#another step in conquering the world with your blood!

[the-kr8tor]

16?!! I'VE WRITTEN THAT MUCH SINCE THE LAST BESTIE THOUGHT?! Lol i can just imagine you sighing and adding a fic to the tabs whenever i upload a new one 🤣

Yeah same but the longer it does that i just wanna get out of there and go home lol

Oh i feel that through my bones 🥲 for me I'd have fun for like an hour or two but after my social battery runs out i just wanna go home

HAHAHAHHA i just realized that 😂 they'd be surprised that the footage ends up like a garbled mess

Hmmm definitely both!! Those were really good points

Oh god imagine that 😬

Aww the image of the doggo with earmuffs got me all 🥺

Hell yea treat them like paparazzi!

LMAOOOO IMAGINE THAT 😂

It's definitely flash/eugene! Who's the new guy?

Social anxiety is scared of james fr

I was thinking that he just started college a bit later on! Him and Hobie are def the same age tho

HAHAHHAHA that's so true!! He's always looking for his wifey

I'd like to say that it's both. Like MJ knows that r doesn't like that stuff but under that she doesn't share the same feelings as r in that department 😔 like for r, mj is it, that's her best friend her ride of die and for mj that feeling dwindled through the years and she has gotten used to r and kind of placed her in the back of her mind and r definitely feels it too since they spend a lot of time together at home. As for MJ's band, they see her as just her roommate and friend nothing else

🤣 they will! Maybe

We're r in this situation lol

Same and i only like them if they're softer than a regular corduroy

True same thoughts here!!

I actually deleted a line that described the handkerchiefs! If i remember correctly it was a patterned one with a simple h.b stitched at the hem. I should've added that hmm 🤔 i think it got lost while i was editing it and i just forgot to add it again lol

HAHHAHAHA there she is officer! The one who pushed them! 😂

YESS EXACTLY THAT I LOVE U!!! This will definitely be tackled in the next chapter!!

HELL YEA R DESERVES TO BREAK SOME PLATES!!

Oh harry def goes to those usual hunts wink wink nudge nudge r was suspicious too but it'll be revealed soon hehe

The rolodex killed me 🤣 the only thing I'll say is that--- *gets shot*

Right?! Like they literally went there together! She should notice!!

Yeah :(

Imma say it, r should've hit the camera man

Lmaoooo who are u harry Osborne and what do u want 😂 i need r to say that to his face *writes that down* 😂

I would've chased them with a broom

Their relationship is messyyyy

HAHAHHAHAHAHA BESTIE 😂

R had the same thoughts like "did they date????"

Hehehe thank u!! I was giggling while writing that part

R should have gayatri as her best friend instead of mj

LMAOOO That took me awhile to get 😂

HAHAHHAHAHAHGA Me when Peter b showed up in atsv

Yesss it fits him! Poor miguel ppl don't understand that he doesn't own the company 😂

HELL YEA SOMEONE FINALLY NOTICED!!

LOL he's crushing so hard!! R gives him a bottle of water-- gasp you remembered i like water! 😍

Their relationship is a cup of milk left out in the counter overnight 😂

Do I Wanna Know?

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Synopsis: Hobie invites you to a gig and it doesn't end well.

Word count: 14.2k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for clothing), Reader has nicknames, co-worker AU, part 2, mockumentary AU, slow burn, co-worker! Hobie, CW alcohol, CW anxiety, a bit of loser! Hobie.

Navigation

Co-worker AU Masterlist

Buy me a ☕?

Part 2 >>> Part 3

The music booms around the bar, bass reverberating against the sticky walls whilst the boom mics had to be toned down unless it'll break from the sheer volume. The glasses on the tables shake from the loud music, it's all felt through your chest. You stand near the bar, draped in black and a clearly borrowed leather jacket that still bears the initials of its owner right on the lapel— MJ.

Spotlights flicker in and out in the darkened room as the cameras hone in on your bobbing head and shining eyes. Your face says you're having fun, but from how you hug yourself and how you make your presence smaller by hiding behind the cheering crowd— you look uncomfortable to say the least. The music is nice while you tap your foot to the rhythm, but the new place and unfamiliar faces meld together in harmony to make you feel as out of place as possible.

Pursing your lips together as your gaze falls on Hobie's bare arms down to his lithe fingers playing the guitar expertly, you feel like a creep at your obvious ogling of your co-worker. Your hand feels frozen around your drink, as you take a sip, expecting the warm concoction to ebb through you, there's nothing left but a drop of it. You frown, eyes roaming around the noisy venue, trying to look for MJ until it stops at the out of place camera crew all huddled around in the corner.

Blinking, you narrow your eyes at them, realization flits across your face and morphs into shock and disgust.

“Fuckers.” You say, muffled and quiet enough to not be picked up by the boom mic as you place your glass on the table with a thud.

The documentary crew dodges the dancing crowd and elbows flying around as they get to you. All the while you try to escape from them by weaving through the crowd.

“Is that a dog?” Your eyes catch a four legged friend. You pause in the thick of it, pointing at an actual dog being carried around on someone's shoulders. It's meant to be a distraction for the camera crew, but it has you stopping by to look at the very happy dog getting pet by everyone.

The crew doesn't believe it at first while they're still a few steps behind you, but as you continue to point at the dog, they wrench the cameras away from you to film the dancing dog in the crowd. When they look back at you, you're already gone.

The numerous sweaty limbs uncomfortably brushing along your arms as you dodge people has your skin crawling. The cameras still follow you around like paparazzi as Hobie's band continues to play, adrenaline flowing through the lunch club as they play and sing their hearts out. You almost make it out towards the bathroom, but you're stopped by the owner of the jacket you're currently wearing.

“Woah, where are you heading out to? I got your refill.” The redhead shows you a half empty glass of your preferred drink as she places a hand on your shoulder. You sigh and look behind you, finding that they're now filming you and hounding you. MJ notices them, and tries to shoo them away with a sharp glare. They take a step back, and only that.

You fully face the camera and get hit straight on by the bright light held by a crew member. Shielding yourself with your hand over your eyes, you look like you're about to hit them.

“Why are you all even here? It's Saturday!” You yell above the loud music, peripheral picking up Hobie looking at you, or behind you as MJ steps in between you and the camera.

“C’mon, guys, leave the girl alone.” Her words are slightly slurred around, clearly tipsy from drinking.

The producer tries to say something, and you only pick up the words, ‘contract’, and ‘obligated’ above the sound of the raging crowd and the guitar riff on stage. You take a glimpse at the show and you almost fall backwards from how Hobie's making his guitar sing with his expert movements.

“Obligated for what?” MJ asks for you, body nudging your own when her balance fails her.

“To film some drama!” This time, the producer yells above the sound.

“Drama? There's no drama here! It's just us hanging around!” The audience's clapping falls in your deaf ears. “Go away, we're not at work!”

Just as you say it, Hobie jumps off the stage, instruments and all. Even the cameraman has a shocked look on his face. Before you could react, ears still ringing from the prolonged loud sound banging around in your eardrums, and the shining light blaring in your eyes, you're overwhelmed by everything. The alcohol in your system doesn't help. Hobie siddles up next to you, an after show musk coupled up with burgundy wafts on your nose. His elbow perches on your shoulder, eyeing the lenses that stare back at him.

“Hobie—”

“Y’know, ‘m not one to complain ‘bout shit like this but,” he pokes the lense, smudging it with his index finger. “Stay the fuck away, yeah? Or I'll get your little show cancelled before it premieres on shitty cable.”

The producer grumbles and glares at Hobie before leading the rest towards the far end of the bar. After a quick wipe on the lense, they continue to film your group from a distance. At least they're not in your space anymore.

“Thank you, Hobie—”

“Hobie, our knight in shining armor!” MJ exclaims, warm breath fanning across your cheek as the cold drink spills all over your front.

“Shit, MJ!” You flinch away, frantically wiping at your blouse that now smells of alcohol and regrets.

“Fuck, I'm sorry!” She grabs a napkin from the nearby table to the dismay of its occupants. Fruitlessly dabbing on your blouse and smudging the wetness even more.

Hobie takes a handkerchief from his pocket and gives it to you. “I think your friend ‘ere has had too much to drink, love.”

“Thank you.” You give him an apologetic look as you desperately try to dry yourself off.

You wince at how you probably look like in front of him and his band right now. Hobie looks handsome in his leather and metal getup complete with mascara running down his cheeks. You never thought that running mascara would look good on anyone, but here's Hobie proving you wrong once again just like the fishnets decorating his arms that are in full display from his sleeveless shirt. A sleeveless shirt is a generous way to call it as it's ripped from his armpit down to his lean stomach. You feel lightheaded.

To add insult to injury, the rest of his band appears from the stage. Sweat clinging on their brows, instruments still in their hands as they look at you with unfamiliarity.

“Yeah, sorry, h–hi.” You laugh nervously, eyes roaming around the familiar faces and new ones that accompany him. “I made it— we made it.” MJ is still trying to wipe at your probably see through blouse right now. But Hobie's eyes are staying right on your face, you can't say the same thing to one of his blond mates though. Grabbing the edges of the leather jacket, you close it around yourself and make your roommate stop fussing around you.

“Hey!” MJ stumbles backwards but Hobie catches her with a firm hand around her wrist. “Thanks, dude.” She clumsily winks, and you regret letting her out of your sight for five minutes when she went to the bathroom.

“Sure,” Hobie smiles just as a pink spotlight illuminates his face. You're sure the camera crew are having a field day, and you're definitely going to complain to O’Hara when you get back to work. Clearing his throat, he sidles up next to you once again, palm placed on your shoulder and nudging you in place. “Meet the band, this ‘ere is Yuri.” He points towards a woman with slicked back hair and dark shadow around her brown eyes.

“Hey,” she nods at you, spiked earrings moving around. “I met your friend in the bathroom before we played, I had to stop her from calling her ex.”

“Thanks?” You eye MJ, and she cowers away from you teasingly as she hides behind Yuri, who only chuckles at her. “I—I mean, nice to meet you Yuri.”

Hobie grins as he continues to introduce you to his friends, including the blond aka James, who's six foot two and looks like he came out of a magazine catalogue. Giving a spare glance at MJ, whose head is lolling back, but with Yuri's help, she's kept upright. “This one's Ned, my roommate, who's leavin’ me for some fancy school.”

Ned rolls his dark eyes at Hobie, keyboard placed next to him as he gives you a hand to shake. “He's overdramatic,” you take it with a smile and let go not a moment longer. “I'm just moving to a dorm.” Hobie dramatically pouts, chin placed on your shoulder that he immediately moves away after what his adrenaline made him do. Ned gives him a knowing smile, one that the camera didn't miss out on. “Still going to be in the same city, I might add.”

“Nice to meet you, Ned. And I'm getting used to his overdramatic self.” You say, and Hobie nudges your side with feigned offense.

“You better get used to it, I think you two will hangout more.” Ned raises his brow at Hobie with a snicker.

“‘course they will.” Gwen clicks her tongue, arm looped over Miles’ shoulder, who doesn't seem like he minds it very much as he holds onto her hand gingerly.

Hobie gives her his middle finger as he leans against you. “You're jus’ jealous that I let her in the mailroom, Gwendy—”

A loud gasp and then a squeal can be heard from MJ, eyes wide as she gazes behind you. The whole group turns towards the bar where a familiar set of faces sits and waves her down.

“Mary Janes!” MJ bolts towards them, arms flailing around excitedly while her band meets her halfway.

You wince, thinking that your friend has ruined her first impression, and in turn yours.

As you turn towards Hobie, there's a smile on his face and eyes twinkling in the light as he watches MJ and her band embrace and jump for joy at the reunion. He notices your eyes on him, and as he meets with yours, his smile turns into a grin, piercings shimmering and hand splayed over your back. You're entranced by him, lips smiling bashfully as you feel your heartbeat quickening the longer he gazes upon you.

“They seem excited.” Yuri's voice smacks you out of your stupor.

Hobie looks away, Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallows down thickly. He coughs on his fist, hand falling away from your back to your slight disappointment. He still stays in place, elbow to elbow and shoulder to shoulder right next to you.

“Y–Yeah, they're always like that even though they see eachother everyday.” You manage to let out despite your wobbly legs.

“We should introduce ourselves.” James says as he combs his hair with his fingers and fixes his shirt.

Ned raises a brow at James as he saunters over to the all girl group. “I gotta make sure he doesn't get punched this time.” With a sigh, he follows his bandmate.

“I think I know the purple haired one.” Yuri murmurs, and slowly walks over to the bar with her eyes straining to have a look. “Oh shit, I definitely do.” She quickly walks towards them, even overtaking James and Ned.

You see MJ mouth something to her bass player, and the band's eyes collectively move towards the man standing next to you. They smile and beckon him and the rest of the band over.

“Good thing we have to leave before we have to socialise.” Gwen says, looping her arm around Miles’ shoulder. “Study at my place again, Miles?”

Miles visibly stiffens, mouth in a straight line. You swear you can see a bead of sweat dribble off his temple. “S–Sure.”

“You guys are leaving already?” You ask, smiling as Gwen holds out her fist to you. Awkwardly fist bumping her, Miles nods at you. An attempt to make a coherent farewell while Gwen still has her arm around him.

“Yeah, homework. College sucks, man.” She clasps Hobie's shoulder. “Take care of her, wanker.” She chuckles out, copying his accent.

“Sure, knobhead.” Hobie waves them off, watching as the pair walks out of the bar with Gwen's drum sticks sticking out of her back pocket and Miles lugging his guitar case. “Those two better have real homework for bailin’ on us. Did you like the show?” He asks, biting his lip.

“They're driving home?” You ask, worried about them. Your eyes glance over to his lips before flicking back to his brown eyes. “Yeah, I loved it. You were great— and the band too.”

“Don't worry about them, they're sober.” Hobie lingers next to you. “And thanks, love. I thought you wouldn't show up.”

“I couldn't miss it.”

“Too bad Pav ain't ‘ere, he fancies meetin’ other bands.”

“Oh, what happened to him?”

“Got himself sick after takin’ care of Gayatri.” He sighs as he leans against the wall casually with his hands tucked inside his pockets.

“That's too bad.” Glancing at the bar, you see them making introductions and it looks like they're all hitting it off. “Aren't you going to join them?” You nudge his boot with your own.

“Aren't you?” He raises a pierced brow, the corner of his lip tugging into a subtle smile as red lights flicker in and out of his face.

“I have to clean myself up before I make a fool out of myself even more.” You chuckle nervously, the lack of humour from your tone has Hobie standing up straight.

“You didn't do anythin’ foolish, love.”

“I smell like beer, and I'm not in my own clothes. I feel and smell silly.”

He twists in place, head laying against the wall as he turns his full attention on you. “You do smell like a pub right now.”

You groan, eyes closing briefly like you're in pain. “More reason to head to the bathroom and clean myself up.” Turning around to head towards the restrooms, Hobie reaches for your wrist, tugging you back in place.

“I like pubs.” He says a bit sheepishly as his hand remains braceleted around your wrist.

You feel like you're about to choke on your own breath. And the two of you haven't realized that the cameras are now situated right next to you and Hobie, a lot more sneaky this time as they use the darkness of the bar to their advantage.

“But why aren't you in your own clothes?” Hobie asks, genuinely concerned for you.

“I—” the cameras capture your wobbling lips and blown out irises. “I just thought I'd stick out like a sore thumb if I went in wearing my regular clothes.”

Hobie smiles, a softness etched in his smile lines and eyes slowly blinking at you. All the while the documentary crew records the whole thing with bated breath.

“Yeah, but you'll be yourself. That's better than tryin’ to blend in with the rest of the crowd.”

You inhale shakily, insecurity gnawing at the back of your neck. “Who would want that?” It's meant as a joke, a self deprecating one that's only targeted to yourself but a joke nonetheless.

“I would.” Hobie says matter-of-factly. “I might've seen you sooner while I was on stage. If you're uncomfortable, we can go somewhere else. Bail on these arseholes.”

“I'm not uncomfortable— well, not because I don't want to be here. I do want to be here.” You ramble on and he listens wholeheartedly. “It's just…I get nervous around new people, and being at a new place…it's just I don't know.”

“Nah, I do know.” He pats your bicep, palm warm as he lingers there for a second. “If it gets too much, tell me, and I'll drive you home or somewhere quieter.”

Biting your lip, you take a leap and take one step closer to him. You think he's about to move away from you, but he adjusts his position so you're perfectly in place in front of him; so that he can see your eyes illuminated by the spotlights. Your knee brushes along his own, and his hand grows closer to your hand, fingers dangling on the jacket's sleeve, mere inches from the back of your hand. A comfortable silence wafts over the two of you. After a beat, you finally talk.

“The coolest thing I have in my closet is a brown corduroy jacket and these boots.” You gesture by lifting your foot up to show him your high heeled boots with dangling stars on the laces. “And maybe a pair of spiky earrings that I bought when I was in highschool.” Chuckling, you try not to let your shyness ebb out ever since MJ managed to persuade you to get out of your well worn shell.

Hobie smiles with every word you uttered. “That sounds like a bloody good outfit, love. It suits you.”

“Maybe I'll wear that next time— I mean— if there's another show?” Your brave face falters.

He can't help but be endeared by your flusteredness. “We have another one if you're free on December twenty four, only if you can make it. It's a long shot, ‘m sure you have plans with mates and family.”

You nod a bit too enthusiastically, so you try to act more smooth by slowing your nodding. You have no idea if you look as suave as you think you are when you're probably smiling at him like you've won a car. Then it hits you, he's a colleague.

The fact that he's your co-worker at your very new job, a job that's still teetering you on the edge of unemployment whether you do good in the next six months or not. Maybe it's better if you just stay professional with him. Or at least just be friends, and you can't bring yourself to ruin what you currently have with Hobie so you'll keep talking to him. But if it's heading in the direction towards what you think it's going, you have to rein it in before you end up in the streets. Or worse, back in your parents house. It's just a well meaning crush anyway.

The cameras zoomed in on your face has a front row seat to your internal dilemma through your micro expressions that Hobie isn't privy to.

“I’ll see, I–I have to check first, it's the holidays after all.”

“Yeah, ‘course, love. No pressure.” Hobie beams, as if the prospect of your maybe was just as good as a yes.

“Do I have to bring a gift?” You joke, poking his stomach that you immediately regret after feeling the lean muscle underneath. If HR was here, you'd be in trouble.

Chuckling, Hobie shakes his head, trying to ignore the calling of his name from the other side of the bar. “Nah, but I won't say no to a present from you though.”

You snort, nodding awkwardly as your bout of bravery wavers away into the sounds of the bar. “Okay.”

“Hobie! Bruv!” James yells for him so loudly that half of the dancefloor looks towards the source.

Hobie groans, head falling down to his clavicle before turning towards him and flipping the bird. “Right, ‘m comin’” You smile as he cranes his head back to you. “C’mon then, they're an impatient lot.” He tugs you by your sleeve, but you stay in place.

You look between the waiting group then to Hobie. “I need to get cleaned up first, it's starting to get sticky.”

“Right, I forgot, go ahead I'll wait for you outside.” He lets your sleeve go, hands placed back inside his pockets as he gestures towards the bathroom right next to the stage.

“Oh no, it's fine. Go to them, I'll survive being alone for a few minutes.”

“You sure?” You nod as his face flickers with concern. “D’you have the handkerchief I gave you?”

“Yeah,” you take the said hanky out of your pocket. “Here, thanks again.”

“Keep it, love.” He laughs as the backdrop of dancing and wild lights frame around him.

“Shit, right, sorry, I need to wash it first.” Shoving the cloth down, you internally curse yourself.

“Nah, I meant that you should keep it.” Hobie starts walking backwards casually as the yelling of his name gets louder and louder that he's sure that they're gonna kick his band and the Mary Janes out of the pub.

“Wait, are you sure?” You ask him again just to be sure that he truly meant that he's giving it to you, but his figure is already retreating away with a smirk on his lips.

Watching him and the band together with your roommate and mutual friends brings a smile to your face. Even the smell of alcohol clinging to your front and your botched attempt at trying to act cool in front of your handsome co-worker couldn't ruin your night. Now all you have to do is clean yourself up and prepare your social battery for all the talking you're about to do. Going out of your shell might not be so bad after all.

Until you notice the sneaky cameras that is.

—

After much scrubbing and awkwardly drying your blouse under the bathroom’s hand dryer, you come out of it like a new woman who only faintly smells like booze.

The bar is still alive and in full swing just as you left it. An unfamiliar band plays on stage, hyping up the dancers. Spotlights flicker in and out to the beat, multicoloured lights illuminating your way towards the bar.

As you walk by a table, you notice the camera crew still inconspicuously (or trying to be) recording you.

“Really? Do you guys have nothing better to do?” You give up and decide to just ignore them from now on.

Dodging bodies and trays of drinks, you finally make it to the bar where your friends are. The place has gotten rowdier and nosier as more patrons filter through the doors. You smile as the bar is busier than ever, serving more people than when you left it. You look over to where you last saw them, only to find that strangers are now occupying the seats.

“Oh.” Your heart plummets down to your stomach, but you go on, roaming around the whole bar and doing laps to look at every table and every seat to find them. After going around the whole place three times, you end up back at the bar with a worried frown.

With the documentary crew still following you, you refuse to ask them for help when you've decided to ignore them.

“What's your poison?” The bartender asks you above the booming house music.

“Uh,” your hands involuntarily shakes. “Have you seen a red head with the band that played here?”

“That's not a drink order.” He says with a heavy tone.

“Please?”

You ask nicely, and his tough guy persona crumbles with a sigh. “Impossible to not notice them with a whole ass crew following right behind them.” He rolls his eyes, he's even annoyed at the cameras. “They went out for a smoke, but that was a long time ago. Paid their tab though.”

Relief washes over you as your stiff shoulders sag. “Thank you.” Quickly going outside, the cold hits your face like a train. “F–Fuck.”

It wasn't this cold when you got here, the freezing breeze nips at your cheeks, blowing at your lashes harshly and making you squint. The overcast sky greets you as you look up, grey clouds floating above. It looks like it's about to rain.

You hug your jacket tighter around yourself as you step fully outside into the street. Your jeans don't help much in protecting you from the cold, and your borrowed leather jacket feels like a denim jacket in a blizzard. At least it's not raining or worse, snowing. Your heeled boots would make you slip and crack your skull if there's sleet on the concrete.

“O–Okay.” You make your way towards an alleyway next to the bar where you surmise where people smoke. As you go around the building, you see a few people there but none of them have familiar faces. “Shit.” Your teeth start to chatter as you turn back around only to find the camera pointing right at you. You still refuse to even acknowledge them when you return towards the bar doors.

“Sorry, we're full.” The bouncer bars you from entering with a muscular arm stopping you. There's now a line around the building that you just notice through your slight panic.

“What?”

“We're full, sorry.”

“You just interchanged the words.” You huff, brows knitted together in worry. “Please, it's cold out here.”

“Go someplace else, kid.” He says gruffly, shooing you away before shutting the door right on your face. “There's a line, wait like the others.”

“What the fuck?” You've had enough and you grab your phone from your pocket. As you click it open, the screen doesn't wake and you're met with a black screen with your reflection staring back at you. You keep pressing the screen in hopes that it'll open, but to no avail. “F–Fuck.” You shiver in place, remembering that you forgot to charge it this morning.

The producer taps your shoulder and tries to hand you her phone.

“No, thank you.” With a frown, you put your foot down, shove your phone back in your pocket and continue walking towards the direction of the bus stop or what you think is where the nearest bus stop is.

“Other direction—” the man behind the camera says and you huff and turn the other way with your hands shoved in your pockets.

Your heels click against the pavement, body shivering as you feel like a walking popsicle. The sadness hasn't reached you yet, not when your fury keeps you warm. How could they just up and leave you like that? How could they even forget you? A whole ass person, and their friend? Especially MJ, whom you share a half of a locket with.

As you stop your marching, the camera pauses right with you as they stay further back. Your lip wobbles, sniffing and hands feeling numb. They forgot you, just when you finally feel like you're seen. Hobie forgot you.

Chest aching, and with a sob threatening to claw up and escape, you bite your lip that you almost draw blood. The fists hidden inside your pockets shakes, nails digging into your palms harshly and leaving crescent shapes on your skin. The producer pleads with you to ride in their van so you don't have to tread the cold but you insist with a glare and continue to ignore them.

“Y–You should go.” Your teeth clack against each other, while the soles of your feet now feel numb. The October weather isn't agreeing with you right now. “I can go on my o–own.”

“You'll freeze, and it looks like it's going to rain.” The cameraman says with frustration, “we can call you a cab.”

“I’m close to the stop, you don't—” you chase your breath. “You don't have to.” But you're starting to feel that walking to the bus stop might not have been the best idea. Maybe if you just admit defeat to the crew you'll be warm and cozy at home in no time.

You're so cold that you don't notice the car following right behind you.

“Let's at least go someplace—”

“Y/N?” A familiar voice calls out.

You stop, face lighting up with hope, only to find the source of the voice as someone you never thought you'd see outside of work. “Harry?”

He parks his car, leaning over the empty passenger seat to look at your shaking form. “What're you doing out here? You'll freeze to death.” He glances at the crew following right behind you. “Christ, they got you too, huh?” With a roll of the window on the backseat, he shows another set of camera and crew sitting behind him. “O’Hara's new memorandum is bullshit by the way.”

You could only shiver in place, not having enough warmth left to ask what he's talking about.

“Shit, you'll get frostbite. Get in.” Harry opens the door for you, and you shake your head. “I don't want to be responsible for Layla’s favourite dying on my watch. Please.”

“I–I can just go to the bus stop.” Your lips feel like icicles. And it's not even snowing.

“That's miles away from here.” His voice is laced with genuine concern.

“I don't— don't want to intrude.” There's clouds of smoke billowing out of your lips now that the cold has picked up. Maybe it's about to snow. “And I don't know you, you might be a murderer or something.”

Harry laughs, the least you expect from someone as straight faced as him. “There's literally cameras following us.”

“That's— that's still a no on the murderer part t–though.”

“If you don't get in and I let you stay out there then I'll definitely be a murderer.” His nose scrunches up, smiling at you. “And I really don't want to get fired.”

You look straight towards the cameras, before you could refuse again, raindrops drip down from the sky and towards the tip of your nose. That decides it for you. With a few steps, you enter Harry's car. The warm seats immediately make you melt into the leather chair. You put on your seatbelt and close the door to let the warmth stay as you sigh in your seat.

“You get in too.” Harry tells the camera crew that was following you to get in after you. “It'll be a tight squeeze but I'm sure you'll make do.”

You don't even realize that the car is now moving when you feel your tired and cold bones melting into the seat and your heavy lidded eyes overtake you.

“Hey don't fall asleep or you might not wake up.” Harry nudges your shoulder.

That has you immediately opening your eyes. “What?”

“You might have hypothermia.”

You scoff, “I don't have hypothermia.”

“Sure,” Harry smiles. “Show me your fingers, they might be purple.”

“I'm not showing you my fingers, Harry.” You hide your frozen hands inside your coat.

“You weren't saying that when you cut your hand with the stapler.” He says with a lilt, camera lenses moving in on his expression and your embarrassed ones. “Seriously, we should give you safety staplers instead.”

“You had the first aid kit!” You nervously laugh as he mirrors your smile, remembering how gentle he was while dabbing antiseptic to your ‘grievous’ wound. “I had to show you.”

“And thanks to my medical skills you still have your hand.” He jokes, emerald eyes shining in the rearview mirror.

“I already said thank you for the band-aid, Harry.” You roll your eyes, sniffing as you can finally feel your toes. “Are safety staplers even a thing?”

He makes a face, shrugging as he waits for the stoplight to turn green. “I dunno, maybe. So where am I dropping you?”

“So you're not going to ask?” You awkwardly shift in your seat.

“No, it's none of my business. Unless you're in trouble or hurt. Are you either of those?” He says with concern, eyes flicking over to your shivering form.

“No.”

“Then it's not my business to ask. So where to, ice princess?”

You scoff at the nickname, the sound akin to a flustered giggle. “Just the nearest bus stop is fine.”

“We passed that a long time ago, newbie. You're clearly not from around here.” The car idles in place, engine whirring in your ears.

“I'm not. And fine, just don't tell anyone else where I live—” you suddenly remember the cameras behind you. Looking over your shoulder, you narrow your eyes at them. “I want my street to be blurred out.”

The producer sighs but nods in agreement. Harry snickers with amusement.

“If you're not from here, where are you from exactly?”

“I'm not doing the whole…” you gesture around you, “...thing with you.”

“You don't like me very much, do you?” Harry raises a brow, briefly glancing at you. He doesn't sound hurt from your words, just genuine curiosity.

“I like you enough, you're my co-worker and I literally just met you. Would you tell someone you just met your life story?” You can definitely see Harry being a friend and not just a co-worker in the future, but you're still getting used to this life and making friends seems harder now that you're older. He's friendly to you at work and he once walked you to the bus stop and waited for you to get on when you both had to work late. He's kind at least, a good criteria to have as a friend.

“I do actually, that's how first dates usually go.”

“Well, this isn't a date so.” You say, immediately regretting being rude. “I—”

“You never know. Maybe next time it'll be one.” Harry says it so casually that it has you gawping at him for a second before looking back at the road. In the corner of your eye, you see him clenching his teeth, probably cringing and regretting his comment. The car starts again, and the silence hovers above you. “Address then? Unless you want me to keep driving around blindly.”

You clear your throat, shifting in your seat. From embarrassment? Maybe. But definitely not from an uncomfortable feeling. You can't deny that his brown locks and green eyes aren't pretty. Well, not Hobie pretty, but still, handsome enough that has you flicking your eyes at his side profile. Hobie seems to hate the guy, but you still don't know why he could hate him when he's decent and seems to be nice enough to you. Perhaps there's something going on between them. A tiff or even something more? The thought provokes you as you hatch a plan to know the reason why Hobie glares at the man during meetings and when he's doing his rounds. Meanwhile Harry isn't phased by it, not ignoring him per se, indifferent more like.

As the camera crew stops filming due to the lull in conversation, you guide Harry to your place. Would it hurt to give your saviour a cup of tea before he heads in his way?

—

“Shit!” Hobie honks the van’s horn loudly, the camera behind him shakes from the sudden stop. “C’mon pick up the bloody phone!” Your caller ID blinks out as the call drops after a few rings. “Damn it.” He shakes his head at the traffic while the rain is finally rolling to a stop, now a slight drizzle.

Being the designated driver for tonight did not give him any favours. At least he saw you in all your glory without the haze of alcohol in his veins. But with him being the only sober one in the group, he had to drive everyone else to James' lest something unsavoury happens to them.

The scene shifts to back at the bar, the bass hitting him right in the chest as he glances at the bathroom door to check in on you from time to time. Hobie catches the cameras doing the same thing, filming the door and Hobie's face as he waits and sighs in his seat while everyone else were having shots and laughing.

“Fuck off.” He mouths, flipping the bird at the cameras. It's blurred but still recognizable thanks to the crappy blur. The other half of the crew are nowhere to be seen, maybe out for a smoke break.

A shrill gasp can be heard, and the camera hones in on MJ, who's bouncing on her feet.

“We should all go!”

That doesn't bode well in Hobie's ears as he tries to pry Yuri's twelfth shot from her hands. “Go where?”

“To James'!” James himself slurs, raising his glass as everyone else is cheering for him.

The thing with bands drinking together is that within fifteen to twenty minutes the drinking could put a sailor to shame. But with Hobie's band and MJ's band combined together, it only took ten minutes for them to get the bartender's signature disappointed shake of his head.

“Wait—!” Before Hobie could voice out his protest for you, who's still missing out on the fun, the rest are already drunkenly putting on their jackets as James wobbles on his feet and closes the tab. He sees that James definitely overpaid as the rest head out. With the van keys dangling in between Ned’s not-so-sober fingers, he groans and briefly glances at the door in hopes to see you coming out. Still no you though.

“Shit.” He panics, grabbing a napkin on the counter and plucking a pen from the bar that he had to go over the counter in an awkward way to fetch it. He side-eyes the camera on him, grimacing that they captured the scene in 4k. With a hasty scrawl of explanation of where they went, he writes that he'll come back for you. After a quick look, he calls the bartender. “Oi, mate,” the man shifts his gaze at the note with a bored gaze. “Can you give this to someone for me?”

“Depends, what's in it for me?”

“‘m with the group that just tipped you a fifty, bruv.”

He rolls his eyes and opens his palm begrudgingly. “Fine.”

“Thanks, she's wearin’ a leather jacket and is probably followed by a camera crew, yeah?” Hobie hurries, walking backwards until the man nods. The docu crew follows behind him, adding to his annoyance.

He only hopes that the bartender gave you the message, he'd hate it if you thought that they abandoned you. Well, the rest did, even your own roomate did, but not him as he races down the street to get to the same pub.

Finding a parking spot was a horror show, with desperation, he parks the car next to another on the street, turning on the hazard lights. The car door slams, not missing another minute of leaving you alone. The crew had to quickly run after him, camera shaking in place as they sprint after him.

There's a long line outside the bar that wasn't there before, and now he knows why they got the time slot in the hip bar.

Hobie heaves, a dried leaf crunches under his boots as he calls for the bouncer. “Mate, can you let me in, ‘m jus’ gonna pick up a friend.”

“I've heard that before, dude, no chance in hell.” He gets barred by the security guard with a burly hand on his chest.

Hobie curses internally as a car honks for him to get the van off the street. “Listen, ‘m just gonna do a quick run around to see if she's there. C’mon, bruv, she's alone in there.” He gestures towards the door, voice rising an octave as he worries about you.

“Well, shouldn't have left her all alone in there then.”

He can't even argue with that when he did exactly that. The car honks again, looking over his shoulder to see a few more cars lining up to get around the van. “Fuck.” At least this makes compelling TV as the crew doesn't even move to help him.

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, he races off towards the sides of the place, looking around the building for you, hoping that you're waiting outside. But hopefully not with the freezing cold nipping at his cheeks. To his dismay and increasing worry, he only finds unfamiliar faces.

His hands reach to the back of his neck, anxiety crawling up his spine. Patting his pockets, he feels for his phone until he realizes that he left it inside the van. Leaves crunches underfoot as he makes his way towards it, grumbling, shoulders hunched with a whole film crew following behind.

“Wait!” The bouncer's gruff voice calls him back. “Did your friend have a camera guy with her too?”

Hobie immediately runs to him. “You've seen her?”

“Yeah, she left an hour ago, man. Probably grabbed a cab or walked.”

“Walked?” He says, eyes widening. The first words flying over his head. “Which direction?”

“I don't fucking know, I closed the door behind her.”

“You—” Hobie points accusingly at the man but reins his frustration in, pinching the bridge of his nose. Instead of cursing the guy out after helping him, he returns back to the van with his brows furrowed deeply.

The crew doesn't look worried for you, not even a bit. Hobie knows that you have at least two people with you since the documentary crew split up, but he can't help but be concerned when he's the one who invited you and left you behind. You probably think of him as a bad friend.

“You're welcome!” The bouncer shakes his head, pushing a guy away from him when they try to sneak past him.

He fishes for his phone, dialing MJ’s number. The ringing sound has him clenching his teeth as he drives away.

—

It took a while to get coherent words from MJ as he tries to decipher the address she's giving on the phone. If the loud music booming from his speakers were any indication, the party's just getting started. Hobie doesn't care enough to listen to their drunken chanting of his name when he’s out here looking for you. He's thinking about giving them a wakeup call and telling them that they left you at the bar all alone. Especially to your roommate. But he has to find you safe and sound first.

“What if she's at the hospital?” The cameraman asks him, lenses roaming around the sticker filled van.

“You're not helpin’, Jericho.” Hobie huffs, not an ounce of humour in his tone.

“I'm just saying that she has two people with her, she's probably fine—”

“Shut it, we're ‘ere.” He parks the car right in front of the red bricked flat. The place is a classic house that was turned into an apartment sometime in the early 2000s. He can tell that it has three floors for each tenant and by how there's three mailboxes by the main door.

Hobie doesn't waste time in bracing the cold again to check on you. The camera follows behind, red light blinking as he resists the urge to punch its lights out.

Climbing the steps, he looks for the doorbell with yours or MJ’s name on it. Weirdly enough, he doesn't see either one. Jericho, the camera man taps his shoulder, using the camera to point towards the basement where stairs lead down to the side of the house.

He glances at the man then over to the steps as he grumbles a thanks. Making quick work of the stairs by climbing down two steps at the time, Jericho hurries along to catch up to him.

Hobie pauses in front of the window, chest heaving from the exercise and eyes staring through the glass. The lenses follow his line of sight, seeing his co-worker, Harry, sitting comfortably in the small sofa with you appearing from the side with a smile to hand him a steaming mug.

Hobie sighs in relief when he sees you, but with Harry in your flat, in your living room no less, has him turning around and climbing up the stairs.

The camera tries to follow him, but Hobie stops on the last step, back turned away from the camera. For a moment, he stands there, staying still.

With a clench of his fists, he runs back down to the landing, knocking on your door.

The camera captures Hobie's clenched jaw, and your surprised expression when you heard the sharp knock. You tell Harry to wait, and he smiles softly at you as you leave. Your footsteps hurry towards the door, cracking it open to see Hobie's strained smile.

“Hobie—! How— Hi?” You glance at the cameraman next to him, filming you two and not giving you two some privacy.

“Hi.” Hobie could only say as Harry leans on the armrest to look at who's at the door. He gives Harry an acknowledging nod, curt enough to be polite, not friendly though as his lips are stretched into a line as he stares coldly. “I went back to pick you up.”

“Oh.” You play with the string of your hoodie, “You guys kind of left so I–I just walked home. Harry saw me and drove me home though, so that's…good.”

Hobie winces, face deeply apologetic. “Fuck, ‘m sorry, everyone else were drinkin’ and they wanted to leave and I couldn't just let them drive off.” His eyes drift down to your fluffy indoor shoes, and he realises that it's the first time that he has seen you in comfy clothes, looking more relaxed unlike your office outfits and the borrowed clothing. You looked more relaxed with Harry.

“I understand, Hobie, I—” you glance behind you at Harry, who looks away immediately, sipping casually at his drink. “Can you move away for a bit?” You ask the cameraman. To your surprise, he actually walks up the stairs and gives you space. After a few moments, you gaze at Hobie as he looks like he's about to kneel down for your forgiveness. You go outside completely, shutting the door behind you. With an inhale, you reassure him. “It's really okay, Hobie, I took a long time in the bathroom—”

“It's not,” he curses himself for stopping you mid sentence. “Shit, sorry. It's jus’ it's not alright, we did leave you.”

Your eyes glissens in the moonlight that bounces off the wet pavement. “You did, and it— to be honest, it really hurt, Hobie.” You finally confess, unbeknownst to you, the mic picks up your broken tone, every word of it. “I thought you really wanted me there.” Jericho can practically hear your shattered heart from where he stands.

“I did.” He tries to reach for you but retracts his hand away. “I do, and I left a message to the bartender to tell you that I'll be back for you. I didn't mean to fuckin' leave you out there alone, love.”

You chuckle without humour. “The guy didn't say anything to me when I asked about you.”

“Fuck.” He rubs a hand over his tired face. “He must've forgotten. ‘m really sorry. I called a hundred bloody times. You didn't answer— and I don't blame you.”

“My phone ran out of battery, I'm sorry.” Hobie shakes his head subtly at your unnecessary apology. You give him a tight smile. “Well, apology accepted.”

Hobie sighs, brows knitted together, frown deeply set in place. He says your name softly, hand cupping at your wringing hands. “Are we really alright?”

You nod, staring at your joined hands before meeting with his eyes. “Yeah, don't worry, shit happens and you gotta have your priorities straight.”

You're my priority too. “Alright, good.” Is all he could say. “The next one I invite you to would be more fun, I promise.”

“Yeah,” you smile, exhaling out a cloud of smoke. “Sure, maybe.” Moving away your hand from his own, you clear your throat. “They're probably looking for you. Take care of MJ for me, she gets very kicky when she's drunk.”

Hobie chuckles, a genuine one. “Thanks for the tip. Will you be alright? Where's the camera crew?”

“I'll be fine, don't worry about me.” You nudge his bicep. “And they left a while ago, said something about us being too boring so they went out to go find you.”

“Harry?” He gestures towards the door with his chin.

“He's just about to leave, he saw my broken record player and asked to fix it for me. Don't be jealous.” You joke to help lighten the tension, hugging yourself as the cold goes through your hoodie.

“I'll try not to be.”

Heat rises to your cheeks despite the cold and your lingering sadness. “It's going to be hard, but I know you'll rise above the green monster.”

“That's true, but I can't promise to wait outside just to check if he leaves with a body bag in the shape of you.”

You finally laugh, shaking your head at him. “A charmer *and a stalker, this is why you're my favourite co-worker.” You reach to poke him jokingly, but you put your hand away to his dismay. “Seriously, I'll be fine, I have pepper spray in my pocket to ease your worries.”

“Right.” He sees you grasp the doorknob, a clear sign that you're done with the conversation. “Aim for the eyes, yeah?”

“Taking note of that. Thanks.” With your laughter lingering, he stands there in front of your door a bit too long before he remembers to walk away.

Hobie is greeted by Jericho waiting for him near the top of steps. Great, the disaster of a night you two had are recorded in the annals of history.

—

“Here's mine,” Harry hands you back your phone after he typed his number in your contacts. “If you need any help, work related or not, don't hesitate to call me, okay?”

“Okay,” you say with a shy smile as you hand his own phone back. “Thank you again, Harry. I'll pay you back for the gas—”

“Don't, I'm just glad I ran into you. I would hate for you to turn into an icicle in the downpour.” He glances at his screen and laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Sorry, the snowflake emoji right next to your name got me.”

“I have a sense of humour too, y’know.” You hug the coat tighter around you as small raindrops continue to drizzle down on you and Harry, painting him in fallen dew drops while the streetlight above shines down on the two of you. The camera crew in the corner under the tree ruins it though.

“It’s not a competition but mine’s better.” He gestures towards your phone with his chin, green eyes alight.

You take a peek at your contacts, finding that he has named himself ‘free uber’ in it. With a giggle, the sound echoing in the night, you look back at the smiling Harry. “Yeah, you're right, yours is better. I'll change it to your name by the way.”

He groans dramatically as he walks backwards towards his car. “C’mon, that took a lot of time for me to think of.” Unlocking his car, he enters and waves at you after putting on his seatbelt. “I'll see you back at the office, ice princess.”

“Ice princess, really?”

“You survived the cold, so I say it fits you.” Grinning, he starts the car.

You pat your head to wipe away the dew. Skin aflame despite the weather, you tuck the coat tighter around yourself. “Take care, Harry.”

“You too. Stay warm.” With one last smile, he rolls the windows up and drives away.

The smoke from the car's exhaust hasn't fully dispersed when the cameraman is already up in your face, asking for an interview.

You sigh, “fine, I'll do this quick. Today was… complicated. I was uncomfortable, then comfortable. Then left behind and then perfectly fine right after.” The blinking red light still flashes as the man behind the camera isn't satisfied by your answer. “I'm fine.” You say with emphasis. “Don't you have a family to go home to?”

Huffing, smoke puffing out of your cold lips, you walk back towards your apartment while you walk carefully on wet pavement. Leaving the camera and the crew behind as you shut the door closed. And yet, the microphone still picks up the quiet sobs from behind the old door.

—

You stare at the scruff of your work shoes, the scratches glaring right at you. Your leather heels are a direct contrast to the white tiled floors that try to mimic expensive marble. But the indents and subtle square lines around it indicates that it's just regular tiles. The office lobby is quiet this early in the morning, the security guard munches on his breakfast burrito as he watches the news on his tiny TV. And the place hums with electricity, lights too bright against your exhausted eyes.

MJ came home in the early morning of Sunday, you woke up to the smell of sick and the sound of her hurling her entire stomach down the toilet’s drain. You couldn't just leave her be when you're afraid that she'd choke on her own vomit. So you stayed up when you should be sleeping in just to watch over her. When afternoon came, you thought that you finally had time to relax or do some chores, but with a very hangover MJ clinging to you as apologies spilled from her lips— you had to stay to comfort and reassure her. Of course that came with making food, mixing in the regular concoction for a hangover cure, and everything else that she needed. If it was anyone else, you wouldn't do that much, but MJ has been your friend since middle school. And without her you'd literally be homeless, she's a good friend. But sometimes you just wish your only problem with her was pushing her away from her toxic ex like back in highschool.

Your exhaustion can be read on your face, and as the camera crew arrives, and their bright lights hit your tired skin, you feel more fatigued than ever. Sighing, you don't even acknowledge them while you wait for the elevator doors to open. Your index presses the button three more times impatiently. The annoying twinkling elevator music seems a lot better compared to the glare of the camera lenses.

“Hey, morning, ice princess.” Harry comes into view, giving you a brief smile while he holds onto a cup of coffee. “You okay?”

“Morning.” You almost scoffed at his well meaning question. “Yeah, couldn't sleep last night.”

“That sucks,” he says as he sips his drink. You stare heavily at the cup, wishing you should've stopped by the coffee shop near your place before heading to work instead of braving the sleepiness. “I should've gotten you one.” Harry notices, winching at his own actions. “I'll get you a cup next time. A cappuccino with an extra shot, right?”

Your heavy eyes widen briefly, the lights making your expression more prominent. “You don't have to, really— wait, you know my coffee order?”

He chuckles, cheeks a bit flushed. “Of course, we're desk neighbours, and you always order the same thing whenever Miles asks for our coffee order.”

“I'll keep it down next time then.” You chuckle.

“Not what I meant, but you do type a little too loudly.” He nudges you playfully.

“Type louder you say? Sure, Harry.” Your joke earns a laugh from the brunette.

The elevator pings and the doors open to reveal the empty space. The walls are covered in reflective glass, it seems that you can't hide from your exhausted face as you step inside. Not even concealer or a blush could hide it.

You're joined by Harry and the documentary crew. Harry stands beside you, back straight as he glances at you for a second. You miss the look he has, but the cameras don't as they stand in front of the doors, facing you and Harry in a perfect frame.

“Oi, hold the door!” The familiar voice has your sleep fogged mind waking up that no amount of coffee could.

Shit. You look like shit and you're staring a bit too much at Hobie, whose lithe hand is holding onto the door. He's back in his office appropriate attire, still no tie though but at least it's a button up that's perfectly ironed that Miguel himself wouldn't even bat an eye at.

He mirrors your expression as he pants by the doorway. The black coat he has on fits him well, really well as it cinches his waist, and the long length of it seems to make him look taller even though he doesn't need the added height.

The cameras has the full view of you, Hobie and a very curious Harry, who looks at you then over to Hobie.

“Good morning, Hobie.” You say, slightly in a higher pitch than you thought it would be.

“Mornin’, love.” His expression softens, but returns to the nonchalant and unbothered look when he glances at Harry beside you. “Osborne.”

The lenses shift from Hobie's strained greeting to Harry's tight lipped smile.

“Brown.” Harry says with a flat tone. “Your shoes are untied.”

Hobie doesn't even glance down at his feet to check. You do, and it is indeed untied. “It’s called fashion, Osborne.” He replies with the same tone as he pushes through the crew to stand on your other side. The cold still clings to his shoulders, and his lashes flutter as he gazes at you gently. “Have you had breakfast yet, love?”

You shake your head while you feel both of their warmths encapsulate you. Cageing you in between them. “Not yet, but I'll probably just grab something from the vending machine.”

“The sandwiches there are shite.” Hobie nudges you as the doors close. “How about I order us a bagel from the deli across the street?”

“I can get us a coffee.” Harry adds, or interrupts more like. Hobie raises his chin, chest puffing up as they stare at each other while you're acting like their barrier. “How's that sound?”

“Or that tea you fancy.” Hobie tilts his head, eyes boring into Harry's skull.

You stare at Hobie then over to Harry, you feel like a referee. You might not be good at reading cues, or feeling the vibes of the room, but you're not an idiot, there's definitely something going on with the two. Looking into the camera, you see yourself in the lenses as you clutch your work bag tightly, and you see the crew's subtle grins behind their equipment.

You have to answer them or else they'll start offering you more food and drinks.

“Thanks, but I have a lot of work to do today, so maybe next time.” It's best that you decline both, you don't want to start something that you have no idea will end. Especially if your job could be on the line. And yet, they still stare at you, waiting on who's the lucky winner. “For— for both offers. I had a big dinner last night, and coffee makes me jittery this early in the morning.” A big fat lie on both statements.

“Right, next time then.” Harry takes it in stride, smiling softly at you.

“Of course, love, you know where to find me.” Hobie does too as he tugs gently at your coat sleeve. You give them both a friendly smile, tamping down any embers that might be setting fire under them.

The three of you realize that neither of you have pressed a button.

The crew's producer takes initiative, and the three of you give her an apologetic yet embarrassed smile.

The elevator shifts slightly before it starts to move. The whirr of the cables cut through the thick tension in the air.

“So, what did you do this weekend?” Harry asks, seemingly a taunt at Hobie that you can't confirm.

“Nothing much, just did some laundry. Boring stuff.” You answer, staring at the numbers atop the doors as it goes further up. You were supposed to do laundry, but they wouldn't want you to talk about how you had to scrub the bathroom clean of vomit.

“Well, I had a show with my band. Meal prepped for this week and visited a friend.” Hobie glances at you briefly with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Harry's jaw clenches at Hobie's reply. “I thought you were askin’ me too.”

“Oh, I was.” Harry smiles at Hobie but his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. “I also visited a friend, picked her up from walking in the cold.” Your face falls at the memory, you didn't expect to be used as something to taunt and provoke someone, but here you are— shoulders slumped and frowning deeply. “Thanks for the hot chocolate by the way—”

The doors ding open and you don't waste time in leaving the elevator with a downturned head as you look at the scruff of your shoes once again.

“Shit.” They both say, and again, the cameras capture their faces as the door closes on them, not giving the two enough time to get off.

The camera gets a glimpse of them trying to get out before the doors shut.

—

You stare at your computer screen like you want it to spontaneously combust right in front of you. The sounds of keyboards clacking and the whirr of the building’s vents has you more than irked, especially at what transpired this morning. The bullpen is quiet, the air smelling of carpet conditioner and printer ink that someone spilled a few hours ago. Your nose itches, tinnitus acting up as you heavily gaze on the excel and blinking lines.

The muscles in your fingers are stiff against the keyboard, face unreadable while the stress of work and you being caught in the crossfire has your eye twitching against the harsh lights. You have no idea what's going on between the two, but you know what happened in the elevator was unnecessarily uneasy for you. Awkward is an understatement.

Lunch has passed by, and you stayed at your desk throughout it without a single glance at the cafeteria in your peripheral. Opting to eat a pack of biscuit that was just intended for a snack. Your stomach keeps reminding you that you have missed breakfast and lunch. You can't wait for the day to be over.

The sound of the familiar clanking wheels of the mailcart doesn't even have you lifting up your head from your report. To the disappointment of Hobie and to Harry's glaring satisfaction.

You've seen Hobie and Gwen doing their rounds with the mailcart, Hobie gave you his usual smile when he handed you your package for the day. And Gwen came to apologize for what happened last weekend even though it was unnecessary. They were both met with your customer service smile and tone of voice. Partly because you're still frustrated at what happened, and because of the elevator when the two men used you as a way to get back at each other— for whatever they're dealing with. Whatever it is, you've decided to stay away from it. Or until you can't ignore Harry's guilty eyes, Hobie's strained face, and the trio's puppy dog expression whenever they pass by your side of the bullpen.

You really don't mean to be an ass to them, but the ridiculous amount of work you have and your tiredness, coupled up with your grumbling stomach, anyone would be behaving like you.

To you it's literal torture to ignore your friends the whole day, for the documentary crew— it makes good TV.

The sound of crinkling paper and the scent of spice has you looking up from your computer. You see the green wrapping of a sub teetering dangerously on top of the divider. The packaging almost bursting at the seams from the hearty sandwich.

Harry's green eyes peek over the wall, hand inching towards the sandwich as he places a bundle of napkins on it like he's about to steal a diamond from its laser protected case.

“Don't mind me, just delivering you lunch.”

“Harry,” you can't help the smile appearing on your lips. “What are you doing?”

“I hope you like cold cuts and cheese.” His voice is slightly muffled by the divider, eyebrows raised as his eyes smile. You blink at him, head tilted. “I noticed that you haven't had lunch yet, so I bought you a sandwich.”

“Thank you, that's very thoughtful of you.” You reach for the sub, standing up from the chair for the first time in hours. It has the shape of you indented on the plush seat. You meet with Harry's eyes, lighting up as he gazes at you. “How much do I owe you, Harry?”

His head leans back, like he's taken aback by your statement. “One penny.”

“I have to pay you back, y’know.” You glance to your left, finding that the camera has you and Harry in its sights.

“Says who?”

“I do.” You chuckle at his feigned innocence.

“How about you pay it forward next time? Just not to me.” His index taps at the top of the divider as he smiles sweetly at you.

“Fine, but I still owe you for the gas—”

“Sorry, busy busy busy.” He sits back down, hands dramatically typing randomly on his keyboard.

“Harry.”

He picks up the silent phone, “Hello, Harry Osborne here, yes, absolutely.” His eyes look up to you with a subtle smile, placing his index right on his lips, shushing you, and then pointing at the phone's receiver.

With a roll of your eyes, you return to your seat, hands immediately unwrapping the sandwich.

The camera zooms out and moves over to the doorway where Hobie stands there with a brown paper bag while looking in the direction of your desk.

His eyes flick over to the camera, jaw tightening and eyes hardening as he stares right into the lenses. “What of it?” Tossing the paper bag into the trash, he walks away only to immediately double back and fish it out and grumble back towards the mailroom with a huff.

—

The clock finally ticks to five, and you release a sigh of relief the second you send the very last report you needed to finish for today. Without sparing another second wallowing in your seat, you stand up and collect your things.

“Hey, Y/N.” Pavitr’s voice makes you look towards the side, where the trio and an unfamiliar face joins them. His hands are on top of Gwen and Miles’ shoulders, pushing them towards you. “We just want to say sorry about what happened.”

“That's okay, Pav, I already forgave them. And again, it's not really their fault.” You chuckle nervously at the small crowd gathering around you.

“But I haven't.” He says sternly, pushing Gwen and Miles towards you further. “Apologize to Y/N.”

“I already did, Pav—” Gwen squeaks out but Pav nudges her. “Okay, I'm sorry. I feel like shit that the band left you. And since the band isn't here, we're apologizing for them. That was a shitty thing to do.”

“It's really okay—”

“I'm sorry too.” Miles interrupts, frowning deeply, brows knitted together out of guilt. He looks like he's going through it, and probably doesn't need the coaxing from Pavitr. “I heard you had to walk out in the rain.”

“Apology accepted, for both of you— you really don't need to. Hobie and I already talked about it and it's fine.” You hold your hands out to them in a way to calm, and Gwen guiltily takes your hand briefly. “I'm fine, you guys weren't even there.”

“Still, we feel guilty and responsible for it.” Miles mumbles out and Gwen nods along. “If we were there, we would have reminded them.”

“It doesn't seem fine.” The unfamiliar co-worker adds beside Pav. “I'd be livid. I'm Gayatri by the way.” She holds out her hand in greeting, smiling gently at you.

“Hi, it's nice to finally meet you.” You take her hand and shake it, mirroring her smile. “I've heard a lot about you through Pavitr.”

“And I heard a lot about you, through Hobie mostly.” She shrugs with a chuckle. Pav gives her a look, and she takes his hands off of the two and intertwines her fingers with his own. “Anyway, you're cool, because obviously I'd be livid.”

“Oh, I was, for a bit. But it's really alright, alcohol was the real culprit.” It's a half truth, you're still bummed about it, but you'll get over it eventually. For now, you just want to lie down on your bed and sleep.

As you gather your things, the interns still seem to doubt you. You're about to put on your coat but Miguel's voice rings out into the bullpen.

“Meeting now.”

“Now?” Lyla’s head pops out from the doorway, already halfway out of the office.

“Yes, now.” With every footstep from Miguel, the almost hidden groans of your co-workers echo around the office. Including yours.

“I have homework, man.” Miles stomps over to the conference room, while Gwen verbally protests by loudly putting on her backpack with all the charms clinking on it.

“This is why I got a B in advanced chem.” Pavitr grumbles but follows the two, he looks over to his girlfriend when she doesn't follow. With a simple look, he continues to cross the distance and waits by the doorway for Gayatri as she pokes at your bag.

“Are you really okay?” Her eyes are soft, you can feel that her concern for you is genuine. She has that air around you that helps you feel at ease with just a look. “I was going off in our group chat after I learned about it. Ned, Yuri and James have a week until they apologize to you or I'll give them shit during band practice.”

“Yeah, I'm over it.” A half lie. “And they barely know me, it's really okay.” Another lie. It wouldn't hurt for them to apologize. Is it mean for you to want them to apologize?

“Yeah, that's why they need to say sorry because they barely know you.” You open your mouth but she immediately shuts you down. “And don't say that it's fine, or okay. That was horrible, you were alone at a shady bar during happy hour. If the cameras weren't there… I don't know, I think you and your roommate need to talk. I wouldn't forget a friend like that, even if booze was involved.”

You blink at her, nodding in agreement. “I think you're right. I can see why Pav loves you so much. You lay it on thick.”

She pats your arm, chuckling. “I'm always right.”

“I’ll talk to her when I get home.” You sigh, fists tightening as you enter the conference room.

“Well, if you need anything, I'm always in accounting.” She taps your back as Pavitr wraps an arm over her shoulder, letting you inside first as they follow behind.

“She likes to take strays, don't mind her.” Hobie suddenly sidles up to you, hands tucked inside his pockets as he whispers to you. “I blame the saviour complex.”

Gayatri heard his comment as she whacks him over the head. “Shut it, Hobie.”

He holds onto the back of his head, chuckling while Pavitr laughs along. “‘m jus’ sayin'”

“Are you calling me a stray, Hobie?” Your words make him falter, stammering out but no coherent words come out. It was a joke on your end, but you can't hide the amusement from his reaction.

“Now you've done it.” Pav smacks Hobie's chest while Gayatri pulls you away from the punk and towards the seats in the back of the room.

“I didn't mean it that way.” Hobie's voice is a tone higher, wincing at his previous words. “I jus’ meant—”

A loud clearing of throat takes his attention, and Miguel sends him a glare as a warning. Hobie huffs, surprisingly not saying any rhetoric as he sits down wordlessly beside you with the rest of the interns on your right.

“It was a joke by the way.” You whisper to him, side glancing at Miguel, who stands at the helm of the room.

Hobie pinches the bridge of his nose in an attempt to hide his smile. “You got me there, love.”

“Seriously, we're okay, Hobie. I hate that we're being awkward now.”

“I missed you at lunch today. I thought, y’know...” He shrugs, whispering back to you as more people filter inside the room. The cameras stand by the sidelines, bright lights and lenses roaming around the different faces. You're just glad you're not the only one they're focusing on right now.

“I had a ton of work so I couldn't join the lunch club today. Sorry for making you feel horrid.” You say genuinely, hoping to put a close on what happened last weekend. As much as you disdain what happened, you can't lose a friend because of it.

Hobie turns his head towards you, smiling fondly as his hand pat the back of yours. “You can never make me feel horrid, love.”

Your heart leaps in your chest from the close proximity. “We'll s–see. I mean, we're still new friends.”

“I hope we never get to see it then. You might break my tiny heart.”

“Your heart is far from tiny, Hobie Brown.” You nudge him with your shoulder, smiling as you return your attention towards Miguel, who's looking more tired than ever. “So far I've seen nothing but kindness from you.”

“Fuckin' hell.” He mutters under his breath, eyes refraining from looking into your own. “Go easy on me.” He holds onto his chest, head thumping on the wall.

You chuckle at his dramatics. “What does that mean?”

Before he could answer, Harry slides on the seat in front of you. “Hey, princess.” He says with the same demeanor he sported when he picked you from the curb.

“Hi, Harry.” You smile back at him as he side glances Hobie. He turns his back from you, still smiling.

“Princess?” Hobie says with an irked and disgusted tone. The interns turn to him, all sharing the same look that you're not privy to.

“It’s better than newbie, I guess. It's just a nickname.”

“...Sure.” Hobie eyes the lunch club, then over to the cameras with the same uneasy look.

“So, is everyone finally here?” Miguel gruffly days from the front. “I know you all want to go home, but today has been too busy to sneak this meeting in. So Jess and I will make this quick—”

“Holy shit, you two are dating!” Peter says from his seat, gasping in surprise.

“What, ew, no. I'm married, Parker.” Jessica shows her ring, rolling her eyes at Peter. “You knew that. You were at my wedding, idiot.”

“Right, I forgot.” He chuckles, scratching his head. Meanwhile Miguel is mouthing the word ‘ew’ with a questioning look.

“Anyway, Jess is here to talk to you about the company holiday party.” Miguel side steps and gives Jessica the floor.

“As always, I'm the unfortunate soul who has to organise it.” She sighs, “For the new employees, we always have a little party before the holiday break starts. There's gonna be a secret Santa, we'll pick names tomorrow since it's already late. And it'll be a potluck so I'll be assigning what you need to bring to prevent people from just bringing drinks.” She looks towards Lyla.

“That was one time! And everyone was well hydrated!” Lyla defends herself while Peter shakes his head. Jess calls out names and what they would bring.

Hobie snickers next to you, and you whisper to him. “What did you bring that year?”

“Punch.” He says with a chuckle. “There was a line in the loo the whole bloody time.”

“That's a terrible party.”

“We were all starvin’, in the end Miguel got us a dozen pizzas or else people would riot. Which ‘m not opposed to.”

“I would join in, honestly.” You tap his hand, and he returns the gesture with another tap on your pinky. Jessica calls your name, and you almost jump in your seat. “Y–Yes?”

“Do you mind bringing in some holiday cookies or cupcakes?”

“Oh, I don't mind. Are sugar cookies alright?” You unconsciously play with the frayed edges of your sleeve.

“Fine by me, just no nuts, Miguel's allergic.” Jessica continues to call out names and food while reading her list. “Hobie and Harry— H and H, can you two bring some drinks in?”

The two glance at each other pointedly. “Sure.” They both say with clenched teeth.

“Good,” she nods and closes her notes. “Oh and Y/N,” your heart stops. “Can you help me with the decorations on the day?”

“Yeah, of course.” You nod enthusiastically, relieved that it wasn't a reprimand, making Hobie beam at you.

Unbeknownst to you, Gwen looks behind the rest and over to you just to give Hobie a teasing gaze. The cameras capture it all perfectly while Jess gives the floor back to Miguel.

“Right, thanks Jessica.” Everyone begins to stand up even before Miguel could even end his sentence. “We're not done yet,” he points at Hobie, and at first you thought he was pointing at you, making your eyes widen. “You wanted to say something quick, Hobie?”

The room groans in disappointment as they sit back down with a resounding squeak from the chairs.

“Right, the lot of you want to go home, I'll make this quick.” He stays standing up, casually speaking to the whole room with nonchalance that passes off as confidence. “There's a few of you ‘ere who haven't signed yet with the union. As your rep, I have to make sure that you all know that we exist.” His eyes glance over to Lyla, and everyone follows his line of sight.

“Don't look at me! I'm a union girlie but the big man says I can't explicitly say it.” She accusingly points at Miguel, and everyone turns to him.

“Not me, the other big man.” He sighs tiredly.

The scene shifts to him giving an interview near the elevators. “I’m vice president of the union. Everyone keeps forgetting that.” He says with disdain.

The clip comes back to the conference room in the present with everyone listening in on Hobie.

“—the new hires are ‘encouraged’—” he almost rolls his eyes at the company friendly word. “to join the union so you have protection jus’ like the rest of us, yeah?” Hobie clasps your shoulder, smiling at you. “That's it, the lot of you go home.” With Hobie's closing remarks, people leave their seats without another grumble.

“Wait— I haven't said anything yet—!” Miguel tries to say something but everyone leaves the conference room.

Hobie turns to you, hand cupping your elbow as he helps you off your seat. “That includes you, princess.” He says the nickname with a slight scoff.

“I didn't know you're our union rep.” You say as he guides you out of the room. “That's really cool.”

“I did it for the birds.” He walks backwards towards the mailroom to probably grab his things and to quickly rejoin you in the elevator.

“The birds?” You chortle out

Hobie bites his lip, hands placed inside his pockets as his back hits the wall. “The ladies.”

“Ah.” You nod with an amused smile. “Of course, that usually makes us all weak in the knees.”

“Right?” With a smirk, he turns back around to prevent himself from smacking to another wall or worse, a window.

“I thought it'll never end.” Harry appears next to you, already in his coat and messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

“Hey, thanks for the sandwich again.” You smile as he shrugs.

“Just like I said, no problem. You need to remember to eat sometimes or you'll get sick. We can't afford to lose our best quality assurance agent, hm?” He nudges you, palm lingering on your bicep for a second longer.

“I'll remember next time, don't worry.” You give him a wobbly smile.

“D’you need a ride home?” He glances at the elevators. “I heard it's gonna rain again.”

You shake your head with a polite smile. “No need, I'll be fine. Thank you though.”

“Sure, take care.” With a grin and another pat on your shoulder, he leaves.

“Y–You too!” You call back, and he turns to you, giving you a two finger salute while walking away.

“Boo!”

“Fuck!” You shriek, hand on your chest while Lyla snorts next to you.

“Sorry, I didn't know you were such a scaredy cat.” She tilts her head playfully. “Anyway, how are you doing so far?”

“Uh, good.” You swallow down your thumping heart. “Workload is tough but I'll survive.”

She hums, nodding along. “Yeah, good. Also what do I hear about you and…” she pauses, looking around the near empty office, and you think she's gonna say Hobie as you bite down your anxiety. “Harry.”

“H–Harry?”

“Yeah, I heard from the interns that he gave you a ride home from the bar? Sounds serious and definitely something that the HR should know.” Lyla fist bumps your shoulder awkwardly. “Y’know, just in case there's a conflict with your relationship with him and work.” You try to get a word in but she continues. “I'm not against it, oh no not me, and he's kinda cute so good on you. I'm just warning you that you two need to tell me and sign a little something, something. Nothing major, just a contract telling us that your relationship won't hinder you from doing work and we're not liable for any heartbreak that could occur—” she grabs your elbow like she's already reassuring you for the inevitable. “— not like there would be any heartbreak in your future with him.” She chuckles a bit nervously.

“We're not together.” You say matter-of-factly.

“Oh,” she blows a raspberry. “Right, well, mystery solved!” With a pat on your arm, she leaves you be. “Have a good night!”

You huff, going back to your desk to retrieve your things and go towards the elevators only to find Hobie waiting there for you.

“Thought I lost you to the ghost janitor.” He smiles, leaning against the doors as he smirks at you.

You sigh while your hands grow clammy. “I'm not scared of that anymore— watch out!”

The elevator doors suddenly open and he falls right through it with a groan.

“‘m alright!”

—

A baseball hat is shoved right on top of your keyboard while you work on a spreadsheet. Your watery eyes gawk at the slips of paper all folded inside the hat. The scene reminds you of secret santas and white elephant parties back in school.

“It's not gonna pick itself.” Jessica leans against the table, neat brows raised up in question.

“Right, sorry, you just caught me off guard.” You chuckle nervously, intimidated by your boss as you dip your hand inside the hat. Feeling for a random one, you fish it out of the hat. You don't read it just yet.

“I see you're working hard.” She smiles, nodding at your screen. “Good job on the Metropolis report by the way, keep it up.”

A sigh escapes you as your eyes twinkle at Jessica. “T–Thank you. I appreciate that.”

“‘Course, just don't work too hard, you're making the rest of us look bad.” With a chuckle and a shake of the hat, she leaves. “Oh, wait.” Turning back around, you pause from unfolding the slip of paper. “Don't forget, we have a maximum price for the gift.”

“Okay, thanks for the reminder.” You awkwardly wave her off as her heels clack on the floor.

“Hey,” Harry whispers, eyes peeking over the cubicle dividers as he knocks rhymically, one that you're familiar with but can't quite put your finger on. “Who’d you get?”

“I don't think we're supposed to say.” You whisper back with an amused smile.

“I didn't take you for a rule follower, princess.” He smiles, now standing up to look at you fully. “Please?”

You shake your head with a quiet chuckle. “No.”

He sucks in his teeth, but his smile stays. “You're no fun.”

“I haven't even read it yet.” With a playful roll of your eyes, you unfurl the paper, expression suddenly falling flat as you read the big printed letters— Hobie Brown. “Oh.”

“Is that ‘oh’ good or not? Shit, did you get Miguel?”

His voice falls on deaf ears as you feel your nerves rushing in, blood filling your ears like you're about to skydive. It seems that Hobie has had that effect on you recently. With an exhale, you pocket the slip of paper inside your blazer pocket.

“I think it's the former.” You smile up at Harry, looking curiously at you. “I'm not gonna tell you my secret Santa, Harry.”

He dramatically deflates to show you his disappointment as you grin at him. “Fine, well I'm not going to show you mine.”

“I don't even want to know yours.”

“Ouch, okay, mean.” He holds his chest like he's been shot through the heart. “Oh, yeah, good on you with that report. You even got Jessica's approval.” With a thumbs up, he slowly slinks back to his seat.

“Thanks, Harry.” Your words waver as you take the paper from your pocket and read it again as if you hallucinated the name on it.

The familiar whirr of the camera lenses enter your space, zooming in on the print. You immediately turn towards it, glaring and frowning. “Really? Even that?”

Jericho the cameraman nods, giving you an apologetic tight lipped smile. You're starting to really hate cameras right now. If it didn't cost you your job, you would've yanked the microphone in your shirt already. But you've got a bigger problem— what to give Hobie that he will surely like.

[sorryimananti-romantic]

Ateez as Villains

disclaimer: read at your own risk. do not interact if not comfortable with any tropes. reminder that this is a work of fiction and must be treated so. 

warnings: absolutely no morals here, 18+ mdni, illegal acts (abduction, murder, physical abuse, stalking, trafficking, financial crimes, dirty politics, corruption), suggestive/nsfw scenes, explicit language (swearing, insults), death, violence, blood & injuries, weapons, smoking, drugs, alcohol

a/n: couldn't have done this without @eightmakesonebraincell's and @chronicvagabonds' validation lmao also tribute to tite kubo for coming up with the juiciest dialogues, some of which i quoted here

Hongjoong

The Manipulator

hongjoong always knew he had leadership skills

from being the team leader whenever he played games as a young child, to growing up and eventually influencing people

he was often told that he has a certain way of pulling people’s attention and leave something stirring inside them with his words

so it is no surprise that hongjoong is where he is today. a renowned businessman, philanthropist and… politician

hongjoong adjusts the sleeves of his shirt and glances at you from the mirror

you are standing behind him, holding his coat for him. he wears it with a proud smile and holds his chin high

“tonight is very important. for me. for this country.” 

he goes on about how there will be people from all over the country

people who are the foundation of this nation. people who care about the future of this world 

and if you weren’t so blinded by the adoration you have for this man you would have called him delusional

but the fact is that you are deluded by him. hongjoong has the ability to cast a spell with his words

he feeds his supporters the lie of a better world in the near future, and they bow to him

hongjoong smiles devilishly at the thought of what entails the events of tonight

he can picture it clearly- the cheers and desperate screams of his followers as he steps on the podium

the cries of these people, as helpless as sheeps in a herd, waiting for an upright politician to save this nation 

he can feel the thrill just imagining what it will be like tonight when he addresses the nation as the new face of his political party

to a common person, he would just be another man with a good heart striving for a better change

but the common person is weak, and for them… he is their salvation

they will hear his words tonight- words he has carefully crafted himself. the cues will register in their minds, and they will end up seeking him to announce their undying support and loyalty, to shower in his glory

you straighten hongjoong’s coat and smooth over his shirt, your hands unsteady with anticipation

“aren’t you happy to be right next to me when i conquer the stage tonight?” he whispers, lifting your chin up

you meet his eyes and he can see his answer there

you hope he doesn’t see the conflict in your eyes. the conflict is to be concealed in your heart, in the deepest, untouchable corner of it

you are blessed, they tell you, to be the politician’s favoured

and you are- you truly are. hongjoong loves you. he adores you

in fact… he’s almost obsessed with you

and why wouldn’t he be? you were the one who led him here

you were the one who held his hand and showed him the right path- his partner, and now his secretary

oh, how you sometimes wish you could turn back the hands of the clock and go back to when hongjoong was hopeless and thought that the world was a wretched place beyond saving

that is when you told him that the only way to run this world was to join hands with the elites of this nation- or to become one

it must be the fates that led him to where he is today

after all, isn’t he a king without a crown? a ruler without a throne?

he is a born leader and a strategist. he has always been good with his words

it’s how he earned the favour and graces of the elites and the politicians and made a place for himself- not under them, but beside them

but to stand beside those people, you have to be a little… corrupt. and morally ambiguous

the world is not run by saints, after all

“sweetheart?” he calls when he sees you are distracted

you don’t miss the warning tone in his voice. tonight, you have to be on your toes

you have to seek out willing supporters and show them that they mean the world to hongjoong and his political party

but more importantly… you need to target other politicians, find their weaknesses and if lucky, have some join hands with you

“i’m here,” you tell him and he nods firmly, pressing a kiss to your temple

“i will see you tonight,” he promises, and you know what he means

he always gets such a thrill out of playing the leader

he gets so much energy, and he has to take it out one way or another

and what better way to take it out in the form of lovemaking?

you feel warmth course through your body as he trails his finger down the middle of your chest purposely

he almost smiles maniacally as he leaves first, giving you a moment to gather your wits

you pour yourself a glass of drink- you can’t possibly do this sober

you join hongjoong as he gives his first speech- a very normal talk about how this nation is on the verge of collapse

corruption, crime, inhumanity, dirty politics? you name it

you admire his resilience, really. whatever he is talking about comes straight from his heart, and he has been talking about these issues for a long time now

you also admire his pompousness and the audacity to talk about dirty politics, when he is the face of dirty politics

you join the audience when they clap for him, your heart full of pride

there is a break where he meets with the high-profile people and asks them to consider joining hands with him

‘to make a better world for the future generations’. such inspiring words from such a young political leader

except hongjoong’s trick is that he always, always has something over them

he has a team dedicated specifically for this task- to dig dirt on his political targets so he can wield them like the blade of a guillotine over their heads

despite his evil means to climb the top, somehow, his image and reputation remains far too clean

and that is because he knows to take these actions behind the scenes, away from any eyes

a true politician, he’s been dubbed

it is about midnight when the hall almost empties, leaving only the members of your party and some new faces- people who are willing to hear him out and decide if they want to join his party

you wish you could tell them that it is a trap- hongjoong will promise that their efforts and support will lead them to something great

‘the greater good’, he always says, except these people do not know what they are getting into

they are merely sacrificial lambs, the stepping stones that will lead hongjoong closer to his utopia

they will, for the sake of loyalty, put a blindfold over their eyes. they will hold him in high reverence as he becomes their lord, their saviour

he will feed them copper pellets and claim that this is the best that they can get while he himself sits on a throne made of gold

and when they empty every last drop of whatever they have to offer- their blood, sweat and tears

hongjoong will discard them without remorse. that is who he is- a master manipulator

when you are done wrapping up the event in the deep, dark hours of the night, hongjoong finds you in your bedroom

his chest is heaving with energy that is threatening to combust from within him

he outstretches his hand and you saunter over to him

his hands are dominating when he holds you, though his kiss is soft and unrushed

until that too becomes scalding hot

he is quick to lead you to the couch where you sit on his lap, finding him painfully hard

he groans loudly and starts to unbuckle his pants, and you instantly know what he wants- you always know what he wants

he easily slides his hard length inside your warmth and groans heavily in relief, resting his head back and just letting you both stay still

you only move to rest your head against his shoulder. he can have you like this for as long as he wants

“we have a lot of new supporters tonight,” he begins, chuckling deeply, “the polls seem to be in our favour too.”

his dark curls caress your face as you snuggle against him

“we also managed to score deals with many influential politicians and businessmen tonight,” he tells you and you look at him with pride as he names them

“soon,” he begins, trailing his hands under your dress and squeezing your thighs, “soon… we will have our people in every sector- in business, healthcare, industrial, courts… we will be controlling the nation- we… we are the leaders of this nation.”

his cock twitches inside you as he finishes that sentence and you bite your lips in thought

“what are you thinking, love?” he asks, caressing your face

“i just sometimes wonder,” you begin- can you admit your bare thoughts to him?

he squeezes your thigh as a sign to go ahead

“i wonder how we got here, joong,” you admit, “you know that we are exploiting people-”

“for the greater good-”

“for the greater good, yes,” you finish, nodding and he furrows his brows in concentration

“these people are just like us. we were once slaves of this society, but now we are the leaders. and they are our slaves. but…”

“they will offer us what they have,” hongjoong replies softly, “and we will make the best out of it. isn’t that right?”

you nod. there is no more space for any more questioning

you have never like the darkness in his eyes when you question his- your- methods

all he knows is that he is right

he knows what he is doing is wrong in essence, but it is about the bigger picture- he is doing this for his nation

and you cannot expect to run a nation claiming to be a saint

the nation is run by wolves, and to make space there, you must be some sort of a predator. that is who he has become

his grip on your thighs tighten and he starts to grind your body on him

between the sounds of pleasure is the groan of pain as he spanks your thighs and remind you of your place

“all you have to do is follow me,” he breathes into your ear, trailing his lips across your cheek. “all you have to do is stay with me. together…” he thrusts hard inside you. “together, we will rule the world one day, you and i.”

you nod and he swallows your moans as he kisses you, thrusting with all his might until you both come crashing down

he takes you to the shower and you both quickly clean up and get in bed

as you watch his figure relax and succumb to sleep, you confess to him

“you are a great politician, hongjoong,” you tell him and the corners of his lips curl in a smile. “i’m just afraid of going too far with you. every day, we learn that we can get worse than we are, yet…”

“yet, it has become my addiction and my duty,” he whispers, hand finding your bare arm and caressing it. “don’t you want to rule the world?”

“you will rule the world. i will be treading on your shadow, following you closely and sharpening my teeth… but afraid.”

“afraid of what?”

“of you,” you breathe and he opens one eye

“you won’t leave me, will you?” he asks innocently, yet it is there- the warning in his tone

you are responsible for who he is today. you are an accomplice

every person he ruins to get closer to the top, you are equally responsible for it

“of course not,” you tell him, “i can’t leave you.”

hongjoong notices your choice of words

you can not leave him- you do not have a choice

he holds you close and kisses you like he means it that night

it would be such a shame if he would have to throw you away after all of this, right? 

it would truly be such a shame if you are just like the others in the end- weak and helpless

since you know exactly what is going on inside hongjoong’s head, you tell him you love him like you really mean it and you let him hold you close

it may be a trap, but you don’t mind being trapped if this is where you end up every night- in his arms

your lord, your saviour

The Manipulator and the Manipulated

Seonghwa

Jekyll

park seonghwa is a man who is adored wherever he goes

be it at work- at a prestigious university as a neuroscience professor, dr. park, or at social gatherings, formal or informal

he is a man born with the best manners, the most caring and generous heart

you’ve seen him around the department as a masters student and attended a few of his classes 

but you never got to interact with him personally until it’s time to choose a thesis supervisor and you learn that you have a chance with him

it’s purely because he’s amazing at what he does 

your subfield matches with his specialty so it will be better if he’s your supervisor (and it’s only a bonus that the man is painfully hot so you’ll never be bored)

your professor recommends you to seonghwa and he goes over your synopsis which leaves him intrigued because coincidentally, he’s researching in molecular neuroscience as well

he gladly takes you on because he believes you both will be helping each other along the way

plus, he recognises your name- you’ve always had a different air about you (and he remembers you from somewhere else too)

he’s looking forward to working with you, that’s all

so when you arrive on your first day as his supervisee and research assistant

you catch him in his natural habitat- unaware of his surroundings, humming a tune to himself and swiping his hair hurriedly to the side with the hand that’s holding a clear solution of some sort while struggling not to drop his notes on the table that has a few microscope slides 

basically, moments away from a disaster

he spots you and grunts as if asking for help and you immediately drop your bag to rush towards him, only now noticing that somehow, he’s holding his glasses by his teeth

you first take those out of his mouth and he groans in relief. “can you please help me wear my glasses? those cultures are moments away from expiring.”

“oh goodness,” you mutter and you lock eyes with him as you put on his glasses for him

and your intrusive thoughts take over because you simply cannot take how his hair is poking his eyes so you gently brush his hair out of his eyes

for a moment, time is frozen for all sorts of reasons

before seonghwa takes a deep breath and you blink, immediately getting out of his way and holding his notes for him

the notes apparently hold the readings on how much solution he needs to pour so you read it for him and consequently save him from a disaster

as soon as he is done freezing the cultures, he holds the edge of the table to save himself from slumping in relief

and you share a laugh, the ice breaking just like that

he tells you that the student assigned for taking care of the cultures had an emergency and he had to rush from another department

and he thanks you for helping him

you both move to his office to go over your thesis and he helps you create a timeline

you wrap up the meeting with a clear direction of what’s next and with a schedule of shifts where you will be assisting him

it doesn’t take long to get used to being a part of his team of five calm students with a little streak of crazy

and you suppose dr. park has an eye for people like that because you fit right in

you are all very dedicated so he seems to be at ease when you are working, though he does monitor you more closely since you’re new

you start to spend more time in the lab simply because you like how it feels there

it is like a little cocoon where you can tune out the rest of the world and work on your thesis without distractions (plus, it helps how people from your team pop in once in a while to throw some suggestions at you)

you like how it is there- neat and clean

the sound of metal against metal, glass against glass. the smell of the cleaning agent which calms you since it is something familiar now

and then there’s dr. park himself, gentle and composed, yet at times clumsy and rough which results in the room cackling with laughter

however, there’s a side to him that you only see when you’re alone with him

you’re not sure if he’s like that with everyone- he must be, right?

does he pay as much attention to everyone else as you?

perhaps, you’re delusional. that must be it

seonghwa knows you must think that, because he has not been very obvious but he has not been subtle either

it’s just that he remembers you from that time. he remembers seeing your face in his friend wooyoung’s data

wooyoung, who is an expert at singling out people like them

people like seonghwa who have a little streak of crazy in them, yet manage to be a part of the society almost seamlessly

wooyoung’s company does a good job at managing these people because they ultimately help the black market grow

seonghwa is half convinced wooyoung’s company is just a faction of the government but of course he can’t confirm that

all he knows is that he cannot act out too much and get caught

in return, he knows when someone like him is in his radar

here you are, glasses perched on the tip of your nose as you examine different slides under the microscope, muttering to yourself about the readings as your scribble them

he can’t help but notice how you always wear that one specific shade of deep red on your lips or how your hair falls in the most irresistible way in front of your face

he’s never looked at a student this way- ever- but you’re not just a student now, are you?

so when he makes his move, approaching you from behind as silently as he can

he’s not disappointed when you turn- he didn’t make a sound, yet you knew

you’re not even surprised, and that excites seonghwa to no end

“ah, dr. park,” you go casually, as if him sneaking behind you was normal behaviour. “can you approve of these hypotheses?”

seonghwa hums and stands awfully close to you, your sides brushing against each other

he purposely crowds in your personal space as he leans in to confirm the readings of the specimens on the table

“everything’s perfect,” he announces, meeting your eyes

you’re still sitting so you have to look up at him and lord. what a sight he is even from this angle. you could totally get used to it-

“what are you looking at, sweetheart?” seonghwa smirks knowingly 

you have to physically struggle to maintain your composure because you are pretty sure you were gawking

“nothing, just zoned out,” you say, which isn’t a lie but not the whole truth either

he knows though. he knows the effect he has on you because he hasn’t been subtle

from the casual touches to the unnecessary (but not undeserved) praise

from the prolonged eye contact to the suggestive smirks

there is something electric between the two of you, an undeniable tension

and while you’re not one who sticks to the rules, you can’t help but wonder just why is dr. park playing with you?

“you sure you’re okay?” seonghwa leans in and searches your eyes for any signs of lies

upon finding none but gaining satisfaction from the way your lips part in surprise, he draws back 

you try your best not to make things awkward for the rest of the time you’re with him

and in the following days, his advances only start becoming stronger in nature

you like the attention he gives you. you like how he always puts his hands on your shoulders and gives them a little squeeze whenever he finds you sitting

you like the way his warm breath caresses your cheek when you’re both sitting side by side inspecting a specimen

you enjoy the sound of his gentle voice as he instructs you

it’s almost as if he knows. it’s almost as if he’s asking for it

does he not know that once you become obsessed with something, you’ll try- no, you will possess it at all costs?

so one night when you’re both working at late hours, busy with wrapping up one section of your thesis

you can’t take it when seonghwa scolds you teasingly for being clumsy 

“you’ve got pen on your chin,” he says and before you can take care of it, he himself scoots closer-

too close for it to be professional anymore because at this point, he can probably count the freckles on your face too-

and begins to rub at your the skin near your lips gently

he frowns when it doesn’t come off, and then he has the audacity to lick his thumb and rub your skin again

“dr. park,” you mutter, about to remind him how you are supposed to be a teacher and student

you’re not friends (despite the very friendly relationship you have developed with him)

seonghwa only hums and you can’t help but notice how he stifles a smirk as he moves his thumb to your lower lip and swipes it, all the while maintaining eye contact

you raise a brow in challenge, silently questioning why he’s still holding your chin

he leans in as if to kiss you and you stop breathing

except he tilts his head to whisper in your ear

“would you like to attend the next soul society meeting with me, love?”

to say that you freeze is an understatement

you don’t move when his lips caress your cheeks as he stays in that position

you don’t move when he purposely trails his lips along your cheek as he draws back

“what’s your classification?” you manage to ask, your voice barely a whisper

the way seonghwa smirks is something you’ll never forget

“jekyll,” he says. “nice to meet you, hyde.”

there’s a moment of silence where all you can do is stare at the man in front of you

a moment of pure static

as soon as you take off your mask and your lips curl in a smirk, it happens

you don’t know who took the first step but you’re both kissing each other

it’s rushed, passionate and desperate, the air filling with your grins and giggles and you’re only glad you’re not in the lab right now because the way seonghwa clears the table with a swipe of his hand, making the notes fall on the ground

only to lift you up and seat you there so he can kiss you better? being in the lab would have done some damage alright

between kisses, you learn how seonghwa recognised you

you ask him if he lured you here somehow, but he tells you it’s just luck that you’re here as his student right now. you don’t quite believe him though

but you let it be- if he’s jekyll, that means he’s got the brains to scheme

he tells you that he’s glad to have found his hyde because he would prefer someone else to do his dirty work for him

you agree- it’s been far too long since you’ve had an adventure, and you’ve heard about the notorious jekyll in the soul society too. you just never connected the dots

he takes you to his private lab (not before feasting on you and fucking you on that very table)

for the next few weeks, you familiarise yourself with his actual research

mind altering chemicals and drugs, anything to do with control

very illegal stuff, but the soul society funds him with whatever he needs

he can’t believe he found you- you’re perfect for him

seonghwa believes he has morals and he can be a good person

so you make the perfect partner because you can be the bad person in his stead

you’re his alter ego, the voice in his head that he never lets come out

you’re the person who not only matches his freak but helps bring it into manifestation. you are now his face

while he advances in molecular neuroscience in the world, you advance, on his behalf, in the underworld

there’s no blood on your hands- you both only produce drugs. you’re not responsible for what is done with them

you do sometimes assist in the practical work, which seonghwa avoids, because after all, he has a reputation to maintain as dr. park

no one suspects a thing. you’re just supervisor and supervisee who share a similar obsession with research

nothing to worry about

Jekyll and Hyde

Yunho

The Hunter

when you finally got to a blind date that your friend begged you to go to, you didn’t expect to meet a man who would actually catch your eye

there is something about this man, jeong yunho, that instantly pulls you in as if you really are tied by a thread 

for starters, he is incredibly handsome and has a soft vibe to him that exudes warmth

his voice has a soothing quality and his mannerisms are as gentle as his gaze. his laugh is pure and he makes quite a good company

he just makes you feel comfortable and safe right away, which is kind of surprising

so when yunho tells you about himself, confirming that he is indeed a corporate lawyer at a well-known firm, you are simply in awe

you thought your friend was bluffing when she told you that she is trying to set you up with a ‘beauty with brains’

she was not lying, is all you can think now

you’re a simple school teacher, you tell yunho with a laugh

however, the man’s eyes are practically twinkling as he hears your stories about school 

you’re only telling him because he insisted, and now he can’t stop appreciating your profession, saying that it’s admirable how you are able to connect with children and educate them

the conversation steers to your likes and dislikes, your preferences, and what you’re looking for in a partner

surprisingly, the two of you have a lot in common

you both have a special place in your heart for food. you both love travelling. and there are some things he does not need to say out loud 

like how he’s a caring person- always making sure you’re comfortable and your bowl is full, draping his coat over your shoulders when you leave the restaurant and scour the streets for something sweet

the hand that he offers you is not suggestive and you like that (you also like how tall he is and how his hand engulfs yours almost entirely)

just two people who talk about anything and everything- that’s who you become by the end of the night

as you settle in bed later, you’re still smiling about how his eyes twinkled when he learned that you too have a thing for gaming too

you have good feelings about this person so far but there’s a feeling scratching at your heart that has you restless

it is the way his eyes darkened almost dangerously, only momentarily, when you insisted that you could get home on your own

he was a gentleman, no doubt about it, insisting that you could never be too sure these days especially with the news being so horrible lately, the crime rate spiking up dramatically in the past few months

you just did not like the idea of having a stranger accompany you all the way to your home, even if it was this gentleman- this was only your first meeting

so he made you promise to call him and let him know when you get home 

and here you are. you dated him for a few months before you both decided to move in together into an apartment that suited your needs

he’s perfect in every way- attentive, responsive, caring, funny, and he gives you space when you need it

which matters the most because you value your personal space a lot

he understands the importance of personal space very well and even though you share a room, you both let each other be 

you let him be when he’s gaming, and he lets you be when you’re staring at the ceiling or reading

more often though, he’ll have you sit on his lap as he games

since he’s so much bigger than you, you’ll curl on top of him to read or scroll and he’ll be focused on his game, liking your presence

it doesn’t always lead to something but when it does, it’s always fun

he has you smitten- his kisses still make you feel like it’s your first time sharing a kiss (and he’s damn good at it)

his touch lingers on your skin throughout the day and you cannot wait to be back in his arms again

it is just another night when you decide to walk and take the longer route back home because apparently yunho was going to be late and you did not want to be home alone

it gets quieter as you navigate through the streets and alleys

and when you take a turn and notice a familiar figure, you stop in your tracks

is that… not yunho? the back and the height looks pretty much the same

the man is watching a woman at the end of the street who is using her phone as if waiting for someone

the woman catches the man watching her and grows wary- you can tell even from the distance

you can tell that she is very much pretending to be on call when she starts moving

despite every cell in your body urging you to ignore this and go back home, you start to follow the man when he starts to follow the woman

you are careful to maintain a distance, cursing yourself internally for being a curious little shit who seeks thrill like there’s no tomorrow

but the woman takes a left, and the man takes a right, leaving you standing in the middle of the street, taking a few deep breaths

nothing happened, you think. you turn and start to trace your path back

and just a minute later, there’s an unmistakable sound of a woman’s scream filling the air

every hair on your body rises as your heart drops and eyes widen

you’re frozen in one spot with no idea what to do next- should you go check on the woman? see if it was the same person? 

not once do you think of calling the police though

you walk back home, lost in your thoughts with the image of the man’s familiar figure branded in your mind especially since you are pretty damn sure that those were little sunflowers embroidered on the hem of the hoodie

sunflowers that you embroidered on yunho’s hoodie

when you open the door to your apartment, though, you hear the sound of the TV and yunho is sitting very casually on the couch

“ah, you’re home,” he grins and waves, just like he usually does

he’s not wearing the hoodie anymore

“i thought you were gonna be late?” you ask

“you’re late,” he counters. “why did it take you so long to get home?”

“just decided to take a walk,” you smile, ruffling his hair and planting a kiss on the top of his head before going to your room 

you grab your clothes and move towards the bathroom to take a shower, and it is then that yunho’s eyes widen

“ah, babe?” he calls, his voice uncharacteristically high

when you don’t answer, he rushes towards the bathroom and finds you standing in the doorway

your eyes are fixed on the sink which is a pale shade of pink with handprints on it

yunho curses himself internally- he rushed to hide his hoodie as soon as he got home, jumped in the shower, spotted the bloody sink from when he first washed his hands and decided to make it look like he had been home for a while before cleaning the sink

only he fucking forgot

it doesn’t look as bad- it’s not a bloody red, for starters

“ah, i forgot to clean that up,” yunho awkwardly laughs, proceeding to move inside and open the tap, taking a sponge and cleaning the edges of the sink

yeah. it does not look that bad

“i accidentally spilled that red ink you have in the room- i don’t know why i got curious and messed with it.”

that’s not the colour of your ink, though, and you know it never leaves stains like these

“don’t worry about it,” you tell him, but your eyes are wider than usual. yunho notices that

he lets you shower in peace, all the while thinking if you suspect something

truth be told, he saw you when you were following him back there which is why he took another turn to mislead you

he also knows you are far too observant for your own good

he can’t lie- one of the reasons he fell for you is because of that. you are just like him

though you are free of sin unlike him, your mind is a mess

you notice too much that is not meant to be noticed. you sometimes say things that even he has not thought about. you question if human morals are an actual thing or a made up construct

is it from reading too much fiction? he thinks not

when you come out of the shower, something possesses you to move to the balcony

and that’s another thing yunho likes about you (which also scares him a little at times)

it is your intuition- which leads you to inspect the little corner where you pile up useless stuff. you can see the sleeve of his hoodie there

you pick it up and find it wet in certain spots

on its black base, you can’t tell what it is, but the sunflowers are stained a suspicious red colour, and it’s definitely not your ink 

you look towards your right where yunho is standing, vigilant

there is a moment of silence before you lower the hoodie 

“it really was you,” you say, unwavering

your heart is not speeding because you’re scared- it is speeding because you are right

yunho is still, contemplating how to deal with this

did he think he could hide his secret from you forever? no. was he prepared in case he gets caught? no

he just never imagined it would unfold like this

and now… will he have to hurt you if you threaten to expose him? he can’t bear to hurt a hair on your head

you bring out all the good in him. he does not know how you do that, but you make him believe that he can love with all of his heart too, just like any other person

you make him feel whole, and it would be such a shame if things fall apart now

to his surprise, you drop the hoodie back and walk towards him until there’s little distance between the two of you

you hold both of his hands in yours and look at him earnestly

“are you going to tell me what you have been up to?”

yunho is surprised at how calm your voice is and how accepting your eyes are

he sighs deeply before steering you to the couch in the living room

and then he bares his heart to you

he is a monster. that is it. he hurts people and it satisfies this ugly part of him

he does not always want to, he justifies, but sometimes, he just can’t help it

and the only reason he gets away with it is because he is not stupid and carefully chooses his victims- people who are miserable. people who have no one around them

“well then… i’m lucky to have one person in my life, right?”

yunho’s eyes widens at your response

you fulfil the criteria of being his victim- you have no one 

you have no one but him- how did that happen?

he thinks back to your first date and he can’t help but feel overwhelmed

he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his head about to explode 

why are you not running away from him? why are you caressing his head and holding him close?

you don’t tell him everything right away. you only ask him to trust you

so he trusts you and waits for you

he learns little bits about you- you, who do not care who yunho is, as long as he is transparent with you

you, who has a twisted sense of morality. you, who might be as bad as yunho, even worse

though, your hands are clean, you tell him sarcastically, it’s just your head that is a mess

and it’s a blessing that you two are together and can be honest about this too, right? how lucky you are to have each other

“you, without sin, are like the sun,” he tells you one night as he kisses the top of your head and holds you close

“you, even with sin, are like the sun,” you respond.

The Hunter and His Guide

Yeosang

The Mad Scientist

there is something about the innocent features of his face, the gentleness in his mannerism, the absolute ethereal aura about him

that contrasts strikingly with the pitch black (or maybe, just two shades lighter) of his soul

the man only knows how to scheme and how to take the best possible route towards his goals

the goals are all related to science

sure, he is contributing to the scientific area, doing researches no one else would do

doctor kang yeosang- a scientist and philosopher, held in high reverence in the medical field, contributing with numerous researches centering the human body

nobody needs to know exactly how he gets such extensive, solid results to support his theories

he comes off as a soft-spoken man, someone who possesses a kind heart

he is willing to overwork himself in order to make life easier for others

he is much appreciated by his peers

they don’t need to know that behind his neat and professional setup is a dark, cold space that holds his real workspace

the endless corridors lined with shelves upon shelves of jars 

jars containing the human body parts within them

from the brain to the spleen, from the heart to the liver

each jar meticulously lined in an organisation such that only yeosang could close his eyes and know where to pick what he needs

each organ in the jar has a story of the human that it once was- the story that yeosang himself scribes and tucks in the safe (and in a corner of his heart)

taking it out only to read and reminiscence, or to make another addition

such as the one that he is about to make now, sauntering with an almost skipping manner, highlighting his delight in the events about to unfold

his pristine white lab coat flows behind him, a symbol of everything that he would not be doing tonight, which only adds to the irony of it all

he finds you mirroring his expressions, eyes wide with anticipation and lips curled in a stifled smile

and he can’t help but smile wider, the sound of his footsteps echoing loudly as he speeds towards you so that he can finally hold you after the long day he had, tired of playing it cool in front of everyone

you are snaking your arms around his neck immediately as he bends down to capture your lips in a fierce kiss, earning a surprised but pleased yelp from you

you let him have his moment, kissing him back with equal passion until he draws away and rests his forehead against your shoulder

“long day, huh?” you press your lips against his temple. “how did the presentation go?”

the presentation being at a conference of the national medical association where yeosang was the chief guest, awarded for his valuable insights to the medical world

“i sometimes wonder if i’m the only one wearing a mask,” yeosang confesses.

you know what he means

there surely must be others just like him

you can’t expect to make medical advancements while sticking to the stupid laws and regulations they have carved for you

the medical associations do not allow anyone freedom 

“it’s tiring to pretend my research was simply a result of my team’s hard work,” yeosang continue, “they didn’t do batshit. i wish i could credit you instead.”

“but you can’t,” you caress his dark locks. “that would certainly raise suspicion since i’m… underqualified.”

well, that’s arguable 

you may not be as good as yeosang at what you do but considering that you come from a non-medical background, yeosang would say that you are pretty close

in fact, overqualified

“i don’t think there’s anyone more qualified than you,” yeosang lifts his head to look up at you, eyes scanning your face. “you’re an expert of the human body.”

you are an expert, that is true

you did what you had to do to survive as a young girl who lost her way

you were meant to be a test subject yourself but you created your own path and proved that you were good with your hands- almost artistic

and that you could open up humans as long as you had a good knife

your skills were a bit rusty when yeosang found you in the black market

but he was thoroughly impressed and made an offer. it was an offer that you couldn’t resist 

you would no longer be bound to be a slave for the rest of your life

you would be his equal. an accomplice 

“but you are the mad scientist. i’m just your unofficial assistant,” you pat his cheek in answer

it’s a wonder that you’re here now, in his arms

a muffled sound interrupts your little moment

you both steer towards the big room and yeosang looks around for a moment to take in the glory of his workplace

the crisp white walls and clean tiles smelling of antiseptic, marred with red stains of blood that is dripping from the man’s limbs

the man who is currently tied to a stretcher in the middle of the room

the instruments and tools that he would be using tonight to open his test subject up are glinting with silver, ready to be used

he has chosen the perfect target- a relatively healthy, middle-aged homeless man

really, no one would care if he went missing

in fact, you were doing him a favour by putting an end to his miserable life, right?

surely, he did not wish to live without a home and the means to survive

though here he was, sedated but struggling nonetheless, as if finally having found the will to live

“ah, he created a mess,” yeosang begins, clicking his tongue in disappointment as he inspects the bruises around the man’s wrists. “i’m sorry you had to wait so long, hmm?”

it’s almost eerie, how yeosang’s voice drips with pity

but that’s what you like about him

he thinks of the greater good. he is doing all of this for the greater good

there is no personal desire to kill random human beings, no

he simply needs test subjects to study the human body, so there can be advancements in the medical world

he just can’t believe that the world does not have a cure or even a prevention for most of the diseases in this age

he has taken it upon himself to contribute to the medical world so people do not have to suffer anymore

he complains about this a lot 

if people had guts, they would have done this ages ago

sometimes, he refers to the awful medical experiments done by humankind- especially on women

he is different from them, he claims

he cares about their pain- that is why he makes sure to make his subjects’ death quick and painless before he starts to conduct his experiments

it’s just too bad that he doesn’t have much time after the person passes to study certain functions of a living human

(so sometimes, he makes exceptions and asks god for forgiveness. easy peasy)

you watch yeosang with a sort of wonder and a little something that resembles fear as he caresses the man’s head in farewell

he asks the man to say his last words, to choose them carefully, to take his time and to make peace with the fact that there is no way out

the sedatives seem to have made the man somewhat placid

the test subject stops resisting to lock eyes with the doctor 

he says something about the regrets he’s had in his life and how he just wants his misery and pain to end now

yeosang’s brows are furrowed in concentration as he listens to each and every word, nodding along as if he aims to fulfil every desire this man possesses 

his hand is gently caressing the man’s head

when the man is done, yeosang tells him that his contribution to medical research won’t be forgotten

he looks at you to find you already staring at him with an unreadable expression

he signals you to get the job done and you inject the medicine meant to stop the man’s heart

you watch the man take his last breath, his face contorting in pain as his heart ceases to function

yeosang has already moved on from the little moment he had, putting on medical gloves and snapping them against his skin rather dramatically

“let’s get to work, shall we?”

you smile in response, following his instructions

soon, you are testing the functioning of the man’s abdominal organs with various equipment and drugs that yeosang has bought from the black market 

you have to work quickly before necrosis begins and hinders you

yeosang is very careful with his methods. his hands are steady as if he has done this a thousand times already 

and though he comes off as clumsy in the public eye, he is anything but here

his eyes are focused, darting between the electrodes placed on the man’s liver to the readings on the screen

it goes on like this for a while, yet another failed experiment as the liver fails to respond as desired to the electric shock and necrosis takes over

it doesn’t disappoint any of you though

yeosang has a strong vision and no amount of failed experiments is going to stop him 

plus, there’s always something you learn even from failure

you begin to clean up when you notice a broken nail lying on the stretcher

you pick it up with tweezers and inspect it- it must have broken when the man was struggling to break free

yeosang catches you looking at the discoloured nail with curiosity and he hums in question

“hair and fingernails are beautiful ornaments.” you ask, “so why do they seem so baleful when they are removed? 

yeosang stands beside you, pondering

“the answer is simple. they are previews of what is to come. of death.”

you look at him to find his eyes twinkling with the knowing glint of someone who’s seen it all

after you both finish recording the data of tonight’s session, yeosang is back to being the cute and clumsy person that you absolutely adore

the man is craving chicken after today’s hard work so you fulfil his wish and take him to his favourite place

you both sit across each other, drinking beer and savouring the juicy meat while talking about casual stuff- just an assistant and her boss

just two friends who met by chance and felt an instant pull towards each other

just two lovers, fated to be together and find solace in each other’s company

as if the stars have aligned for you yet again, a familiar face walks in and sits on the table next to you

you meet yeosang’s eyes and you both stifle a smile

it’s one of the potential test subjects you’ve had in your file, due for observation

and what better observation than to sit next to them in a casual setting and eavesdrop naturally?

yeosang raises his beer glass in toast and you share a knowing smile, raising your own glass in toast 

just two partners in crime. that’s who you are

The Mad Scientist and his Accomplice

San

Executioner

choi san works hard during the day

he goes to the school and makes sure his students are in top shape

as their p.e. teacher and coach, he has every student’s physical status on his fingertips

he knows their strengths and their weaknesses. he also knows their desires

so if a student is not a good runner but wants to run better, he would never tell them to give up, he would personally coach them and make sure they know that their body is not the limit

they can be a good runner, a good player, a good swimmer- anything

as long as they are steadfast, they can conquer the world

so choi san is loved and respected by the students, known to be a very caring teacher

but choi san works harder at night. no one needs to know that

certainly not his colleagues who always go about how hardworking a teacher he is

when he is free from the school, he goes to his home and changes before driving to his friend’s place- a warehouse where a few of you hang out

someone programmes, another composes, another works out

just an innocent hideout that you’re all using even in your early thirties

except that you also huddle around to read the new request you receive on your app

“i am a twenty-one year old female. two years ago, the man who dated my older sister killed her, but due to lack of evidence, he did not receive the jail time he deserves. he claims that he is innocent, but ever since he got out, he’s been bothering me because he had to serve his short sentence anyway. he is threatening to kill my family and then me if i go to the cops. i am scared to leave the house because he is stalking me and i can always see him wherever i go. please help me. i won’t go to the cops anyway- they didn’t do anything then, and they will not do anything now.”

san is contemplating if he should accept this request

you look at wooyoung who is immediately weighing the pros and the cons

you look back at san who is still deep in thought and you gently rest your hand on his thigh, bringing him out of his head

“i’ll take it,” he mutters. “accept the request, y/n.”

you nod and go back to the computer to accept the request

you have a phone call conversation with the client where you set up a meeting

it’s you and wooyoung who go to meet with the respective parties. san works in the shadows

the next night, san finds you deep in thought outside, leaning against the worn out wall of the warehouse

he joins you, hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans

“i know what you’re thinking,” san begins, glancing at you. “you’ve been awfully quiet since the meeting.”

you shrug in defeat. “i know i can’t change your mind.”

“it’s not going to be the same,” san refers back to the one time you all took a request from a 19 year old girl who was being bullied by her seniors

it got to a dangerous point and had you been a little late, you might have lost the girl

san lost his temper that time, though

and while he couldn’t physically harm the kids who were bullying the girl, he had them locked in a room for one night while he educated them

and funnily enough, san was scarier that night

scarier than every other time he actually wields a weapon

you asked him that night if there were any just people left in this world full of evil

“all people are evil. to believe that you are just, you must believe that someone else is more evil than you”

was his response. safe to say, the girl was living her best life now, but you saw a new side of san that night

a side you had never seen all your life, and that was saying something since you were childhood friends

“we won’t let it get to that point,” san assured, outstretching your hand and you pouted before taking it

he caressed your knuckles, his voice assertive. “i will take care of it. properly. i always do.”

“do you think i only worry about things going wrong?” you finally say out loud, the words that you want to say to him every time he goes out in the field 

san, despite himself, breaks into a smile that would seem so out of character to anyone who has not known him for long

“you can’t smile your way out of this,” you sulk further, snatching your hand away and folding your arms

“baby,” san begins, trying to take your hand again but you’re not having any of it

“i’m worried you’ll get hurt. i’m worried about the pain you’re willing to go through so you can lessen the pain of others.”

san stops teasing then, mimicking your position as he leans against the wall next to you

there is a thick silence surrounding you and you wonder what wooyoung is doing inside- is he napping?

“it’s something i have to do. something only i can do. you know that, right?”

“i know,” you say, almost a whisper. “and that’s what makes this more frustrating.”

because it was originally your idea

on a summer night when you were all about to graduate, a tragedy happened in your town

a man went on a spree, killing and wounding multiple women and children for weeks

you, who knew one of the victims personally, were shocked by the act and disgusted at how lazy the police were being

it turned out that the assailant was a high-profile businessman and the police were trying to cover the case up as per the orders of their superiors

the three of you were hanging out in the warehouse, each burdened by their own train of thoughts, until you finally said it out loud

“what if we were some sort of a private service where we help the victims? especially when the police can’t?”

it was wooyoung who agreed first, and san who disagreed

it took him some convincing to finally agree, and you set rules

you were not going to kill anyone- only maim

if it’s a serial killer, you maim their hands so they can never hold a weapon again

if it’s a bully, you maim their mouth so they think before they speak

the three of you are a team, but san is the executioner

wooyoung is his eyes and feet, and you are the brains

so it is ironic how worried you are about san now, when you gave him this role

“i know that i can get hurt,” san begins, taking a deep breath. “but there is no pain as long as i keep my eyes on the balance scale.”

this time, when he outstretches his hand, you take it. he plants a sweet kiss on your knuckles

“don’t worry about me, hmm?” he tugs you closer so you can rest your head against his firm chest as he embraces you. “i can’t focus when you’re so worried.”

“i can’t help it,” you tell him. “you’ll just have to get used to it.”

san lifts your face with his thumb below your chin, his brows furrowed with concentration and worry as he looks at you

his eyes are sharp as he scans you so you smile

immediately, his body relaxes and the corners of his lips curl in a smile as he pecks your lips- once, twice

and it is about to turn into a deeper kiss when wooyoung claps loudly to get your attention

“alright, lovebirds. get inside. we have a heads-up.”

you scowl at wooyoung who smirks in response but you both immediately join the youngest inside

your client has texted to let you know that she’s about to go out so you can stalk her stalker

you and wooyoung take your equipment to the van and san prepares himself 

he’ll be observing tonight, but he is prepared in case the stalker catches on

just like that, you observe the stalker for a few days, assuring your client that she is safe

you plan a trap to lure the stalker to an abandoned area where san will have a little chat with the stalker 

and when the day comes, all your client has to do is threaten to call the cops on him

he comes after her and that is when san knocks him out with a punch

the stalker finds himself tied to a chair in an empty room when he opens his eyes

there is the stale smell of something resembling death in the room, and that makes the man resist 

from the darkness, san emerges, clad in all black, his face covered with a mask

and his favourite weapon, the dagger, in his hand

you and wooyoung are watching from the camera embedded on his coat

you can see the glint of the dagger as he twists it dramatically in his hand

san circles around the man once as if to gauge the room 

even through the camera, you can tell how thick the air must be feeling

san meets eyes with the man and removes the tape over his mouth, wincing when the man screams his lungs out in hopes that help would come

there is no help, not for miles

“who are you?” the stalker spits on the ground near san’s feet 

san only shuts his eyes in mild annoyance. he is not easily riled up

“you have been found guilty of the crime of stalking. tell me… what should be your sentence?”

the man pales, fresh beads of sweat trickling down his forehead 

“it will be better if you admit to your wrongdoings and give me a fair number. you don’t want to leave it in my hands.”

“what do you mean sentence?” the stalker starts struggling fiercely, almost falling off the chair. “i have already served!”

san grins under the mask, closing in like a cat and stomping on his foot, making the man let out a guttural groan of pain

he leans in to whisper in his ear

“but… that was for murder. and unfortunately, i am not charging you for murder tonight. otherwise… you would not have walked out alive.”

the man gulps loudly, meeting eyes with who has to be the person he has heard so much about in prison

most of the people in prison feared this man- the judge, they called him

the man was the judge, jury and executioner for criminals, feared more than the cops or actual prosecutors

“surely… you’re not him, are you?”

you wince at the fear in the stalker’s voice and meet wooyoung’s eyes

san never confirms if he is that. he simply finishes the job right there

the stalker’s screams are heard for quite a distance, even outside your earpieces

you shut your eyes momentarily and when you open, you can see the blood oozing out of the man’s left leg

san is wiping the dagger with the man’s own jacket as he tells him that he will never be able to stalk people again

the man screams and screams, waiting for something more, but nothing else comes

san’s job is done

he tosses a broken piece of glass near the chair for the man to free himself if he wishes to

when san comes back to the van, the air is sombre, just like after every finished request

wooyoung pats his shoulder in acknowledgement and mutters a joke in an attempt to lighten the mood, which works

“they still call you the judge, huh?” wooyoung teases as he drives

“judge, jury, executioner. how scary, choi san.”

san raises a brow at your comment- he can tell what you’re referring to

you’re referring to the first time when he came back covered in blood

and the first time he realised that no matter what he did, you would never be scared of him

and that you and wooyoung would always have his back and guide him

“i think i’m only the executioner. you both are the judge and jury.”

“makes sense,” wooyoung agrees. “but the world does not need to know that.”

Judge, Jury and Executioner

Mingi

The Overseer

“the future, pitch black, upside down”

mingi dips his brush into the onyx ink, finishing writing the words on the big canvas

the canvas that is a splash of colours- red for the blood on his hands. white for the innocence he lost too soon. blue for all those nights he spent trapped with only the moon as his friend

and finally, black for the future. the future is the only uncertainty in his life

despite being a leader of a notorious gang, he can never be certain about his future. there are always people after his life

he cannot trust anyone- not one soul-

“sir,” a voice interrupts and he knows who it is instantly

even if he did not hear your voice, he knows you are the only person who would dare interrupt him in the middle of his private time-

“tea, sir. you’ve been cooped up in here for too long,” you say, placing the mug on the table

-for something as meagre as tea

mingi spares a glance in your direction, noticing how you are still dressed in your usual all-black fit

which means you have not gone to sleep yet, even though it’s well past midnight

“and what are you doing up so late?” he asks as he picks up the cup and sips it, finding it exactly to his liking. a flavour only you can nail

“watching you paint,” you confess without hesitation

because in this place, in this room, between the two of you, there may be truths hidden, but there are no secrets

mingi is amused to hear that though he does his best to hide it

“and what do you think of the painting?” he asks, allowing you to take a closer look

you smile at his permission to inspect his art and you inch closer to the painting, now standing beside your boss

you read the words on it in a whisper and cock your head in thought

“isn’t this too dark, even for you?” you question 

mingi shakes his head in amusement and looks down. only you could have made this observation, having been at his side for a solid seven years now

where others would say that his paintings were too ‘colourful’ considering the kind of person he is, you still find them too dark and void of life

you’d know better, because you know mingi inside out

he first found you when he was a street thug in the process of becoming something big

all he had was his raw strength, a strategic brain, a few rusty weapons and some loyal friends

he went on to fight gang after gang, always emerging victorious and merging the losing team with a good deal- it’s how he earned respect around and gained a reputation

every other gang knew not to stand against him unless they wanted to risk losing everything they had

when he first opened his office in the darkest part of the town, he found you purely by chance

you were nearing the end of your teens- a rebellious little girl who cut ties from her family and ran away from home

at that time, you had multiple part-time jobs trying to make ends meet, hoping to find a place to live

and one fateful night, you found yourself in front of a building to deliver chicken, peering up at the light coming from the 4th floor- this must be it 

although… you weren’t sure if the loud sounds coming from the floor were just men having a good time or if something had gone really, really wrong

men will be men, you thought, wanting to get the delivery done with so you could move on

only when you reached the 4th floor, you spotted men lying on the ground and clutching their limbs, blood all around

while every sane part of your brain screamed at you to pretend you saw nothing and go back, you recalled how when you received the order, they promised a big tip to the rider

you could not miss that, could you? you had to find a place to live, and you needed every penny

so you started with the men who seemed to be unconscious. you took any cash they had, being careful to hide your face in the hoodie

you moved to the office, hearing a crashing sound and flinching

you made quick work of grabbing more cash from the thugs- they had to be thugs

they all had guns, for fuck’s sake

you went into one of the neater rooms and placed the bags of fried chicken there

and you froze when a burly man made his way inside, wiping blood from the edge of his mouth

“ah… you must be song’s girl, eh?” he snickered, scanning you up and down

“i- i’m delivering chicken,” you pointed at the table. “i’ll be on my way then-”

“not so quick,” his gaze darkened 

instinctively, you grabbed the nearest object, which so happened to be a mug and chucked it at the man, successfully hitting his head

he clutched his head in pain and you made a dash outside, bumping into another man

the tall man seemed mostly unscathed save for a bruise on his cheek

he held your wrists to steady you and his eyes darted in the man’s direction who was clutching his head no more

“oi, song!” the burly man called. “teach your girl some manners, will you?”

the man called song pushed you to the side and a gunfight ensued

you took shelter behind a shelf, observing how the taller man successfully shot his every target

when he thought he was done- and was out of bullets, he looked in your direction and tsked loudly

you were about to come out of the shadows when you noticed one of the supposedly unconscious men take aim of song’s head

your eyes widened and almost instinctively, you grabbed a heavy metal object from the shelf and rushed to the man who was targeting your saviour

to say that mingi was surprised to see a young girl save him from his enemy by nearly crushing the man’s skull?

he knew you were something special right away

you both stared at each other for a long time before he told you to go back to his office, lock the door and not come out until he comes back

he was done sooner than you thought, and while his men cleaned his mess, he found you in his room, sitting rather calmly

“so you’re the delivery girl,” he narrowed his eyes

“i hope the chicken is still warm,” you responded. “if you can just pay me so i can leave-”

“why did you do that earlier?” he asked, voice low and rough that sent shivers up your spine

“i don’t know,” you answered truthfully

mingi paid you more than extra that night and told you to come next time they place an order 

the next time would turn out to be the last time you would ever work a part-time job

mingi offered you a place in his gang, and you took it

you are still not sure what your position in this gang is though- they smuggle drugs but keep you away from the work, so what are you doing here?

personal assistant? chef? manager? all of these? 

sometimes, you are accompanying wooyoung in the field- the gang now has an official base and a few legal businesses

sometimes, you stay in the kitchen with seonghwa and wooyoung to cook

other times, you sit with yunho and hongjoong to plan and offer your opinion on their strategic takes

you aren’t sure if you are qualified for that- you probably aren’t

somehow, though, the gang members respect you for whoever you are

you are the light in their dark life, they joke. you are someone’s friend now, sibling to some, secretkeeper for others

but you still aren’t sure what you are to mingi

whenever you ask him why he took you in, mingi always responds with something different

“you were clever grabbing all that money from our enemies”

“you saved me- though i must say i could have handled it”

“you looked like a lost cat”

“you didn’t report us”- excuses, all of them

truth be told, mingi has no idea what you are to him either

he has a certain fondness for you that he has for no one else. of course, it didn’t happen instantly

he took you in because he realised you had a strategic mind and he could really use that

he insisted the office needed a ‘feminine touch’ even though it came in the form of a cranky teen who wouldn’t stop asking questions

but somehow, the two of you formed an unbreakable bond

he finds solace just being with you in one room, even in complete silence

he loves to hear you talk, even though you mostly question his morals

because he is not a good person, you found out

song mingi is not conventionally good. he is a man of principles, but he does not have the best morals

despite all that, you learned a lot from him. the world is a harsh place, and only he can protect you 

he learned a lot from you too. the world is a harsh place, and only you are his safe space

when at times things get stressful, he comes to seek you. he finds you in the shared residence and sits with you

if he is feeling down, you will have him lay his head in your lap. you will caress his head and let him be

if he wants to talk, he will. otherwise, he will watch you for a long time until he falls asleep, unguarded

when he gets tired, he will seek your arms. all he has to do is show up and you will know what to do

you will drop whatever you are doing and spread your arms

it is his home at this point. that’s how things are like

are you in a relationship? you don’t know

all you know is that song mingi is the most important person in your life

it doesn’t matter if he lives life the way he does

it doesn’t affect you anymore- the blood on his hands or the chaos in his mind

it doesn’t bother you because you know his heart, and that is all that matters

so standing in his private space right next to him, inspecting his painting with a critical eye, you tell him that the painting is not him

he tells you to pick a colour and you reach out for a box, making him chuckle

“really?” he asks

“the future may seem black, but…” you begin. “it doesn’t feel so dark when i’m with you.”

mingi takes a deep breath at your words. you always get him like this, and he is not sure if he can restrain himself anymore

your heart aches when you see him curl his fists, a sign that he is holding back some words or an action

“tell me what you’re thinking,” you request, though it registers like a command in the gang leader’s brain

“i’m thinking that i never should have given you this life.”

you shake your head at that- how many times has he voiced out that he wished you had lived a better, normal life, away from the clutches of the underworld?

“no, you’re thinking something else too,” you comment

“i’m thinking that i want you to stay here, with me, forever,” he responds

you nod in approval. “i’m right here. i’m not going anywhere.”

“you could get hurt,” mingi says, taking a step closer and closing the gap between your bodies

“i am a big girl now, mingi,” you laugh, wrapping your arms around his waist and hearing his erratic heartbeat

his arms are still by his sides for a moment before he embraces you

“i’m old now, in fact. how much longer will you keep me waiting?”

mingi grows stiff at your question. so you know

of course you do

mingi cups your face and locks eyes with you

“i won’t break,” you promise

“i know,” he smiles, pecking your forehead. “i’m afraid you will break me.”

your lips curl in a smile and he rests his forehead against yours

“are you sure about your choice?”

“yes,” you breathe. “i want you. i’m yours.”

mingi draws back

“i meant your choice of colour,” he tilts his head in the direction of the painting and the box of paint you picked for him

“of course you did,” you laugh at his attempt to distract you

mingi leans in to close the distance between your lips

it is soft and unrushed. you both have waited for the right moment, the right time for years and everything feels absolutely right at this moment 

you go first, asking him to join you in your bedroom and he agrees

he assesses the canvas once again

as a finishing touch, he sprays a final splash of yellow- the colour you picked for him

yellow for hope, for all the light in his dark world

The Overseer and his Shelter

Wooyoung

The Maniac

it has always been a cat and mouse game with you and wooyoung

you chase after each other, running in circles with no start or end

it’s almost as if you both have sworn to keep your eyes glued on each other, watching every move, anticipating what is next

someone’s lips curls up in a failed attempt to restrain a smile- a smile that drips with mischief and mockery

someone else’s eyes glint with threat and promise that this is not over, their fists curled in anger

you chase after each other like cat and mouse

only…you’re not sure who is the cat and who is the mouse

sometimes, it is you chasing after wooyoung

jung wooyoung, the son of one of the richest businessmen in town

a privileged piece of shit who is not right in the mind

a crazy bastard who has made it his life’s mission to not only drive you to the edge of the cliff but to push you and laugh in victory as you fall

he takes advantage of you being a criminal investigator 

some people jest that they can’t tell if wooyoung means to ruin your career or lead you to your promotion

with the amount of times wooyoung has gotten himself in trouble (and gotten away with it) he keeps your desk full of cases that you spend most nights investigating

while he keeps your hands full, what frustrates you to no end is that he almost always gets away with his crimes only because of his social standing and his connections

he gets away with petty crimes. he gets away with bloody fights that could very well have him spend one night in the station, cuffed 

he gets away with major crimes such as money laundering and tax evasion

no matter how much you try to investigate, you cannot

there are the warnings of your superiors who threaten to fire you because this is not your worry

and even if you do start to investigate, wooyoung’s team is quick to wipe any evidence of said crimes

you’re pretty sure that at this point, he might be hiding a body somewhere in his house

you wouldn’t be surprised. man once set his enemy’s mansion on fire

to make things worse, he got away with it- even when he was the only one grinning and playing with a lighter on his way out 

while the others scrambled like mice, he sauntered in style

he gets away with anything

you reputation at the station is already in shambles because of it

they call you his shadow at this point, considering how you are always following him

the truth is, you just want to wipe the shitty grin off his face for once

you want him to suffer defeat when you finally put him behind bars

you want him to chase after you like you chase after him

you might come off as delusional, but you’re half convinced that whatever wooyoung does is on purpose at this point- to get your attention

it wasn’t always like this, you and wooyoung

it started with a simple fight that broke out at a party where all the high-profile people were

someone was stupid enough to call the police- but you were more stupid because you went ahead and handcuffed wooyoung

you told him that you couldn’t waste this opportunity because you were investigating another case related to his father’s company anyway

and he? he laughed out loud like a maniac

you soon learned why, going home with the sound of your superiors scolding you still ringing in your ears

here you are, a few years and a lot of chasing each other later

except… you get something out of the chasing now

all he has to do is corner you. all he has to do is rile you up as he tells you why you lost this game yet again

with his burning gaze and honey voice, he pins you to the spot

with his fingers tracing the curves of your face, he tells you how much he loves you chasing after him 

as if he’s all that you ever think about. he might be right

“don’t you think we’re meant for each other?” wooyoung questions almost innocently, licking his lips subconsciously as he trails his finger down the curve of your neck until he reaches the first button of your shirt

“don’t think too highly of yourself, wooyoung,” you respond, your chest rising and falling in controlled breaths

you can not let him know the effect he has on you

however, wooyoung doesn’t need any sort of confirmation

you can try to keep your gaze steel all you want. you can attempt to sound sure and fake indifference, but the fact is that wooyoung knows

all he has to do is take another step forward and fill the gap between you two

his warm breath caresses your face and you gulp despite yourself

he watches you intently and squeezes your neck just a bit, causing you to part your lips for air and then he brushes the tip of his nose against yours

his other hand is slowly but surely unbuckling the belt of your pants and taking it off

you can only thank god in an ashamed relief that you’re in a private space- the space being one of the empty rooms in a random building on a random street because you had been tailing wooyoung

(at least the door is locked)

wooyoung brushes his lips against yours as your pants fall on the ground and pool on your feet

the sound that makes has heat rushing to your face- this should not be happening

you are a fucking detective and wooyoung is your target

but you can’t complain when his fingertips dance along your hip bones

all he has to do is swipe his fingers up your panties

upon finding them soaked (as usual), he smirks and you smack his chest

he catches your fist in his hand, though

“all for me?” he asks

in a matter of seconds, your lips are upon each other, tongues in each other’s mouth as you wrap your legs around him

he picks you up effortlessly and places you on a very dusty table

he gets rid of his clothes all the while kissing you expertly, aiming to please you, dominate you

he sucks on your lips, your neck, anywhere he can get his mouth on

and when he finally takes off all your garments, he has more places he can get his mouth on

“admit it, detective,” he breathes against your clit. “you’re obsessed with me.”

“get to work before i cuff you and fuck your brains out, wooyoung.”

wooyoung’s laugh echoes in the room as he recalls that night- a night he is sure he can never forget

“does that mean i get to experience that again if i stop now?”

you are moments away from your high- how dare he ask if he can stop?

he gets the hint and gets to work, and he makes sure he does a good job, licking and sucking at your clit until you’re screaming

for bonus points, he dives his cock inside right after and stays still as he starts to kiss you eagerly

this time, you’re the one who loses to him and lets him take control

you let him thrust into you. you let him praise you and humiliate you to no end

truth be told, you’re addicted to him. there is no going back from here

wooyoung knows how to use his tongue and he whispers sweet nothings

he is also surprisingly good at aftercare, even though you don’t accept it from him

well, you try not to, but he is insistent

he takes you home and he invites himself in

you go to the shower and he goes to your room to admire the effort you put into bringing him down

loads of files and a board full of his ‘accomplishments’ staring back at him- nothing he doesn’t know

“you think your daddy will help you if i start to investigate the slush fund you have?”

“which one?” is his response, and he grins widely as you gape at him

he can practically see the gears in your head turning and he adores that

it is a cat and mouse game after all. he must give you something so you keep coming after him

(and you must give him something so he keeps finding you too)

while you’re still processing what he just implied, your phone rings

you flinch when you pick it up, getting an earful from your team leader once again, because where were you?

you were supposed to tail wooyoung to confirm that he is meeting up with a notorious gang member who does his dirty work

the case you’re team is on these days is targeting the gang, and yet again… wooyoung is involved

so what the hell were you doing, your superior asks

“jung wooyoung did not meet up with the gang leader,” you say into the phone, your eyes fixed on wooyoung 

wooyoung has a shit-eating grin plastered on his face

“and how do you know that? i thought you lost the tail-”

“yes, i did lose the tail,” you bite your lips in thought- you can’t tell your team leader that wooyoung has a strong alibi this time-

but wooyoung goes ahead and snatches your phone from you

“detective lee,” wooyoung greets and you mutter a string of curses under your breath

you watch wooyoung charm his way through the matter

telling the detective that he was in a tight spot because of the gang they are investigating

and how it is a shame that a ‘civilised’ person such as himself is being linked to thugs

he tells him that he almost got attacked but you saved him, and you hid him in an abandoned building, being wise enough not to blow your cover 

you can’t tell how he does it, but by the end of the call, your team leader is fully convinced that you did a good job today and he even praises you when you take the phone back

when you end the call, you glare at wooyoung

“what?” he shrugs. “i needed an alibi.”

“is that why you took me to the building to fuck me? because you needed an alibi?”

wooyoung watches you with mild curiosity

“did you think it meant something else?” he asks

it would have hurt if he really meant it, but that’s the thing

you both know he doesn’t mean what he says, especially about whatever is going on between you two

he has risked his position and even his life far too many times just to get you alone and fuck you

so you only smile and shake your head in response before telling him to fuck off and get out of your sight

(and he does. not before a second round)

when he leaves, you watch his car disappear from the window before going to the board and updating everything you got out of him tonight

everything about his business and his crimes. everything to make your case on him stronger

it’s truly a wonder how much you can get out of fucking someone right and you’re positive you can see the end of this case now

though… you’re not sure if you will ever take this to court. but that’s something you’ll worry about later

for now, you will follow him like a cat follows a mouse

and he will chase after you like a cat chases after a mouse

The Maniac and his Shadow

Jongho

The Tyrant

it is always a little too cold in the building for your liking

the building that is choi enterprises, located at the heart of the city, standing tall with numerous floors, laden in luxury

it is a workplace and home to some of the people in this city and a symbol of something untouchable to the others

as you enter the building, accompanied by your secretaries and a guard, you instantly feel the temperature drop despite the warm tones of the interior

the employees that greet you may have smiles on their faces but it’s all an act. you can tell, because you know what a genuine smile looks like

choi enterprises somehow always manages to keep the most calculating people to themselves. it might be why the company has flourished so much in such a short period of time

“to the private elevators, miss,” a man says and you recognise him as one of the ceo’s personal staff

you follow him and tug your jacket closer, wishing you had worn it instead of draping it over your shoulders

you catch your reflection on the golden glossy door of the elevator and straighten, lifting your chin up

you will not be pushed into submission, you repeat for the umpteenth time

however, things are not in your favour this time

in this never ending game of business rivalry, you and choi jongho have never seen eye to eye. you always stand in opposition, defensive or offensive

sometimes, you manage to outsmart him while making a new business deal or scoring a new project. other times, he is a few steps ahead and wins the game

except when you lose, somehow, the loss is much greater and a bit personal

your company always suffers more when you lose, which is why this little meeting you are going to have with jongho is no less than a negotiation- a war, if you must

sometimes, you wonder if jongho has a personal grudge against you. these meaningless battles start to seem like an excuse to see you

if not, then why is jongho looking like he just won the lottery at the sight of you?

“as beautiful as ever,” he says, scanning your figure slowly

you don’t move an inch, pretending those words don’t affect you

the secretaries move to another room, leaving you and jongho alone

jongho gets up from his chair and moves to the middle of the room, motioning you to take a seat

you watch as he pours a drink for you, his muscles flexing through the coat he’s wearing 

you take the drink- you need something to calm your nerves

“i suppose the odds are not in your favour, considering you found your way back here”

an allusion to the time he said that you were meant to find your way back here again and again, that you were just a lost kitten and he was your master, controlling you

at that time, you thought he meant to spite you, but time after time, he proved himself right

you always find your way here, always as the opposition. this time, though… you won’t bend

“if the odds are in your favour,” you begin experimentally, downing the drink in one gulp and then pouring one for jongho. “would you like me to join hands with you?”

now this is new- jongho’s eyes slightly widen at your remark

“ah… how the tables have turned,” jongho started to chuckle lowly

you let him be for a moment, scoffing internally

jongho had earned the right title over the years since he stepped up as ceo of his father’s company

a monster of capitalism

known to be the owner of many questionable businesses, borderline illegal, evading taxes and having slush funds unashamedly, heavily involved in money laundering- the list goes on and on

a true financial villain- a true monster, yet… being able to get away with everything, unscathed. that’s who jongho is

he has bribed every soul who would dare go against him. and those who do not take the bribe? he makes sure they kneel

and you… you’re pretty close to being his next target- he did say you would look pretty on your knees for him

“is business not going well?” he asks, faking innocence. he knows

you are a rival company- seo enterprises. everything that jongho’s company is, but… more legal

your forefathers were once partners, and they created their independent companies without a hint of rivalry

they were the definition of true brothers (and partners in crime)

the difference between the values of your company came when you and jongho stepped up as ceo

you had made it your life’s mission for your company to earn a good reputation and moral image, while jongho seemed to have made it his life’s mission to simply conquer the world, no matter what or who the stepping stone is

“business is well,” you narrow your eyes at him. “it’s about the land in ilsan.”

jongho doesn’t seem surprised to hear that. it is always like this- he knows what moves you will make

“ah, the one where we are about to construct a gallery?” jongho asks

“we?” you repeat. “that land is a shared property. why have you not consulted us before going ahead and signing the documents? how could you begin this project without us-”

“the other option is selling it to the government because of the redevelopment project,” jongho leans forward, “and you know how much i despise the government getting their grubby hands on what’s mine”

you know he is right, and he knows that you are not here to argue about why he started this project without telling you

jongho relaxes back, considering all his options before deciding to strike. “you’re worried about your involvement in that project, is that right?”

“well,” you mirror his position, “i would like to keep my reputation clean unlike yours.”

he chuckles at that, proud of his deeds. “yeah, well, that’s going to be hard, sweetheart. that gallery is going to be an optimum location for storing money.”

you know what he means. the gallery is going to display priceless pieces of arts. those pieces are but a means of illegal transactions for the elites

you swallow your anger, taking a deep breath. “i’d like to have my shares back, then. before construction starts.”

“uh…” jongho gets up, fixing his clothes. “you’re going to have to convince me for that.”

“please,” you scoff, but he only shakes his head, ignoring that because he knows this ‘please’ was wholly sarcastic

“try harder,” he smiles mockingly before turning his back to you and moving to the window, putting his hands in the pockets of his pants and staring down at the city

a tyrant- that’s who he is

he expects to get the maximum output out of anything he set his eyes on, no matter the cost- money or lives

you join him by the window, pointing at a few spots. “that’s where people held protests against your company last week,” you tell him. “apparently, you have been exploiting labourers too.”

“that’s what they think,” he spits. “i gave them more than they deserve. they just never learn to accept. they never get pleased.”

you look at jongho- he sounds like he is saying the truth. he has the art of sounding like a victim at times, thus justifying his actions

“doesn’t all that venom in your heart make you dizzy?”

jongho glances at you, his lips threatening to curl into a smile at your words

“doesn’t it get tiring, pretending to be moral?” jongho asks, trying to read your guarded eyes 

“there’s no pretending. i never claimed that i was full of morals, mr. choi,” you sigh. “i just wish for my business to have a legal foundation.”

“and it will, you don’t have to worry,” he responds, curling a section of your hair that had been resting on your shoulder in his fingers

you don’t flinch at his touch. you’ve known him since the beginning, and nothing he does fazes you anymore- except when he leans closer experimentally, locking eyes with you and trying to read you

“you will get your shares, but you will have to convince me,” he says, voice barely above a whisper

it is a challenge. it is always a challenge with choi jongho

“why are you so obsessed with me?” you laugh this time, swatting his hand away

he joins, and everything almost seems normal for a moment- just two friends with too many inside jokes, except… it only lasts for a moment

“how can i convince you?” you ask, sombre

“you know what i want from you, y/n,” he replies in a similar tone

he wants a true partnership, except his idea of a partnership is where you bend to his will (and so is yours)

“don’t turn this into a legal battle, jongho,” you warn, “i would hate to summon you to court.”

“don’t turn this into a petty rivalry,” he counters, “you will benefit from this project. you reputation won’t be harmed.”

“i don’t want my name next to yours,” you tell him in all honesty and you think you see hurt flash in his eyes

“that is not possible,” jongho declares. “our companies are not mentioned without each other. we are fated like that, you and i.”

that is true. no one dares to touch the two of you, so you two have always been alone

there is no one you both can trust. there is no one next to you 

except the two of you are always together, wherever you go, be it business parties, political dinners, or high-profile events

you can only trust each other, because despite knowing everything about each other’s business, despite being at war with each other

you are always honest with each other- honest about your intentions and purpose

there is no one next to you because you two are always together, leaving no space for someone else

do you hate that? not really. does he hate that? he’s not sure

“you can buy my shares from me,” you start, “or you can shift them elsewhere. i can handle whatever loss comes with that.”

“or… you can let it be and use the revenue for something ‘moral’,” he taunts and silence envelopes the room

“no matter how much you try to maintain a clean image,” he starts, gentler this time, “you cannot undo the damage your forefathers have done to your company, y/n. seo enterprises will always be known as the company that exploited the weak to get to the top.”

you don’t wince at that, though your heart aches to hear that

“just like your company. except you are continuing in their footsteps,” you say

jongho nods, watching how your shoulders are curling inwards

“you are not weak, y/n, stand straight,” he almost scolds, taking you by surprise 

you find yourself straightening at his words, confused to see how conflicted he looks

“you are the strongest person i know,” he tells you, and he means it. “i just don’t get why you are atoning for their sins.”

“i don’t know either,” you smile in defeat. “i just am.”

“well, if you ever get tired,” he gently places his hands over your shoulders, “i am here for you. you can lean on me.”

you lock eyes with him, scanning his face. his smile seems genuine

the way he kisses your forehead makes your heart melt

when he embraces you, you lean on him physically

and you almost give in, except…

“i can lean on you, huh?” you say, soaking in the warmth of his body, taking as much as you can before you continue 

“so you can end my career, merge our companies and crown yourself king?”

you look up at him, finding him smirking

just like you thought

“not a chance, choi jongho.”

“how can you see right through me every time, y/n?” he laughs loudly as you smack his chest and move towards the sofa to grab your purse

“i’m the only person who knows who you are,” you tell him. “you can own the world, but you will never own me.”

his eyes glint almost dangerously

“challenge accepted,” he says

you mockingly wave goodbye before exiting the room

choi jongho never changes, and neither do you

but somehow… it gets more addicting and electrifying to be with him, to compete with him and to stand with him

even though he is a tyrant, and you are everything that he is not

The Tyrant and His Defiant Ally

[sugurouge]

— yes, my lady : sebastian michaelis x f!reader

content warnings! reader is a descendant of the phantomhive family, power imbalance (master/servant) but also (human/demon), somewhat monsterfucking if you squint (i wanted to make use of his ‘true form’ a little), smut, size difference, manhandling, praise, pet names (my lady, darling, dear), orgasm control, sacrilege, a tiny bit of blood, topics of loneliness

summary: after another tiresome day out in the world, you are greeted with your recent mistake—sebastian. a hand-me-down from your ancestors that you summoned by chance and who now apparently has a contract with you. yet this modern world, working women, independence, and your awfully bratty attitude are challenges that are entirely new to him. however, he did swear to serve you. so, allow him to take care of his tired "mistress"

wordcount: 5k | my kinktober masterlist

It’s not every day that your job becomes stressful enough to fully tire you out. But today, today was even more draining than you had anticipated. Deep red eyes watch your tired form from across the hallway, raking over your figure as the owner remains quiet. Sebastian hasn't quite understood the fulfillment behind humans working themselves to the bone, nor the desire for young women to eagerly venture out to conquer “corporate,” as you once called it.

Yet, understanding or not, he is sworn to serve you and look after you. You are in his care until the contract is completed.

For this, he steps forward, his touch as sultry and gentle as his voice that welcomes you home. “My Lady,” the demon begins, as strength returns to your figure upon the stabilising hold of his hands on the small of your back while you remove your heels. You meet his smile with a glare from your pretty eyes, still wary of your newly added decor.

“I can handle myself just fine, Sebastian.” Yes, you’re a feisty one. Sebastian has been well aware of that fact since the moment you met. You dislike men staring at you in the street, loathe the forced small talk with them at work, or having to humour one of them when all you want is to be in the safety and comfort of your home. The once safe haven you now share with some sort of butler, or so he proclaimed. Never would you have expected such an outcome from your family’s antiques.

But here you are, the independent woman from before, now with a handsome devil at your beck and call. “You appear particularly exhausted tonight. Why not let me take care of you and help you to a restful night?” Sebastian proposes with gentle calmness to your vervour as his hands return to rest behind his back.

He irritates you. His act of concern for you when all he truly cares for is your soul. The motive is clear, yet he play-pretends to be something you cannot wrap your head around. “And what could you do for me?” you challenge in return, crossing your arms in front of your chest as the tip of your nose lifts a little higher to meet Sebastian’s gaze. “Anything you wish,” replies the butler, without a hint of malice in his words. “I would propose running a hot bath, brewing a warm cup of tea, and—” he pauses, clearly having caught himself with an idea you would despise.

The proposal sounds pleasing, almost exactly what you would do if you weren’t feeling too lazy to run a bath for yourself. But he doesn't need to know that. Your expression remains unfaltering, almost challenging. “And what? Speak, Sebastian.” The quirk of your brow ticks Sebastian off in just the right way, your confidence and demand a challenge he secretly enjoys.

The distance between your bodies grows smaller, and a gloved hand tips your chin up as red hues draw near. “A massage for your exhausted figure, my Lady.” He drawls the title, a pinch of condescension hidden in his words. You can’t resist the idea of standing on your toes, leaning further into his space to see him shrink away as your lips almost brush Sebastian’s while you speak: “Carry me, Sebastian.”

Yet, he does not shy away. He feels your pulse quicken, hears your heart drumming a beat of bravery, while your sweet lips could offer a relief he hasn’t felt in millennia. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth upon your demand and, without hesitation, you find yourself in his embrace. Knees and shoulders pressed firmly against his body, Sebastian carries you to your bedroom.

He knows tonight won’t be easy on him. Sebastian is well aware of the mischief you try to conceal, to seem more mature than you actually are. But tonight you appear different; tonight, you bring new challenges to your rendezvous once your head finds its rest on his shoulder. The tease of your breath against his neck, your smaller fingers playing with his necktie as you wet your lips. Nothing good comes from those pretty lips, Sebastian notes.

“Sebastian?” How can you suddenly say his name so softly? He looks down to you, the crimson tinge to his eyes making him appear like a starved hunter under the faint lights of the streetlamps and mood lights in your apartment. “The water is already set and at the perfect temperature for the female body.” Of course, he had heard your footsteps from afar and decided that tonight would be perfect for a bath. He is an expert at planning, at being one step ahead of everyone else. That is, until you continue speaking. A simple command, short and to the point, too alluring: “Undress me.”

You need to try harder if you wish to get a rise from him. For now, you find yourself seated on your bathroom counter with a newly found frown adorning your face. It doesn’t suit you, but it entertains Sebastian. “Your wish is my command,” he speaks an octave lower, honey almost dripping from his words before skilled fingers smooth out the fabric of your blouse. Sebastian’s gaze does not meet yours while he unbuttons it; he stays focused on the task without lusting over your exposed skin.

Suddenly, you wish he would want to devour you. The gloved touch that teases your upper body is not enough, yet so close to the fulfilling feeling of desire that you miss.

The clothing item is pushed off your shoulders before his touch ghosts along your waist. “May I continue?” The question is accompanied by one hand held out to you, palm facing up for you to grasp and rise to your feet. In one swift move, you find yourself staring at your reflection in the mirror as Sebastian spins you around to undo the intricate buttons of your skirt you had struggled with this morning—why must designers place them in such difficult spots?

To nobody’s surprise, they are undone as quickly as your blouse, before your silk dress follows suit and pools around your ankles, leaving you in nothing but a tantalising set of underwear—dark red, almost a perfect match to Sebastian’s eyes. You eyes meet through the mirror and you refuse to shy away. No, like the little vixen that you are, you lean forward just enough to expose yourself further to your demon as you pretend to busy yourself by wiping off your lipstick.

It feels humbling to witness his gaze remain unfaltering; Sebastian continues to look into your eyes rather than the places you want his greed to be. “I will prepare your tea now,” he states as business continues as usual before leaving you alone.

A sigh is all you allow yourself as your shoulders slump. You really tried to seduce him. At the thought, you find a smile tugging at your mouth, the lust to be desired something that has been missing for a while now in your life. You know work, you know how to overwork yourself, and you have no time for flings or meaningless encounters. That was when he entered the picture.

Upon Sebastian’s return, he finds you seated in the bathtub; You’ve made sure to keep your hair out of the water and expose your neck, for hungry eyes to appreciate the shein layer of damp on your skin. The plate beneath the teacup meets the ceramic of your bathtub as your widened—nearly pleading—eyes shoot up to challenge his. If only you had acted a second quicker, you would have caught him staring at your cleavage, barely covered by the water and foam.

“Is there anything else you may need?” Sebastian inquires. He hates to admit it, but tonight seems like a greater challenge than he anticipated. How the simple word “You” could weaken a demon of his calibre is something for future Sebastian to concern himself with. Present Sebastian relishes the desire tugging at his stomach, the way you stare at him so submissively. Until you continue speaking: “Massage me, my butler.”

You turn your back to him as he takes his place behind you on the edge of the bathtub. Would you still be so smug if he grabbed your cheeks between his fingertips? If he forced you to look deep into his eyes while coaxing the cutest sounds past your lips? How can you act this way when at night you hump your pillow and beg for more, something better? Yet in the daylight, you behave like a spoiled princess, and he only adds to that imaginary status of yours. How badly he would love to ruin it. One or two more slip-ups, and he might find a loophole in your contract and commands.

To your dismay, gloved hands meet the skin of your neck. “Take them off, Sebastian. Touch me fully.” Your words bounce off the bathroom tiles, and his reply of “Yes, my lady,” echoes back. Shivers elicit along your neck as his skin touches yours, and the strength behind Sebastian’s touch massages the knots and the sorrow from your shoulders.

The moment is sweet enough to let your eyes fall closed, your head resting against Sebastian’s thigh as you sigh a gentle moan of relief. The sound snaps Sebastian’s attention to your face. With your eyes closed, he allows himself a moment to admire your features. Even a demon can admit that some humans are indeed beautiful. Sometimes, that beauty doesn’t surpass their soul, but in your case, there is something so unique about you that captivates Sebastian’s attention and lust.

You catch him staring as your eyes flutter open, the position you find yourself in so vulnerable, with him leaning above you. “Naughty butler…” you tease, and Sebastian wants to wipe that cheeky smirk right off your face. “If you have so much time to stare at me, you might as well wash my body for me.” The disrespectful teasing, as if he were nothing more than a pet, reminds Sebastian of someone else, someone he couldn’t wait to devour many years ago. But what else could he do but make himself useful for now?

In a swift move, Sebastian shrugs off his jacket and pushes up the sleeves of his buttoned shirt before kneeling beside your bathtub. He appears disinterested again, putting on a perfect mask of nonchalance as he runs the washcloth along your shoulders and arms, warming your figure and letting rose-scented water wash the sorrows away.

Until you’ve had enough of this act. Until you grow overly confident as you lean into his proximity: Your fingers lace around Sebastian’s wrist like a personal handcuff, your eyes locking onto his. “Be more thorough, Sebastian. Wash away the filth.” You go as far as to help him run the cloth over your chest. The drag of his nails against your sensitive skin sends shivers down your spine, and Sebastian watches you attentively, to witness your pupils dilate, the pink tip of your tongue darting out to wet your lips as your noses almost touch. He has never obeyed such a troublesome person before.

You start to bring out the worst in him—something that wants to teach you a lesson, something to remind you how different the roles could be if it weren't for this contract. The washcloth is pushed over your breasts and dips beneath the surface of the water to run along your stomach before being abandoned entirely as Sebastian’s fingers dip into the supple flesh of your thighs. Blunt nails drag along your inner thighs, and he loves to watch the shift in your demeanour; how you grow shy beneath his touch, your stare faltering as he draws dangerously close to your sacred area.

There is no bite to your bark as you cry out his name, your need for him too evident while you try to maintain a pretence. "S-Sebastian!" Finally, you act as your thighs press shut around his hand, panic ever so evident in your pretty eyes he can't stop the devilish smirk from spreading across his features. "My dear, don’t tell me you expect to play with fire and come out unharmed…"

The next moment, your back meets the cold stone as Sebastian races forward, hands placed left and right from your figure on the edge of the bathtub. The impact forces a puff of air to escape your lips as your eyes snap up to meet your butler’s dark pair, searching for a trace of humanity in those pools of crimson. "Behave…" you attempt to regain control, which is met with a chuckle. "I only follow your commands," he challenges as the cloth returns to clean your body. "You wanted me to be thorough, let me be thorough."

However, the lips that crash against the racing pulse in your neck have nothing to do with the command of cleaning your body. Sebastian acts upon his own selfish accord, upon the lust you’ve ignited by teetering too close to the dangerous territories of demonic desires.

And he makes you feel too good as he ravages you, suckling and nipping at your skin until you can't help but moan, your head falling back to offer him more space. You can't even think of a fitting command, the sweet words for him to "Don’t stop, please," a much more natural reaction as his palms cup your breasts, pinching and pulling at your nipples until you whimper ever so prettily.

"Who would have thought you could turn into such a sweet darling?" Sebastian teases with whispered words against the shell of your ear, the hum that follows so deep and low it has your stomach fluttering. Your fingers lace between his dark strands, effectively holding him in place as you return to being face-to-face with Sebastian. Shamelessly, you allow yourself to rake your eyes over his sharp features. You've never wanted anything more than him. But the thought evaporates upon the sharp sensation of nails against your waistline and hips, upon the pair of fingers pushing between your folds before rubbing against your clit.

Oh? How willingly you part your legs now, Sebastian muses.

"Is this thorough enough, my lady?" he mocks as his fingertips press against the opening of your pussy, your eager hole giving way slightly as he pushes past. He knows what he’s doing to you. He sees it in the crease of your brow, feels it as your hips buck against his touch. "More, Sebastian, I need more tonight." Like the greedy thing you are, you take it upon yourself to play with your breasts, yet the silent plea in your eyes tells your butler all you want is for him to take care of you.

“Oh dear,” he whispers gently, but smiles victoriously as your moans tumble from your trembling lips when two of his fingers push inside you. "Do you give yourself to me? Allow me full reign, hm?"

The idea sounds great, perfect, until you manage to flutter your heavy eyes open and see the devious apparition in front of you. Sebastian’s eyes are more slanted, set ablaze, deep pink hues now replacing his usual red, with lust overflowing past his thick lashes as pointed teeth hide behind his full lips. Giving yourself to a demon doesn’t seem like the best idea, but the fingers stimulating your gummy spot have you nodding regardless. How lucky you are that you need to use words under these circumstances.

“Darling, tell me,” Sebastian urges as his thrusts become harsher, uncaring for the water or your comfort as your tits bounce and your walls clamp so promisingly. “N-no, no, Sebastian! Just, ah—” you falter as you try your best to stay present, to keep control over this demon while he fingerfucks you. “Think, speak, quickly, little Lady,” he further pressures you. What he wouldn’t give to do with your body whatever he wants. “Just-, just tonight! Sebastian—” the way you moan his name makes you a sinner itself, it should send you to all seven hells as the echoes ring inside his mind. “Look after me, tonight,” you finally manage to cry out as your walls pull in desperate need. “Make me feel good,” your final demand.

But instead of sweet release, you feel the disappointing emptiness as he retracts his fingers, leaving you a heaving mess in your bathtub—only now do you notice how cold the water has turned. “You can ask more nicely than that, my dear.” There is little consideration to be spared for the length of your bath once a strong arm wraps around your waist. Sebastian wastes no time in having you seated on his lap, your wet form drenching his clothing as he spreads your legs over his thighs and presses you flush against his chest. “I will look after you until the day you die,” he whispers into your ear, and maybe if the words weren’t so true and less intimidating, you could consider them romantic.

You notice that Sebastian’s form has returned to fully human, with almost tender eyes meeting yours this time around, turning your desire mellow and seasoned with sweetness. “Kiss me, please.”

He follows suit as your lips crash together a moment later, his palms stabilising your back in his hold. “More…” you breathe. Your fingers reach out to guide one of his hands on your back, between the valley of your tits, down your stomach, until you ultimately buck your hips against his, seeking further friction in desperate need. He tightens his hold on your body, tugging gently at your frame as he leans forward to suck on your wet skin, leaving marks in his wake. A small grin tugs at his lips as a soft whimper escapes you. “What’s wrong?” The whispered question makes goosebumps spread over your skin as the chill of his breath battles with the warmth of your bathroom.

“Want to be ruined by you.” The words that fall past your lips seal your fate. “Please, make me feel good, Sebastian.” You sound so desperate, only a fool would resist. “Taint me,” you shamelessly sigh against his ear, “Let me feel you.”

“Taint you…” he murmurs, halting his movements momentarily to witness you grow impatient before one of his arms holds a firm grip around your waist, restricting your movements as you’re now fully pressed against his chest. “How much more does my little Lady want to be tainted?” His free hand ghosts along your puffy lips, your slick making the drag too easy, too appealing to not draw circles into your clit, only pulling back any time he feels you squirm on his lap. Your little cries are music to Sebastian’s ears. It’s so good, too good, the way his fingers move, almost as if he already knows all your weak spots. “Do you wish to experience bliss only I could give you, and ruin yourself for all eternity?” His questions urge you to wrap your arms around him, to hide your face in the gentle embrace of a monster, as though you’re trying to hide from judgement itself upon your immoral fantasies. “I wish for that, Sebastian.”

No further words are needed, not when your lips convey more as they meet Sebastian's. A kiss so fierce, he may steal the air from your lungs and drag you to hell himself. Teeth pull at your bottom lip unapologetically, his tongue meeting with your own, entwining with another until you taste him. Meanwhile, the familiar stretch of his fingers, accompanied by the filthy squelching of your arousal, threatens to overload your senses. The teasing returns as your lips part to allow Sebastian a front row seat to your desperate play, as his thumb presses into your clit. You really yearn for this orgasm, don’t you? Of course, you do, with how tightly you clench around his digits, pulsing as though you’re trying to keep him inside—as if he couldn’t offer you a much better alternative.

“Let go, my dear, you look so beautiful right now, I want to see you come undone for me.” Sebastian encourages, as his fingers expertly curl against your walls, each time pushing past the limits of what you’re able to take. So you let go, finally, allowing your eyes to shut as your fingers fist the fabric of his dress shirt. He’s never received praise in a prayer-like form, the sighing thank-yous tumbling free between your moans, so unlike the feisty thing you pretend to be. You are adorable. “Very good, my darling, just like that.” Sebastian whispers, as the movements slow down until his fingers still inside you, until the heaving of your chest and the trembling of your thighs calms, and you fall into his embrace.

But much to Sebastian's surprise, and despite his predictions about your exhaustion, you return his previous affections. Your lips kiss along his neck as you undo his necktie, fingertips already so eager to free him from the confines of his clothes, it makes Sebastian wonder who the real glutton between you two is. “My Lady,” he innocently halts your advances as he entwines his fingers with your own, kissing each tip while holding eye contact. “Shouldn’t we proceed to your chambers? I don’t wish to bring needless discomfort upon you—you need your strength to handle me.” At that, you feel his tongue drag along your pointer finger before a final kiss is placed on its tip, while a devious smile returns to Sebastian’s lips. If only you wouldn’t look so adorable each time he teases you. But you are already too far gone to keep up pretences, when you can instead allow someone else to finally be your resolve.

So it's only natural for you to command Sebastian once more. “Bring me to my bed,” you mumble while your arms already lace around his neck. He follows.

Yet it catches you by surprise once you’re simply dropped into your bouncy mattress and sea of pillows. However, in the next moment, you find yourself caged underneath Sebastian. Your hands roam free to undo his dress shirt and shrug it off his figure, allowing your nails to drag over his pearly skin until you reach his pants and finally feel what lies hidden behind the dark fabrics.

You seem in control, until firm hands spread your thighs and Sebastian leans in, to nibble along your inner legs, shining in the moonlight as he dives between your thighs to lap at your cunt, his tongue pushing past the tight ring of your entrance before dragging all over your hot and puffy pussy. He then licks and kisses his way up your stomach, sternum, and nipples, while the surprising satisfaction of his cock—hot, hard, and leaking with pre-cum—coats itself with your juices. He grinds against you until you writhe for more, until his hands find rest on the back of your knees so he can press your legs up against your sides, fully opening you to thrust into you without struggle, without restraint, as lust overcomes him.

You shake your head at the stretch of his girth welcoming your pussy, sweet pleas mixed with whiny complaints escaping your lips without much thought. “‘S too much, Sebastian… can’t…” you admit. The chuckle that follows is devious, before a soft sigh in satisfaction follows as tender lips place an adoring kiss to your cheek. “You will,” Sebastian whispers, followed by the command “Now just surrender to me.” His lips seek out your own once more as he picks up a relentless pace.

Your nails dig into his back, leaving red streaks that run deep. You can’t look at anything but him—his strong body on top of yours, the visible strain to his muscles while he ruts into you—until you find yourself once more captivated by his eyes. He almost looks at you lovingly, no hungrily. But Sebastian doesn't just want to consume your soul; no, his desires reach beyond basic greed. He wants to own you, to keep you to himself, to reign over you until your best years are over. You can see it clearly while swimming in crimson. But with the delicious drag of his cock inside your walls, you might just let him. Who would have expected you to be tamed this well by getting fucked?

“Please, please, please,” you exhale as your head lolls from side to side, writhing beneath your very own demon. Oh? You’re quick to beg. Quick to turn desperate, so eager to have more of something that should never have been yours. “Sebastian, Sebastian,” you repeat like a mantra as his hands hold your fragile body, digging into your hips to force you into a perfect arch for Sebastian to ravage your skin. He litters kisses over your chest, laps at your nipples, and drags your hips back down to snap against his while he is guided by gluttony.

“Give yourself to me,” you demand with no trace of shame in your bones, finally giving him a task worthy of your beautiful soul. “Stay with me, be mine…”

You almost feel dizzy with how easily Sebastian hoists you up until you’re on all fours, ass perfectly exposed for him to fully sheath his cock inside you, effectively pushing your upper body into your sea of pillows. But in stark contrast to his rather harsh handling of your body, his lips return to press soft kisses along your back. “I am yours if you are mine, my darling.” The words flow like honey before your blood coats Sebastian’s tongue as he breaks the skin, engraving himself on your skin.

Your fingers dig into the cushions, searching for support as you struggle. But the strong arm lacing around your body is all the comfort you will need from now on; his cold touch will soon set you ablaze.

Sebastian is deep inside you, the head of his cock finding your sweet spot almost naturally as he perfectly curves against your velvet walls, hips snapping against your ass with unforeseen fervour. His hands dig into your hips, surely bruising your hip bones for the coming days, but you’ve never felt this good before. Never so full, never as cared for as by the monster that is in love with your soul. You moan his name in delight, making Sebastian proud once you eagerly bounce back into his thrusts.

The husky sounds of pleasure grow clearer as his movements slow down. You feel yourself being further pushed against the mattress, to spread your legs wider and arch deeper, for his penetration to slowly steal your sanity. Who would have expected the pressure of his palm against your stomach would make you clamp around him this much? Moaning, whimpering, pleading as you beg for mercy, trying to tell him it’s too… “Too good, Sebastian, I’m—”

His movements are slow but precise, accentuating the way you desperately clamp around him in an attempt to hold him inside you for eternity. “Yes, fall apart. Let go for me,” Sebastian’s eyes roam over your smaller body beneath him—a sweaty, shaking mess. He will take care of that right after you are done. For now, instead of worrying, his hands grab at your ass almost aggressively, spreading your lower lips even further as he ruts into you.

The high-pitched squeal that escapes your throat when he picks up his pace again serves as a perfect display of your misery. Tears prick at the sides of your eyes as your hips are pushed back to meet Sebastian’s relentless thrusts. “Make me proud, little Lady...” his final demand, with sneaky fingers returning to play with your clit as he hoists you off the bed, holding you tightly against his chest.

You’re fully seated on his cock, entirely engulfed by his embrace and consumed by the demon, just as you bask in the sweet release coursing through your veins. Sebastian allows himself to be lost in your pretty cries and the way your pussy practically drips from both of your orgasms. True to his nature, he watches you like a devil on your shoulder; dark red eyes witnessing your fucked-out expression while the cutest smile illuminates your features.

His lips caress your neck as he whispers, “Do you feel better now?” You hum and let your fingers card through his hair, a tired “I do. Thank you, Sebastian” exchanged from your mouth to his ear.

Swiftly, Sebastian moves to carry you back to your spacious bathtub and lets it refill with warmth. “How about my Lady actually relaxes this time around?”

dividers by @/cafekitsune

[deadsetobsessions]

Danny laid across his throne, legs planted across the left arm of the ornate chair and back pressed uncomfortably against the right.

"Listen," Danny started, letting his head flop to the side as he glared at a hovering Observant. "This meeting has wasted enough of my time. You all have been arguing for hours and that's without Clockwork slowing things down."

"Your Majesty, this is a matter of great importance. Belial means to overthrow and rule my-our world!"

"I am distinctly aware aware of that," Ancients, Danny couldn't wait to go home and rid himself of the formal speech he'd had to adopt in order to be taken seriously. Well, as seriously as he cared to be taken when sprawled across his throne instead of sitting on it intimidatingly or something. He slowly placed his gaze on the suddenly still demon sitting across from him. "Yet you've proposed fifteen different plans that were all unviable for whatever reasons you've cooked up. Your conclusion is that I must step in. Does your world not have heroes to take care of it?"

The demon- another lord of hell from this Belial’s universe- fell silent.

“Ah. But if they do, they would also take care of you.”

“No- no, that’s not-”

Danny allowed his voice to drop to the artic freeze he knew his core was capable of. "I opened these these doors to allow all of you to present me with reasonable concerns regarding your own universes and realms. What is not on the table for discussion is your petty politics. Do you think I am unaware of your intentions in tattling to me? That I do not know you are trying to use me to further your own position?"

"Your Majesty, I-" The demon growled out, fear slowly coating its expression.

"It no longer amuses me. You think that I am young and easy to manipulate." Danny froze the demon to its chair. It tried to break free, but Danny isn't the High King of the Infinite Realms for nothing. "Bring to me a miserable problem like this ever again, one that could be easily solved if you used even a smidgen of your intelligence, and you will find exactly how I tore Pariah Dark from his throne."

Not that Danny knew how he did it either, he just did it.

"Yes, Your Majesty. My-my apologies."

The room is dead (Danny patted himself on the back for the pun) silent. Some of the Ancients looked bored, like Clockwork who knew Danny would never hurt them, but everyone else looked close to crying. He held eye contact with the demon until it looked away.

When Danny settled back into the throne and allowed his ice to dissipate, the room let out a collective sigh of relief.

"The next item on the agenda is another demon, by the name of Trigon." Clockwork announced, the large piece of paper comically huge next to his currently toddler-like body.

"Another?"

He flicked an amused look at the previous demon, who kept his trap firmly shut.

"He is attempting to take over multiple worlds in an attempt to conquer the universe. I had thought you would be interested in this one, Your Majesty, as he plans to begin with Earth 135."

Danny stilled. That was his Earth. His haunt.

"Does he know of the Realms?"

"Vaguely, I believe."

"Then he should know the rules. I will wait to see if my Earth's heroes are capable to step to the task."

Danny would be a hypocrite if he doesn’t let the heroes of his Earth try first, even if he is one of those heroes.

"Of course," Clockwork grinned at him, fully aware of the shit Danny's about to stir back home. Ah, the wonders of being able to influence the time stream. Perhaps the young Ghost King will finally get some friends, and maybe get those pesky speedsters to stop making his jobs so hard. Cujo yipped at Danny as the King begrudgingly moved onto the next topic.

——

Raven shuddered as she watched the footage of her "brothers" laughing while steering their human "meatbags" around. She turned back to the giant circle of donated blood and herb filled candles.

“This is a nuclear option, don’t you think?” Green Arrow mumbled, clearly not against it by the half hearted way he’d said it. The Star City billionaire nursed his cracked ribs.

“No,” she floated over to where Zatanna and Constantine kneeled, trying to see if they needed help with the inscriptions. “Trigon is coming soon, and my brothers will no doubt find their way here in a moment. We are out of time.”

“Yeah. Plus, we don’t want Raven to be turned into a portal.” Garfield piped up, switching animal forms rapidly.

“No one dies.” Red Robin muttered. His wrist computer was open, monitoring the surroundings of the open field they found themselves uneasily occupying. Batman grunted in affirmation, eyeing the tree line. Every hero except the magical ones were on look out, preparing themselves for one more battle against the two demons that were trying to take Raven and force her into becoming a portal.

“Hey guys, we might want to hurrythisupbecausethey’re kind of close!” Impulse slammed into the room.

“Done.” Zatanna got up, motioning for everyone to step back. In Superman’s case, he floated back.

“Too bad you won’t get to use it,” a voice drawled, dripping with malice and the screams of a thousand souls.

“Come now, little sister. Why fight fate? Be grateful father has deigned to spare you. If not for your dirty blood being useful, you would be dead, little sister. Give up, before our patience runs out alongside the lives of your little pets.” Another, mocking, voice gleefully rumbled.

Raven would rather gouge out her own heart than to claim these two as any type of family.

“You won’t touch them.” Raven snarled, powers rising even as the marks on her body burned a painful red.

“Buy us some time!”

With that, the group of beaten and battered heroes rose to clash against just two demons, for a chance to save their world.

——

The Circle crackled. Danny felt a tug on his core. He followed the thread of the summoning. Oh. It was his haunt. Earth 135. Hm. It tasted of blood. Desperation? A hint of anticipation. Oh, an overload of fear. Could use some more hope, but Danny understood that it was rather hard to season these kinds of summonings with hope.

“Stop.” Danny commanded, straightening in his chair.

“Sire, we have more-”

“There is an issue with my haunt,” with that, he followed the summons.

——

“Ugh,” was the first thing everybody on the frozen battlefield heard. The demons had smacked away many of the heroes, but they all turned as one when the circle lit up a bright green. “Why do you people always use blood? I’m dead, I don’t need any more iron!”

A boy

Raven’s eldest brother let out a hideous rumble. “You fools tried to summon the king, and you got a dead boy. And now, you’ve doomed another.”

Constantine looked resigned, and regretful. “I am so, so sorry,” he whispered. It was just a kid. John might be a lot of things, but even he found summoning dead kids for demons to devour was just a step too far. “Shite, we got the wrong fucking-”

“Hey, man, that’s rude,” the boy snapped back, waving John off.

“Brother, kill the whelp.”

“I vote on not killing the whelp. Not killing at all, really,” the boy stepped out of the massive blood circle, wrinkling his nose at the drying stains.

“This is not one of your pesky democracies, fool.”

In response, the demons lunged at him, ignoring the screams of the surrounding heroes as they shoved their human arms through the boy’s stomach.

“So,” the boy continues, “I heard your dad was after my haunt?”

“Your haunt, whelp? This earth shall be his! And through him, ours!” Raven slammed against the demons with her power, shadows enlarging and tossing them away from the unharmed… ghost boy?

“Is it?”

——

Wow, these demons are so rude. Normally, it’d be a breath of fresh air compared to the stuffy halls of his throne room. But since they’re attacking his haunt…

“Thanks. You’re… Raven, right?”

Raven nodded, arms outstretched in concentration as she held her brothers back.

“You have to go. We’re- we’re sorry you got pulled into this, but it’s not safe here.”

“Eh. It’s cool. You don’t have to do that anymore, by the way.” Danny stepped forward once more, green skin shifting and gliding as everything about him sharpened. He flew at the demons piloting the human shells, catching them around the necks and dragging the demons out of their stolen bodies. The threw them even further away as he floated in the air, a beacon of green and white. Raven thought it looked like hope.

“My name is Phantom, the High King of the Infinite Realms,” let it be known that Danny always had an eye for dramatic entrances. He shifted into something more off, more eldritch, more kingly. The crown flared to life above his head. “You have invaded my haunt. You have challenged me. What do you plead?”

“You’re not-” they said.

“Wrong answer,” Danny flew at them once more, body contorting into something undeniably terrorizing, his maw unhinging and crunching down on the demons with a sound that made the present heroes cringe.

“Ugh,” Danny grunted, turning back and floating peacefully to the group of heroes- Tucker and Sam would be so stoked he met Wonder Woman and Batman!- and chewed rapidly. He shifted back into his normal form. “Eating demons always leaves me with indigestion. And their bones get everywhere up in my teeth!” Danny pulled out a giant femur looking bone from his mouth, despite it not logically fitting in there.

“Right. No eating demons, solid life advice.” Red Robin said.

“Right? So, you’re Raven! It’s nice to meet you! Think you can summon your dear ol’ dad for me?”

“But we summoned you to stop Trigon, not help him come here.” Superman said, frowning.

“One! That summoning circle is wack. Those things you piled up as offerings? Mid. Also, if you thought you could control me with those terribly written spells, you’re dead wrong. And yes, I am making puns about death.” Danny jabs an aggressive finger towards the shabby circle.

“Have you considered that maybe not every being that can be summoned wants a shit ton of useless blood? Like what if I wanted food? And two, how am I supposed to beat up Trigon if he’s still stuck in the prison realm?”

“I have a cup of coffee,” Nightwing offered. “Kid Flash could probably get you food, right?”

“Yep, surethinganythingyouwantyourMajesty.”

“You wouldn’t catch me alive accepting food from a speedster. You people fuck up the timelines so much,” Danny grumbled, crunching on the last of Raven’s brothers. Raven thought she should probably sit down.

“But you’re dead.” Batman said, something about his voice catching the sharp attention of his protégés who all started making cutting motions at him.

“Fair,” Danny pointed at him, grinning. “I’ll take two pizza and Nightwing’s coffee as payment for taking care of your little demon overlord problem. Raven, summon your dad.”

——

Didn’t much like the characterization of this piece but it’s been in my drafts for a while and I needed it out

[heyimkana]

SO- uh kingdom and empires type of thing- Sacrificial bride reader with emperor jin-woo. To stop the wrath of the emperor on the small kingdom, the king gives his daughter (reader) to emperor as a sacrifice.

everyone things jin-woo is a cruel emperor and many rumors are going all around the world of his cruelty, so reader is sacred to the bone when she is before jin-woo. (He's just antisocial so he doesn't want to correct the rumors just like how rumors of him spread after jeju raid)

Jin-woo being SUCH A SWEETHEART and giving reader time and space even after their wedding. (He fell for reader) So whenever reader tries to get close or do any action to make their relationship more comfortable, jin-woo internally goes over the moon. (He's smithen for reader and I'm all for it)

OMGOMGOMG EMPEROR!JINWOO 😩 okay so I know you want to see some cute fluffy lovey-dovey scene and we'll get there trust me, but hear me out okay what if it started out like this:

WC: 1.1 K | Warnings: Murder, slight gore

With his long, silky smooth raven hair cascading past his shoulders, and his fringe falling over his eyes like a curtain, Emperor Sung Jinwoo is a sight to behold. His features are sharp and breathtakingly handsome, his body, sculpted by the Gods, swathed by black robe from shoulders to toe. He towers above others with his intimidating height, his gleaming purple eyes bestowing fear upon those who dare to stare back into them.

The emperor carries a dangerous air around him wherever he goes, his hair often tied in a high ponytail with two sheathed daggers resting on each side of his hip. He charges first during battles, despite being the most vital piece in the kingdom. Fearless and undefeated, his name echoes throughout the realms. Every victory he's brought home was all because of his strength. Every peace he'd attained was all because of the blood he'd shed. Death follows everywhere he walks, the soil drenched crimson beneath his feet.

Cold and distant, the young lord is very efficient with his words, which often leads to people misjudging his character. Some people perceive him as arrogant. Most people see him as cruel and merciless with the way he treats his prisoners, but no one knows that behind the gates of his palace, he's a gentleman who holds his family dearly, who seeks blood only to create a world where his young sister could walk freely without men leering at her from the shadows. He takes care of his dying mother so earnestly with the tenderness that rivaled her own, his touch so delicate as he washes her hair every morning, despite having his hands constantly soaked in his enemies' blood.

Jinwoo defeats and conquers other kingdoms, killing their leaders in cold blood in front of everyone to see. They don't know that behind the scenes, their king and his subordinates are nothing but a bunch of corrupted men who took advantage of their own people. They thought the emperor brought chaos to their land, but his knights knew the truth. It was justice.

Emperor Jinwoo doesn't do forgiveness. If there's a man who murders or steals on his watch, then they'll be executed on the spot. No trial, no second chances, nothing. He holds honesty, virtue, and loyalty above everything else. And tonight, in this small kingdom he steps inside, he finds none, and so, the old town is littered with corpses of those who dared to dishonor a lady or betrayed their own kin.

The King of this kingdom, who offers his daughter for Jinwoo to take in exchange for sparing his own life, makes his blood boil the most. How could a father, whose duty was to protect his family, be so willing to give up on his only child, just to live for another day?

"I'll take your daughter," Jinwoo says in response, his gaze falling on the maiden's face. She's gorgeous, the most beautiful woman he's ever seen, but that's just it. She can offer him nothing but her beauty and a woman's charm would never be enough to reignite the fire within him, to restore the piece of humanity that has grown thinner and thinner with every throat he slit with his dagger.

The maiden, of course, shows repulsed hatred toward him. For all she knows, Jinwoo is an invader, barging into her land one night and slaughtering every warrior in sight. But as a princess, she has a role to fulfill and one of those is to bring peace to her kingdom no matter what the cost. And if her purity and her womanhood could win the heart of the new dictator to bestow mercy upon them, then so be it.

She walks forward and stands before the young emperor who brazenly sits on her father's throne with his dark robe smeared with her knights' blood. Some of the scarlet has stained his fair cheek, but even then, he still appears divine in some ways. The princess takes a moment to stare Jinwoo right in the eyes, unfazed by his overwhelming aura. She makes sure he understands that despite being nothing but a gift for his hand to seize, she deserves every ounce of respect he could show her.

Jinwoo arches his brow at the challenge but then he finds himself smiling. He rises to his feet, practicing his courtesy. "Forgive me, Princess," he greets with a bow of his head, his voice rumbling low and deep as he introduces his name. It brings shivers down her spine in all the most exciting ways though she'd rather be beheaded than admit it aloud.

Only then does she perform her bow. Blazing fire resides in her eyes still, a sign that she won't be so easy to tame, but for the first time in his life, Jinwoo feels... thrilled. Because of what, he's not sure yet. But he figures he'll find out soon enough.

He asks for her name and she gives it to him through gritted teeth.

"Do you love your father, Princess?"

She's taken aback by the question. Out of all the things he could've asked her... "Yes, my lord," she answers, a second too late than she's supposed to.

Jinwoo's eyes linger on the faint bruise blooming on her skin. It circles her neck like a pair of hands crushing her windpipes. His eyes glow as his voice turns a pitch lower. "Even after what he's done to you?"

She swallows. She's steeled herself for this, but the terror coming solely from his gaze still creeps into her skin. "Yes."

His lips curve up again at her answer, and she ponders, how could a demon like him, smile so angelically?

Jinwoo then leans in close, his lips a breath away from her ear. "I hope you're a better fighter than you are a liar," he whispers.

There's a mix of confusion in her glare, but the emperor no longer pays attention to her. "Close your eyes, Princess," is the last thing he speaks before he addresses her father, who stands nervously before the audience. She does as she's told as it is her duty now to do whatever he commands her to do.

Seeing the emperor accepting his gift, a wicked, victorious grin emerges on the King's lips but that's the only thing he manages to do before his head rolls to the ground. Startled gasps and horrified shrieks ring throughout the hall but before the princess can open her eyes to witness the headless corpse falling to the ground, Jinwoo embraces her from behind. His fingers gently cover her eyes, letting her stay in the darkness, hoping it will comfort her the way it always comforts him.

"You're with me now, Princess," he murmurs in her ear, and it rattles her bones. "I'll take care of you."

It's a promise and a blessing, but for a woman who has lost all her kingdom, her dignity, and her entire family in one night, it feels like a curse.

"What are you going to do to me?" she asks with a shuddering breath, to which he says—

[rpclefairy]

𝐁𝐆𝟑 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

a selection of lines from the various companions' banter quotes (not cut scene dialogues!) from baldur's gate 3. these are generally spoiler free and non context specific so they can apply to different settings and dynamics! feel free to change names and the like to customize the prompts.

“Death can't have me. Not yet…”

“Calm yourself. There is plenty of me to go around.”

“Realmspace is vast. Countless worlds to be mapped, kingdoms to be conquered.”

“I have missed this. The adventure. The danger. The kicking of butts!

“Let me guess - you need something.”

“Such attention.. I never realised I was so popular.”

“Let's cook with fire, baby.”

“Do you intend to vocalise every thought?. Or just the most obvious ones?”

“Wherever we go, ye gods let there be something green.”

“Careful, or I will take your toy away from you.”

“Watch your elders and learn.”

“Perhaps try attacking the enemy?”

“So much we don't know, lingering in the furthest reaches of existence.”

“All the world's my stage and you're just a player in it.”

“The shadows are my friend.”

“Yes, yes, have your fun. It isn't you they're trying to kill.”

“Feet planted firmly on Faerûn, please.”

“Admirable stamina, yet terrible priorities.”

“Well you certainly have the 'omnipresent' part down, don't you?”

“I am ready, whatever may come.”

“My faith protects me.”

“Need a throat slitting?”

“Death greets us all - but not today.”

“You need my expertise?”

“Can you feel death's cold grip?”

“So many stars, so many mysteries yet to be discovered.”

“Death comes quietly.”

“And I thought we were going to be friends.”

“Locked tight, but there must be some way to open it.”

“No, you can't die. Get up, damn you!

“You had my attention, now you have my fury.”

“From silence to suffering.”

“So many worlds out there. You'd need a thousand lifetimes to see them all - more.”

“I hope this is important. For your sake.”

“Let them gaze deep into their own abyss, and wonder just what it is they are trying to achieve.”

“I ought to just burn this whole thing down.”

“We have slightly more pressing matters to attend to.”

“You have still have time to surrender.”

“Every kicked buttock, another step on the path.”

“Weave save me. I can't take much more…

“You are right to fear me.”

“Let me look around. Might be something that'll help me crack this thing.”

“Incredible, to think how many worlds exist beyond this tiny speck within a speck I call home.”

“I really wish I could cast a Hold spell on you.”

“I can fawn over my face later.”

“Ready for another round?”

“Keep your blade close.”

“I can't unlock it from here, but there must be a switch or a button somewhere…”

“No, that's not moving. There must be a way to open it somewhere.”

“Battle favours the fearless.”

“Sleep with one eye open, evil. Maybe both.”

“Gotta be something around here to unlock this thing.”

“Why do beautiful people taste better?. It hardly seems fair on the ugly - they have such wonderful personalities.”

“Oh, calm down. I'm happy to see you too.”

“Just go for the Magic Missile and fire away. Never fails.”

“Still standing, no matter what you heard.”

“Enough waiting. I crave blood.”

“Hang on - I won't allow this. You aren't dead, go it?”

“GODS, it's HOT in here!”

“No rest for the wicked, I see.”

“Better to hide than fight, sometimes.”

“Would that I could hide from you, too.”

“Are you feeling lonely, perhaps?”

“There is no right or wrong, only truth.”

“Battle is afoot - you can poke me once we are safe.”

“What good all this ethereal eladrin blood if I can still get pimples?”

“I should've been a drow. They have such stylish armour.”

“I am armed! Armoured! And entirely sick of your foolishness.”

“Let's have some fun.”

“War is an old woman's game.”

“No rest, be you wicked or wise.”

“I'm getting too old for this nonsense.”

“I would poke you back, but I fear that's what you want.”

“You have my attention - now do something with it.”

“You are insistent, are you not?”

“Do what must be done.”

“Your suffering will be spectacular.”

“Lest I sit down for a rest and not rise again.”

“Better to look evil in the eye. Even if it be very small.”

“I'm not built to crouch.”

“I think I could go another round.”

“Always the same old song.”

“Is perfection too much to ask?”

“Eyes on victory, tummy on dinner.”

“So many places to be.. and I chose Baldur's Gate.”

“I'm not opening that. Not from here, at any rate.”

“What is the point, if not victory?”

“Won't last much longer like this.”

“Let's hope the locals are friendly.”

“Let us show them how it's done.”

“Weapons high. Standards higher.”

“Must everyone be so exhausting?”

“What I would not give for a chunk of fresh honeycomb…”

“Which way to the nearest library?”

“Now this is my happy place.”

“Who shall I silence?”

“Stop, or die.”

“Wear your scars proudly.”

[uhohdad]

THE GIRL WHO CONQUERED THE MOUNTAIN

KONIG X READER [HUNGER GAMES AU]

You & Konig have been chosen to participate in a twenty-four tribute fight to the death.

18+, NSFW, 183k WORD COUNT, AO3, Virgin!Konig, Outcast!Konig, 18yo!Konig, GentleGiant!Konig, Mentor!JohnPrice, Fem!Reader, Blood & Injury, Graphic Violence, Death, PTSD, Alcohol Use, Slow Burn, Sexual Content, First Time, Smut, Fluff, Angst

CHAPTER ONE | PREV | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

➤ THE VICTOR I

You don’t run.

A sharp inhale tightens every muscle in your body. Bloody, wounded hands shoot out in front of you in a brace of pure instinct, chin tilting down and pinning to your chest. You’re hoping he’ll make it quick and as painless as possible. Maybe it’ll be a snap of a neck, just as he did with the boy from District Eleven. Dead before you even know what hit you.

Your brace tightens, teeth clenching when the heavy boot steps are only a few feet away, not breaking their strides. Strong, powerful arms wrap around your core and yank you off your feet with ease. You hold your tense for only a moment before relaxing into his restraint.

You don’t fight it.

You’re giving yourself to him, letting him do what needs to be done to get his win.

He stills, a moment passes, and you must be in shock. The knife he pierced through your gut must be too sharp or maybe your adrenaline is coursing so effectively you can’t yet feel the stab in the back. You’re just waiting to feel the impact, waiting for the unimaginable pain to tear through you, waiting for death.

After a moment you open your eyes, met with his chunky, coarse vest loaded with supplies scraping against your cheek.

You give a frantic brush with trembling hands over your front and back, blindly searching for the embedded blade.

He pulls away, keeping his hands on your upper shoulders as he looks you over with wide eyes brimmed with tears. You take the opportunity to examine your body, smoothing over your core to search for his puncture wound, but you come up empty, only managing to smear blood all over your clothes.

Scratchy gloves take your wrist and gently extends it to examine your flayed arm, soaking his gloves with your blood. You wince as he moves the shredded fabric of your jacket out of the way to get a good look at the evidence of your fight with District One. You watch with pinched eyes as he stares down the inflamed, deep gash she left on you, still oozing steadily.

“What happened?” He says, voice too soft for a man with a harsh voice who’s just killed a boy with his fists.

You look to him, confusion and fear stitched into every feature. When he sees your bewildered expression he quickly retracts his hands.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” He brings his hand to his hooded head and lets out a deep sigh that ends on a breathy croak, “I’m just glad you’re alive. I thought I lost you.”

You blink hard, pushing your jaw forward.

“What?” You say sharply, demanding explanation.

“Every time the cannon went off ich- I thought it was you,” He lets out another heavy, relieved sigh.

“You wanted to be the one to kill me?”

His eyes pinch, “Wh- No! I- I-”

“Spit it out.”

His eyes widen from their confused position, he fumbles his words as he sputters out an answer, “I- I just didn’t want you to die.”

You swallow, and look to your boots. Your forehead wrinkles, your head shaking.

“No,” You say in complete invalidation of his statements. You don’t believe his words, you don’t believe that he hasn’t killed you yet.

“You ran away from me,” He lets out another sigh, “At the beginning.”

You take a step back, throwing out your blood-soaked arms, flicking droplets of blood on the grass, “You tried to kill me!”

He eyes scrunch in a way that suggests you’ve just said the most offensive statement in the world.

“I was trying to get you out of there!” He shoots back.

“You-“

That pulls you up short.

You make a quarter turn, staring to the stained grass as you run over the events of the bloodbath, “You killed that boy, and then-“

“He was going to kill you,” He says with an urgent tone that steals your attention.

“You-“

Your eyes narrow at him, brows pinched and teeth bared, “You said you would only kill if you needed to!”

His eyes crinkle at your spit accusatory words, his muscles tensing for a moment before his shoulders relax, his voice taking on a gentle but insistent tone.

“I did need to.”

You watch him carefully, trying to figure out if he’s telling the truth by staring into the only exposed part of him. His eyes are too soft, too pained to be dismissed.

“You don’t need to trick me. You’ve already won.”

Your voice doesn’t exactly convey confidence.

“I’m not tricking you,” He takes a careful step towards you, palms up, “That boy was going to kill you.”

He finishes on your name, spoken so soft and sweet it makes you want to believe his words.

You mull over it for a moment, chewing on his words, the look in his eye, and still you are convinced he’s hiding something, manipulating you. His actions don’t make sense.

The questions come out rapid fire, finding yourself as frustrated as you normally do when the answer doesn't come easy to you, “Why? Why did you kill Eleven? Why didn’t you kill me with Titan? Why aren’t you killing me now?!” Your urgent questions are pointed, offensive more than curious.

His hand pulls up to his chest, and he freezes.

You throw out your arms again, “Why, Konig?!”

“This is what you wanted,” He whispers after another pause, his voice unsteady.

“It’s what everyone wants! What is this?!” You gesture aggressively in the space between you both, splattering his shirt with your own blood, “What was Two talking about?!”

His horrified eyes flick between either of yours, stammering through various unintelligible syllables before cutting himself off with a close of his eyes and a deep breath.

He finds your face again and lands on a response. When he speaks, he sounds like a child, even through that scratchy, intense voice.

“You’re the only friend I’ve ever had.”

The muscles in your face relax as you process his sentence.

You swallow and stare down at the lush grass, ashamed, because the first thought that comes to mind is -

‘We’re friends?’

Friends.

That -

You hadn’t considered.

This entire time you’ve been so caught up in trying to decipher Konig’s strategy, the intentions and manipulations motivating his actions, but you never stopped to consider that the two of you actually had something. Well, no - you knew there was something, but all of the actions could have been explained away simply because you were two tributes who were terrified in their final days of life - a bond formed in mutual trauma, or perhaps a strategy to lure you in with his comfort.

Friends.

When did this happen?

Had he thought of you as one this whole time?

How stupid can you be?

The glass of water, the coffee, the handholding, the token, the pleas for allyship, keeping each other warm, and making each other feel better after a hard day.

How stupid can he be?

Making friends with someone only for it to end a week later in this arena, becoming attached to someone destined to die.

You look up to him again, brows pinched and forehead wrinkled as you reframe everything. When you speak, your voice is a broken wisp of air in his direction.

“How did we let this happen?”

You know he understands, the way he looks at you without words, nothing but pain and uncertainty in his sloped eyes. He understands that making friends with someone who is destined to die was a recipe for heartbreak, and he understands that the bittersweet final meal has been served.

As slim as the odds, you two ending up face-to-face at the end was always a possibility.

You were sure you were going to die before you’d have to face him.

Now here you both are, two tributes, two friends, and only one of you can leave this arena alive.

Maybe this wasn’t the way. Maybe it would have been best if he’d gutted you as soon as he was finished with Two.

The laugh starts small, just a scoff. It turns to a snicker, then a chuckle, which snowballs into a fit of hysterical cackling.

It’s not the poison gas this time.

This is raw, genuine laughter. Billowing from deep inside you and echoing boisterously through the four quadrants.

It’s not funny.

But you have to laugh - because of course.

Of course you would do this. Let your emotions bleed where they shouldn’t.

It’s your signature move.

Of course you both were going to make it to the finale.

Of course you now have to be killed by Konig, by a friend.

Wasn’t this the ending all along?

Konig looks alarmed, and then his eyes relax, and he gives a soft, three-note laugh, and shortly after he succumbs fully to the contagion. A song you’ve never heard, it’s hearty and warm, intertwining with yours to make a chorus of snorts and guffaws.

Your core doubles over your crossed arms, still generously bleeding and painting the blades of grass by your feet a deep crimson.

Tears well in your eyes and quickly trail down your cheeks as you gasp for air.

This is a full detox.

An expelling of every pent up, overwhelming emotion you’ve felt the past two weeks. The mistrust, the jealousy, the anger, the fear, the pain. Subjected to the heinous, brutal slaughters of children. It’s all flowing from you, and soon you’re not sure if you’re laughing or sobbing. Konig’s laughter dies down before yours, worried when he notices the hysterical tears streaming down your cheeks.

A hand extends in your direction, but he quickly withdraws it, helplessly staring on as you break down.

You can’t stop it, the dam has bursted. The whirlpool of thoughts that have been steadily rising since the reaping have spilled over and is pouring from you uncontrollably.

You have reached your absolute limit.

A genuine, broken wail leaves you, fully transitioned from a laughing fit to cries of pain.

When you pinch off your vision, heavy tears thrusted from your waterline, you’re met with the bounce of Eleven off his platform, narrowing in on his lifeless eyes.

His neck is already broken but the echoes of bones snapping against metal still rattle in your ears.

It’s followed immediately by the horrific image of the girl from District Eight. Her maimed wails and flooded eyes and exposed, moving muscle. The squelch of One’s eye, the haunting rip of her optic nerve, the feeling of her plunging herself on the spear - reverberating through the staff of the spear and up your slashed arms. The sound of Titan’s face being caved in, repeated blows that crack bones, countless razors tearing through his flesh on his dissent.

It’s on replay, the crunching of bone deafening you with its escalating grinds, the moans of the maimed, the rip of an eye from its socket, the sound of a thousands razors ripping through a faceless, limp body.

Your fists race to cover your ears, to stave off Eight’s moans of unimaginable pain, your eyes pinched tighter to rid the sight of Eleven’s brutal death, digging your nails into flayed palms to rid the feeling of an eye being gouged by your hand.

All of them cycle, ripping through you one after another.

You drop to your knees in the grass, core doubling over. Konig follows you down on one knee, one of his gentle hands finding your uninjured shoulder. When you raise your face again, it’s streaked with tears.

“I keep hearing it! I can’t stop hearing it!” You yell through a sob, followed by broken gasps as you curl toward your lap again.

“I know, I know,” He whispers.

“It won’t stop!” The tears are flowing relentlessly now, and you don’t even have the mind to wipe them away.

“Mein sieger, look at me,” His other hand lets a finger under your chin, gently guiding your jaw up.

Through the blur of welled tears you find him, those eyes peeking through the holes in his hood.

“It’s okay, it’s- it’s going to be okay,” He doesn’t seem too sure of this himself, his eyes darting around for a solution that doesn’t exist, but he pushes on, “I’m going to fix your cuts.”

You sniff, arms too soaked in blood to wipe away your snot.

“Just listen to me. Don’t listen to it. Just listen to my voice.”

He swallows, searching frantically on the spot for his next words.

His eyes widen in the presence of an idea, “Do you remember that day? In District Nine?”

You groan at the memory, an involuntary hiccup following.

“That boy,” He takes a breath while he pulls out a water bottle and a cloth from his pack, setting them on the grass,

“Spewing names at me. Blocking my path.”

His eyes find yours again, brows pinched as if he’s worried that he’s somehow making it worse, “And you, you just came out of nowhere. You let out the,” He looks to the grass again, and gives a quick, breathy laugh, “You let out the angriest noise I’ve ever heard.”

Konig helps you peel off your jacket as gently as he can, patiently sliding it off as he works around your wincing. He pulls the sleeves away from your gash so the fabric doesn’t swipe against it.

“You couldn’t see it, I’m sure, but the look on his face when you grabbed him by the back of the shirt-“ He cuts himself off, “I had never seen anything like it.”

He uses the water bottle to wash the blood away, letting you squeeze his hand with your good palm as you endure the pain brought forward by the water.

“For a second it looked like you were trying to dance with him, spinning him around.”

You remember it clearly, using your weight and pivoting on your heels to jerk him in a near complete circle, grip tight on the back of his shirt before you let go to slam him into the wall of the dingy hall.

“You got him against the wall - I thought for sure you broke his collar bones.”

The boy had looked genuinely afraid, entirely taken by surprise. Your forearm had dug into him, pinning him to the wall with enough force to portray threat. He had the look of a boy who had never expected any consequences to his behavior.

Konig moves down your arm, washing away the blood from shoulder to hand.

“I still remember what you said, word for word. You said,” He lifts his voice in a faint imitation of your spitting words, “‘I am so sick of you all picking on him. It’s more than obvious you do it because you’re ashamed of yourselves. If I catch you doing it again I’m going to show you what it’s like to pick on someone your own size!’”

He shakes his head and looks to the sky, “He had six inches and at least 40 pounds on you.”

You laugh with him this time, yours nasal from crying, following with a sniffle.

“And then you threw him away,” His hand lifts to briefly imitate the movement, “Shoved his back. He almost tripped flat on his face.”

He retrieves a second water bottle from his pack and a small tin canister he sits in the grass before he uses his teeth to remove his glove.

He continues, “He never did mess with me again. I think a few of his friends stopped too.”

“He’s scurried off at the sight of me ever since,” You sniff and your lips warp, “I always felt bad about that. Like I went too hard on the poor guy.”

When the boy had ran off, you met Konig’s eyes, your chest heaving as huffs left your parted lips, fists tight at your side. Pointed features softened when you saw his face, his wide eyes, sprung brows, and a slack jaw. You sucked in a sharp inhale and froze for just a moment before you got out of there, running from the shame that had begun to burn your skin as soon as you saw his expression.

He uses his gloveless fingertips to scoop up some sort of clear gel from the tin.

“He certainly got the message.”

He uses his free hand and a bit more water to wash out the wounds on your shoulder, gently pats the mutilated flesh with a washcloth, and then smears the gel on your skin.

Immediately you feel relief. The burning pain of the hedge’s slices completely dissipates, and you can’t help but sigh in content.

He gently rubs the medicine across your wounds, turning pink as the clear gel mixes with the blood rushing to replace what Konig wiped away.

“Sorry I freaked out,” You say quietly, a little embarrassed of your breakdown.

His brows lower, “It’s okay. I hear it too.”

“Why are you helping me?” You ask softly, “Why go through the trouble of nursing my wounds if you’re just going to kill me anyway?”

You wince as another stream of water splashes against the deep gash One left behind.

“Sorry,” he whispers, ignoring your question and dabbing the cloth against the deep wound. He quickly scoops up more medicine and slides it over the surface of the inflamed skin before too much more blood can flow out.

“Ever since that day I wanted to thank you. To talk to you. I just,” He cuts himself off, eyes darting around for a moment, “I didn’t know how.”

He gently wraps his gloved hand around your good forearm, bringing forward the slashes on your palm.

“I thought I scared you off.”

He laughs, “I just wasn’t expecting it.”

He pours water over your palm, another dab of the cloth, and a generous smearing of medicine.

All of your pain is gone. The medicine has completely numbed your wounds, cooling the unrelenting burn of the slashes and almost immediately staunches the flow of blood.

“It feels so much better,” you say with a sigh.

“Good,” he says.

Your voice drops softer, a curious hint to it, “Why didn’t you ever, y’know,” You pause, shoulders pulling up, “Defend yourself? You could have scared them off easy.”

He swallows, a gentle hand reaching for the bandages. He’s quiet for a moment, avoiding your eyes.

When he speaks his words are strained, “I’ve misjudged my strength before.”

Your brows shoot up at the implication. You so desperately want to probe further, but it’s clear from his tone this is a sore spot for him. You stay quiet instead, waiting for him to continue.

“I’ve never gotten physical since, until,” He trails off again, abandoning his sentence.

“Yeah,” You say on a breathy exhale, letting him know he didn’t need to say it.

Lifeless eyes, crunching bones.

He unrolls the bandage and begins to loop it around the gash on your arm. He makes sure the bandages are firm on your wounds, slices it from the roll, and tucks the end into itself.

You get out a sheepish, “Thank you,”

He nods, his voice low, “Of course.”

He guides your arm out again, starting a new loop around with the bandage around your palm.

When he’s done, he packs the supplies into his backpack as you look down to your wrapped hand, rubbing over the nude-colored bandage with your thumb.

Konig grabs a clean cloth and pours a little water on it, extending it carefully towards your face.

“Here,” He says, his gloved fingertip just barely grazing you as he tilts your chin up. You obediently close your eyes, letting him run small circles with the wet cloth to wash away a mixture of dirt, One’s blood, and your own.

“Why are you doing this?” You whisper, low and gentle, but he doesn’t respond. When you open your eyes to meet his stare, his masked face reveals nothing to you, other than his unwavering focus on cleaning your face. Carefully massaging the damp cloth in circles over your skin, taking care not to apply too much pressure. He even wipes away your snot.

“Thank you,” You whisper, “For saving my life.”

There’s a pause before you add, “And for letting me come to terms with my death.”

He nods, looking down, “I guess we’re even now.”

You laugh, your voice regaining some of its strength, “I think yours might blow mine out of the water.”

He shrugs, “Well, I have to repay with interest. Took me long enough.”

He pauses for a beat, “Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

He starts to dig in his pack, but stops when the ground begins to shake. His arms dart out of the pack to wrap around you and in return your hands claw at the collar of his vest to pull him close. You cling to each other to keep steady on your knees, sharing a wide-eyed, worried look through the vibration that shakes your bodies and blurs your vision.

The gamemakers must be angry at you both, not giving them the showdown they were owed. You can see the hedge walls parting, its previous entrances reappearing in their normal spot.

When the ground stops shaking, neither of you let go, clinging to each other as you stare frozen at the entrance. Shallow breaths leave parted lips as you tighten your grip on each other, waiting for the threat that’s soon to be released.

It doesn’t come.

Minutes pass before you turn to him.

“They might just want us to leave so they can take the bodies,” you whisper.

He gives a shaky nod, but you still stay frozen in your spot, holding onto each other and staring deeply at the entrance.

When both of your hearts slow, when fearful breaths ease, you decide to do what the gamemakers want you to do.

What choice do you have?

He stands first, his hand extended to help you up. When you get to your feet, though, you linger on his gloved hand and give him a squeeze before you let go.

He leads as you both creep towards the exit, still wary of the possibility of a cruel trap.

Konig wordlessly insists you wait for him to make sure the coast is clear using the same gesture he did when the careers approached you both in training, an arm shooting out in front of you as if to hold you back. He pokes his head out, careful not to make contact with the walls as he swivels his head to scan for threat.

“It looks safe,” He says, but you both stand for a bit longer before inching outside of the maze.

You’re surprised to find the arena entirely restored. The fall quadrant has reappeared, its trees as brilliant and colorful as ever. There’s no evidence of the avalanche, the snow returned to its original height and perfect pine trees retain their snow-dusted caps. The desert’s sandstorm has settled, the dunes not disturbed in the slightest.

Nothing attacks you as you leave the maze, careful steps in the direction of the cornucopia.

The gamemakers must have simply wanted to collect the bodies, because you both standby as the hovercraft appears.

When the claw descends, you turn away together. You can’t bear to watch the corpses of the girl from one and the boy from two be lifted into the air.

Without thinking, your hand reaches up to take a hand that sits much higher than yours. He accepts immediately, intertwining his large, calloused hand with yours. He gives you a gentle squeeze, and you know what it means. That he shares the pain you feel, that he is just as unsure, and just as lost as you.

You keep your fingers laced with his until you near the spot where the four quadrants meet, stopping about twenty feet away.

He sets his bag down, and you follow his lead when he sits in the plush grass.

The food just keeps coming.

Bread, cheese, apples, dried meat, stew, an orange, a weird, large brown nut of some kind?

With wide eyes and mouth already watering you ask, “Where did you get all this?”

He hesitates for a moment, “Some came with the backpack - the apples, the bread and the meat. The rest I got from sponsors.”

Your brows furrow, “You got sponsors?”

Of course he did. If you were a sponsor you’d pick him too.

“Yeah, what did you get?” He asks, picking up the apple and handing it to you.

“Well-“

Guttural moans, exposed muscle.

“District Eight sent me some things,” You say with a wince.

His head tilts, “They did?”

“Uh, yeah, I-” You clear your throat, the echoes of her pain on your ears, “I helped them- with something.”

He tilts his head again, and looks at you expectantly.

“The girl,” You start, “She- I helped her.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and his voice is soft when he speaks, “You allied with her?”

You shake your head and pull your knees to your chest. You touch your ribbon bracelet, soaked with blood.

“It was mercy. I - I - didn’t-“

“Sorry,” He says, “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Price didn’t, though,” You say after a moment, almost embarrassed, “Send me anything, I mean.”

It hurts to know Price showered Konig with gifts while you got nothing.

You look to the sky and make a vague gesture that reads as annoyed. As if you were saying to the sponsors, to Price, ‘What, I wasn’t good enough? Well look, I made it this far!’

You don’t show it, but it stings. Logically you knew Konig was the smart bet. That if you were District Nine’s mentor, that if you were a Capitol better, you would have prioritized Konig’s survival over yours any day.

It still hurts having it confirmed, knowing that you were not good enough for Price’s attention.

Konig laughs as you raise the apple to your lips, “They just knew you were smart enough to make it without their help.”

You roll your eyes as your teeth pierce through the apple’s skin, sucking out its tart insides.

“I don’t know about that,” You say under your breath, but you appreciate him trying to ease the blow.

“It’s true,” He insists with an accompanying point, “Look, you’re here. You did it without anyone’s help. I surely would have died without it.”

“Plucky got lucky,” You say definitively, “And everyone knows it.”

Underneath it, though, you wonder if he’s right. The truth is, you really didn’t need help in the arena. You didn’t have to put that girl out of her misery - well, you did, but if your plea had gone unanswered you would have made it work regardless. Other than that, you haven’t really needed anything.

He shrugs, his voice a bit gruff as he puts his attention to spreading cheese on bread with his knife, “I don’t.”

You roll your eyes again, “You sound like Price. Even you were surprised to see me at the end.”

He shrugs, “I was just worried about you, is all.”

“Because you knew that I was probably going to die.”

“Because the arena is dangerous.”

“Exactly! It’s all,” You huff, “There’s a big luck element.”

He cuts you off with a nudge, offering a handful of cheese smothered bread, “Even your arguments are too smart for me.”

Your laugh makes your fingers brush against his when you take the bread from him.

You’re eager to sink your teeth into its crust, creamy cheese over soft perfect Capitol bread, you can’t help but groan into it.

“So good,” You say with a mouthful, not bothering to swallow, “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

When you finish your slice of bread, he starts on another for you at once.

“Where have you been?” He asks, smearing the soft cheese over the golden brown crust, “I tried to look for you.”

You stare into the brightly colored leaves of the fall landscape before gesturing in the direction of the red maple and yellow ginkgo trees, “Over there.”

Konig nods, “That’s where I thought you went at the beginning. I tried to follow but I lost you, and when I went searching you were too clever for me to find.”

Your eyes are starting to ache from rolling at his compliments.

Just then, a silver parachute floats down to the sky.

You both look to each other with raised brows. When it lands on the grass a few feet from you, he stands to retrieve the canister before handing it over to you.

You struggle to pop it open, and inside you reveal a bundle of blackberries, a tin of juice, and a cookie.

“There’s a lot.”

“Price is making it up to you,” Judging solely by the crinkle in his eye, he grins as he sits in the soft grass, “With interest.”

You look to the sky again, squinting from the sun and giving a wave of thanks. You share the smile before you spread the food out with the others.

“Where have you been?” You ask, popping a berry into your mouth.

“The desert.”

“The desert?” You ask with an almost disgusted inflection, snapping your head in his direction, “How did you survive in the heat?”

Konig lifts his chin, pulling up his hood as he swipes along his neck, nails catching on a clear, razor thin mesh fabric that appears out of nowhere.

He stands to strip it from the outside of his clothes, handing you a long crumbled fabric of transparent mesh.

“Woah,” You get out, thinking back to his embrace, pushed right up to the snake-skin like fabric but never feeling it or noticing it. You roll the fabric between your fingers, “I didn’t even see it before. What is it?”

You stick a hand in one of the sleeves as he answers, and immediately your arm is hit with a cool breeze that chills your skin and raises goosebumps.

“I couldn’t even feel the heat,” he says, “And I figured it would be safest, since no one else should have been able to survive there without a pair.”

“What’s out there?” You ask with a tilt of your head, letting the body suit rest in your lap.

“Mostly sand and spiky plants,” He starts to peel the orange. “You probably would have figured out there was water in them long before I did.”

He flicks away part of the peel.

You find the fabric of the suit again. “Can I try it?”

He nods, and you stand, slipping into the mesh suit. It melds instantly to your clothes, disappearing into the fabric as you pull it over your body.

“This is so weird,” You say with a laugh at the breeze that hits your skin, “I’m gonna try the desert.”

He stands to follow in your wake, and you practically run to test it out, ignoring your sore ankles.

When your boots hobble unsteadily on sand, Konig stops close to the border, arms crossed as he watches you run around, “You’re right! I can’t even feel it.”

You stop and even do a few weak jumping jacks to work up a sweat, but your feet can’t make it far off the ground with the sand swallowing your feet.

“Try these,” He says, popping off a thin, undetectable shoe attachment from his boots and leaning forward to hand the pair to you.

You lift up one foot, brushing off grains of sand from the soles before you snap on the attachment. It shrinks from Konig’s incredibly large shoe size to yours, and when you put your foot down, instead of sinking into the sand, your boots conform to the uneven dips and grooves.

“Feels like I’m on solid ground,” You say before snapping the other attachment on. You test them out by jogging in circles.

You come to a stop once you’ve had enough, walking with ease back into the spring quadrant.

“No wonder you did well in the desert,” You pop off the attachments to return them to him, but he waves like he doesn’t need them, and you just toss them to the side.

You peel off the skin tight suit as well, the cool breeze now chilling you beyond comfort in the spring air.

“Oh!” Your face lights up, “There was another thing I wanted to try.”

You move to the spot where the four quadrants meet, in the mouth of the cornucopia, and look for just a moment before stepping on it.

You can feel all four temperatures at once, the heat of the desert, the freeze of the snow, a light spring and chill fall air. Overstimulating and causing your body to fire contradicting temperature responses.

You step back into the grass, “Weird.”

You turn to Konig, just steps behind, and he gives it a try too.

He gives a soft laugh once he’s had his turn.

“Very,” He says.

You return and settle on the grass near his pack, already eyeing up the food waiting for you.

You take a sip of juice and pass it to Konig, and he takes your offer and sets it down on the grass before continuing to peel the orange. You actually close your eyes to breathe in the scent of fresh citrus, sighing on your exhale.

“I missed food. I’ve been living on corn and seeds.”

“I’m sorry,” He says, voice soft and full of regret as he looks up from the half-peeled orange, “I wish I could have been there for you. I would have shared it all.”

“It’s my own fault,” You say, shifting as you settle on the grass, “I didn’t want to hold you back.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

You stare off into the fall forest until Konig extends some orange slices to you. When you bite down, it bursts in your mouth and coats your tongue in its delicious insides. It actually sends a shudder down your spine at the overwhelming refreshment.

You both eat silently for a while, and your eyes eventually find the weird large brown seed he had set to the side.

You stick a hand out to feel it, its outside coated in thick coarse hairs, “What is this?”

Konig shrugs, “Not sure, it’s good though. Found it on a tree in the desert. He takes a spoonful of stew and speaks around a mouthful, “There’s this place I found. I think you’d like it.”

“You ate it without knowing what it was?”

He shrugs again, “I’m still alive.”

You snort, and he asks, “Do you want to see it? It’s very pretty.”

“The nut?” You ask.

“No,” he says with a breathy laugh, “The desert.”

“I thought it was just sand?”

“Mostly,” He picks up the large nut and holds it out, “There’s a place out there, though. There’s this big pool of water with a waterfall, you can see all the way to the bottom. It wasn’t hot there. Ach, and there’s these tall trees out there too.”

You give him a look like he’s speaking gibberish, your voice taught with disbelief to match, “In the desert?”

“Yes!” He says, ending on a laugh, “I’m not lying. It’s perfect there. We can wash off, too.”

He digs into his pack, pulling out a second temperature controlled suit, “I kept this just in case,” he trails off for a moment, abandoning the rest of his sentence, “It didn’t take up much room, anyway.”

He extends the wrinkled fabric out to you and gives it a little shake when you don’t take it, “Trust me.”

You look into those eyes that have shared so many unsure glances with you, and you can’t help but fold at how sure they look now.

“Okay,” you say, taking the suit from him. He grabs the discarded suit before tucking the food away in his pack.

At the border you both put them on, watching with fascination as they melt into your clothes and skin. He leads you through the sand, and while he doesn’t have an extra pair of shoe attachments, he insists you be the one who wears them.

“To help you keep balance,” You say, offering your unbandaged hand.

He graciously takes it in yours, and you both move through the sand side by side. He doesn’t seem to take your offer to support himself with you, but he keeps your hand in his. The mesh of the suit doesn’t interfere with the feeling of his hand pressed against yours, you can still feel the softness of his palm, the callouses just below the start of his fingers, the gentle squeezes as he navigates the dips in the sand.

“Are you sure you don’t want to switch for a little bit?”

“You have shorter strides anyway,” He says.

You walk in silence for a bit more, locked by the hands and aside from tired ankles, perfectly comfortable in the desert conditions.

“What do you think everyone thinks of this?”

“What do you mean?” He asks.

“The final two not,” You pause for a moment, “Fighting.”

“I don’t know.” He says, “Probably a little disappointed.”

“You think? I thought maybe it’s interesting, at the very least. It’s never happened before as far as I know of.”

He shrugs, “Not sure they need help making it interesting.”

“I guess you’re right.”

A few more paces and another silver parachute floats down from the sky.

You both still as it comes to a graceful stop in the sand just in front of your shoes.

You look at Konig, and he gestures to it, suggesting it’s yours. You carefully pick it up and pop open the canister to unsheathe a second pair of shoe attachments.

You give him a sly smile and hand them over, “Maybe they don’t mind after all.”

He waves a thanks into the sky and lets you steady him as he snaps them onto his shoes. You travel much quicker as you both glide over the sand that’s eager to swallow your feet.

“There’s those plants,” He says as he points to tall, cylindrical looking plants, some of them stretching ten feet in the air. It almost looks like they have arms, thick dusty green branches of itself splitting at the middles and reaching for the sky.

“Don’t touch them,” He warns.

“No?” You ask.

“Covered in spikes,” He says.

“Learn that the hard way?” You ask.

He huffs air out of his nose, rolling his eyes slightly, “It’s possible.”

You give a laugh, and he gives a glare at you from the corner of his half-lidded eyes. He follows it up with a soft squeeze of your hand, just to make sure you know he’s teasing.

There’s a roar in the distance, the sound of a steady, consistent rumble.

“What is that noise?” You ask, a bit frantic.

“No, no,” He reassures, “It’s okay. It’s the waterfall.”

You raise a brow, still skeptical.

As you approach, your face falls as you take in the oasis before you, “You weren’t kidding.”

“I told you,” He says with a squeeze.

Wedged in the height of a large sand dune are large, slick slabs of rock that water spews over, a cascade of thousands of gallons pouring down into a crystal blue lake of water. The pool is ringed by tall, slender trees that shoot straight up into the sky, leaves only in a puff at the very top, those large brown seeds clustered together under the leaves. It doesn’t look like any tree you’ve ever seen in District Nine.

The roar of the waterfall is so loud, you have to raise your voices to talk to each other.

“Is it safe?” You ask. You don’t trust something that’s this pretty in the arena, the same way you didn’t trust the trees or the vegetables in the fall quadrant.

He nods, “I spent a lot of time here. It’s safe.”

You near the edge of the lake, where you break your hold on each other so he can kneel in the sand and dig in his pack. He pulls out both of your jackets, heavily stained with a tapestry of various tributes’ blood.

He begins to wash them in the pool as you scrutinize the water, hesitantly poking your finger in.

It’s clear all the way down, easily seeing the sea plants at the bottom that dance under the warp of the water. There’s a few fish swimming in the pool, enjoying a spot of splotchy shade the leaves of a tall tree casts. They don’t look like any fish you’ve ever seen, brilliant colors and striped designs.

“Thank you,” You say, shaking away your wet hand, “For bringing me here.”

“Of course,” He doesn’t look up from his scrubbing.

You sit back from your squat, and you try to unlace your boots before you’re stopped.

“Oh, right,” You say, remembering the mesh bodysuit.

“You can take it off now,” He says, “It’s comfortable here.”

You hesitate before stripping off your suit, tucking it into Konig’s backpack to avoid sand. You unlace your shoes, peel off your socks and stash them neatly in the mouths of your boots. After, you roll your pant legs up and dip a foot in carefully.

“What happened to your ankles?” Konig says, horrified when he sees the deep pink bruises you’ve revealed.

“Ugh,” You groan as you step both your feet in the water, “So embarrassing. I got caught in someone’s snare.”

“A snare?”

“Yeah,” You nod, watching your toes wiggle into the sand, “I figured it out though. They had me strung up by my feet upside down.

“How did you get out?” He says, amazed.

“Used my belt to hoist me up to my boots. It hurt so bad.”

“Did they find you?”

You shake your head, “Well, I don’t know if it was his trap but the boy from District Eight heard me.”

He goes silent, staring at you with wide eyes.

You shrug, “He didn’t hurt me, he just kept asking about the girl from his district.”

You swallow hard, and look down to the wrist dawning your bracelet.

Your voice is strained when you speak, “Did you see it?”

“See what?”

“What he did to her?”

His expression drops, taking on a sudden serious tone at the haunted look on your face.

“What?”

He studies your face intensely, and your eyes pinch in a hard blink.

“What happened?” He asks.

“I think he volunteered just so he could be the one to,” you hesitate, “Kill her.”

You were way off. About the boy from District Eight and his companion.

About Konig.

You hate being wrong.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” You say, “I don’t understand why he would risk his life just to end someone’s else’s, when she was probably going to die anyway?”

“Hate can’t be reasoned with,” He says without much thought, and you pause your wading, digesting his words.

He’s right. It reminds you of what Price said, about spite getting the best of you.

You couldn’t imagine hating someone so much you’d volunteer just to get the chance to be the one who gets to end someone’s life.

One of your feet wiggles into the sand, the other swirling in the water.

You watch as Konig wrings out the jackets, walking over to a nearby tree to tie the sleeves around its trunk to dry.

When he returns, sitting himself down at the edge of the water, he starts to scrub the mixture of yours and Titan’s blood from his thick gloves.

“Your bandages should be good now,” He says.

“What do you mean?”

“Your cuts. They should be good now.”

You wade back out of the shallow pool, brows furrowed as you unwrap the bandages on your palm.

In just a short time, the medicine has reduced the inflamed jagged slashes on your palm to thin, faint pink lines.

You mutter under your breath, your awe drowned out by the waterfall.

You peel the other bandages off, finding all of your cuts to be in the last stages of the healing process. You hadn’t been able to feel their sting since Konig applied the medicine. Even the deep gash on your forearm has sealed, only a baby pink, decently sized scar in its place.

“Okay?” He asks, looking up at you with a squint.

“Perfect,” You say, rubbing over the cuts on your shoulder that has reduced to scars the size of papercuts, “Did you get that from a sponsor? It must have been expensive.”

“No, actually,” He hangs onto an ‘äh,’ for a moment, hesitating before he responds, “Found it with some other supplies.”

You give a slow nod, not quite believing his answer.

He’s a bad liar.

He rests his gloves on his pack, and fills both of your water containers. While he does this, you tuck Konig’s token into a pocket of his pack, strip off your shirt and kick off your pants, careful not to get sand caught in the wrinkles of the cloth. Now down to your sports bra and underwear, you drape your clothes over his pack.

You stare at the bloody ribbon bracelet, giving it a touch.

You gently untie your sloppy knot, and kneel in the sand to gently rinse out the ribbon.

“What’s that?” Konig asks gently, but curiously.

“Uh,” You pull it from the water, smoothing your thumb over the wet fabric, “It came with the bread. From District Eight.”

He nods slow, and doesn’t say anything else.

You lay the wet ribbon carefully over your clothes to dry.

As you wade deeper into the water, you take slow, careful steps through the sand until you’re submerged to your shoulders.

You let out a pleased sigh, shutting your eyes to block out the bright sun as you soak in the soothing pool.

You use your hands to work a week's worth of blood, dirt, and grime from your skin.

When you’re satisfied, you rinse your hair, giving it a wash in the still part of the pool, combing your fingers through wet strands and rinsing out the collection of dirt and dried blood.

You hum yourself a little tune as you do, only loud enough for you to hear.

The waterfall, while noisy, is relaxing. It reminds you of the sound a cool room makes, or a really strong steady wind. The steady rumble gives your ears something to focus on and keeps the obsessive, intrusive even, thoughts at bay.

When you check on Konig, he’s working stains off your shirt & pants, his attention locked on to the soiled fabric.

You flip to your front and swim back to the edge of the pool. When the bank gets shallow, you keep your body submerged, using your hands in the sand to pull yourself closer to his disturbance in the water. Only the top half of your head peeks out, much like an alligator does as he waits for prey to come along.

“Hello, little fish,” He says, not taking his eyes off the clothes.

You can’t help but giggle before you take in a small gulp of water, lift your head, and squirt a stream in his direction.

“Huch!” He pulls your shirt and pants closer to him in reflex, as if somehow the water was going to soil them more than the blood and dirt. He only looks in your direction a brief moment before he smiles at the sand and returns to his scrubbing.

You give a pleased, mischievous giggle.

“Not very nice, little fish,” He scolds, but you can tell he’s not really annoyed, just amused.

It feels good to be silly. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt this relaxed.

Surprisingly, the impending death is not weighing on you. The thought that you will have nothing to worry about tomorrow actually makes it incredibly easy to not care about today. You have been prey these last few days, craning your neck at every noise, fleeing at trouble, and always wondering when and where and how you’ll be slain.

Now you know.

It will happen tonight, at a location of your choosing, and at the hands of a friend.

Even with every eye in Panem on you, from here, there’s no one but Konig, and there is no longer a reason to distrust him. Before you had suspected that every move he made was somehow a strategy for his survival. Now that he has his win, and you are to be laid to rest today, there is no need for you to have your guard up.

Only Konig has to worry about holding up appearances now.

On your final day, you are free to be silly, to be weak, to be scared, to be human.

“Come swim,” You coax.

“Almost done,” He says, standing to tuck the rest of your clothes into the taught sleeves of the jackets, letting them dangle to dry in the warm air against the tree. He begins to shed his gear and washes them as well.

You make your way back out to the deep, and when the water is up to your shoulders you idle to watch the waterfall. Gallons and gallons of never ending water cascade over the shelf of rock, free falling forty feet into the pool, and creates white, foam-like bubbles under its downpour.

Hesitantly you swim closer, the roar drowning out more of the world as you approach. The sand disappears from underneath you, kicking your feet and paddling your arms to keep your head above the surface. You have to fight the ripples and current the waterfall creates as you near.

There’s a large, smooth rock just to the left and behind the steady pour. You pull yourself up to perch on it, resting your heels against its curve into the water.

You carefully stick your hand into the stream, and quickly pull it back when you feel the water’s intense pressure.

You find your hand is unscathed by the powerful stream, and stick your hand in again.

Once deciding it’s safe, you slip back into the pool and let yourself be engulfed in the waterfall.

It’s a really, really intense shower.

It feels good, a massage almost. The water is a perfect, comfortable temperature, not too cold or too warm.

When you’re done with the waterfall, muscles noticeably untensed, you emerge from the heavy rain and catch Konig on the other end of the pool. He’s completely shed of his gear and now shirtless, all the clothes washed and drying off.

With just the top of your heading poking above the water, you find you can’t help the way your eyes linger, even from across the pool.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him without his gear obscuring him since the bloodbath, and the first time you’ve ever seen him without a shirt on.

When you remember you’re on screen, you quickly flick your gaze away, pretending to inspect some fish and hope the water conceals the flush of your cheeks.

You’d never had the opportunity to be with a boy back in District Nine. It’s frustrating, in every sense of the word. It also tends to make you feel fuzzy around just about any boy your age. That dizzy, electric heat you felt when he grazed your arm in training, when you snuggled up to him that night before the games.

And this? A shirtless boy who happens to be particularly large and sculpted?

It’s making your throat go tight and your mouth dry.

It’s unfortunate that you’ll never get the chance to be with someone.

You actually have to look up at the cloudless, orange desert sky to avoid lingering on him for an uncomfortable amount of time.

You wade back to where your toes can touch, keeping yourself fully submerged. You deem it appropriate to look at him when you hear him make a half dive into the water.

You can see his body through the warped filter of the water, and you can’t help but let out a laugh when he pops his head up, making a splash as he shakes the drips from his hair.

He catches your eyes for a moment before he looks away, turning slightly so he’s not facing you.

There’s an awkward pause before you clear your throat, extending a finger under the water, “Have you ever seen fish like this before?”

You point to a cluster of pink, purple, and bright orange fish hanging in the shade.

“No,” He answers, “They’re very pretty, though.”

“I’m gonna’ say hi,” You say, creeping up to the shade, before fully submerging yourself. You open your eyes under the water to get a good look at their designs. Almost none of them are mono-colored, and none of them dull. The striped patterns are all different, some of them that go up and down uniformly, some that have wiggled stripes, others zig-zagged.

You reach a hand out in their direction and watch them flee, their fins waving elegantly through the water as they zip away.

You pop your head out of the water with heavy breath.

“Did they say hi back?” Konig asks from behind you.

“I think so,” You take another breath and turn to him, “It was all, ‘blub blub blub.’”

“My fish speak is rusty,” He rubs his chin, looking curiously into the water, “But I’m pretty sure they slighted you.”

You giggle again, not necessarily at his joke, but because he’s playing along with you. You’re thankful he’s being silly too, that he’s humoring you on your final day.

You take another deep inhale and go back under, swimming to the bottom to retrieve a shell you noticed while fish spotting.

It’s a scallop shaped shell, the size of your palm. Mostly a deep pink dotted with splotches of white. You bring it over to Konig, who takes your offer without looking.

He marvels at it for a moment, running his thumb over the ridges in the shell. He blindly hands it back to you, and you frown.

You drop the shell as you plant your feet firmly on the sand, letting the water lap at your shoulders. Your body is still except for the gentle wave of your hands as they glide through the soothing weight of the pool.

“Are you okay?” You ask.

“Yes,” He says, still slightly turned away from you. His cupped hands bring water just above the surface, watching it as it drains through his fingers and trickles to the pool, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

You’re worried he might be upset with you, the way he’s been avoiding you since you got to the oasis.

You squint your eyes, lowering yourself in the water until it’s just your eyes and nose peeking out. You take another mouthful of water, and arch it in his direction.

“Oh?”

He does it again, those bright eyes finding you and flicking away as soon as he realizes he’s looking at you. It reminds you of how you had tried to avoid looking at him so many times before, fighting the urge to lean on him.

“That,” You say, pointing at him, “Did I do something?”

“No!” He says quickly, looking to the sky, “I just - you’re, y’know,”

“What?” You ask, more laugh than question.

“Y’know,” He drags the word out a bit, hoping you’ll understand what he’s alluding to without having to say it, but you make him.

His face turns pink, his words mumbled and forced, “In your underwear.”

“So are you!” You say, face warped in a smile and a finger pointing at him.

“Well, yeah, but,” He doesn’t have a defense.

“Should I put my clothes back on?” You ask.

“No!” He says too quickly. He clears his throat, “I want you to be comfortable, I mean. It feels wrong to look at you. I don’t want to, äh, stare.”

“So respectful,” You say with a roll of your eyes.

And then you squirt him with another arch of water.

His nerves shed as he laughs, finally turning towards you and meeting your eyes, “You asked for this, little fish.”

You let out a squeak as he takes his flat palm and slams it down on the surface of the water, sending a splash in all directions. You sneak away with a dive, kicking your feet to make distance before resurfacing.

You’re already laughing before you’re back in the air, having to take deep inhales to catch your breath.

It’s a no-holds-barred-all-out splash war after that.

“Truce! Truce!” You yell, breathless from giggles and squeals, hands up in defense and head turned away from the line of fire.

He stops mid-splash with a big grin, “I accept your surrender.”

“That is not what a truce means!”

He makes a movement with his hand, threatening to skim the surface again.

“Okay, okay! I surrender,” you squeak out.

He hums in approval and gently lowers his hand back into the water.

There’s another pause, and squint eyes flit around the oasis, and land on the top of the waterfall.

“Have you been up there?”

“Not really,” He says, “I think it’s just sand.”

“Where’s the water coming from?” You ask, and he just shrugs.

You wade to the side of the pool, pulling yourself up to the sandy shore.

You’re dripping, hair clinging to your skin, kicking up sand that sticks to your wet feet and calves while you struggle to climb the dune.

At the top of the waterfall, you can see it’s clearly man-made. The water flows from the thin space between the shelf of rock and the sand dune it sticks out from.

With careful feet, you climb onto the slick shelf and scoot towards the edge, peering down at the pool below while the water parts for your feet and rinses the sand from your soles.

Konig’s waving his hands and yelling something at you, but you can’t hear his words over the roar of the waterfall.

There’s no rocks directly below the waterfall, and you know it’s deep enough there.

Even if you did hurt yourself, you were going to die anyway, right?

After working up some courage, you close your eyes, clamp your nose, and jump, kicking off the edge of the rock to push yourself out from the waterfall.

For two or three seconds you are falling with a shriek, limbs flailing before they break the surface of the water and send you plunging deep below.

Before you can surface, Konig has met you underwater, a firm grip on your arm as he yanks you up. When you both break into the air, he grabs your shoulders, letting go once he meets your eyes.

You both speak at the same time, frantic and worried.

“What?! What’s wrong!?” You say, swiveling your head to look for the threat.

“Are you okay?!”

“Oh,” you meet his eyes again when you realize there’s no danger, releasing the hold on the dip of his shoulders you didn’t realize you had.

“It’s fine. You should try it,” You say as you rearrange your wet, messy hair.

He shakes his head, “You could have hurt yourself.”

“Oh no,” You say with a roll of your eyes, “What do I have to lose, a couple hours?”

Konig studies your face, eyes flicking around your features with a frown.

“Okay, sorry,” You give a wave of dismissal, “Didn’t mean to make it uncomfortable by bringing up my imminent death.”

You wag your eyebrows at him, “I’m gonna’ do it again.”

“No,” He says firmly.

“Mm, guess you’ll have to stop me,” You shrug, starting in a swim to the edge of the pool.

A gentle but firm hand wraps around your calf and pulls you back in, “You should stay here, little fish.”

“Hey!” You protest, flipping over in the water and kicking your feet away from him, “You got water up my nose.”

He lets go of your leg and holds his hands up in mock apology, “Sorry, but I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“Sorry,” you mock nasally as you rub out the burn from your nose, “But I want you to jump with me.”

“No way,” He says.

“You’re really going to deny a dead girl’s last request?” You narrow your eyes with a playful grin, “I didn’t realize you were so cold.”

He lets out a defeated huff.

No one can say no to the dead girl card.

He looks around the oasis with a low hum before revelation projects on his features, “What if we played a game instead?”

Your eyebrows perk up, “Like what?”

You can’t remember the last time you played a game. Once you’re old enough to work the fields in District Nine, between work, school, and trying to stay fed, there isn’t much time for games.

“What if,” He says, rubbing a finger along his jaw, clearly making up the rules on the spot. His face flashes with another idea before he takes a deep inhale and goes under, resurfacing with your pink and white shell, “One of us throws it, and the other tries to catch it before it sinks to the bottom?”

“Okay,” You say, with an almost childish eagerness to your voice.

He gives a pleased smile, having successfully redirected you to a less dangerous time-passer.

In your final moments, you want to be carefree, you want to have fun.

You’re grateful Konig is willing to let you have this before your death, because you know he doesn’t have to. He’s entitled to his win whenever he wants. He could have killed you in the finale, and he could have been back in the Capitol by now, indulging in his victory.

“I’ll throw first?” He asks.

You nod, blowing bubbles under the surface of the water while you wait for him to wade to the side of the pool. You can’t help but stare at the strong arms that leave the warp of the water, the glistening muscles of his back tensing as he pulls himself up to the shore. You can see the definition from here. They cast shadows, for fucks sake.

Your bubbles peter out, and you can feel the eyes again.

All of Panem.

You sink further into the water, hair dancing and curling like the sea plants below as you stare at your wrinkled fingertips. It’s the best you can do to hide yourself. To fall through the floor, just as you so often wish to do.

“Ready?” He calls.

You nod with an expectant smile, priming yourself.

It’s ridiculous, the shape of him. But not for the reason the people back home make fun of him for.

He looks like he was chiseled from marble, crafted with millions of flawless strikes to reveal what can only be a higher being’s idea of human excellence. It’s mesmerizing, watching his muscles push and pull against each other with each of his movements. Each moment a unique mosaic made of strong flesh interlocked in perfect puzzle pieces that support his being. The bright sun reflects off water droplets and makes his entire body throw light.

He’s radiant.

You’ve been around shirtless boys in the fields of District Nine, and it’s always been noticed by you, but this, this feels downright erotic. It feels wrong to -

It feels wrong to even look at him.

“Did you forget how to play?” He calls.

“What?”

“You didn’t catch it.”

There’s a beat.

“Oh, oh! Yes,” You have to laugh, because what you really want to do is drown yourself.

You retrieve the shell, staying underwater as long as you can manage. Your cheeks are burning when you surface, holding the shell in the air with a wave.

You toss it back to him, and immediately look away.

Maybe it would be best if he just killed you now, actually.

You keep your gaze to the water, waiting for the splash of the shell before you dive, feet kicking and arms rowing as you aim for the shell.

You catch it just inches from the pool’s sandy floor, displaying it proudly as you surface.

“Your turn!”

Without missing a beat you launch the shell straight up into the air, watching it arc before it makes its dissent from the sky.

There’s a moment of alarm that spreads on his features before he springs into action, an impressive head first dive from the bank into the water, quickly retrieving the shell and resurfacing with a laugh.

“Hey!” He says.

You give him an innocent shrug, a telling smile on your face.

You take turns diving for the shell for a while, he shoots down your idea of trying to catch it after jumping from the falls, and eventually you end up trying to see how long you can hold handstands under the water.

Once you both wind down, you float for what feels like hours, resting your eyes from the desert sun, listening to the crash of water on the surface of the pool. Soft, gentle waves lap at your skin, and at some point you and Konig link the crook of your elbows together to keep from floating away. You try really hard to ignore the feeling of his hard, pronounced, bare bicep wrapped around yours.

“We should make our way back soon,” He says as the sun sinks lower in the sky, “Weird animals in the desert at night.”

You nod in agreement, worn out by the swimming and sunbathing, ankles sore from exertion.

You wade back out to the shore, wringing out your hair and shaking off drops of water as you coat your feet in a generous layer of sand.

He retrieves your now dry clothes, nice and toasty from the sun. Konig offers to rinse your calves off, using the water from the bottles as you teeter on one foot. He gives you a cloth to dry off and lets you use his forearm to steady yourself while you slip your sock and boot back on. You repeat the process for your other foot, and return the favor for him.

You both dress in your clean clothes, Konig’s gear and the haunting mask making a reappearance while you return your token to its temporary home and carefully refasten the ribbon around your wrist.

As you’re both slipping the body suits back on, Konig gestures to your bruised ankles, “Does it hurt? To walk on them?”

“They’re sore, but I’ll manage.”

“I can carry you,” He offers.

“What?” You ask with a puffy exhale, as if he told you a bad taste joke.

“I could carry you back,” He repeats, as casually as one would offer a glass of water.

“Oh, no,” You say with a wave of your hand, averting your gaze, “That’s okay.”

“Are you sure? You probably shouldn’t be walking on it, you might make it worse.”

“Oh no,” you say in the same cadence to his objection to the waterfall, generous sarcasm paired with a roll of your eyes, “Won’t be my problem for long.”

There’s a pause, his eyes twitching before they relax, “Well if the dead girl’s wish to have sore ankles, who am I to deny her?”

You blow air out your nose, another roll of your eyes.

No one can say no to the dead girl card.

“C’mere,” you say with a raise of your arms.

He leans down, letting you wrap your arms tightly around his hooded neck. He cradles your back with one forearm, his other reaching down to scoop you up by your knees, literally sweeping you off your feet.

He hoists you up like you weigh nothing. He keeps your side close to his core, holding you just under his vest. You keep one arm slung around the back of his neck, resting your forearm on his backpack as he carries you along. Your other arm drapes over your torso, fingers threading into a pocket on his vest. There’s a warmth blossoming on your cheeks that you hope the cameras can’t see as you bury yourself into his shoulder, your cheek pressed up against the drape of his hood.

“Thank you,” you whisper into the crook of his neck.

“Of course, little fish,” He says, the low vibration of his words tickling your side. You give him a soft hum in return.

You don’t seem to be holding him back at all, not fazed by the extra weight. You both share a comfortable silence for the rest of the trip, him lulling you as each step rocks you in his arms, your feet swaying and eyes fluttering shut.

When he gives you a gentle squeeze, you open your eyes and find he’s carried you all the way to the border in the spring quadrant.

He lets you down slowly, and you take your time stretching out your limbs.

Konig spreads out your clean jackets side-by-side, a makeshift blanket to separate you both from the grass. After you both strip off the temperature suits, you lay your upper half on your jacket, threading your fingers together and resting them under your ribcage.

“Are you hungry?” He asks, unpacking the food from his backpack.

You hum affirmative.

He removes his hood, and both eat in a comfortable silence, sleepy from the long trek and the day in the sun.

“Is there anything you’ve ever wanted to do, but never got the chance?” You ask after a long silence, having spent it pondering your approaching death.

He nods, finishing a swallow of orange before he speaks.

“Yeah,” He says without clarifying.

“Like what?” You ask.

He gives you a long, drawn-out stare before he shifts his attention to his bread, “I don’t know, there’s a lot of things.”

You let the silence play out, looking at him expectantly.

“Like, äh. I’ve always wanted to have,” He trails off for a moment, flicking his gaze to the snow behind you, “A close friend.”

“You really didn’t have any friends in District Nine?”

You knew he was an outcast, you didn’t realize he was completely isolated.

“No,” He says, ripping a chunk of bread from what remains of the loaf, “Is there anything you wanted to do?”

“I don’t know,” You shrug, ripping a cookie in half and taking a bite. You take a moment to savor it with a hum, “I always thought I’d’ve found love by now, y’know?”

“What do you mean?” He asks.

“I’ve never had anything romantic, I guess. No boys, or anything.”

“Really?” He asks, genuinely surprised.

“Nope.”

“Did you like anyone?” He asks carefully, a slight squint in his eyes.

“Eh,” You say with a shrug. You quirk a brow at him, a devilish grin spreading on your face as you pop a blackberry between your teeth, “Did you?”

His eyes go wide, tensing in his spot. A faint glow creeps onto his cheeks.

You laugh, “It’s okay, you don’t have to say. Wouldn’t want you to go home and have to face her.”

He swallows, looking down to a chunk of bread he rolls between his fingers.

“Yeah,” He says evenly, with a bit of a strain, “I don’t think I’ll ever have the chance.”

You give a high hum and another shrug, “Well, you never know. You know how they are with the victors. She’ll probably be throwing herself at you with everyone else.”

He gives a slow nod, using his knife to spread cheese over his now smushed bread.

There’s another silence, both of you sharing the cold stew, dipping chunks of bread into it.

“What’d’ya think Price makes of this?” You work your bread to pick up a piece of carrot, “You think he’s proud of us?”

He scoffs, “I’m not sure what else we could do.”

Something comes to mind, and he laughs before continuing, “Do you think you should confess…” He trails off, raising his brow and tilting his head. It takes you a moment to realize he’s alluding to the whiskey incident on the train.

“Oh, absolutely not,” You say, “He can’t know. And you have been sworn to secrecy, and I expect that to be honored in my death.”

He gives a small laugh and holds up a palm as if giving an oath, “Alright, your secret is safe with me.”

You smile in approval, taking another bite of the cookie and savoring the dessert before offering it to Konig, who shakes his head.

“Did you know about his plan?”

He tilts his head, “What plan?”

“About-“ You cut yourself off, trying to word this without giving away you had absolutely no idea you were friends until a couple hours ago, “About tricking the other tributes into thinking we were allies.”

He squints, and shakes his head.

“He-“ You take another pause to carefully select your words, “He paired us up in training, matched our outfits, and the interview?”

Konig looks to the side, still not understanding.

“The other tributes - they thought we were allies. So instead of everyone wanting to hunt you down, they had their focus split on both of us. So,-“ You pause for a moment, “They had incentive to keep me alive. It’s like - You know how Titan didn’t kill me when he had the chance? Because he wanted to use me against you?”

He nods slow.

“Did Price tell you about this?” He asks, playing with his fingers.

“No,” you say with a shake of your head.

“How do you know?”

“Titan- ah, I had a run in with Titan before.”

He stares at you, eyes snapping open, “What? Is that what happened to your arm?”

“No, no. That was District One.”

“The boy?”

“The girl.”

“What happened with Titan?” He asks.

You scoff, “I told him to eat sand. And then he did.”

“You fought him?”

You touch the healed nick Titan made on your neck.

“Sort of,” You shrug, “He pinned me down, and he wanted me to call for you - that’s how I knew. He didn’t kill me right away, so I had a chance to escape.”

“How?”

A smug, sly grin blooms on your face, “I made him eat sand.”

Konig laughs, leaning back, “What?”

“He pinned me to the ground in the desert, so I blinded him with sand,” Your smile widens, eyes squinting mischievously, “I bet it hurt.”

He gives a weak laugh. There’s a pause, and his smile falls, “Did he hurt you?”

You shake your head, “No, well he choked me, and gave me a paper cut.”

You touch your cut again.

“But that’s a small price to pay for the satisfaction.”

He nods, not finding it as funny as you. There’s another beat, and he speaks toward the ground.

“I’m sorry.”

You wave your hand and swallow hard, your voice a bit more broken than you would have liked, “I’ve been through worse.”

There’s another pause.

His eyes find yours again, you can feel the burn of his stare, but you don’t meet his stare.

“You want to talk about it?” He asks.

You gnaw on your lower lip, considering it.

You shake your head slowly.

He nods, and whispers, “I get it.”

You both get lost in another silence. A good chunk of time passes, and your mind has drifted back to your impending death. More curious than anxious.

“What’ll you think it’ll be like?” You ask.

“What?”

“Death.”

“Oh,” He looks to the dirt, his hand coming to his chin, “I think it’ll be peaceful. Like,” He thinks for a moment, “Sleeping, or coming home maybe.”

You give a nod.

“I hope so,” You say with wist.

There’s another pause, and then you ask, “How do you want to do it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Y’know,” You say, flicking your gaze awkwardly to the side.

“Oh,” He says, as if he hadn’t considered it yet, “I think it should be how you want it to be. We don’t have to do it yet, though.”

“I know,” you say, “But it’s hard not to think about it. Part of coming to terms with it, I guess. I just want to know.”

“What do you want to do?”

You peer out, staring at the yellow and red leaves of the fall forest, taking a sip of juice.

“I don’t know. As long as it’s quick.”

He just nods, looking down to the food spread between you.

“Sunset,” You say.

”Huh?” He asks.

“Sunset, I want to do it at sunset.”

He gives a swallow, his eyes darting around.

“Okay,” He says, low and soft.

You close your eyes and take a few deep breaths, lowering your back flush in the dirt. One hand cushions your head, the other sliding blades of grass between the gaps of your fingers.

“I think I’m okay with it,” You let out a long, soothing exhale, “With dying. I just hope it’s nice.”

“Me too,” He mumbles.

You hum, nestling further into the jacket and the soft grass.

“Want anymore food?” He asks.

“No, I’m okay,” You say, keeping your eyes closed.

You can hear him shuffling the containers over the whistle of a light spring breeze, setting them in the grass above your head.

He cleans off the knife he used to spread the cheese, lays down beside you on his jacket, and for a while you both lay. Soaking in the sun hung over the desert quadrant, but no more searing than the warmth of a gentle spring sun.

“What would you do different?” You ask with your eyes closed, “If you could do your life over again.”

He thinks on it for a moment, “I’d probably talk to you sooner.”

A smile spreads on your face, “That’s it?”

“Yeah I think that’s the big one,” he says with a smile.

You respond by giving him a light tap on his side, as if telling him to be serious.

“It’s true,” He says, “There are other things. But that one sticks out the most. I would have really liked having a friend in District Nine.”

“What about you?” He asks after another pause.

You intertwine your own fingers together and lay them just below your chest with a hum.

“Lots of things,” You huff, “Probably wouldn’t have chugged that whiskey.”

He laughs, hearty and genuine enough to make your chest flood with warmth.

“I thought we were keeping it a secret.”

“Eh, what do I have to lose?” You throw a defeated hand in the air and talk to Price, “Couldn’t handle my liquor.”

He laughs again, “You’ve always been too brave for your own good.”

You scoff, “I’m not brave.”

“Sure you are,” He says, and begins to rattle off a list as if he had it ready to go, “That boy, the whiskey, the balcony, Titan, the waterfall. Too brave.”

“I’m not brave, I’m just angry.”

“And you don’t think everyone else gets angry too? The only difference between being angry and being brave is doing something about it.”

You open your eyes and tilt your head at him, squinting at the sunlight.

“There’s a lot of things I get angry about that I don’t do something about.”

“Things out of your control?”

“Well,” You trail off, understanding you’re in dangerous territory, bordering along blasphemous criticism of the Capitol, “Yeah but, the things I do get spiteful about is self-destructive. It’s reckless. I don’t think, I just act - and I always regret it.”

“Do you regret what you did to that boy?”

You take a deep breath, eyes darting away momentarily.

“I- I was ashamed of my behavior, yeah. I probably should have went about it a different way but I’m glad they stopped picking on you. Something good that came of it.”

He gives you a ghost of a smile and nods.

Any fear you’ve had about the gamemakers cutting your pact short has dissipated, convinced that the drama and the heartbreak and the tragic nature of it all was certainly some of the best television ever seen. You’re sure they’re eating this up in the Capitol.

Another peaceful silence falls over you, and Konig is the one to break it this time.

“You’ve really never had a boyfriend?”

You let out a snort, “No, really.”

“Kissed a boy?”

“No,” You say through a laugh, “Why?”

He shrugs, “Just hard to believe.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” He looks up to the sky, “Just thought boys would throw themselves at you.”

You scoff, “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

He goes stiff as he stumbles through his words, “Äh, well, you’re - y’know.”

“I don’t,” You say.

“Pretty,” He says, just loud enough to carry.

Another smile creeps on your face.

“You think I’m pretty?” You ask in a smug tone with suspended disbelief, elbows and forearms propping yourself up as your top half twists to face him.

His cheeks flush as he stares at the lush grass. His words come out mumbled and broken, fingers fidgeting, “Well, I- sure, I do.”

You laugh, “Well, thank you.”

Your eyes give him a quick full over scan, “You’re not so bad yourself.”

You settle back into your jacket.

“You’re smart too,” He blurts out after a pause.

You look to him again, meeting his eyes before he looks away, landing on his own fidgeting fingers.

“You think so?” You ask with a raise of a brow.

“Oh, yeah,” He says assuredly, with a nod that’s just a bit too fast, “Quick.”

Your hold each other’s stare for a moment.

There’s really no reason for him to lie to you at this point. What he’s sharing with you seems genuine, unless he’s playing an angle with the audience you don’t understand. Brownie points for being nice to the dead girl, maybe?

His eyes are indecipherable, pupils mapping your face as he soaks in the features that furrow as they try to understand his intentions.

He nods again, slight but quick movements.

You both hold each other’s stare - another moment of charged tension - there’s something happening that’s difficult for you to place. It’s as if there’s some big orchestrated plan you’re being left out from, but it’s just you and Konig here.

You and Konig and all of Panem.

Your eyes slightly narrow as you try to figure out what he would stand to gain from lying, why he feels the need to say these things now, and why you are struggling to come up with a retort, an answer, or to even break his stare.

You’re both stuck, caught in this moment weird moment of uncertainty as you have so many times before, but instead of sharing in the unease, it’s directed at each other.

The corner of your lip perks up, your eyebrows lowering in genuine yet hesitant acceptance, “Thanks.”

He nods, breaking the stare. He plays with his fingers and continues, his voice low and soft, “You always say what’s on your mind. I’ve always- I wish I could do that.”

You continue to bore into him as he watches his own fingers lace and unlace.

“Never done me any favors,” You say, combing through every incident your big mouth has gotten you into trouble.

“Worked on me,” he says quietly with a shrug.

You look at him again, confused on where this is coming from.

“Worked on you?” You repeat.

He starts, fumbling for his words, “Wha- äh, I mean, I meant that I just, I admire that, is all.”

He’s tearing fistfuls of grass from the dirt.

“What about you?” You ask.

“Huh?”

“You’ve never had a girlfriend?”

He shakes his head.

“You ever fooled around with anyone?”

His cheeks flush, his eyes darting around, “No. Never had the chance.”

“I think that’s one of the things I’m bummed about the most to be honest. Always wanted to try that before I died,” You laugh, running your fingers over what’s left of your chipped nail polish as you stare out into the distance.

He’s still tearing up handfuls of grass, averting your stare. His next words are whispered, just a wisp of a sentence, “Me too.”

There’s a long pause, filled by the sound of grass uprooting and the light spring breeze.

This pause is charged, awkward, but electric.

You don’t think before you ask what you’re both thinking.

“Should we?” A mischievous smile spreads on your face.

“Wha- What?”

“Fool around,” You say, lips still curled in a devilish grin.

Normally you’d never be so forward. But here, while you have only a few hours left, why not? You’re not going to be shy enough to miss out on your only opportunity to check a few things off the bucket list before you die. You could certainly do a lot worse in terms of losing your virginity. If he rejected your offer, it’s not like you’ll have to deal with the embarrassment for long.

“What?” He says again, almost horrified, his whole face turning red.

“Here?” He asks before you can repeat the question, his head swiveling as he looks around the arena. His palm touches his chest, “With me?”

“Yeah, why not?” You shrug.

“Because everyone’s watching,” He gets out with a stutter. He thinks for a moment and repeats, “With me?”

You laugh and offer a shrug, “If you want. Might as well.”

The pads of his fingers rub together furiously, “But you’ll have to go home and face everyone, and - and they’ll know.”

Maybe you are as quick as Konig thinks you are, because you catch it immediately.

Konig doesn’t.

It rolled off his tongue so casually, as if he’d said it a million times before. You can tell he doesn’t recognize his screw up by the way he responds to your face dropping, your head cocking to the side, your eyes narrowing.

He looks puzzled, flushed, a little scared - but not busted.

“What?” He asks.

Konig leans back instinctively when you prime yourself, hands already bracing the grass for movement.

Your voice is dangerous and taught, each word spoken independently and brought to an icy point.

“I’ll go home.”

Now he’s realized it. His face sinks, his eyes are wide and desperate, lips gaped as he searches for a recovery but his mind is clearly failing him. If it had just been a slip of the tongue, or maybe if he was a better liar, he would have just corrected himself - but the fear in his eyes gives it away.

It was no mistake.

You give a slow, dangerous nod, your tongue running along the front of your teeth as you look away to stare into the distance.

It all makes sense now.

Why he didn’t let Eleven or Titan kill you. Why he didn’t kill you. Why he went through the trouble of nursing your wounds. Why he’s letting you come to terms with your death. Why he’s insistent on you not acting dangerously even though you have no time left.

A jacket on a cold night, pleas to ally, cuddling, handholding, carrying, compliments, blushing.

Murders on your behalf.

These are not the actions of a friend.

This is what Titan meant.

This is what he wanted Konig to confess to you.

The other tributes didn’t think you were allies - they had known of Konig’s affection all along, and they wanted to use you as leverage, bait to take down their toughest opponent.

You were Konig’s weakness all along.

Everyone must have known.

Of course they did.

Holding hands at the opening ceremony, attached at the hip in training, protecting you from confrontation. Price’s knowing stares, stating confidently that you could convince Konig to rebel against the Capitol, forcing Konig to blush at the mention of your name. The careers keeping a careful eye on the boy who cares far too much about the girl, using her against him, and rubbing it in at every opportunity.

It must be obvious to the audience, too.

All of Panem must know, Konig’s intentions were clear from the start, and you were too dense to see what was right in front of your fucking face.

You scoff, voice tightening with betrayal and every word slicing through the tensed air.

Your head slowly turns to face him, jaw cocked and a tented brow.

“You’re planning on sacrificing yourself for me, aren’t you?”

NEXT CHAPTER | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

[jacquitries]

When Gods Fall | T.R.

In a world where Tom Riddle is a god, there’s one thing he can’t conquer—you. When you’re hurt, his obsession comes to light, and you discover that even gods can fall.

𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘

You were a moth to a wildfire. A consuming, unrelenting force that demanded worship. Tom Riddle spoke, and the world leaned in. The rich timbre of his voice wove through the air like a spell of its own, and you were no different from the rest. Enamored. Entranced. But unlike them, you were aware.

Liking a god was folly.

So you stood at his side, not in deference, but in presence. You were skilled, an exceptional witch, and that was why he kept you close. That was why you belonged to his carefully curated circle, where he collected power like a dragon hoards gold. He favored strength, intelligence, potential. And you—you never fawned, never preened under his attention, never sought it. That, perhaps, was what frustrated him most.

Your mind was sharp, your wit cutting. You could match him in conversation, challenge him in ways no one else dared. He did not simply tolerate your presence—he sought it. And yet, for all his influence, for all the people who clamored for his favor, he found himself waiting for yours.

And he noticed when you were absent.

"She doesn’t treat you the way the others do."

The words came from Abraxas Malfoy, lounging lazily in his chair, twirling his wand between his fingers. The Slytherin common room buzzed around them, low murmurs of students engaged in hushed conversation, but Tom's circle had their own space, their own rules. Tom did not respond immediately, merely tilting his head as he regarded your usual empty seat.

Avery smirked. "You could command her attention if you wanted. Just a word, and she’d be on her knees like the rest."

Tom’s jaw ticked. "No, she wouldn’t."

A knowing chuckle rippled through his group. Even among his most devoted followers, it was obvious. He had everything, commanded everyone, but you remained just out of reach. You did not seek his approval, did not hang on his every word like the others.

And tonight, you weren’t here.

His fingers tapped against the armrest. "Where is she?"

A brief silence. Then, Rosier shrugged. "Off practicing, probably. She wasn’t at the meeting."

Tom said nothing. But he was already standing.

The night air was crisp, the scent of parchment still lingering on your robes as you left the library. A Gryffindor victory meant drunken revelry, songs slurred through corridors, bodies stumbling in celebration. You paid it little mind, until they found you.

Six of them. Their breath reeked of firewhiskey, their eyes glinted with something far more dangerous than intoxication.

"Look what we have here," one of them sneered, stepping too close. "A little Slytherin all alone."

You lifted your wand before he could blink. "Step away."

They laughed.

Then they lunged.

Your magic was fire, raw and untamed, searing through the night. A hex sent one crashing into the stone wall, another clutching his bleeding nose, a third convulsing from a well-placed curse. But there were too many. Hands clawed at you, nails raking, fists striking. You barely registered the pain through the adrenaline, the desperation to get free.

And then you did. You ran, battered and bruised, their slurred shouts chasing after you.

The common room was dim, the emerald glow of the lamps casting long shadows. And there he was.

Tom Riddle, seated by the fire, elegance carved into his every movement, looked up.

His expression stilled. His gaze sharpened, flicking over your torn robes, the smudges of blood, the trembling of your fingers. And then—

His eyes darkened, his jaw clenched. Rage curled through him like a brewing storm, restrained only by sheer force of will. His voice, when it came, was a whisper laced with steel.

"Tell me who hurt you."

You exhaled, unsteady, weary. "Please. Let me deal with it in the morning. The night has already taken too much from me."

Something flickered in his gaze. A pause. A realization. He took in your small frame, the exhaustion etched into your very being, and the fury simmering beneath his skin cooled.

He relented.

Wordlessly, he stood, reaching for your wrist. He led you through the corridors, the silence between you thick with unspoken words. He brought you to the prefects' bathroom, locking the door behind him.

He knelt before you.

You watched, breath caught in your throat, as he carefully examined your injuries, his touch uncharacteristically gentle. A whispered spell cleaned the blood, a salve smoothed over the bruises. His fingers lingered, tracing the tender marks left by their hands.

It was surreal. This god among men tending to you with the reverence of something fragile.

You swallowed. "I didn't know you had this side to you. That you cared like this."

His lips curled, not in amusement, but something else. "Just for you."

A confession, raw and unguarded. Your breath hitched.

Silence stretched, thick and heavy.

Then, softer, hesitant, he asked, "May I stay with you tonight? To ensure nothing else happens?"

Your pulse thrummed. You nodded.

You expected tension, discomfort, but the warmth of him beside you melted away the remnants of terror. In the quiet of the night, you whispered what had happened, your voice steady, but the weight of it unmistakable. He listened, unmoving, his hands curled into fists.

A tempest lay beneath his skin, but he remained still—for you.

Sleep claimed you.

And when you woke, he was gone.

The day stretched, a hollow ache settling in your chest. He was nowhere. You carried on, pretending the absence didn’t gnaw at you. You contemplated telling the professors, seeking justice, but the thought of doing it without him at your side felt unbearable.

The great hall was abuzz with chatter when he finally appeared, striding in as if nothing had changed. He approached, took the seat beside you, his voice smooth and unbothered. "How are you?"

You frowned. "Like a song cut short, if I’m honest. You disappeared."

A flicker of something crossed his face—an apology, rare and unexpected. "I had things to do."

Before you could ask, the headmaster rose, clearing his throat. The hall quieted.

"It is with great sorrow that I inform you of a tragedy. Earlier today, six Gryffindor students were found in the Forbidden Forest. Mauled."

Gasps. Cries. The weight of the announcement settled like a leaden fog.

You turned to him. And you knew.

He sat unmoving, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes burned with satisfaction. There was no remorse. No regret. Only a dark, quiet promise.

Your fingers found his beneath the table. You squeezed. He glanced at you, unreadable.

After dinner, you took his hand fully, leading him away, away from prying eyes and whispered speculations.

"I am yours."

His grip tightened, his breath ragged and uneven, as though holding onto his control by a thread. His voice broke free, raw and desperate, more a plea than an order. "Are you willing to bet your life on it? To say it again, knowing that once you do, you’ll never be able to leave my side?"

You leaned in, your lips brushing his ear, your breath a soft whisper against his skin. "I will say it a thousand times more. I am yours."

That was all it took.

With a feral growl that reverberated deep in his chest, Tom’s restraint shattered. His lips crashed into yours with a hunger so fierce, so consuming, it felt as though he were trying to take more than just your mouth. His hands were frantic, tangled in your hair, dragging you closer, as if he could meld you into him, erase any distance between you.

You could taste the desperation in him, the raw need that clawed at him beneath the mask of his control. It was a kiss that bordered on violent, his teeth grazing your bottom lip, his body pressing against yours like he wanted to consume you whole, devour you completely.

For a moment, the world faded away. There was nothing but him. his frantic touch, his heated breath, the way his hands gripped you like he would never let go.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath uneven. His voice was strained, guttural, barely a whisper. "I will keep you—body, soul, everything you are. No one will touch you. No one will have you but me. Forever."

And in that moment, something deep and ancient stirred within him, and you realized—even gods can fall.

[novaursa]

Chains of Flame

- Summary: Aegon conquers the North, breaks your betrothal to Torrhen, and takes you as his third wife.

- Pairing: sister!reader/Aegon I Targaryen (one-sided)

- Note: These events happen right before The Broken Crown. @oxymakestheworldgoround I hope you like it. 🙂

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @fiction-fanfic-reader @fireandblood-mharmie @poisonedsultana

The Northmen stand silent, their breath hanging in the cold air as Aegon Targaryen, now styled the Conqueror, steps forward. You watch from a raised platform, your heart hammering as you take in the sight below. Torrhen Stark, King in the North, stands proud and unyielding before the might of the dragonlord. His eyes flicker briefly to you, a look filled with sorrow and a hint of betrayal.

Aegon's voice booms over the gathered men, a stark contrast to the cold stillness of the North. "I accept your submission, Torrhen Stark. You are no longer King in the North, but Warden, sworn to me and mine."

Torrhen nods stiffly, his face a mask of stoic calm. He removes the crown himself, placing it at Aegon's feet. It is a small thing in that moment, the act of surrender, but it feels like a shifting of the world. You feel the weight of it like a stone in your chest.

Aegon gestures, and you see the great crown of the North picked up by Orys Baratheon’s hand. The sight of it, soon to be discarded, makes something in you clench.

But then Aegon speaks again, and you know this is not over. “There is another matter, Torrhen Stark, that we must settle.” His voice is iron, unyielding. “The betrothal arranged by your father—between my sister and you—is no more.”

A murmur spreads through the assembled lords and bannermen. Your breath catches in your throat, though you had known this moment was coming. The promise made to you, to the North, is shattered in an instant, and the sting of betrayal mingles with relief and fear.

Torrhen’s face pales, his jaw tightening. For the first time, his composure wavers. He glances at you again, and you see the raw pain in his eyes. He does not speak, but you can feel the weight of his silent agony. His mouth opens, then closes, as if words would betray the storm raging within him.

Aegon turns to the gathered Northmen, his presence commanding, his tone brooking no dissent. “I will take Y/N as my third wife, joining her to me as a true queen of Westeros. This is the will of the Conqueror. No man will challenge it.”

The crowd erupts, voices rising in surprise and dismay. The North had seen you as their own, a bridge between the frozen lands and the fiery South. And now, you are being taken from them, claimed by the dragon.

You feel Torrhen’s gaze on you, and you force yourself to meet it. His pain is a spear to your heart, for you had cared for him, in your way. He was to be your husband, your future, a man who respected and honored you. But it was not love, not in the way Aegon’s presence invades your thoughts, dominates your heart despite your resentment.

“I will come to Winterfell,” Aegon continues, his voice softer now, though no less commanding. “To claim her, as is my right. But I will grant you, Torrhen Stark, time to bid her farewell.” His eyes flick to you, and for a moment, the steel in his gaze softens. “I understand my sister holds you in high regard.”

You want to lash out, to rage at the unfairness of it all. He took your future and made it his own. Aegon’s jealousy, his possessiveness, had bound you to him in chains of blood and fire, and now he stands here, triumphant, while the North mourns the loss of its promised queen.

Torrhen bows his head, the weight of his defeat pressing down on his shoulders. “I thank you for your mercy, my lord,” he says, the words clipped and tight. He does not look at you again, and the distance between you feels like an insurmountable chasm.

The ceremony ends, and Aegon turns to you, his hand reaching out. The crowd parts as you descend, every step heavy, the eyes of the North upon you. When you take Aegon’s hand, his grip is firm, possessive, and something in you breaks.

“I will not forget this, brother,” you whisper harshly as he leads you away, your voice low so only he can hear. “You have taken everything from me.”

He stops, his eyes searching yours, and for a moment, you think you see regret. But then it is gone, replaced by the unwavering determination that has always defined him. “I would take the world for you,” he murmurs, his voice fierce. “And I will make you my queen, as I've promised you.”

You look back once, meeting Torrhen’s eyes across the sea of people. His face is unreadable, a mask of Northern stoicism, but the pain is there, deep and unyielding. You look away, because to hold his gaze any longer would be to shatter entirely.

As you leave, Aegon’s hand never leaving yours, you feel the chains tighten. You are his, now and forever, bound by fire and blood. And the North, once a promise of freedom and peace, is left behind, as cold and distant as a fading dream.

The shores of Dragonstone are shrouded in mist, the air filled with the scent of salt and smoke. The winds whip at the edges of your gown as you stand on the blackened sands, gazing out at the restless waves. The preparations for your wedding are underway, but you feel none of the joy such an occasion should bring. The weight of your destiny, twisted and reshaped by your brother's ambition, presses down on your shoulders like a leaden cloak.

Behind you, the great castle of Dragonstone looms, its towers sharp and jagged like dragon’s teeth. Within its ancient halls, the fires have been stoked, and the feast is being prepared. But all you feel is cold, an icy knot of anger and betrayal festering in your chest.

The sound of footsteps crunching on the sand draws your attention. You turn to see Aegon approaching, his silver hair gleaming in the faint light. He is resplendent in his Valyrian armor, the black and red of House Targaryen vivid against the stark landscape. His expression is set, determined, but you can see the flicker of something deeper in his eyes—something that looks almost like hesitation.

“You are avoiding the ceremony,” he says, his voice low, though there is a hint of frustration beneath the calm. “Our guests are waiting. Visenya and Rhaenys, our bannermen, they are all gathered for us.”

Your lip curls in a bitter smile. “For us? Or for you, brother? This is what you wanted, not I.”

Aegon’s jaw tightens, his gaze narrowing. “This is what you have always desired, to be queen. You spoke of it often as a child, remember? That you would rule by my side, united in fire and blood.”

“That was a game,” you snap, the words sharp and hot as dragonfire. “We were children, Aegon! Do you truly believe the dreams of a girl mean I must forfeit my future?”

He steps closer, the heat of him almost tangible, and for a moment, you can see the hurt flickering beneath his anger. “It was not a game to me,” he says, his voice firm. “When you spoke of ruling together, I saw it as a vow. I saw it as a promise that you would be with me, that we would shape the world together.”

You scoff, turning away, your eyes searching the endless horizon as if it could offer some escape. “A promise you forced me into. You shattered my betrothal, Aegon. You took everything I might have had—the North, my own choices—because you couldn’t bear to let me go.”

Aegon’s hand catches your arm, gently but insistently, turning you to face him. His eyes are fierce, blazing with that intensity that has always defined him. “I took what was mine,” he says, and there is a ring of possessiveness in his tone that makes your heart clench. “You were never meant for him, for anyone but me.”

“And what if I say I do not want this?” you demand, pulling your arm free. “What if I do not wish to be your queen, to be bound to you like some trophy to show your might?”

His gaze softens, and for a moment, he looks almost vulnerable. “You may hate me now, sister,” he murmurs, his voice low and strained. “But I know you. I know the fire in you, the hunger for more. It was not a game, not truly. I have seen the way you look at the world, the way you yearn for something greater. I have conquered Westeros, yes, but I did it for us, for the promise we made.”

“A promise I was too young to understand!” you retort, frustration boiling over. “You saw what you wanted and took it. You never asked what I wanted, Aegon. You never thought that I might have wished for something different.”

He shakes his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “I have always known what you wanted, even when you did not. You would have been wasted in the North, trapped in Winterfell with a husband who could never truly know the depths of your fire.”

Your hands clench at your sides, anger and confusion warring within you. “And now I am trapped here, with you. Trapped in a cage of gold and dragonfire.”

Aegon’s eyes darken, and he steps closer, his presence overwhelming, the heat of him almost suffocating. “Not trapped, beloved,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “You are not trapped. You are my queen, my equal. This is what I offer you—the world, to rule by my side. Everything we dreamed of, everything we spoke of, it is ours now.”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you are caught between the pull of his words and the bitterness in your heart. You had dreamed of this, once, when you were too young to understand the price. But the reality is a bitter draught, and the man before you, the brother who has taken so much, feels more like a stranger than ever.

“I wanted freedom,” you whisper, the words breaking from you like a confession. “I wanted a life of my own choosing, not one bound by your will.”

Aegon’s face softens, and he reaches out, his hand hovering near your cheek, hesitant, as if he fears you will pull away. “And I wanted you, more than the crown, more than any throne. I have always wanted you.”

His words hang between you, heavy and fraught, and for a moment, the world narrows to the space between your breaths. You feel the weight of his longing, the possessive need that has driven him to bind you to him, and it terrifies you, even as some small, traitorous part of you is drawn to it.

But you do not yield. You cannot. “You have me now, brother,” you say softly, a bitter edge to your voice. “But do not think it is by choice.”

He flinches, the hurt plain on his face, but he does not look away. “I will make you see, in time,” he says, his voice almost a vow. “I will make you see that this is where you belong.”

And with that, he turns away, striding back toward the castle, leaving you alone on the shore. The wind howls around you, the waves crashing against the rocks, and you stand there, feeling the world shifting around you like sand beneath your feet.

Today you will be wed, bound in the ancient rites of your people, the words of Valyria sealing your fate. And though you feel the fire of your anger burning bright, you know that you are caught, trapped in a web of fate and desire, with no clear way to break free.

The dragon has claimed you, and whether you will burn or rise remains to be seen.

The halls of Dragonstone are alive with the glow of a hundred torches. The air is heavy with the scent of incense and dragonfire, a mix of smoke and the salt of the sea beyond. 

You stand in the center of the great hall, clad in the traditional robes of Valyria. The fabric is exquisite, a deep crimson embroidered with threads of gold and black that catch the light as you move. It clings to your form like liquid fire, and the weight of it feels both regal and suffocating. Your hair, usually left to flow freely, has been intricately braided and adorned with tiny dragon-shaped clasps of silver and rubies, each one a symbol of your house, your heritage, and the heavy legacy you now bear.

The hall is filled with guests, lords and ladies from the corners of Westeros, all here to witness this union, this cementing of power. The faces of those you know—Rhaenys, with her quiet strength, and Visenya, stern and watchful—are a comfort, but only barely. They stand on either side of you, dressed in their own gowns of silver and midnight blue, their presence a stark reminder of what you are about to become. Beyond them, the lords of the realm watch with a mixture of awe and apprehension, their whispers a dull hum in the background of your thoughts.

At the far end of the hall, Aegon waits. He is a vision in black and red, his armor gleaming under the firelight, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen emblazoned proudly on his chest. His silver-gold hair falls loosely to his shoulders, and his eyes—those eyes that have seen the world bend and break under his will—are fixed on you with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

The words of the High Valyrian rites begin, spoken by a priestess who stands between you and Aegon, her voice echoing in the vast chamber. The ancient tongue flows like music, each syllable carrying the weight of history, of old gods and lost empires. The ceremony is one few in Westeros truly understand, its meaning lost to all but those of your blood.

You are asked to recite the vows, and though your voice is steady, you can feel your heart racing, a frantic, caged thing within your chest. You speak the words, pledging your loyalty, your soul, your very being to the man before you. Each phrase is a chain, each promise a shackle that binds you ever closer to him.

Tears sting at your eyes, but you blink them away, your vision blurring for a moment. You will not weep, not here, not before all these people. But the weight of what is happening crashes over you in waves, each one more suffocating than the last. You feel Rhaenys’s gaze on you, warm and understanding, but even she cannot help you now. This is your fate, your destiny, carved by your own brother.

Aegon steps forward, his gaze never leaving yours. His face is inscrutable, the mask of the conqueror, but there is something beneath it, something raw and almost hesitant. He takes your hands in his, his grip firm but not harsh, his skin warm against your cold fingers.

The priestess continues, her voice rising and falling like the tide, calling upon the old gods of Valyria to witness this union, to bless it with the strength of the dragon, the fury of fire. You repeat the vows again, your voice faltering only once, when the tears finally spill over, silent and unbidden.

Aegon’s eyes flicker, a brief, almost imperceptible softening as he watches the tears trail down your cheeks. For a heartbeat, he hesitates, his gaze searching yours, and you see it—a flash of uncertainty, of something almost like regret. But it is gone as quickly as it appeared, his grip on your hands tightening as if to anchor you both.

The priestess holds up a ceremonial blade, its edge gleaming wickedly in the firelight. You know what comes next. Aegon takes the blade first, drawing it carefully across his palm. Blood wells up, crimson and stark against his pale skin. He holds his hand out to you, his eyes locked with yours, unyielding and yet—there is a plea there, a silent question.

You take the blade, your hand trembling slightly. The metal is cold and sharp, and when you draw it across your palm, the pain is swift, a sharp sting that blooms into a dull throb. You press your bleeding hand to his, the warmth of his blood mingling with yours, a bond sealed in the oldest way.

“Fire and blood, my love,” he murmurs, his voice low, meant only for you. 

The words are a promise, a claim, and you feel their weight settle over you like a mantle. The tears fall faster now, but you do not look away, even as your vision blurs. You hold his gaze, refusing to flinch, to break, even as your heart shatters within you.

And then it is time for the final vow, the kiss that will seal your fates. Aegon hesitates, just for a heartbeat, his eyes searching yours as if seeking permission, understanding. The hesitation is gone as quickly as it appeared, and he leans in, his lips brushing yours with a gentleness that surprises you.

The kiss is soft, almost chaste, but there is a fire beneath it, a heat that speaks of all the things left unspoken between you. It lasts only a moment, a fleeting touch, and then he pulls back, his eyes dark and unreadable.

The hall erupts in cheers, the sound crashing over you like a tidal wave. You feel the weight of the moment, the finality of it, and it is all you can do to stand, to keep the tears from becoming sobs. You are his now, bound in the ancient rites, the queen to his king, the flame to his fire.

Aegon raises your joined hands, his gaze still locked on yours. There is triumph in his eyes, but there is something else, too—something softer, more fragile, hidden beneath the conqueror’s mask.

The feast that follows is a blur of sound and color, of toasts and laughter that seem hollow in your ears. Aegon’s hand remains on yours throughout, his presence a constant, inescapable force beside you. You smile when expected, nod when spoken to, but inside, you are adrift, lost in the sea of your own thoughts, your own grief.

As the night wears on, the guests begin to fade away, the torches burning low. Aegon turns to you, his expression still unreadable, his hand warm on your arm.

“Are you well?” he asks, his voice quiet, meant only for you.

You look up at him, and for the first time since the ceremony began, you allow yourself to speak the truth. “No,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “No, I am not.”

For a moment, just a moment, you see something in his eyes—a shadow of the boy he once was, the brother you knew before all this. But then it is gone, and he nods, his expression hardening once more.

“I will make it right,” he says, and you can hear the determination in his voice, the fierce resolve that has driven him to conquer, to claim. “I will make you see.”

But you turn away, pulling your hand from his grasp, your heart heavy with the weight of all that has been lost, all that will never be. You do not look back as you leave the hall, the cheers and laughter fading behind you, your tears falling silently in the darkness.

Tonight, you are queen. But you are also alone, your heart a battlefield, your soul caught between fire and blood, love and resentment. And the man you once called brother, the boy who once made you laugh, is now the king who has taken everything.

[betweenstorms]

Chapter 2/1 of Skin Of Thunder Veins Of Longing (previous chapter) (next chapter) (all SOT chapters) (masterlist) Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem!Reader

“It appeared suddenly, like veins of longing threaded through the stillness of flesh, pulsing with a pitiful ache—woven into the very fabric of our creation.”

The C-130 touched down at the base with a thud that signalled an end to another mission. Ten gruelling days in Urzikstan, deep in hostile territory, and Task Force 141 had completed their objectives. As the ramp lowered, the team disembarked, thick boots hitting the tarmac with the weight of exhaustion dragging them down.

Dust from the mission still clung to their gear, faces lined with dirt, sweat and fatigue, but the mission was done, it was a success, and that’s all that mattered.

Ghost, as always, was the first to move, already sorting through the next steps in his mind. He moved with a focused efficiency, his black skull balaclava in place. His gear felt heavier than usual, but years of experience had taught him to power through. The rest of the team spread out, unloading their equipment, mentally shifting back into routine, ready for the debriefing.

The silence among them was the kind that followed a hard-earned victory, one where words weren’t necessary.

As they made their way across the hangar, Ghost’s eyes instinctively scanned the area—habit more than anything. That’s when he spotted you. Off to the side, near a group of high-ranking officers, a tablet in hand, following them like a lost puppy. Your peach-coloured blouse stood out sharply against the muted backdrop of the hangar. It looked ridiculous. It clashed with everything around you—your trousers, the hard edges of military machinery, and the sea of camo uniforms that surrounded you.

Ghost's jaw tightened.

He couldn’t help but think how childish you appeared, walking through the hangar like you didn’t notice the obvious contrast. But something held him there, eyes lingering on the sight of you longer than he intended. For some reason, he couldn’t imagine you wearing anything else. That ugly blouse, as absurd as it was, seemed to capture something about you, somehow representing the core of your entire being.

It was so… you.

Ghost couldn’t explain it, not even to himself.

As horrible as it was to admit, you had become something he couldn’t ignore anymore. Your awkwardness, your smile, the way your accent curled around words like you were cautious of each one—each detail was a quiet force, drawing him in like a current ready to pull him into you. It wasn’t the kind of attraction that struck like lightning; it was more like the slow pull of the tide, eroding his edges without him noticing until it was too late. There was no violence in it, no urgency. It was slow and soft, a lull that unsettled him more than any battle he had ever faced.

You moved through the world as though you were sorry for it, like even your presence was an apology. It woke something primal in him, something dark, deep and raw. It wasn’t just the instinct to protect, though that was there, lingering beneath the surface like a low hum. It was more. Much more. It was the urge to claim, to conquer, to pull you into the orbit of his world, to keep you there where no one else could touch you. The thought nagged at him, and despite himself, he found it hard to look away.

Soap’s voice cut in suddenly, pulling him back to the present.

“Oi, Lt.,” he murmured, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Didn’t think peach was your colour.”

Ghost tore his eyes away from you and your hideous blouse, feeling the familiar prickle of irritation at Soap's comment. He straightened, his jaw tightening beneath the balaclava.

“Shut it, Johnny,” he said, his voice low and edged with a warning. He wasn’t in the mood for Soap’s antics, not after ten days of dirt, sweat, and blood.

But Soap, being Soap, couldn’t resist pushing him a little further. “Aye, just sayin’. If you’re gonna stare, try to make it less obvious, eh?”

Ghost shot the sergeant with a sharp glare from beneath the balaclava, the cold intensity in his eyes enough to make most men think twice. But Soap wasn’t most men. He had a knack for pushing boundaries, especially with Ghost. However, before he could bite back, Price’s voice cut through the hangar, pulling their focus.

“Debrief in ten, lads,” their captain called out, his voice gravelly but commanding enough to halt the teasing. “Sort your gear, then meet me in the briefing room. Let’s not drag our feet.”

Soap backed off with a wicked smirk, but not without a parting comment. “Aye, Cap’n, but someone’s gotta remind Ghost to look past the paperwork.”

Ghost gave the Sctosman another look that could have frozen the blood of lesser men, but he said nothing, choosing instead to focus on the routine tasks of unloading. He was used to the grind, to the weight of exhaustion, but the banter was an unnecessary addition to his already worn-down nerves. He wasn’t in the mood for this, not after ten days in the heat, crawling through dust and gunfire.

Ghost continued unloading his gear, going through the motions with mechanical precision, but his mind wasn’t fully in it. Even as he mentally ran through the debrief and the next mission steps, you were there, invading his mind.

Fucking hell, he didn’t want to think about you. He certainly didn’t want to give Soap more fuel for his teasing. But no matter how hard he tried to ignore you, his eyes found you again.

You had moved further down the hangar, still trailing the officers, your attention absorbed by the tablet in your hands. From this distance, you were a splash of colour in a sea of greys and browns. He cursed himself for even glancing your way, knowing full well it would give Soap more reason to run his mouth. But just as he was about to tear his eyes away, you paused, as if sensing his gaze. You glanced over your shoulder, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

Then, the eyes of the two of you met.

Ghost froze, caught off guard. He saw it, the faint blush creeping up your cheeks, even from this distance. There was something desirable in the way you hesitated under the weight of his attention, your lips parting slightly in surprise before pulling into a shy smile.

For a brief moment, you held his gaze, and Ghost found himself unable to look away.

He could feel his all too familiar frustration growing, but the urge to look away just wouldn’t come. Instead, he tilted his head slightly to the side, studying you as if trying to understand why you held his eye contact at all. Your lips quirked up in that awkward, bashful way, and then you quickly looked down at your feet, the spell between the two of you broken.

Price’s voice cut through the haze in his mind. 

“Debrief in five, lads. Let’s get it done.”

Ghost responded instinctively, his body snapping back into professional mode.

“Copy that,” he muttered under his breath, his tone low and gruff.

Within a second, it was like nothing had happened.

Like that brief moment with you was just a fleeting thought, something to be dismissed. And yet… it had happened. Something about it had cracked through his normally unshakable exterior, even if just for a heartbeat.

He quickly pushed the thought away, telling himself it was just exhaustion.

Ten bloody days in that goddamn scorching heat, running solely on adrenaline, was bound to mess with his head. Yes, that had to be it. He was knackered. That was the only reason he found it hard to focus, why his gaze kept slipping back to you, to someone who had no place in his thoughts. The idea of wanting was so foreign, so distant from him now that it should’ve turned to dust long before it reached his heart.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t attraction.

It couldn’t be.

He had lived in the barren space between men and monsters for too long, and those delicate things, like interest, desire, weakness, had learned to fear him, as if even the essence of such feelings knew better than to get too close to him. They withered before they could touch him, crumbling in the cold, like frostbitten petals beneath his boot. This quiet pull, this soft ache beneath the surface—he refused to give it a name. It was nothing.

It had to be nothing.

With that firmly settled in his mind, Ghost fell into line with the rest of the team, his body moving on autopilot as they left the hangar behind. The feeling of routine steadied him, and as they made their way toward the debrief room, he felt himself relax, if only slightly. He was already counting down the minutes until he could get out of there, have a smoke, and get his head straight. He definitely craved one. That much was certain.

“In the miserable bloom of longing, we learn that not everything grows in the light.”

Skin of Thunder Chapters

[starlitpagess]

01. War poems ━ First snow

Authors note:

Yeahhh I'm alive, sorry for being so inactive :’) I’m working on both series at the same time so sorry if updates might be slower than usual. No, I’m not Russian but I’m fluent in the language so translations will be as accurate as it can get.

Word count: 2497

War.

It was the arrival of hell on earth. The whole world felt the bitter taste of sins upon them, which, with each new wave, made everything lose its color more and more. Smoke blackened the sky, choking out the sun, while the land itself withered beneath the weight of bloodshed. Places that were once filled with life now echoed with the distant cries of the wounded and the sharp crack of gunfire. There was no safe place. Even the wind carried whispers of despair, desperation now forever lingering in the places people once called home. You had learned this truth long before most. War had shaped you before you had an opportunity to appreciate the sweet freedom of childhood.

The first wave of Snezhayan attacks had turned your home into a graveyard. Years had passed, but you still see the smoke, the flames licking at the night sky, the deafening sound of bombs and gunfire in your nightmares. Cities had fallen in days. People were either killed or taken, turned into prisoners or slaves under the rule of an empire that desired nothing but complete dominance. But above all, you remembered how loud the silence was. The eerie quiet that came when there was nothing left to burn, no one left to scream, made you shiver every time.

Your parents had died that night. What pained you the most was that they were just two nameless bodies in the wreckage of another conquered city for them. Those soldiers took away your world. Demolished it right in front of your eyes. The worst part is - It took them only two bullets.

Bang! Bang!

You died with them that night.

You had been dragged from the basement your mum had hidden you in, hands bruised, dress torn. Snezhayan officers had found you, his grip firm but almost gentle as one of them wiped a streak of ash from your cheek. They smiled - a slow, deliberate curve of lips that made your skin crawl, your stomach churn. They sneaked a glance at each other, as one of them spoke in a voice too smooth, in a language you didn’t understand back then. But no translation was needed to know what they were planning.

“Было бы неплохо повеселиться, прежде чем прикончить и ее.” “It would be nice to have some fun before finishing her off too.”

You had been young, but not young enough to mistake his intentions for kindness. You had seen the same look in the eyes of soldiers who took what they wanted, who left behind nothing but ruins. You had been young, but not naive. Fate, however, had other plans for you.

Gunshots rang through the air, deafening you as the officers’ bodies hit the ground before they could lay a hand on you. The warm spray of blood splattered against your skin, shocking you into silence. Your body froze. You couldn’t run, not even when your mind screamed at you to move. You could feel the tightening grip of fear, which was trying to pull you down the pit.

Unknown man and woman, your saviors, who you would soon find out to be Jean and Kaeya, had stepped from the shadows. You could still see the faint smoke coming from their guns as they slowly approached you. Their eyes quickly scanned the mutilated corpse of your parents before landing on you. Jean knelt beside you, reaching out carefully, but you flinched away.

“Are you hurt?” Jean asked softly, as if trying not to scare you away. You tried to answer, but nothing came. Your throat felt dry, your lips parted, but no sound escaped. The fear of death had stolen your voice.

Jean and Kaeya exchanged a glance, but neither pushed you to speak. Instead, Jean gently took your trembling hands, inspecting them for wounds. Kaeya turned away briefly, carefully looking out from the curtains, he scanned the area for any more threats before nodding toward Jean.

“We need to go,” he said. “She can’t stay here.” Jean nodded, but she didn’t let go of you. “Come with us,” she murmured with a softer voice. “We’ll figure out the rest later.”

You didn’t resist when Jean pulled you to your feet. You didn’t resist when Kaeya draped his coat over your shoulders, shielding you from the biting cold. And when they led you away from the ruins of your home, from your parents, you followed silently.

For weeks you remained mute. You wanted to talk, you had oh so much to say, but that night affected you deeply. The rebel hideout was foreign for you, filled with strangers who were careful with you, trying to slowly approach you and make this place feel like home. Jean and Kaeya didn’t push you to talk. They brought you food, left warm blankets by your cot, and ensured you were comfortable. Kaeya told you stories sometimes, filling the silence so it didn’t feel so lonely and quiet. Jean sat beside you during the nights when the nightmares were too much to bear.

Besides them, you got close to a few more wonderful people. For example, Diluc, a tall, quiet redhead who was the first to welcome you three during that awful night. He had been there since the beginning, the one who carried you through the gates of base when you had collapsed from exhaustion. Diluc wasn't one fond of too much talking, unlike his brother, but his actions spoke louder than any reassurance could.

Another person who made your period of silence a bit more bearable was Albedo. While others offered warmth, he offered understanding. He never pushed, never prodded, only watched, waiting for you to come around. He had been the one to bring you paper and ink, to give you a way to communicate when words were still getting stuck in your throat, burning you from the inside.

While you couldn’t force your voice back, you observed closely. You were so grateful for their parental care, but thinking about how they were only a few years older than you, lost teenagers who had to grow up in order to survive, made you sad. Realizing how war had changed the world was depressing. Were Snezhayan kids also forced to survive like your people?

It wasn’t until weeks later, when you finally realized you were safe, that your voice returned. The first words you spoke were barely above a whisper, but in those moments they were the most important words in the world. The room had fallen silent as you uttered them. Everyone around you cheered, especially your guardian angels, who felt proud of you. Kaeya had grinned, ruffling your hair as he let out a low chuckle. “Finally. I was beginning to think you just didn’t like us.” Jean’s relief was more restrained, but you saw it in the way her shoulders relaxed as the proud smile graced her lips. She was proud of you, proud of their whole base for making this situation a bit better place for survivors.

Only then did they sit you down to ask the question that would shape the rest of your life. Jean spoke first; her voice was as gentle as the first time she spoke to you. ���Do you want to fight with us? Not because you have to. But because you want to.”

Kaeya leaned forward. “We won’t force you into this, kid. But if you stay, you won’t have to be alone anymore.”

You looked at them. The people who had saved you, who had given you a home when you needed it so much. They weren’t pressuring you. They were giving you a choice. A future. Your fingers curled into the fabric of your borrowed cloak, still too big on you while you looked at them, your mind wandering elsewhere. It had been so long since you made a choice that was truly your own. The war had stolen your voice once. You wouldn't let it control you anymore.

You had died with your parents that night. But you were given an opportunity to be reborn. So you had chosen to fight.

Training had been brutal. You had started from nothing, but they were all so patient with you as they had shaped you into something more. You learned how to disappear in plain sight, how to collect secrets that could turn the tide of a battle. As years passed, your abilities helped you mold into a weapon as sharp as any blade. While you were not the strongest nor the fastest, but you were one of the cleverest rebels. This was an advantage you decided to use in the rebels favor. Documenting the war became the priority so that when the dust settled, the world would not forget whose blood had been spilled. A camera became your second weapon, capturing the raw truth of war, truth of the human suffering was your main mission.

Time flew by. You all grew up, helping one another become stronger with each passing day. The only good thing war did was give you a new family. People that you could turn to and trust. Or so you thought. With the new year approaching, Snezhaya once again had the upper hand. Their military power was unmatched, their influence spreading across the continent like a plague. Cities fell under their iron grip as their banners and flags rose over conquered lands. Their soldiers, wrapped in thick winter coats with crimson armbands, patrolled the streets without fear, boots crunching over broken glass and debris. They hunted through the ruins, seeking out those who dared resist, their rifles slung carelessly over their shoulders as though they had no doubt of their own invincibility.

The remnants of rebellion still clung to the streets. Torn Snezhayan flags dangled from buildings, their fabric marked by burn marks and slashes. However, defiance alone was not enough. The Rebels were losing ground, and it became harder to make ends meet. Each night, more of their fighters returned bloodied, limping, or not at all.

The underground base had begun to resemble a hospital more than a war shelter. Makeshift cots lined the walls. The scent of antiseptic mixed with the cold winter air was mingling with the flickering glow of the candle that barely kept the darkness at bay. At every time of day or night, you could hear the wounded groaning through gritted teeth, muffling their pain so as not to weaken the morale of those still standing. You had learned to get used to listening to whispered prayers in the dark, though it never grew any easier. When you weren’t out navigating the city for brief glimpses of enemy patrols through your camera lens, you helped where you could by carrying water and changing blood-soaked bandages. But despite your undying hope, no amount of delusion could sugarcoat the bitter truth. It was time to do something.

Snow clung to your coat and tangled in your hair as you rushed through the underground tunnels, your breath visible in the cold air. The moment you stepped inside, warmth wrapped around you. You hurried towards your small, dark room, shrugging off your coat as you reached for the developing chemicals. You placed your camera down carefully, pulling out the film and setting it in place. You needed to print the images as proof of what you had seen tonight. The patrol had been different, more tense than usual. Among the usual Snezhayan soldiers, a certain one stood out to you. Before returning to the base, you caught a glimpse of mysterious soldier’s ginger hair under the faint moonlight. He was no ordinary soldier. You knew that much.

Just as you began to unbutton your coat, the door creaked open slightly, waiting for your approval before coming in. Kaeya leaned against the frame, his arms crossed, an easy smirk tugging at his lips. “Meeting’s starting soon,” he said, “Jean’s calling for all hands.” You sighed, rubbing your hands over your tired eyes. “I’ll be there in a minute,” you replied. “Just need to write a few notes down from the patrol.” Kaeya nodded, his gaze lingering for a moment before he disappeared down the hallway.

You quickly reached for your worn-out notebook, flipping it open, ink smudged slightly under your fingertips as you pressed the pen to the paper.

𝘋𝘦����𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 3𝘳𝘥 - 𝘌𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘭 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘶𝘴𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘴, 𝘧𝘦𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘢𝘱𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘴. 𝘈𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘰𝘺 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘵 - 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘴. 𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘳𝘴. 𝘎𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳. 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮, 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘬? 𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘮𝘦. 𝘕𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭.

Closing the notebook, you took one last glance at the developing prints before stepping out of your room. The hallway was dimly lit, the underground tunnels echoing with distant sounds of footsteps. You walked carefully, pulling your coat tighter around you before pushing open the heavy wooden door to the meeting room. Tonight, everyone was gathered in the main chamber of the hideout. The ceiling dripped with condensation, the air was thick with blood's iron scent and melting wax. A long wooden table stood at the center, maps and documents sprawled across its surface, corners pinned down by knives and empty bullet casings. The flames of half-burnt candles cast shifting shadows across Jean’s face as she stood at the head of the table.

“We need intel,” Jean jumped straight to the point, her voice steady despite the exhaustion weighing down her shoulders. Her fingers traced the outline of a newly occupied city on the map, “Their supply lines, their reinforcements… anything that can give us an edge. We need volunteers to infiltrate enemy territory.”

Silence thickened like a noose around the room. Everyone knew what that mission meant. The ones who went behind enemy lines rarely returned. Those who had the luck of surviving came back with ghosts in their eyes and scars that could not be healed. No one wanted to say their goodbyes to the person who they fought alongside for years. You glanced around at the others. Kaeya leaned against the far wall. Diluc was standing beside him, whispering something to his brother before trailing his gaze towards your figure. Rosaria, one of the spies who rarely showed herself at meetings, sat sharpening a dagger, though her gaze flickered on the map.

You exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the situation on your chest. You had spent so long hiding in the shadows, slipping through the cracks of war, capturing moments of brutality. You stepped forward, grip on your coat tightening as you felt everyone’s eyes on you. Before saying something, you heard Kaeya sigh under his breath as Diluc headed towards the door with a quiet “Knew it.”. You didn’t pay attention to them, not to Jeans sadden expression with a hint of proudness as you spoke. Your voice was steady as ever.

“I volunteer.”

If this mission meant tipping the scales even slightly, if it meant giving your people the faintest chance at survival, you would do it.

WAR POEMS

Tag list : @deadassmemes69 @youaskedfurret

masterlist! Next

[a-court-of-mischief-and-madness]

✨ Preview

A/n: comment for part 2! i know this is slightly different but, ive recently been insanely obsessed with kwon after cobra kais season 6, so fans of kwon like me, enjoy!!

Barcelona Nights: The Battle Between Us

Enemies to Lovers | Kwon Jae Sung x Miyagi-Do Fighter

The rooftop was chaos disguised as celebration. The beat of bass-heavy music pounded through the floor, a primal rhythm echoing the earlier fights below. Fighters laughed and shouted over one another, drenched in sweat and triumph, limbs slung around shoulders like drunken warriors after battle. Lanterns swung in the night breeze, casting flickering golden light over crimson bruises and split lips.

But none of that registered.

Your eyes had locked onto a single target—the figure leaning against the edge of the rooftop, the city of Barcelona sprawling like a conquered kingdom behind him.

Kwon Jae Sung.

Shirtless. Gleaming with sweat and blood. Smiling like the night belonged to him.

The discarded Cobra Kai gi lay in a crumpled heap on a lounge chair beside him, its red snake insignia glinting like a threat in the low light. His black belt hung loose around his waist, more like a trophy than a symbol of discipline. His bare chest rose and fell with slow, measured breaths, each one making the deep lines of his abs flex like something carved from stone. His hands—taped and stained with someone else's blood—rested on the railing, casual, like he wasn’t the most dangerous thing on this rooftop.

You hated how effortlessly he looked like a walking storm.

You hated more that he’d noticed you.

“You lost?” he called out, voice dark and amused, slicing through the haze like a blade. “Or just looking for another lecture to quote from your sacred scrolls?”

You stopped several feet away, spine straightening, jaw clenched. His tone was mocking, but beneath it, there was something else—something low and simmering.

“You look like a villain in a cheap martial arts film,” you replied coolly. “But I guess Cobra Kai doesn’t really do subtle.”

He turned, and that smirk of his—the one you’d seen on the mat after he’d knocked someone breathless—stretched wider.

“And you look like you still think balance wins fights.” His gaze dropped, slow and deliberate, taking in the Miyagi-Do crest stitched proudly onto your fitted uniform. “Let me guess. Daniel-san gave you a lecture about inner peace right before you nearly got your ribs cracked.”

You took another step forward, fury a slow burn beneath your skin. “I didn’t come here to fight.”

His eyes glinted, dark and full of challenge. “That’s the problem with your dojo. You never do. Always waiting. Always reacting. You ever think that’s why you’ll never beat someone like me?”

You scoffed, voice sharp. “Please. The only reason you win is because you overwhelm. You hit first, ask questions never. You don’t fight with skill—you fight like a scared dog with too many teeth.”

Something flickered in his expression—brief, hot, almost offended.

He stepped toward you.

One step.

Then another.

And suddenly you were hyper-aware of just how close he was. Of how tall. How broad. How every inch of him vibrated with coiled energy that felt like it could snap the world in half.

“Careful, pretty girl,” he murmured, voice low, his Korean accent curling around the insult like silk over steel. “You talk like you’ve already figured me out.”

You forced yourself not to step back, even as your heart raced. “I don’t need to figure you out. You’re Cobra Kai. You’re obvious.”

His eyes dropped to your lips.

“You think you hate me,” he said. “But I see the way you watch me when I fight. Like you’re imagining something else.”

You blinked, heat rushing up your neck, but you held your ground. “You’re delusional.”

“Maybe.” He leaned in, lips brushing just beside your ear. “But I felt your eyes on me the second I walked in. The same way you look at the fight—hungry.”

Your breath hitched. The world narrowed until it was just his voice and your pulse, crashing in your ears like the drums of war.

“I look at you,” he continued, eyes locked onto yours now, “and all I see is someone who’s dying to lose control.”

Your hand shot up before you could stop it, palm flat against his chest, shoving him back an inch. “You don’t know me.”

He didn’t even flinch. Just looked down at where you touched him, then dragged his gaze up with agonizing slowness. “No,” he said, voice like smoke and ash. “But I will.”

You should’ve walked away.

Should’ve turned on your heel and melted into the crowd.

But your hand stayed on his chest.

And his didn’t stop when it rose to gently brush a piece of hair from your face, knuckles grazing your cheekbone.

“You’re Miyagi-Do,” he said, almost to himself. “All heart. All control. All those little rules you cling to like armor.”

“And you’re Cobra Kai,” you whispered. “All ego and fists and bruises. Nothing underneath.”

His lips curved, a dangerous smile. “You sure about that?”

Then, with no more warning than a shift in the air, his mouth was on yours.

Hot.

Hard.

Unapologetic.

His hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss, his tongue brushing over your bottom lip like a dare. And damn you, you kissed him back like you’d been waiting your whole life to lose to him.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t romantic.

It was war.

Fingers dug into muscle. Breath tangled. Your back hit the wall as his body pressed into yours, solid and unrelenting. The kiss bruised. Punished. Claimed.

You didn’t stop it.

Because something about him—his fury, his fire, his need to dominate—matched something dark and desperate inside you that you’d never dared acknowledge. Not in the dojo. Not in sparring. Not even in dreams.

When he pulled back, both of you breathing like you’d just gone three rounds, his thumb brushed over your lips.

He didn’t ask.

He ordered.

“Take me somewhere no one will interrupt us.”

And you, Miyagi-Do born and bred, traitor to every rule Daniel LaRusso ever taught you—nodded.

[starshideurfics]

Captive, Captivating

into the steddie-verse, omegaverse, intense dubcon, we’re all in the same imperial rome/war prize gutter together, mdni 🔞

As the emperor’s brother, Geta should not be on this northern campaign, but he is curious of these barbarians and how they live without the bounty of the mediterranean. His tent is rather well-appointed besides, his own personal guard and servants setting up his bed, the furs and chairs, each time they move. He even has a small brazier to heat the tent against the cold night.

That doesn’t make his presence anymore reasonable, but as the only member of the imperial family amongst the generals and their legions, it means the greatest of the war prizes belong to him. Thus far, he has accumulated a beautifully made brooch inlaid with garnets, several gold torcs, a pair of fine horses, and one prince to ransom back to his father—that netted him gold and silver coins from many kingdoms, as well as a herd of goats.

But there hasn’t been anything new for weeks, and Geta thinks they are perhaps between barbarian kingdoms. The sun has set on another day, and he is reading over the report he is about to send back to Rome, when Junius enters the tent and makes his presence known.

“We’ve captured an intruder, your grace. Flavianus sniffed him out, and it sounds like his father is a king. Ricardius Spear-hand, if he’s to be believed.”

“And just what was the little prince up to?” Geta puts down his report, grinning. This is intriguing.

“Spilling wine urns and turning loose horses. But mostly spying. We found him outside the general’s tent. The fool rubbed himself in wild mint, but it wasn’t enough to dampen an omega’s scent.”

Geta burns hot at that, his own smoky scent blooming. He has questions, but more than that, he wants to meet this bold omega prince. “Bring him to me.”

“At once, your grace.”

Junius is barely gone a minute, clearly anticipating this request, bringing in a growling young man, stripped down to a loincloth to ensure he carries no weapons, his hands bound in front of him. His flesh is raised in a thousand tiny bumps at the chill of the night air, and his thick, dark hair hangs limp around his head, stringy with his own drying sweat. And his scent is sweet and yeasty like the honey beer the northern barbarians drink in place of wine.

“He claims to be Prince Stephanos, your grace. I don’t believe we have record that he’s an omega… Other than this.”

“Why do you insist upon changing my name?” the omega asks, voice harsh with his whining little growl. Geta has heard of northerners learning Latin, but he did not expect this prince to speak it so well.

“You are Stephanos, son of Ricardius, are you not?”

The boy frowns, looks away, and waits. Junius raises a questioning brow, which Geta answers with a wave of his hand and a soft, “Leave us.”

Junius bows and backs out of the tent.

Stepping closer, Geta grips the omega by the chin, and turns his head to face him. “I asked you a question, little prince.”

His hazel eyes flash with defiance, and he bites his lip so hard it bleeds. Then he takes a breath. “I am Stepan, son of Rikhardt Spear-Handed. As my father’s eldest child, I did my duty. Please, take your soldiers and leave my people be.”

Swiping his thumb over Stepan’s lip, smearing the blood, Geta wants so badly to taste. To bite. He resists, leaning in closer and whispering, “I am not here to conquer; that is my brother’s doing. I wish only to learn and see and experience what this world has to offer. I will be your willing student, sweet Stepan, but I shall also be your master. You have bought freedom for your people.” He withdraws his thumb and sucks it into his mouth, the metallic taste of blood on his tongue, yet somehow sweeter than he expects.

The omega trembles, and Geta steps back to hive him space, eyes roving over his exposed body. His nipples are hard, pebbled along with his gooseflesh, and his small breasts are puffy, swollen like he’s near his heat.

“I will not take you tonight, so do not fear.” Geta circles him slowly, retrieving a length of soft, woven wool, and steps up behind him, arms wrapping the cloth around the omega’s shoulders. Stepan jolts at the touch, but doesn’t struggle as Geta holds him. “But you will be mine.” His right hand settles low on Stepan’s belly, presses firm. “Soon my pup will be here.” He sets his nose to the princeling’s neck, and Geta is sure he smells even sweeter as he inhales deeply. “Can tell your heat is coming, but maybe you’ll breed true before it can begin.”

He drops a single kiss over the warmth of Stepan’s mating gland, feels the flutter of his pulse. “But tonight we shall simply rest. Come, Stepan. Let’s to bed.”

🏛️🌙🌿

Stepan does not sleep that night, or if he does, it is a fitful sleep. But he has no hope of escape, his captor holding him tight from behind, trapping him in the bed beneath sheets softer than he has ever felt. And surely, the tent is well guarded.

He’s spent enough time awake, looking around the tent for anything he can use, either to incapacitate the roman, or if worst comes to worst…

He hopes it does not come to that.

Strong arms squeeze around his middle, a forehead presses into his shoulder, as the alpha wakes with a sighing hum. “Good morning, little prince.”

The mere thought of replying cordially locks his throat, but Stepan swallows and decides to get it over with; the words will only get easier with practice. “Did you sleep well, Dominus?”

“Best I’ve slept since coming north. How you can sleep in this cold I’ll never understand.”

“It is summer, Dominus?” How soft the romans must be to find a summer night cold. He wonders how his new master would handle traveling through the snow in winter.

“Yes, summer! The air should be hot and leave your skin sticky long after the sun sets!” His hold on Stepan changes, no longer a harsh grip, but one arm loose around his waist, the other snaking up so his hand cups one of Stepan’s breasts. “This is the first time I haven’t woken shivering.” He squeezes, kneading the soft flesh beneath his fingers, then pulls back just enough to grip the nipple between finger and thumb.

He pinches and pulls, and Stepan hates that it feels good. Stifling a moan, he brings his still loosely-bound hands up to grab the alpha’s wrist. “Dominus?”

“You are just so sweet and so warm,” he growls low in Stepan’s ear. Hand spread wide across his chest, moving with each shallow breath, he changes course. No orders to get on his hands and knees, no spreading of his legs, no hand pushing aside the cloth over his sex. Instead, he murmurs, “We shall meet with your father and his counsel today, to talk the terms of peace.”

“The terms being me. In your bed.”

“The terms being you. At my side. I am not looking for a mere bedwarmer, sweet Stepan.” He contradicts this entirely by kissing the side of his neck, sucking the salt from his skin. “You took a risk. It failed you, but now you have learned. And with my guidance you will learn more.”

Stepan’s mind races. He had been certain thot at best he would be a concubine; an omega to give this roman enough bastards to feel good about his virility when his high-born wife managed a sickly pup or two. He no longer thinks that is what his master has in mind. “Dominus?” he asks softly, wishing he could see his eyes now, even in the low light it would tell him more of what he means.

“Rome is a dangerous place. You and I shall need all our cunning when the army returns at the end of this campaign.” He relaxes his grip, finally, and rolls away just enough to make room for Stepan to roll onto his back.

His master smiles, wolf-like, and places a hand back over Stepan’s breastbone, holding him down with the lightest touch as he stares into his eyes. “Do not worry, my sweet omega, I’ll do everything in my power to protect you and our pups.”

“What pups, Dominus? We have done nothing to make any.” Stepan shivers under his dark gaze. “Besides, how can you be certain you won’t grow bored with me in a month’s time?”

“It will take far more than a month to do everything I want with you. Do not worry about my growing bored.” He leans down and takes a dusky nipple into his mouth, biting at the bud with gentled teeth.

Stepan pants, watches as the alpha removes his mouth, tongue lapping at tender skin. A hand reaches for his, working him free from the soft bonds at his wrists and casting the fabric aside. “But you are right; we’ve done nothing to make pups.” He reaches for the ties at Stepan’s waist, pulls them loose, and pushes the fabric aside. “We ought to get started now.”

He pushes off his own coverings, but Stepan does not look. If he doesn’t look, his body cannot lock up at the thought of the intrusion. He can relax enough to keep it from hurting. To keep from being torn apart.

His master has other plans for their coupling, catching up Stepan’s hand and wrapping it around the alpha’s half-hard cock. He guides Stepan in rubbing him to full hardness, tiny moans and soft praise falling from his lips, breath hot against his skin. “Good omega. Yes, touch just like that.”

Finally ready, he boxes Stepan in with his arms, and ruts first against his cunt, just enough wetness there to ease his way and coat his cock. “Even scared you smell so sweet,” he whispers, dipping to nose at his mating gland. “So sweet.” He shifts his hips, and the head of his cock nudges against Stepan’s entrance. He only waits a moment, long enough to whisper, “Deep breaths, my omega,” before thrusting forward.

Stepan gasps, is sure he is being split apart, and moans, “Dominus, please…”

“It will only hurt a little while. Your body will learn.” He stays buried inside, watching Stepan breathe, waiting for him to calm. Only then does he move his hips, picking up speed until he spills hot, his knot tying them fast.

Gathering Stepan to him, he rolls onto his side and holds him close, bringing one of Stepan’s legs over his hip, which opens his cunt enough to relieve a little bit of the pressure there. “Rest, my sweet. Once we untie, we shall bathe and eat. Then this afternoon we shall treat with your father.”

Stepan nods. He has done his duty. His people shall have peace.

part 2

[abbythewritor]

Winter is coming..

Prologue.

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

Description:

Y/N Targaryen, the last true daughter of House Targaryen, bears the weight of her lineage on her broad shoulders. Young, fiercely determined, and often underestimated for her plus-size figure, she is forced into an unyielding marriage alliance with one of the most dangerous men across the seas: Crocodile, the ruthless warlord and cunning leader of Baroque Works. Torn from Westeros and thrust into the unpredictable waters of the Grand Line, Y/N must navigate the treacherous alliances, schemes, and monstrous forces that haunt her every step. As Crocodile’s bride, her life becomes a game of survival—earning his respect while enduring his cold indifference and manipulative tendencies. However, the fire in her blood will not be dimmed. With whispers of ancient dragons and visions of the Iron Throne calling her home, Y/N begins to embrace her Targaryen birthright, proving that dragons do not cower—they conquer.As war brews across the seas and in Westeros alike, Y/N’s journey will test her body, spirit, and mind. With Crocodile as both her captor and potential ally, she will rise through betrayal, blood, and fire to claim her destiny. Winter is coming, but fire and blood will follow.

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

Author: HELLO welcome to my new one piece fan fiction! First of all, I just want to point out, I'm a One Piece fan, and a game of thrones fan, so, why not put them together!!! This story out of warning from my heart, IS NOT FOR CHILDREN OR PEOPLR UNDER THE AGE OF 18!! Game of thrones is a violent show, and combining it with One Piece, it's going to have a lot of graphic scenes like violence, a lot of nudity, love making scenes, and just, game of thrones stuff. BUT! DONT worry, there will be One Piece stuff included too, as it is a story about both shows, put together. Y/n in this story, which is you all! Is a plus size, over weight woman. I wanted to make this book to show women no matter what size you are YOU ARE STRONG! As it is exactly what this Y/n I created to be!!!!

Things to point out: One, I do not own game of thrones or One Piece, they are separate shows and owned by their creators! Y/n means your name. Y/e/c means your eye color. Y/s/c is your skin color, and Y/H/L means your hair length, and Y/H/C means your hair color!!!

Another quick update, if the text is small, I wrote this on Chat GTP for spelling and grammar, so the story would be extra good!

Alright! Without further a do! Enjoy the prologue of my newest book!

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

The wind keened through the streets of Loguetown, a mournful howl carried on the salt-laden air. The execution square trembled under the weight of thousands, every voice rising, every body pressing forward as if proximity to the moment might grant them a piece of eternity.

At the center of it all stood him.

Gol D. Roger.

The Pirate King.

The platform beneath his feet was rough-hewn wood, darkened by age and the spit of rain from earlier that morning. Bound in thick iron chains, Roger stood tall, his massive chest bared to the wind. The man exuded something no noose could choke—something no death could claim. He was smiling. Not the smile of a defeated man, but one of triumph, as though he had already conquered death itself.

Beside him, Vice Admiral Garp stood like a stone monolith. His fists clenched at his sides, his expression unreadable save for the tautness around his mouth. He had begged, argued, threatened, all in hopes that Roger might leave this world quietly, without stirring the embers he knew were ready to ignite. But he should have known better.

From the crowd, a cry shattered the air.

“Where’s the treasure, Roger?”

Another voice joined it, shrill with desperation: “Tell us where it is!”

“The Seven Nations! Did you find them?” someone else screamed.

The Seven Nations—the distant lands across the seas, rumored in drunken tales among pirates and whispered over maps held together with wishful thinking. Westeros, they called it, a place where kings warred over a throne forged in fire and death. The Iron Throne—an icon, a myth—rumored to control the very earth and seas. To men who ruled the waves, such a place was an obsession. But if anyone had known its secrets, it would have been him.

The crowd swelled and surged, hands raised as if reaching for salvation. “The Iron Throne, Roger! Does it exist?”

Gol D. Roger tilted his head back, the dying sun catching the edges of his face. He turned, just slightly, to where Garp stood rigid at his side. “You’ll see,” Roger said, his voice low but carrying a weight that made Garp flinch. “This world’s far from over.”

Then he turned to the crowd, his voice booming across the square, silencing even the wails of the wind.

“You want my treasure?” he roared, his words carrying as far as the sea itself. “You can have it!”

A gasp swept through the crowd like a ripple across water, jaws slack, hands frozen mid-air.

“I left everything I own in one place!” Roger bellowed, his grin widening into something maniacal, something eternal. “Find it! The throne, the gold, all of it!”

For a moment, the crowd froze as if the world itself had stopped spinning. And then chaos erupted. Shouts and screams rang out as men pushed and shoved, their eyes wild with greed, their minds already chasing dreams they had yet to form.

Garp closed his eyes briefly, his face twisting with something too heavy for words. Damn you, Roger.

The executioner’s blade gleamed in the dying light. Roger stood tall, his chains rattling like the echoes of thunder. His grin remained. His eyes burned. And as the blade came down, the Pirate King died—but his words lived, spreading like wildfire, from the seas to the kingdoms, from the Grand Line to Westeros.

The age of pirates had begun.

The cool hands of the housewives moved over Y/N’s body, their touch efficient and dispassionate. The air in the chamber was heavy with the scent of oils and perfumes, the richness cloying against her skin. She sat on a low stool, her weight pressing into the cushioned seat, as they fastened the fabric of her gown around her.

It was Alabasta’s finest silk—a deep crimson with golden embroidery that traced the outline of dragons curling around the hem. It clung to her form as it was tied and pinned, the heavy fabric made heavier still by the way it was meant to accentuate her figure.

Y/N said nothing as the women whispered to one another. She had learned long ago that silence was her armor.

“Sit straighter,” one of them barked, nudging her spine as if she were made of clay.

She complied, but only barely. Her gaze remained fixed on the tall mirror before her. The face staring back was her own, though she barely recognized it beneath the powders and oils smeared across her cheeks, the kohl darkening her eyes. She was presentable. She was worthy. That’s what they wanted, wasn’t it?

The doors creaked open behind her. The women fell silent, their heads bowing as if to a god. She didn’t need to turn to know who had entered.

“Leave us,” her brother said, his tone clipped but soft—like silk pulled tight over a knife’s edge.

The housewives scurried from the chamber, their bare feet slapping softly against the marble. The door clicked shut, and the room fell into silence, broken only by the faint hiss of the wind outside.

Her brother stepped forward, his reflection appearing behind her in the mirror. He was tall and lean, his pale hair falling in soft waves over his shoulders. His face, angular and sharp, bore a cruel sort of beauty—a beauty that masked the rot beneath.

“You clean up well, sister,” he said softly, his tone almost kind, but Y/N had learned long ago that there was no kindness in him. Only control.

He stepped closer, his hands coming to rest lightly on her shoulders. She tensed beneath his touch, her stomach curling in on itself. He noticed, of course. He always noticed.

His fingers traced along the silk straps of her gown, tugging at them gently, one after the other. They slid from her shoulders without resistance, and the heavy gown pooled at her waist. The chill of the chamber kissed her bare skin, her full, heavy form now exposed beneath his gaze.

He didn’t speak. Instead, his fingers moved—tracing the curve of her neck, dragging softly across her collarbone, then lower, grazing the top of her breast.

“You are a Targaryen,” he murmured, his voice a low purr. “Blood of dragons. Fire incarnate. To think....that this body..." his hands traced lower, caressing her plush, and pudgy waist, stopping at her hips.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. She kept her gaze fixed on the mirror, refusing to look away. Her brother’s hands were cold, the touch possessive, but she would not let him see her flinch. That would be a victory, and he did not deserve victories.

He smiled faintly, his fingers lingering for just a moment longer before withdrawing. He stepped back, leaving the air colder in his absence.

“Crocodile will arrive soon,” he said, his voice returning to its clipped, businesslike tone. “And I hope that he sees you as of I, a way back home. But." His eyes darken with seriousness and evil. " You will not embarrass me. Do you understand?”

She nodded once, her expression unreadable.

“Good.” He turned to leave, pausing at the door to glance over his shoulder. “Remember, sister—you are nothing without me.”

The door creaked shut behind him, and Y/N sat alone, her gown still pooled at her waist. She exhaled slowly, the sound breaking the silence like a shattering mirror.

For now, she was a pawn. A bargaining chip. A daughter sold to the highest bidder. But the blood in her veins whispered of dragons. And dragons, no matter how long they sleep, always rise

All she has to do.....is survive.

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

[codenamesazanka]

HAPPY BDAYYY if spinner was in the fantasy au, what would he be?

I actually make a poll once asking just this question. Here is the result:

Personally, I had picked Bar Maiden. But the people have spoken. So I would combine the two together and say he was a sad, poor Bar Maiden who dreamed of adventure and so one day he just up and left to go become a Knight. Which is basically what happened in canon!

(Ohhh i actually have this Spinaraki Fantasy AU fanfic in my drafts. Have a snippet:

working title: ten moments with the tenth prince of the kingdom of darkness

1.

The sword— its blade gleaming in the moonlight; the hilt smoothly curved, made of a dark wood inlaid with silver; top half of the grip strangely wrapped with a strip of red silk— the sword was beautiful. 

Shuuichi focused on that beauty, tried putting all his attention on admiration, because then he could ignore the puddle of blood he was kneeling in. It was still warm, stewing with chunks of flesh not yet dissolved, belonging to someone who moments earlier tried to kill him. 

His life was still in danger, and the sword might be the thing that would ultimately kill him, but at least it was the magnificent sword of a prince.

“There’s nothing I can offer you,” Shuuichi said. He wasn’t anything, he was a nobody. A drudge, a window cleaner barely allowed to step foot into the palace. A beastman that wasn’t ferocious or strong or deft, just a lizard with a nearly useless bloodline ability. “Nothing I can give or do.” 

In the brief quiet that followed, Shuuichi realized too late that he forgot to use honorifics. The Prince, however, didn’t seem to notice or care. 

“Answer the question,” the Prince said. “I wasn’t asking if you had anything to offer. I’m asking if you want to serve me.” He tapped the tip of the sword on the ground, the sharp sound sending a shiver throughout Shuuichi’s being. “As a vassal.” Another tap. “A retainer.” Another tap. “My retainer.” 

It was more than presumptuous for Shuuichi to even think about who he’d choose to serve under, but in all honesty, to any other royal heir, he would’ve sworn his loyalty immediately. The Sixth Prince was the Necromancer General, working closely with the Grand Chancellor, in charge of the Demon Lord’s First Legion, the battalions of the undead. The Ninth Prince, who could control the skies, was currently conquering the southern islands. If Shuuichi could’ve, he would chosen to serve the legendary Fourth Prince, unmatched with his blade, dying standing up when taking on an Eastern army but not before he decimated half of it.

All the Princes and Princesses—they were said to have the extraordinary potential to become the next Demon Lord. Each was already slowly shaping the world, twisting reality at will, ready to wrestle fate into their liking. 

The Tenth Prince, however… People say that Tenth Prince Tomura was the favored one out of all of the Demon Lord’s heirs, the only one to be granted the royal name, to receive the services of the Great Steward and Keeper of Gates. Rumor was, Prince Tomura was actually the Demon Lord’s blood and flesh son… and that was the only reason he was one of the Princes of the realm. The title was for show; his name and status given to prevent him from throwing a tantrum. Prince Tomura had the touch of death and destruction, which was powerful indeed, but he lacked anything else that makes one princely. Childish and lazy and undignified, he might not be completely sane. Shuuichi could confirm. He has seen the Tenth Prince scratch his neck bloody; seen that the Prince kept and talked to severed hands; seen the Prince’s quarters, which was not much cleaner than a landfill. 

Did Shuuichi want to pledge his life away to this man? Follow Prince Tomura as he goes aimlessly towards an inevitable dead-end? He wanted Shuuichi, and that seemed reason enough to not accept. 

But you have absolutely nothing to lose, his heart whispered. Why not do something, anything with your waste of a life? 

Shuuichi said yes.

The Prince grinned. He held out the sword. “Kiss the blade, then, and swear it.” A tradition of fealty, deference to power, acknowledgement of the Prince’s hold on his life, love for his new master, unafraid of the dangers up ahead and willing to die for the Prince. Shuuichi knew the words, having heard stories, seen people try to copy it. Now, somehow, it was his turn.

Shuuichi kissed the blade, and could feel the silver of metal edge against his scales, a soft scraping feeling that made him shiver, and made his oath.

"My life, my powers, my heart and body - all that I am is yours."

2. 

“My prince!” Jin exclaimed, his salute to the Prince turning into a flourish of the arm, nearly hitting Shuuichi in the face. “Doesn’t Shuuichi look good? It doesn’t suit him at all!” 

The Prince lounges on a sofa, in his hand a glass of wine, the very picture of decadence. “What’s with the vest?” He pointed. “The blue dots?” 

“Mix-up at the tailors!” Jin said. “Was gonna go get the right one, but Shuuichi said no.” 

“I like the color blue.” Shuuichi said. He didn’t see anything wrong with the vest; it was already fancier than anything he had ever worn. Everything else was exactly what he had been given to wear - the uniform of black and silver, the light armor, the heavy boots, the red cape embroidered with the royal crest and the Prince’s own sigil. 

“It’s not standard livery.” Lord Kurogiri said. 

“It’s fine,” the Prince said. “Jin already has his helmet.” 

“I must keep covered,” Jin told Shuuichi, for all the sense it made. The metal helmet obscured his entire face and caused everything he said to carry a slight echo. 

The Prince’s first retainer was the reason Shuuichi even became noticeable enough to catch someone’s attention in the first place. One day Jin greeted him, then yelled at him for missing a spot that wasn’t there on the window Shuuichi was wiping. After that, Jin just kept talking at Shuuichi, chattering about his (un)favorite types of alcohol and tobacco; the (dis)comfort of having his underwear bunch up in his new livery; the birds he had (not) seen that day. 

For a while, Shuuichi never responded with more than a few respectful words. He wasn’t interested in whatever game Jin wanted to play, and he wasn’t dumb enough to think the man wanted to be friends without some expectation Shuuichi could not afford to meet. But despite the way he talked, Jin seemed so genuine. The moment he did start to reply, of course, was when someone assumed he could be kidnapped for information.

Jin had been a soldier in the Second Legion. He had an accident with his doubling magic and it drove him insane. Almost tossed out of the army, Jin was saved when Prince Tomura took him into his service.

The other royal heirs had dozens of retainers. The Eighth Prince commanded his own small army. Prince Tomura now had just two to serve him. 

[of-tatooine]

DULCE PERICULUM. | CHAPTER XIII - NIGHT

no greater grief than to remember days of joy, when misery is at hand.

(John Wick x Reader, Santino d'Antonio x Reader)

full work

The commanding view of the Colosseo over the symphony of flickering lights that stretched through the nighttime - a view that you swore you could never get tired of, regardless of the countless nights you had spent seeping the beauty in.

How could you? More importantly, why would you?

With the center of civilization sprawled under your very feet, with a half-enjoyed glass of wine resting between your fingers - what else could you need to conquer the world from this very position?

Often, you would find yourself looking down from your vantage position to the bustling streets below, even at the ungodly hours, to the dots of people walking, sitting, resting, drinking on a Friday night. It was doubtful that they even had an inkling of an idea that endless money could buy a penthouse right across the Colosseo, and many other equally opulent ones around the world. That money, and the sheer power associated with it, brought along the never-ending ego boost of otherwise challenges just working exactly as you wanted - one way or another, through many deals sealed by more hands and lips. With confidantes all across the country, continent and corner of the world, any need you might have had was addressed to promptly, doors opened for you wherever you stepped foot in. The mention of his family name alone tied to yours bringing an aura of influence across borders that seemed to illicit fear, yet respect.

When everything that the normal, common folk could ever want want had been under your fingertips ever since you became conscious of your inherent privilege - why was something missing from the depths of your soul?

Why, oh, why did you catch yourself wanting just the one thing you could not have?

“It’s always a pleasure to have you here, John.”

Through the gentle hums of background piano, a feather-light touch on the small of your back accompanied with Gianna’s voice echoing through the dining room pulled you back to reality.

“Tutto bene, mia cara?” your fiancé would question with a quiet worry etched onto his tone, his hand resting leisurely over your dress as he stood behind you, neck craned gently to catch your gaze illuminated by the city lights.

The habitual comfort that seeped into your skin as you caught a whiff of his woody cologne in the breeze from the fan above, one stronger than his usual aquatic lean. His light green eyes looked into yours with a desire to discover the unknown, to go into the very depths of your soul.

Why would you want anybody else when you had him?

The heart and the mind never worked in unison, as far as your experience went in this world.

“Si,” you would reply softly, a hint of a smile laced in your tone. “Just admiring our city.”

Words only reserved for him as you reached up to land a  reassuring kiss to his jaw - amidst the chaos in your mind being exacerbated by the other presence in the room, it was admittedly more of a reassurance to yourself.

If only Santino had known that you had been trying to avoid a certain dark-haired assassin with every piece of willpower left in your being, as alcohol slowly mixed itself into your blood.

“I know what you are doing, amore. Lo so.”

And yet, you had previously applauded yourself for concealing your emotions so well, forgetting just how well he could read your face after the years spent together.

Gianna’s laughter emanated through the air, acting as the universe’s answer to your current predicament - a shiver running down your spine, your jaw tightening, body frozen at the fear of the unknown.

“I know it is hard for you to see, to reminisce, to relive.”

Much to your surprise, Santino leaned further towards the drape of your neck, pulling your body closer as his hand found your left hand, his palm a gentle cushion for your fingers to lay on - showcasing the object of interest, the presence of which only supported the silent point he had been making.

“So bene che è difficile, amore,” his breath hot against your neck, deep voice awakening the demons in you, lips brushing the skin. The close proximity of his warmth making the wine glass in your hand tremble ever so slightly.

Did he really know just how much anger your heart housed, even after all these years?

Even when you kept telling yourself, over and over again, that whatever happened in the past did not matter the slightest anymore?

Santino, who preferred actions over words quite often, was seemingly ready to answer your burning questions - as if he had heard your deepest, darkest thoughts. A quick, sly angling of his hand holding yours and the lights caught onto your extravagant, emerald-cut engagement ring, almost blinding specks dancing in front of you. Rays of light that would pave the way to an even brighter future. The shine that reminded you of just who you belonged to, the moment you had given the promise of commitment - that there was no room for confusion on the road that you had began traveling through.

A ring fit for the future wife of the man whose command stretched further than the underground.

“Il mondo gira, amore.”

The world turned, and turned - as it would always do. All those countless turns, he had waited for you far too many nights, days that felt like eternities.

Santino could not afford to wait another lifetime.

After all, even a man as hopelessly, helplessly, recklessly devoted to his lover as him, could run out of patience - and you knew within that you must have been cutting it quite close. 

“We have nothing but happiness ahead of us, but you have to believe in it.”

And at that moment, as he uttered those words, as if to prove himself and his words - he would land a soft kiss to the nape of your neck, inhaling in your scent under the moon and stars of Rome.

“It was about time, no?” Gianna would quip at your arrival, Santino’s guiding hand leading you back to the expansive dining table adorned with crystal glasses, white candles and delicacies - and, most importantly, red wine. Remnants of food that already had been enjoyed throughout the night, told silent stories of surprisingly good conversation that they accompanied.

John’s dark eyes followed you as you took the seat Santino had pulled back for you, right next to Gianna, your almost empty glass placed back on the table in a soft clink.

“Our apologies,” you would offer to John and Gianna sincerely, both acknowledging with a smile. Ever the observant, Gianna would reach over to the bottle, filling your empty vial with the crimson liquid.

“Where were we?”

For this once, there had been no waitstaff this late at night. They had all been instructed to take a restful night, for this was a supposed gathering of old friends reminiscing about the good times. It had been the truth that working relationships had to be maintained within your alliances, as hard as maintaining friendship after betrayal could have been. Burning bridges had been a last resort in the underworld, as many chose to live and let live - no one could know just when help from the distant hand could be needed.

But how could he have betrayed you, if he had not been solely yours in the first place?

And so, there he stood - invited to dinner with the d’Antonio family, mere nights before the task he would undertake. Only nights before he would add to his endless death tally in hopes of never killing again. A neat bourbon resting in his fingers, nimble as you recalled, falling back into a friendly conversation with Santino without much effort.

The honorary sister you never asked for but was grateful to receive, Gianna managed to get your attention back as she raised her own glass to clink yours in a small toast, sending you a wink. She had adorned a dress on the more casual side even for her, an ankle-length black number with sheer long sleeves and a low neckline, hair in her signature loose chignon.

“Look at us, can you believe it?” she would exclaim, taking a long sip and surveying the wide expanse of the room, as well as the men across her. “Never thought father’s death would bring unity.”

“It is a miracle that we are not at each other’s throats yet.”

A short knock cut through the piano melody and the conversation, the door perching open ever so slightly as the family’s trusted Ares showed face - always in one of her impeccable suits, redirecting the attention in the room to herself.

“Mi dispiace,” she would signal with a smile, as Santino perched his body to turn while seated. “It’s about the funeral arrangements, Signore.”

“Ah, bene,” he would respond with a quick nod, standing up to button his pinstripe suit jacket, eyes meeting his sister’s to silently request her attendance - and then yours, Gianna would respond with an understanding hum, getting on her feet as she walked alongside her brother, heels clicking against the chevron hardwood.

“We will not be long.”

And as they shut the door with a click, the light air illuminated by the chandelier and candlelight became increasingly tense - somewhere deep in the silence, the echoes of unspoken history sent pulses across the atmosphere. The soft glow of crystals bounced across John’s angular features, the beard he had sported as of late, lips taking another seemingly unfazed sip from his drink.

The alcohol seeping into your body threatened to betray a crack in your composure, otherwise stoic in his presence.

It’s just you and me, John.

“I never got the chance to congratulate you.”

His words cut through the like a dagger, delivered after clearing his throat slightly, in response to which your eyes would meet his - and the worst part was, you knew that he had meant them. Flickering waves of light accentuated his searching, yet reminiscent stare.

“Thank you,” you would respond in a kind voice, lifting your left hand in a brief moment of vanity to admire the exquisite piece of jewelry, only one out of the extensive collection Santino had gifted her over the years - yet, arguably the most significant. The cold weight of the metal was a constant reminder of Santino’s claim, of his promises and enduring love, resting over your essence.

Another brief pause as you took a sip of the wine. “As I have heard - congratulations were in order with you as well,” you said calmly, a ghost of a smile adorning your features, legs crossed as you leaned further into your chair - an aura of confidence.

“Well,” John would start, mulling over his words, his elbows resting against the table, fingers tracing over the rim of the thin glass. Pensive, less subdued than usual, his dark strands of hair framing his face in unison with his dark suit. “It is not over until the task is done.”

“You are John Wick,” you would exclaim, waving him off politely. “There is no target you cannot take down.”

John would respond with an understanding nod, his gaze moving to the ornate Caravaggio painting behind you.

Yet, your focus was on him. Potentially fueled by the alcohol clouding your thoughts, or rather, overexposing them as your tone took a turn - one of genuine curiosity.

“You know what, John? I have always wanted to ask you - meant to bring it up for a long while now, but every time I felt ready, something always came up.”

A certain mix of emotions in his expression that you had been once good at discerning somehow encouraged you to keep speaking.

“What did she have that I did not?”

The moment you let those words slip from your lips, it did not matter that your eyes became glassier by the minute, nor did it matter that John had never been formally yours. It did not matter if the pain you felt manifested physically, as there had been no use in hiding it anymore.

You had concealed it long enough.

No, this was a question that had been cemented in the cornerstone of your mind, ever since you had caught him in her arms years ago. A part of you sought answers, and another one screamed them, over and over again - yet they had never been enough.

“Was I just a distraction to you? Just a little something to take the edge off whenever you needed between closed doors?”

The candlelight flickered across his features, reflecting the mess of thoughts as he visibly fought for the right words, mouth ever so slightly agape and knuckles turning white.

Emotional and more human, you could swear that he had been a changed man already - another twist of the knife, knowing he had kept himself closed off before. And finally, he would catch your expecting gaze, his low voice vibrating with regret, guilt, yet hope.

“She is my promise to live a normal life,” he confessed in a brief moment of vulnerability. “To build something and not break for once - an ordinary family, a warm home. To leave all of this mayhem behind.”

“Ah,” you would acknowledge, lips tightening as the truth settled in your chest. “So, that was it, then.”

A small chuckle escaped your lips, shaking your head in disbelief at the games fate had played on you, tangling in with dry nostalgia. It was your turn to lean back in your chair, the scarlet silk dress rippling to hug your body as it echoed the dark burgundy swirl in your glass. In the moments that followed, filled with charged silence - you could feel the past and present entangle themselves even further, momentarily clouding the future.

“A life outside this world. A life without killing and contracts. Do you believe yourself when you say that, John?”

“I need to. I have to,” he would quip back unexpectedly after a brief pause, eyes distant, index finger tapping the rim on the crystal.

“I am done running, executing contracts soullessly, shooting before taking names. Living under the orders of one man, no different than a dog.”

Looking up with a more determined gaze, voice steady but threaded with thin strands of quiet apologies.

“You have to understand - I have to do it for her. She… she does not know of this world. Of what we all are capable of. She deserves a world untouched by darkness.”

It was at that moment a single tear began its lazy trail down your cheek, as his words were uttered so easily, so naturally when speaking of the woman he loved the most. How accepting to let go came so naturally. How he was awarded the luxury of even plotting of leaving all he knew behind - the world he had been born into. A world he had waltzed through, exuding fear in anyone who dared step close enough to him. A sacrifice of a dangerous, yet thrilling and luxurious lifestyle, made instantly at the promise of an eternity with her. 

A sacrifice he would have never made for you. Desperate for closure and for answers, you found yourself leaning forward and catching his haunted eyes.

“Tell me.”

John inhaled, his gaze softened with his head tilted, his shoulders tensing visibly under the suit.

“Look me in the eye, and tell me the truth, for old time’s sake. If I have ever meant anything to you. What makes you think this time is going to be different, John? You really believe that you can shed your skin of blood and bullets, out of your identity?”

The assassin’s jaw tightened with every sentence, gaze growing relentlessly unfocused as your remarks had seemed to hit a spot. Even a man as controlled, as disciplined as him could not hide the slight flicker of doubt that passed over him.

“You will never be out, John,” you continued, emphasizing each and every word softly. “Someway, someplace, sometime - it will catch up to you. Just like I am bound by blood to Camorra.”

The weight of the words settling in the air, in sharp contrast to the relaxing piano and the gentle shadow of the city lights.

“And, when the darkness of the past comes calling. When all the blood you spilled become more than checks off a ledger. When you need to draw those guns yet one more time - what happens then?”

His darkened eyes found your glassy ones, his throat hitched, yet no words came out. To those words that held utter worry, John had no answer to give this time, as the echoes of your voice faded into a charged silence - one so complete it felt that the world itself had been holding its breath.

A sigh escaping your lips upon the answers that were revealed to you, you would lift your glass once more - this time, drinking to savor the taste, to let the wine’s warmth settle in your broken memories.

In the motionless silence that engulfed both of you, one immutable truth became more certain than ever before.

Il mondo gira.