, to tell her that it was fine—

Azriel’s hand came to rest on her forearm, a quiet, grounding touch.

She turned to him, her wide eyes meeting his. His expression was unreadable, his jaw set, his wings tucked behind him like a warrior standing guard. A silent message passed between them.

Do not give in. Do not let them escape the weight of what they did.

And maybe—maybe he was right.

Maybe these people, these females who had mocked her, who had shamed her, who had torn apart something she had poured her entire soul into—maybe they should feel this. Maybe they should know what it was like to have the world force you onto your knees, to feel helpless, to feel humiliated.

So she swallowed hard, ignored the burn in her throat, and slowly, slowly, she gave the smallest nod.

And then the next female fell.

Then the next.

And the next.

One by one, they dropped before her, sobbing, stammering out apologies that all blurred together.

We didn’t mean it. We were just talking. Please, please, I swear, we didn’t think— Forgive me, I was wrong, I was wrong!

Y/N watched, her fingers trembling, as they all crumbled. As they begged.

The last one, the one who had humiliated her the worst, remained standing.

Azriel’s shadows didn’t let her go.

Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her shoulders shaking as she forced herself to meet Y/N’s gaze. Unlike the others, she wasn’t crying.

But she was afraid.

And Azriel?

He smirked.

His voice was low, a whisper of lethal amusement. “Oh? Nothing to say?”

The female’s jaw clenched. She was shaking, her hands curled into fists at her sides. Y/N could see the war raging behind her eyes—her pride battling with the absolute terror of what he would do to her if she didn’t submit.

Azriel stepped forward. His movements were slow, calculated, the air around them darkening as his shadows curled along the floor like ink spreading through water.

“I remember you,” he murmured, tilting his head as if studying prey caught in a snare. “You had so much to say that day. So many things to mock, so many insults to throw.”

His smirk sharpened.

“Say them now.”

The female visibly swallowed. “I—”

She didn’t get to finish.

Azriel was suddenly inches from her, his hand gripping her chin with a deceptively gentle hold. His wings flared slightly, his breath a ghost of a whisper against her skin.

“No?” he purred, mock surprise lacing his tone. “Why not? Where is that sharp tongue of yours now?”

The female’s body trembled, her knees visibly weakening, but she remained standing.

Azriel’s fingers pressed in just a fraction tighter, forcing her to look at him. “Do you know what happens to people who insult what belongs to me?”

Y/N shivered at the quiet, lethal promise in his voice.

The female finally cracked. A soft whimper escaped her lips.

And then—Azriel’s shadows dropped her.

She hit the floor with a painful gasp, and before Y/N could react, she was crawling forward, her hands gripping the fabric of Y/N’s dress as she bowed before her.

“I—I was wrong,” the female choked out. “I was so wrong. Please. Please, forgive me.”

Y/N could only stare.

Azriel stood behind her, looming like a shadowed god. His voice was pure ice as he spoke.

“Beg louder.”

The female’s body trembled violently as she clutched Y/N’s dress, her fingers digging into the fabric like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

“Please,” she choked out, her voice raw. “I—I was wrong, I—”

Azriel’s cold, deadly voice cut through the air like a blade.

"Louder."

The female flinched, her breath hitching. Y/N’s heart pounded as she stared down at the woman who had torn her apart just days ago, who had laughed at her, who had made her feel like she was nothing.

Now, that same woman was crawling at her feet.

Y/N’s hands trembled at her sides. This—this was too much. This wasn’t her. She didn’t need this.

But hadn’t she dreamed of this moment?

Hadn’t she imagined looking into their faces, imagined hearing them admit what they had done? That they had crushedher? Hadn’t she wanted this?

A twisted part of her, buried deep inside, relished it.

Not for the power.

Not for revenge.

But because for once—for once—she wasn’t the one who had to bend.

She wasn’t the one forced to apologize for simply existing.

Azriel moved beside her, his warmth grounding her in the storm of emotions raging inside her. His wings cast a shadow over them both as he crouched, his voice nothing but a whisper laced with deadly amusement.

"I told you to beg louder."

The female sobbed. “Please! I was wrong! I—” Her voice cracked as she practically collapsed lower, pressing her forehead to the floor at Y/N’s feet. “I was cruel. I am the worthless one, not you! I take it back! I take all my words back! I—I didn’t mean it. I swear. I swear, I didn’t mean it—”

Y/N inhaled sharply.

Didn’t mean it?

No. That was a lie.

They meant it.

They had enjoyed it.

They had looked her in the eye and mocked the thing she loved most, had seen her hurt and laughed.

And now?

Now they were just scared.

They weren’t sorry for what they did.

They were sorry that Azriel had made them face it.

The realization hit her like a crashing wave, stealing the breath from her lungs.

She turned to him, her fingers instinctively reaching for his.

He was already watching her.

His hazel eyes softened—not with pity, but with understanding.

And that was when she realized—

This wasn’t just about making them beg. This was about giving her the choice. The power had always been in their hands.

Now, it was in hers.

Her gaze flickered back down to the female, still crying at her feet.

A beat of silence passed.

Then, Y/N took a slow step back, pulling herself from the woman’s grasp.

The female’s sobs quieted.

Y/N straightened her spine, letting the tension bleed from her limbs. Then, with a voice steady and calm—her voice, not Azriel’s, not anyone else’s—she spoke.

"Get up."

The female’s breath hitched.

Y/N arched a brow. "I said, get up."

Slowly, hesitantly, the woman obeyed, wiping at her tear-streaked face as she stood.

Y/N met her gaze, unwavering. “You’re not sorry for what you did.” Her voice was quiet but firm. “You’re sorry for what happened because of it.”

The woman opened her mouth—probably to protest, probably to claim she was sorry—but one look from Azriel had her shutting it immediately.

Y/N exhaled.

“I don’t need your apologies,” she continued. “They don’t change what you did. They don’t change how you made me feel.”

Her nails curled into her palms.

“I don’t forgive you.”

A flicker of something crossed the woman’s face—humiliation, maybe. But Y/N didn’t care.

“You can leave now,” Y/N said simply.

She saw Azriel’s shadows twitch—as if they didn’t want to let them go—but at her command, they loosened.

One by one, the females scrambled out of the hallway, their heads bowed, their faces still streaked with tears.

Y/N didn’t watch them go.

Instead, she turned to Azriel.

He was already looking at her.

And gods—gods, that look.

Like she had just become something entirely new before his eyes. Like she was something fierce, something untouchable.

His hand lifted, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face, his knuckles grazing her cheek. “I’m proud of you,” he murmured.

Y/N swallowed.

She didn’t answer.

She just closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his chest.

His arms came around her instantly, holding her close, his chin resting atop her head.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, softly—

“Az?”

He hummed in response.

She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. “Don’t ever do that again.”

A slow smirk curled his lips. “Not even a little?”

She glared.

He chuckled, but his fingers gently tilted her chin up. “Alright,” he murmured. “No more shadows dragging terrified females through the streets.”

A pause.

“Unless they deserve it.”

Y/N groaned, hiding her face in his chest again. Azriel just laughed, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of her head.

The morning sun streamed through the kitchen window, casting golden light over the small breakfast she was preparing. The scent of fresh bread and honey filled the air as Y/N moved around, her mind still heavy from yesterday’s events.

Even after all that happened, even after them begging for her forgiveness, a part of her still felt like it was over. That she had lost her dream.

She let out a quiet sigh as she plated the food, determined not to dwell on it. Az would be awake soon, and she wanted to surprise him with breakfast in bed—

A sudden whoosh of magic broke through the quiet morning.

She gasped, stumbling back as a parchment appeared before her, floating midair before it landed softly on the counter.

Her brows furrowed in confusion. With hesitant fingers, she reached for it, breaking the wax seal and unfolding the letter.

Her breath caught the second she read the words.

Miss Y/N,

After reviewing our previous judgment, we have come to realize that we misjudged your performance. We deeply regret our oversight and would like to offer you another opportunity to showcase your talents. If you are still interested, we invite you to perform again today in the afternoon at the Grand Theatre. We sincerely hope you will accept.

Her heart stopped.

Her hands trembled as she reread it again. And again.

She clutched the letter to her chest.

This—this can’t be real.

She had lost her chance. They had crushed it, torn it from her hands.

And now… they were offering it back?

She was so caught up in the storm of emotions that she didn’t hear the footsteps behind her, didn’t notice the warmth approaching until two strong arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her against a broad, familiar chest.

Azriel buried his face into the crook of her neck, pressing a lazy, sleepy kiss there as he murmured, “What is it?”

She felt the smile on his lips.

The knowing smile.

And something clicked in her mind.

She stiffened slightly, turning in his arms as she held the letter up between them. “Did you have anything to do with this?”

Azriel blinked at her. His expression was a perfect mask of confusion, of innocent curiosity. “What are you talking about?”

His voice was so smooth, so convincing—too convincing.

He tilted his head slightly, his brows furrowing in the perfect Azriel-has-no-clue-what’s-going-on way.

And gods help her—she believed it.

Y/N’s breath came out in a shaky exhale, her body relaxing as she turned back to the letter. “Oh my gods,” she whispered, her lips parting in disbelief. “They really want me to perform again. They really—”

Her voice broke off. A choked laugh escaped her as her hands clutched the parchment tighter.

She had a second chance.

She had a second chance.

A delighted laugh bubbled up her throat as she turned back to Azriel, practically launching herself into his arms.

Az chuckled as he caught her with ease, spinning her slightly before settling her against him, his wings curling around them both.

“I knew it,” she beamed, her voice breathless. “I knew they’d see their mistake. Oh my gods, Az, I get to try again—I get to prove myself.”

Azriel cupped her face, brushing his thumbs over her cheeks as he gazed at her, devoured her with pride shining in his hazel eyes.

“I told you,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her forehead. “I told you that you deserved this.”

Her heart swelled at his words, at the warmth of his touch, at the way he looked at her—like she was everything.

She pulled back slightly, grinning up at him. “What would I do without you?”

His lips curled. “You’d be just fine,” he said, nudging her nose with his. “But lucky for you, you don’t have to find out.”

She laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down into a kiss. He met her eagerly, his hands gripping her waist as he deepened it, as he poured every ounce of pride and love into her.

When they finally pulled apart, he whispered, “You’re going to blow them away.”

Her smile was radiant. “You really think so?”

Azriel’s gaze darkened with something fierce, something possessive. “I know so.”

Y/N laughed again, burying her face in his chest as excitement and nerves thrummed in her veins.

She had another chance.

And this time, she wouldn’t waste it.

Y/N had been preparing for hours.

The moment the letter came, she had thrown herself into practice. Every movement, every turn, every step—she perfected them over and over again, determined to be flawless today. Azriel had been with her every second, his unwavering support wrapping around her like a second skin.

He had sat on the floor of their room, watching as she practiced in front of the mirror. His eyes followed every movement, sharp and analyzing, but also filled with something softer, something adoring. Whenever she faltered, his deep voice was there, murmuring reassurances, guiding her back into focus.

And when the nerves crept in, when she doubted herself for even a second, he pulled her into his arms, pressing soft kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, her lips—reminding her exactly why she was meant for this.

Now, standing outside the grand doors of the theatre, she could feel her heart pounding in her chest.

The streets were quieter today, the usual rush of dancers missing from the entrance. It felt eerie, so different from the weeks before when the halls had been filled with hopefuls, all vying for the lead role.

Now, it was just her.

Azriel stood beside her, his hand gripping hers tightly, as if he could sense the battle raging within her.

"You’re ready," he murmured, his voice steady, unwavering.

She turned to him, searching his hazel eyes, seeking the same reassurance he had given her all morning. And she found it—found that unshakable belief in her, the absolute certainty that she could do this.

Her fingers tightened around his. “Stay here?”

He huffed a soft laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You have to force me to leave your side, love.”

Warmth bloomed in her chest. She exhaled, stepping closer, pressing her forehead against his. His hands found her waist, his touch grounding.

“I’m nervous,” she admitted.

“I know.” He tilted her chin up, pressing a lingering kiss to her lips. “But you are going to be breathtaking.”

She let out a shaky laugh, letting herself melt into him for just a moment longer before she whispered, “I love you.”

Azriel smiled, and it was the kind of smile that turned her bones to honey. “I love you more.”

With one final breath, she slipped from his arms and stepped inside.

The theatre was silent.

It was so empty, so wrong compared to the chaotic energy of before. Her footsteps echoed against the polished wooden floors as she ascended the stairs, pushing open the doors to the main audition room.

The five judges were already seated, waiting for her.

The moment she entered, their expressions changed.

Not cold, not disinterested like before. But polite. Respectful.

It was… weird.

She took a seat, smoothing her hands over her skirts, and studied them carefully.

The older woman who had scoffed at her before now gave her a small, almost nervous smile. Another judge—one of the males—could barely hold her gaze.

Her eyes flickered to the last judge, and she nearly snorted.

A large, deep bruise curled around the side of his neck, just barely peeking out from the collar of his jacket.

What in the world did he do to deserve that?

She shook the thought away. Focus.

“Miss Y/N,” the eldest judge said, clearing his throat. “We want to thank you for coming today. We deeply regret our misjudgment the last time and hope you will give us the honor of seeing you perform again.”

She tilted her head. Weirdly nice.

She didn’t let herself dwell on it, merely nodded and made her way to the center of the room.

The music started.

She closed her eyes, inhaled.

And then—

She moved.

The first few steps were careful, precise. But with each turn, each shift, she let herself go, let herself become the movement, let herself lose everything but the rhythm thrumming in her veins.

The room faded away.

There was no theatre, no judges, no pressure—just her and the music.

Her shadows twined around her, blending into her movements, wrapping around her like an extension of herself. They curled at her fingertips, twirled with her in perfect synchronization.

Her fears melted away.

Every insult, every rejection, every ounce of doubt—gone.

She was light, she was free.

And as she reached the final note, she landed in a perfect, graceful finish—chest heaving, heart pounding.

The silence that followed was deafening.

She opened her eyes, chest rising and falling.

The judges were staring.

Wide-eyed. Mouths slightly open.

Then—

“You… gods above,” one of the females breathed.

The eldest judge straightened in his chair. “That was phenomenal.”

Another nodded. “Extraordinary.”

“The way you move,” a female judge added, “it’s like the dance was made for you.”

She blinked at them, overwhelmed.

They kept talking—throwing praise after praise, compliments she had never expected to hear from them.

She could barely process it.

She had done it.

She had done it.

Azriel was waiting outside.

The moment she stepped through the doors, his shadows curled around her, his sharp eyes scanning her from head to toe.

His jaw tightened. “Did they say anything—”

She didn’t let him finish.

She launched herself at him.

He barely had time to react before she was in his arms, gripping his shoulders tightly as happy tears streamed down her face.

Az caught her with ease, holding her like she was the most precious thing in the world.

“I got it,” she choked out.

He froze. Pulled back slightly. “What?”

A watery laugh bubbled past her lips. “I got it, Az.” She beamed up at him, breathless. “They said—there’s no need to wait. They’ve already reviewed everyone, and none came close to me. They said I was meant for this role, that I will represent Velaris and its art beautifully.”

Azriel’s chest rose sharply. His grip on her tightened.

Then—

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion.

And before she could say anything else, he kissed her.

Not soft, not hesitant—fierce, hungry, filled with pride and love and something utterly consuming.

She melted into him, smiling against his lips as his hands cradled her face, as if he couldn’t bear to let go.

When they finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against hers.

“I knew you would do it,” he whispered. “I knew it.”

She exhaled a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For always believing in me.”

Azriel let out a soft chuckle, pressing another kiss to her forehead before whispering, “Forever.”

With fingers intertwined, hearts still racing, they turned toward home—toward the future she had fought for.

[bunji-enthusiast]

𝐇𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧 (𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐥?)

Sypnosis [You go out to scavenge for food, basically.]

Characters [Poppy, Doey The Doughman.]

Note || it be rough down in Playtime Co fr, also the potential for the fluff is unmatched. Like, trying to vy for some light and hope, despite the horrors that await us at every turn in the factory. Raghh— also I’m posting another one after this, I wrote both of this and the other in tandem.

The factory was a maze of forgotten memories and rusted machinery, its shadows deeper and darker than most could ever imagine. Yet, amidst all the chaos, there was still a flicker of hope for survival. You were tough, yes—no stranger to hard labor and hardship—but survival in the backrooms of Playtime Co. required something more. Food, for one.

The small toys in the safe haven, especially Doey, needed sustenance, and even though they were small, they weren't any less deserving of food than you. Poppy, Kissy, and the others—tough as the journey was, you couldn’t ignore their needs. It was your responsibility.

But before you could set out, you found yourself in the worn, cold hall of the safe haven, where Poppy sat with a gentle but questioning look. Her eyes, despite their haunting bloodshot hue, carried something soft, something almost maternal. Her porcelain face, cracked as it was, held the same delicate, thoughtful expression you had come to expect.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Poppy spoke, her voice light and almost melodic. It had a faint echo, as if the walls themselves remembered her long-forgotten commercial days. “You’re going out to scavenge, aren’t you?”

You nodded, giving her a small grin. “I’ll bring back something for you too, Poppy. Don’t worry.”

Poppy’s eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of concern passing over her features. “You should be careful out there, you know. The factory's a dangerous place. Even for someone like you.”

“I’m tougher than I look, Poppy,” you reassured her, though there was a hint of apprehension in your voice. No matter how tough you were, the factory still held secrets, and not all of them were willing to let you go free.

Poppy looked down, her fingers twisting the ribbons in her red hair as if caught in a whirlwind of thoughts. When she spoke again, her voice had lost some of its previous cheerfulness, replaced by something deeper, something weary. “You have to understand… It’s not just food that’s at stake, you know.”

Your brow furrowed, confused at first. “What do you mean? The food—”

“I’m talking about the Prototype,” she said quietly, almost as if the mere mention of it weighed heavily on her. “If you go out there, be careful. He’s always watching, even when you don’t see him. The food… it’s just the beginning. Things could get much worse, much faster. You’re already in too deep, aren’t you?”

Her words gave you pause. Despite the factory's twisted games and horrors, the Prototype loomed over everything, a constant shadow.

“I know,” you sighed, “but we’re not getting out of here without doing something. The others—Doey, Kissy, and even you—need to be taken care of. And if that means I have to risk it, then so be it. I’ve survived this long, haven’t I?”

Poppy smiled faintly, her porcelain lips curling ever so slightly. “You’ve survived, yes. But maybe… maybe you don’t have to do it alone. I know I can’t leave, not with everything that’s happened. But we can’t let him win. We can’t let him keep us here.”

You gave her a reassuring nod, feeling the weight of the factory’s twisted past pressing down on you both. “I won’t let him win, Poppy. I’ll be back. Promise.”

She stood up slowly, her delicate porcelain limbs moving with an elegance that belied the danger lurking just outside the safe haven. “Be careful. And if you can find anything more than food… anything that could help us escape, don’t hesitate to bring it back. We all deserve that much.”

As you turned to leave, Poppy’s soft voice called out to you one last time. “Don’t get lost, okay? The factory is full of distractions, and not all of them are friendly.”

You smiled at her words, a small flicker of warmth in your chest. “I’ll be fine. Just stay safe, alright?”

With that, you stepped into the darkened halls, your mind focused on the task ahead. The air was thick with the scent of rust and decay, but your resolve was firm. You had a job to do. Not just for yourself, but for those who had no way of scavenging for themselves. And you couldn’t let them down. Not after everything that had happened.

The factory's mechanical heart seemed to pulse around you, but you kept moving forward, determined to find something—anything—that would give you all a chance at survival.

The factory was a place of eerie silence now, broken only by the occasional echo of footsteps. It had once been a bustling factory, filled with the sounds of laughter and the buzz of mechanical parts working in harmony. Now, it was a place of fear, of shadows lurking in every corner, and of memories that clung to the walls like ghosts. As a former employee, you had seen things here that no one should have ever witnessed. Yet, amidst the horror, there were still those who needed you. The small toys that had found sanctuary in this forsaken place — Doey, Poppy, Kissy, and others — were relying on you.

Food. The thought lingered in your mind like a simple but necessary task, a reminder of how even in a world so broken, survival still required basic needs. You had made your way through the depths of the factory once before, and though the dangers were still there, they didn’t faze you the way they used to. You were tough, resilient — your body honed for the challenges this factory threw at you. But even you couldn’t fight the gnawing emptiness in your stomach. And it wasn’t just for you. Doey, the ever-caring doughman, had proven himself to be a true companion. And Poppy... Poppy had become something more than just another toy. She had become someone you could rely on. Kissy, too, though she was quieter, always watching from the shadows, had her own way of offering help.

You knew where to go. The factory had its secrets — areas tucked away behind locked doors, hidden alleys between forgotten rooms where remnants of old supplies might still be found. The storage areas and old kitchens, once a part of the bustling workforce's meals, were now just echoes of the past. But perhaps, with a little luck, you could scavenge something to bring back. It was risky. The factory had changed since the disaster. The toys that once greeted customers with joy and laughter had become twisted, warped by the Prototype's influence. Yet, there were still pockets of safety — places where the light still flickered faintly.

You moved quickly, but cautiously, your eyes darting from shadow to shadow. The factory’s labyrinthine corridors seemed to stretch forever, each turn filled with uncertainty. You had a destination in mind, but that didn't make the journey any less perilous. The faint sound of machinery echoed from far off, and the distant scraping of claws against metal made your pulse race for a moment. But you pushed forward. There was no turning back now.

As you reached the old kitchen, memories of its former use haunted you. It had been a place of warmth once, where the workers would gather, a place of respite. Now, the shelves were bare, save for the scattered remnants of broken toys and discarded wrappers. A few boxes remained — their labels faded and worn, but their contents still promising. You pried open a few, finding only scraps of half-eaten meals and stale bread. Not much, but it would have to do.

You moved through the dark corridors, the boxes tucked under your arm, and it wasn’t long before you spotted a small, familiar figure in the distance. Doey. His doughy body shuffled forward with surprising agility, a small bundle of food in his hands.

"I thought I might find you here," he said, his voice soft but warm. "Food’s scarce, but we’ve got a few things hidden away. Thought you might need some."

"Anything helps," you replied, grateful. "What about the others? Poppy? Kissy?"

Doey smiled, his form stretching slightly as he thought. "Kissy's still laying low. She’s... been through a lot. And Poppy’s keeping an eye on things, making sure the others are safe. But they're hungry. We all are."

You handed Doey a few of the boxes you had scavenged. "We’ll make do," you said, though the truth was, the food would hardly be enough to sustain the group for long. But it was better than nothing.

“Poppy will be thrilled,” Doey continued, his voice quieter now. “We’ve all been struggling to get by, and every little bit helps. You know, it’s funny… in a place like this, food doesn’t just fill your stomach. It reminds us of a simpler time, a time when we didn’t have to worry about every little thing, when we were just toys living for fun and play.”

You nodded, understanding the gravity behind his words. While Doey often kept things light, he had his moments of deep thought, moments when the weight of what had happened here truly sank in. He didn’t often talk about the past, but you knew from what little he'd shared that he was one of the few who still remembered the humanity behind the toys—the lives they once lived. That empathy he showed for the other toys, even those whose humanity had long been erased by the Prototype’s cruel machinations, was something you admired about him.

“I know Poppy wants to put an end to all of this," Doey continued, his voice soft but serious now, the usual joviality replaced by a more reflective tone. "But I think... I think there's something worth saving here. Even after everything that's happened, these toys—like us—are still capable of so much more than what the factory intended. I believe that. Even if some others can’t see it.”

The words struck you in a way you didn’t expect. You had always known that Doey, despite his playful exterior, had a more complex side—a side that had always tried to balance the need for action with the need for understanding. While Poppy, the other leader of the Safe Haven, was adamant about destroying the factory and moving on, Doey had a different perspective. He wanted to understand, to find a way to preserve what remained of the toys' essence, to protect them.

"You really think there's a chance?" you asked, genuinely curious.

Doey nodded, though his expression remained neutral. "I do. Not all of us are beyond saving. We just need the right push. Poppy may want to destroy everything, but… I can’t just give up on them. I can’t give up on us."

There was a certain sadness behind his words, a sadness that only surfaced when Doey was truly vulnerable, when the weight of responsibility took a hold of him. But it was that very vulnerability that made him such a powerful leader—because it made him relatable. He understood loss, struggle, and hope, and he knew that sometimes, saving someone wasn’t about destroying everything around them. It was about offering them a chance at redemption, even in the most hopeless of circumstances.

"You know, Doey," you said, your voice steady, "You're not alone in this. Poppy and the others may not always see eye to eye with you, but… I think you’re right. We can’t just abandon the idea that there’s good left in these toys."

His smile returned, albeit more subdued this time. "Thanks. I needed to hear that."

Just then, you both heard the distant sound of footsteps echoing through the factory—another sign that the factory wasn’t as empty as it seemed. You both turned your heads, ready for whatever came next. But for now, in this brief, quiet moment between you and Doey, there was a sense of peace—a fleeting sense of hope amidst the ruins.

"Come on," Doey said, his playful tone back. "Let’s get this food back to the Safe Haven before anyone else starts getting ideas. They won’t be disappointed."

The two of you walked back toward the Safe Haven, the only place where any semblance of safety remained in this factory of horrors. As you passed through the corridors, the shadows seemed to shift. The factory had a way of making you feel watched, as if every creaking floorboard or distant thud was a reminder that the nightmare was never truly gone. You quickened your pace, eager to return to the others.

When you reached the Safe Haven, the sight of the familiar, fortified walls provided some comfort. Inside, the toys were scattered in various corners, huddled in their own small groups. The warmth of their presence was palpable, even if they were all, in their own way, broken by what they had endured. Doey moved to the corner, setting down the food he had gathered, and you followed, your eyes searching for Poppy.

She was standing near something—you couldn’t make out what, her porcelain face calm but her eyes searching the dark expanse beyond. As you approached, she turned to you, her usual cheer absent but replaced by something more serious.

"Did you find anything?" she asked, her voice soft yet filled with hope.

"Not much," you replied, holding up the food you had gathered. "But it's enough for now."

Poppy nodded, her lips curling into a small, appreciative smile. "We’ll make it work. We always do."

It was a rare moment of peace, fleeting though it was. You had been through so much together — the horrors of the factory, the twisted games and monstrous toys that had haunted your every step. But here, in this small corner of the factory, you had found something like family. It wasn’t much, but it was all you had.

And as you sat down with the others, sharing what little food there was, you couldn’t help but feel that, for all the darkness, there was still something worth fighting for.

[yearninflowers]

Imagine...

“You… Do you really love me?”

...

At first, Phainon was silent—well, technically, he was flustered. He paused everything he was doing and looked at you weirdly, trying to understand why you were asking him such an obvious question, yet he answered anyway.

“Of course,” he tucked a conveniently fallen hair strand over your ear, laughing rather softly at your question despite the confusion, “how could I not? It's as easy as breathing and as simple as admiring the skies.” His face got closer, a smile still apparent on his face.

“You don't have to try so hard. It's quite easy to love someone like you.”

He kissed your forehead. It felt soft, and the love from his heart seemed to wrap itself around you from this one action. And somehow, the lingering touch left you wanting more before he eventually talked again.

“You don't always need to fit in. You're fine as you are.”

He kissed your cheeks, both of them, carefully. And just like before, the lingering touch had left you wanting more. How could someone show their love so apparently like this?

Suddenly, he held your shoulder, forcing you to match his eyes. They seemed to focus solely on yours as he tried to mutter out something.

"You're you, and—" He gulped, the hold he had over your shoulder tightened slightly, "and that's why I love you.”

He leaned in. And at that moment, you noticed the slight tremble in his hands as he kissed you—slightly, softly, only touching the left corner of your lips.

“...understand now?”

Oh, God. You wanted to cry at this moment, somehow. It felt as if something—you didn't know if an old wound had been healed or it was just you feeling so loved—had changed in you.

Is it truly possible to have someone love you so deeply and effortlessly? — You often questioned that. For someone who had been thirsty for such an 'easy' love, how could you not melt for the man in front of you? How could you not... love him back as well?

“Yes, yes.” You sobbed out, smiling awkwardly through all the bubbling feelings. “I understand well.”

Hearing your answer, he laughed rather quietly. It sounded comforting, rather than anything else. Some people could laugh at you when you show vulnerability, but he didn't. He never did.

“Good." He smiled, nodding off to yours and his own words. "I hope you remember it well too. I really love you, you know?”

And so, you smiled back.

As your heart was filled to the brim, you finally gathered what little courage you had to give him a small peck to his lips, truly finishing what he wanted to do before.

“...uh?”

You grinned cheekily.

“Hehe, I love you too, Phainon.”

And that was all it took for him to finally melt in your hold.

[rik0shii]

reader being the only girl member of big bang, and her and daesung secretly being all flirty and in love with each other, but they dont date, until years later , people do edits and stuff to start pointing out how they definitely liked each other which gives them the push to date, so it ends in our current year.

hope this is okay, thanks so much💜

Years in the Making

Pairing: Daesung x Reader

Word Count: ~5k

hiii i hope you like it, this was pretty rushed 😭😭 reposts and comments are appreciated!

Summary: You and Daesung have always had a connection—one that the rest of BIGBANG teased but never took too seriously. Years of inside jokes, secret smiles, and lingering touches were just part of your friendship. But now, in 2025, the internet has receipts, and maybe it’s time to stop pretending.

2006 – The Beginning

Being the only female member of BIGBANG wasn’t easy. You had to fight for every bit of respect, prove yourself just as much—if not more—than the others. But through the exhausting days of training and the pressure of debuting, Daesung was always there.

He made everything lighter, easier.

You clicked instantly—maybe it was the way you both loved to joke around, how neither of you took yourselves too seriously despite the industry’s expectations. Or maybe it was the way he always looked out for you—pulling you away from reporters when their questions became too personal, sneaking extra snacks into your bag when you were too busy to eat, keeping an eye on you even when you didn’t realize it.

And the flirting? That was just part of the game.

“You looked good today,” he’d murmur after performances, voice just low enough for only you to hear.

“So did you,” you’d reply, watching the tips of his ears turn red.

It was effortless, natural. But it was also safe. Neither of you ever pushed past the invisible line between friends and something more.

Not yet.

2012 – Still Just Friends

BIGBANG was dominating the industry, and your friendship with Daesung was as strong as ever. If anything, it had only grown.

The fans noticed it—the way you always seemed to gravitate toward each other, how you finished each other’s jokes, how Daesung’s eyes lingered on you just a second too long during interviews. Edits of your moments together flooded the internet, clips of him looking at you like you hung the stars gaining thousands of views.

The other members noticed too.

“You two should just date already,” Taeyang teased once, watching the way you nudged Daesung’s shoulder during a break in rehearsal.

Daesung laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, but you saw the flicker of something in his eyes before he shrugged it off.

“We’re just friends,” you said, the same response you always gave.

The conversation moved on, but for the first time, the words didn’t sit right in your chest.

Because deep down, you weren’t so sure they were true.

2017 – The Almost

It was late after a concert in Japan, the adrenaline finally wearing off as you and Daesung sat in the back of the van, heads resting against the seats. The others were chatting in the front, their voices distant.

Daesung shifted beside you. “Do you ever think…?”

You turned to him, his voice quieter than usual. “Think what?”

“That maybe we missed something?”

Your heart skipped.

It was the closest either of you had ever come to acknowledging it—this thing that had existed between you for years, unspoken but always there.

You opened your mouth, unsure of what you were about to say, but the van stopped, and the moment shattered. The conversation was left unfinished, lost to the chaos of schedules, tours, and comebacks.

And maybe that was easier.

Maybe pretending was better than facing what it really meant.

2020 – The Shift

BIGBANG had been through so much. Hiatuses, military service, changes in the group—it felt like a lifetime had passed since your debut.

You and Daesung still talked, of course. Always. But things felt different. There were fewer playful touches, fewer lingering glances. Maybe you were both too scared of what would happen if you let it slip.

Then one night, as you sat in your apartment scrolling through your phone, you came across an edit.

It was one of those fan compilations—clips spanning over a decade, showing every moment you and Daesung had ever shared. The way he looked at you when you weren’t watching, the way your hands always seemed to find each other, the way he smiled a little softer when you were the one speaking.

And the comments?

“How did they not date?”

“You’re telling me this wasn’t real???”

“Daesung was down BAD.”

Your chest tightened. You had spent years convincing yourself that what you had was just friendship. But watching it all laid out like this? The internet had noticed something you had spent years ignoring.

And maybe… maybe it was time to stop running from it.

2025 – The Now

It had taken almost twenty years, but here you were.

Sitting next to Daesung in a quiet café, watching as he scrolled through the same edits that had haunted your mind for months.

He looked up, expression unreadable. “So, the internet thinks we’ve been in love this whole time.”

You laughed, but it came out shaky. “Maybe they have a point.”

Daesung didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, slowly, carefully, he reached across the table, his fingers brushing yours.

Your breath hitched.

“I don’t want to miss it this time,” he murmured.

And this time, you didn’t pretend you didn’t understand.

This time, you laced your fingers through his and held on.

Later That Year – The Interview

Daesung’s talk show had quickly become a fan favorite. He had always been a natural entertainer, effortlessly funny yet able to draw out deep conversations from his guests. His humor kept things light, but he had a way of making people open up without even realizing it.

So when he invited you on, you weren’t surprised.

What did surprise you was how openly you both talked about your relationship.

The set was warm and inviting, the audience buzzing with excitement as the cameras rolled. You sat beside Daesung on the sleek studio couch, watching him grin like he was up to something.

“So, Y/N, should we tell them who made the first move?” he asked, leaning forward with that signature mischievous glint in his eyes.

You smirked. “Technically, it was you.”

He gasped dramatically, turning to the audience. “Did you hear that? She’s rewriting history! Someone pull up the receipts!”

Laughter filled the studio.

You crossed your arms, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, you want receipts? Should we talk about the time in Japan in 2017?”

The audience ooooh’d in excitement, and Daesung immediately started laughing, shaking his head. “I knew you were going to bring that up.”

You turned to the audience, grinning. “So, there we were, exhausted after a concert, sitting in the back of a van, and this man turns to me and says—”

“—‘Do you ever think we missed something?’” Daesung finished, sighing dramatically. “Yeah, yeah, I walked right into this one.”

The audience erupted into cheers, and Daesung pretended to hide his face behind his hands.

You nudged his arm. “That was basically a confession, you know.”

“I know,” he groaned. “And then I did nothing about it for years.”

More laughter.

“But honestly,” he continued, looking at you with a softer expression, “I think we were both scared back then. Scared of ruining what we had, scared of the industry, scared of—”

You nodded, finishing his sentence. “Scared of everything.”

There was a pause—just long enough for the audience to feel the weight of it.

Then Daesung brightened, turning back to the camera. “But thankfully, the internet came through for us.”

The screen behind you lit up with clips—fan edits, old interviews, even that viral comment section that had pushed you both toward the truth.

“How did they not date?”

“You’re telling me this wasn’t real???”

“Daesung was down BAD.”

Daesung groaned again. “That last one really hurts. Down bad?? Am I that obvious?”

“Yes,” the entire audience answered in unison, making everyone laugh again.

You squeezed his hand, grinning. “But it’s okay. Because we both were.”

More aww’s from the audience.

Then Daesung smirked again. “Okay, real question—who had to be the one to officially ask?”

You rolled your eyes, already knowing where this was going. “You refused to do it, so I had to.”

“I wasn’t refusing! I was building suspense,” he argued.

You turned to the audience. “He stalled for weeks.”

“I was nervous!”

The teasing continued, but under it all, there was something soft, something warm. It was the kind of banter that came naturally, built on years of friendship, trust, and love.

As the interview wrapped up, Daesung turned back to you with a more genuine expression.

“For real, though,” he said, voice quieter, “I think it was always supposed to be us. It just took us a long time to see it.”

You felt your chest tighten, the weight of everything you had gone through settling into something right.

Reaching for his hand, you smiled. “Yeah. But we got there in the end.”

The audience clapped, the energy buzzing through the studio.

Years in the making. But finally, finally yours.

[howlsofbloodhounds]

One thing I find very annoying about the fandom is the claims that color saying that he hates nightmare and believes nightmare doesn’t deserve mercy for everything nms done to innocent people, to colors friends and loved ones, and to killer is hypocrisy.

Now this would’ve be an interesting character flaw if it had been true, but the fact of the matter is: it isn’t true. At all.

Killer was a victim of nightmare, being used and manipulated to do his dirty work. Fact of the matter is killer wouldnt have done as much as half as he did if nightmare hadn’t forced him to live and then forced him to work for him. Killer wouldnt have had the means to, because he cannot travel between aus.

Another thing is this: Killer felt horribly guilty about what he’s done and what he did, in Stage 1. But it’s not just that; he expressed a desire to change, he asked Color for help—to save him—because he doesn’t want to do it anymore.

He wants to live, he wants family and his brother back, but he can’t live when he’s forced to do nothing but survive under Nightmare; he can’t change when he’s with Nightmare. It’s literally life or death—and Killer is deeply programmed. He cannot simply decide to change, or who he wants to be, it’s just not that easy for him. Not the same way it is for others.

And yet, despite that, he said he wanted to change and even underneath Nightmare he was trying to. In the Something New Happened comic, when Killer confronts Nightmare before leaving him, he reveals that he’s been not only gathering information on Nightmare behind his back and lying and pretending to Nightmare; but he’s been secretly helping AUs as well.

Even when he’s finally left with Color, it’s implied that he and Color still fight against “bad guys”—regardless of Killer’s personal reasons for why he does it, he still does it.

And even if this wasn’t the case: the simple fact of the matter is that Killer needs help. It’s not a matter of “deserve.” He will fucking die if he keeps working for Nightmare and going on as he is; he will die, and he will be replaced.

Doesn’t matter if he was willing to change or not, this victim of labor trafficking and horrific ‘human’ rights violating types of abuse is begging Color for help; and he’s going to help him.

Nightmare never even shows guilt for what he does, to anyone. Not even in Something New. He refuses to acknowledge that he’s the reason why shit keeps going wrong and why he keeps ending up alone. Which means he refuses to take responsibility or accountability.

Killer left him because he used, manipulated, tortured, trafficked, conditioned, violated and abused Killer. And Killer decided he didn’t want to be what Nightmare wanted him to be anymore. Killer decided to live for himself, and do what he wants for once, and Nightmare’s response was to threaten to murder Killer for this.

Nightmare was upset he was alone again, and he was upset he lost control over Killer and that Color “stole” what he views as his and undermined his control and power.

There’s no realization about what he’s done or desire to change—he blames Killer and especially Color for making feel like that, for making him feel like the bad guy again. Rather than acknowledging the fact that he is a bad guy. It’s always about how others made him feel.

On top of that, Corrupted Nightmare isn’t even the same person as original Nightmare—so something that happened 500 years ago is not his trauma to claim in an attempt to reason or justify his abuse of Killer and his horrible actions. And even if Corrupted was the same person as original Nightmare, his abuse happened 500 years ago.

The whole “cycle of abuse” thing is supposed to be about ending it. Not uwuifying and absolving Nightmare of responsibility for his abuse and horrific crimes against others because he was a victim 500 years ago. His abusers are dead, and he killed them.

So not liking or believing canon Nightmare deserves mercy is not Color being a hypocrite for believing and choosing to help Killer. Nightmare and Killer’s situations are completely different.

And on that topic, in more fanonish depictions or versions of Nightmare where he can be redeemed, it’s not Color’s fucking responsibility to redeem or like that old bastard. Nor is it Killer’s. They owe him absolutely nothing.

All in all: even in more fanonish Nightmare depictions, Color is completely valid to fucking hate and not like Nightmare. Would he hold a grudge against Nightmare? Probably not exactly, given the influence of Kindness and the fact that’s just not how Color is.

Would he be willing to help Nightmare? Possibly, if Killer (or in some cases, Horror and Dust) are okay with it—if he truly believes that Nightmare wants and is willing to change, because he wants to help—but doesn’t mean he ever has to like him.

It’s very obvious that Color doesn’t think or feel this way about Nightmare for absolutely no reason or because of rumors or because the Multiverse “misunderstood” Nightmare.

In fact Color was introduced as initially believing that Nightmare could change, back before he knew this guy. He believed Nightmare loved his brother, even if it doesn’t seem like it, and encouraged Dream not to give up on Nightmare; way before Color knew Killer, and got to know Nightmare more. Before he had first hand experience, and saw the aftermath of the destruction Nightmare can bring.

Which shows someone who doesn’t allow the rumors or opinions of others to cloud his judgement, and prefers to think and came up with judgements on others himself; based on his own experiences and understanding of people and situations.

And the judgment and opinion he eventually came to was definitely not because of a misunderstanding or because of falling for rumors or “anti nightmare propaganda” as is sometimes shown in fanfics—he saw something, heard something, experienced something—likely had many different examples of this something, given the fact that Nightmare is known for replacing Killers—that led him to this particular conclusion of Nightmare’s character.

Let’s not act like it’s weird or wrong to hate the person who fucking abuses and uses and tortures your best friend.

Most people are absolutely a-okay with threatening to kill their best friend’s cheating boyfriend, people will live if color despises his best friend’s literal trafficker and that does not make Color inherently hypocritical.

(Which is an idea that exists obviously not because people want to explore the complexity of Color and Nightmare’s relationship and characters, not because they want to write complex characters and dynamics, but because they want to absolve Nightmare of any wrong doing and have Color realize hes “wrong” or somehow “just as bad” and stop “taking killer from nightmare.”)

We’ve already established just how much both color’s relationships, his morals, and his integrity means to him.

[leighsartworks216]

Hello! Hope your days going great.

Saw you opened requests for Valentine's and honestly you're my go to blog for dealing with all the feelings Zayne gives me. 🫠

I tried to really think about a good proper fluffy Valentine's prompt, but I can't get the idea of Zayne's full body weight on reader.

Just full on flop, waist between knees, nose in neck crook, arms around an arched back type of full contact cuddle. 😩🤌🏼

Post date? Early morning? Maybe the first time he ever truly let's himself he held? Not worrying about crushing them?

I just want him to drape over me like a weighted blanket.

Bonus points if there's some scalp scratching type of melty action? I just want to smother that man in my love honestly.

All Night Forever

Zayne x gn!Reader

I will always drop everything to hold this man and give him the attention he deserves

Title from "All Night Forever" by TWRP (it suits him SO well)

Warnings: fluff, domestic fluff, established relationship, slow dancing, cuddling, kissing, touch-starved Zayne, literal sleeping together, silly, teasing, banter

Word Count: 1,190

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Zayne smiles softly as he watches you twirl into the house. You hum a song aloud, mindlessly kicking your shoes away and following imaginary dance steps. It’s one of the songs they played at the gala tonight.

He toes off his own shoes. Crouching down, he sets his them in their proper place before gathering yours and neatly aligning them in just the same way. He doesn’t have a chance to grab your slippers before you’re tapping on his shoulder and tugging on his arm.

“Dance with me,” you say. Your movements have the familiar lag of exhaustion, lingering just at the very edge of your swaying hips. Your eyes are still so bright and excited, but the bags underneath are more prominent with the late hour. And yet here to are, pulling him back up to his feet so he can dance with you.

He chuckles as he steps closer, his hands settling easily on your waist. “Haven’t you danced enough for one night?” You wrap your arms around his neck. Your fingers play with the edge of his collar, guiding him with you as you step away from the door and into the house proper.

It’s dark. The only light to guide the way comes from the ceiling light in the entryway, but its warm reach only extends so far. It’s substituted by the moon’s blue glow the further you go, highlighting the edge of furniture and the side of your face. Despite the lack of proper light, you move through the house with ease. You never have anything to fear; even if you were drunk and stumbling, Zayne would guide you away from any danger, protecting you from a stubbed toe or banged up shin.

You step back, he steps forward. Each step is reciprocated, timed out to the slow song you hum. You lead him into the living room. He quirks an eyebrow in question, but he follows. He would follow you into hell, swaying back and forth and never letting his eyes stray from your face.

He’s caught off balance when you hug him tighter and pull him down, though he should have expected such an act of mischief from you. You fall back onto the soft couch cushions, bouncing lightly with the impact. He has to let you go in order to catch himself. His hands cage you in, one knee between your legs. His other leg is extended out, standing on the soft carpet laid out across the floor to keep himself steady. He shoots you a glare, though it lacks any real upset.

“Lay with me,” you plead sweetly. You tug on him lightly, but he stays firm. “I want to hold you.”

He shakes his head with a soft, breathy laugh. “You’re going to be uncomfortable,” he warns, thumbing at the sleeve of your attire, “dressed like this.”

You shift so your knee presses against his side, urging him further to lay down between your legs. “That’s a Future-Me problem. Now-Me wants to hold my boyfriend.”

“Future-You is going to be complaining to Future-Zayne about this. He won’t say ‘I told you so,’ but he’ll be thinking it.”

You giggle. “Noted. Now, please?”

“You need to move over.”

“Nope. Just lay on top of me!”

He gives you a dubious look. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Never truly able to resist your antics, he relents. He brings his other leg up onto the couch. As he lowers himself down to lay on top of you, his legs stretch out behind him, toes nearly touching the arm rest. His arms are the last to adjust. You can tell by the serious, focused look on his face he’s concerned about resting his full weight on you. All it takes to remove that worry is, naturally, you: you hug him close, guiding his head to your chest and kissing his forehead, and he finally slips his arms under your back to hug you in return.

Once everything has settled into place, he rests his chin on your chest to look at your face. “Happy?”

Your smile puts the moon to shame. “Almost.”

Before he can ask what else you want - your dear Zayne, always ready to ask ‘how high’ when you say ‘jump’ - you’re taking it for yourself. You drag your nails along his scalp, immediately drawing shivers and a shuddering sigh from him. His arms curl tighter around your body. His ears turn pink with blush. But all this leads to what you really wanted, as his body relaxes further into yours and his weight presses you deeper into the cushions.

“Now,” you whisper, “I’m happy.”

You think he flushes deeper with embarrassment at being caught so off guard by such a simple touch, but he doesn’t fight it. He turns his face to the side, resting his cheek against you. “You still find ways to surprise me, even now,” he murmurs. “However, I won’t deny that it feels nice.”

You bite your lip to try hiding the wide smile that wants to break free. You watch his face as you tangle your fingers into his hair, scratching lightly across his scalp, from the nape of his neck to the crown of his head and back. It’s addicting, watching the way his body reacts. You can see the tension leave his shoulders and back. Feel the way he all but melts into you. His head tilts slightly into your touch, chasing after the sensations that tingle under his skin, even as he tries to lie still. His soft breaths, shaky and content.

Minutes pass by in comfortable silence, broken only by your shared breaths and synced heartbeats. You thought he was already asleep when he slowly shifts further up, adjusting himself so he can hide his face in your neck. His nose is cold where it brushes your skin. He murmurs a soft apology when you involuntarily jolt from it, but you don’t let him pull away. Instead it nuzzles into your pulse, replaced every now and again with his soft lips leaving tired kisses that linger as he counts each beat of your heart.

You brush his bangs aside to kiss his forehead. “I love you…” you whisper against his skin.

“I love you, too…” he whispers back, just before his breathing evens out and he falls asleep in your arms.

-

BONUS:

You sit up with a groan, rubbing at your neck and arching your back in hopes it’ll pop and steal with it the ache in your spine. Lines are imprinted in your skin from your clothes, that now feel like sandpaper against your skin.

Zayne, wet hair sticking to his forehead and fresh, comfortable clothes in place of his suit from last night, smiles down at you. He wordlessly passes over two pain tablets and a glass of water.

You glare at him as you take the medicine. “You can’t say it. You said Future-Zayne wouldn’t say it.”

“I did,” he concedes. His smile only grows wider as he leans over the back of the couch to kiss your forehead. “But I also believe I said he would be thinking it.”

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @deepzombieyouth @armycaratlover @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @hawtlineblingz @that-lost-one @always-just-red

[novaursa]

Legacy (daybreak)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: There is one more chapter left after this, where everything will be concluded.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (for blood, gore, violence and death)

- Previous part: the last enemy

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal @butterflygxril @urdxrling

The world was burning.

And yet, the cold only grew stronger.

The battle raged, an ocean of bodies moving, clashing, and falling, the steel of men barely holding against the endless tide of the dead. Viserion’s wings strained against the weight of the sky, her armor battered, her flames a relentless answer to the creeping dark. You fought, you burned, and still, it was not enough.

In the chaos below, Tywin’s forces waged a desperate war, their banners flickering like dying embers in a storm. Every strike, every kill, meant nothing—for every wight that fell, three more took its place. Their jaws snapped, their fingers clawed, their empty blue eyes never wavering.

And then, a new sound pierced the night.

The horns.

They came like the rolling of thunder. A deep, resounding echo that sent a ripple through both the living and the dead.

Tywin turned, his golden lion helm smeared with blackened blood, his sword glistening under the dim torchlight as he cut another wight down. He heard it before he saw them.

And then—the cavalry crested the hill.

A wall of green and gold, the banners of Highgarden snapping against the wind, the Tyrell rose standing tall and defiant. At their head, golden lions rode beside them, banners of the Crownlands trailing in their wake.

Lady Olenna had stayed true to her word.

And now, as the Tyrell forces crashed into the battlefield, swords and lances striking through the dead like a storm of vengeance, it was clear that they had come to honor that oath.

But even despite this, even with this new, unexpected surge of aid, the dead were relentless.

“TO THE GATES! HOLD THE LINE!” Tywin roared, his voice carrying over the sound of screaming and steel, his horse rearing beneath him as his sword clashed against the decaying flesh of another wight.

He saw Beric struggling beside him, his flaming sword cutting through the air, the light it cast almost swallowed by the darkness that surrounded them. The Brotherhood Without Banners fought with fire and fury, but even they knew—this was a losing war.

“We cannot hold forever!” one of Tywin’s knights shouted, struggling against a wight that had latched onto him. The thing’s fingers dug into his armor, its jaw snapping at his throat.

Tywin swung his sword without hesitation, cutting the creature down before turning his gaze back to the sky.

And there—above them, the war still raged in the heavens.

You and the Night King were still locked in battle, your dragon and his locked in a death spiral, their roars shaking the very ground beneath them.

You felt the frost creeping in, the air around you thick with an unnatural cold that even Viserion’s fire could not burn away.

You knew it.

You could feel it.

This was not a war of armies, of swords and men. This was a war of gods.

A war of the living and the dead.

And in the end—only one would stand.

But first, you had to survive.

“HOLD THE GATES! PROTECT THE ROCK!” Tywin’s command rang through the battlefield once more, his grip tightening around his sword as he cut down another wight.

And he pressed forward, Beric beside him, cutting a path through the dead, pushing closer—closer—to the fight that only you could win.

The world was a blur of ice, wind, and flame.

Viserion’s roar was a sound of pain and fury, as her wings fought against the air, desperate to keep aloft. But the Night King and his beast were relentless—they circled like vultures, pressing harder and harder, forcing you into a losing battle.

You barely had a moment to breathe before the Night King struck again.

His icy spear whistled through the air, missing by a fraction, but the force of its passage sent a shockwave through the sky, disorienting Viserion. The she-dragon staggered mid-flight, her wings folding for the briefest moment, and then—

The fall began.

Your stomach lurched as the sky spun around you. Wind tore at your hair, frost clung to your lashes, the world tilting violently as Viserion’s great form plummeted downward. You felt your body slam against the saddle, the leather straps biting into your arms, but it wasn’t enough to keep you steady. The pain in your abdomen flared—a sharp, stabbing sensation that momentarily stole your breath.

The child.

The thought flashed through your mind, urgent and unrelenting, but there was no time to process it.

The ground was rushing up to meet you.

Viserion let out a bone-shaking screech, her wings desperately flaring at the last second to slow their descent, but it wasn’t enough to stop the impact entirely.

The force of the landing rippled through the earth, sending a wave of debris and snow outward like an explosion. The shockwave of it cracked the ice, sent the bodies of wights tumbling backward, but they were undeterred.

They came.

Like a tidal wave of decay, they surged toward you, endless and without hesitation.

You gasped for breath, your hands trembling as you fumbled with the saddle’s bindings. Your muscles ached, your body screaming from the impact, but none of that mattered. Viserion needed you, your childen needed you, and Tywin—

No.

You had no time for fear.

Viserion was already pushing herself up, her eyes ablaze with fury, her flames already burning the closest of the dead. A dozen of them turned to ash in an instant, but more came, and more, and more—a ceaseless tide, unending and unstoppable.

You forced yourself free of the saddle, hitting the frozen earth with a stumble, every part of you burning from the pain. You could feel the damp warmth seeping beneath your armor, but you didn’t have time to check if it was your blood or something worse.

A wight lurched toward you, mouth gaping open, its frozen fingers already reaching—

You swung your sword before you could think, the Valyrian steel cutting through it like parchment, sending its head rolling across the snow. The moment the blade struck, a ripple of energy vibrated through the air, an unnatural shriek piercing through the wind. The sword—it had some power over them.

Good.

Because you needed every advantage you could get.

Another came. Then another.

Viserion roared beside you, her tail sweeping through the crowd, crushing the bodies of the dead like brittle twigs. But there were too many.

Even with her fire, even with your blade, they would overwhelm you.

You gritted your teeth, bracing yourself, already prepared to die before you let them take you, before you let them touch your unborn child—

And then—

Fire.

Not blue. Not cold.

But red, molten, blazing.

The world erupted in heat, the bodies of the dead igniting like dry tinder, their shrieks almost human in their agony. A wall of flame seared through the battlefield, a raging inferno tearing through the endless ranks of wights—

And above, a monstrous black shape cut through the sky.

Drogon.

And then another.

Rhaegal.

You barely had time to process what was happening before a second roar split the heavens, and a figure in black and red armor descended from the skies—

Daenerys Targaryen.

Her white-gold hair was wild in the wind, her eyes locked onto yours as Drogon dove toward the Night King, his flames bursting forth in a torrent of destruction.

"Sister!"

Her voice barely reached you through the chaos, but you heard it.

And for the first time in this war, you had something you never expected to have again.

Hope.

Tywin Lannister had seen war. He had fought, bled, and won battles where other men had faltered. He had crushed rebellions, toppled kingdoms, and ensured House Lannister’s rule through sheer will and calculation. He had always believed that war was fought with discipline, strategy, and an iron hand—that men won battles, not beasts.

And yet, this was not war.

This was something else.

The air stank of burning flesh and death, a suffocating mix of frost and flame. The screams of the dying and the shrieks of the dead melded together into an eerie, unholy symphony. The battlefield had become a nightmare, a frozen graveyard where men fought against something they could not understand, something they were never meant to fight.

And through it all, Tywin saw her.

He saw Viserion fall, saw his wife and her dragon collide with the frozen earth, saw the wights swarm toward her like locusts, their rotting hands reaching, grasping, hungry.

His body moved before his mind could catch up.

"To me!" he roared, the command cutting through the chaos like a whip. His men, battered and bloodied, rallied around him, forming a wedge as they pushed toward her.

Toward his wife.

His fingers tightened around his sword, its blade already slick with the black ichor of the dead. He cut down one wight, then another, his strokes precise and unforgiving, his footfalls sure despite the slick blood coating the ground.

They were coming for her.

And he would not allow it.

"Push forward!" Beric bellowed at his side, cutting through another wight with the force of a man who refused to die here. "We break through, or we die trying!"

Tywin said nothing—his fury was his only response.

The dead crashed against them like a relentless tide, but Tywin pressed onward, cutting, slashing, hacking through flesh and bone, his armor splattered with the filth of the creatures he cut down. A wight lunged for him—he turned, driving his blade through its skull with a vicious twist.

And then he saw it—

Flame.

Not Viserion's.

Not blue.

But deep red and gold—a torrent of dragonfire sweeping through the ranks of the dead, incinerating them in an instant.

And above—

A black beast with outstretched wings, its roar shaking the heavens, its fire consuming everything in its path.

And atop it—

A Targaryen.

Daenerys.

For a split second, Tywin almost faltered.

Almost.

But then, the battle pulled him back.

He moved faster, stronger, driven by the singular thought that she was still down there.

And he would not lose her.

Jon Snow saw her fall.

And for a moment, the world froze around him.

It was as though everything else vanished—the sounds of battle, the cries of his men, the weight of the cold.

All he could see was her dragon plummeting, her body strapped to the saddle, the force of impact sending ice and snow flying into the air.

For the first time in a long, long time, he felt like that boy again—the one who had grown up beneath her watchful gaze, the one who had always found solace in her presence, the one who had once clung to her when the world felt too cruel.

He thought he had lost her once.

He would not lose her again.

"With me!" he barked, shoving his way through the battlefield, Longclaw singing through the dark, severing limbs, splitting skulls. Wights pushed against him from all sides, but he did not stop. He could not stop.

"Jon!" Davos shouted somewhere behind him. "We can't—"

"I have to!" Jon snarled, rage and desperation merging into one.

The wights came faster, more frenzied. A massive creature—pale, skeletal, its limbs elongated and grotesque—lurched toward him, its jagged fingers reaching for his throat.

Jon dodged left, ducked under its swing, and drove Longclaw through its chest. The blade burned white-hot, the creature shrieked, its body collapsing into blackened ash.

And still—there were more.

He could see Viserion fighting, the she-dragon's golden armor glinting through the fire and the frost, her flames turning the night into day.

And he saw her.

She was off the saddle now, her sword cutting through the dead, her body half-shrouded in smoke and blood.

She was alive.

But she was not safe.

Not yet.

Jon tried to move faster, but the dead were unrelenting, and then—

A new shadow covered the battlefield.

A blackened beast with glowing, ice-blue eyes.

The Night King’s dragon.

The coldness of its wings sent a wave of frost through the battlefield, freezing men where they stood, their bodies turning to shattered ice upon impact.

Jon barely had time to react before Daenerys arrived—

Drogon descended from the sky, fire surging from his maw, his golden-red flames clashing against the Night King’s freezing storm.

A battle of flame and frost erupted above, the two dragons locked in a war as ancient as time itself.

And somewhere beneath them, Jon kept fighting.

Because she was still out there.

And he would not stop until he reached her.

The cold was no longer something external—it had seeped into your bones, into your very core, an unrelenting chill that gnawed at you like the fangs of the dead.

Viserion’s agonized shriek split the sky, but you barely heard it over the roaring in your ears, over the wheezing gasps forcing their way through your throat as you swung your sword again and again, the Valyrian steel carving through rotting flesh, severing limbs, cutting down anything that moved.

But they kept coming.

The wights pushed forward, an endless tide of death, clawing, gnashing, snarling.

Your strength was failing.

A shadow loomed—a wight taller than the rest, its skin gray-blue, its lips peeled back in a permanent snarl. Its fingers were long, its nails blackened and jagged, razor-sharp.

It lunged.

You raised the sword, but too late.

The dagger plunged into your side, just beneath your ribs—a sharp, white-hot agony piercing through your flesh, sliding deep, deep, deep—

Your lungs seized.

A wretched, choking sound left your lips as the pain spread outward, as if ice itself was being poured into your chest.

Viserion’s shriek became a sound of pure, primal terror.

The dragon raged, fire and fury, her tail sweeping through the horde, her claws tearing through flesh and bone. The dead were thrown from you, scattered like broken dolls, but the damage was already done.

You staggered, a hand pressing against your wound, feeling the warmth of your own blood seeping between your fingers. Each breath burned, each movement sent agony lancing through your chest.

Another wight lunged—you hacked it down, but your grip on the sword was weak, the strength in your arms waning.

More were coming.

The world was spinning.

Your vision blurred, the battlefield warping into indistinct shapes—fire and ice, black and gold, death and war, everything blending together in a violent, chaotic haze.

And then—

Somewhere in the distance, a voice—low, commanding, desperate.

A voice you knew.

A voice that once ruled kingdoms, crushed enemies, and shaped the fate of Westeros.

"Get to her!"

Tywin.

He had seen.

Through the chaos, through the storm of fire and death, he had seen you fall.

And now—he was coming.

But too late.

The dead were already upon you again.

You tried to lift your sword, but your arm felt so heavy, your breath so thin, the blood so warm against the ice-cold armor clinging to your skin.

The edges of your vision darkened.

Your knees buckled.

And then—

The world tilted.

You fell.

The sky above blurred—the roaring flames, the glowing blue eyes, the glint of Viserion’s armor—everything spun, twisted, faded.

And in the distance—

Tywin Lannister, golden and bloodstained, cutting his way toward you, his face a mask of something you had never seen before.

Something that almost looked like fear.

The battlefield was a nightmare of frost and fire, but Tywin Lannister had never felt the cold until now.

His sword was slick with blood, his breath ragged, his armor battered and dented, but none of it mattered. Not now.

All he could see—all he could hear—was you.

You lay crumpled in the snow, your form barely distinguishable among the bodies of the dead. Viserion loomed behind you, snarling, fire dripping from her fanged maw, but even the great dragon seemed hesitant—as if sensing the battle had already taken its toll.

Tywin cut down the last wight in his path, not even flinching when its severed head landed at his feet. His hands ached, his muscles burned, but he refused to stop. Not now.

A ghoul lunged from the side, its frostbitten fingers clawed and blackened—but before it could reach him, Beric’s flaming sword carved through its spine, sending its body crumbling into ash.

“Go!” Beric barked, shoving another wight off his own blade. “Go to her! We will hold them!”

Tywin did not hesitate.

The moment Beric and his men formed a wall around him, he ran.

He was a man of measured steps, of calculated movements, but now—he ran.

Each second felt like an eternity, his heart pounding against his ribs, his breath short, his mind drowning in one singular thought:

Get to you. Get to you. Get to you.

You were barely moving, your body shuddering with each breath, your hand trembling against your wound.

A shadow loomed behind you.

Tywin’s rage burned hotter than dragonfire.

The last of the wights—a monstrous thing with sunken eyes and a gaping mouth, its fingers like frozen knives—was reaching for you, skeletal hands outstretched, the cold mist of its breath curling through the air.

A mistake.

Tywin did not slow, did not hesitate.

With a roar that shook the air, he drove his sword through the creature’s throat, the force of the blow sending them both to the ground.

Pain exploded through his side—the wight had managed to rake its claws against his ribs before its body finally gave out.

Tywin gritted his teeth against the pain, barely registering the blood that now seeped through his armor, staining the golden lion embossed on his breastplate.

He turned, his gaze snapping back to you.

You were still struggling to breathe, your lips parted in ragged gasps, blood staining the snow beneath you. Your hand was still clamped over the wound in your side, but your strength was failing.

For a moment—just a moment—Tywin Lannister forgot there was a battle at all.

The chaos around him blurred—the sounds of clashing steel, of roaring dragons, of men screaming as the dead cut them down—all of it faded.

There was only you.

He took a step forward—then another.

And then—something shifted.

The battlefield grew still.

The shrieks of the dead turned to silence.

And then—as if commanded by some unseen force—they began to retreat.

Tywin’s breath hitched.

All around him, the creatures were pulling away, stumbling back like shadows fleeing from fire. Their eerie, soulless eyes still glowed in the darkness, but they no longer attacked.

One by one, they turned.

And then, as swiftly as they had come—they were gone.

The silence that followed was deafening.

For the first time since this battle began, the sky above was not filled with the endless wails of the dead.

The battlefield was littered with corpses—bodies frozen mid-struggle, the remains of fallen men tangled with those of the creatures who had cut them down.

But Tywin didn’t care about any of them.

His legs nearly buckled as he rushed forward, finally reaching your side.

He dropped to his knees, his bloodied hand reaching out, his palm hovering over your cheek, your throat, your chest— anywhere to feel if you were still breathing.

You were.

Barely.

Your lashes fluttered, your gaze glassy, your breaths shallow—but you were still here.

For how long—Tywin did not know.

And for the first time in his entire life, Tywin Lannister did not know what to do.

Daenerys gripped Drogon’s saddle tightly, her silver hair whipping wildly in the wind, her breath misting in the bitter cold as the great black dragon twisted through the sky. Below her, the battlefield burned and froze in equal measure, the land torn apart by the war between the living and the dead.

The Night King was relentless.

His ice dragon was a beast of death, wreathed in frost and darkness, his hollow blue eyes unfeeling as he spewed forth his unnatural breath.

Drogon barely evaded the onslaught.

The frozen flames grazed the edge of his wing, and a sound of pain rumbled from the great dragon’s throat.

“Burn him!” Daenerys commanded, her voice cutting through the storm.

Drogon roared in defiance, his body coiling mid-air before he released a torrent of flame hotter than any forge.

The golden-red inferno engulfed the Night King and his dragon.

For a heartbeat—just a heartbeat—she thought it was over.

But then—he emerged.

Unscathed.

Untouched.

The fire parted around him, as if bending to his will, his expression as calm and unmoved as ever.

“No...” Daenerys whispered, her heart hammering in her chest.

Drogon snarled, beating his wings harder, preparing another blast—

But something changed.

The air itself shifted.

The raging snowstorm began to thin.

The howling winds began to quiet.

The endless black sky—the eternal night that had swallowed the sun for years—began to waver.

Daenerys’s breath hitched.

She looked down.

The battle was still raging below, but something was wrong.

The dead had been winning.

Their numbers were endless. The living were breaking, their forces crumbling beneath the ceaseless tide.

And yet—they stopped.

As if some unseen command had been given, the wights paused mid-attack.

Even those locked in combat froze in place, their milky eyes lifting as if awaiting further instruction.

And then—they turned.

They began to retreat.

Daenerys’s stomach twisted.

“What is this?” she hissed.

It was then she saw him.

The Night King.

He was watching her.

From across the battlefield, astride his monstrous ice dragon, he met her gaze—and for the first time, he smiled.

A slow, knowing, mocking smile.

A cold chill ran down Daenerys’s spine.

And then—he turned as well.

Without warning, he and his dragon rose higher into the sky, their wings beating the air with unnatural grace, their forms slipping into the mist.

The storm followed him.

The swirling blizzard, the veil of endless night, the crushing cold—it all moved with him.

The battlefield, once entombed in unnatural darkness, was suddenly revealed under a sickly gray sky.

The dead were still there, still dangerous, but they were no longer the storm.

They had been abandoned.

“No!”

Daenerys urged Drogon forward, the great beast thrusting into the air, his massive wings carrying them after the retreating figure.

Rhaegal followed close behind, his emerald scales flashing as he roared in pursuit.

The Night King and his mount were vanishing into the horizon, swallowed by the veil of retreating shadows.

Daenerys pushed Drogon harder, willing him to close the distance.

But then—they were gone.

Like ghosts into the mist, the Night King had vanished.

Daenerys hovered mid-air, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, her mind reeling.

The dead had been winning.

Why retreat?

Why now?

The battle was still raging below, but the master of this army—he had left.

Something was very, very wrong.

The world was quiet.

The clash of steel, the roars of dragons, the screams of dying men—all of it had faded into a distant echo, drowned beneath the steady, shallow gasps of the woman in his arms.

Tywin Lannister had never felt so powerless.

Kneeling in the bloodied snow, his fingers trembled as they held onto you, his strength failing him as his own wound sapped his life away. He couldn’t stop the bleeding. He couldn’t stop the shaking. He couldn’t stop the inevitability of this moment.

Your breath hitched, a weak, gasping sound escaping your lips as your body spasmed in his arms.

Tywin’s grip tightened.

“Breathe.” His voice, once so unyielding, now broke under the weight of fear. “You need to breathe.”

But you were struggling.

Your fingers clawed weakly at his cloak, your nails scraping against the golden lion embroidered into the fabric, as if trying to anchor yourself to him—to this world.

“Not fair,” you murmured hoarsely, your voice barely audible. Your lips were so pale, your skin so cold.

Tywin swallowed, his throat tight and raw. He could feel his body weakening, his own blood seeping into the frozen ground beneath him, but he refused to falter. Not now. Not yet.

“No, it’s not,” he admitted, his voice breaking for the first time in years. His green eyes burned as he stared down at you, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. “We deserved more time.”

The words felt hollow.

Because he knew—you both knew—that no matter how much time the gods had given, it would never have been enough.

You choked, your body convulsing again, your breathing growing more labored with each passing second.

Tywin’s heart hammered painfully. He wanted to do something—anything. But there was nothing left to do.

“I don’t—” You gasped, your fingers clutching his tunic desperately as your vision blurred. “I don’t want to go.”

Tywin’s breath hitched.

He didn’t know how to fix this.

You were dying in his arms, and all of his power, all of his wealth, all of his cunning—none of it mattered.

You shuddered violently, your body wracked with another wave of pain, and then—

Your hand trembled as it moved.

Slowly, painfully, you guided his hand to your abdomen.

Tywin’s breath stilled.

His palm pressed lightly against the slight curve of your belly, where his child grew inside you.

His chest tightened.

The world around him blurred, his mind unable to comprehend—unable to accept—what was happening.

“You—” His voice faltered, raw emotion bleeding through the words.

You offered him a small, weak smile, your fingers barely curling over his wrist.

His gaze snapped up to Viserion.

The she-dragon was watching, her eyes gleaming with something ancient and knowing. Her great wings were tucked close, her cream scales glistening under the dim glow of the dying torches.

And then—she nodded.

Tywin’s throat closed.

There was no time.

A shadow moved in the distance.

He turned his head, his vision blurring with exhaustion as he saw the approaching figures—Jon Snow and his men.

Jon’s expression shifted immediately as his grey eyes fell upon you, his face paling as he realized what was happening.

He wasn’t fast enough.

None of them were.

Because in the next breath—

Viserion opened her maw.

And golden fire engulfed the world.

The fire burned bright and unrelenting, consuming everything—flesh, steel, and soul alike.

Jon Snow stood motionless, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps as the flames raged before him. The morning sun had begun to rise, its first light blending into the inferno, casting long shadows across the blood-soaked battlefield.

Tywin Lannister and the woman who raised him—his mother in all but blood—were gone.

Burned together, as one.

Jon’s knees nearly buckled beneath him, his body wracked with exhaustion, his mind reeling from what he had just witnessed. It felt impossible, unreal, as if the gods had played some cruel trick upon them all.

But the proof was there—the fire, the ash, the silence that followed.

He had fought in countless battles. He had seen men gutted, torn apart, turned into something monstrous—but nothing, nothing had prepared him for this.

"Jon."

A voice—soft, weary—called his name.

Davos.

The old knight placed a hand on his shoulder, his grip firm but gentle, as if he knew that Jon was about to break.

And he was.

Because this wasn’t just a loss—it was a theft.

The last piece of warmth in his life was ripped away from him before he could even say goodbye.

Before he could tell her that he still needed her.

His throat burned. His chest ached.

And then, he heard it—

"Something is not right."

Beric Dondarrion’s voice cut through the haze, clear with unease. He turned to Thoros, his one good eye narrowing, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword.

Thoros of Myr did not answer immediately. He stood with his gaze fixed upon the horizon, his brow furrowed in deep concentration.

And then—

A thunder of hooves.

Kevan Lannister rode toward them, his face pale, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he pulled his horse to a halt. His men—wounded, exhausted, bloodied—followed behind him.

"Lord Kevan—?" Davos began, but the Lannister lord cut him off.

His voice shook.

"There’s been an incident."

Jon turned, something cold settling in his gut.

Kevan looked as if he was struggling to form the words, his usual composure shattered beneath the weight of what he had to say.

"Maelor is gone."

The words hit like a blade to the chest.

Jon’s heart stopped.

"What?" Thoros whispered, stepping forward, his face paling.

"Barristan…" Kevan swallowed, his jaw clenching. "Barristan died protecting Damon."

A heavy silence fell over them.

Beric turned to Kevan, his voice grim. "And the boy?"

Kevan’s gaze flickered to the ground, but he nodded. "Damon is alive."

Thoros closed his eyes as if piecing something together. When he finally spoke, his words sent a chill through them all.

"They have what they came for."

Jon felt his blood turn to ice.

Thoros looked to the fire, his expression dark. "The Others didn’t come to conquer Westeros. Not yet." His hands clenched into fists. "They came for Maelor."

The realization settled over them like a storm.

The Long Night had ended—but only because the dead had what they wanted.

Jon felt his hands shaking.

The price they paid—his mother, Tywin, Barristan, thousands of men, thousands of lives—and yet it wasn’t over.

Not truly.

The war was not won.

It had only just begun.

But Jon couldn’t think about that yet.

His knees finally gave out, and he collapsed beside the fire, his hands digging into the frozen earth as the weight of his grief crushed him.

Davos knelt beside him, silent but steady, offering a presence that Jon could barely register.

Behind them, the surviving Northerners and Westermen stood in grim silence.

Tormund muttered something under his breath. Others turned their faces away, unable to look at the flames any longer.

But Jon—he couldn't look away.

The fire had consumed the only mother he ever knew.

And the sun had finally risen.

[theweewooshow]

I know you well (but you know me better)

bucktommy | 1k words

He can't fall asleep for an after-work nap because he’s still replaying the call in his head over and over—what they could have done differently to save everyone.

He knows it’s a pointless exercise—he found that out years ago—but sometimes he can’t help it. He knows they did everything they could do, but that doesn't stop his mind from endlessly searching for ways he could have been better.

Usually, around this time into his spiral, he’d have someone with him to distract him. If he was still at the firehouse, Hen would have pulled him upstairs to challenge him with some video game he’s bound to lose or Bobby would have guided him to the kitchen under the guise of helping him cook so he could talk about what part of the call was bothering him and could reassure him there was nothing more he could have done.

At home, he has Tommy now to help keep his mind from getting stuck on replaying calls. He tries to shut it off at home, but every now and then he can’t help it, and with Tommy still at work right now, his mind has nowhere to go except back to that scene, back to his failure to save someone.

It’s another half hour of tossing and turning and pressing his face into Tommy’s pillow for comfort before he gets a text from Tommy.

His relief is stark, seeing his name pop up on his phone, but he frowns when he reads the message.

Back at Harbor. I have to make a stop before I get home.

He feels petulant and a little childish, wanting to text back and ask him to come home now, that he needs him now, but he doesn't.

He just texts back I love you and Tommy immediately returns the sentiment.

He soothes himself by wrapping the blankets tighter around himself, pretending it’s Tommy wrapping him up in his arms, the smell of his aftershave and shampoo surrounding him as he buries his face in his pillow again.

It helps, knowing Tommy’s on his way home, even if he has to wait for him to be done running errands before he gets here.

He manages to doze a little while he’s waiting, his mind easing up on making him replay everything, the guilt settling into remorse because he knows he and everyone else did all they could.

He startles awake at the sound of the front door closing and he hops out of bed, ready to dive into Tommy's arms and shut out the rest of the world until he feels better.

He’s bounding down the stairs when Tommy calls up to him and he smiles, despite his awful mood.

Tommy’s boots are by the door, neatly placed in the spot next to Buck’s shoes on the shoe rack. Something warm blossoms in his chest seeing them there together. Seeing the evidence of the life they share together in Tommy’s—their—house, seeing his jacket hanging next to Tommy’s, their keys a jumbled mess in the bowl, it’s all so domestic.

He heads into the living room when he doesn't immediately see Tommy in the entryway, and stops short when he crosses the threshold into the room.

Because Tommy is holding something—something that is wiggling and squirming in his arms.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Tommy says, looking up at him, nose crinkling as he smiles at him.

“Uh, hi,” he says. He walks slowly forward. “What’s going on?”

“Remember when we were volunteering a couple weeks ago at the animal shelter and this one took a shining to you?” Tommy asks, holding up the calico that quite literally latched onto Buck and didn't let go the last time they went.

“I-I remember,” he says, stopping in front of Tommy and reaching out to stroke his hand over the calico’s soft fur. “Why is she here?” he asks, heart in his throat.

“You didn't stop talking about her for the rest of the week; did you know that?”

“I—yeah. She’s so cute and I was surprised no one had scooped her up yet,” Buck says, letting Tommy place her in his arms, the anxiety and guilt from earlier forgotten as she nuzzles under Buck's chin and purrs.

“Well, I called the shelter today and she was still available, so I adopted her,” Tommy says, looking nervous all of a sudden.

“She’s ours?” Buck asks, looking down at the cat in his arms.

“Yeah, if you want. I mean, I already paid the adoption fee and I have a truck full of supplies for her, but if you don’t want—“

“I do!” Buck says quickly. “I can't believe you adopted her.”

“Eddie texted me about what happened before I left for my last call. I felt so bad that I couldn't be here when you got back, so I figured if something like this happens again, you’d at least have her here to keep you company until I get back.”

Buck swallows around the lump in his throat and only has the presence of mind to set the cat down on the couch before he launches himself into Tommy’s arms, pressing his mouth against his, hoping to pour every bit of emotion he’s feeling into the kiss.

They break apart when the cat starts mewling and when Buck looks over, she’s kneading her paws into the blanket underneath her.

“Look at her. She’s already making biscuits, so she must feel right at home,” Buck says, leaning into Tommy’s side.

He feels Tommy’s chest move as he chuckles. “Just like her dad.”

“Is that a baking joke?” Buck asks, elbowing Tommy before he joins the cat on the couch. “Does she have a name?”

“Well, officially, her name is Kitty Kinard, but I'm sure we can change it if you want.”

“Kitty,” Buck says, petting her fur. Looking up at Tommy, he says, “Thank you.”

Tommy’s expression is full of love when he says, “Anything for you.”

drop a kudos or comment on ao3

[xoxorealitygalore]

Plan B 2

Jey Uso x Afro-Brazilian OC

Summary: In her thirties and single after a breakup, Hamisa decides she wants to become a mother, despite her friends' and family's objections. Unable to wait any longer, she chooses to have a baby on her own. However, she unknowingly ends up using her ex-boyfriend sperm after he drunkenly swapped her donor’s sample for his own. As Hamisa raises her child, she starts noticing striking similarities between her ex-boyfriend and her baby, leading to questions about the true origins of her child's conception.

Plan B Masterlist

Taglist: @xbriexx @christinabae @blackchickinthedesert @princess-saki1 @skyesthebomb @raya-hunter01

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hamisawoo ✓

555 posts 19.8M followers 100 following

Hamisa Janeisha Woo

Public Figure

WWE

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@hamisaboutique

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Hamisa had always prided herself on her independence and quiet nature. A woman of few words, she wasn't one to express herself easily. Yet, standing in the midst of the bustling Rocket Mortgage Fieldhouse in Cleveland, Ohio, she felt a flood of emotions bubbling beneath the surface.

Tonight was Monday Night Raw, and although she had always been a fan of the WWE, this night carried with it an unfamiliar tension. It wasn’t the roaring crowd or the electric atmosphere of the event that was weighing on her; it was something much more personal.

Her eight-month-old daughter, Jhream, was the source of her internal conflict. As Hamisa and her daughter walked down the hallway, she couldn’t help but notice the way the baby’s squeals and excited waves seemed to draw everyone’s attention. The young girl was a social butterfly. And Hamisa wasn't ready to embrace that reality. She was a mother, yes, but still a woman who valued her peace, her space. A life spent in a quiet, almost introverted existence didn’t naturally mesh with a baby who had already mastered the art of making her presence known.

Pamela pushed the stroller from behind, her eyes glimmering with amusement as Jhream's delighted shrieks echoed through the hallway. "She’s an extrovert, good luck to you, Hamisa," Pamela teased, her voice lighthearted, as she laughed at the attention Jhream was attracting.

Hamisa couldn’t hide the smile that tugged at her lips, though it was tinged with exhaustion. "I’m praying it’s a baby thing, and she’s not really an extrovert. I can’t handle it," she admitted. The thought of a lively, outgoing child, one who wouldn’t sit still, who would always be the center of attention, made Hamisa feel overwhelmed.

Despite being far from shy, Hamisa preferred the quiet moments. But now, she had a daughter, a little girl who, from the moment she had entered the world, seemed destined to challenge every piece of calm that Hamisa had worked so hard to cultivate.

As they continued to walk through the hall, Jhream’s squeals grew louder. Her eyes brightened when she spotted Joshua and his twelve-year-old son, Jeyce. The sight of them was enough to excite the already boisterous baby even more. Without a moment’s hesitation, Jeyce rushed over, his eager face a mixture of excitement and curiosity.

"Can I hold her?" Jeyce asked, already reaching for Jhream before Hamisa had a chance to respond.

Jhream, as if guided by some unseen force, launched herself into Jeyce’s waiting arms, her small hands gripping his shirt with surprising strength. Jeyce caught her effortlessly, and for a brief moment, everything in Hamisa's world seemed to slow down. She watched as her daughter, so tiny and innocent, found comfort in the embrace of someone other than her. She felt a bittersweet pang in her heart, a mix of pride and protectiveness.

“She is wild,” Joshua chuckled from behind them, shaking his head as he watched the scene unfold. His voice held a note of affection as he observed the bond between his son and Hamisa’s daughter.

Hamisa, standing slightly apart, gave Joshua a small smile. She didn’t speak, but there was something about the way her lips pressed together that conveyed a thousand unspoken words.

In the midst of the joy, Jhream’s tiny hand reached up, grasping one of Jeyce’s braids. The baby, clearly fascinated by the texture, brought the braid toward her mouth, clearly intending to chew on it. Joshua, ever the protective one, moved swiftly to remove it from her grasp, preventing a potential disaster.

Jhream's reaction was immediate, her face scrunched up in annoyance as her hand was pulled away from the braid. She rolled her eyes, a movement so deliberate that it could have belonged to a much older child, not an eight-month-old.

“Uh-Uh, I know she didn’t just roll her eyes at me,” Joshua said, his voice tinged with mock surprise as he turned to Hamisa. His grin was wide, but there was a hint of something deeper in his eyes, something that Hamisa couldn’t quite place.

Hamisa giggled, a nervous laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She loved her daughter more than anything, but moments like this were unsettling. She wasn’t sure what to make of them, how to interpret the way Jhream seemed to be growing up too quickly, too fiercely.

As they continued down the hallway, the group ran into Charlotte. "Wow," Charlotte said, doing a double take as her eyes locked onto Jhream. "She looks so much like you, Josh."

Hamisa’s heart skipped a beat, and her stomach dropped. She glanced at Pamela, silently pleading with her to speak up, to offer any sort of reassurance that might ease her mind. Pamela, however, didn’t seem to notice the worry creeping into Hamisa’s thoughts.

Pamela shook her head. "I don’t see it," she murmured, trying to mask the unease in her voice. She didn’t understand what Hamisa had been sensing, what she had feared might be true.

But Hamisa couldn’t shake the growing panic inside her. Her baby, her precious daughter, was looking more and more like Joshua every day. It wasn’t just in the way she smiled or the way her eyes seemed to light up when she saw him, it was something deeper, more inexplicable. How could this be? Hamisa had used a sperm donor. Joshua was supposed to be just a friend, a trusted figure in her life, not someone whose genetic traits would find their way into her daughter’s features.

"She looks like Hamisa, right?" Joshua said quickly, trying to ease the tension. He grabbed Jhream from Jeyce’s arms, pulling her close as he pressed her cheek against his own. "You think so? I think she looks like Hamisa," he continued, his voice softening as he looked at the child in his arms.

Hamisa’s chest tightened. There was something about his words that stung. Did he know something she didn’t? Did he feel something she couldn’t understand? He had known about the sperm donor, of course. Hamisa had been open about that decision from the beginning. But now, looking at the child in his arms, Hamisa couldn’t help but wonder if there was something more at play.

"I think she just looks like whoever she’s next to," Pamela said, attempting to shift the mood. "Her features haven’t fully set in yet."

But Charlotte, still processing the interaction, looked at Pamela with a puzzled expression before walking away, her heels clicking sharply against the floor.

Jeyce, still holding Jhream, looked at his father with a thoughtful expression. "Yeah, she does look like you, Dad," he remarked, his voice casual but somehow laced with uncertainty.

Hamisa’s heart skipped a beat, the words like daggers sinking into her chest. There it was again, the overwhelming feeling that her daughter’s resemblance to Joshua was undeniable, something she couldn’t ignore, something that was beginning to consume her every thought.

Jhream, as if sensing her mother’s tension, tugged at the Cuban link chain around Joshua’s neck. The child’s small fingers gripped the shiny metal, pulling at it with curiosity. Joshua let out a nervous chuckle, but the sound was hollow, just as hollow as the unease swirling inside Hamisa’s mind.

Hamisa’s grip tightened around the stroller, her eyes narrowing at Joshua. She could feel the frustration bubbling within her. She didn’t know what to think anymore. There was too much uncertainty. Too many questions.

Without a word, she grabbed Jhream from Joshua’s arms, her movements sharp, her expression tight. Pamela, sensing the shift in the mood, fell into step beside Hamisa, the two of them moving away from the group without another glance backward.

"Girl, get a DNA test," Pamela muttered under her breath, her tone light but filled with underlying seriousness.

Hamisa nodded, though she could hardly believe what she was hearing. A DNA test. That’s what she needed, wasn’t it? The truth. Something to prove to her that her fears were unfounded, that her daughter wasn’t, in some strange, inexplicable way, a mirror image of someone who shouldn’t have been involved at all.

But deep down, Hamisa knew one thing for certain: the need for answers was becoming more pressing with each passing day.

It was Thursday afternoon when Hamisa finally gathered the courage to confront Joshua. For days, the unease in her chest had only grown, a gnawing suspicion she couldn’t shake. She had done everything she could to calm herself, to tell herself that it was all just coincidence that Jhream’s resemblance to Joshua was nothing more than a trick of the light, a fleeting illusion. But deep down, she knew something was off.

Her mind raced with questions: Could she have been pregnant when she used a sperm donor? Had the timing been wrong? Was the universe playing a sick joke, or had something else been at play, something Hamisa hadn’t even considered? The idea of her daughter looking so much like Joshua, even when she had never intended for him to be involved in her conception, kept her up at night. It was too much to ignore.

She found herself standing in front of Joshua’s house, the cool afternoon air biting at her skin as she clutched the small box in her hands. It was a home DNA test kit. A simple, straightforward solution to an impossible dilemma. All she needed was an answer. She knocked firmly on his door, staring at the yard with unseeing eyes as she waited. The seconds stretched on endlessly, and with every beat of her heart, her resolve hardened. She couldn’t keep living in uncertainty. She needed to know.

The door creaked open, and there he was, Joshua, looking at her with surprise written all over his face. Without saying a word, Hamisa shoved the box at his chest, her hands shaking from a mixture of anxiety and determination.

“Take it,” Hamisa said, her voice cold but steady.

Joshua looked down at the box in confusion, his eyebrows knitting together. “What’s this?” he asked, clearly unsure of how to respond.

Hamisa’s voice was sharp. “I need to know why my baby looks and acts like you,” she answered, her words hanging in the air between them like an unspoken accusation.

Joshua’s face immediately shifted to something more guarded, almost guilty. A flash of discomfort passed through his eyes, but it was quickly masked by a neutral expression.

“We don’t need to take a test,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “I know why.”

Hamisa’s heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean, you know why?” Her voice was laced with disbelief. She couldn’t comprehend what he was saying. How could he know? How could he possibly know?

Joshua stepped aside and motioned for her to come in. Reluctantly, Hamisa crossed the threshold, her eyes scanning the familiar space of his living room, as though seeing it for the first time. She wanted to scream. She wanted to shake him and demand the truth, but all she could do was follow him to the couch, her mind whirling with confusion.

“Sit down,” Joshua said, his voice soft but firm. “I’ll explain everything.”

Hamisa sat down on the couch, her hands clenching and unclenching in her lap as she stared at him. She felt like she was teetering on the edge of a cliff, unsure whether the truth would set her free or plunge her into darkness.

Joshua took a deep breath, as though trying to gather his thoughts. His eyes dropped to the floor for a moment before he met her gaze again, his expression suddenly much more vulnerable.

“When I came to visit you that one night… after I got drunk,” he began, his voice quiet, “I went to the bathroom. You weren’t home, and I saw the sample cup sitting there.”

Hamisa’s breath hitched in her chest, and she instinctively leaned forward, her mind racing.

“You saw the sample cup?” she repeated, struggling to wrap her head around what he was saying.

Joshua nodded slowly, guilt clouding his features. “Yeah. I didn’t know what it was, but I was drunk, and I thought it was just… I don’t know, a random cup or something. I started messing with it. I played with the cup, and I—” He stopped, his face reddening with embarrassment. “I spilled it in the sink. I panicked, Hamisa. I didn’t know what to do.”

Hamisa’s pulse quickened. She felt her stomach drop, her thoughts swirling faster and faster. What was he saying? What was he admitting?

“I didn’t know what to do. I—I replaced the sample with my own,” Joshua continued, his voice strained as he looked at her, the weight of his confession hanging heavily in the air. “I didn’t remember anything about it until recently. When I started noticing how much Jhream looked like me, and how similar she acted to me, too.”

Hamisa’s head spun as Joshua’s words began to sink in. “Wait… wait, hold on,” she stammered. “Are you telling me… that my daughter is… is yours?”

Joshua nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving her. “Yes. Jhream is my biological daughter, Hamisa. I’m the one who—” He swallowed hard, his voice faltering as if the words were difficult to say. “I’m the one who switched the sample. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I didn’t remember until now, but now that I see it, now that I see her with my own eyes, it’s clear. She’s mine.”

Hamisa could feel her chest tightening, her breath catching in her throat. The room felt like it was closing in on her. Everything she had thought she knew about her daughter, everything she had thought she understood, was crumbling before her.

“This was all a mistake,” Hamisa whispered, her voice shaking with disbelief. “You—you can’t be serious. How could you do this? How could you just… switch it?”

Joshua’s eyes softened, regret filling them as he took a step closer. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, Hamisa. I was drunk, and I didn’t think. But I swear, I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted this to be a thing.”

He paused, taking a deep breath. “But now that it has happened… I think this is a sign. I think this is a sign that we’re meant to be together again. We’re a family now, Hamisa. It’s not too late. I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

Hamisa recoiled from him, her hands shaking as she backed away from the sofa. “No. No, you don’t get to just say that. You don’t get to act like this is some kind of happy ending. You switched the sperm! You hid it from me! You ruined everything!” Her voice broke as the anger surged through her, threatening to overpower her.

Joshua’s face fell, the hopeful expression slowly turning to one of sadness. He reached for her, but Hamisa jerked away, her breath ragged and uneven.

“I can’t do this,” she said, her words clipped and sharp. “I can’t. This is too much. You should’ve never done that. You should’ve never… switched it.” Her eyes filled with tears as she stood up, her knees weak as the weight of the situation came crashing down around her.

Joshua’s voice was quiet as he watched her, his face filled with hurt. “Hamisa, I didn’t mean for it to go this way. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Hamisa looked at him, her chest tight with emotion. “I don’t care about your excuses. You should’ve been honest with me. You should’ve never… done this to me.”

With that, she turned away, her body trembling as she walked toward the door. Joshua’s voice called after her, but she didn’t stop. The door slammed behind her, leaving Joshua standing alone in the living room, the remnants of his confession hanging between them, unanswered.

Outside, the cool air hit Hamisa’s face as she stepped into the yard, her heart racing with the weight of the revelation. She wanted to scream, to cry, to somehow make sense of the madness she had just heard. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake the feeling that nothing would ever be the same again.

Next

[slytherinshua]

༄　A FLAME'S OCEAN　( 최지웅 )

genre avatar the last airbender au , fluff/comfort , established marriage , fire lord!jiung x water tribe princess!reader   cw war between nations , kissing , not proofread   wc 1328   request for my baby @blue-jisungs who wanted a jiung fic in return for a tae fic 🤲🤲🤲 i have delivered   note idk why i always fall back to atla aus BUT I AM NOT COMPLAINING i could fr write these forever i just love the atla world so much it's so nice for fics. also writing this was super nostalgic all the feels from writing my old wonwoo fic coming back cause i was listening to the same playlist i did back then <//3   net @kstrucknet

Fire and water. Constantly in disagreement with each other. Constantly fighting with each other. Yet, they still possessed components vital for the other’s survival. The oxygen in water fed a fire’s flame. The heat produced from that flame could change the structure of the water, from ice to boiling. Fire and water, despite their differences, were able to work together. 

Jiung was your fire. Burning with a passion hotter than any you had ever seen. Jiung lived for perfection, for ambition, for achievements. He could do anything, warming even the coldest of places and people with his blaze. The people looked up to him, adored him, but also asked too much of him. With a broken Fire Nation stricken from a hundred year war, there was much to rebuild, and countless problems to face along the way. 

Jiung was strong, but you could tell when the pressure started to get to him. As a Water tribe princess, your very existence as his wife defied the rules of the old world. It marked the change, the unity, the peace that Jiung hoped to bring to the entire country. You were both still young, but it was exactly the hope the people needed and craved for that only the youth possessed. Innovative minds, creative thinking, new ideas; from them, the heart of the nation was coming back to life.

Fighting alongside Jiung was quite different from calling yourself his wife. It was a title you still had to get used to. There was a humility you were used to in the Water Tribe. Because of the close-knit community, your role as princess wasn’t very different from the neighbouring market vendor. Everyone knew you, and you knew everyone. The Tribe was just that small.

The Fire Nation seemed almost endless to you. Vast, overpopulated, busy. You knew on the day of your wedding that you’d have to rule in quite a different way than you were used to. A nation afflicted with mistrust and grief needed to be carefully sewn back together at the seams. Trust and community had to be built before prosperity could blossom. 

Jiung focused on the communities directly affected by the war. The families that had lost their men. The homes that had been destroyed. Immense guilt filled his body at the sight of them, and he hoped to rebuild everything better than it was before the war. 

You focused on connections with the other nations. It was easy for union between the Fire Nation and Water Tribe given your marriage. You were a beacon of light for the Earth Kingdom. Seeing someone of such background work in harmony with the Fire Lord was inspiring. It wasn’t easy to persuade people, but through your hard work, they were slowly starting to see the possibilities of an era of peace. 

It was late at night and the warm Summer air was carried by the breeze through the open curtains of the terrace decorating your bedchambers. Dressed in light silk robes, taking down your hair from the day, you sighed. You had just gotten back from the Earth Kingdom after weeks of stay. You had missed Jiung, who continued to be one of the only people who understood your hard work and struggle. You had missed the Fire Nation, which you had just started to feel was your home. You had missed the warmth and the hope that the air of the Fire Nation carried. Although you were making progress with the Earth Kingdom, you still had a long way to go. 

Jiung wasn’t back yet. He had been working on the outskirts of the city the last time you heard from him. Handling the impoverished, the broken, the injured. You knew it was going to be the hardest area to build back up. Not only were the people the most affected by the war— they never had much. You were worried Jiung’s gestures would be viewed as insincere. You trusted your husband nonetheless. If there was anyone who could build back a nation from destruction, it was him.

You fell down onto the soft pillows, immediately nuzzling your face closer to Jiung’s side, missing his scent, his warmth, his smile. A smile crept onto your face before you knew it as soon as you heard familiar footsteps outside the door. You lifted your head as the door swung open, and your handsome, albeit tired, husband stepped through. You noticed how he visibly relaxed at the sight of you. It had been lonely without you for almost a month.

“Welcome home, my love,” he sighed, a smile on his face. He produced a small flame in his palm, sending it to light the lamps in the corners of the room, washing away the darkness.

“How was it? I hope you had more success than I did,” you beckoned him over to the bed, hand joining with yours as he sat down. He was quiet for a moment, staring at the wall decorated by a wedding portrait of you and him.

“Their homes are being rebuilt and necessary resources are being supplied… but the people are angry. And they have every right to be. I just don’t know what else I can do to help them,” Jiung frowned, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed in an attempt to fix his dry throat. You ran your thumb over his knuckles soothingly. 

“Jiung, you’re doing everything you can right now. It’s going to take time— a lot of time— and constant effort, but it will pay off in the end. The people will see how hard you worked to restore everything that was lost.”

He nodded along tiredly to your words. You always knew what he needed to hear. Having you back was what he desperately needed. He pulled you into his arms, warm body meeting your cool one. 

“I won’t give up on them. I just wish I could relax for a moment. There’s always more to do, always more problems to fix. Sometimes it feels like too much,” he whispered sadly. You hugged him tighter. 

“You can relax for a moment,” you proposed. Jiung pulled back slightly, questioning you with a look in his eyes. You cupped his cheek and smiled, adoring his every feature even when he looked exhausted. 

You brought your lips to his in a kiss that was both passionate and soothing, warm and cool. Jiung submitted to it, just as you wanted, relaxing his body completely and pulling you in closer, longing for more. His lips were soft and his skin was warm, inviting you in further. Jiung pushed you gently, one hand holding the back of your head while the other laid at your waist. You leant back until you hit the soft pillows, still kissing Jiung tenderly. He held up his weight with a supporting arm, not wanting to crush you, but still not ready to stop kissing you. His free hand fell to your hip, circling the small dip there, one of the many features he adored about you.  

When you were both teenagers navigating your newfound feeling of love for each other in the middle of a wartorn time, you would have never anticipated a future together like this. Your two nations weren’t exactly amicable with each other. Even falling into the complicated feelings of affection and care for the other defied a century-long history of fighting. 

As opposite as you two were, you also fit together like pieces of a puzzle. You had chosen to be with him despite all odds, customs, and circumstances. It was never meant to be easy, but together you built a strong team with balance and drive. Fire and water. Warmth and coolness. Passion and gentleness. Forever intertwined.

Just as Jiung’s lips melded with yours and his hands traced the lines of your body with a touch gentler than the sweetest words, so too did your hearts race in sync with the other, souls and bodies responding in consonance. 

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