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kneelingshadowsalome · 1 year ago

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FATUM NOS IUNGEBIT 1/4

(König x F!Reader)

Summary: You have seen him in your dreams. The seer has divined his coming. But nothing has prepared you for witnessing him in the flesh. (Historical AU where König fights for the Roman Empire in an auxiliary unit, finds a cute barbarian woman and decides to keep her as his own.) Word count: 5.3 k Tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY. Spoils of war/enemies to lovers trope, graphic depictions of violence, historical gruesomeness, pining, odd banter, mixed feelings, romantic fluff, dubcon cuddling, eventual smut. Captor/captive dynamic. König is a brutal warrior... and a gentle giant. A/N: Lol what now? König dual wields 2 swords, goes Mike Tyson on his enemies, teaches his captive girl constellations in German, cuddles her and feeds her grapes, buuut mainly just tries to get into her pants (which historically did not exist at the time) A bit of a slow burn, but don't worry, they'll bang eventually ^^

AD 90, somewhere in the untamed frontiers of the Roman Empire…

The end of the world is here.

Not only have the crops failed for two years in a row, making chieftains beggars and beggars food for the fish, but now there are rumours that the god of war has arrived to destroy the land. The accursed Romans had turned their eagle gaze back to your land after years of sending their troops elsewhere, making it seem like they were not interested in your distant land after all. Untamed, they called it, harsh and barren and therefore inferior – your lush, abundant, beautiful land. No doubt they spat on it in their war councils because your roads were not paved, because your crops and villages were modest, and the women sometimes fought alongside men. Their storytellers immortalized false tales about you, calling you barbarians, but the only barbarians you could think of were the Romans themselves – crude, filthy and boorish creatures, drowning in wine and shit in their cities.

Rumours started to get fat and distressed when the troops approached your village. They said there was a giant at the head of the army, that the Romans followed a Titan's son who loved to eat men, torture women and impale children. They said he didn't accept proper food but preferred to eat his fallen enemies, washed his weapons with the blood of children, and split captured women apart with his cock, as long and sharp as his sword. They told that the Titan ordered his soldiers to poison the wells and destroy the growing crops with salt and vinegar. The rumours said that his tent was bigger than any chieftain's house and that he still struggled to stand at full height inside it.

Even the land itself seemed to bow before him. Good weather followed his conquest wherever he went; ambushes failed, scouts got caught and tortured, exposing more villages to pillage and ruin. Your brother told you to flee the village, but how could you survive without your clansmen? You didn't know how to hunt; you barely knew how to fish. Your task in the village was to gather clams from the shore, dye wool and help the old Seer. How long could you survive on sorrels and clams alone?

. . .

The old woman calls you to see her on the brink of war, and tells you to prepare for a ceremonial offering. Two horses, black as night if possible, brown at the very least, to appease the Great Mother of the Earth and quench her thirst for blood. If the Mother is satisfied with your offering, She will perhaps stop the approaching army or convince the Titan to leave your village alone.

She does a small rite before you, and you need to stay with her through her visions. You hate the smell of the leaves she burns, and try to cover your nose with your tunic to prevent breathing in the bitter fumes. The seer looks like she’s just lying herself down to sleep, but it’s always a burden when the spirits arrive and she starts to talk. You turn your back on her to coax them to rise: a mortal stare annoys the chthonic ones. You nearly fall asleep too as you wait, wanting nothing more than to go back to your own hut and have a good night’s sleep. Perhaps because you’re lousy tonight, and less vigilant as you should be, the spirits arrive sooner than either of you thought.

“He’s strong,” the seer croaks from the earthen bed, and you fight the urge to turn around and peek at the old woman, currently in the clutches of spirits.

“Invincible… Hungry... The horses…won’t suffice…”

She drifts someplace else, and you try to memorize every word, every intonation, as cryptic or as simple as they are, for later interpretation.

“I see you,” she says in a slightly more cheerful tone, which is odd because the old woman is never happy or satisfied, no matter how bright the sun shines or how much food there is in the storages and pits.

“Me?” You dare to speak even though you’re not allowed to disturb the spirits. You could slap yourself for blurting out a single word, but luckily, the hungry ones don’t attack you for your insolence.

“You.. will be his downfall,” she speaks as if you are having a conversation here. “Be there. When he arrives.”

“...Be there? Why?” You dare to utter again, more concerned about what the Mother implies than the potential fury of some lowly earthen spirits. You haven’t got the faintest clue about what She might be suggesting. Why do you have to participate in the battle? How can you be there without getting killed? You’re not a warrior… The Mother has it all wrong.

Suddenly, you curse the night, you curse the whole day, knowing your brother’s late proposal was perhaps a warning, a hint from the gods to leave, and leave quickly.

The old woman laughs dryly on the ground - the throaty, outright sick cackle makes you flinch.

You don’t like this... You don’t like this at all.

“Mother. What must I do?” You demand to know, thinking about how all the gods, spirits, old women, and Titans should go to hell.

“Become a tree,” the old woman offers as if it’s the easiest thing to do. “A flower. Me...”

. . .

You become a marten first, then a bird. Then perhaps a tree.

You climb a spruce and wait there. You wait until the sunrise; you wait until noon. You wait until you see the glint of the Roman spearheads and hear the sound of their march.

You’ve dreamed of the Titan ever since you left the seer’s hut. You’ve dreamed of him slaying everyone in the village; you’ve dreamed of him driving a thick spear into the ground and grabbing you with an intent to raise you into the air and impale you on it. You’ve dreamed of him behind you, above you, inside you. You wake up one morning only to see that half of the people have left. You don’t know where they have gone, and you can’t follow them even if you did because the old woman waits for you in front of her hut and gives you a nod the instant you walk into another beautiful, sunny day.

That’s why you’ve turned into a branch in a tree, but for what purpose, you have no idea. You can’t understand why you must be here to witness the world’s end.

Your men scream and shout and roar as they crash into the thick forest of spears. The enemy is silent: it’s eerie, how the world burns and falls into ruin around you, people are screaming; everyone who has a soul and a heart is screaming for Mother as they die, but the men behind the Roman shields refuse to emit a sound. They don’t curse or shout or summon their gods; they simply stand their ground and pant mist into the air as wave after wave of men break on their shields and die before their feet. Somebody loses his spear because it gets stuck between your clansman’s ribs, but the Roman simply draws his sword in its stead: it’s the only sound among the pitched wails that cut through the forest – the cold, clear ring of a gladius being pulled from its sheath.

That is why you flinch at the sound of the first shout, a brutish command that sends all the shields to the side, only to present more shields: the Romans switch positions in their formation as if they’re not even human beings like the rest of you, just a single enormous creature made of iron and leather and bone, operating it's flat forest of weapons.

And then you see him: the giant of your dreams, the hungry titan everyone has told you about. He rises from the tide of helmets like a summoned god, concealed as one of the soldiers and only now revealing his true nature. He stands at least two heads taller than the rest, pushes his own soldiers to the side and breaks out of the formation these vicious Romans love so much. You knew he would be strong and big, but you didn't know he refused to show his face… You wonder what kind of a monster hides behind the black cloth with nothing but two eye holes ripped on it. As if this man needed the additional effort to stand out from other soldiers...

He's like a God of War, just like the survivors said: his armour is of Roman design, but the amount of metal that had to be scraped together to cover this man's shoulders and chest must've demanded a fortune in gold. He doesn't seem to care about the Roman ways, however: he throws his shield away as soon as he's out of the cumbersome formation as if he has carried it only as a decoration up until this point. He draws another sword in its stead – if any other man did such a stupid thing, traded his shield for a weapon, you would snort. But not now.

Standing between the Romans and your clansmen like a challenge, a threat, a deity, even the men possessed by the seer's blood spells hesitate to approach him. But when they do, the god unleashes carnage: the first warrior gets his stomach slashed open, and the two thick swords look like toothpicks when wielded by this man. A stomach wound is a gruesome, slow way to die - but just before the warrior's entrails spill to dangle between his feet, the brute grants him mercy by sweeping his head off with a single blow of his gladius.

A roar finally rises from your enemy: they cheer Death on as the head of your neighbour meets the mud next. The soil is already soaked in blood, but the Mother is hungry still. The forest booms with Her bloodlust as the god moves around like a slow tempest of muscle, metal and darkness: he breaks every Roman rule by fighting as his own man instead of demeaning himself as one of them, a lowly part of this odd metal beast before you. He sends a limb flying in the air with a swing of a sword; he uses the same weapon as a bludgeon to bash in someone's skull. He crushes a man's chest simply by sinking down onto one knee, breaking bone, tendon and flesh to splinters as a whole ribcage gets crushed under his massive weight.

Warriors flee before him, they fall under the combined wrath of the Mother and the Titan's sword. The dead seem to fall eternally, along with your heart, before meeting the ground with a hollow thud.

Your chieftain is among the last men standing, meeting this unstoppable foe with admirable courage. Not having succumbed to the spells of bloodlust in years, he meets his death as a seasoned but old warrior. With his fighting years behind him, your chief doesn't have a chance against this man, but you have to grant the beast a feather's worth of honour, because he recognizes your chieftain as the veteran he is and salutes him with his sword. Then he proceeds with the bloodbath: flinging your leader's sword and axe easily to the side, he walks straight into his arms like he would into a hug, grabs him by the waist, and raises him into the air like he's nothing but a child.

Your scream never leaves your lungs as you watch how the Titan raises the draping cloth from his face, just enough to sink his teeth into your beloved chieftain’s neck. The noise that erupts from your elder is not that of a man but a tortured animal. It’s not from this world, what you witness next: the giant tears a hunk of flesh from your chief like he’s a piece of roasted meat. Blood streams forth, his screams fade away all too slowly, and you hear your own weak wail in the air as the Titan lets go of the heap that used to be a strong male and a wise leader.

Your chieftain is dead; his essence spills to the earth in spurts to appease the God of War, who spits blood and flesh to the ground, making you gag into the cold spring air.

Then he raises his swords towards the sun, and the forest erupts into a roar with him: the thundering, ear-splitting cheer from his warriors makes the very earth quake beneath your tree. It seems to shake the branches of the forest, and before you know it, the giant’s howl of triumph breaks the one you’re curled around, and you fall, fall, fall into the mud beneath you.

You're not a tree anymore. No: you’re very much a human woman there in the dirt as the sound of shouting ceases like a distant dream.

And he turns.

Death turns.

Mother always said you were a curious creature, which is perhaps why you search for his eyes, even though you should be running. She also said you were a smart one, which is why you know that running is futile. Your limbs wouldn’t carry you far anyway. It is a cruel joke from the gods to have what little strength you have left pour out of you into the ground and up to the feet of the enemy who is already strong, both in body and in will.

The Titan looks at you with genuine wonder, a curiosity that surpasses your own. To your odd thrill, you find that his eyes are blue: the same blue of the sea which you used to collect delicious clams from.

The soldiers behind him shift with lust – their gear clinks as they devour you with unbridled hunger. The Titan is the only one who looks at you like you’re simply a cute little squirrel who happened to fall from a tree right there at his feet. Then his eyes drop to your breasts, and the familiar hunger that lives in men gives the ocean of his eyes a clouded look. When his stare finds yours again, he's a different man: the treacherous beast of your dreams.

You had hoped for a swift death… Violent but quick. But it’s clear that it’s not death he has in store for you as he takes a step towards you. It’s not a quick nor a slow death; it’s not death at all, because–

No.

You’d rather have your arms torn off and fed to the Romans rather than have him thrust the sword between his legs, his third weapon, inside you. If you’re going to die screaming, it will not happen on your back; you will not amuse this beast with your womanhood and tears.

You scramble forward to pick up something, anything: a bronze dirk from a fallen warrior. The giant’s eyes fall on the sad excuse of a weapon, then on the sorry excuse of you. He thinks you’re planning to fight him with that thing, and the corners of his eyes crease a little from the prospect of having to subdue you. You’re proving to be quite the entertainment, and you curse those eyes, looking so kind and lively when just moments ago, the same eyes were inhuman and possessed. His are the eyes of a wayfarer, a wanderer, not a soldier: you catch a hint of sadness in them and curse again.

He’s not human, you remind yourself and show him what actual humans are made of. What women are made of. You give him another name, Giant, because you’ve always feared giants and hated the stories about them. Dumb and reckless creatures they are, stupid destroyers who always place their trust in their size. You never meant to fight him, and he only catches up on it as you turn the dagger towards yourself and guide it to point straight at your heart.

You will be his downfall, just like the seer said.

“Nein–Warte,” the Giant speaks his first words, surprisingly soft to belong to a man like him.

The sorrow in his stare consumes you in full now. It gushes forth like a tide, causing your breath and hands to shake when they need to be stern. You straighten your spine, jut your chin forward, and call for Mother: you don’t even know if you’re yelling for your bearer, or the Great Mother, or the earth that gives life to all. Perhaps you call them all to gather around and witness your sacrifice, higher in price than any of the Titan’s offerings combined. The blood you’re about to spill onto the soil will surely appease the land and raise it to arms to finally fight against this beast.

He says something else just before you pull the blade back to strike it into your chest, and you curse for the third time in your mind: giants aren’t supposed to move that fast; they aren’t supposed to interfere in your last ritual.

But the worst of it is that even when he finally subdues you, even as he wrestles the blade away from you, he ends up drawing a large gash on his forearm… As if he is trying his best to protect you from accidentally cutting yourself.

. . .

You are brought to his tent, screaming.

It’s not as big as a chieftain’s house; it’s barely the size of yours. But it is larger than the tents you saw when you got carried there: as a spitting, screeching, hissing package of what these brutes would no doubt consider a true barbarian woman with uncivilized manners and a fuckable cunt. They will talk about you around their campfires tonight: about you getting broken in by their true commander. It’s enough to satisfy them for now: to imagine their champion to fuck you bloody and sore. And who knows: perhaps they’ll receive the scraps if the Titan gets tired of you.

The precious dagger is somewhere in the mud, probably trampled there like it’s nothing but a piece of worthless metal. Your own trampling is only about to begin as the Giant marches into his abode and sends the men away, giving you uneasy looks in the process, perhaps checking if any of them had enough time to have a go at you. Luckily for him, you’re in the same condition as he left you: legs together, safe and pretty, because he bound them with a rope along with your hands. You are nothing but a delivery, thrown on the floor of dirt and a few animal skins. He just nods at you, happy to acknowledge that you are untouched by the others, as if it would somehow be worse for you to be raped by ten of those petite men than be raped by him: a cruel, bloodthirsty Giant with a giant cock.

Your ankles and wrists get sore as you watch him doff his armour. He takes off the helmet, the belted straps, the segmented plates of his shoulder guards and the heavy Roman cuirass. The gods have truly favoured this man, not only gifting him tremendous height but insurmountable strength too. His muscles are large and lean and quiver with latent power as he moves; his back is so broad it almost competes with the wide mouth of the tent. He doesn’t seem to suffer from the cold either, but he keeps his mask on for whatever ghastly reason. Even if there is a monster under that mask, his body speaks of virility: he’s a man in his prime, a giant at his strongest, making you feel like an elf, a tiny little creature in the feet of this man who must be descended from titans indeed.

You continue to watch as he washes his hands in a small basin, cleans his mouth and neck, too. You reckon the water in that bowl is blood red and dark when he finally dries himself with a white cloth. He stands before you in nothing but his mask and the dark red tunic he had under the armour. He ties it from the waist with a simple leather belt, and it only now makes sense to you why Roman soldiers dye their clothes red: you’re pretty sure you can still see the darker spots on the hem of that tunic, the ones that used to be the lifeblood of your clansmen and kin.

He has the audacity to ask you - wordlessly - to clean his wound, the one you caused him. He sets you free from your bounds, and you are given fresh water and another cloth. He even opens a smallish wooden box of salve that has a familiar smell to it: pine tar and honey, used by your people to treat minor wounds and prevent bad spirits from getting into the wound. You wonder how he even knows about such a balm: is this warrior a Roman at all, or is he some odd creature hauled from the edges of the world to fight for them? You wonder if he has made the salve himself, extracted the tar from the pine and foraged the wax and honey himself, then cursed with his coarse language when he got stung by multiple bees…

You drive away the thoughts that threaten to make this brute human by snorting at his injury. The damage he gave to himself when he tried to guide the blade away from you at the price of his own blood.

It still troubles you that he did it. Even a tiny wound like this can bring any man down if it starts to fester. The cold winds and rains of spring can easily get into the gash and make it rot.

The idea of this giant being forced to his knees because of some filthy dagger wielded by a squirrel of a woman makes you smile inside. It would be a fitting fate for this man. But the vision also makes your heart sting. The thought of him dying of a simple flesh wound, alone and far away from his home, makes your heart grow kinder than it should.

You decide there is nothing you can do but treat his arm, strong and scarred from previous battles. He sits down while you get to stay on the ground, and you try to ignore it that your face is now level with his groin. He sits with a wide spread in those powerful thighs, and you wonder if it's because the rumours about his cock are true. You keep your eyes everywhere else except the hem of that tunic and what's going on under there. He purrs at your touch, making it clear that it doesn't need much more than your soft fingertips to get him hard after a triumphant day on the field of battle.

The wound is not deep, but you clean it carefully, trying to ignore the way his eyes seem to bore into you as you take care of him. Your hand is somewhat steady as you treat the damage with the nice-smelling salve, but you flinch as his hand suddenly meets your cheek. You look up at him, heart plummeting, thighs instinctively pressing together from the gentle way with which he cups your face.

“Schön,” he says, again with a tender voice and an adoring, almost worshipful stare. You don’t have a clue what he’s saying, but you know now for sure that it's not the tongue of the Romans he speaks. The scent of pines and bees lingers between you as he brushes a thumb over your lower lip. You are weak enough to give him a breath, a helpless, hot little exhale that meets his hand like a gift.

“Schön wie eine Fee,” he rumbles, sounding intoxicated or like he's under a spell of sleep.

“What the hell are you saying,” you whisper in your own tongue: just a meek little sputter, a tiny, horrified breath, but the giant’s eyes narrow with a smile.

“Sie redet,” he says happily, and your shoulders sink – you are on the verge of screaming from frustration alone. Whatever you do seems to only amuse this man, and you snap your mouth shut. Your cheeks heat up with recurring waves of odd fever. The ground beneath your shins is all but warm, and yet you feel warm all over: a dangerous sign, you know, and oddly tied to the peculiar bodings you have seen all week.

Because there have been many omens in the air lately.

It’s just that none of them were portents of war.

The cranes started to mate early this year, and you have found a lot of clams from the shore every day. Even your brother encountered a boar with nine piglets; everyone celebrated him as some holy man who had seen the Great Mother when he returned to the village that day. The wind started to blow from south soon after, and the moon has grown along with your womb: this morning, on the brink of war, you woke up wet and restless.

All the omens speak of fertility, of growth, of a new cycle and of birth: of spring and life. There’s nothing about death and decay, nothing except what the people have told you about… him. The death himself. The war god.

“König,” he says as if he can hear your thoughts and wishes to correct them. You look up and see he’s pointing to himself, or rather, holding his hand over his heart. You fight the urge to scoff at the gesture. As if this beast had a heart…

“König,” he repeats the word and pats his chest, and you realize he’s trying to tell you his name. You wrinkle your nose in distaste, and he smiles. It’s easy to tell when he does, even with the cloth that covers his face: you can see the joy clearly from his eyes, the boyish grin that must be occurring under that mask.

“Du?” He points at you next, inquisitive. He has an odd way of pointing: with two fingers, slightly crooked, and you understand very well what he’s asking of you. You refuse to tell him your name, however, settling for pouting a lip at him next. The smile in his eyes only deepens.

“Fee,” he pokes you gently on the shoulder and leans back in his odd Roman chair, seemingly content with having now named you.

And Mother was right: you are curious, so incredibly curious to know what this beast has chosen to call you and why. Are you a rat to him…? Some bird? Perhaps simply a girl?

He is so pleased with your conversation that he pours himself some wine and drinks the whole cup with one gulp. Great, you sigh inside your head, a beast and a drunkard. He pours another cup and tries to offer it to you, and when you don’t make a move to grab the clay mug, he brings it to your lips. You entertain him with a tiny sip: you’ve heard of wine and know that Romans are fond of it, but you have never tasted it yourself.

The tart, bitter flavour almost makes you cough. You thought wine was supposed to be sweet: everyone always describes it as something like milk or honey or juice from an overripe apple. It very much is not, and you almost choke on it and then make a wry face at your captor. He - König - only laughs. It’s another thing that catches you off guard: first those boyish, sad eyes and now this hearty, grown man’s laugh. You have proved to be such an amusement to him that he doesn’t force you to drink any more wine and enjoys the rest of it himself.

Then he rises and makes you shrink from him again, towers above you for a moment, and looks at you with that warm curiosity that makes your heart race.

“Müde?”

He tilts his head, the bag of darkness shifts, the blue eyes behold you fondly, and for some reason, you whimper an answer to yet another question you can’t even understand. He takes your little squeak as a yes and falls to crouch before you, then raises a massive hand to the leather strings that keep your demure little dress up.

To your horror, he pulls the knotted tangle open before you can stop him. Your dress falls from your shoulders and drops to pool around you, and you simply and verily stop breathing.

His eyes wash over you, he examines every little part of exposed skin like an entire treasure chest has suddenly opened before him. You pray to all the gods that he would find it in his heart to be gentle tonight. Your nipples perk up – from the cold or from his stare, you don’t know.

The rough callous of his palm meets your breast and encloses it in warm support. He cups you, weighs you like he would a fruit, and then he squeezes you, rather hard, too: a deliberate attempt to make you squeal again. He replies to your pathetic mewl with an approving rumble, and you look up at him with all the helpless tenderness of the Mother, hoping that Her gentle pleas might persuade this man not to hurt you.

“Please don’t,” you whisper, and his eyes dart to your mouth, to your eyes, then back to your lips again. He immediately softens his touch. Then he lifts you from inside your poor dress, picks you up like you weigh nothing at all, and carries you to his broad bed, the sturdiest you have ever seen.

This man feels like the strangest of fates, like a hopeless destiny, as he sets you on the skins and straw mattress, right next to your fluttering heart. Your insides ache as he undresses before you, entirely without shame. He’s hard under the tunic he rips off and tosses on the cold ground. Your eyes are glued to the legendary cock you’ve heard so much about, the cock that splits women apart: and it’s true that it's huge. It resembles the ones you’ve seen on horses, not on men, and your thighs are glued together as he comes next to you while that pale, monstrous cock sways long and heavy between his thighs. He moves you around a little, and you squeal from how weak you feel: weak as a mouse as he covers you with one of those rich furs he has in plenty on the bed. Then crawls under it too, right next to you.

Your heart almost wrenches itself out of your chest as a strong arm pulls you against him: the swell of your ass meets his thighs, solid and broad like treetrunks, and your lower back meets the hot, almost too hot horse cock. It starts to leak and throb against your skin the instant your flesh is pressed against his. You try not to whimper and moan as the Giant, König, curls around you like you two have always done this.

He takes a long, earnest inhale from your neck and hair, rumbles deeply and contently, and tightens his grip. Apparently, you smell and feel good…

You wait and wait to be plundered and raped, but König only settles for holding you tightly, like you’re a children’s toy made of the softest straw and purest undyed wool. You relax slowly, and he purrs against your back, starts to fondle your breasts, ardently, until your body betrays you and you find yourself wet again; he squeezes and squishes your teats slowly, approvingly, then pinches your nipple once before finally falling into a heavy, deep sleep.

…

Please forgive your author for any historical inaccuracies and other silly things you find facepalmable <3 During this time König would've probably spoken some form of Old Saxon but since I'm not a TOLKIEN we have to settle for modern-day German here. I don't have a taglist for this fic so please check my pinned masterlist for future updates.

Translations

Nein, warte - No, wait

Schön - Beautiful

Schön wie eine Fee - Beautiful as a fairy

Sie redet - She talks

Du? - You?

Müde? - Tired?

#könig fanfiction #könig x reader #könig x you #könig #könig cod #konig x reader #könig smut #könig fluff #historical au #Roman soldier!König #könig x female reader

3K notes · View notes

deoboyznet · 1 year ago

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heads up! check out duckie's new piece! pls remember to reblog as always <3

𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑𝐒 — part two (viii – xv)

nonidol!ji changmin x f!reader

your sister's dead, but apparently that's not the most shocking news. maybe she wasn't killed on accident, maybe ji changmin isn't really human, and maybe the monsters were never under the bed but all around you...

▷ genre, warnings. strangers 2 reluctant allies/friends 2 lovers, slow burn, demon/supernatural creatures au, angst, action, murder mystery-ish au, forced proximity trope, suspense, gore, depictions of violence and blood, themes of death and grief, use/description of weaponry, swearing, a slightly unreliable narrator bc she has no idea what's happening, reader's sister is dead, humor bc coping mechanisms, almost drowning, drugged drinks, kidnapping, reader has hair long enough to braid sorry, beheading, mentions of skinning someone, blood drinking, the barest of proofreading and editing, ending might feel super rushed (_ _;)

▷ part word count. 25.1k words / 47.4k - read part one here

a/n: hi again 🧍🏻‍♀️ don't try to read this without the part prior. thanks bye!! don't forget to reblog. also big thanks to @justalildumpling for reading all this thru for me :') one of the biggest reasons why this exists finished.

#8—HELL'S FAVORITE ANGEL.

SOMETHING YOU NEVER THOUGHT ABOUT, funnily enough, was what the Hell did Ji Changmin keep in the trunk of his car?

At one point, you'd mused about a body. And then the musing became too real, and you swept it under the proverbial rug. Now, you had to lift the corner of the rug to let the demon crawl back out. You weren't sure if you were going to grimace or scream.

"I fear this won't just be dirty gym socks in the trunk," you muttered while trailing behind the angel and demon with a frown.

Jacob let out a laugh. "Oh, you'll see. It's a lot cooler than dirty gym socks."

That sparked your interest. "Cooler? Can Changmin even be that?"

Changmin whipped an unappreciative scowl over his shoulder at you to the melody of Jacob's second laugh within thirty seconds. "For your information," he drawled with a huff, "Hell is cooler than Heaven."

"Okay, which part of Hell are we talking about?" Jacob snorted. "Do you still have my blade?"

"Oh, yeah. The human has it."

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, so I'm 'the Human' now? And what do you mean I have—" You stopped short and unsheathed Clyde from your pocket. "You mean Clyde?" You gawked at the switchblade in your hand, then at the angel who peered curiously between you, the blade, and Changmin. The lines between dots were materializing in your horizon. "Wait, so when Changmin said he won this in a poker game?—"

"Yes, that's Jacob's blade," Changmin finished with a rather smug gleam in his eyes.

Jacob tilted his head. "You named it Clyde?"

You pursed your lips slightly, your fingers curling around the weapon. "Yes."

"That's cute."

You smiled. "I knew I liked you for a reason."

Changmin made a noise of indignation and marched onward across the town square to his car.

You and Jacob fell into step beside one another as you followed after the tempestuous hellspawn.

Clyde, in your hands, seemed to warm at the presence of his original owner. You chewed on the inside of your cheek before extending the switchblade out to him. "I think this belongs to you."

Jacob shook his head. "No, no. He won it fair and square, and I see he's given it to you. It's no longer his to bargain."

"What do you mean by that?" You asked.

He chuckled, "Ah, well you see—back when he won the poker game, I was salty enough to challenge him to a sparring match to win the angel blade back from him, but we had to put it on hold for reasons."

"So what's gonna be put up for grabs from the sparring match now?"

He pointed to the trunk of Changmin's car. "You're gonna love this."

Practically jogging over to where Changmin was already stationed behind the trunk of his car, Jacob hurried you along. The lid of the trunk rose unceremoniously as you rounded the back end and you found only a long, black case spanning the width of it.

You made a face. "What is it?" You asked, silently thanking whoever was looking after you for not putting a dead body in the back.

Changmin stood between you and Jacob, seemingly reluctant to lean down and unlock the case.

Your breath hitched in your throat at the sight of what laid inside.

There was a long, slim blade made of a metal similar in looks to obsidian, but you highly doubted Changmin would covet a mortal mineral like this. It seemed to hum, in fact, something you knew no human material could do on its own. There was something about its surface that made it wink in purples and blues.

Changmin gently pried the sword out from its molding and held it by the handle. When it was brought to the light, shadows seemed to swirl and curl around the length like creeping vines up a trellis. "The Bonnie to your Clyde," he said lowly, fondly, even as he brushed the pads of his fingers over the flat side over the foreign characters carved into the material.

"You know what an angel blade is, Yn. Now you've seen a demon blade," Jacob said with a wide grin splitting his face in awe.

You couldn't help but share that sentiment. Thus was cool as fuck. "You're telling me you had a demon blade back here this whole time?" Where was this when you'd almost gotten murdered on a motel bedroom floor?

Changmin was just as careful returning the blade back to its case as he had been taking it out. "Yes, and it's gonna stay back here."

Jacob gave a sprite-like giggle. "Wah, your audacity is appalling. It's just gonna make kicking your butt even more fun."

Well, this should be interesting.

The rules of the match were simple.

"No claws or teeth," said Jacob.

"No wings," Changmin shot back.

It looked like Jacob was about to stick his tongue out at his opponent just then. "No tail!"

From your perch at a safe distance away from the two of them on the inn porch, you called out, "You have a tail?"

Maybe it was a trick of the light, but Changmin almost seemed bashful. "In my demon form," he stammered. "Okay, so no supernatural appendages."

"And no out of realm abilities," Jacob added. "Just plain and simple fisticuffs."

With a large majority of the pack members having cleared out go down to Moonstone Creak, it left the entirety of town center for a showdown between an angel and a demon. The atmosphere reminded you of an old Midwest duel with a pistol per man, and ten-paces-fire mentality. Part of you was sorry you weren't going to see their non-mortal forms, but the more you thought about it, the more you realized that was probably a good thing to keep your dreams clear at night.

You weren't sure what to expect from this.

"Best out of three?" Changmin drawled, shaking the hair out of his eyes.

Jacob brushed his own mane back. "Sure. It won't make much of a difference anyways. Count us off, would you please, Yn-ah?"

You straightened at the sound of your name. "Uhm—yeah, okay. How will each round end?"

"With Jacob's back on the ground."

Jacob's eyebrows flew up, and his smile grew teeth. "Oh, hoo! I see we like talking smack with an audience around. Okay, fine." To you, he said while pushing up the sleeves of his shirt, "Each round ends when the other yields."

You nodded warily. "Okay… ready then?"

The hairs on your arms and the back of your neck stood erect as both of them sunk into position, their facial expressions morphing into twin slates of stone. While they were different creatures, they seemed to share the same predatorial sharpness in their eyes.

You swallowed. "Set—begin."

You were certain that they both agreed to prohibit the use of "out of realm abilities," but the ground rumbled when they pounced at each other. It was fascinating, really, how well they both performed hand to hand combat. Each hit seemed to be just as calculated as the next—one predicting the other's moves.

A complicated dance played out before your eyes and you sat on the porch steps too enraptured—or too nervous—to move. Changmin twisted Jacob's arm behind his back, but the angel was swift to counter and slip out.

You had never seen so much power behind an uppercut; never seen any human force their opponent back so hard that dust kicked up when his heels dug into the ground.

You weren't sure how or when it would end—

Changmin swore as Jacob grappled onto his forearm from behind and swung the demon over his shoulder.

You thought it was over.

Changmin's feet hit the ground though, and on they went.

It was during this drawn-out match that you realized there was probably only one way to really beat an equally matched opponent. They were trying to tire the other one out.

Lost in thought, you all but missed it—the maneuver that Changmin used to suddenly have Jacob pinned to the ground, knees digging into the latter's neck.

"Yield," the demon grunted.

There was a flash of movement, and Changmin swiftly released Jacob from his hold.

He locked eyes with you. "He yielded."

"I didn't think you would let him go if he hadn't," you replied, your thumb running over the butt of the angel blade.

Jacob laid on his back with his face to the sky. "Dude, I think we're finally getting the hang of these mortal bodies."

Changmin smiled, shaking his head, "Yeah, and after how long?" He offered his friend a hand and hauled him to his feet. "I remember when you almost jumped out of a tree and forgot you couldn't just sprout wings."

"Listen," Jacob lamented with a wince, "that was one time. And you said we were racing, and my instinct was to fly."

"Born cheater."

"Born hater."

You raised your hand from the sidelines. "So, one to nil. Shall we continue, boys?"

It seemed once you'd reminded them of their purpose for roughing it in the town square, they were back to focus. This time, both were a little out of breath. You guessed that they were pretty damn close to evenly matched then—there was a balance to the pair with Jacob having grander, stronger movements, and Changmin doling out smaller, agiler maneuvers. They were two sides of the same coin, angel and demon.

The second round always generated a heightened bout of tension compared to the first. For the winner of the prior round, this could be his game point of the match; to the loser, it was his opportunity to get even.

You watched their stances steel over, the backs of their heels firmly on the earth. "Ready—begin."

It started off similar to the first time, Intl a little more calculated. With the stakes rising, it was crucial to make the right hits.

Changmin struck first—he had less to lose. An attempted double kick to the stomach ended with his foot caught in Jacob's grasp. The angel twisted; the demon tumbled, taking his foe to the dirt with him.

On they went, and at times, you couldn't even decide who had the upper hand.

From somewhere to your left, you heard the wood on the porch creak. You turned to find Kevin hopping over the railing and making his way over to you, a blue-colored bandana hanging from his fingers. He offered you a smile. "Hey."

"Hey," you said, scooting over to make room for him on the step. "I thought you were heading the search party?"

"Yeah, I still am," he replied. He wasn't even paying much attention to the duo brawling out in the square, just you. "We were about to leave when I realized that my entire party doesn't know what the pendant smelled like, so I was wondering if I could just clean your pendant off with this to carry the scent?" He gestured with the piece of fabric in his hand. "That way, you won't have to be uncomfortable with a bunch of people coming to smell your necklace," he reasoned while cupping the back of his neck.

"Oh, that's a novel idea."

From out in the dirt and sun, Changmin's eyes caught the two of you on the steps of the inn and got half his face rightly smashed into the ground. It was only a split second, but even a split second was mistake enough.

Jacob pressed him down with his entire body weight, and leaned in close with a grin, "Yield, little Hellspawn."

Changmin groaned, but yielded.

As he had done for Jacob, the angel yanked him up off the ground, spitting dirt out from his mouth and wiping it from his eyes.

"Sorry," Jacob said, not very apologetically.

Changmin grimaced as he stumbled over to the fountain at town center and dunked his face in. He furiously scrubbed the dirt off his face and rinsed his mouth. Yuck.

He pulled himself out of the water, refreshed. Brushing his dampened hair back, he blinked the water out of his eyes to see if Kevin had left yet. He hadn't, actually, and still sat next to you. Something he said made you laugh, but then he was leaving, your gaze following—Changmin noticed the slowness in Kevin's gait, how reluctant he was to leave.

"Hmm, didn't think you'd ever eat dirt again after all these years, but I guess there will always be exceptions," Jacob mused. He stretched out his calves and arms, keeping his muscles alive and perked up for the final round. It was one to one after all.

"I was distracted," Changmin said simply. "He wasn't supposed to be here."

Jacob hadn't been blind to Kevin's presence at the inn steps either. His smile turned sly. "Now why would Kevin being here distract you? Curious, curious."

Changmin raised the collar of his shirt up to dry his face as the two of them strolled back to their sparring ground.

You were currently sending him a look with your head tilted to the side in question. Did he dump you in the fountain? You seemed to ask.

He shook his head, making a motion with his hands about how Jacob won the match. To his opponent, he murmured, "She's getting attached."

"And that's a bad thing?"

His automatic thought was no, you getting attached to these people, this place, was not a bad thing. He remembered your state of being back at the college town and how alone you'd been there. Here, it seemed you had people who would care about you, at least. With so much time spent in the mortal realm, he'd learned just how much humans needed each other.

But then again, you and he had a job to finish. "We have to leave soon."

Jacob adjusted the sleeves of his shirt once again since they fell at some point during the match. "Doesn't mean you can't come back."

He wasn't wrong. You seemed, upon reflection, content here. He passed you a glance, but you took that as a signal to start the match.

Changmin and Jacob dropped into their respective stances and charged when given the word.

As soon as Jacob's back hit the ground, you knew it was over. The last round drew out much longer than the preceding ones, and though they both fought fiercely, it was done with exhaustion sewn between each huffing breath, each reeled punch. A fight like this wasn't worth wasting all that energy on, anyway.

"Bonnie stays with you for now, I suppose," Jacob chuckled as the two of them clasped each other's hands in a show of good sportsmanship. Sweat dripped from their bangs and down the slopes of their noses and sculpted jawlines.

Changmin shook his head, "The sword is permanently going to be called Bonnie, isn't it?"

"You did this to yourself, you know." You walked over to them, hands propped on either side of your hips.

"I did," he agreed with his lips pressed together. The dimple in his cheek still threw you off your rocker. "Well, since I have so much dirt in my hair now—"

"Hey! I have to go switch shirts because of you!" Jacob chortled, motioning to his own white T-shirt stained a dusty brown on his back and front, and more on his pants.

"Ah, you need to shower anyways," Changmin quipped back.

Jacob made a waving gesture over his shoulder as he headed back toward the pack house to take that shower. "Yeah, yeah. I can say the same thing about you, Ji."

While Jacob went in his own direction, you and Changmin trudged back over to the inn so he could clean himself up. You wondered how much he really did need to get cleaned up, since you noted no blood or bruises, but the latter wouldn't show up for another couple hours if there were any.

Wait, was that how demon bruising worked—?

"I can hear your mind racing, Yn," Changmin drawled as he hiked up the stairs next to you.

"Not literally, right? I just have to make sure," you added on at the end when he looked over at you.

He absentmindedly scratched his jaw. "No, not literally. You're just easy to read."

Your expression flattened. "Oh."

"Hm."

"Okay, well you owe me some answers." You amended, folding your arms over your chest, "A lot of them, actually."

The sigh that fell from his lips was a familiar one, and he turned his head over his shoulder to check that there wasn't anyone else around. There wouldn't have been since it was only the two of you staying here, and the auntie who ran the inn was somewhere downstairs. "Let's talk in my room."

"Your room?" You squabbled incredulously. To you, Changmin seemed like the type to like his privacy, especially when he got a room to himself. But you questioned no further and he made no additional comments as the two of you entered the space that was his bedroom.

The room itself was similar to yours, but flipped. The wall on the far left was his room shared with yours, his bed pressed up against the far right. The shutters in here remained closed and angled upward so the sunlight outside could peer through, but only at a faint glow. It was enough to get around, at least. The space was spotless, bed unslept in. The sheets were still tucked tightly into place and his backpack sat in the armchair in the corner.

"You didn't sleep?" You voiced aloud, shutting the door behind you while he made a beeline for his backpack. You knew sleep wasn't a demonic necessity, but even so, sleeping for leisure was still something he indulged in, right?

He dug through its contents for a spare shirt and pants to change into after his shower. "No, I went out last night."

Your head perked up from where you'd settled on the very foot of the bed. "Where?"

"The woods—where else?" As if that were obvious. "The circles of Hell are pretty much dark all the time anyway," he said while passing by you to get to the bathroom door. He dumped his clothing items onto the counter and you heard him rip the shower curtain open. "It was—it was just, you know, like exercise and shit. Nothing important."

You opened your mouth to say something, then closed it, losing your train of thought.

The bathroom door shut, but you could still hear the stream of water running behind it.

Did living like this make him uncomfortable? Was he used to moving from place to place, never making a permanent home?

"Changmin." You raised your voice so he could hear you from through the door and over the water.

A faint, "Yeah?"

"What you said, back there during the advising board meeting, when they asked if there was more of this pendant—" You fingered the stone again. There was no one here to gawk at it. "—you said that this wasn't the only one."

For a moment, he didn't answer, and you thought that perhaps he didn't hear you.

Then, "Your sister, she—she had the other half."

You peered down at the stone in your hand and watched its blood ruby surface pulse. If you were careful, you could just barely make out the duller edge versus the sharper one, no doubt where Sena's half would have been. It hadn't even occurred to you that this was only half the necklace, like a locket.

You asked him the next reasonable question. "Where is it?" It hadn't been in the lockbox, nor had it been on her person when she died or at the funeral. Did he have it?

"I'm not sure actually."

Those four words settled heavily over your shoulders. He didn't know. There had to be some connection with how she died then. Someone took it off her body—

"Is that—" The bathroom door opened. You hadn't even realized he finished and was dressed, "—what we're looking for then? You said we have to go to one of her safe houses to find the thing she messaged you about. Is that the thing? Is whoever was following us earlier—were they after my half?"

Changmin leaned against the bathroom door's frame, freshly rinsed off of dirt and grime and sweat, a new set of clothes on his body. He crossed his arms over his chest with a pensive gaze. "They probably were after your half, yes. I didn't really know what she wanted me to find, to be honest. I thought you would have her half, too, but when you only said you found one pendant in the lockbox, my mind shifted into believing she stashed hers in a safehouse somewhere."

That must have been why he reacted like he did that day… how he wanted you to be sure there wasn't anything else in the box.

He continued, "Sena was the one who poured over ancient texts and researched about this. I gave her context about supernatural things and was the muscle where need arose. She knew everything, and now I'm kind of kicking myself in the head for that." He massaged his jaw. "She mentioned something about an activator of sorts. I can't remember all the details, but it would be in one of her notebooks."

"We just have to find them," you murmured.

You and he locked eyes, and he nodded, a muscle feathering in his jaw. "Yeah."

You fiddled with a spare thread from the duvet cover by your hand. "And about the demons—you know, the lower level ones who have been popping up everywhere?"

"Those are easier beings to summon," he breathed out. "Anyone can summon them through a ritual and they'll do your bidding for the price of a sacrifice. Those are usually the ones people are calling upon with their… Ouija boards and pentagrams and shit." They seemed a lot more vicious than the ones that came with pentagrams, but you couldn't speak from experience.

You shuddered at the memory of those teeth engraved into your mind. If anyone could summon those kinds of demons, then it wouldn't necessarily be a demonic entity after your pendant. More details to consider, you supposed.

A thought occurred to him and you saw it come to the forefront of his mind like a lightbulb turning on. He disappeared back into the bathroom and returned with a little paper cup in his hand. He stirred something inside it with a wooden popsicle stick used for coffee and crafts.

"I, uhm…" He stepped toward you, apprehensively, with the paper cup. "I consulted the resident medic for some of that salve the wolves use for bruising. She didn't have anything on hand for humans, but she told me what herbs I could grab from the woods."

When he was close enough, you could see the greenish paste at the bottom of the cup. Your eyes widened in surprise, uncertain of what to do with all this information.

He stood in front of you, teeth biting down on his lip. "Can I see your neck?" His voice quieted at the end, and he cleared his throat.

You could feel your heart stutter in your chest. "Uhm, yeah. Sure." You carefully swept any stray pieces of hair from your neck and to the other side of your shoulder, tilting your head slightly to give him access to it. You didn't know exactly what this was going to do, but for some reason you trusted that it would help.

He took some of the paste onto the end of the popsicle stick and carefully dabbed it over the places where the demon teeth marks vandalized your skin. It was still purplish in some areas, darkened where the teeth had sunken in the deepest to pierce your esophagus. Shallower places had already begun to sallow, but clearly, it wasn't at a supernatural creature's pace by any means.

When he was finished he stepped back to inspect his handiwork. Neither of you had yet to say anything.

You let your hair fall back into place. "Thanks."

You couldn't read him again; you wish you could. "Yeah," he said.

#9—OUT OF REALM.

THE NIGHTS WERE WARM here in the little town of Moonstone Creak. The air was comfortable and settled so comfortably on your skin. No gooseflesh or raised hair or anything.

You sat on the front steps of the pack house to the sound of music being played in the square before you, and wondered if Sena had ever come across something like this in her travels. If she and Changmin had been business partners, so to speak, she must have come across a myriad of supernatural and divine beings.

A couple days had passed since you and Changmin first got here, and the wolves unfortunately were unable to find the source of your pursuers in the white car, who bore the same scent as the pendant around your neck. You almost forgot that was why you both were here in the first place.

A blur of fur flew past you as two wolf pups scrambled down the steps, one chasing the other's tail, in a game of tag. Seeing mothers hold their infant children between jaws of teeth was becoming less and less of a shock, and you found yourself smiling at the kids playing around in the square, beneath the hanging lanterns.

"This seat taken?" You glanced up to meet Kevin's boyish smile, a white dress shirt and board shorts hanging from his frame.

You welcomed him next to you with a smile. "Busy day?" You asked after having not seen him since he left breakfast this morning.

He gave a sigh, leaning back onto his palms. "A little, but it's always nice to take some of the younger ones out into the woods. It's how they build community and stamina."

The two of you peered out at the town center as those dancing around Lily and Sangyeon with their guitar and keyboard cheered to the end of the song. It was merry and vibrant and full of life; no wonder they lived in this pocket of the world—it was to preserve their serenity, and perhaps even their ways of life.

Kevin turned his head toward you. "What about you? How have you filled your day today?"

"Well," you started with a chuckle, "Haknyeon and Eric and I went down to the creak and they taught me how to snatch a fish out of the water with my bare hands."

His grin widened. "Oh, I see. So dinner tonight was on you?"

You snorted, shaking your head. "I would like to take credit for that massive hunk of salmon, but I could barely get my fish out of the water."

"It comes with practice," he assured you, eyes turned up in amusement. "Plus, Haknyeon and Eric have a bit of an advantage over you."

Ah, that was right. Wolf shifters were, for lack of better phrasing, “built different,” as you liked to say. They were stronger, faster, and more alert, with their five senses heightened to a scale you couldn’t put into words. You imagined that shifting between human and wolf forms took a lot of strength and energy, so it made sense in a way. There were also a few humans living among the wolves here besides yourself who either married into the community or simply moved in after visiting or doing business with the town’s inhabitants. You couldn’t blame them for that either. (A part of you, stewing in the back of your mind, humored the possibility of moving here yourself. It seemed almost too good to be true.)

You and Kevin watched as Jacob joined the fray with Eric in tow, the two of them starting a game of “Simon Says.” A thought occurred to you while you observed the angel; there was something distinctly absent from his silhouette. “Kevin?”

“Hm?”

“Why doesn’t Jacob have wings if he’s an angel?” For the entirety of your stay since you met him, he lacked the white-feathered wings characteristic of an angel. Of course, there was also a lack of halo, too, but you thought Jacob’s radiating warm personality was enough to make up for that loss.

Kevin straightened. “Oh, that’s an easy one—he’s in an energy-conserving form. That’s why you don’t see Changmin with the demon horns or tail and stuff. This human form is the base level of this realm, so it’s the most energy-conserving for them while they’re away from their native realms.”

You didn’t expect that your question would lead to a conversation about the mechanisms of the universe. You blinked, then shot him a look you expected told him exactly how you were feeling. “What?”

“Realms,” he repeated with a chuckle. “We have the mortal plane, which is where we are now; the Heavenly sphere, which is where the hierarchy of angels are; and then the circles of Hell.” He nudged your knee with the back of his hand and gestured for you both to move to the bottom step of the porch so he could draw you a diagram in the dirt. Kevin found a small rock lying by his feet and diagrammed the three realms.

“It looks like that,” he said once he was done. “Think of each as not levels, but more like separate rooms.”

You tilted your head at the drawing. “So Heaven and Hell really are just above and below us?”

“Not… exactly?” He winced. “More like pocket dimensions. That’s why energy conservation works how it does when it comes to bodily forms, rather than how humans usually explain it in physics.”

“Don’t expect me to know anything about that.”

He grinned. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m sure this’ll make a lot more sense—there’s a whole lot less math involved. But then again, maybe human physics and this concept is more similar than I’m making it out to be.”

You lifted your shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “I’d confirm or deny, but science was never really my area of expertise.”

“And what’s that? Your area of expertise,” he asked, dropping the rock back onto the ground and resting his cheek against his fist to turn his attention to you.

“Me? Well, I’m in finance and accounting.” You made a face at how human that sounded compared to the subject of your current conversation. Accounting did not measure up to talks of energy conservation and supernatural pocket dimensions. “It was just… kind of the practical route that I had in mind when going into college.” Practicality had driven so many of your decisions throughout your life. It was for the sake of keeping yours and your sister’s heads above water. Sena had never been afraid of chasing her dreams though, so you figured that you would support her and let her go out to do what she wished. But by the looks of where that got her, should you have done that? You didn’t really know.

Kevin bobbed his head. “Practicality is good,” he said softly. “You know, we just lost one of our bookkeepers in town. We could always use another.”

Warmth bloomed in your chest at the sentiment and you couldn’t ignore the tenderness of his gaze, but maybe you were making things up. Your heart pitter-pattered and the pendant at your collar echoed it. “Good to know.”

His lips curled into that pretty smile of his, and he sat up and waved his hand around. “But, uhm, going back to what we were talking about earlier… because Jacob and Changmin are both far away from their home realm, they need to exert a lot more energy to sustain a form that is less supported in this realm.”

You squinted, pursing your lips. “So like… a supernatural version of home court advantage?”

Now it was Kevin’s turn to pause. “Home court ad—I’m guessing that’s a human thing.”

“Yeah, you don’t have to worry about it,” you dismissed. To be fair, your high school had drilled the concept of home court advantage into your head in order to encourage more people to come to sports outings when your school was hosting. The phrase lived in your head because it was etched there. “Ah, so wait—if, let’s say, Changmin went to the Heavenly sphere…”

“If he had any reason to go there,” Kevin said with an ill-concealed grimace, “pray for him.”

That reply did nothing to reassure you. You swallowed, trying to imagine what would happen should Changmin find himself in Heaven, and if Jacob went to Hell. If this was their supported form one realm away… then what would it be two realms away?

“But don’t worry too much about it,” he added swiftly, “demons don’t usually find a reason to go to the sphere. And if there is a reason, they usually don’t stay long enough to find out how much energy it takes to maintain out of realm bodies.”

“Out of realm—I’ve heard that saying before when Changmin and Jacob were sparring a couple days ago. They both agreed not to use any out of realm abilities.”

He hummed cheerily, nodding. “Mmh, yeah. Out of realm usually just refers to the mortal plane here, and any form or abilities that aren’t ‘supported’ like flight or magic—”

“Magic?”

“That’s just what I’ve heard,” Kevin huffed a laugh. “I hope you never find yourself in any of the circles of Hell, Yn, but if you’re ever down there with Changmin, then ask him to turn a rock into a diamond necklace.”

Your eyebrows flew up to your hairline. “So you’re telling me he’s an alchemist?” You hadn’t even thought about what other things your demon counterpart was capable of besides attacking people and brooding.

“Not quite—”

“Alchemy isn’t really the word I would use to describe it,” came Changmin’s drawl from behind you.

You nearly fell backwards off the stairs if it hadn’t been for Kevin’s arm shooting out to grab your wrist. Your heart hammered against your ribcage as you shot Changmin a dirty look. “You—” you sputtered, trying to get your bearings, “—need to stop doing that!”

He quirked a single brow upward, quietly shoving another forkful of blueberry pancake into his mouth. “Not my fault you didn’t hear me coming.”

“I smelled you coming,” Kevin laughed, the sound brightening at the sound of your snort.

Changmin’s expression flattened. He swallowed his bite and impaled another. “Can I talk to you?” He directed the question to you, nudging you with the toe of his boot.

You and Kevin exchanged glances, but you hoisted yourself up from the porch steps, dusting any dirt from your pants. “Uh, sure. What about? Also, where did you get pancakes from at nine o’clock at night?”

The demon motioned with his chin to start walking in the direction of the inn across the square. “Lily had leftovers,” he said simply.

You hmphed and let it slide.

Since Changmin revealed to you that there was a second half to your pendant, you hadn't shared another long discussion pertaining to the real reason you were on this quest. He would often linger at the edges of crowds here, keeping to himself and the limited number of people he knew. He seemed to avoid interacting with most, and you wondered why that was. He wasn't… that scared of social interaction, was he?

Changmin leaned up against the wall of the inn and you perched across from him with your back to the porch railing. "I've been thinking."

"Is this a good thing?"

You raised your hands in innocence as he scowled at you. He sawed a chunk of pancake in half with the side of his fork before impaling it with the tines. "Sometimes you sound exactly like your sister."

"Sarcasm runs in Ln family blood, what can I say?" You mused. "So you were thinking."

He hummed. "Mmh. Well, I was thinking that—" he cleared his throat, his fingers brushing over his throat. "We've been here for a couple of days and nothing has seemed to crop up. There hasn't really been any immediate dangers and—" He wrinkled his nose, apparently annoyed at something.

You sobered a little. "What is it?"

He knocked the back of his fork against his skull. "You look—happy here. And safe, of course. You're safe here," he finally pushed out. His jaw worked as he speared his last piece of pancake and shoved it into his mouth.

Your eyes widened slightly. You didn't realize he was monitoring your mood like that, but you could agree that you definitely felt safer here than out there. "I… agree?" However, you still didn't know what direction this conversation was heading.

Changmin sighed, his brows creasing in frustration. "Yes, you agree. So, I think the best decision is that I leave you here and I go out and find the second half of the necklace."

What.

"Changmin, you—"

"Just hear me out," he said. "We've already been attacked twice because of that thing, and if we step foot out of these bounds, it's liable to happen again." He wrestled down a swallow. "You're just—better off here."

You idly rubbed the pendant over the fabric of your shirt. "You're serious."

"When am I not serious?"

Did he not trust his ability to keep an eye on you? Or no, it had to be you that was the problem. If you could fend for yourself, he wouldn't have to worry about being attacked all the damn time. His logic had grounds, and though you could breathe easy here, for some reason, letting him go after the second half didn't sit right with you.

You chewed on your bottom lip. "I think we should—"

The world stilled, the music screeched to a halt. The night air filled with the chilling sound of a howl.

You instinctively leaned away from the railing and came to stand beside Changmin, scanning the immediate premises for danger. The hair on your skin stood on its end, heartbeat quickening—

From the far end of town by the conventional entrance, a dark-furred wolf, followed by two others, charged in. You recognized the one at the front as Juyeon from the advising board.

The town center cleared; Lily was already corralling little ones into the pack house, her head on a swivel between Sangyeon and the wolves barreling back into town from the night watch. Kevin and Jacob were swift to join them.

Changmin's expression turned troubled. "Stay here."

"I'll hold your plate," you murmured, taking the plate and fork from him and backing up toward the entrance to the inn. The auntie who owned the establishment appeared at your side, ushering you in so she could lock the doors. This had to be some kind of protocol.

You set the plate and fork on the table in the parlor and pressed your face up against the window to watch the congregation at the town's entrance. From this distance, your sight wasn't nearly good enough to make out their individual expressions, but it didn't look good.

"Auntie?" You asked, fumbling for Clyde in your pocket. "What's going on?"

She peered over from where she was twisting lanterns to the off position. "Intruders," she answered.

You leapt out of your skin when the inn's front door handle was forced open.

Changmin and Kevin's heads whirled about the room until they found you. "We're leaving," Changmin said, already charging toward the stairs. "Pack your things; Kevin's leading us out."

You scrambled after him in the dark. "Changmin. Changmin what the fuck is happening—"

He threw a stern look over his shoulder. "I'll explain in the car," he said before disappearing into his room.

You tossed your hands up into the air and did as you were told. There wasn't much to pack for yourself. You tossed your clothes haphazardly into your backpack, located any other spare items you left in the room, checked the bathroom for anything else. By the time you were done, Changmin was slapping his palm against the door jamb and hustling you out.

Kevin waited for you both in the lobby, his wolf form anxiously pacing the area like he was itching to get out of here. You could hear snarling and hissing and crashes and crackling from outside the door. What were you going to see when you stepped foot out of the inn?

"Let's go," Changmin said, nodding to Kevin, and shoving out into the night.

You lost your breath.

The pack house was on fire.

Wolves brawled against demonic forms, teeth gnashing around necks and snapping them. Black and red blood stained the dirt—they had come for the pendent. And they would take the pack down with them if they had to.

"Yn." A hand hauled you down the porch steps to round the building to Changmin's car.

Horror and panic and everything in between poured into you as you threw yourself into the front seat of Changmin's car. Your eyes, wide as saucers, could not leave the sight of violence happening before you.

You blinked—dark, whirling masses in the sky appeared out of thin air, and out of them spilled more and more creatures of Hell. Their jaws of daggers made you sick to your stomach; what was this? A small army?

Changmin swerved the car after Kevin, who was leading you not through the fray, but behind the inn house and straight into the woods.

You twisted in your seat. "Are they going to be okay?" You whispered, hands shaking as they dropped onto the headrest.

He was quiet for a beat. "They have Jacob."

But was one divine being enough? There were so many of them, oh fuck. And Jacob wasn't at full power, was he?

"They'll—they'll leave when they sense we're no longer there," he added quietly. "I hope."

You hugged the back of your seat, murmuring prayer after prayer. Please be safe. Please be okay.

The road Kevin led you both down was twisted and hazardous with winding paths that sent your shoulder careening into the side of the car and bumps that jostled your organs. Changmin somehow was able to keep up with Kevin without the headlights on and you didn't have the mind to question it.

You sunk into your seat to face forward, eyes glued to the side view mirror. You could see the glow of flames from here, could see how far up into the sky the fire went.

Oh god, this is all your fault. You brought trouble right to their doorstep. It's all your fault. All your—

The car broke out of the woods and into a small clearing with a worn path that led up to another road that hugged the side of a small mountain. This was where Kevin stopped.

Changmin nodded to Kevin in the front windshield.

You jammed your finger against the button in your door to roll your window down. "Kevin," you said.

The wolf trotted over to your door, and you stuck your hand out to meet his head. Your chest ached. "I'm sorry."

He couldn't communicate with you in a way you understood, but you liked to think you got good at reading his eyes. They seemed conflicted—the way they glistened like moonlight with the silver lining the edges, but burned like molten gold when he turned to motion toward the smoke in the distance.

"I'm sorry," you repeated. "Stay safe."

With one last look, he took off back toward his home.

Changmin passed you a glance, eyes softening at the corners, then turned the car up onto the road.

You pulled yourself back into the car and rolled the window up once you couldn't see Kevin's form anymore. Your eyes stared at the front console, brain muddled—you focused on taking deep breaths.

"Are they going to be okay?" You asked again. He had given you an answer before, but—fucking Hell, you were going to be sick—

"They'll be okay," he assured you. One of his hands lifted from the steering wheel and rested on your shoulder.

You broke down, face burying itself into your palms. Sobbing filled the silence of the car with the weight of lead. First, there was Sena. Then, it was whatever the fuck you were doing on this ridiculous task. Now… now, you'd gotten bystanders involved. Good people. They were good people.

You couldn't lose anyone else.

One person was more than you could take—more than you thought you could take.

You lifted your head, dragging the back of your hand across your eyes, your palm over your cheeks. "I want to go home," you whimpered as the back of your head hit the headrest. He had spoken too soon—you weren’t safe anywhere.

His hand was still on your shoulder and it slid down to your forearm, his fingers curling around you in a tentative form of comfort. "I know, sweetheart," he murmured. "I know."

#10—HOLD YOUR BREATH.

"PULL OVER, CHANGMIN."

The demon's head whipped over to you for a second, taking his eyes off the barren highway. There wasn't anyone else around this early in the morning, especially on this road that hugged the coast rather than a more straightforward freeway like the main interstate. "What?"

"Pull over," you repeated.

"We're almost there."

"Please."

He stopped the car.

He just barely put the vehicle in park before you were clambering out and headed in who-knew-what direction.

You heard the driver's side door slam shut as he followed after you. "Yn. Yn, where the Hell do you think you're going?"

"I don't know," you said, wrapping your arms around you. The salty sea air brushed past your clothes and your skin, and it felt nothing like the warmth from Moonstone Creak. The sky before dawn was a white-ish purple with clouds blanketing out where one might see the sun creeping up to its perch. The two of you were on the road for nearly five hours, and you didn't sleep a wink of it.

He caught up with you and grabbed your shoulders to face him. "I know that was a lot of shit to take, but we can't be out here."

"I can't do this anymore," you told him. "I can't risk any more lives, I can't risk mine or yours—I don't want to end up dead in a ditch. I—" You yanked the necklace around your collar and unclasped the chain, the weight falling from your sternum feeling more akin to an empty cage than a freed one.

You ripped out of his hold and stormed across the highway.

"No, no, no—YN. Yn, let's talk about this—"

You were getting rid of all your problems. If they wanted the pendant, then they could fucking have it—

Changmin appeared in front of you, expression stormy. "Don't do it."

"Get out of my way."

"If you lose that necklace, Yn—"

"THEN WHAT?" You practically growled in his face. Your hand fisted around the stone in your palm, and you waved it around wildly. "If I lose it, then what? Changmin, I don't even know what the fuck it does. You haven't told me why it's important. My sister sure as Hell didn't tell me jackshit. What, in the name of all things fucking holy, is so important about this red rock! Why am I risking my life for it?"

Changmin balked and his lips pressed firmly against each other.

Disappointment churned in your stomach. "Why won't you tell me?" You asked him, dropping the stone to hold it by the chain.

His eyes flickered to your movements. "I'll tell you, but just—we can't talk about it out here." He turned slightly and pointed out a building in the distance. It was a lighthouse, and it was erected on the edge of a rocky outcropping that jutted out from the coastline. White-foamed waves crashed against its shore like drums. "You see that? That's the safehouse."

That was the safehouse? "She bought a lighthouse?" Oh dear god, she had not listened to any of your advice about investing.

"Yes," he said. "Don't ask me why. I don't know the answer to that one, but if we can just get over there…"

You eyed the building. It was a standard cylindrical-shaped tower painted in white with a large glass cap at the top, housing a spotlight to guide ships home. A second, much smaller building the size of a shed was attached to the base, and you could just make out what looked like a chimney on top. Against your boring financial advice, Sena had been a romantic at heart. You wouldn't be surprised if one of her other safehouses was an idyllic cottage in a meadow.

You swallowed your pride, reaching up to reluctantly clasp the necklace back around your throat. Changmin visibly relaxed. "Fine."

The two of you made to turn around and head back to the car, but something in the water below caught your eye. It was a long way down from where you stood, and the jagged, dark cliff face didn't make the drop any more appetizing. The water was a deep, murky shade of gray-blue that screamed a cold, watery grave. You squinted down at the water in search of the glint of something you thought you saw.

Changmin glanced back at you. "What is it?"

When you came up empty-handed, you followed him to the car. "Nothing. I think I'm just tired."

The car was still quiet when Changmin pulled up outside the lighthouse. The building sat on the lower end of the outcropping, surrounded by a field of overgrown grass watered by sea spray and rain. The thrashing of waves was much louder here, like rolling thunder, and they threw themselves up against the shore bedecked in dark rocks, eroded into rough edges to make them appear akin to teeth.

You grabbed your backpack from the backseat as usual, eyes peering up at the lighthouse and trying to drink it in.

So… this was where she had been hiding. At least, some of the time she was away.

Your fingers drummed along your bag strap. What were you going to find inside? The last time you opened one of Sena's locked things, you ended up on the run.

Changmin's hair whipped up in the wind. "I think I can pick the lock," he said.

"She didn't give you a key?"

He began making his way to the front door. "I've only been here a couple of times, but only when she was around. Sena only had one—copy." When he jiggled the doorknob and it drifted open, he stiffened.

You frowned. "Awful lock."

"It wasn't locked," he said. He put his arm out in front of you. "Stay behind me."

That feeling you knew all-too-well—like a spider crawling down your spine—returned. You shoved your hand into the pocket that held your angel blade, slowly creeping in after Changmin.

The first floor of the lighthouse looked as if a tornado blew right through it. The couch cushions were torn off their perches, the rug was thrown aside, the bookshelf devoid of its occupants who lied scattered about the room. You took it all in with wide eyes, gently trekking through on the balls of your feet like you were going through a minefield. The connecting shed was for the kitchen and dining needs, and that too did not look much better. All of the porcelain plates and cups and silverware were in pieces on the stone floors.

Changmin blew out a breath, hands burying into his hair as his eyes wildly searched the area for any signs of who had been here for you. "Shit."

You made your way over to the couch-side table where a small lamp was undressed of its shade and a picture frame left cracked and picture-less. But you recognized the shoddy paint job on the frame from your childhood when you'd painted it in an arts and crafts class in first grade. You felt the picture's loss like an empty void. Whoever had been here took it with them.

Failure burned through you like hot acid. It made your body scream as it incinerated you from the inside out; you would never figure out what your sister was doing or what was going on. Not at this rate.

You set the empty frame down and brushed past Changmin to the front door.

"Yn—"

"I need some air." You didn't wait for his response.

The sun was making a gradual ascent now, turning the sky above you a more aggressive shade of lilac and egg yolk. You rounded the circumference of the lighthouse until you were descending the hill at its back down to the dock. It was a short, wooden platform where you could sit down and breathe in ocean air for a moment.

You lowered yourself by the edge with your feet crossed beneath you upon the sun-soaked planks. In the distance, you heard the cry of a seagull as it made landfall.

For all of the noise the waves made, it was awfully quiet. Disturbingly quiet.

It didn't occur to you right away. You were more focused on the hot tears trailing down your cheeks and the pressure building up in your head to start a killer headache. Goddamn, what were you doing? What did you think you were going to accomplish?

You yanked the chain out of your shirt collar with an angry frown marring your face. "Stupid fucking necklace." This was all its fault—and there you were, blaming an inanimate object for all your troubles.

"What if I just tossed you into the ocean?" You gazed out at the infinite horizon. It would be so easy. Would it not solve all of your problems?

You sighed, rubbing the space between your eyes with the pads of your fingers.

For a moment, you soaked in the air around you, the warmth of the boards beneath your thighs, and the sweet song drifting through your ear. What a beautiful sound the ocean made… it crooned something melancholy to you, luring you closer toward it in wonder. How sad the ocean was… its loneliness resonated with yours… it sang it so in the song.

You were enchanted by it, scooting closer to the edge of the pier to see if you could figure out the source of the serenade.

It's the ocean, something told you. It wasn't coming from a person or a thing, but the entire body of water before you. It heard your pain, could feel your suffering… it wanted you to come into its arms so it could lovingly embrace you.

"Yn. YN? YN!"

The song coaxed you closer to the edge. Almost there, love.

Your legs dangled over the side, eyes glazed over and glassy. The dark waters beneath you were so lovely and lonely. You could keep it company, couldn't you?

"YN, SNAP OUT OF IT."

Don't listen to him. He doesn't understand your pain. But I do.

You murmured. "Who does?"

Come a little closer, pet. I can make the hurt go away.

Thunderous stomps down the hill became muffled in the background. "YN. LN. WAKE. UP."

For a moment, your eyes shuddered. His voice was familiar. You turned your head back to look, and saw Changmin charging toward you with his eyes wide and—

Look at me, the voice demanded.

Something wrapped around your ankle, and you had little time to understand what was happening before you were dragged straight under.

As soon as the water swallowed you, the cold seeped into your bones and snapped you out of whatever trance you had been put under. Panic seized your chest, and you thrashed around, holding your breath, in a desperate attempt to free whatever had your leg trapped in a death grip.

You screamed silently, the surface getting farther and farther away.

You desperately kicked out with your other leg, the sole of your shoes scratching and scraping and chipping away at the hand holding you. You fumbled in your pants pocket, then brandished Clyde. With as much might as you could muster, you stabbed at the appendage wrapped around your ankle.

When you made contact, it retreated instantly. There was a trail of something dark down below, but you couldn't quite tell between it and the bottom of the water.

Running out of air fast, you desperately pumped your legs and clawed your way up towards Changmin swimming toward you. He extended his hand to you, his eyes flickering between you and something behind you—you didn't have time to think about what it was.

Your fingers made purchase with his, and you grabbed onto each other with a mutual vice. He hauled you up to the surface before him, and you gasped for breath, arms bracing onto the wooden deck.

You hacked out sea water and your throat felt like it was closing in on itself. It burned like Hell.

Heart pounding, you lifted your head to find Changmin and—wait. Where was Changmin?

"Changmin?" You whipped your head around, eyes going down into the water. "Fuck."

You gagged from sea water again. Could you stomach going back down? You had to, for fuck's sake. Your demon was down there.

You wielded Clyde tightly in your other hand, took a deep breath, then went back under.

You could now make out the figure who you assumed held you captive earlier. He had Changmin wrapped tightly in his grasp, the demon thrashing in the half-man half-fish's arms. You knew you were probably staring death in the eye, but you continued swimming straight for them.

You and the fish man made eye contact, and he grinned menacingly, the smile tinged with a set of sharp canines. In any other circumstance, you would have thought him beautiful.

Changmin saw you coming and his eyes widened. I just saved you. What are you doing back here?

But he realized something key with your presence reappearing. Changmin's jaw clenched—you didn't realize what was happening until he threw his arms back behind him to grab ahold of his captor's head. His fingers had grown darkened claws, razor sharp, and he gouged his thumbs into the eyes of the siren.

If you could hear screams underwater, it would have rattled your bones.

You watched, frozen, as the siren attempted to thrash around an escape Changmin, but your demon counterpart had too good of a grip on his skull.

You knew what the dark trail was now, and there was so much of it pooling in the water.

When Changmin was satisfied with the limpness of his captor's body, he shook his hands out and the claws disappeared. You didn't know where they went—didn't care, only that they existed in the first place.

He urgently swam up toward you as both of your supply of oxygen dwindled with each passing second.

When you broke the surface a second time, you clung to one of the posts of the dock, body shaking from the icy cold and the chill of witnessing a piece of Changmin's violence first-hand.

Changmin gasped for air and threw his upper body onto the face of the dock, his muscles trembling as he struggled to pull himself out of the water. Both of you were soaked to the bone, clothing and shoes heavy with seawater.

You stuck Clyde into the wood of the pier above you to anchor yourself onto the boards.

The two of you laid there on the dock to regain your breath and strength. Despite Changmin's demon-ness, he was still a creature of land, not water.

The sun had managed to climb up into the sky now, its hot rays piercing through clouds, and yet, all you could feel was the wind.

"You should have stayed…" he managed to say, "...up here."

You rolled into your stomach and braced your palms onto the wood to push yourself up. "You're stupid if you thought I was gonna—let you die." You glanced over at him, eyes finding his fingers—they looked normal again, save for the dark red rimmed beneath his fingernails.

You shuddered.

Changmin squinted his eyes open at you. "Don't ever… do that again."

You could only nod.

For a moment, only the waves and gulls existed between you. You hunched over your legs, dry heaving any more of that stinging salt from your mouth and eyes. Your brain kept rewinding the struggle over and over, repeating the look of pure survival instinct in Changmin's eyes as he mercilessly drove his clawed fingers into the creature's eye sockets.

You heard him stir again, and you asked hoarsely, "How much energy did it take to summon claws?"

After a beat, he replied, "Let's just say, I'm rusty and winded."

You turned your body over so you could face him. His white shirt was drenched all the way through, but you could still see the dark red seeping in places over his ribcage. "Oh my god, you're bleeding."

You reached out to examine him, but he slapped your hand away. "I'm fine," he insisted.

"Let me see," you argued, fixing him with a hard look. When he relented, you gently peeled the fabric away from his skin.

His skin, pale and wet, looked like a watercolor canvas of blues, reds, and purples. Bruises bloomed in splotches and blood made up the rest. You delicately ran your fingers over the bruised areas, hearing him suck in a breath at your touch.

"Does it hurt?"

"I'll survive."

"Don't be an ass. Does it hurt?"

He lifted his arm over his eyes. The scratches there were still an angry red. "...Yes."

"Did he get you anywhere else?"

"No."

Relief soared through you—or, the dispelling of fear from your body—and you racked your brain for a solution. There was nothing you could use down here to heal him to get him up to the…

Who were you kidding? There was something.

You wrenched Clyde out from the board you'd impaled him into and held the sharp end against the plush pad of your thumb. How much human blood did he need to get back on his feet? How much would get him up to the lighthouse, and how much could heal him fully like at the motel—?

He lifted his arm off his eyes. "Don't even think about it."

You met his eyes. "And why not?" Once, a long time ago, you managed to slice your finger open from cutting a lime in your palm rather than against a board like a normal person. If you used just enough force to break the skin—

"I'm not—drinking your blood—" He grunted while attempting to sit up. The stubborn bastard fell onto his back, face screwed up in pain and frustration.

You leaned over him to block the sun from his eyes. "You were saying?"

He narrowed his eyes up at you. "I'm not drinking your blood."

"You've done it before."

"That's because you were dying. You're not dying now, and neither am I."

"Your ribs are broken, aren't they?"

He huffed air out of his nostrils. "Yeah."

Returning to your original plan, you pressed the blade back against your thumb, wincing slightly as it split your skin. Dark red welled into a little pocket, before breaking form and dribbling down your finger. You moved it in front of his mouth, waiting to feel his tongue against it.

Reluctantly, he stuck his tongue out and licked a neat stripe up the length of your finger, all while giving you a stink eye. This isn't my choice, he seemed to say. It didn't matter though. He knew that he needed this, even just a little bit, to get up to the lighthouse and the car.

There could be more sirens, after all.

You pulled your finger away already feeling your skin cells knit themselves back together from his saliva. "Better?"

He licked his lips. "I'm not going to dignify that with an answer."

"Asshole."

"Human."

You snorted, clambering to your knees, and then your feet. You lifted pressure off of your right leg where your ankle ached from being anchored onto. "You say that like it's an insult."

He raised a brow at you, clasping onto your forearm when you offered it. "Take it as you will," he said with a half grunt as you used gravity and momentum to pull his body up.

You threw his arm over your shoulders to begin the trek up the hill. Trying to avoid putting weight on your right foot was a little difficult, but you were determined. Your joints and chest ached and your socks squelched grossly in your shoes.

"Your ankle," he started.

"I'll survive," you repeated his words from earlier. "It's nothing compared to broken ribs." The thought occurred to you that if the siren could break Changmin's ribs with his arms, then… he could have easily shattered the bones in your ankle.

A shiver slithered down your spine. You were thanking every divine being who existed for keeping your ankle intact.

"You know I'm not letting you drive, right?"

He let out a noise of indignation. "I can drive, Yn."

"You're not driving."

You could feel his eyes roll. "Whatever."

#11—THE DRIVER'S SEAT.

IT WAS A MIRACLE THAT both you and Changmin fit into your sister's clothes. There was a decent stash of clothing left in the second floor wardrobe of the lighthouse, and you both dressed in relaxed pants and t-shirts as you recuperated. Once you were cleaned up, for the most part, it was back to the car.

Changmin watched with a pained look on his face as you settled into the driver's seat and began adjusting everything for your personal preference.

"Are you going to seatbelt or should I do that for you?" You asked as you finished checking the side mirrors.

He slowly buckled himself in. "I hope you know how much I despise this."

"You despise a lot of things."

"I can drive, Yn."

"Okay, yeah. I almost died for the third time five hours ago. I don't want to risk my life a fourth time." You shoved the keys into the ignition and twisted the engine to life. Leaning back in the seat, you put the car into reverse to begin taking the vehicle up the road to the mainland. "You said to get onto the interstate and keep following until—"

"Deer Ridge—can you be careful," he hissed, eyes slicing toward your movements, before gritting his teeth at his swollen ribs.

You swatted his micromanaging away. "I am so surprised you have never made this much of a fuss about your car before."

He brooded, eyes never leaving your hands on the wheel. "I should've learned stick shift."

You rolled your eyes. "You're such a baby."

Because the lighthouse was of no use and not safe, you were going to drive yourself and Changmin to the next closest safehouse. It was another five hour drive, give or take a needed food stop at some point because you hadn't eaten since dinner at Moonstone Creak. You were afraid Changmin would use that against you at some point so he could be in the driver's seat again. Stubborn brat.

If he wouldn't drink your blood to rejuvenate, if he wouldn't let you drive when you were clearly the most capacitated, then what the Hell did he want from you?

You followed the road signs and his passive-aggressive mutterings about how to get to the interstate from here. You hadn't driven in a long time, mainly because your apartment was so close to everything you needed, and gas cost an arm and a leg. Maybe that was why Changmin was so prickly about you driving his car… but some things were a necessary evil. He would have to put on his big boy pants and deal with it.

"You know," you said after you'd officially hopped onto the highway. "Now would be a great time to start explaining things about the necklace. Since we were supposed to talk about it at the lighthouse and all."

You heard him push out a breath. One of his hands cupped the side of his body that was battered the most while his other rested on the center console. "Right."

You waited.

He struggled to fit the words into the right places for a decent explanation, nothing seeming quite adequate, but he eventually came up with an answer. "The necklace—" he paused, amending, "I guess I should call it more of an amulet—the amulet is something made of very ancient, powerful magic. It was something forged from a combination of all three realms, and so the energy that it stores within itself is complacent with all three realms.

"I can't remember exactly the mythology that came with the damned thing, but your sister did. She knew all the ins and outs of the legend—she obsessed over it."

"Obsessed over it?" Your eyebrows furrowed

"Yes," he said. "Which is why it's crazy to me she was even able to keep it a secret from you in the first place." Changmin brushed a hand through his hair, shifting in his seat awkwardly. "Anyways, the amulet is kind of like a key. It needs a vessel to be the—the gate or the portal of sorts to activate it, but it would grant the creature who wields it the energy and power to travel through realms as if it were their own."

You checked your mirrors and flicked on the signal to change lanes. "Wait, not to sound like a YA fantasy book protagonist—"

"A what?"

"Human thing," you dismissed airily. "So if someone got their hands on this thing, they could hypothetically conquer whole realms that aren't their own? Hypothetically, of course."

Changmin nodded slowly. "Hypothetically," he drawled. "If that's what they wanted to do. You'd have to have one Hell of an army to do so, and the amulet can't really give power to other people, only the one."

"It's a portable charger for one person's plan of mass destruction?"

He huffed, turning his head to the window, and when you glanced over for a millisecond, you swore he was smiling. "You're so…"

"Funny, clever, charming?" You supplied, the corners of your lips curling upward. You licked your lips, then pursed them in thought. While you were driving and pondering the weapon of otherworldly conquer seated upon your neck, you also kept a look out for any restaurants at nearby exits. Maybe an all-day brunch place with blueberry pancakes… "Changmin?"

"Hm."

"Is there a way to destroy this? To ensure that no one can ever use it?" There had to be some method of self-destruct for something potentially so dangerous. Then again, you weren't an expert on magical artifacts.

Changmin's eyes moved back over to you. "If there is, it'll be somewhere in Sena's notes."

Oh.

The car ride chugged on for another hour or so before you gave up. Your stomach growled its disapproval of going so long without something sustaining, and you marked the billboard of a gas station at the next exit. The car needed to be fed, too, anyway.

It was a standard little pump-and-wash with an option to fill your tank, take your car through the little Soapy Joe's car wash in the back, or both. The gas station building was a camel-colored sandstone with deals on gas station snacks printed in massive, red block letters on bright yellow paper. For the most part, it seemed pretty empty, with only an SUV of a family on a road trip and another sedan with a rather disgruntled looking business man.

You swung the car into the pump station closest to the gas station store's door and began searching for the gas tank button.

"Bottom left, second from the right," Changmin instructed, already clambering out of the car. He suppressed the urge to make a noise as he did so with his still-bruised and battered torso.

"What are you doing?" You asked after locating the button and giving it a push. The muffled pop sound followed right after.

He braced one hand on the roof of his car as he peered back in. "I'm filling up my tank."

You deadpanned. You should have known the stubborn cretin would insist. It was better for you to not fight him if he was gonna be this anal about driving his own car while injured. "I'm getting snacks then."

"Have fun," he muttered, pulling his card out of his bifold. Where did even get money to put on that thing?

You mused upon that thought as you dug around your backpack in the back seat for a couple twenties. You wouldn't need much, just enough so you could indulge a bit.

Ten minutes later, you walked out of the gas stop with a plastic grocery bag in one hand and a blue and red swirled slurpee in the other. It was no 7/11, but goddamn did the sugar hit your system just right. After nearly drowning in sea water, it gave your body the perfect amount of zip.

You found Changmin in the driver's seat (were you surprised? Of course not), with his seat and mirrors adjusted back to how he liked it, and his phone plugged into the USB port in the center console. You clambered into your designated seat with the grace of a car sale balloon because of your sore ankle.

He glanced up from his phone, hand carding through his hair. "Ready?"

"Wait, before we go—" You sorted through your bag of treats and looked for the little, brown paper bag amongst all the other junk. You pulled it out, the bottom beginning to seep through from the grease of the pastry inside. Childlike glee rushed through your veins, and you couldn't tell if that was just the slurpee or the thought of getting him a treat. Beaming, you extended it toward him. "I got you a blueberry muffin."

For a second, Changmin just stared. His eyes widened at the expression on your face, and you couldn't tell why something felt like it had shifted. He glanced at the grease-soaked paper vessel, then back to you, then the bag, then—

"Thanks," he said slowly, grabbing the bag from you and unrolling the top edge to open it up. (If you'd paid attention longer, you would have seen the darkening of his cheekbones. A rare sight.)

"They don't exactly sell blueberry pancakes," you prattled on and decided between a bag of kettle chips or a packet of dried seaweed; you decided on the former and popped the bag open. "So I got the next best thing. And the woman running the store looks like she bakes them fresh. Oh, I saw that it had this crumble on top and thought it had to be a sign it was top notch stuff."

Changmin inspected the muffin, then took a generous bite, cupping beneath it to catch any crumbs. His eyes fluttered shut and he moaned. "Fuck—me. That's so good."

You brightened. "Glad you think so," you chuckled in amusement.

He hummed in reply, already going in for his next bite.

With a car of slightly more content campers, you hit the road. The remainder of the journey would add up to a little more than four hours from here, as long as there weren't any other pitstops made. Hopefully, you would arrive before it got dark and you wouldn't have to deal with another situation like this morning.

The bag of snacks rested at your feet and you had tucked away the chip bag for later. It was concerning how fast your body became accustomed to this seat again, how it knew exactly what way to sit in order to be comfortable.

Changmin glanced over at you just as he made it onto the interstate ramp. "You should get some sleep. It's been… a long day and night."

Right on cue, you yawned. "Do you dream when you sleep—if you sleep?" You asked, instead of heeding his advice.

"Huh? Oh." He used his free hand to adjust the AC coming in through the vents. "I only really sleep if I'm bored, or if I know I'm not under threat, I guess."

You frowned. "Do you not feel safe a majority of the time?"

"It depends," he lifted his shoulder. "When we were at uni, there usually wasn't much threat around, so I slept sometimes. I only sometimes dream though."

You hummed, acknowledging him. "I think it's kind of funny that you're a demon studying anthropology."

His laugh was breathy. "Yeah? A little ironic?"

"What? Did you think it would help you blend in or something?"

He snorted. "No… I mean, it seemed like an interesting topic when I perused the website when applying."

You made a face, eyes staring out at the vast road before you. It was just before a typical afternoon rush hour, so there wasn't much traffic. "How did you even have the credentials to apply and get in?"

"A little white lie never hurt anyone," he said innocently.

You threw him an incredulous look, and a chuckle fell out of his mouth. "Despicable."

"I am a demon."

You fiddled with the hem of your sister's shirt, then reached up to play with the chain and pendant around your neck. You'd become so used to its weight that it felt wrong when it was gone. "Would you ever teach me how to use Bonnie?"

Changmin's hand felt around the middle console blindly until he met the lid of your slurpee. "I'm drinking this."

"Wait, I have an extra straw—"

"What, you don't want my magic spit?"

Your gaze flattened into a deadpan. "Oh, so now it's magic spit?" You watched in melodramatic disgust as he took a generous sip of the sugary drink from your straw. You didn't really mind, of course; you weren't going to finish that thing all on your own. "And you didn't answer my question."

He replaced the cup back into its cupholder. "What's a Bonnie?"

"I hate you."

He let out a loud laugh that made your forced scowl nearly shatter. Who knew a demon could look so pretty when he laughed like that? "I don't even use it, you know that, right?"

"And I haven't the slightest idea why you keep her locked up like that." You shoved the pair of sandals you'd stolen from the lighthouse off so you could fold your legs onto the seat with you. Your finger brushed over the flesh of your ankle, where it was gradually splotching with blueish purple.

It was a familiar scene, that of Changmin taking his eyes off the road the briefest moment to inspect your bruise and frown. Humans are so fragile, he'd said before. The bruises on your neck from the motel had faded by now, thanks to the miracle salve he gave you at Moonstone Creak.

He cursed under his breath. "I forgot to bring the cup of salve from the inn," he sighed.

"That's fine," you murmured. "We were… in a rush." You swallowed, and when you closed your eyes, you could see the pack house in flames. "I hope they're okay."

"Yeah, same."

"Would it have mattered if we stayed?" You asked.

You expected him to simply say that it wouldn't have mattered, because that wasn't our goal. He knew what the wolf shifters were capable of, what Jacob was capable of, but you didn't. You'd seen them in bliss and peace, without the ferocity of what he might have been used to.

He thought about it and confessed, "I'm not sure. They can take care of themselves, but I—" he stumbled over his words, reeling them back in before he could say them out loud.

"You…?"

He shook his head. "It's not important. What's important now is that you—we—got out alive." When you couldn't find anything to say after, he reached over across the console to find your forearm again. His fingers curled around you, like they had when you'd left the woods. "If it makes you, uh, feel better, we can reach out to them. Send them a message once we get to the safehouse."

You nodded, moving your arm so his hand rested in yours and your other hand patted the top of his. "I'd appreciate that."

Changmin's nod was small, and he kept his hand sandwiched between the two of yours.

#12—ALL HER SECRETS.

WHEN YOU DREAMED, your sister was drunk and stumbling across a dark road for help. Your throat lurched with air, but your scream was completely silent as her eyes went wide in the glare of the car lights. A deer in headlights, in a literal sense. It never occurred to you how morbid the saying was until you witnessed it in action.

Her body laid sprawled over the stretch of road as the couple driving scrambled out to check her vitals.

Dead on impact.

You awoke with a start.

Everything was fuzzy and muddled, and you sucked in oxygen through your nostrils, hands reaching up to rub your eyes with the heels of your palms. The place on your thigh where your hands had been resting grew cold at the lack of warmth as Changmin retracted his hand to his own side, putting the car into reverse to back into the driveway.

Cirrus clouds blotched the bruising sky, golden hour long since passed and the highway far out of view. You noted the residential street you faced through the front windshield with the sounds of children biking and drawing chalk masterpieces on sidewalks in the cul de sac down the road. You'd only ever really experienced this kind of tranquility in movies, never for yourself.

Your heartbeat, once erratic from the dream, calmed. (It was crazy how real a dream could feel.)

Changmin shuddered off the headlights and the engine died down. "We're here," he cleared his throat. He cracked his knuckles, one hand cradling the other.

You peered through your side view mirror, only catching part of the house in view. How had she afforded a whole house in the suburbs? Granted, it didn't look as large as the others on the street, but the fact that this was under her name… she hid all of this from you.

"I dreamed about her," you murmured in a voice hoarse from sleep.

He glanced at you. "Sena?"

"Yeah," you hummed. "How she died—or I guess, how I imagined her death to be." You met his gaze, and it seemed like he was searching for something in your face. You reached down to gather your belongings in the gas station grocery bag, then popped the car door open. "So this is the place, huh?"

Changmin shook his hair out of his eyes. "Huh? Oh, yeah. I've only been here once or twice, too, but it's nice."

"How'd she afford this place anyway?"

"I think she found a vampiric sundial for a client." Crazy. Must have been one well-off client.

He hadn't been wrong about the place being nice. It was one of those cookie-cutter houses with white shutters in the windows, a garage big enough for two cars, and a driveway flanked by twin beds of emerald green grass. A little metal mailbox sat at the end of the driveway by the street with a red tab and the house number branded on the side. It was the dictionary definition of suburbia.

Changmin walked right up the front porch and stuck his hand in the potted plant hanging from a hook. Out of it, he withdrew a key, rusted and dirtied, but the perfect fit for the front door. It was a massive change from the lighthouse's situation.

Inside, you didn't expect anything less cozy than what you found. The entryway was confronted by a staircase that led to the second floor, and there was a hallway that led further into the home, and a doorway to the right that went into the living room. You took this all in with wide eyes, your breath held at the sight of unlit candles on tables, quirky baubles beside them, and picture frames—dear god, the picture frames.

You stopped in front of one of them and picked it up. In the dimming light, you traced the lines of your sister's smile and yours right next to hers. You both looked so young in this photo—way more carefree and innocent. You wondered how she had saved all of these photos when you only had them encased in your memory.

Changmin had disappeared up the stairs, most likely heading straight for Sena's room or an office, anywhere that might hold the notebooks you and he had been looking for. The wooden planks creaked slightly under your weight as you climbed the stairs, and you ran your hand along the smooth railing as you went.

"Hey Changmin?" You called out, head swiveling around the upstairs landing to find which doorway he'd disappeared into.

"Yeah?" He asked from somewhere within the furthest doorway. You followed the sound and stuck your head into what looked to be a home office. It was outfitted with a desk and office chair, a few bookshelves, and an armchair in the corner. Changmin brushed his finger along the spines.

You joined him at his side and picked a random one to pull out. "How are your ribs?" You asked him, moving your gas station grocery bag handles to hang on your forearms you flipped through the journal. This one didn't seem to have much; maybe she wanted to start a planner in this and never finished.

His movements paused for a second, then resumed. "My ribs? Oh, they're, uh… they're fine now."

Your face screwed up in incredulity. "That's insane."

"Supernatural regeneration plus human blood," he said like he was explaining one plus one equals two.

"But patching up broken bones?" You replaced the book back in its slot and wandered away from the shelf. The office space was decorated comfortably enough but there were no other personal additions besides the furniture.

You stepped back out into the upstairs loft to search for the bedroom. The master was located on the other side of the office door, and when you opened it up, you were hit by a wave of nostalgia.

That was her. That was what Sena smelled like. And where you knew she always kept a bottle, there sat a glass vial of her favorite perfume on the nightstand table. It was as if it said to you, "Welcome home, Yn. We've been expecting you." Except, you never got to be welcomed here, not by your sister, at least.

It was like going into her locked room at the apartment all over again. There weren't as many things here as there were back at your place, but the subtle things left around reminded you of her, besides the scent lingering. It was uncanny how such a thing could stick around for so long, clinging to the walls, the sheets, the floors, until even the air vents recycled that same smell on its own.

You settled on the edge of the bed and just sat there.

It seemed you were returning to the same questions over and over again. Why had she hid any of this from you?

Changmin appeared in the doorway, his hand bracing the doorway. "Hey."

"Did you find something?" You asked.

He pursed his lips, the miniature mole beneath his bottom lip popping out at you. "Nah, not yet anyway. I just… wanted to, uh, see where you'd gone."

"Oh, I came to find her room, is all." You pressed your hands flat on the comforter to feel the fabric. You didn't quite know what to think. "It's weird knowing she lived here at some point."

"She had her reasons for keeping things a secret," he said quietly while venturing a step into the room.

You exhaled sharply. "Yeah, I figured." At the motel, he had confessed that he and Sena both agreed to keep you out of this business unless necessary. He had sisters, did he not say? It didn't seem too far-fetched to assume that he could sympathize more with Sena than you. "You mentioned once that you have sisters."

He stiffened, and you wondered if you'd crossed a line.

"I do," he replied slowly. "I'm not as close to them as you were with Sena."

Your smile was thin. "Yeah, well, based on the past few weeks, I'm not so sure we were that close."

Conflict flickered across his face, and he crossed the space between the doorway and the bed, and took a seat on the edge adjacent to you. "She talked about you a lot," he said. "Thought the world of you."

Your eyes were pinned to the floor as tears welled up in your eyes and blurred your vision.

"Always talked about her baby sister, and how you were the one with your head screwed on right."

If she could see you now… you were going half mad, but the corners of your lips curled upward at the sentiment. You sniffled, wiping your eyes and cheeks with the side of your hand. "You know," you mused, your voice watery, "for a demon, you're getting good at this empathizing thing."

Changmin's shoulders lowered, his hands laid out over his legs as he chuckled. "Yeah, yeah. It's not as hard as you make it out to be."

"Liar."

"Human."

"You need new insults," you groaned, shoving his shoulder.

His bangs hung in his eyes and you couldn't see his expression quite clearly. "Who said it was ever an insult?"

Changmin let you check the state of his still-slightly-broken torso (liar) as long as you let him examine your bruised ankle. You chalked it up to your demon being a big baby again, but you figured there was no harm and no foul in letting him take a peek. It wasn't like the injury hindered your movement an awful lot anyway.

You hissed as he jabbed at a blossom of purple on your ankle and you tried to retract your leg. He kept a firm enough grasp unfortunately. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"So it does hurt."

"No," you quipped, "you're just a sadist."

The two of you sat on the couch in the living room with a first aid kit opened up on the coffee table and a legal pad next to it. In your lap sat one of Sena's many, many journals propped open to a page that you were scanning for anything that might be of help. Changmin had set aside the journal he was reading to drag your foot into his lap.

The top leaf of paper on the legal pad was impressed with the message you had scrawled out for the wolves of Moonstone Creak, asking about their state of health. Changmin had summoned a sprite (???) from over the fence in the backyard to ferry it over. Apparently, it was the supernatural equivalent of medieval pigeon messaging.

You couldn't even begin to wrap your head around all of it. The point was that he had kept his word, and now, you were keeping yours.

The words scrawled in your sister's handwriting blurred in your vision, and you glanced up to watch Changmin again. "What are you doing?" You asked, leaning your head against the couch cushion. "You're not… gonna lick my ankle, right?" You scrunched your face up. As much as you appreciated him trying to heal your injury—

"That's not how saliva works," he replied, holding your leg with one hand so he could lean forward and dig around in the first aid kit.

"Oh, I'm sorry I don't know how saliva works."

He arched an eyebrow up at you, and you recognized the silent "Really?" in his expression.

You lowered your eyes back to the journal in your lap and tried to suppress your amusement. "I don't know how you plan to heal a bruise, but usually ice and time are the best—oh shit, that's cold!"

You squealed and attempted to wrench your foot away once again, but he yet again prevailed. He anchored your foot down as he pressed a bandage-looking adhesive around the circumference of your ankle. As the sharp, icy pain gradually diminished, your muscles loosened up.

"Don't ever do that again," you told him with a scowl, successfully pulling away your leg from him (because he let you).

He sent you a flat look. "You'll thank me later. It's a good thing she had some stashed away," he said, flipping the first aid box lid closed and returning to the journal he picked out.

You gave your ankle an experimental roll. The ache had numbed and there was no longer a jab of pain when you moved the joint around. "What is it?"

"Some magical bandage that is specifically for mortal species," he said offhandedly with his eyes glued to the pages. "You have to find a witch apothecary to get them, and even then, they sometimes scam you and jack up the price."

"Huh." There was still much for you to learn, it seemed, but even the supernatural world fell victim to capitalism.

With your foot patched up, the both of you descended into silence to return to your respective journals. There were interesting things scrawled between the lines and the margins. Your sister liked to sketch things, and so you figured out pretty quickly that this journal was used to document supernatural herbs she came across while on her adventures.

You ditched that one to move onto the next. This one seemed like a standard, hard-covered journal with a lilac-colored ribbon used as a bookmark. It wasn't marking any specific page, however, but was only tucked between the cover and the first page. You flipped through the entries, noting the dates—wait.

Wait… these were recent.

"Changmin," you muttered, tapping his shoulder as you scanned the inky scrawls.

Changmin put his notebook down and the two of you converged onto the same couch cushion, your shoulders and thighs pressed together, and the book opened between you.

"Do you recognize when this was?" You asked, pointing out the dates in the top corners. "I remember she told me she was going up north to study abroad during this time."

His forehead creased between his eyebrows. "Yeah… I remember. She was being vague with where she said she was going."

"She didn't tell you?"

"She didn't report to me, if that's what you're asking."

You turned your attention to the diary entries. This particular one was labeled with the third of November, the year before:

A note to self: never choose the Holiday Inn off the I-375. It might literally smell like a dead body in here, and I'm keeping my window open the entire night.

You snorted. Noted.

—drive was long and I don't think Yn expected anything. She had this massive exam today, so I think she was a little preoccupied, but she sent me off as usual. (Fighting Yn!) It's tough keeping this from her, but at the same time… I'm not sure if she would understand.

She's always been in the right headspace—not whatever dream world I've been living in. I don't know why I always invalidate myself when I know this is all real. Maybe it's not?

That's besides the point. I'm supposed to meet the amulet owner in a couple days and there is still a laundry list of things I need to do before that exchange happens.

"The amulet had an owner before her?" You voiced aloud. And what did she mean that you wouldn't understand? Was that why she never told you the truth?

Changmin gave a head bob. "I wouldn't mark it as a ridiculous notion. A lot of magical artifacts sit in basements and get pawned or sold as antiques." He shrugged. "It's not like they come with manuals that say I'm not just a Tiffany lamp; I'm a magic carpet."

You squinted at him. "I never realized how silly you were."

"I'm not silly," he scoffed.

Sure you aren't, you thought. Demons and their tough guy act.

Changmin flipped past the pages, both of you skimming each as you went for any words that jumped off the page.

"Stop," you said, bumping your hand against his. "Go back."

You thought you had seen something… there.

It was dated several weeks after the first entry, and her writing looked more scratchy, more frantic:

I translated one of the passages wrong. The amulet doesn't use the wearer's blood as an activator, it BINDS them to it. The wearer is an amplifier, NOT an activator.

What.

You stopped reading there, digging the pendant out from beneath your shirt collar and watching the red upon the stone wink at you. The blood drained from your face—what did that mean, amplifier?

Next to you, Changmin kept reading on. His eyebrows braided together in concentration as he soaked up all the words on the notebook like a sponge. This was all of the information he hasn't gotten from Sena before, and what she might have wanted to tell him beforehand. At least, that was what you thought. That was what made the most sense.

It's too late for me anyways, I already pricked my finger against it and it sucked it all up. It's been done, was what your sister wrote. I don't know how magic reads blood types or genetic code, if it even does that, but for some reason I'm less scared and more curious.

Things to note: it seems to match my heartbeat. The full amulet should ideally be the shape of an infinity loop—supposedly. It's a little off, but it might be from the wear of time. It's missing a piece though, a middle portion that slides over it like a connector or binder of sorts. Neither half will stay together without it, and without said third piece, the amulet won't work.

I guess my next course of action is to find out who does have the third piece, and to make sure this damn thing will never EVER be used.

Changmin flipped the page, and you began unclasping the chain.

He stopped you, placing a hand over your own with wide eyes. "Woah, what are you doing?"

Your mouth dropped open. "Did you not just read what she said? This is an amplifier, Changmin. I don't know what the Hell that means, but I don't want it on me." No matter how much the emptiness left behind protested, the word "amplifier" made your heart drop.

He protested again, stopping your movement. "Yn—Yn, listen to me. We cannot lose the one piece we have."

Your heart was moving erratically now, the pendant pulsing in perfect time. If it had your sister's blood in it then why did it match yours? "I don't want it on me," you croaked. You fisted the pendant and held it away from your chest. "It matches my heartbeat, Changmin. Do you know how fucking unnerving that is when it's supposed to be my sister's?"

Changmin faltered at this revelation. He blinked. "I—since when did it match your heartbeat?"

"Since the moment I put it on."

His eyes went to the amulet in your hands, and his expression rearranged itself into something you couldn't read—worry, maybe—

He froze.

You just barely picked up on the sound yourself while descending into panic, but it sounded like wheels rolling on the street in front of the house. Both of you peered out the window shutters to the front lawn space as a white colored sedan pulled up along the front curb.

A white sedan.

Changmin's hand tightened on your arm as he assessed the car. The headlights remained on, but the driver had yet to step out and reveal themselves. "You have Clyde?"

"I do, but… what if they're here for the neighbors?" You whispered even as the hair on the back of your neck stood up. Not here, not again. You and Changmin were finally getting answers.

He looked like he was about to counter when the driver's side door opened.

Instead of a big, scary monster or creature, the person who clambered out was quite petite. Then again, you weren't quite sure what to expect. She wore a big, white knit cardigan that hung off her frame, and she had platinum blond hair with dark purple highlights. The car door slammed shut behind her as she trudged up the grassy lawn toward the front door and rang the doorbell.

Changmin seemed just as surprised as you did.

"Girl Scout cookies?" You suggested under your breath. It definitely wasn't Girl Scout cookie season, and the woman didn't seem young enough to still be a Girl Scout. (And usually, Girl Scout sellers came with something to sell. This one just had her car keys and a phone.)

He passed you a look. The muscle in his jaw told you he was still on the offense. "Stay here," he said, then got up and quietly made his way to the front door.

The doorbell rang again, the sound echoing throughout the house loud enough to wake the dead.

Changmin made eye contact with you once more before he began unlocking the door. He pasted on a smile, with one hand on the doorknob to keep the door angled so the woman couldn't see past him, and the other lingering around his middle "Hi, can I help you?"

You didn't even think he had the vocabulary to be polite.

"Oh, uh, hi!" Chirped the visitor. Her voice was bright, but with a raspy quality to it. She neither looked familiar nor sounded familiar. "This is probably really strange, but did you recently move into this house?"

Changmin moved his hand up to his opposing shoulder. "Yeah, actually. My partner and I just moved in. Why do you ask?"

Partner? He meant the strictly-business kind, right?... Right?

You stood up and began making small steps toward him in the entryway. He must have heard you, because you saw his eyes flicker toward you in his peripheral vision, and he stuck his hand out behind the door to swat you away.

Like you were going to listen.

"Ah," said the woman, "I just…" she chuckled, shaking her head. "One of the neighbors texted me about seeing you guys come in earlier today. I used to know the previous owner; we were pretty close, I guess you could say."

His eyes darted to yours for a millisecond. You heard that, too, right?

You approached the door, standing just behind the wall and out of sight.

"Oh, you knew Sena?" Changmin asked.

"Yeah," she answered easily. "She was my ex-fianceé."

#13—NO SUCH THING.

"SO HOW LONG HAVE YOU TWO BEEN TOGETHER?" The question nearly had you snorting tea from your nose. Beside you, Changmin had a similar reaction, turning away slightly to catch the water that trickled out of his mouth.

Mika, the woman with the platinum blonde and purple hair, the woman who had shown up at the door, the woman who was Sena's ex-fianceé, widened her eyes in alarm. "Oh my gosh, I'm sorry—is—is that not what you both are? I assumed when he said partner, but I shouldn't have—"

You shook your head, thumping your chest. "Oh, no, no," you said, pretending your voice hadn't gone up four octaves. "It's—it's okay! You just caught us both off guard, is all."

As soon as Mika revealed her identity, you said "screw it all" and practically ripped the door open. Any skepticism was dashed when she recognized you immediately as Sena's little sister—as stupid as it sounded, that was enough proof for you.

You invited her in.

Now, she sat on the armchair adjacent to you and Changmin. Sena's books had been kicked under the couch in the haste to clean up, leaving the first aid kit and legal pad out. To Mika's credit, she didn't comment on either one, just accepting your offer for a drink.

"We're uhm…"

"Kind of together," you said, but it sounded more like a question.

Changmin swallowed. "Uh, ish."

"It's complicated."

You hoped your face hadn't gone too red because it burned like the pits of Hell. Changmin didn't look any better; even his face was brushed in pink.

Mika let out a delicate laugh, lifting her mug of tea to her lips for a sip. "No, I get it. You don't owe me an explanation."

You could have sagged in relief. At least she seemed nice.

"I really appreciate you both letting me into your home," she continued and nursed the mug in her lap. "I know neither of you know me, but I suppose we have one mutual friend."

You nodded. "Yeah no, of course. I'm so sorry I didn't recognize you. Sena…" Hid so much from me. "Sena and I both had pretty different lives." Understatement of the century.

Mika straightened. "Oh, yes! I completely understand. She actually told me that she traveled a lot, and that you're studying—I believe it was accounting?"

You blinked. "Yes, actually."

"That's lovely, by the way," she said pleasantly. "I've never been great at math, so I admire you for that. Definitely not my cup of tea, but good for you."

"When is math anyone's cup of tea?" You mused, and she gave a little laugh of agreement.

This was… unexpectedly nice. But while the moment was sweet, you were divided internally. Sena told Mika about you, but didn't tell you about Mika. Had you done something where she didn't trust you enough to disclose this very important part of her personal life to you? It wasn't like you hid anything from her—you just, well, didn't have anything to hide.

"I didn't realize that Sena even told you about this place," Mika said, gesturing around at the house.

Oh, right. Back to the reality of your current situation. "Heh, yeah," you drawled and scratched the side of your neck. "She wrote all of the details down in her will for me." That seemed like a logical lie to tell.

"I'm surprised you weren't included in the will reading, Mika," Changmin suddenly jumped into the conversation. Your eyes were wide as you whipped your head toward him. His expression was carefully blank, words and movements executed with a lethal casualness. Because that was who he was—lethal. You just couldn't understand why he was putting it on for this lady.

"Changmin," you whispered sharply in reprimand, setting your cup down on the coffee table.

"No, it's okay, Yn," Mika replied good-naturedly. "It's a perfectly reasonable observation. I told her not to include me in her will, if she ever wrote one. I just… I have a lot of material things already, and it sounds kind of corny, but I didn't want anything like that from her—just her and her company." You noted the way she played around with the empty spot on her left ring finger absentmindedly, as if something—a ring—had once sat there.

Your chest warmed. At least you knew your sister was properly loved, as she should have been. A bittersweet sort of sadness wormed into the back of your mind still. "Ah, I see. I wish I would've known how to contact you after…"

"After that, yeah," she nodded. She swallowed, setting her mug on the table and shifting in the armchair. "Same here. Sena never gave me any means to get in touch with you, but I'm sure it was for a certain reason."

"How did you know that Sena was dead?"

You slapped your hand over Changmin's mouth. "I am so sorry about him. You don't have to answer that—"

"I just assumed that Sena had me as one of her emergency contacts, besides you, of course." Mika gestured to you with her expression still light and unbothered. You removed your hand from Changmin's mouth, nodding along. "Somebody contacted me about how her sister identified the body, but that Sena was dead, nonetheless."

That made sense. The morgue had been cold when you stepped foot inside it to confirm it was your sister there. You could imagine what Mika must have felt when authorities contacted her to give her the bad news. It must have been something close to how you felt.

With one hand resting in your lap, the other fiddled with your pendant. You'd forgotten to tuck it away earlier.

Mika's eyes darted toward it after following your hand movement. "Oh, that's an interesting necklace."

You enclosed your fingers around it and straightened. Every time anybody else noticed the amulet, you always felt like a deer in headlights. "It's—it's nothing really. I just—"

"I have one exactly like it."

Your fidgeting slowed. Heartbeat racketing against your chest, you could feel your counterpart tense next to you. "You do?" You stammered.

She bobbed her head. "I'm pretty sure, yes. Sena gave it to me. At first, I wasn't sure exactly what stone it was—I kind of just figured it was something precious, but I knew it had a level of sentimental value to it." Mika smiled, the corners of her lips curling sweetly, eyes misting. "I guess it makes sense that you have the other half."

Of course. Of course Mika had the other half. That was why Sena split the halves of the necklace and gave one half to you. Maybe this was her way of connecting you and Mika together by giving either of you a half of the very important necklace. One question that still remained was why hadn’t Sena mentioned anything to you about Mika or the other half of the necklace? Had she forgotten to write it down in her haste? Perhaps she hadn’t thought she was in danger just yet, and didn’t have a moment before her untimely death to sit down and explain everything in a letter.

“Do you happen to have the other half with you?” You asked her, leaning forward onto your knees. “I’ve been so puzzled as to what it is these past few weeks.” A blatant lie, but you needed to know how much Mika knew. She hadn’t mentioned anything about the dire importance of the necklace yet, but she said “sentimental value.” That wasn’t the same thing. Was it?

Mika pursed her lips and shook her head. “I don’t, unfortunately. It’s at home with my other accessories, but I’d gladly bring it for you to see, maybe over dinner?”

Changmin delivered a swift nudge to your side with his elbow. “Can I talk to you?”

You pressed your lips together. “Sure,” you said, and he immediately stood from the couch to head out into the hallway. You supposed he assumed you were going to follow him. You sent Mika an apologetic look, then trailed after your demon.

You found him waiting for you in the kitchen, leaning against the island with his hands folded over his chest.

“What did you want to talk about?”

He looked at you in earnest and pressed a finger to his lips in a quiet signal. You fixed him with a look, coming to stand beside him. “I don’t think we can trust her,” he murmured to you with his mouth by your ear. He had leaned over so close, you could see the pores on his skin.

The two of you pulled away simultaneously.

You coughed and braced an elbow against the countertop. “Why do you say that?” You asked. You didn’t mean for it to sound so defensive, but you bristled at the thought that you couldn’t trust the one other person who might have more insight into your sister’s life than you or Changmin.

Changmin cocked his head at his tone. “You believe her?”

“She hasn’t given me any reason to not believe her.” You pushed out a breath. If you stepped out of your own head for a moment, it was clear that something was bothering him. Considering he was the one with the supernatural experience and he had yet to be wrong yet, there had to be a good reason for him to not trust Mika. “Okay, why don’t you trust her?”

His eyes roamed over your face—he was doing that thing again—looking for something, but what, you weren’t too sure of. “I…” He sighed, “I realize that this—this is your chance to reconnect with a part of your sister’s past, but she… her presence just doesn’t sit right with me. The timing, her answers… sweetheart, there’s no such thing as coincidence.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek. “So you think she’s here because of the necklace, or something to that effect?”

“Yes, something to that effect,” he said.

“But all of her answers make sense to me. If Sena had both halves of the necklace, giving two halves to two of the people she deemed close to her would make sense. And I think what she said about the will was a little corny, but…” You admitted, “It was a little strange that Sena didn’t mention anything about her in the will.”

Changmin bit his lip. “I know we probably shouldn’t villainize her right off the bat, but there’s something so weird about this, Yn.”

“Okay,” you said, “I don’t fully agree, but let’s say yes to dinner and then go from there, yeah?”

He seemed to be in agreement after that, and the two of you returned to the living room where Mika glanced up from her phone. “Everything okay?”

You nodded. “Oh yeah. No need to worry; just a personal thing,” you said casually and took your seat from before. “You were saying something about dinner, right?”

As Mika told you about a neat, little restaurant nearby themed like a Prohibition-era speakeasy, you absentmindedly reached for your cup of tea on the coffee table. Before your fingers could make contact with the handle, you felt another hand bump yours out of the way. The cup was suddenly not there.

Instead, you glanced over at Changmin as he swept your tea mug up into his grasp. “Sorry, I wanted some. I hope you don’t mind.”

Your expression was quizzical. He must be a lot more comfortable with sharing things with you after he stole half your slurpee in the car ride. “It’s okay. I wasn’t really that thirsty,” you said slowly.

But his gaze wasn’t on you; it was on Mika. His eyes narrowed at her over the rim of the cup, and he drained its contents in one gulp, like a challenge. You would have to ask him about it later.

Mika didn’t look the least bit fazed. She continued on about dinner plans, none the wiser to Changmin’s dagger-sharp eyes. You had to give her credit for sitting there under his gaze without shrinking into herself, because you probably would not have survived.

The remainder of the visit went without a hitch. Mika didn’t say anything else that drew a snarky response from Changmin, and the three of you (really, it was just you and Mika who participated) decided to meet at the restaurant she mentioned the next day for dinner.

“Well, I think I’ve overstayed my welcome,” Mika laughed lightheartedly, and the both of you stood at once.

Changmin stayed on the couch, but you figured it would be fine if you just walked her to the door. You frowned, though, noting the way his eyelids fluttered, like he was trying to keep himself upright. “Nonsense,” you said to her, “it was really nice to meet you, Mika.”

You opened the front door for her, and Mika fitted her shoes back on. “You, as well. And your partner.” Her lips curled up into a sweet smile. “Can’t wait to see you both tomorrow again, and to get to know you better. We have so much to catch up on.”

You nodded. “Yes, definitely. Get back safe, Mika.”

“I will. Thanks, Yn.” She gave a wave before marching down across the front lawn. You lingered by the door to make sure she got into her car okay, and returned her final, little wave through the driver’s side window.

With one hand braced on the side of the open front door, you craned your head around to look at Changmin on the couch. “Hey, you doing okay?” You asked, eyebrows creasing at the way he was hunched over now. “Changmin?”

“I think she—”

You didn’t hear what he said.

From your peripheral vision, you saw something swoop in toward you fast. You couldn’t comprehend what was happening—just the blur of feathers, the scream you let out, and the sound of Changmin yelling your name.

He was so sure that Mika drugged your tea with essence of sloth.

After you and Changmin came back from the kitchen, he’d seen the way the surface of your tea swirled as if something had just been stirred into it. The tea, which had been a mild green color before, looked a shade deeper, with fresh steam rising from it. He recognized those properties so distinctly to that of supernatural essences modeled after the seven deadly sins. He hadn’t even needed to think about it—he just reached for it and drank the entire thing. The worst case scenario was that Mika put enough of the essence in there that Changmin would be slightly affected, but only that much; either way, he would be able to stomach it better than you could. He couldn’t let you consume even a drop of it.

But now that his eyelids were as heavy as lead curtains and his brain felt like cotton, he was thinking it had to be sloth. But even if it was sloth, he wouldn’t have been this affected by it.

It had to be something different. Something he hadn’t taken before, something she knew a demon wouldn’t already have tolerance to.

He tuned into the conversation happening, just as Mika was excusing herself to head home. Good, she would leave and he could sleep this fucking drug off. You would be none the wiser.

“—will. Thanks, Yn.”

Almost gone.

Changmin’s eyelids shuddered closed as he leaned forward onto his knees with his head ducked to his chest. This… whatever the fuck this was, it was hitting him… hitting him… like… like a truck.

A familiar voice—no, more than just familiar—came to him. Your voice reached out to him, a lighthouse guiding his ship through a storm to shore. “Hey, you doing okay? Changmin?”

Could you close the door and come closer? Come over to him and sit next to him again. He gave a rough shake of his head in an attempt to knock some sense into his head. “I think she—”

Your scream sliced him right through the chest, and he jolted. “YN?”

“Changmin! Changmin—”

Everything blurred in his vision as he tried to stand. The floor wobbled beneath him, and he swayed toward the polished wood violently. “YN,” he yelled. Please, please, please—he needed to get to you.

He could barely make out the shapes in his vision: the flurry of gray feathered wings, your legs kicking out as you fought your captor. Changmin’s body lurched toward you, but stumbled pathetically, nearly tripping over the coffee table. Panic seized him by the ribs, but he trudged onward. He… he had to get to you. “YN? YN.”

“Chang—”

He swore.

His knees hit the floor. He would fucking crawl if he had to.

A pair of boots came into his blurred vision. “Well, isn’t this a lovely sight?”

Something in the back of his mind told him to RUN. But he couldn’t. Fucking Hell, he couldn’t even push himself up.

His chin was tilted upward, and he made out the shapes of eyes staring into his soul like a cat to a mouse. “She’ll be alright,” the voice purred. “You have bigger problems now.”

#14—DON'T TRUST ANYONE.

OUT OF FEAR OF FALLING STRAIGHT TO YOUR DEATH, you didn’t struggle in the arms of your angelic captor. Your heart ratcheted around in your ribcage as you dangled from the powerful grasp of one divine being you didn't recognize. His feathered wings, colored a medium gray, would have been beautiful to you if you weren't currently one slip away from splatting to the earth. This angel was nothing like Jacob.

All you could do was wait for doom. Whenever it decided to take you.

You hoped Changmin was okay. You prayed to anybody listening that he was okay; the way he stumbled toward you… the desperation in his voice. You swallowed. Oh god, you hoped he was okay. You couldn't stomach the thought of it—of losing him.

(You hoped you were going to be okay, too.)

The night sky looked akin to a dark void. No stars hung tonight, and you couldn't even see the houses beneath your feet. You screwed your eyes shut—better to not look down.

It wasn't much longer that the angel dove down into the dark mass of clouds and your voice became entrapped in your throat again. When you opened your eyes, there was a large estate coming into view with small lights embedded in the grounds lighting the way like a private airstrip. The angel followed, letting your arms go when your feet were close enough to the ground.

You rolled into the grass—he grabbed you up but the back of your shirt to stand upright.

"Come on," he grunted, "let's go inside."

"What the Hell do you want from me?" You gritted out as he practically dragged you across the lawn and toward the mansion ahead.

Shit, where did he take you? The grounds sprawled around you for what seemed like acres. You didn't have the mind to appreciate the architecture though, if this was your final resting place.

The angel didn't answer your question. Rude.

When he wrestled you into the front foyer, he threw you to the cool, stone floor. Your hands and knees caught the stone with a sharp slap, and you winced, rolling onto your backside.

"Stay here until—" Something embedded itself into the side of his neck. He scrunched his face up in mild annoyance, feeling around for the dart and pulling the needle out. He scoffed at the puny thing, flicking it to the floor.

Somebody leapt out from the front window curtains, screeching like a bat out of Hell. The creature, the person, launched themselves onto the angel's back and reared their armed hand back, before plunging the blade of a knife between his shoulder blades.

Gold-tinted blood arced across the ceiling and walls. You were frozen in horror as you watched Mika cling to the angel's wings and stab him over—and over—and over—and over—

The angel fought well, but the blade—fucking Hell, it had to have been laced with something.

He fell face first into a pool of his blood, dead, you presumed.

You scurried backward, trying to put space between you and the angel corpse. The golden ichor was slowly trickling toward you over the polished floors.

Mika huffed a strand of hair out of her eyes, sweat dampening her forehead. Her entire front and hand was covered in angel blood. She swiped the back of her hand over her forehead, leaving a streak of it there like gruesome war paint.

She smiled at you—you shivered. "Sorry about that," she said, stepping over the corpse unceremoniously. "Had to get rid of him. This one was a pain in the ass to work with anyway." She gave the body a kick in the side, and you flinched.

"What—" you choked, "—who the fuck are you?"

Mika's cheerful disposition was still present in her face. Her eyes still turned into crescent moons when she smiled. She was still the Mika you met less than two hours ago, but also not. Nothing about her softness before brought you any comfort now.

"We just met, Yn, don't you remember?" She walked toward you, and you scrambled away. "Now, don't be like that. We're on the same side." The blade in his grasp glinted gold and silver in the foyer lighting, and she gestured with it. "Oh, this? I put a little something special on it—it's the same thing your demon drank. In this world, we need as many advantages as we can, Yn."

When you had yet to say anything, she sighed, disappointed. "Don't tell me you're not impressed. Your sister was the same way when I showed her the thing I made."

You had one hand behind you, inching toward Clyde in your back pocket. "What… what do you mean? Is Changmin going to be okay?"

"He'll be fine," she dismissed with a flick of her wrist. "Well," she reconsidered. "I don't know if he'll be okay. Depends on the mood of the angels who have him. But that's not our problem."

"If you want the necklace, you can have it."

Mika laughed. "Goody! I was gonna take it from you anyway, but no, that's not the only thing I want."

"What else could you possibly want?"

She towered over you and you stuck your angel blade out between you and her. She raised a brow at the knife, slowly leaning down to be eye level with you. "Your sister really didn't tell you anything, huh?"

You gritted your teeth in frustration.

"Yn, let me tell you a story." Mika settled into the floor in front of you, crisscrossing her legs. Gold clung and dried against her clothes and skin, but it didn't bother her. "Not long ago, I discovered a little thing in my grandfather's attic. It was two halves of a pendant, and when put together, it made the shape of an infinity sign—or something to that effect. I had no idea what it was, but I figured there was no use keeping it around; I didn't need it. I put it on Craigslist and waited.

"Lo and behold, I got a notification from someone interested. Her name—can you guess? I bet you can," Mika mused.

"Sena."

"There you go," she said, leaning back onto her palms with a wistful smile. "Sena and I arranged a time to meet, and the first time I saw her—do you believe in love at first sight? I do. I fell in love with her, and I like to think she did, too."

You attempted to put a stop to the shakiness in your hands. "Where are you going with this?"

"Impatient, are we?" Her eyes narrowed. She drawled, carrying on, "She introduced me to her world and the necklace. This little amulet that my grandfather had tossed in an old jewelry box could conquer worlds, in the right hands. Could you imagine that? Jumping from realm to realm in a supercharged version of yourself without losing energy?"

Your mouth pressed into a thin line. "Dangerous."

"That's the boring answer."

"You're sick."

"I like to say ambitious," she countered. "You're just like your sister. Sena wanted to figure out how to destroy the thing rather than how to use it. Waste of time and talent, if you ask me. She didn't get it."

Mika cocked an eyebrow at you. "She cut her finger on it one day and it drank up her blood like a sponge. It was too late for her to back out then—she was bound to it." She waved a hand in your direction, and you clutched at the necklace. "And now you are, too. Your blood is the closest thing to Sena's, and you're the only one who can make it work."

You felt the blood in your face run cold.

"Don't look so surprised. That's why the demon kept you around."

Your head was spinning. "You're not making sense," you sputtered. Changmin—Changmin wanted to get rid of this as much as you did—but… but he hadn't. He hadn't, had he? "Why should I believe you?"

Mika frowned. "What reason would I have to lie to you?"

"You just murdered someone you worked with—"

"Oh, and you don't think he has?"

Your mouth snapped shut.

She leaned forward a little. "You and I, Yn, would never have to live in fear of the supernatural. The power that lies in your hands now, around your neck?" She started pulling herself to her feet, and you swiftly followed so you wouldn't be on the ground anymore.

You didn't need her to have any more advantage over you.

"It's priceless," Mika said, opening her arms wide. "You know what your little demon was going to do with the finished pieces of the amulet?"

"He was going to destroy the pieces—"

"He was going to take it for himself and use it to get back in his family's good graces," Mika corrected sharply. She took a step toward you, and you took one back. "You never suspected why he was so desperate to make sure you both 'finished what your sister started?'"

Oh god, you were going to be sick. You couldn't believe her—you weren't just going to believe her. Everything was spinning.

He was so insistent.

He was always so damn insistent. And he had never mentioned anything before about destroying the amulet.

The demon that day… it had addressed him as Your Disgrace. Oh God—

"I don't," you forced out, "believe you." Were you a fool? Were you a fool for believing in the goodness of a demon who saved you from death more than once, made sure you were fed and healing and happy and safe? Had you made a grave mistake?

Don't trust anyone.

Why hadn't Sena mentioned anything about Changmin?

"Then you're an idiot," Mika quipped. "Even Sena knew better than you."

"Oh, shut up," you snarled. You backed up all the way into the next room—the kitchen. Yn, look for a way out, damn it.

"He figured it out. That you were linked to it, and you were the ticket to accessing its power and the other pieces." You both came to a stand still. The ichor crusted over like caramelized sugar all over her face and clothes and hands.

"You have the third piece," you said tightly.

She shrugged. "Of course, I do. Money can buy you so many things."

"Clearly, it can't buy you a moral compass."

Mika barked out a laugh. "Oh, you're funny! It's almost a shame you're resisting; I'd hate to pick off another Ln sister."

"What—"

She pounced.

Your breath hitched in your throat as you moved out of the way, barely missing the graze of her knife. You gripped your own in your fist and swung it at her, adrenaline rushing through your veins and urging you to win—because who knew what would happen if you lost.

She came at you again with teeth gnashing and stained in blood that wasn't hers. You'd seen her take down that angel with a wild ruthlessness.

You caught her wrist as the counter dug into your spine, the point of her knife glinting in the kitchen lights.

"It brought me—" she grunted, applying more force down on you, "—no pleasure to do what I did to her, but she wouldn't—listen."

You bit your lip and got one leg free to kick her off you. "Fuck you!" You grabbed the vase behind you and chucked it at her head.

You heard the glass shatter, but hadn't seen the damage done as you made a dash for the front foyer again.

"Not so fast, little Ln—"

Something snagged into the back of your shirt, and you and Mika went tumbling to the stone floor. Your head hit the marble with purpose, a sharp pain piercing through your temple. Your vision blurred for a second and you put your hands out to fight for your fucking life.

"You killed her?" You caught her knife hand again and managed a slice with Clyde to her side as you shoved her onto her back.

"I wasn't—trying to," she grunted.

You yelped as she attempted to claw at your face, your head swerving out of the way just in time. "What the fuck does that even matter?"

"It wasn't my fault she was dumb enough to leave the bar." Mika kneed you off her body and your knife flew. You swore under your breath and she immediately fisted a portion of your hair and yanked you back toward her. "You should've seen the way she stumbled like a baby deer. Your older sister—such determination. That car didn't even see her until it was too late."

With ferocity, you knocked your head back against her face. You heard the satisfying sound of bones crack.

"Fucking Hell—"

You dove for Clyde, your fingers wrapping around the handle just in time to roll out of the way as Mika came down over you for a killing strike. Her knife struck the stone, and she growled at you, dark red oozing from her crooked nose, with one hand cradling her face. The vision of bared teeth and blood sent a shock of fear down your spine.

"You little—" she screeched, licking the blood off her lips and staining her teeth. "I'm going to have so much fun using your blood and bones for the amulet. Don't worry, it won't hurt—me."

You swore as she came at you again without abandon. She brought her knife down, time and time again, trying to catch you at some point.

Your blade sliced across her cheek, but hers caught you in the side. You felt it break skin, and you had little time to mourn over the sting in your stomach before you were rolling out of the way again.

You scrambled to your feet and with a war cry for encouragement, you charged at her, leaping onto her back and sending her crashing back to the floor. You grabbed the back of her head and smashed it against the floor. "You murdered my sister."

Mika screamed, and she used all of her adrenaline to flip you over onto your back. Bloodied and bruised, she drove her elbow into your gut, sending the wind straight out of your lungs. "The only thing I regret—" she said, turning over to face you with half her face drooling with blood and her mouth curled into a wicked smile, "—is that she won't be here to watch me skin you half-alive and use your body parts."

She crushed your knife hand under her knee, and you screamed as the pain made you see white. Mika pinned you beneath her weight with her knife raised high above her like an executioner's axe. "Goodbye, Yn. Just know that you had a choice."

You braced yourself for impact, head turned away and eyes screwed shut. At least you would see your sister soon, right? Was that some reprieve?

But the blow never came.

Your eyes fluttered open just in time to see a sword made of living shadows arc up in the air and slice across Mika's neck. Her eyes went wide for a split second, and you choked in horror as her dismembered head hit the floor with a dull thud.

Her headless body fell listlessly to the side. Dead and rigid.

Her blood was splattered all over your face and the stone floor, and you could taste the iron of it on your tongue. You gagged violently, a gross sob ripping out of your mouth.

Changmin stood over you with his jaw clenched, eyes narrowed like daggers, and Bonnie in his grasp. His limbs trembled, his body covered near head to toe in golden ichor and some dark trails of blood from himself. Gold stained his palms and crusted beneath his fingers, and feathers of varying colors stuck out of his hair dampened in sweat and more blood.

The sword clattered to the ground and you startled.

Relief came crashing over you and you attempted to push yourself off the ground, but crumpled under your near shattered wrist.

"Yn," Changmin breathed, collapsing onto his knees before you and crushing your face to his chest. You fell apart—oh god, it was the breaking of a dam. His grip tightened around you, cheek pressed against the top of your head. "Fuck, I thought I lost you. Hey, we're—shit, we're okay. I got you."

For a moment, you let yourself fall apart against him. All of the fear and adrenaline dissipated into body tremors and tears.

You could feel his grip on you loosen, and you took that as a signal to pull back.

You knew the signs well enough by now—how his eyes drooped and fought to stay open, how he swayed with his world tilting on its axis. "Changmin, how much energy—"

"Had to… had to get to you," he slurred. He crumpled, and you struggled to keep him upright with your one good arm. "I don't—know—I'll be fine."

The last thing he saw before he blacked out was your face, scrunched in worry, haloed by the lights over your head. Yeah, you were safe now, and so was he.

#15—FOUR LETTER WORDS.

JI CHANGMIN CAME TO GROGGY AND LIGHT-HEADED. For a moment, he wasn't sure where he was, because the last thing he could remember was defeathering an angel prick one stupid bird feather at a time. He made sure each one hurt.

Why? Why had he done it? It was—it was for information. Information about what? …it was… it was about—you. He was trying to find where their friend had taken you. You—

His eyes shot open and he jolted upright, a groan escaping him at the way his entire body ached.

He collapsed back against the armchair he sat in and took in the room. He didn't recognize it at all. The drapes were too heavy and embroidered with gold flowers, the floor looked too polished and expensive. The couch sectional adjacent to him was made of leather too soft to be the one from Sena's safehouse.

The room was dimmed slightly with only the lamp next to him providing light.

He smacked his lips together as he recognized the taste on his tongue. It was metallic and thick; he'd tasted it before, could name it blindfolded at this point.

Where were you? You'd dripped blood into his mouth while he was out, hadn't you? He didn't remember drinking it or—

Something rattled when he tried to move his left arm.

He glanced down at his wrist hanging over the side of the armchair to find that he was cuffed to the lamp next to him with a sterling silver necklace. It was made of chunky links, the band twisted in a figure eight with his wrist in one side and the lamp in the other so it would tighten around him every time he tried yanking.

Smart.

He sighed. Great.

The sound of a throat clearing drew his attention away and to the far reaches of the living room. You stood just where the light touched you, one wrist wrapped in something like gauze and Band-Aids littering your face and body.

His chest tugged and lurched painfully at the sight of you. You were so badly hurt when he finally got to you, but he had got to you nonetheless. He had grabbed Bonnie and ran.

"Feeling better?" You asked him.

His voice was scratchy and he coughed. "Y—yeah. Kind of. I'll survive." He could feel his body stitching itself back together. He would definitely survive.

The angel bitches had reignited the pain in his broken ribs before, but it was slowly being mended again. They were all strange sensations.

"You're okay?" He asked, swallowing. He didn't know what he'd do if you weren't. You seemed okay standing so far away. Why had you… why had you chained him to the lamp? Why were you so far away?

Your nod was slow and you braided your arms over your chest. He noticed Bonnie leaning up against the wall next to you and the damned pendant still hanging from your neck. Only there was an extra chain beside it with the second half present too, the halves facing away from each other. "For the most part, yes," you said. "Scrounged up some things around the house to tape myself back together. Mentally and emotionally? That's a little different."

He had heard what Mika said to you right before he lopped her head off. "I can imagine. I'm sorry," he murmured. "I don't regret doing that."

"Beheading her?"

"Yeah, that." And he would do it a thousand times over if it meant you would live.

You glanced down at the floor for a moment. "I need you to be honest with me."

He let out a breath. "Okay."

"Why did the demon who attacked me at my apartment call you Your Disgrace?"

Changmin's blood froze over like the lakes in the seventh circle of Hell. Something akin to panic clawed at him from the inside and up his throat, and every instinct of his was telling him to shut down, reel back the drawbridge, and lock the gates.

But this was… this was you. You asked him to be honest. There was something in the way you looked at him, the careful mask you'd put on, that told him to fight whatever cowardice was trying to shine through.

He wrestled down another swallow. "My family—my father is a Duke of Hell. I'm the youngest of my family, but the only boy—" Changmin's knee bounced up and down to channel his nervous energy toward something else. "—and I didn't want the responsibility of being his heir or to be associated with any of that. I wanted freedom."

He could still remember the day he decided to run away. It was stupid that he thought he wouldn't get caught.

He bit down on his tongue so hard it bled. "Long story short, my sisters saved me from punishment, and my father did the one thing I wanted him to—disown me. I was banished from my home and exiled to the mortal realm." He pursed his lips and made a weak, vague gesture.

It wasn't a history he was proud of. For the first few years, it was all he wanted and more. But family was still family, and sometimes it was impossible to fill certain voids. Even for a demon.

Your voice carried across the room, "Did you ever consider trading the amulet to get back in your family's good graces?"

"How did you—"

"Yes or no."

His shoulder sagged. "Yes."

"Did my sister know?"

"Yes." He hated every single second of this conversation. Every yes he pushed out, he could feel your voice getting colder.

You cocked your head to the side. "Did you know how I related to the function of the amulet?"

"Yes," he said. "But it wasn't until you said it matched your heartbeat at the safehouse."

"And when did you plan to betray me?"

He gripped the arm of his chair. "I didn't—"

"Don't lie," you snarled.

His mouth snapped closed and he moved back like a flinch. His eyes shut for a second, before opening again to fixate on you. "I'm not lying," he drawled. "When I opened Sena's parting letter, I dropped any will to trade that thing to beings like my parents. I swear on my immortal life, Yn, I never intended to betray you at any point."

He didn't know how to get through to you. He didn't know how to convince you. Who was he but a creature of evil? He understood why you wouldn't be able to trust anyone, especially after the events of the past week. You were doing the best that you could… but fuck, you were so far away.

He'd fucked up.

You were quiet for a moment, and he couldn't read you. When he first met you, he thought he could read your thoughts and emotions like an open book. But now, it was near impossible.

"Okay."

A single word. Who knew four letter words could make him feel like this. "Okay?" He echoed, uncertain. Hope was so dangerous a feeling.

You nodded your head, shoulders lifting and dropping with exhaustion. "Okay," you repeated. "I believe you."

"You believe me? Why?" He asked against his better judgment.

You exhaled. "Well, for starters, you could have killed me like Mika tried to. You could have broken through that chain at any point, but you haven't. It's flimsy as Hell."

He glanced down at the silver chain around his wrist and gave it an experimental yank. It hadn't even occurred to him to break free; he hadn't the reason to. He was safe.

"And second," you continued, drawing his attention again, "you haven't given me any reason to not believe you." He didn't want to mistake the tenderness in your gaze now. Maybe he was seeing things. And it made his chest ache. "There have been so many times where you could have done away with me, but you always came back. For me, and not the necklace. I mean—keeping the necklace with me was one thing, but maybe I'm just stupidly convincing myself that you care."

Changmin shook his head in earnest. "It's not stupid." I do care.

You scoffed, raising a brow. "I sound like the dumbest person in the world, trusting a demon."

He hung his head for a moment, fighting for the right words. He grappled with himself, desperate and uselessly unable to describe the way he felt toward you because in demonic culture, this thing—this yank, this gravity he felt toward you—didn't exist. Demons used, stole, purged, devoured, but never whatever this was. This had to be wholly human.

"Yn," he began, feeling your eyes on him again, "I don't know what it is. And I can't describe it in a way that matters or might matter to you. But I'm—I'm… drawn to you." He wished he could shrink under your gaze, to be swallowed by the earth. Dear fuck, the way you pinned him down with that stare like you could see straight into his soul.

Changmin swallowed. "My chest aches, Yn. I don't know what it is, but it aches when I'm around you, and it aches when I'm not. It aches when you laugh, and it aches when you fucking say my name. And I—" He blew out a harsh breath, teeth gnawing on the inside of his cheek as he scavenged for the right words. He wanted it to matter because it had to. He wanted it to matter to you as much as it was coming to matter to him.

"I don't know what it is," he said again uselessly. "But I feel like you could just reach into my ribcage and I would let you. I would let you do whatever you want. Even if you—you wanted to just leave me here. If you would leave content and satisfied, then..." He would watch you go. But he didn't want you to. Please don't leave.

He wondered if he got the message across. He could barely possess half the meaning himself or wrap his head around it.

But he raised his head and watched you limp across the room toward him, his chest stuttering and stumbling the closer you came.

He could see you in the lamplight so much clearer now.

There were scratches all over your body, bandages littering your skin. But your eyes could devour him whole and he would sink forever.

You cupped his face with your good hand, and the organ in his chest flipped. There was a distinct softness to your touch, like the day your hand ghosted over his battered torso on the dock, and the way you tucked your cheek against his shoulder at the motel.

He shuddered, lips trembling.

"I love you, too," you said.

He knew you understood.

You pressed your lips against his, beautiful and perfect. Everything soft and tender he never thought he'd crave for all his life. It all melted into place. You were safe, and so was he.

The passenger side seat dug into your spine and your back molded against it like second nature. The sky was the color of darkened ash sitting at the bottom of a burnt fire pit, and the only light for miles around were the car's headlights. The road was barren, stretching on farther than your eyes could see. The time on the dash read a quarter past three in the morning.

Changmin sat behind the wheel with one hand steering and the other clasped between yours. Your dominant hand was wrapped up in a brace to support your broken wrist bones, and you'd replaced all your bandages with fresh ones. Bonnie was stashed in the back, and Clyde was tucked into your pocket as usual. Neither of you had any more of someone else's blood on your body, but you would feel the effects of the night's events for a while longer.

You were headed back toward Moonstone Creak. It was a place you looked forward to returning to, where Changmin knew you would be safe and happy, and where you knew you could be, too. Once you tied up matters at your old apartment, then matters about moving permanently could be settled.

You were playing it by ear, at this point.

Changmin's thumb ran over the back of your hand, gentle but with purpose. "You should sleep. It's a long way back."

The twin halves of the amulet hung from your neck with an equal, balanced weight. The third piece was tucked into your back pocket. You'd found it stashed among Mika's other accessories in her room. You and Changmin agreed it should be thrown somewhere over the side of a cliff. It needed to be lost and to stay lost.

Maybe you would give the second half to Changmin to wear.

"Why do you like blueberries so much?" You asked him instead of heeding his suggestion, as always. Your mouth opened to yawn, and he passed a sidelong glance at you.

He said, "They were the first thing I ate when I arrived on the mortal plane. They're a reminder of how far I've come."

You turned to him, and he met your gaze for a brief moment. "I didn't expect them to have such sentimental value."

The corner of his mouth curled upward. "That, and they taste good."

You smiled to yourself. "So about Bonnie—"

"I'm not teaching you."

"Asshole."

"Human."

You gave his shoulder a playful shove across the center console and he fought the grin on his face and lost.

He chuckled. "It was never an insult, by the way."

You settled back in your seat and curled your legs up. Brushing your lips against the back of his knuckles, you heard the breath that fell from his lips. "I know," you murmured.

a/n: i realize that you probably have questions... take it as an excuse to come visit my inbox! if you liked this, pls reblog :] thank you so much for reading mwah

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st4rg8te · 6 months ago

Text

A Debt Collected (Pt. 1 (?))

Yandere! Gangsters X Male Reader

TW: Obsessive behavior, graphic depiction(s) of violence, kidnapping, swearing, and smoking.

Synopsis: Living a life of petty crime and violence, you were bound to mess with someone you shouldn’t have sooner or later.

[A/N: Something random before I post the next part of Twisted Affections.]

✦✧✦✧

You weren't a good person.

You lie, you hurt, and you steal from others. Years of living this life had slowly chipped away at your conscience, dulling the edges of remorse.

The guilt that once weighed heavy on your shoulders became a fading memory, drowned out by the flashing lights and moving bodies in the nightclub— It was here, amidst the thumping bass and haze of smoke, that you found a twisted sense of belonging.

While grinding against some random stranger, a hand suddenly grabbed your shoulder from behind— It was firm, cutting through the haze of alcohol and adrenaline that clouded your mind. You turned around, only to see a set of familiar eyes staring back.

It was your friend.

An edge of annoyance seeped into your voice at the disruption, "The hell do you want?"

But your question was ignored with ease, instead, his lips moved soundlessly against the backdrop of the blaring music. You could barely make out the words as he mouthed to you, "Follow me."

Before you could respond or protest, his grip on your shoulder tightened, and he began to pull you through the swarming mass of bodies. You struggled to keep up, your clumsy, drunken, legs stumbling as he guided you toward a table in a dark corner of the club.

As you neared the table, your eyes caught sight of two men seated at one end, their faces obscured by the dim lighting. Though their faces were unfamiliar, something about their presence immediately set off alarm bells in your mind, a gnawing sense of unease began to worm its way inside your gut.

Your friend ushered you to sit down, his hand still firmly on your shoulder as if he could sense your hesitation, urging you forward even as every instinct told you to turn and walk away. Once the both of you were seated, you finally got a clear look at the men before you.

They were undeniably handsome; the younger of the two looked to be in his 20s, while the other seemed slightly older, perhaps in his 30s or 40. Dressed in expensive suits, the kind that you could never dream to afford.

But it wasn’t their appearance that made your skin crawl—it was the way they watched you, their eyes cold and calculating, as if they were sizing you up, measuring your worth.

You felt a shiver run down your spine.

Your friend began to speak again.

"Gentlemen, uh, this is [Y/N]." He gestured vaguely to you, a strained smile present on his face. You shot him a questioning look, unsure of what to do, but before you could ask, the younger man in the suit spoke for the first time.

His deep, amused voice filled the space between you as he leaned forward to meet your gaze.

"Hey [Y/N]! We've heard a lot about you from your friend here."

"Ah.. yeah." you muttered, head still swimming from all the alcohol earlier.

"You can call me Kei," he continued smoothly, gesturing to himself with a casual air. Then he pointed to the older man sitting beside him, who remained impassive. "And this grumpy guy right here is Victor."

You glanced over at 'Victor', noting the slight frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. His eyes were hard, and unreadable.

“Don’t pay him any mind, he’s always like this-”

"Listen, it's nice to meet you guys and everything," you began, trying to keep your voice steady as you forced yourself to focus. "But is there something I can help you with?" Your tone was more confrontational than you intended, but hell, you were never known for your charm in the first place.

"Straight to the point, I like it!" 'Kei' laughed lightly, taking a sip from the drink in front of him.

Despite the casual tone, there was an unmistakable edge to his words. "Yes there is something, actually. And it's quite urgent too."

"Hey you, can you leave us alone with your friend for a second?" He suddenly turned to address your friend, his eyes still trained on you— as if he didn’t want to lose sight of you for even a moment. "We just need to have a private conversation."

Your friend hesitated, glancing nervously between you and the young man, clearly unsure whether or not to comply. But Kei’s expression, though cheerful, was unyielding. The message was clear: this wasn’t a request, but a command.

Reluctantly, your friend nodded and stood up, his eyes lingering on you for a moment as if to apologize before he slowly walked away, leaving you alone with the two men.

As you watched your friend disappear into the crowd, the reality of the situation began to sink in.

You were now face-to-face with these two strangers, and whatever they wanted, it was clear they weren’t leaving until they got it.

The older man finally spoke up for the first time, “We have reason to believe that you owe our client quite a significant amount of money."

‘Fuck.’

Your heart sank as recognition dawned upon you.

A few months ago, while working under a false identity, you had managed to steal a large sum of money from a fairly notorious gang that ran the shady parts of town.

It hadn't been easy infiltrating their ranks, but with your sly tongue and a natural talent for reading people, it didn’t take long before you were climbing the ladder, earning the trust of their leader. To say he was displeased when he found out about this was probably putting it mildly.

But who in their right mind would entrust their business finances to a well-known liar? That was just carelessness on their part. You had been on the run for a while now, but it was just pure misfortune that you had been caught on the one night you let your guard down.

Your only option here was to stall the two men and play dumb, hoping it would give you enough time to somehow escape from their grasp.

"I think you might have the wrong person," you replied carefully, keeping your voice steady despite the rapid thumping of your heart. "I don't even know what you're talking about."

The younger man raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. This wasn’t good. "I doubt it," he said, tone laced with dark amusement. "You know exactly what we're here for. We've actually been watching you for a while now. And this isn't the first time you've pulled something like this."

Kei reached out toward you, fingers hovering above your forearm. You flinched back instinctively, but before you could move, the older man, Victor, grabbed you tightly by the wrist. His grip was firm, sending a jolt of pain through you— it came as a clear warning that you weren’t going anywhere.

"I have to say, I'm pretty impressed that you've lasted this long on your own. It’s not often someone manages to slip through our clutches. But everything comes to an end eventually, right?"

The mocking tone in his voice made your blood boil. You clenched your teeth at the sound. The situation was spiraling out of control, but you couldn’t let them see how scared you really were.

“If you’re smart,” Kei added, his voice dropping to a whisper that only intensified the threat, “you’ll come clean now. Tell us where the money is, and perhaps we won’t be so... hm… harsh.”

A surge of defiance flared up within you. Pushing aside the fear, you met his gaze head-on. "Not a chance, asshole!"

In a split second, you grabbed the half-empty glass in front of you and hurled it at Victor's face with all the force you could muster. The glass collided against his cheek with a sharp thud, and he grunted in surprise, releasing his grip on you.

It was the opening you desperately needed. Without wasting a moment, you scrambled to your feet, ignoring the searing pain in your left arm where he had held you, and bolted into the bustling crowd of the nightclub.

"Haha! I didn’t expect that. Thank God he aimed for you instead." Kei’s voice rang out behind you.

"...Shut up. We can't let him escape."

Your breath came in short, ragged gasps as you darted through the room, adrenaline pumping through your veins. The pounding bass of the music seemed to blur with the frantic beat of your heart as you dodged, and pushed past bodies, weaving your way through the sea of oblivious party goers who had no idea of the danger lurking so close.

You weren’t a good person. It was a fact that you wouldn’t deny.

You just didn’t think it would catch up to you this fast.

After bumping into a couple and nearly tripping over your own feet, you finally broke free from the crowd and into a dark hallway leading to a side exit. You moved as quickly and quietly as possible down the corridor, every nerve inside your body on edge.

But just as your fingers reached out for the door knob, a sudden, brutal force slammed into your ribs, sending a sharp, agonizing pain through your body.

The impact knocked the breath out of you, and you skidded across the filthy floor, crashing hard into the wall.

Before you could regain your composure, a hand clamped down roughly on your neck. They dragged you into a nearby room, effectively cutting off any hope of escape.

"Sweetheart, you shouldn't have done that." A low chuckle vibrated through your skin as Kei's voice slithered from behind your ear. "I really didn't want to do this to you."

"Fuck off, you creep!" You spat, thrashing violently against his hold, desperation fuelling your every move. The other man in front of you raised his leg, clearly intending to kick you into submission, but was halted by an outstretched hand.

"Hey, if you kick him that hard again he'll probably throw up all over me, do you know how much this suit costs?" He sighed, exasperation lacing his tone. The other man hesitated, clearly annoyed, but followed Kei’s lead and stepped back, a scowl etched on his face.

"Sorry about that, this guy can be a bit sadistic sometimes." Kei continued, still holding onto you tightly. "But let's get back to business. No one's coming to save you even if you scream— these rooms are sound-proof. So I'll ask you one more time; where are you hiding the money?"

"I don't have it! Let go of me, asshole! Why would I steal money from my own employer!?"

Your words barely had time to hang in the air before the cold edge of a knife pressed against your throat, the sharp metal cutting into the soft flesh. A soft whimper escaped your lips.

"I don't think you understand the situation that you're in now. Your boss hired us to teach you a lesson and retrieve his money. In cases like these, guys like you end up dead in a river."

"Did you spend it all? Are you a gambler? You don't really look the type..." His hand slid from your chest to your waist, squeezing gently, as he trailed off with a thoughtful hum.

"I said—" Your words were cut off as Victor's fist collided brutally with the side of your head. The impact sent a blinding flash of pain through your skull, filling your vision with stars.

The older man then grabbed you by the hair, yanking your head back and forcing you to look up at him.

"I told you not to hurt his pretty face!" Kei yelped in protest from behind you.

Victor ignored the other man, his eyes cold and unforgiving as he stared down at you.

"If you can’t pay off your debt," he drawled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, "then we’ll have to find another way to reimburse the money that’s owed. Either you give us the full amount today, or you’re going to have to work for us to pay it off. What’s your decision?"

You swallowed thickly.

You couldn't think straight at the moment.

"Fuck! I'll do whatever you want, okay? Just— just please don't hurt me."

Kei chuckled softly in your ear, there was a hint of satisfaction in his voice as if he had finally gotten what he wanted, "Ahh, that was so cute… Well, that's settled then! You're coming with us."

"What—"

WHAM!

The last thing you heard was the fading echo of Kei’s voice. The cold, hard floor seemed to rise up to meet you, plunging your world into darkness.

✦✧✦✧

The older man sighed as he took out a lighter from his pocket, the tiny flame flickering to life as he brought it to the tip of his cigarette.

He watched as his partner lifted your unconscious body into the backseat of his car with ease, before slamming the door shut with a final thud.

Kei turned around, a grin on his face as he flashed a thumbs-up.

Taking a slow drag of his cigarette, he returned the gesture with a nod, "Let's go."

They had waited so long to catch you, and now you were finally in their grasp.

The anticipation was almost intoxicating as he thought about what awaited you when you woke up.

This was only the beginning. As he flicked the ash from his cigarette and slid into the driver’s seat, he couldn’t help but look at you through the rearview mirror.

They had you now, and there was no escape.

✦✧✦✧

TLDR: Poor [Y/N] gets kidnapped :P Anyways, I wanted to make a duo that contrasted each other a lot. Sorry for this unedited mess.

#reader insert #tw yandere #yandere writing #male reader #yandere x reader #yandere drabble #yandere oc #x reader #yandere x you #yandere male #yandere gangsters #yandere blog #yandere x male reader #yandere #yandere x darling

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nanamineedstherapy · 30 days ago

Text

Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

F!Non-Sorceress CEO Reader X Gojo Satoru X Nanami Kento

Summary: You should be overjoyed that Gojo Satoru & Nanami Kento are your husbands. But you feel your skin crawl as you become the third wheel in your own marriage.

Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Pregnancy Horror, Unhinged Husbands, Emotional Chaos, Desperation, Chasing the Uncatchable, Cursed Relationships, Polyamory Drama, Sorcery Meets Reality. Major Content Warnings: Graphic depictions of distress (physical and emotional), mentions of stalking behaviors, power imbalances, body horror (pregnancy), intense angst. Other Warnings: Crack moments in otherwise serious situations, manipulative tendencies, morally gray characters.

A/N: My Christmas gift to you ≧◠‿◠≦✌ Let me just say: I’m not sorry for the emotional rollercoaster you’re about to board. The safety harness? It’s Gojo/Nanami brand of dysfunction. Prepare yourselves for sorcery-fueled absurdity, body horror vibes, and enough angst to fill an Infinity Room. Also, if you’ve ever wanted to see Gojo wrestle with drunk Norwegian women or Nanami quietly descend into bread-obsessed madness, you’re in the right place. Buckle up. And yes, you’re allowed to throw virtual tomatoes at me in the comments.

Previous Chapter 3 - Corporate Warfare: Protocol The Circus of Two (Tumblr/Ao3)

Chapter 4 - The Gravity of Running

But no one could outrun Gojo Satoru and Nanami Kento.

Denmark was off the table. Nanami knew you’d never hide in his ancestral grandmaland, so they aimed for Norway instead—specifically, a place you’d once mentioned wanting to visit.

This brilliant deduction led to their current predicament: boarding Gojo’s private jet at 2 a.m. for a 12-hour flight to Oslo.

Gojo had his tousled white hair peeking out from beneath his hood, the fabric of his oversized hoodie hanging loosely over his broad shoulders and accentuating his athletic build. His sweatpants clung just enough to hint at the strength beneath. He wore photochromic, transparent-framed glasses .

Nanami, too, sported an oversized hoodie that draped comfortably over his muscular frame. His normal world green-tinted Cannin glasses rested casually on the bridge of his nose, just visible beneath his hood, while his hair fell softly around his forehead. Both men wore slightly baggy sweats, adding to their relaxed vibe.

The plane, Gojo’s luxurious Bombardier Global 7500 , gleamed with sleek leather seats, gold trim, a full kitchen and a bar so well stocked it could supply a frat house for weeks.

Unfortunately, none of it could save the two men from their current downward spiral as they tried to commit substance abuse to drown their feelings, but instead they were the stars of the most unhinged reality show no one asked for.

Hour 3:25 AM

The cabin was quiet except for the occasional hum of the engines and the steady clinking of utensils. Or it would have been quiet if Gojo wasn’t demolishing an entire cart’s worth of desserts.

“Where do you think she is?” Gojo asked.

Nanami, five glasses of scotch deep, stared at him. “Maybe she’s on a beach. With a book. No loud idiots.”

Gojo gasped. “Are you calling me a loud idiot? I’m your husband, Nanami. Respect the bond, or I’ll bend you right here and add you to the mile-high club.”

Nanami didn’t flinch. “Respect the bond? You mean the one where I tolerate your endless noise? Bend me, and I’ll file for divorce the second we land. Along with a restraining order.”

“Then I’ll levitate you forever and do that thing you like,” Gojo waved his fork. “But I’ll forgive you because I’m a generous fairy like that.”

The plane jolted with turbulence, and Gojo clutched his dessert tray.

“Maybe,” he said, his voice softer now, “she left because we took her for granted.”

Nanami paused, then sighed. “Maybe it’s because you ate her last imported chocolates.”

Gojo gasped, clutching his hoodie. “You swore you’d never bring that up again!”

Nanami drained the rest of his scotch, gesturing to the flight attendant for another. “It was mutiny.”

Gojo teased again. “You know, if we don’t find her, I’m just gonna move into your apartment. I call the big bed.”

Nanami groaned, closing his eyes; Gojo had forced him to sell that apartment ages ago because he was worried Nanami would run away. “Go to sleep, Gojo.”

“You go to sleep,” Gojo retorted, his words slurring as his head lolled from all the sugar.

Hour 4:10 AM

“I’m stress eating,” Gojo declared, stuffing a tiramisu into his mouth. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Nanami glared at him over the rim of his scotch glass; it was his 8th or 18th—who knew anymore. “You’ve eaten everything except the in-flight magazines.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Gojo said, mouthful of frosting.

The flight attendant approached cautiously. “Sir, we’ve run out of desserts. Perhaps—”

Gojo's ripped off his glasses. She jumped. His radioactive eyes seemed to bore into her very soul, like a genetically mutant from the Umbrella Corps lab, struggling to comprehend the mundane world beyond the confines of his oversized hood. “What do you mean, run out? There’s a whole Gojo Clan dessert inventory on this flight!”

She blinked. “Sir, that’s… not meant for passengers. That was a gift, as you declared earlier.”

“Guess what?” He said. “They mine now.” Holding his own desserts hostage.

Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. “I should’ve left you in Tokyo.”

“You couldn’t have,” Gojo said smugly, shoving mousse in his mouth. “I’m the sugar to your bitter.”

Nanami’s reply was drowned out by turbulence, which sent his scotch splashing onto his lap. He sighed, leaning back into his seat. “I should’ve ordered vodka.”

“Don’t blame the scotch for your crotch crisis,” Gojo quipped, taking a swig of Nanami’s drink before he could stop him.

The turbulence worsened, and the cabin lights flickered. Gojo glanced at Nanami, his grin weak. “Do you think this is a sign?”

“A sign of what?” Nanami deadpanned, swirling his next glass of scotch.

“That we’re bad husbands.”

Nanami froze. “You’re just now realizing that?”

Gojo slumped against his seat. “I mean, yeah, but I’m trying. I even brought dessert for her!”

“You are inhaling all the dessert.”

The turbulence jostled them again, and this time, Nanami spilled a bit of his drink on Gojo’s sleeve.

“You know,” Gojo started, wiping at the stain, “if this plane goes down, at least I’ll die with a tummy full of cake and regret.”

“Good,” Nanami muttered. “Because if we survive this flight, I’m leaving you in Norway.”

“You say that, but then show up like Batman when you think I’m in danger,” Gojo smirked, leaning closer.

Nanami didn’t respond. He’d fallen asleep, the glass still in his hand.

Gojo blinked, nudging him lightly. “ Min min ?”

Nanami stirred, mumbling something unintelligible before straightening abruptly. “What did I miss?”

Gojo grinned. “Just turbulence. And the shocking revelation that beneath that muscle mass, you’re really just a big softie who’d probably cry at a frog video.”

Nanami muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “I married the frog.” Gojo smirked, satisfied.

Hour 5:15 AM

Gojo now sat manspreading with a tower of dessert plates now teetering on the tray in front of him. He bit into a chocolate tart with the energy of a man trying to solve world hunger through sheer caloric intake. “You know if we don’t find her, I’m just gonna eat my feelings forever. This is who I am now. The Dessert Man .”

Nanami was now sitting hunched over a plate piled high with an assortment of bread—baguettes, croissants, ciabatta, even a slice of pumpernickel he was aggressively buttering. “You can’t eat your feelings. It’s not sustainable.”

“Says the man eating enough bread to open a bakery,” Gojo waved a forkful of tiramisu at him.

Nanami tore into a white chocolate-stuffed croissant like it owed him a kidney. “Bread is practical. Dessert is diabetes.”

“Bread is boring,” Gojo said. “You’re boring. This is why she left us.”

Nanami's jaw froze mid-bite, lips glistening with garlic butter, his regular human world glasses sliding. "She bailed because you can't keep your mouth shut for five seconds, and you eat like a raccoon on a trash binge—minus the charm and coordination."

Gojo gasped. “How dare you? I dine with the flair of a royal peacock!”

Nanami grabbed a slice of rye and spread a thick layer of cream cheese on it. “I’m starting to think we deserved this.”

“Excuse me,” Gojo snapped, licking frosting off his fingers. “You’re the one who’s supposed to be the stable, boring one. Why are you spiraling?”

Nanami waved a baguette at him like a baton. “Because I’m married to you. That’s reason enough.”

Gojo squinted at him, then burst out laughing, crumbs flying into Nanami’s face. “You love me, Ken Ken. Just admit it.”

Nanami wiped his face but smeared more butter on it. “I love silence more.”

Nanami shoved a Swiss roll in Gojo’s mouth before he could retort, and they continued their loop of stress eating and drinking, only to spontaneously doze off mid-bites. The silence was punctuated by the occasional jolt of turbulence that sent them both jolting awake, looking like startled deer.

Hour 7:05 AM

Gojo slurred, about to go into a sugar-induced coma. “ Nono.” He tried to get Nanami’s attention by nudging him but used too much force and ended up pushing him into the window. “Do you...” Hiccup . “Do you think… do you think she’s cold? Like, colder than me?”

Nanami sipped his Flamingo Fizz—the same drink he’d mocked Gojo for years ago, now guzzled from a bottle he’d bullied the flight attendant into making. His face was a strange mix of tipsy philosopher and bread-obsessed gremlin. “You’re not cold,” he muttered, voice rasping like a tired kazoo. “You’re… a heat urchin.” Yes, that was definitely the word.

Gojo squinted at him, tilting his head like a confused puppy.

Gojo’s fork clattered to the floor. He leaned down to grab it, only to lose his balance and end up sprawled across the carpet. “HELP. MAN DOWN.”

Nanami continued sipping. “No.”

“Some husband you are,” Gojo grumbled, hauling himself back into his seat. “Do you think she’s laughing at us right now? Like, somewhere out there, she’s probably sitting by a fire, drinking tea, and laughing because we’re a mess.”

Nanami took a contemplative bite of sourdough. “We are a mess,” he said finally. “But we’re her mess.”

Gojo nodded sagely, his head bobbing as his eyes started to droop. “Yeah… her mess…” His voice trailed off as he slumped forward, face landing squarely in a half-eaten pie.

Nanami stared at him, unimpressed, before his own head began to droop. “We’ll… we’ll find her…” he mumbled, falling asleep mid-sentence with a Vienna bread still clutched in his hand.

A flight attendant sighed from the galley, his arms crossed. “Do they ever act normal?”

His coworker, balancing a tray of more desserts, snorted. “Normal? These two? One’s eaten 75% of the dessert inventory, and the other’s chugging alcohol like it’s a juice box. I walked in earlier, and the white-haired one was trying to shotgun a whole party cake.”

“And the bread guy?”

“Won’t stop asking for ‘just one more roll.’ I swear he’s got a bread tower going over there.”

The first attendant peeked out from behind the curtain, eyebrows shooting up at the sight of Nanami’s precariously balanced bread pyramid. “Oh my god. Is he using butter and cheese as glue?”

The plane jolted again, and Gojo startled awake, lifting his head from the pie with frosting smeared across his face. “TURBULENCE. WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!”

Nanami jerked awake. “Where’s the fire?” he mumbled, blinking blearily.

The attendants sighed.

Gojo leaned over to Nanami, his voice conspiratorial. “Do you think they’re judging us?”

“They’re absolutely judging us,” Nanami replied, grabbing another slice of Pane di Altamura and slathering it with butter.

Gojo sighed, grabbing another pudding. “Whatever. At least we’re rich.”

The two clinked their glass and bottle—Nanami’s now filled with an experimental cocktail of pink flamingo and butter. The plane hit another patch of turbulence, and they both tipped sideways, slurring incoherent nonsense as they fell back asleep mid-toast.

When the plane hit another bump, it was a sight to behold: Gojo was snoring with his face buried in Nanami’s armpit above his hoodie while Nanami was sliding off the seat in his sleep.

Hour—Sometime Closer to Landing

"Do you think we should stop them?" one attendant asked, glancing out to see Nanami trying—and failing—to balance his entire drink tray on his head while simultaneously attempting to perform a kickflip in his seat. Gojo, in his infinite wisdom, had decided the best way to contribute to the moment was to start an impromptu squillo routine, swinging his hands around in wide arcs.

Hour—Sometime even more closer to landing

Gojo, now completely oblivious to the fact that he had frosting lodged in his hair and across his face, had his one leg draped over a dessert tray like a cat who had just been fed his weight in treats. He was stuffing his mouth with the same grace as a baby who needed to be fed by telling it, ‘ Here comes the chu-chu train .’

I still don’t get it,” Gojo muttered between bites. “She just... left. No fight. No warning. Just poof! Abracadabra! Bam! Disappeared like a fart in the wind. Not very demure.” Burp . “Is it because I’m too much? We were good , right? Like, we were normal before, I swear. I mean, I’m the best, right? You'd agree. She just... couldn’t handle the heat, Nanami. It was too hot for her.”

The smell of butter and booze mingled in the air around Nanami like some cursed scent. He squinted at Gojo like he was analyzing the deep mysteries of the universe. "She didn’t leave because we were bad... She left because... because she had to escape the heat . You’re like a…” He paused, trying to understand the magnitude of his own wisdom. “You know... one of those little things that explode if you get too close.”

Gojo blinked, his head tilting back as if he was hearing the meaning of life. “Yeah. I’m explosive and damn hot.”

Nanami sighed. "I'm cold." He tore another chunk of bread. "And. Calculated. I don't break."

Gojo waved his dessert-sticky hands around like a windmill. "Calculated, my ass! You can't even calculate the right amount of butter on your bread! It’s obscene!"

An attendant peeked through the crack in the curtain. “I swear to God, five minutes ago one of them was chugging straight from the chocolate fountain.”

Nanami suddenly snapped to attention from his dozing off. “You think you’re better than me, huh?”

Gojo paused. “Better than you?” He was so full of smugness it could rival his domain. "Please. Wanna fight?”

At that precise moment, Gojo’s fingers twitched—almost involuntarily—as if something had triggered an electric shock in his brain. “Too late!” He snapped his fingers, and a flurry of tiramisu and macarons levitated into the air. He started to fall back asleep mid-fight.

“Don’t do it, Gojo," Nanami grumbled, his cursed energy shifting as his technique began to hum to life. The very air around him seemed to shimmer.

Gojo suddenly woke up with a snort. “Wait! Nanami, don’t—DON’T use that technique!”

But it was too late. Nanami, with the precision of a drunk surgeon, unleashed his Domain Expansion. The golden grid of perfect symmetry expanded around them, snapping with the weight of its own force. Gojo’s whiskey glass rattled against the table, the precise balance of the universe shifting under Nanami’s power.

Gojo’s eyes sparkled in drunken delight. “Nice try, buddy,” he slurred, twisting his fingers. “But I’m Infinity-ing your fractured space.”

Reality itself seemed to bend as Gojo’s domain erupted. Nanami’s grid of perfect balance twisted like a rubber band as the two domains collided—whiskey, pastries, and bread flying through the entire cabin.

The flight attendants sighed, having worked for the Gojo clan; they were used to it.

It was a miracle the two men were only unleashing their domains in low volume because one had decided it would ‘ scorch the bread.’

The jet hit another bump, sending the two sorcerers toppling sideways. Nanami slid off his seat, clutching his bottle of Flamingo Fizz, his last connection to sanity.

Gojo, however, had less dignity—he landed face-first in Nanami’s ass. That was the moment Gojo decided to blow raspberries in the curve.

Nanami crawled away in disgust, scowling.

Hidden behind the curtain, one flight attendant whispered, “This is why I drink.”

“I’m switching careers,” the other deadpanned, ducking as a baguette flew past.

“Take me with you,” the other replied, watching Gojo snore, holding Nanami’s leg like a dog that won’t leave you alone.

The other rolled her eyes. “I don’t even care anymore. Let them wreck the plane. It’s probably still safer than their relationship.”

Hour—God knows when, time had lost all meaning.

The plane jolted, sending a plate of half-eaten sweet bread skittering across the tray table. Gojo snatched it mid-slide with the reflexes of a man who valued carbs more than common sense.

“She used to help us get along nicely. You know,” he said, “now I think food is the only thing holding our marriage together.”

Nanami didn’t even look up. “Yes, you are insufferable.”

Gojo gasped, clutching his hoodie. “How dare you? I’m the heart of this marriage!” He stood. “Without me, it’s just... silence.”

“Which is exactly what I want,” Nanami muttered, tearing into a Bâtard.

The plane jolted, sending Gojo sprawling onto Nanami’s bread tower. “Help me, Husbando!” Gojo yelled, his face buried in baguettes.

Nanami stared at him, unimpressed. “Get off my bread.”

“Never,” Gojo mumbled, making himself comfortable.

Nanami grabbed a croissant and lobbed it at Gojo’s head. Gojo’s Infinity shimmered faintly, stopping the pastry midair. He plucked it out of the air, looking scandalized. “Did you just throw bread at me?”

“You deserved it,” Nanami took a slow sip.

Gojo looked genuinely offended. “This is assault. I’m calling an adult.”

“You are an adult,” Nanami deadpanned.

“Exactly!” Gojo threw the croissant back, but it was cut down by Nanami’s ratio blades without him even moving a finger.

Meanwhile, in the galley, the flight attendants huddled near the coffee machine, whispering.

“Fifty bucks says the blond one passes out first,” one said.

“No way. The white-haired one’s been on a sugar binge since he got on. He’s going down any minute,” another replied, scribbling names on a napkin.

“What if they both pass out at the same time?”

“Then we split the pot.”

Their quiet betting was interrupted by Gojo’s yelling from the cabin. “I’ve secured the snacks. Nanami, don’t touch them unless you want to face my void!”

“After I gave you my cinnamon roll?” Nanami looked heartbroken, making Gojo immediately hold him close.

The flight attendants stared, slack-jawed, as a tray of éclairs hovered ominously above the men’s heads.

“I quit,” one of them muttered, turning toward the coffee machine.

“Is it too late to call in sick?” one whispered, watching Gojo suddenly serenade Nanami.

The other shrugged. “After this flight, I’m switching to cargo planes. No snacks, no drama.”

Soon both men were passed out—Gojo with his face sideways in another bowl of mochi ice cream, Nanami clutching a half-eaten yakisoba pan like a teddy bear, half his face covered with his hoodie—two special-grade sorcerers, completely obliterated by their own no-thoughts-smooth-brain-moment , battling the forces of reality itself over petty arguments and a missing wife.

Hour—Landing

The private jet rolled to a smooth stop on the Oslo runway. Both men were in deep sleep, but their cursed techniques were very much awake—and making life difficult for everyone else.

“Why are we even trying?” one of the male flight attendants muttered, eyeing the flickering crackle of Gojo’s Infinity with trepidation. The other gestured at Nanami, whose Ratio Blades hovered ominously near his hands, ready to slice anything that got too close.

The pilot shook his head. “I’m not touching that. Send the women.”

“What?!” the female flight attendants chorused, glaring at their male colleagues, who were now firmly rooted behind the safety of the galley door.

“Just... poke them gently,” one of the men offered.

“Poke them? With what? A ten-foot pole?”

Eventually, after a heated debate, one brave flight attendant inched toward the slumbering sorcerers with a dessert fork in hand. She extended it toward Gojo like a knight wielding a sword. “Sir?” she ventured cautiously, tapping his shoulder.

Gojo’s Infinity flared, sending a startling ripple of energy through the air. “Not the desserts!” he stirred, still asleep, drooling over Nanami’s stomach.

The attendant stumbled back, glancing desperately at her colleagues. He was plain untouchable—so unwakeable by default.

Nanami's hand clutched Gojo’s head closer like it was his phantom pregnant belly. “Ahh, bread,” he muttered with a sleepy smile.

The attendant then aimed her fork towards him with misplaced courage and dared to tap his arm.

The fork never made it.

Ten centimeters from his skin, it disintegrated into metallic confetti as Ratio Blades snapped into existence, their glowing edges then stretched further, humming ominously like murder was their sole purpose in life. The attendant squeaked, leaping back as if she’d narrowly escaped being diced into human sashimi.

“Forget it,” she hissed. “We’re calling ground security.”

Before anyone could escalate, one attendant clapped her hands loudly. “Gentlemen, we’ve landed, and there’s fresh bread waiting outside!”

Nanami’s eyes snapped open immediately. “Bread?”

Gojo stirred, wiping drool from his mouth. “Is it sweet bread?”

The attendants exchanged relieved looks as the men groaned, stretched, and finally shuffled off the plane.

The drive to Nanami’s grandmother’s house was quiet, save for Gojo humming and fiddling with the car’s radio. Nanami stared out the window, mentally bracing himself.

Nanami didn’t want to do this. Not because he was afraid of his grandmother’s cousin—a retired army woman with an intimidating poker face and a propensity for offering unsolicited life advice—but because he knew bringing Gojo anywhere was like handing a toddler a live grenade.

They arrived at a modest but sturdy home surrounded by a well-kept garden. Before Nanami could knock, the door swung open.

“Kento?” The woman standing in the doorway was tall and broad-shouldered, her silver hair tied back into a no-nonsense bun. She looked them over, her sharp blue eyes narrowing slightly. “And who is this... tall man?”

Gojo offered a hand, leaning into her personal space like a golden retriever. “I’m Gojo Satoru! The better-looking husband.”

She ignored the hand, crossing her arms. “Husband?” Her gaze shifted to Nanami. “And you didn’t think to warn me about this?”

Gojo grinned wider. “Oh, didn’t Kento tell you? He’s married to me and someone else. Polyamory is very in right now.”

The woman stared at Nanami like he’d just announced he was defecting to Mars. “I didn’t even know you were married, let alone to two people.”

Nanami sighed. “It’s complicated.”

“I’m sure it is,” she said, stepping aside to let them in.

The interior of the house was as orderly as the woman herself. Gojo immediately flopped onto the couch, his long legs sprawled out.

“Shoes off,” she barked.

Gojo froze, then scrambled to comply, grinning sheepishly. “Yes, ma’am.”

Nanami stood stiffly by the door, unsure where to begin. “We’re here to look for our wife.”

“Your wife?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Nanami nodded, ignoring Gojo’s delighted “Yes.”

The older woman’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something—amusement? Annoyance? “You can stay here.”

Gojo’s grin widened. “Thanks, Grandma! You’re the best.”

“I’m not your grandmother,” she replied curtly, already walking toward the kitchen.

Gojo leaned toward Nanami, whispering loudly, “She likes me. I can tell.”

Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please behave.”

“Define ‘behave,’” Gojo said, kicking off his socks and reclining on the couch.

From the kitchen, her voice rang out. “If he puts his feet on my furniture, I’ll break them.”

Gojo immediately sat up. “Point taken.”

Once she was pouring tea for them, Gojo asked. “So, when Kento was little, did he always have that stick-up-his-butt attitude, or was it a recent development?”

Nanami’s grip on his teacup tightened dangerously. “Satoru!” For the first time he was less worried about Gojo and more worried about what his grandmother would say.

“Oh, he used to be sunshine,” the woman said, her voice dry. “Good in studies and arts. Not many friends, but was still cheerful. Developed discipline when he became a teenager.” She said the last part eyeing Gojo.

“Called it,” Gojo said smugly.

“Though I didn’t expect him to marry someone so… loud.”

Nanami sighed heavily. “We’re not here for this. We’re here to look for our wife.”

“You’ve mentioned misplacing your other spouse,” the woman said, her tone sharp.

Nanami sighed. “She’s not misplaced. We’re searching for her.”

Gojo perked up, leaning forward. “She’s smart, kind, gorgeous—like me.”

The woman looked at Gojo, her expression unreadable. “Good for her, but if she’s avoiding you, I can’t say I blame her.”

Later that night, Nanami stood outside, the cold Norwegian air biting at his skin. He stared out at the dark forest beyond the house, his jaw tight.

Gojo had followed Nanami, hands stuffed in his pockets. “You think she’s okay?”

Nanami’s chest ached with guilt and heavy regret. “I don’t know. But we’ll find her.”

Gojo’s voice was bittersweet. “Yeah. We will.”

Then, because Gojo couldn’t leave a moment untouched, he added, “And when we do, she’s going to yell at you first. You know that, right?”

Nanami sighed, but the faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips. “I’ll take it.”

You had thanked Higuruma for showing up when he did; he had always been a great mentor to you during your time at university. You lost contact with him after he completed his master's and left to go back to Japan while you were just starting your second year. It wasn’t until you moved to Japan and added him to your company’s retainer that you reconnected. It was an added bonus that he was now a jujutsu sorcerer, which had come in handy for you at the perfect moment. Haibara had held them off nicely. He was ex-MI6 and had been introduced to you by Megumi’s father a long time ago.

But the second time, it was worse.

You spotted him first—Nanami, tall, composed, his eyes scanning the crowd like he was searching for something he knew he had lost. Your heart stopped; a cold shiver ran down your spine.

You ducked into an alley, clutching your coat tightly around your stomach. The pain was an immediate, sharp throb that made your breath hitch. The twins were active now. The feeling of their movements inside you, sharp, like claws raking at your insides, as if they were fighting to escape.

You pressed your hand into the wall of the alley, trying to steady your breath. Your other fingers dug into your coat, but it didn’t help. The air felt suffocating. You couldn’t stop shaking. You couldn’t stop thinking about them, about him.

You slipped past the alley into side streets, desperately trying to lose him. The pain inside you was unbearable—each movement, each step, felt like it might tear you apart. But you couldn’t stop. You had to get away.

You could feel him getting closer. He was a shadow that clung to your every move, like he was always just a breath away from finding you. And the worst part was, you knew he would. Eventually, they would find you.

Too bad you couldn’t get the same security team you had hired for your company because they did not specialize in the world's literal strongest sorcerers, or so you had always thought. You had only been able to dominate that fight because they were not using their cursed techniques; if they had, no one would have stood a chance against the both of them.

Besides, the security detail would draw too much attention in this country, and you were living without any form of bare minimum luxury just to keep your head low.

Then the third time, you weren’t so lucky.

It was an evening when the sense of unease crept up on you. You were walking to the pharmacy because your pregnancy pain made you run out of medicines fast. You were trying to blend into the crowd of Tromsø, Norway, hoping that today would be different. Maybe you could make it through without feeling like you were being hunted.

But the air shifted, like a subtle warning. Your hand instinctively went to your stomach, feeling the familiar pressure of the twins inside you, their presence both comforting and terrifying.

You looked around. Nothing. The street was crowded, the world moving too fast for anyone to notice you. Yet, something wasn’t right.

And then you saw him.

Gojo.

He was lounging at a café near the entrance of the store, looking completely at ease, as if he hadn’t been searching for you for months. His long legs stretched out under the table, his sunglasses glinting in the aurora borealis high in the sky. He wasn’t looking at anyone in particular—until his gaze locked onto you.

You froze.

It wasn’t a simple glance. He saw you even though you were covered in an absurdly oversized coat, beanie and mask. His eyes were trained on you. You could feel the weight of his gaze like a sniper locking in.

“Sweetheart,” he mouthed from the distance, his features smooth, taunting, and way too familiar.

His grin was there, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Those eyes, even behind the tinted lenses, felt like they were cutting through you, dissecting you. It was the same grin he used to give you when he thought he had you cornered, when he was in control. And now, he was. He knew it, and he wanted to enjoy it.

The cold, calculating way he said it—like he’d been waiting for this moment, like he had all the time in the world—it made your stomach turn. You could feel the weight of the moment, the slow burn of realization creeping over you. He had found you.

You had been momentarily frozen, but you didn’t wait. You didn’t hesitate. The second he stood up, you turned and ran.

Your heart was pounding in your chest as your feet pounded the pavement, but no matter how fast you moved, the fear gnawed at you, making your limbs feel like lead. The city blurred around you, a dizzying whirl of colors and sounds, but you could still feel his presence—close, like a shadow following you, getting nearer with every step.

“Sweetheart!” His voice rang out again, a command, not a plea.

You could hear the faintest trace of amusement in his tone, but underneath it, there was something darker. It was as if he was enjoying this chase, enjoying the fear he was instilling in you.

You ran faster, but the air around you felt suffocating. It was like the world was shrinking, like every step you took was pulling you closer to him, not further away. Your breath came in sharp gasps, and you could feel the twins inside you, their frantic movements mirroring your panic. It was almost like they could sense the danger too.

You pushed yourself harder, but it was no use. You knew it.

Gojo wasn’t just a man; he was a god, something you couldn’t outrun.

His laughter reached you, soft but dangerous, and you could almost hear the smugness in his voice. He wasn’t out of breath. He wasn’t struggling.

You were.

“I told you,” he yelled, his voice smooth like velvet but laced with something more sinister. “You can’t hide from me.”

And you realized then—he was toying with you. He knew you couldn’t escape. He knew that you were trapped in this game, and no matter how fast you ran, he would always be one step behind, waiting for you to make the wrong move.

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t. But deep down, you knew the truth.

He would catch you.

Just then, salvation appeared in the most unexpected form.

A group of loud, drunk college girls stumbled onto the road from a bar, their laughter echoing like a wall of sound. They moved in a chaotic huddle, arms slung around each other, bottles in hand, their energy radiating like static electricity.

You squeezed yourself between them, moving further into their huddle, trying to hide your face more so that no one would recognize you. Little did you know the girls had noticed you already and made a decision.

Gojo, in his desperation to catch up, didn’t notice them until it was too late.

“Move,” he snapped, his usual charm stripped away by the urgency in his voice. He sidestepped the first girl, but then another turned, and before he could react, the entire group swarmed him like a pack of wolves. A few of them, oddly enough, taller than Gojo.

“Hva gjør du?” One of them slurred, narrowing her eyes at him. (“What are you doing?”)

“Er han etter noen?” another asked, her tone suspicious. (“Is he after someone?”)

Gojo blinked, caught off guard by the unfamiliar language. “What?” he barked, his gaze darting over their heads, desperately trying to catch sight of you.

The tallest girl leaned closer, her face flushed from alcohol, and pointed an accusatory finger at him. “Hvem jager du, hæ?” (“Who are you chasing, huh?”)

“I don’t know what you’re saying!” Gojo snapped, frustration lacing his tone. “I don’t speak—whatever that is!”

They giggled, but it wasn’t friendly. It was mocking, deliberately dragging out the moment, their chatter growing louder, each word a dagger aimed at his composure. They knew he wasn’t local when they had known English; they just wanted to piss him off.

“Han ser ut som en stalker!” (“He looks like a stalker!”)

Gojo’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists. He knew what the word stalker meant, a bitter accusation that stung more than he cared to admit. He was not a stalker; he was a protector, and he would do whatever it took to find you.

He glanced over their heads again, scanning for you, but you were gone. His heart raced, a mixture of panic and anger bubbling under his skin. “Move,” he growled, his easygoing demeanor cracking under the weight of his mounting frustration.

“Hva om vi ikke vil?” One of them said, crossing her muscular arms defiantly. (“What if we don’t want to?”) The challenge in her voice only fueled his irritation.

“You think this is a game?” His voice low and dangerous. “I’m not here to play nice. I’m looking for someone, and you’re in my way.”

The girls exchanged glances, their laughter fading slightly, but the defiance remained. Gojo could feel the tension in the air, thick and charged, as he fought to keep his composure.

Meanwhile, you had ducked into an alley; you needed to catch your breath. The twins restless movements inside you a reminder of why you couldn’t afford to stop.

“Here,” a voice said, startling you.

You turned to see one of the girls from the group—her hair a mess of blonde waves, her cheeks rosy from the cold and alcohol. She held out a large overcoat and a knitted muffler, her expression soft and kind.

“You need to go,” she said, her English heavily accented but clear enough. “Take this.”

You hesitated, your lips parting to protest, but she shook her head firmly and draped the coat over your shoulders. The weight of it was grounding, the warmth immediate.

“Thank you,” you whispered, tears stinging your eyes as you wrapped the muffler around your neck.

She smiled, her hand briefly brushing your arm. “Gå nå,” she urged, her voice gentle but insistent. (“Go now.”)

You nodded and slipped into the shadows, blending into the cityscape. You had never been more grateful for a stranger in your entire life.

“Let me go!” Gojo snapped, his voice cutting through the drunken laughter. His white hair messy, and his cool demeanor shattered. The girls only tightened their circle around him, their grins turning feral.

“Why are you chasing her?” One of them asked, her voice sharp and accusatory.

“I’m not—” Gojo started, surprised by their sudden English, but another cut him off, stepping forward. She was taller than him by at least a few inches even in her flip-flops, her gaze unflinching.

“She looked scared of you,” she spat, jabbing a finger in his face. “What kind of man chases a woman through the streets?”

“She’s my wife!” Gojo exclaimed, his hands raised in exasperation.

“Your wife?” another girl sneered, her eyebrows shooting up. “Sure, buddy. And I’m the queen of Norway.”

“Look, I’m serious!” He barked, trying to step around them, but one of the girls—easily as tall as him and broad-shouldered—blocked his path. “I need to find her.”

“Yeah, so you can terrify her more?” One of them yelled.

“She’s gravid, you creep!” another girl chimed in, her tone venomous. (“Pregnant”)

The tallest girl, clearly their ringleader, crossed her arms and smirked. “You know what? I think you’re a stalker. And I think someone needs to teach you a lesson.”

Before Gojo could register anything they were saying in their heavy accent, she lunged at him, throwing a sloppy but surprisingly powerful punch. He ducked, but another girl was already swinging a kick at him.

“What the hell?!” Gojo yelped, sidestepping her attack.

Nanami had been searching the area, his tie loose under his heavy overcoat and his patience wearing thin, when he heard the commotion. Turning a corner, he froze at the sight of Gojo fucking Satoru fending off a mob of angry, drunk women.

“I left him alone for five minutes.” He muttered under his breath, rubbing his temple. He moved closer, trying to make sense.

One of the girls, towering over even Nanami, had Gojo in a headlock while another was shouting, “Call the cops! He’s clearly unhinged!”

Gojo was really trying not to use his infinity and crush them, but that would draw too much attention, and they had already messed up big time with the fiasco at their wife’s company.

“Excuse me,” Nanami said, his voice calm but firm.

The ringleader turned to him, sizing him up with a skeptical look. “And who are you? Another stalker?”

“I’m his… umm… husband,” Nanami replied, adjusting his glasses. “We’re looking for someone important to us.”

“Oh, so it’s we now?” another girl sneered, stepping closer.

“She’s our wife,” Gojo groaned, his voice muffled as he struggled to free himself from the headlock.

The girls laughed, a mix of disbelief and derision.

“Both your wife?” One of them repeated, clutching her stomach. “What kind of messed-up polygamy cult is this?”

“She’s gravid!” another girl shouted, her face twisted with fury. “You’re chasing a gravid woman?” (“Pregnant”)

With Nanami’s Norwegian being rusty, neither of the men understood why you were being referred to by a man’s name.

“She ran away from us!” Gojo snapped, finally breaking free.

“Gee, I wonder why.” One of the taller girls quipped, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

From your house's window, a few blocks away, you watched the scene unfold. The muffler around your neck felt like a lifeline as you saw the two men you once loved now completely at the mercy of a group of MMA-trained sorority girls.

And for the first time in weeks, you smiled—a small, vindictive smile.

“Enough!” Gojo shouted. “She’s our wife. We’re not trying to hurt her; we’re trying to bring her back!”

The ringleader narrowed her eyes. “And you thought chasing her through the streets was the way to do it?”

“I wasn’t thinking, okay?” Gojo admitted, his voice breaking with frustration.

Nanami stepped forward, his expression weary but sincere. “She’s not safe on her own. We’re trying to protect her.”

“Yeah, sure,” One of the girls muttered, rolling her eyes.

“I’m calling the cops,” the tallest one announced, pulling out her phone.

“What? No, don’t—” Gojo started, but it was too late.

A few hours later, Gojo and Nanami sat in a cramped holding cell, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Gojo’s sunglasses were gone, his hair a mess, and his shirt torn at the collar. Nanami looked equally disheveled, his tie missing, his shirt wrinkled.

“This is your fault,” Nanami muttered, glaring at Gojo.

“My fault?” Gojo shot back. “You didn’t exactly help!”

Outside the cell, the girls were giving their statements to the police, their laughter echoing down the hallway.

“Polygamy,” one of them snorted. “Can you believe that? At least come up with a smarter lie.”

Gojo buried his face in his hands. “This is the worst day of my life.”

Nanami sighed, leaning back against the cold wall. “No, this is what we deserve.”

Around 45 mins later, the clanging of footsteps echoed down the hallway. Both men looked up as the officer unlocked the door, and in stepped Nanami’s grandmother, her sharp gaze cutting through.

She said nothing at first, her presence alone making both men sit up straighter.

“Out,” she ordered, her voice low and cold.

Gojo stood, his grin faltering under her glare. “Hi, Grandma. Long time no see—”

“Not. A. Word,” she snapped, and Gojo immediately closed his mouth, hands raised in surrender.

Nanami followed silently, the weight of impending doom heavier than any cursed spirit he’d ever faced.

The walk from the station to Nanami’s grandmother’s house was silent, save for the faint crunch of gravel beneath their feet. Gojo glanced sideways at Nanami, but his husband’s face was unreadable, a stoic mask that gave nothing away.

“Inside,” she said, opening the door. No pleasantries.

Gojo hesitated for half a second, then followed Nanami inside, his grin faltering under the weight of her gaze.

The house smelled of wood polish and faintly of coffee. The warmth of it didn’t extend to her tone as she turned sharply. “You,” she barked, pointing at Gojo. “Stay here.”

Gojo blinked, glancing at Nanami like a scolded puppy. “But—”

“Stay.” Her voice left no room for argument.

Nanami gave Gojo a small nod, his expression unreadable, before following her into the kitchen.

“Kento,” she started, her voice cutting through like a whip, “what were you thinking?”

Nanami stood straight. “Grandmother—”

“Marrying him?” She interrupted, her tone scathing. “You, used to say it yourself that man has no discipline. No restraint. He dragged you into jail, Kento. Jail. And that’s not even the worst of it.”

Nanami’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

Her eyes narrowed, her voice lowering. “Do you know how humiliating this is? For you? For me? For your wife?”

Nanami stiffened, his gaze flickering.

“Yes,” she said, catching the subtle shift. “The one you abandoned for him.”

“That’s not—”

“Don’t lie to me,” she snapped, her voice harsh. “You ignored her for months, Kento. Both of you. And now she’s gone, and you’re chasing her like fools, destroying her reputation along the way. That mess in Tokyo? Her company? You think the internet hasn’t noticed?”

Nanami flinched as though her words had struck him physically.

“You didn’t tell me a thing,” she continued, her tone unrelenting. “About the chaos you and that man-child caused. Do you know what they’re calling her online? A failure. A joke. Because of you both.”

Nanami’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “That’s enough.”

She stepped closer, her eyes boring into his. “No, it’s not. That woman deserves better. Better than him. Better than this.”

Outside the kitchen, Gojo leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Her words filtered through the door, each one landing like a punch to the gut. His eyes hollow.

“I will not tolerate you defending him,” she continued, her voice sharp and unyielding. “He is reckless, selfish, and the reason you’re in this mess. Divorce him, Kento. Fix this. Settle with her. At least she might forgive you.”

Nanami’s voice was low, but firm. “You don’t know her. And you don’t know him.”

Her gaze hardened. “I know enough.”

Nanami stepped out of the kitchen, his movements stiff. He didn’t look at Gojo, didn’t say a word, just grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward the door. He knew Gojo would have been hovering.

“Wait, Kento—” Gojo started, but Nanami’s grip tightened.

She followed them to the doorway, her expression a mask of cold disapproval. “You’ll regret this,” she said quietly, her voice carrying the weight of certainty.

Gojo looked at her, his usual bravado flickering back to life, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thanks for the pep talk, Grandma.”

Her glare was icy. “Don’t call me that.”

“Noted,” he replied, forcing a smirk as he leaned closer to Nanami.

Nanami’s hand tightened around Gojo’s wrist, his steps brisk as he led them out into the cold night.

Gojo finally broke the silence. “She hates me.”

Nanami didn’t stop walking. “She doesn’t know you.”

Gojo chuckled, but it was bitter, lacking his usual warmth. “Maybe she’s right.”

Nanami slowed, his grip loosening slightly. “About what?”

Gojo hesitated, then shrugged. “About me being the reason for... everything.”

Nanami stopped, turning to face him. “It’s not just you. I’m too.”

Gojo searched his face, but Nanami’s expression was unreadable.

“Both of us messed up,” Nanami repeated, his voice quieter this time.

Gojo walked in silence after that, the distance between them feeling heavier than ever.

You couldn’t stay here anymore; you had to leave Norway if your kids were ever going to have a chance at life. Which led you to where you were right now.

The outside airport entrance, a cacophony of announcements, rolling suitcases, and hurried footsteps. You moved through it like a ghost, your oversized coat and scarf hiding the strain on your body. Every step felt like wading through water, your legs trembling under the unfamiliar weight of your own frame.

The twins shifted inside you, their restless movements like something alive and alien, pushing against your ribs, twisting your insides. You could feel it in your bones, in the way your skin stretched too tightly, in the way your breath came shallow and ragged.

You pressed a hand to your belly, trying to steady yourself, but it only made the unease worse.

“Just a little further,” you whispered to yourself, the words barely audible over the din of the airport.

But then you saw him. One of the only few people who used to come to drop your husbands off after missions.

Ijichi stood near the security checkpoint, his nervous energy unmistakable even from a distance. He wasn’t alone. Men in crisp suits hovered around the airport, their sharp eyes scanning the crowd.

Your heart sank.

You turned sharply, pulling your hood tighter, ducked your head and walked faster, weaving through the crowd. The pressure in your abdomen tightened, the twins reacting to your rising panic.

By the time you reached the cab stop, you were gasping for air, your body rebelling against the strain. The cold Norwegian air hit your face like a slap, but it did nothing to cool the heat crawling up your spine.

They were everywhere. The Gojo Clan had blanketed the airports—and probably train stations and highways too—like a net, waiting to trap you the moment you made a wrong move.

You didn’t have a chance.

You sighed and got into a cab to head back to your apartment. You’d just stay inside and never go out, getting everything ordered.

Your legs ached, your swollen feet screaming. The twins kicked and twisted, their movements erratic and relentless, like they were fighting each other for space.

Your scarf slipped, and you tugged it back up, the fabric rough against your flushed skin. Every breath felt heavier, your chest tight, your throat dry.

By the time you reached your apartment, you were shaking. You fumbled with the keys, your fingers numb, and stumbled inside. The door closed behind you with a hollow thud.

You dropped your bag and leaned against the wall, sliding down with the support of the shoe rack, until you were sitting on the floor. Your hands pressed against your belly, trying to soothe the inside, but it was futile.

The twins kicked harder, the sharp jabs making you wince. Your stomach felt too full, too stretched, the weight of them pressing down on everything. You could barely breathe, barely think.

You tilted your head back against the wall, tears slipping down your cheeks as the hopelessness settled in. You couldn’t leave. You couldn’t stay. You were trapped, caught between them and the growing horror of your own body.

The scarf around your neck felt suffocating, and you yanked it off, tossing it aside. The cool air hit your damp skin, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped.

You closed your eyes, one hand gripping the edge of your coat, the other clutching your belly as if you could somehow hold yourself together.

But the weight of it all—the twins, the chase, the impossible love you’d tried to escape—was crushing.

And there was no way out.

You slept on the floor that night, surrounded by nothing but loneliness.

You thought you had outrun them, that you had hidden well enough. But as the days passed, you couldn’t shake the feeling that they were getting closer. Each moment, each shadow in the corner of your eye, sent a spike of panic through your chest. Every time you thought you were alone, you wondered if they had found you. You kept your head down, kept yourself locked inside, but there was no escaping them.

One afternoon, it started with the sound of footsteps in the hallway outside your apartment. Quick, sharp taps against the floor—too measured, too familiar. You froze, clutching the edge of the counter, trying to steady yourself. The babies shifted violently inside you, as if they could sense the danger. Your stomach tightened, and you gasped, forcing yourself to remain still as you clutched your belly beneath your nightgown, one of the few garments that still fit you these days. You held your breath, praying that they wouldn’t notice you.

The doorbell rang. Once. Twice.

You didn’t move. Not a muscle. You couldn’t.

“I know you’re in there,” came a voice, rough and low, almost like a growl. You felt your pulse quicken.

Nanami.

Your neighbor had changed the locks, you’d moved the furniture around, and kept yourself out of sight as much as possible. But there he was, on the other side of the door. You could hear the quiet crack of his knuckles, the tension in the air as he stood there, waiting. He was here.

“I’m not leaving until I know you’re okay,” he called out, the words heavy with guilt but laced with something darker. You could almost hear the frustration in his voice, the desperation. He wasn’t going to give up.

Your breath caught in your throat, and for a moment, the pain in your stomach flared. You squeezed your eyes shut, clutching your stomach as the babies twisted and churned, their movements becoming erratic, like they were responding to the stress, the pressure.

You had to leave. Now.

But before you could even think about making a move, you heard it—the unmistakable sound of glass shattering. The window.

Gojo.

You cursed under your breath. The bastard was here too.

A faint laugh echoed from outside the window—a sick, mocking sound that sent a chill racing down your spine. “You can’t hide forever, sweetheart.”

He laughed as if everything you had endured was nothing, as if you were merely pretending to fight with him and your act was over because he said so. It was as if your feelings and experiences were nothing more than a ploy for attention. The absurdity of it gave you whiplash, igniting a fury that boiled within you.

The window creaked as he slid it open. Your stomach lurched, and you felt the overwhelming urge to curl into yourself, to disappear. But you couldn’t. You wouldn’t. Not again.

“Shh, they won’t hurt you,” you whispered to the babies, trying to soothe them, but your voice trembled with the fear you couldn’t contain. “Just stay calm. Mama will protect you.”

You gripped the edge of the open kitchen counter, the marble biting into your skin, as you forced yourself to breathe through the pain. The babies pushing at the walls of your body like they were trying to escape, trying to break free. The pressure was too much.

Gojo’s voice was too close now. He was inside the apartment. You could hear his footsteps, feel the air shift as he moved around the space, searching for you.

You scrambled back, desperately searching for a place to hide, but there was nowhere left. The apartment felt too small, too suffocating, as if the walls were closing in on you. You pressed yourself against the wall, trying to make yourself as small as possible, your heart hammering in your chest, each beat echoing the fear coursing through your veins.

With no other option, you forced yourself into the empty cabinet beneath the counter. Crouching down was a nightmare in your current state, your body heavy with the weight of the twins growing inside you. The pressure on your abdomen intensified, and you could feel the babies shifting restlessly; they sensed the danger surrounding you. You took a deep breath, trying to calm the rising panic, but it was difficult.

You shoved the scarf you were wearing into your mouth to muffle any sounds, knowing that you had to stay quiet. The fabric felt suffocating against your ragged breaths, but it was a small price to pay for their safety. You could feel the tightness in your stomach, a reminder of the distress both you and the babies were experiencing. Every movement sent a jolt of anxiety through you, and you fought to keep your breathing steady, focusing on the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest.

You whispered soft reassurances to the twins, hoping they could feel your determination. “I’m here, and I’m fighting for you,” you murmured, even as your heart raced with fear. You could feel their little bodies moving, responding to your voice, and it gave you a flicker of strength. You were scared, yes, but you were also their protector, and you would do everything in your power to keep them safe.

As you crouched in the cramped space and closed the door, the world outside felt distant. You were surrounded by sheer darkness now. The fear was suffocating, but so was the fierce love you felt for them. You would fight through this, no matter what it took.

The front door’s lock was crushed in someone’s hand, and then the door flung open.

You held your breath. They were in the apartment now. Both of them.

“We know you’re here,” Gojo’s voice echoed through your bedroom, the smugness thick in his tone. “You can’t keep running from us forever.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, praying for the strength to stay hidden, to stay quiet. The babies moved again, harder this time, a sharp pain lancing through your body as they kicked and squirmed. You could feel the weight of them inside you, their frantic movements making it impossible to ignore the danger that was closing in.

They were too close.

Your small cabinet’s door swung open, and a testing hand reached out from the darkness, brushing against your arm.

Nanami.

You gasped, muffled by the scarf in your mouth, jerking away, but his reflexes were faster. The instant your skin accidentally grazed his, his hand turned, gripping your arm with an impossible hold.

“Don’t run from me,” he said, his voice low, rough with something dark, something broken. The intensity in his words sent a shiver through you, his turmoil bleeding into the air between you.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he murmured, his voice deceptively soft. A promise.

To you, it was a threat.

Your chest tightened. You wanted to scream, to fight, but the weight inside you—of the babies, the fear, the exhaustion—pinned you in place. Your breaths came shallow, your limbs trembling as desperation took over.

Before you could process, Gojo’s voice chimed through the suffocating tension.

“Got you.”

You didn’t even have time to react before his hand snaked around your leg. The two of them dragged you out of your hiding spot, your thrashing limbs no match for their combined strength.

They had found you.

“Running away doesn’t suit you,” Gojo said, his tone quieter than usual, dangerous.

A/N: And there you have it. My beloved, you are cornered, carrying the literal weight of emotional trauma and the twins of a whole new level of special grade. I hope you enjoyed the small glimpses of humanity (and insanity) from the men chasing her. I have decided to do two endings for this fic—one will be what I had originally written, which will be dead dove, and the other will be not-dead dove (sorry, I don't wanna spoil it, but I promise you will be safe in both, well, mostly). ᕙ(^▿^-ᕙ) Let me know your unfiltered thoughts. Bonus points if you can defend Gojo eating the entirety of the in-flight dessert inventory. 👀

Chapter 5 - Something Soft, Something Sharp (Tumblr/Ao3)

All Works Masterlist

Tag-list = @lady-of-blossoms @stargirl-mayaa @dark-agate @tqd4455 @roscpctals99 @sxlfcxst @se-phi-roth @austisticfreak @helloxkittylo @itoshi-r @kodzukensworld @revolvinggeto

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mysecretlittlelibrary · 2 months ago

Note

Hello! I don't know if you're still taking requests, but if you do, could I please request an imagine where the reader and eddie are best friends and the reader gets really injured when Venom is in a fight, bonus points if eddie has to do cpr to revive her. Thank you so so much!

~Hazard of Our Friendship~

Pairing: Eddie Brock x Reader

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: drowning mention, knives, graphic depictions of violence

Genre: fluffy angst

Summary: Your best friend has a symbiotic alien sharing his body which means sometimes he gets attacked while you're just trying to discuss a movie.

A/N: Oh darling my asks are always open~! xo hope you like it!

***

You scoff as you listen to Eddie talk. You can't believe what he's saying.

"You're crazy! You seriously think that was better than the second one?" You ask incredulously.

"I think each movie gets better than the last." Eddie says.

"What're you smoking and how do I get some because you are clearly on something." You snort.

"I liked it I don't see the problem." He shrugs.

"That's not the question though! I liked it too but it's NOT better than the second one was!" You shake your head.

"You do this every time we see one of these movies." Eddie chuckles.

"Because the second was the best! It's in a league of its own they're never gonna do better than that." You say.

"Okay fine ye of little faith and quick judgment- what could they do to make the next movie better than the second movie?" Eddie rolls his eyes playfully.

"The second movie was just iconic! When they realize and manage to replicate the intensity with which that movie hit emotionally, they'll have another masterpiece. It's not about duplicating though, they shouldn't repeat the plot, they just need to figure out how to create a similar pull. That's what I'm looking for I need a pull and the newer movies just haven't been pulling me."

"You're insane you know that?"

"I think you need to rewatch the second movie. Clearly you aren't properly remembering the absolute magic of the second movie dude." You shake your head.

"Clearly." He snorts. A moment passes and notice something change abruptly in your friend's demeanor.

"What?" You frown at him.

"What?" He snaps his head towards you.

"Your energy shifted, something changed. Why? What's going on?"

"Nothing." He says quickly.

"You're on edge. I can see it so don't lie to me. Especially because you're starting to stress me out." You tell him.

"Venom's a little- freaked. He thinks we've got company." Eddie admits.

"Not the good kind I'm guessing. Based on your... disposition."

"Just- stay close, it'll be fine." Eddie says gently resting his hand on your arm. He's clearly on high alert, eyes scanning every darkened alley you walk by. You catch movement off to one side and grab Eddie's attention.

"E- could those be our visitors?" You ask. Eddie follows your eye.

"Fuck me- it's fine, just stay behind me." Eddie steps forward and uses his arm to nudge you behind him.

"Come on Eddie, they're just some guys. This should be easy." You say.

"Unfortunately if they've come for me it's never just some guys." Eddie sighs. "Look guys- I'm sure you don't want any trouble, whatever you think you're gonna gain from this, you'll lose a lot more- trust me." Eddie tells the group. There's maybe 5 of them it seems, but you can't be sure others aren't lurking nearby.

"Yeah- that's the bastard." One of the guys grumbles and Eddie's eyebrow furrows.

"Wait sorry- do you know me or something?" Eddie asks, tilting his head.

"You fucking jackass-" The guy is clearly appalled by Eddie's perceived audacity and starts towards you and Eddie.

"Venom." Eddie calls.

"COPY." Venom replies before overtaking Eddie. You step back a bit to accommodate the size change. Also to give him room, Venom's fighting style is- messy from what you know.

You've never actually seen them fight, although Eddie didn't try to hide Venom from you, he was very intentional about limiting your exposure to him. You're not totally sure why, but it doesn't stop you from making nice with him. Eddie swears the relationship between them is mostly symbiotically beneficial, which means he'll probably be around for a while. Which means he'll be around you for a while, and you want that to be a net positive. So you always ask about him and include him in your relationship with Eddie, and bring him chocolate any time you hang out with them. Eddie swears you spoil him so you hope that means he likes you.

Venom seems to be handling the fight pretty well, I mean he can grow appendages at will, no matter how many of them there are, they can't outmatch him.

"You're coming with me." A gruff voice says wrapping a hand around your wrist.

You snap your head around quickly.

"Fuck off. Don't touch me." You take your index and middle finger and jam them into the inner corners of his eyes.

He screams as you dig your digits in deeper.

"You're ruining movie night." You drag him forward by his eye sockets and bash his head into your knee knocking him out. "Asshole." You huff.

"Eulgch gross now my hand is covered in eye juice." You frown. You bend over and wipe your hand on his shirt.

"That's better I guess." You say stepping over the guy to wear Venom has dragged the fight, near the pier.

"Not so fast." A voice grits out behind you as arms encircle your body, trapping you.

"Hey let go of me you bastard." You grunt squirming against his hold.

Your movements stop abruptly with a sharp gasp when you feel cool metal against your throat. A knife.

"Really? An 8 foot monster is stomping out your little pals and you go for the one who isn't doing shit? Coward." You scoff.

"Shut up." He spits through clenched teeth.

"Eddie!" You call out. "No rush but when you get a second some help would be nice! VENOM!" You shout, the blade digging ever so slightly into your skin.

Venom snaps his head towards you and immediately changes his focus, heading towards you and the person holding you hostage.

Your captor walks you backwards as Venom closes in but as he reaches an appendage towards you one of the others pulls out a flamethrower. Where did he get a fucking flamethrower?!

"Venom look out!" You shout but you're not quick enough.

The fire hits him. He lets out a roar of a sound. And then retreats into Eddie, who falls to his knees.

"Eddie?!" You call frantically.

"I'm fine! Just- gotta give Venom time to recover." Eddie grunts.

"If you're fine get up and turn around you dumbass!" You shout. The guy with the flamethrower is closing in on Eddie, luckily he's dropped the thing. Not really a smart move in your opinion but it makes Eddie's chances of beating him without Venom higher.

Eddie spins on his heel just in time to dodge a wild swing from mister flamethrower.

"Woah. Shit." Eddie says. He punches the guy directly in the face and the two start a proper fist fight.

"Hang on y/n I'll be right there!" He tells you between throwing and dodging punches.

"Yeah, I wasn't planning on going anywhere!" You say.

"Could do without the sass at this moment dude!" He says.

"I've got a knife to my throat I'll do whatever I want to cope with it!" You shoot back.

"Sorry about all this!"

"Hazard of our friendship! I know how this goes!" You say.

Eddie finally takes down his opponent and turns to you. He runs in your direction, Venom at some point taking over and freaking out your captor. For a guy holding a knife to your throat he's moving incredibly reckless, stumbling backwards and dragging you with him. Right over the edge of the pier. You scream as you fall back, at least you've been released it seems. Your assailant, in trying to save himself has freed you from his grasp.

The water is a bit chilly, it's not as bad as it could be, but it is only August so it'd be weird if it was ice cold. Water fills your mouth as you sink below the surface. You try to swim up, but the other guy wraps his hand around your leg. You can't swim super well as is, the extra weight hindering your movement pretty much renders your attempt to save yourself futile. Still you flail and desperately kick at your attacker's hand, hoping that you can get him to let you go before your lungs give out. They're already starting to seriously burn.

You hate open water. Besides the fact that you're nowhere near a strong enough swimmer based on the dangers of open water like this, you can't see anything and not knowing what lurks nearby stresses you out even more.

You're starting to panic. The longer you're down here, the more undersea monsters you seem to be able to imagine. You're going to die down here and some random swimming creatures will start eating your decaying flesh and your family won't even have a body to bury when they have your funeral. Or if they manage to find you, you'll be so destroyed by critters they'll have to keep the casket closed. Honestly at this point you hope they cremate you.

The panicking isn't helping. You know it's not, and yet it's all you can do as your vision is starting to blacken around the edges. You still can't get this guy to let go of your fucking leg, and dammit you're getting too weak to keep fighting him. How is he still holding on? You feel your body go limp as you lose consciousness.

Eddie's heart drops as he watches you go over the edge of the pier. You can barely swim, you hate the open water, he has to get you out of there and fast. The only problem is it feels like these goons keep multiplying and if they have to keep fighting he'll never reach you in time.

"We have to get to y/n." Eddie says.

"WE WILL." Venom says ready to fight the next guy.

"No, now V! Fuck the fighting I don't care eat them if you have to. Just get to her!"

"GREAT PLAN." Venom's smile is enough to freak out the person standing between them and where you're currently drowning.

Eddie's counting the seconds as Venom traipses towards the water, biting off heads on the way. There's not even enough movement near the surface for Eddie to tell if you're still alive down there. It's taking you two long to come up.

"YOUR STRESS IS MAKING THIS MORE DIFFICULT EDDIE."

"I'll stop stressing when we get y/n out of the fucking water!" Eddie snaps.

"FINE!" Venom dives into the water and manages to find you surprisingly quickly, dragging your lifeless body out of the water.

"Put her down we have to do something." Eddie says.

"WHAT DO WE DO?" Venom asks.

"You watch my back while I try to remember my high school CPR class." Eddie tells him, kneeling beside you.

Pressure.

There's a pressure against your chest.

It's rhythmic, consistent, and just a couple of pascals short of risking a broken rib.

Your nose is pinched and something touches your lips. Air flows into your mouth in bursts and then again with the pressure.

Suddenly you feel water coming up and you lurch forward to expell it, coughing painfully as your body tries to get rid of the water forced into your lungs when you nearly drowned.

"God drowning sucks." You choke out, your voice coming out very raspy and it honestly hurts to say even that short sentence.

"Thank fuck." Eddie sighs, his shoulders dropping in relief.

"YOU'RE ALIVE! EDDIE WE SAVED HER." Venom pokes his head around over Eddie's shoulder.

"I thought I was going to lose you." Eddie whispers, cupping your cheek gently.

"I'm almost offended you thought I'd go out that easily." You joke, coughing again.

"Stop talking! You'll hurt yourself." Eddie says.

"Oh would you relax. I'm not dead, talking won't do me in." You roll your eyes.

"YOU SOUND LIKE YOU ARE IN PAIN." Venom says.

"Thanks V." You snort.

"Venom she just almost drowned dude." Eddie shakes his head.

"I AM TRYING TO CHECK ON HER. WHAT IS THE PROBLEM!?"

"Nothing's wrong. Don't you two start. Just- can you take me home?" You groan forcing yourself up. Eddie scrambles to his feet, helping you up until eventually Venom simply takes over and lifts you into his arms.

"Venom I'm pretty sure I can still walk ya know." You say, admittedly a bit nervous in his hold. Not that you think he'll drop you, you've just never interacted with him so directly.

"YOU SHOULDN'T STRAIN YOURSELF. AND WE ARE TAKING YOU TO OUR APARTMENT."

"What? Why?"

"SO WE CAN TAKE CARE OF YOU WHILE YOU GET BETTER."

"Get better? All I need to do is shower and go to sleep, I'll be fine." You scoff.

"EDDIE WANTS TO SEE THAT FOR HIMSELF."

"You're very lucky I don't have any more energy to argue about all this." You mutter.

Eddie counts his blessings when he hears that. Of course it would take you nearly drowning to finally allow him to look after you. Little victories he supposes. Granted saving your life is definitely way more than a little victory. You are the single most important person in his life. If he wasn't sure of that before this he's absolutely sure of it now.

***

#marvel #marvel fanfiction #venom x reader #eddie brock x reader x venom #venom smut #venom fanfiction #venom #eddie brock fanfic #eddie brock x reader #eddie brock #venom fluff

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skzdarlings · 5 months ago

Text

bodyguard: the first guard | part six | chan/reader

masterlist.

(part one of the previous story.)

( read on AO3 )

A sequel to the Bodyguard. Miroh’s daughter is assigned a bodyguard of her own. The past is confronted when old friendships and new enemies are pushed to the brink.

pairing: bang chan/reader content info: the usual general content guide warnings for this stories including violence and abuse. explicit sexual content in this chapter: dom!chan, sub!reader, kinky play-fighting in a sexual scenario, hitting, smacking, chasing, pinned down, choking, taunting dirty talk, very rough play overall. content warnings: this chapter is very, very INTENSE on the violence front. graphic depictions of drowning, both voluntary and forced. explicit description of torture both physical and psychological, violence, fighting, drowning, choking, explosions.

chapter word count: 20,500 words.

enjoy <3

B E F O R E

Everything goes wrong.

Felix should have known better than to rely on the enemy. He is dependable in no regard except self preservation and even that only extends insofar as the most cowardly course of action.

It was supposed to be a fight. Felix did everything the way he was supposed to, everything according to plan, the way a proper soldier does. Felix always follows through. Felix always completes his mission.

He played both sides. He worked Miroh into a frenzy, suspicious of betrayals transpiring right under his nose in his own house. He made the enemy think he stood a chance attacking Miroh, that he could knock him right off the playing board and claim all his assets in one fell swoop.

Felix forgot the enemy was such a coward. He was supposed to storm in here with an army, the way that Miroh does. They were supposed to find Miroh’s regiment in chaos, everyone turned against each other thanks to his subterfuge and instigation.

Miroh and his daughter are at each other’s throats. The other soldiers take sides. What should be a unified front in a run-of-the-mill acquisition mission turns into a self-sabotage as Miroh’s own team starts fighting each other.

Miroh fights his daughter. Felix knows, despite everything, there is a part of her that still loves, fears, or respects her father. She doesn’t fight like she should.

Chris, however, does. When Miroh knocks his daughter down, Chris attacks him. Felix doesn’t worry because he knows Chris can win the fight and, besides, they are going to be rescued soon. At that moment, everything is going according to plan. Whether Miroh lives or dies is irrelevant. Whether Felix lives or dies is irrelevant. This is about Chris. And Miroh doesn’t stand a chance against Chris, not with the full force of his fury unleashed like this.

Miroh’s daughter just watches, stunned by how fast everything happened.

She looks around like she expects to find answers in this dilapidated warehouse. Her eyes land on Felix who has been standing to the side since the fight began. Her eyes narrow as she looks at him, really looks at him, seeing what no one else sees.

He swallows and braces his body for a fight. She is a mirror of him as she stands, taking the exact same fighting stance.

“You told him I botched the operation,” she says. “Why, Felix?”

“Because you did,” he answers simply.

“I thought you were friends with Chan,” she says. “Why would you compromise us like this?”

“Because I’m friends with Chan,” he answers with that same even steadiness, a calm that he absolutely does not feel inside. But he is good with faces, blinking with innocence. He tries to compel her to look away, to forget about him, that he is too young or too stupid or too innocent to really comprehend what’s happening.

She doesn’t fall for it. She sees right through the mask and glares at him.

He anticipates her swing, catching her punch when she hurls it at him. They scrape back and forth but they are perfectly, frustratingly, evenly matched.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks. “Felix, it didn’t have to be this way. I could’ve helped you. I’m on your side.”

“I can’t afford sides,” he says, shaking his head rapidly. “I need to get out of here. Chris needs to get out of here. If you care about him—”

“You don’t know the first thing about that,” she snaps.

She comes at him with even more fury. Felix fights but his attention splits, glancing back at Miroh and Chris. Miroh is calling for back-up on one of his devices, but he never stops fighting. Miroh is a soldier, first and foremost. Whatever else Felix thinks of him, that much is true and always has been. Miroh is not scared of fight. Miroh will jump right into the fray. Miroh will get his hands dirty.

The enemy is not like that.

It was supposed to be a fight. He was supposed to storm in here with a contingency and fight the only broken house of Miroh. In the chaos of that confrontation, Felix was going to escape with Chris.

But the enemy never shows his face. He plants a bomb. He detonates it at a distance.

The warehouse is blown to pieces. Half those fighting soldiers die on the spot and Felix is blasted backwards. It renders him unconsciousness, though he doesn’t know how long he’s out. Not long, he thinks, when he wakes to sunlight pouring in through a gap, ripped in the warehouse wall. It was almost dawn when the fight began. A new day is starting.

He pushes himself upright. He is covered in dust and gravel. He coughs and sputters, getting on his hands and knees and crawling through debris and rubble. He moves towards the light. When he does, he sees Miroh’s daughter. She is not far away, but she is trapped underneath something. Pieces of the wall blew forward and there is a concrete block laying across her body. She is alive somehow, tucked into a divot in the floorboards, but she is trapped.

Felix, panicked, frantic, guilty, looks around for Chan as he stumbles towards her.

He never reaches her. Someone grabs him by the shoulder and yanks him backwards. He sprawls onto his back. A shadow blocks the sunlight. It’s one of the enemy’s bodyguards.

“The boss says you did a good job,” the man says. More of the enemy’s men are infiltrating the place. They don’t fight or pay any attention to the bodies. They go right for the promised merchandise.

Felix still can’t see Chris. Miroh’s daughter is still trapped. Everyone else is dead.

“I – I—” Felix starts, but dust is cloying in his throat and he just ends up coughing. He is dizzy, his ears ringing horribly. The world shifts in a kaleidoscope of vomit-inducing colours as someone drags him to his feet.

“Come on,” the man says. “The boss wants to see you. He says he has a job.”

It is the last thing Felix hears before the sunlight is on his face, overwhelming him, and he passes out in the heat.

P R E S E N T D A Y

“Don’t kill him.”

Those are your first words to Chan. You know him by the way his body braces itself after the shock has worn off. Chan may not be the inhuman soldier you mistakenly believed, but he might be something even more dangerous. Where his raw emotions meet his long-engrained instincts and deadly capabilities, fatality will ensue.

You cannot afford that reaction. You are here to save Changbin. Changbin was taken because he defected, because he moved against Miroh, because he decided that you were more important than maintaining structure and keeping orders. Changbin turning, you changing, Miroh falling: it all started the night the enemy died. It all started because of something that began even longer ago.

This all started with Felix.

“I thought he was already dead,” Chan says. His voice sounds steady but you see the tension in his form. He is wracked with adrenaline.

“Me too,” you say.

“Oh, you’re talking?” Felix says, looking at you.

You suppose he saw the reports of your death. He must have been just as surprised to see you behind the mask. Lack of expectation made him blind to recognition.

This is likely why he has not recognized Chan yet. The fact Chan is still wearing the mask does not help, his face mostly covered, disguise foolproof to an unsuspecting witness - even despite the heated slash of his unmistakable eyes boring into Felix.

But It has been many years. And Felix thinks Chan is dead.

With that thought, you say, “I guess we’re both ghosts.”

Felix looks at Chan only briefly, seeing nothing but a soldier in a familiar uniform. He gives your regulation combat gear a similar once-over. His brow furrows as he scrutinizes you.

You almost forgot this kid had such a sweet face. Freckled and wide-eyed, you can see why so many people underestimated him time and time again.

Lee Felix is everything Miroh wanted to achieve with his program. Maybe it is not surprising that the collapse of two major antagonists circle back to him.

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

He meets your gaze.

“The same as you, I think.” He hesitates, then continues, “I’ve been following reports. When I saw what was happening, I looked for the closest base and just… I decided to help things along.”

Despite how innocently he explains himself, you do not question his capabilities. You will not make the same mistake as so many others and underestimate him. You know what Felix is capable of doing. His only flaw is too much time away from Miroh’s operation, thus a lack of understanding for its inner workings. He cannot do what you and Chan can do, but it is the closest anyone could come.

That is not your question.

“Why would you care?” you ask. Somehow, Felix escaped from everything. He might as well be a real ghost for all that his reappearance in this fight is incomprehensible.

“Because.” His defensiveness softens just a little as his mind goes somewhere else, far away from the violent chrome prison of Miroh. “Because,” he says, gentler, “I want to find a place to… to rest. To be home. And I can’t do that, knowing what’s still out there. I need to help fix it.” He looks you over again, but it is different than his earlier judgemental regard. Still scrutinizing, but thoughtful, as he tilts his head and really considers you. “What I helped make,” he says. “I don’t think I can go really home until I do something about it.”

In the space of a breath, Chan draws a handgun. He is so fast that you don’t even see where it was holstered.

“Why do you think you should have any of that?” Chan says, punctuating with a threatening downward push of the gun. “Give me one reason not to shoot you. Seriously. Just one.” By his venomous tone, it is obvious no reason will be good enough.

You put a hand on his shoulder. He tries to shrug it off but you hold firm.

“Hold your fire,” you say, maintaining your cool outwardly despite the panic inside.

During the exchange between you and Chan, Felix gets one hand free. He bites the tip of his glove and yanks it off with his teeth.

Chan is quick to react, seizing him by the wrist like he expects Felix to attack him with one hand. Chan is fixated with such a single-minded determination that he does not see what you see, what Felix was actually trying to show you.

A ring around his marriage finger, simple and unadorned.

After a suspended beat of silence, Chan looks down. He sees the ring too. Most of his face is covered but you see the flicker of pain in his eyes, something like a slash across his brow. He reels back as if a bomb detonated. Instinct puts the gun back into his palm, the barrel at his adversary, but it shakes just short of imperceptibly. You are not sure if the uncharacteristic tremor is inner conflict or pure rage.

“This is my one reason,” Felix says calmly. “This is my reason for everything.”

Even though you still don’t have all the answers, seeing that ring turns the world right-side up. Of course Felix turned on the enemy, not out of ambition or cruelty, but love. The thread of it runs through every action committed in the last few months, something you could not see despite its prevalence beneath the surface of your life. None of this is happening because of the rivalry of two greedy monsters and the chaos they sowed. It’s happening because of everything that somehow thrived in spite of it.

So much makes sense now, looking at him, at that ring. You think of the security footage being scrubbed after everyone died. Felix was always good with computers and he probably worked well with the enemy’s high tech systems – certainly well enough to wipe them entirely. It gave him time to run off with the other half of that wedding band. You suspect the enemy’s daughter wears the other ring.

Chan is staring at that ring like he wants to burn it, like he wants to cut the whole hand right off.

Tentative, testing, you ask, “Did you kill them?”

Felix ignores Chan. He looks at you, his brow furrowing with confusion.

“Who? Miroh’s agents?” he asks. “Most of them are already running off and—”

“Not them, not here, not tonight,” you say. “The enemy. His men. His daughter. Did you kill them to get away to do – whatever it is you’re doing?”

He swallows. Your suspicions are confirmed when you see the flicker of anxiety in his eyes. It is obvious to you that he is lying when he says, “Yes, I killed them. The enemy. His family. His men. They’re all dead.”

“Not all of them,” Chan says. His frustration returns and he digs the gun at Felix. “I’m looking at one.”

“Stop it,” you say sharply. “I need him to answer me.”

Felix is understandably stressed with an unknown hostile threatening him. He overlaps with you, snapping, “Seriously, mate, I’m co-operating, what more do you want?”

“I want to kill him,” Chan says with an exhale. Though he is looking at Felix, you feel like he is seeing so much more than the moment as it unfolds. The amount of emotion in his voice is uncharacteristic for him on a job. He is compromised by years of pent-up feelings, bursting inside him. “I want to blow his fucking brains across this warehouse,” Chan says, putting the barrel right in Felix’s face.

He is so fast and deliberate. You are worried he will act before you can even think to prevent it. Panicked instinct makes you blurt, “Chan! Stop it!”

At the same time, Felix grabs the gun and uses the element of surprise to overpower Chan, just enough to safely yank the gun to the side.

Either the shouting or the grabbing triggers Chan’s finger because the gun goes off. It fires directly at the ground and kicks back so violently that it skitters across the floor like an animal.

The piercing howl of the gun leaves a ringing silence in the aftermath.

The reverberation of Chan’s name seems deliver the fatal blow, landing with far more violence.

Felix is breathing hard, adrenaline coursing from the attempted shot. He stares at nothing particular, just catching his breath – chasing and catching, then stalling, stopping. He holds it.

He slowly turns his gaze onto Chan. He looks at him like he is seeing him for the first time, eyes meeting the dark line of anger that stare above the mask.

Felix’s entire face smooths out, softens, with recognition.

“Chris,” he says, not much louder than a breath, somehow as piercing as the gunshot.

Chan responds by choking him, a big gloved hand snapping out and seizing his neck, so fast and powerful it is a wonder he does not snap it on impact.

“Don’t say my name,” Chan says, “you backstabbing—”

You drop onto your knees, grabbing Chan by the arm. He doesn’t relent even a little. You know you can’t budge him with anything but words, so you say, “Chan. Stop. I’m serious. Please.”

With an exhale, Chan loosens his grip, just enough for Felix to cough.

Felix’s eyes are watery, his voice strained when he says, “Changbin told me you were dead. I thought the enemy—”

“The enemy?” Chan asks. “You mean your employer? Your ally? What enemy? Aren’t we your enemy, Felix?”

“No,” you answer firmly, interrupting a dazed Felix. “Miroh was his enemy,” you say. “Just like Miroh was our enemy. Now let him go.”

Chan clearly does not want to obey. Release comes in increments, just a slack of the hand before he finally huffs and withdraws. He swings back and stands. He does not look down again, staring forward like a soldier in formation.

Felix rolls onto his side in a wheezing fit. Chan must have hit him at a sensitive juncture – likely on purpose – because it takes him several gasping attempts to breathe again.

When his shoulders stop heaving, you grab him, not violently like Chan but nonetheless aggressive. It is enough to get his attention, his watery eyes turning up to you.

He looks so young. You and Chan are only a few years older. Do you look that young? You certainly don’t feel it, burdened with lifetimes, known and unknown.

Then again, his eyes seem to show a similar burden within. The band on his finger tells a story beyond what you know of the runaway soldier.

“You have questions,” you say. “So do I. Maybe together we can both finally get some answers.”

Felix looks over his shoulder. Chan does not look down to meet his eye. After a moment of staring without reciprocation, Felix nods curtly and looks at you.

Felix holds out his hand to shake. He winces in pain as he digs out his voice.

“Agreed.”

You need to get away from the facility. It has been undermined but not shutdown. You would not have targeted such a big base and you’re the true key to bringing down most of these operations. Your classification was high so you can navigate with ease despite the removal of your logins and security clearance. Chan’s classification was just as high if not higher, though very different. Together, there are results.

Your attacks are carefully and meticulously planned breakdowns, accounting for every bone in the finger of the hand throwing a punch. Felix’s attack was more like throwing an emotional swing at an adversary when their head is turned. It is something that seems like a good idea until the head swings back around.

You retreat.

The tension between Felix and Chan is palpable. You ran many jobs against the enemy and, even a distance, you knew Felix to retain a professional demeanour. Around Chan, he becomes a little kid again. You almost see your own reflection in Felix as you also become someone else around Chan.

That includes a streak of newfound empathy. You would usually disregard feelings, especially on a job, but that is not so easy anymore.

You stop Chan outside the car, gripping his bicep while Felix climbs in the backseat.

“You need to relax,” you say.

Chan has not removed the mask yet. You can only imagine the intensity of his expression without it. Even with half his face hidden, his expression is burning. That heat touches you, a twining flicker of a flame. It is brief but it scorches somewhere deep as he looks at you with all that fire.

The heat is doused with his ice cold voice. “Felix is the reason this happened,” he says.

You come back to yourself, blinking to clarity. You furrow your brow.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“This. All of this,” he hisses. You can hear his heavy breathing muffled in the mask. “He sold you out to Miroh. He’s the reason—”

His voice cracks. A memory of him flickers through your mind, cast over him like a projection, those desperate eyes and that muted cry. You glance back at Felix who is waiting patiently in the car. His face is downturned, dark hair falling over his eyes. He twists the ring around and around his finger. When he looks up, that projection flickers over him too, an image of him in his teenage years, with round cheeks and shaggy hair, staring with the intensity of someone who has already seen too much. He does not look apologetic and he does not look happy; he is just there.

You blink back to the present, looking down at the dirt beneath your feet, feeling the nighttime breeze on your face.

Truthfully, this revelation does not come as a shock. Your deduction was made in the rolling tension, looking between them, recalling the timeline of events. Even if Felix was not outright responsible, you suspected he was implicated on some level. It is the only way to explain Chan’s strong feelings for his betrayal.

Maybe it should fill you with a similarly righteous fury, but it does not. Maybe it’s because you don’t know what you lost. Maybe it’s because you can only picture an indifference in Felix. Maybe it’s because of that ring on his finger, of everything that has happened recently. You are not suffering the same visceral hatred as Chan, lost in his past.

Now, Felix is alive, having escaped the clutches of the enemy, a man like Miroh, doing it for someone he cares about. Now, he has willingly returned to right his wrongs, whatever he perceives them to be.

Now, you cannot find it in your heart to hate him. So much of that is because of the complicated man in front of you. Chan has worked his way past your barriers in a few short days that feel like lifetimes. It has given you a heart to follow.

You wish things were easier, but wishing will not manifest another reality. You can only touch him like a person, one to one, heart to heart, hold his angry gaze until it softens just a bit, and say, “I know.”

He exhales. A lot of that anger tangles up with his grief.

“We were kids,” you continue before he can interject. “We all made difficult decisions in impossible circumstances that not even a reasonable adult could navigate. He wouldn’t have traded one enemy for another if it was truly self-serving.”

This still does not register with any significance to Chan. His eyes are slitted and angry.

“I don’t blame him for what happened,” you say in a firmer voice. “And I don’t blame you.”

That hits him and it hits him hard. His body braces and his eyes widen, jolting like he was electrocuted.

“If you can’t trust him,” you say, tone gentler, “then trust me.”

Chan does not answer, only exhales again, dramatically with a droop of his shoulders. He opens the passenger door and gets in. Felix stares at him but Chan stares ahead. The mask stays on.

You take a breath to steady yourself then take the driver’s seat. You set your destination further out of town, tucked away in some farmland you passed on your travels.

When you leave the district, Felix gets alert. His eyes are big in your rearview mirror as the highway lights flash golden over him. You recall last seeing him at a distance, his hair a golden blonde, returned now to a natural darkness. You think about how much you have changed in days and wonder how much he changed in years. It makes you sympathetic to those wide eyes and the anxious twisting of his ring.

“I don’t want to leave too far from town,” he says, meeting your gaze in the rearview mirror.

“You’ll go wherever we take you,” Chan says.

“I have to get home,” Felix replies.

“It’s dangerous to be running missions on your own,” you say before a fight begins. “Don’t you think?”

“I knew I could handle myself,” Felix says. “And they were just… they were right there. I couldn’t do nothing. Not when—” He looks at Chan and his voice drops even lower, like it hurts to speak. “You blame me,” Felix says. He sounds resigned already, like he expected this all along, that even as a ghost Chan would despise him. “I’m the reason they captured you,” Felix says. “Because I failed. All these years, I tried – I waited – I –“

“Don’t talk to me,” Chan says. “If it was up to me, you’d be dead.”

Felix just nods.

“So you’ve gone civilian for real?” you ask, steering the conversation. “You think that’s where you belong?”

It’s not an empty question. You do not have time to consider what will happen after you rescue Changbin and take down the operation, but a civilian life has not crossed your mind. Fighting back-to-back with Chan makes you feel like your life’s purpose is realized, especially now that it is in the employ of your own heart and not Miroh’s greed. You cannot fathom the life course that Felix, of all people, has chosen.

“I know exactly where I belong,” he says. “I belong with her.”

Chan turns his head, just a bit, clearly listening. It makes Felix speak even more earnestly, incapable of lying under that attention.

“When I – when I was kid,” Felix says. “I – I guess I sorta idolized anyone I could. I was – broken. I needed something whole to hold.”

Chan turns away and Felix looks down, down at his ring like it is telling a story to him.

“It wasn’t like that with her,” Felix says. “She, uh, she actually hated me.” He laughs, the sound of genuine humour piercing through the tension in the car like a lightning bolt. “She was, uh, she was – she was broken too, I guess. We were different, but… we were the same. I never made her an idol like that. She was – she was just a girl.” He looks out the dark window. His voice is a little lower. “It became love anyway,” he says. “I – I never wanted that before.” He looks towards Chan again, a more frantic edge returned to his voice as he says, “If I knew then, what I know now, about everything, about – about how to be a person, I – I would have done things differently.”

There is a long moment of silence. The car hums and the highway lights roll over and over.

Chan finally says, “It’s too late for that now.”

It is undoubtedly not the reply that Felix wants to hear, but it is a reply, and that is enough to make Felix release a held breath.

When you reach your destination, tucked away from the chaotic world, Chan promptly leaves. Felix steps out of the car but doesn’t follow, taking the hint as Chan stalks towards a distant treeline and melts into the darkness with a practiced ease.

Felix turns as you approach.

“What happened after I left?” he asks. He looks over his shoulder but Chan is either gone or impossible to see. “From the outside I couldn’t – I didn’t know – all I could do was – wait and—”

You let him stutter for a minute, to see what words will he find. You are surprised when he looks between you and the trees and makes a gesture.

“Are you and him…?” he asks.

Internally, you are surprised and it makes your heart skip. Externally, you maintain a stoic demeanour.

Blinking, you ask, “Why?”

That seems to answer the question without answering. Felix nods, a repeated bobbing of the head. He swallows before speaking again.

“I – I want to know that he’s okay,” he says.

That might fracture your stoic regard.

“Was it for him?” you ask.

“I thought I could save him,” he says, and laughs without humour. “I was stupid about it.”

“It’s not stupid to want to save a friend,” you say, that stoicism undoubtedly splintered. You sigh. “You just have to understand that Chan has been through something that we can’t really understand. I know Changbin told you he was dead. That wasn’t entirely wrong.”

“It was that bad?” Felix asks. He doesn’t wait for an answer, shaking his head. He runs his fingers through his hair, movements jittery and anxious. “Of course it was.” He is then struck with a flicker of awareness. He looks at you very directly, tilts his head at a questioning, curious angle. “Where is Changbin?” he asks, looking upset in a different way, marked with anger.

You recall the mission with Changbin and the enemy’s daughter. At the time, everything was an attempt to draw the enemy away from a rare offensive strike as he tried to move in on Miroh’s territory. You were behind the scenes of it, sending Changbin after the daughter, luring away the enemy and also luring Felix back to Miroh. It might have worked if Felix was not determined to rescue the girl. He slipped through Miroh’s fingers a second time.

At the time, you were confused like everyone else. Felix’s motivations were befuddling at the very best. No one knew why he left. Now you know he left for Chan, no doubt striking a dangerous deal with the enemy to rescue him, a foolish bargain that would have seen like a life preserver to a drowning little boy. You are certain that after a time, Felix would have been smart enough to realize it. So the only thing more perplexing than why he left, is why he stayed.

The ring on his finger answers that question.

“Does she know you’re out here?” you ask.

The question captures his full attention, forgetting his previous query. He stares back at you. He looks like a predatory creature with his hackles raised, bristled and stiff and alert.

“Yes,” he finally says. “She didn’t like it. But yes.”

“Smart girl,” you say. “Makes sense… considering who her father was.”

As fast as Chan pulled that gun, Felix is in your space, every inch on guard.

“Leave her alone,” he says, all that boyishness gone in a flash. Though you do not doubt his honesty in some ways, you know Felix is good with faces. Under his mask is a soldier, bodyguard, and now it seems lover, and you are not which will be more dangerous.

You raise your hand in surrender.

“You want to know what happened to Chris,” you say, placating. “Miroh took him. That man—” You also look towards the treeline, seeing nothing in the pitch. “That man is someone different now.”

Felix looks there too. You think the sadness in his face is genuine.

“What happened to the enemy?” you ask. The events of that night have haunted you. It is the reason you are here today. “Did you take him out on your own?”

“No,” Felix says, slowly facing you again. “No. It was no one important to the enemy.”

You stare at him with obvious disapproval for such a vague answer.

“It wasn’t an enemy,” he clarifies. “It was a friend. Her friend. He came back for her as soon as he could and he helped us get away. He was just a civilian. Not a soldier, not an enemy. He just did it for a friend.”

You fall silent as you recall the dream where a weight is lifted off your chest, where you can breathe after so long caged, of Changbin peering down at you with all that concern.

“Why’d you turn against your father?” Felix asks.

Heart thumping, you say, “For a friend.”

Some of the tension leaves him, his stiff posture slackening. His face is flush with recognition.

“You don’t know where Changbin is, do you?” he asks. “That’s why you’re out here.”

The heaviness of his tone makes you pause. You let yourself linger in a momentary what-if, if you learned all this sooner and did something to help all of you, but that thought leads nowhere helpful. It has happened. Like Felix, you cannot change the choices you made when you did not know better, when you were surviving in impossible circumstances. You are doing something now.

You let your honest emotion show when you say, “I think he was waiting.”

“For what?”

For me, you think. “For things to change,” you say. “And now they have.”

“Now they have,” Felix echoes.

You think you understand him. Not like Chan, not like Changbin. You look at Felix and see someone still struggling with himself, lost and grappling for answers. He is quiet under the immensity of the night sky, the range of feelings inside him just as vast.

“I’m looking for him,” you say. “All this – it’s because of him. He gave himself up to save me. I’m going to get him back. I’m going to bring an end to all of this. It will never happen to anyone again.”

Felix straightens, once more on guard, but he is not antagonistic. He is on your side of the fight and you believe he finally sees that.

“Do you know anything about him? Anything at all?” you ask. Felix got a better look at the military base before it went to ground. Maybe his perspective will offer some insight beyond what you gleaned from the research facilities. “I don’t know where my father put him,” you say. “But I know he’s out there. I know he’s still in Miroh’s web.”

“What makes you think he’s still alive?” Felix asks, brow furrowed.

“What made you think Chan was alive?” you retort.

“Okay,” Felix says, chastened. “I did release some prisoners at the base, but Changbin wasn’t there. I would’ve recognized him this time.” His earlier anger towards Changbin seems to dissipate. He regards you with eyes that look more than a little guilty. “I thought he died with the others, you know,” Felix says. “I didn’t – I thought this whole time—”

“Trust me,” you say, with a humourless laugh. “You don’t need to tell me about the past confusing you.”

Felix takes the empathy at face value, nodding. He idly adjusts a hip holster while talking, gaze elsewhere, moving through his recollection.

“I only really talked to one of the prisoners, yeah,” Felix says. “They were all in bad shape but he wasn’t thinking clearly. When I got them out, he thought I was there for him. He thought he was being sent back somewhere ‘worse.’”

“Worse?” you say, with a drop in your gut. You have firsthand knowledge of the kind of torture that Miroh is willing to enact on its allies, never mind its enemies, so you can only begin to imagine. It may lead you to Changbin after all, now that he is classified as a turned asset and enemy to Miroh. “Worse how?”

“I don’t really know,” Felix says. “He just said he didn’t wanna go back to the white room. It didn’t mean anything to me. Does it to you?”

It shouldn’t mean anything. White room is a vague description that could describe any plain interior at any site. It sounds like the empty ramblings of a traumatized prisoner, disjointed thoughts that could describe any facility on any base.

And yet –

When Felix says those words, in that context, that way, with all that uncertainty and pain in his eyes – you see a flash in the back of your mind. You let yourself drift towards it. It is not screaming cold like other memories, memories that send you hurtling through the dark. It’s quiet. Empty. You see an impossibly bright white room. There are no windows or doors, at least none that you can perceive. It’s the opposite of the Cell, of those tunnels, of that well. It’s not endless black. It’s a shock of white.

It’s nothing. How can nothing feel like something?

“Do you know it?” Felix asks.

You shake your head, the brightness dimming as the real world and the dark night settle around you.

“No,” you say. The little twinge behind your eyes starts to pound. “Maybe.”

There is a beat of silence between you, enough confessions made to the dark to satisfy for now. It has been a long night.

Felix sighs, his long exhale feathering the hair over his forehead. He turns to the trees, looks across the farmland, then up at the too big sky.

“He doesn’t want to see me,” Felix says.

There is a bone deep sadness to Felix, all in his eyes and the slump of his shoulders. And that is just what he is letting you see.

“It’s complicated,” you say in lieu of anything more comforting.

You understand that Chan blames Felix for what happened in the past. At the same time, you don’t think that is where Chan’s problem truly lies. You remember his words at the motel; not wishing you were someone else, but wishing he was. He can accept you have changed, but he cannot accept that he has too. Whether it was against his will, to survive, to keep you alive, he had to become someone else. It must make him as alien to himself as your elusive past is to you presently.

You have all made mistakes in desperation. And now Felix is here, the past gone, a ring on his finger and a future ahead. Chan does not have that. He wants to be the boy who did no wrong and protected everyone. But through his mistakes, your mistakes, Felix’s mistakes, he can’t be anymore. He hasn’t been for a long time.

Felix gets to go home because it’s ahead. Chan can’t do that because it’s behind him. Maybe he does hate Felix for the part he played, but you know he hates himself and his own circumstances more.

“Can you – can you –” Felix stammers. “Can you just – tell him please – that I’m sorry for how it went down.”

“He knows, Felix,” you say, believing it honestly. You have come to know Chan. You believe that beneath all the pain and resentment, he knows it all comes down to Miroh.

Felix nods. He lingers in that thought for a moment, casting his eyes towards the sky. His shoulders fall.

“This isn’t over yet, is it,” he says, more an observation than question.

“Not quite,” you say.

“If you—” Felix looks at you again, dark eyes earnest. “If you need help... Find me. Seriously. I want this to be over for good.”

You accept his proffered hand and shake. When you try to withdraw, he holds on.

“I’m sorry to you too,” he says. “I don’t know what happened after I left, but…”

You wish it was as easy as blaming Felix. If this was about one foolish boy and one childish mistake, then everything would be so easy to fix. But you know better. You squeeze his hand and nod, reflecting his emotions like a mirror.

“I know who my enemies are,” you say.

He nods and finally drops your hand. Another moment passes, the night breeze blowing between you, then Felix says it is time for him to go.

“I know where we are,” he says, looking across the deserted farmland. His eyes settle on some distant fields, sloping into a distant wood. He looks at you again and nods. “I think it’s for the best I get myself back. Good luck.”

He has only taken a few steps when you ask, “How will I find you again?”

He looks at you. For a second, there is a flicker of a friendly soul, life in his eyes as they crinkle with a smile.

“Hmm, if you are who I think you are,” he says, “you’ll figure it out.”

You take that as a confirmation of trust if nothing else, that he turns his back and walks away without fear you will pursue him with any reactive violence. When he has crossed over the border of the property, disappearing down a path, you turn the opposite way to where Chan vanished. With a sigh, you seek him out.

Of course the impossible man chose the absolute creepiest part of the property to sequester himself. It is difficult to see, even for you, as you pick up your feet to avoid tripping over spindly roots. You realize the overgrown trees are a former orchard, though the fruit is long since rotted, the thick branches bare.

“Chan,” you say, an edge to your voice. “Chan, he’s gone.”

Something cracks behind you. You turn, mouth open with a remark that flitters into breath because he isn’t there. Not even a moonlit silhouette interrupts the darkness.

You turn back around and almost jump right out of your skin. Chan is standing there, stanced like he has been waiting for hours. You thump him on the shoulder, cursing.

“Sorry,” he says, more automatic than sincere.

He is still wearing the mask, still braced with so much tension. You are standing close, close enough that if you were a target he would already have a hand around your neck. You think of the number of people over the years, subject to that exact moment; the number of times he would have stood there, just like this, appearing out of the shadows and striking.

You think of how he got there. You think of why he stayed.

“Are we going?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow. That exact expression was the first one he really gave you, the first hint he was more than Miroh’s soldier.

Maybe you have a heart now, or something like it, but it is still woefully inadequate when it comes to function. You do not know how to express the mess of feelings inside you. There is no instant healing for the years suffered between you, but you wish you could make him understand that you are not afraid, that you mean it when you say you choose this Bang Chan, not in spite of everything but because of it.

“He wanted to save you,” you say. Before he can form a retort, you continue, “I know you didn’t ask him to save you. You didn’t ask him to make any bargains. But he wanted to do it, not unlike what you did for me.”

“That’s different,” he says quickly. It sounds almost like a huff, like a punch in the gut.

“I know how it feels, to be both you and Felix,” you say. “To not like or understand yourself. Do you think I don’t understand? Do you think I’m scared of you in the mask?”

His shoulders lower and he looks at you, lifetimes of emotion in his eyes.

“I don’t think you’re scared of anything,” he says. “You never have been. That’s what terrifies me.”

“Chan—”

“I can’t lose you again,” he says, walking right up to you, an inch from your face, yet so propelled by adrenaline that he seems unaware of his own proximity and desperation. “I can’t,” he says. “Seeing Felix, it – it freaked me out, okay? It put me back there again. For years, I – I felt like if I could – if I could get back at him – for betraying my friendship – it would somehow undo it – it would be like it didn’t happen – I don’t—”

He seems to remember his mask all at once, abruptly reaching up to rip it off. His arm swings down to his side, mask loose in his fingers. The sudden reveal of his whole face makes your breath catch, as if you haven’t been staring at him for days, as if he hasn’t engrained himself in your consciousness like he never left.

You stare at each other, hardly any space between you. His voice is heavy, his shoulders slumped, like gravity is pulling him straight down past the earth, like it’s a fight just to stand there.

“I don’t want those things to have happened to us,” he finally says.

“I know,” you whisper back.

“I’m so scared of fucking this up,” he says, with a hiccup of a laugh, arms hanging limp in a helpless slouch. “So fucking scared something is going to happen. If not Felix, then – then anything – then—”

You place a hand on his chest, palm above his racing heart. His breath catches, adrenaline still coursing.

“Well.” You smirk and it feels more natural than a smile. It helps you dig your honest feelings out of your chest, buried so deep, sifting through your fingers like sand until you seize your beating heart and feel it come to life. “We might be a couple of disasters,” you say, “but we’re here, together, in spite of it all. We’ll figure it out eventually.”

You trail your hand down his chest, past his side, fingers loosely tracing the top of the mask. You hold his gaze the entire time.

“You found me once, didn’t you?” you say. “I trust you to do it again.”

“I didn’t,” he says, laughter walking the edge of a cry. “I should have. But you were the one who spoke to me in that van. You were the one who asked for help. You were the one that found me. I didn’t do anything but follow.”

“Is it too much to ask you to continue to do that?” you ask. “At least a little longer?”

He leans towards you, almost like he is falling, that gravitational pull leading straight to you.

“Always,” he says. “I go wherever you go, remember?”

He said that before, that first night when he comforted you. He says it now with a laugh, though it comes up like it pains him, an ache in his chest.

You think he might have sworn that promise a long time ago.

“I want you,” you say firmly. “Not the little boy you were, not just Miroh’s creation, but all of this, all of you. I want your anger and I want your fear. I want the only guard who could fight me in that ring. I want the only agent who was able to chase me down.” You hold his gaze even when the intensity makes you sweat, uncharacteristically nervous with a twist in your gut that is so much more than lust or camaraderie. “I need the only person I could have ever asked for help.”

He exhales through his nose, then smiles a weak smile.

“Are you sure?” he asks, shakes his head, laughs dryly. His exhale is shaky. “Because… honestly, baby…” The pet name rolls thoughtlessly off his tongue, natural in his honesty. He looks at you without any masks, eyes soft where they meet yours, jaw clenched with some baser instinct. “Because I – I’m really fucking angry.”

“Good,” you say. “So am I.”

You don’t think anyone has ever looked at you the way Chan does. Your father saw a soldier, your subordinates saw a commander, Felix saw a complicated ally, and Changbin saw a lost friend. When Chan looks at you, it feels like he sees all of you at once, every layer down to the bone, and that should be terrifying. That much exposure should make a soldier run for cover, layer on every piece of armour you can get your shaking hands on.

For some reason, he looks at you, and you just want to strip that armour off, piece by careful piece, and see what you will find in the reflection of his gaze.

You think he feels the same. It’s all you want, and it’s all so much, and you let yourself feel every tingling reverberation of that passion before you step away.

“Come on,” you say. “This fight is far from over.”

You anticipate his next move but your breath catches anyway.

Chan pulls you back, straight into his arms. The mask hits the ground with a clatter as he grabs you by the neck, a gloved hand cupped carefully around your jaw. He drags you into him and kisses you even more deeply than that last teasing kiss. This kiss does not merely say, I don’t want to be your friend. It does not merely say, I want to be more.

It says, I want to be everything.

And he hands everything over, and you take it, and you give everything back with your hand buried in his hair and your mouth open against his.

With a thousand more questions to ask and a mission to complete, but with information and honesty and hope – the fight ahead does not seem so daunting.

You look at Chan in the passenger seat. He is sprawled out, stripped down to a compression shirt that is far less bulky than the protective combat layers. It should make him appear smaller, but his presence continues to fill every space he occupies. Even where he does not literally touch, you feel him.

He idly turns the mask over in his hands. His eyes are ahead, over the dashboard, focussed on some distant point. He has sweat through some of his hair product so his dark hair falls to frame his face a little more. He pushes some of it back and you have to remind yourself to look at the road and not his hands, the corded veins when he flexes and moves his fingers, or his lips when he takes in a breath, or his thighs when he slouches and lets his knee fall against the console.

Failing your mission because of a car accident would be a little preposterous, so you clear your throat and look ahead. You feel him glance at you, but you refrain from looking back.

“Can I ask you something?” you ask, using the excuse of concentration to avoid eye contact.

“Yeah?”

“Promise to tell the truth?”

“You know I will,” he replies.

He knows the question will not be too serious. You agreed to discuss the mission parameters when settled at the new hotel. You explained that Felix gave you information but it needs dissection.

So he must expect the halfway teasing lilt when you ask, “Is there a part of you – even a small part –that feels, hmm, a little shallow satisfaction that you wound up with Miroh’s daughter on your side despite everything he tried?”

Your phrasing is a little convoluted but he sees right through it, brow quirking up.

“Uh-huh… Is that what you’re really asking me?” He looks dramatically contemplative as he throws your teasing back at you. “Or did you mean – Do I feel like I got back at the bad guy by fucking his little girl?”

“I’m not little,” is your flustered retort.

His laugh is a breathy snort. You feel him look at you again. When he does not elaborate, you surrender to your desire and glance his way.

His tongue is poking into his cheek, his eyes narrowed but not with frustration, just a combination of scrutiny and amusement at whatever he finds.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing.” He sits back again, leans his head on the headrest, smirking to himself. “It’s just… that’s not the first you’ve asked me that question. Why are you asking me now?”

“Why did I ask you then?” you blurt. You are asking him now because you are trying to goad him into opening up on some of those darker or angrier feelings. Was it for a similar reason you asked before? It gives you a sudden tether to that past version of you, still a stranger, but maybe not so different.

“Then,” he says. He loses some of that jovial edge, looking a little more serious as he falls into recollection. He rubs the back of his neck.

“You can tell me,” you say when he lingers on his thought, words so clearly perched on the tip of his tongue. “Really.”

You are expecting any number of dramatics. You are not expecting him to giggle.

“You fell for me first,” he says.

“No, I didn’t,” you reply automatically. You have no idea if it is true or not, but you instinctively balk at the suggestion. Even though your intimacy with Chan feels so unique, no doubt propelled by that complicated history, you still only know yourself as someone pragmatic and distant. You cannot picture yourself at any age stumbling head-over-heels for some boy, even one with dimples like that.

“Ohh no, you definitely did,” he says. “Sorry, but you were allll over me—”

You thump him on the chest. It’s a good solid thwack in the middle of his giggles.

“Hey, hey!” he says. “You asked.”

“You’re lying.”

“Now, now, come on. I wouldn’t do that.”

“I regret asking.”

“It can’t be that hard to believe,” he says, tapping his chin with exaggerated pensiveness. “I thiiiink… and correct me if I’m wrong… but I’m preeetty sure it was you who came onto me this time around too…”

“That – I –” You laugh at your own stammer, so startled that you can’t help but break.

He giggles some more, a tittering heeheehee that seems very incongruous in his black uniform with a combat mask on his knee.

When the laughter softens, he sighs a little. He looks at that mask, absently runs his thumb along the frame.

“It was a fair question, at the time,” he says. “I think you knew how I felt. How at first it wasn’t – it wasn’t really serious for me. Not like that. I was a bit distracted with, you know, life sucking.”

“Fair enough,” you say, snorting in amusement at describing the child soldiership special-ops program as simply life sucking. Diluting the power and dramatics is oddly cathartic, the laughter leaving a pleasant warmth in your chest. It makes you brave enough to ask, “What changed?”

He looks at you, maybe gauging your wellbeing. You both know the reconfiguration reports warn that too much sudden recollection can trigger a breakdown. But there is a separation here, the girl in your past just a story on his tongue, even if you do like the way he says her name.

“Uh, actually, it was seeing you with Changbin,” he finally says. His posture gets defensive with his vulnerability, an arm slung across his chest. He idly scratches his shoulder while he talks. “You were friends. Really friends. I didn’t – I didn’t really know how you managed to be friends, to be honest. I never – I mean.”

He huffs like he is frustrated with his own inarticulateness. You wait, eyes on the road, taking some of the pressure off. He eventually sighs.

“The first program,” he says. “All those kids – I only knew them for a bit, then they were all gone. It was just me. Then they brought in the next group. I think a part of me was always waiting for the day something would happen to them too. How can you really learn to care about people if you know everyone is just gonna be taken away from you?”

He picks up the mask again. He looks at it while speaking.

“The other part of me wanted to care,” he says. “Really fucking badly. I don’t know what it was, though. The trauma, my reputation, something about me, but I—” He puts the mask down, looks out over the dashboard. “Even before I put this on, before I made that deal with Miroh – I didn’t really belong. People respected me, kinda, I guess, or were scared of me. Yeah, lots of people have been scared of me. And maybe it was actually easy to become that guy, maybe it was in me all the time. Because even back then, it was like I always separate from everyone else. I still am. It’s like – it’s like there’s just this glass wall around me. Sometimes there’d be moments, people, like with Felix for a while, where they’d look at me and I’d look right through it and forget it was there. Then the light would hit the glass and I’d remember I was different. Separate. Alone.”

He pauses but it doesn’t feel like he is waiting for an interjection. Truthfully, you don’t know what to say.

“You and Changbin,” he says, punctuating by smacking the mask against his thigh. “You guys were different, yeah. Didn’t matter what they tried to do you. You stuck together. You – you had it just as bad as me because you were Miroh’s daughter but you never let it – never let him – never let any of them tell you who you are. And I just remember one day, I was looking at you. Really looking. You were with Changbin and you were patching him up after a fight. You were both beat to hell and back but you were laughing together and I – I just thought—”

His voice gets softer, like the words are too fragile to speak.

“I thought,” he says, “I would give anything to have you look at me like that too.”

His words leave a stunned silence in their wake. He eventually tries to deflect the tension with a laugh, smiling at you, but with a smile that does not reach his eyes.

After the words have washed over you and after the jumbled mess of confusion that is your consciousness sifting through it, you say, “Glass coffin.”

“Excuse me?” he asks.

“Sorry.” You shake your head. “Just – that’s how I’ve felt. Buried alive in a glass coffin. Not myself, not who I was a month ago, not the girl I can’t remember. What you said made me think of it. I – I understand you. I’ve been—” Your breath catches unexpectedly. “I’ve been very alone for a long time. I – I don’t think I noticed, somehow. Not until Changbin was gone. Not until you were here.”

The car gets a little darker as you leave the highway, streams of endless light replaced with the occasional streetlamp. The darkness makes the honesty flow a little easier.

“Is that weird?” you ask, your own voice soft and unfamiliar to your ears. “For it to hurt more after it already happened?”

“I don’t think it’s weird,” he says. “Then again, I’m just as insane as you are.”

You almost choke on your laughter, so abrupt in the midst of seriousness. He laughs too.

“That’s true,” you tease. “Why the hell am I asking you?”

“Because you’re insane, remember?” He makes a tsk sound, shaking his head, all playful. “Wow, now she’s forgetting things that happened just a minute ago.”

“You’re awful,” you say, but laugh nonetheless.

“Seriously, though,” he says. “I get it. I get you.”

There is a beat of silence as the conversation settles around you. You breathe a little lighter.

Then Chan says, “Also, yeah, it is kinda hot to bang the boss’s daughter.”

“Bang Chan.” You smack his chest again, a little harder, but he just giggles like a naughty schoolboy and swats your hand away. “Seriously?” Your voice breaks as you try and fail to restrain laughter. “That comment? After all that?”

“Hey, don’t ask questions you don’t want answered, ya know?”

“Bang the boss’s daughter,” you grumble with faux-irritation. “You and Felix have that in common, you know.”

“Fucking you?! Jesus, what the hell did I miss when I walked away?” He looks at his bare wrist as if checking a watch. “You weren’t there long. He’s a bit quick off the mark, eh?”

You thump his stupid chest again while he chokes on his maniacal laughter.

“Going after the boss’s daughter,” you clarify.

That breaks some of his giggles, face twisting up with his surprise. His mouth opens and closes as he looks for words, mind going a mile a minute while he computes this revelation. He finally says, “Wait… what?”

“The ring on his finger?”

“Yeah but – the enemy’s daughter? Felix? And after giving me a hard time for going after you and oh my god, serves him fucking right, I really am going to kill that little—”

His threats sound a little more light-hearted, at least you think. It is tinged with some truthfulness, but at least it’s all out in the open this time.

“I’m trying to imagine that story,” you say, steering the conversation to the side. “I can’t imagine us in that scenario. I don’t think I would’ve been waltzing around with a mopey bodyguard in any world.”

“I wouldn’t be mopey.” He amends, “I wouldn’t be that mopey.” Then he thinks about it a moment longer, eyes on the road but mind farther away. “Yeah, you’re too much of a fighter,” he says. “I would’ve had my hands full trying to keep you on the sidelines.”

“You wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

You are teasing him but he does not retaliate. He nods with utmost seriousness.

“You’re right,” he says. “I mean, look at everything they did to you, and you still chose to be you. I think no matter what world we were in, you would find your way back into the fight, and I would follow you.”

You know he fully believes every word or he would not say it. You can’t find a decent answer. You doubt there is one.

“It kinda freaks me out,” you say. You strum your fingers because your hands are getting clammy on the wheel.

“Freaks you out?” Chan asks, looking at your hands then your face.

“I’ve always been very… restrained. At least as far as I can remember. I don’t let people in. With you—” You look at each other across the car. “It’s like I don’t have to try to let you in. You’re already there.” You look back at the road, releasing a shuddering breath. “It makes it easy to feel things I usually wouldn’t, or to do things I usually wouldn’t do.”

You think about that first clumsy kiss, how badly the need consumed you when you never cared about kissing before. You think about everything you are feeling right now, looking at him, sprawled in the passenger seat.

“I’m not used to trusting people this way,” you say.

He puts a hand on your knee. It is a comforting touch.

“It’s not quite a joke that I’m a little insane,” you continue. “I’m in pieces up there. I know that. I also know that when we’re together, it feels—”

You cut yourself off. There is no word to describe it.

“Yeah,” he says anyway. “It does. I know.”

The conversation reaches its soft conclusion just in time. You have reached your destination.

This city is a veritable concrete jungle. You can only go so far off the beaten path, so this place is more of a hotel than a motel. The building is configured in a towering horseshoe, wrapping around the small parking lot where you and Chan sit in a quiet car. You stare up at the building, most windows dark with the late hour. You have some time before dawn.

“Are you tired?” you ask.

His hand is still on your leg. You sit very straight when it moves, gliding inward, curving around your inner thigh. His gaze rests there until you look at him, then his eyes flick up to yours. He holds the eye contact as his pinky brushes the fly of your uniform pants.

“No,” he says. “I’m not tired. The opposite, really.”

“Still feel like a fight?” you ask, voice a little breathier.

“Maybe,” he says, dimple appearing with his smile. “What did you have in mind?”

You slam Chan onto his back in the middle of the training mat.

The hotel has a small gym, though it is closed after hours. The building has minimal security and no one on patrol. It is easy enough to rework the security camera so it plays a loop of a previous ten-minute interval, making the room look empty to anyone who deigns to double-check. It is on the underground level, below all the rooms, so it won’t wake anyone up.

Daylight is hours away. You have plenty of time to tire out that relentless adrenaline.

“Not bad,” Chan says, letting his head drop back. He laughs which is not the usual response from an opponent on their back. Of course, he is not a usual opponent and he never has been.

He pushes himself up on his elbows, grinning at you with far too much cheek. Teasingly patronizing, he says, “Ya get in a little more practice, buddy, and you’ll almost be as good as me.”

You shove him down again. He goes without a fight, just a little oof, giggling as he lands on his back again. You move from straddling his legs to hovering above his abdomen, knees planted on either side of him.

“You’re holding back,” you say.

“Yeah, ‘course I am,” he answers simply.

There is a little tussle between your hands as he tries to grab your waist and you shoo at him. He gets past in the end, gripping your hips and moving you like you are weightless. Even your clenching muscles do little to stop him, a startled breath spilling out of your lips as he moves you a little lower. Now his hips are between your thighs and it is easy for him to bring your body down while he rolls up.

You are in your compression shirts and bulky combat pants. It means his hands feel hot on your waist, the touch immediate through the thin material, but there is a substantial layer between your lower halves.

You still feel him, half-hard since you dragged him out of the car with a sparkle in your eye. You both know where this is heading, speaking in that silent conversation you mastered in just a few short days. He just needs to smile a particular smile and something inside you sparks.

You lean forward, planting your palms on the floor. It puts a slope in your spine, his hands feeling the curve of your hips as his playful gaze darkens, shadowed in the concentration of his brow. You bring yourself down just enough to touch, the material of your pants crinkling where you press together, but nonetheless feeling him against you as you slowly drag your body along his.

“What if…” you say, your gazes locked, “I don’t hold back?”

His eyes roam your face. He puts his tongue in his cheek, looking thoughtful with the quirk of his eyebrow. After a thoroughly studious moment, he meets your gaze again.

“You’d be at a disadvantage,” he says. “I’ve seen you fight without holding back. I know all your tricks.”

“What? In the ring?” you ask. “I wasn’t at full strength then.”

“No,” he says, voice a little lower. “Before that. We’ve fought before. I promise, you came at me with everything.”

You can tell from his face that the memory is not so pleasant. No, not at all. Yet he is very preoccupied with the pleasure around him right now, the tantalizing taste of it, your body in his hands, your face so close to his. You keep looking at his mouth and he keeps looking at yours.

“Everything,” you say. “I see.” Your brush your nose against his and it is so sickeningly sweet that it shocks him more than a smack. His eyes get wide and you get the upper hand, grabbing his wrists and pinning them beside his head. “And did I win that fight?” you ask.

His hips rear up. With a sharp buck, he moves you, gets his hands free. In a spin too fast to compute, and a flail of muscles you can’t hope to overpower, you end up on your back.

Chan pins you down, hips still between your thighs, both your wrists clasped in one of his hands. He pushes them above your head and holds them there, then he swoops down so his mouth floats just above yours.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“I think,” you say, remarkably coherent considering the proximity of his mouth, “that last time we truly fought, we probably didn’t have a choice.” You wrap your legs around his waist and he lets go of your wrists. You put your hands on his shoulders. “This time, we do. And this time—” You snap up, knocking heads, startling him. “I’m asking you not to hold back.”

In his surprised distraction, you roll out from under him then spring to your feet.

“This time, you have a choice,” you finish.

He turns onto his back, sitting with one knee curled up to his chest, the other leg stretched in front of him. It is a casual pose, looking to all the world like a normal young man for just a second as he sits and lounges and considers you.

Then he stands. He holds your gaze captive in his own, his eyes a slash of heated determination.

“You sure that’s what you want?” he asks.

“You know it is,” you say without hesitation. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

“All right,” he says, lip quirking into a half-smirk before he wipes his face to a stern neutrality. “Let’s fight.”

You circle each other, measuring, walking the perimeter of the square mat.

“Don’t underestimate me,” you taunt. “Believe me, bigger men have tried.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, shrugging one shoulder in a casual stretch. “I watched you shoot your daddy off a roof. It would be stupid to think like him, no?”

You are not expecting him to take the bait so unflinchingly. It makes your heart skip beats, adrenaline already spiking before the fight has even begun.

Chan still looks nonchalant, like he is waiting for a conversation rather than an altercation.

He is like you. A part of him is always braced for a fight. It’s never really over. You can’t control it.

You can control this. You can hand yourself over, willingly, safely, and for the first time he can let this scene play out the way he wants.

He strikes first, anticipating you are too smart to make the first move. His primary feints are predictable, the initial throws little more than empty threats. He is not holding back on defense, effortlessly dodging your retaliation, but his offense is still restrained.

You get him behind the knee. Your arms lock and you swing around, footwork frantic in its quick shuffle across the mat. You manage to get your hands around his neck as you sweep a leg out from under him. He barely stops his descent, twisted at an awkward angle.

“I told you,” you say, panting, your breath fluttering through his hair. “I’m not scared of you.”

“You should be,” he says.

He pulls himself out of the vulnerable position with a degree of strength that only the First Guard could possess. He turns you with a single-handed yank, then his whole arm is around your neck and your back is trapped against his front. He drops onto his knees and takes you with him, letting you struggle to no avail in his one-armed hold. His other hand comes up to your face with an almost tenderness, fingers brushing your forehead, knuckles sweeping your cheek.

“But I know you’re not,” he says. “You’re as crazy as me, right?”

He pushes forward, lays down with you pinned under him. His arm is still around your neck, bicep at your throat, his hips rocking into yours with blatant suggestion.

His lips brush your ear. It makes every part of you get tight with anticipation, even your eyes squeezing closed, your throat cloying, breath catching.

“You’re not like most people anymore,” he asks. “Daddy’s girl prefers a monster, doesn’t she?”

His free hand works its way between your body and the mat, tugging at your pants with more dexterity than his brute strength would suggest. He gets the waistband low on your hips, gets the zipper all the way down, and fits his hand inside.

Your hips buck instinctively, at first away, then giving into his palm when he grinds it against you through your underthings.

“Hmmph,” he says, a bit of a laugh, finding you wet through the fabric. “That was easy, huh?”

You do have a strategy, despite what he thinks, hoping to lure him into letting his guard down when he shifts focus.

Unfortunately, that is easier said than done. You are used to disregarding your body’s cries, but that is when it screams in pain. As it turns out, pleasure is harder to ignore.

When he touches you, even with a barrier in the way, it is like something primal speaks to something raw and needy inside you. You see stars, either from his grip, the tightly pinned position, or the way it doesn’t even matter there is fabric between you and his fingers because it is so wet that it feels like he is touching you directly – and it feels so good that you want to bury your face in the mat and forget about everything else.

“You’re not seriously trying to make me come,” you say, voice rough if not still taunting. “How is that a plan?”

“That’s not the plan,” he says, but he doesn’t stop rubbing torturous circles, doesn’t do anything when you shudder under him. “The plan is to fuck you, right here, right now.” He presses his hips into yours, makes sure you can feel the weight of his promise. “And I’m not stopping until all these little noises turn into you finally begging for my mercy.”

“Oh,” you gasp, thoughtlessly, not thinking straight on the cusp of an orgasm. “Fuck.”

“Say that one more time?” he says. “What do you want me to do?”

He kisses the back of your neck. It’s worth a thousand words.

“Fuck,” you say, though it comes out like a squeak. All that pleasure crests with his kiss, chaste and short as it is. You throb against his fingers, that aching desire lingering even after he takes his hand back.

You just barely seize control of your faculties when he lets go, leaving you sprawled facedown so he can kneel behind you. He has your pants worked partway down your backside when you manage to throw an elbow back. True to your words, you don’t hold back, winding him long enough to work yourself free.

You don’t get far. You are back on your feet for only seconds before he is on you. He lets you get a few jabs in, then his hand is around your throat and he is walking you backwards into the wall.

Even so, he holds up a hand, cupping your head so it doesn’t hit the wall with any force.

“You wanted to fight,” he says, keeping that grip on your throat as he turns you around, your palms and cheeks to the wall. He drops his other hand, working your pants the rest of the way down your thighs. “You lost,” he says. “Now be a good girl, bend over and take it. I know you can.”

It is hard to think when he starts fucking you. Your mind often drifted during sex, even good sex, thinking about the next act or even what you would be doing later. Despite your life being even more complicated now, you can’t think about anything else when he is inside you.

You can’t do anything about your mind, but your body is a different story, as it seems to open for him in a way you did not know was possible. You don’t think anyone else ever held your throat so right, ever kept such a secure hold, ever felt so good draped over you while finding somewhere inside you that made your whole body sing.

“Chan,” you whisper, voice already shot.

“Mm,” is his grunt of a reply.

His pants are unzipped, slung slow, but not as low as yours so the material is rough against your bare skin. You feel hot. I is a relief when his hands start to gather your tight shirt and lift.

You let him, though it means he pulls out for a second, getting his balance as you adjust.

You take the opportunity and get away, even though you are more than half-naked with your upper layers removed and your pants partially down. You yank them back up, panting as you cross the room.

He laughs, tugging up his own pants again. His tongue is basically hanging out of his mouth, but he is not short of breath. He runs his hands through his hair as he crosses the mat, every inch of him confident and determined.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks.

His swings are taunting, you realize, faking when he is going to grab you, making it impossible to tell when he will.

“You think you can get away that easy?” he asks.

It breaks the scene a little, or maybe makes it better, but you smile just a bit. It is genuine, but it doesn’t distract him for long. You get one good punch before he is dragging you both to the ground again. He puts you on your back with a breathless shove, straddles your waist and grips both your hands in one of his.

“Ah-uh-uh,” he says, grabbing your jaw with the other hand. It stops your squirming, his thumb circling your lips. He taps your cheek with the suggestion of a slap, just enough your heart kicks faster even while everything else gets softer. “That’s better,” he says. “Very good. I got you. Who needs a daddy like that when you got me?”

“Jesus,” you say, with a small helpless laugh. “I don’t think we have time to unpack all that.”

He laughs too. He halts himself by jabbing his tongue into his cheek while he shakes his head at you.

“Oh, I’m just getting started,” he says. It feels like his hands are everywhere, waking every nerve as he skims your waist and front. He cups the curve of your chest, tormenting you, far too swiftly pushing all your most sensitive buttons.

You are squirming again, bucking under him while he moves his mouth over you, lips and teeth and tongue, marking his path. He goes lower, then flips you in a quick manoeuvre, your clothes just as quickly lowered. His mouth is on you from behind, then his fingers, so much of his hand, up on knee behind you with his arm flexing in each downward thrust.

“You’re not even trying,” he says. “I’ll take it as a compliment.”

You make a sound, halfway between a grunt and a moan. Resisting him is not easy but it has nothing to do with his strength and everything to do with your resolve. You want his hands and mouth and everything else, want to lay there like that while he takes you apart and puts you back together again. You want to remove all your armour.

He gets you off with his hand, works you open so thoroughly that when he lets go, you are left clenching and trembling with need for more. He gets the rest of your clothes off, takes a second to remove his shirt. In that second, you get on shaking legs.

You already know you won’t get far. Even when you throw your head back, knocking into his, you expect him to recalibrate faster. He is behind you, shirtless and hot and hungry, his pants low, every muscle throbbing and aching with the same exertion as yours.

“Not so fast,” he says.

He turns you to face him and picks you up like it’s nothing. He lines you up with the precision of an unfaltering marksman and gets back inside you by bringing your body down onto his cock. The swiftness and ungiving strength is a surprise in itself, a yelp squeaking its way past your lips as he fucks you in his arms, in the air, using nothing else for support.

With no other leverage, you can only cling to him, just him, filling the space of this room with everything he is, filling all those empty places inside you and making you feel fully satisfied for the first time that you can remember.

He gets on his knees after a bit, not so much from tired muscles as sheer desire, wanting you in a better position so he can really fuck you. On your back then side then front, his arm across your shoulder blades as he holds you down and drives into you with all those pent-up feelings.

His hand is on the nape of your neck when he comes, not pressing or squeezing, just holding you there. He doesn’t hold back in the pursuit of pleasure, lets himself feel it all, makes a sound you want to always remember as he drapes himself over your back.

The world is quiet in the comedown, just the sound of heavy breathing. A little laughter when he kisses your neck.

You are not sure if your aches and pains are from the earlier confrontation or from that exchange, and that makes everything hurt less, subsumed in the memory of something better, those bad feelings strangled by the good.

You get back to the room and shower. You keep your hands off each other long enough to get clean, but no longer than that. When you are back in the bed, supposedly to sleep, he is back on top of you and you are pulling him into you. It’s different than downstairs, but also the same, you and him, whatever that means or will mean. He says your name while he fucks you, slower and so deliberate with every breath and bite and kiss.

He lets you roll him over, put him on his back, lets you sit on top of him and take control for precious moments. He doesn’t last long like that, staring up at you, bare face screwed up with pleasure and desire. His lips form the shape of your name even when he can’t find his voice anymore.

“Please,” he finally speaks again. You’re not sure what he’s really begging for, but you give him what you have and it must be enough for now.

He sits upright before he comes, wraps his arms all the way around you and holds you tight while rocking up into you.

“Please,” he says again, eyes closed, leaning his face into your hands when you run your fingers through his hair. He is already sweating again, his face hot under your hands. You hold the back of his neck, keep him pressed against you, his face against your shoulder.

“It’s okay,” you say on an exhale. “I got you.”

A shiver moves down his spine. He rears up hard, digs his fingers into you with a possessive need, and comes with your name on his lips.

It is tempting to sleep through the day, but every second of every minute is imperative. As each day passes, there are less hours until Changbin is potentially relocated or put through experimental testing far more grueling than what has so far been described. An overslept morning could be the difference between finding your friend or not.

Despite a lingering soreness – not all of it strictly unpleasant – you climb out of bed to dress for the day. Chan stirs when you do, like always, though he allows himself a moment of uncharacteristic lethargy. He groans when you open the curtains and the sunlight slashes across his sleepy, squinting eyes.

“Rise and shine,” you say. “We have a lot of reading to do.”

The heavy research element of strategizing is hardly ever glamourized the way a good right cross can be. That is probably fair. It is far less exciting to sit around a table for hours, a pot of coffee between you, skimming line after line.

“I want to go back over everything from before,” you say, to a bleary-eyed Chan who has only had a few sips of coffee and still looks like he has one foot in slumber. He really looks so different when scrubbed clean, face so soft and open. His curly hair is a bit of a mop, a messy tendril falling over his forehead as he leans down to look at some text. His flannel is buttoned askew and you have to resist reaching out and fixing it.

“Are we looking for something in particular?” he asks. “You said Felix mentioned a prisoner.”

“Mm,” you say, already diving into research. Some of it is physical paperwork that you pilfered but most of it is stored on your stolen tablets. You rifle through papers and scroll at the same time.

“And what is that?” he prompts. He shoves a coffee cup at you for good measure.

You sit straighter to take a sip.

“Right,” you say. “I just have this feeling in my gut. I’ve had it since last night. Really unsettled and uneasy. It doesn’t feel like general anxiety or anticipation, not like bracing for a fight. It feels like – it feels like it does when I remember things, small things, in confusing fragments.”

He straightens at that. You have not told him much about the dreams. He knows that you have nightmares, obviously, as he is the one tending to you when you inevitably wake from them. You have not spoken the details aloud, though. Some of those images are horrendous. Speaking them makes it tangible in a whole new horrifying way. To compound it, articulating the jumbled fragments conjured by your subconscious is a trying endeavour, to say the very fucking least.

“Just…” You take a breath, shake your head. “Just look for any mentions of a white room.”

“A white room?” he repeats. “That might be a little vague, don’t you think? Lots of labs and rooms are white and kinda sterile?”

You are not entirely sure if the picture in your head is a true memory or a fabrication, perhaps one exacerbated by some similar but buried recollection. You just know that picture is vivid, terrifyingly evocative. You can see it so clearly. That room is beyond sterile; it is washed completely white. It is a bone scraped clean. Not a scrap of humanity clings to the surface.

Your perspective revolves around the room. You are in the middle of it. No windows, no visible doors. No way in or out. It feels like absolutely nothing came before it, and nothing more could come after it. It is the opposite the Cell which was a pitch black torture room. Confined, endless in its depth. This is huge and blinding white brightness. It makes the dark feel like a comfort.

You slip so far into that white expanse, you forget where you are. For a second, you are there, like you never left. It’s all you see.

“Whoa, whoa—” Chan’s voice yanks you firmly back to reality.

You realize only then that you are tearing up, one lone tear escaping down your cheek. You have no idea why you would be crying. The pain does not come from somewhere you can pinpoint. It’s a hollow ache, like an echo of someone else’s pain.

Chan is poised to stand, tense where he sits across the table. He looks at you with justified concern.

You wipe your tear quickly, shake your head and take command of your body again. You sit straighter, shuffle some papers and clear your throat.

“The white room,” you say. “Or any white room that stands out as peculiar. Felix said a prisoner was there, presumably semi-recently because he was still shaken from it. He described it as worse – worse than the holding cell at the military base. It makes me think it could be something worth looking into. If it’s worse than the usual holding cells, and if it required so much clearance that neither of us have heard of it, then it might be somewhere that Miroh held higher risk enemy prisoners. Changbin fits that description.”

Chan releases a breath of his own.

“It’s a good enough lead for me,” he says. “Better than the big fat nothing otherwise.”

Though his words are confident, he still looks at you warily. You don’t completely blame him. You would be equally startled if he began crying for no seeming reason.

“It’s fine,” you say, as reassuringly as possible.

“You were crying,” he says, tone a bit dry.

“I just…” You shake your head. “I just don’t want to make this about me right this second. This is about Changbin. It has to be about him.”

“Okay, okay,” he says, putting his hands up in surrender. “White room. Research. Changbin. Got it.”

You get to work with minimal interruption after that, stopping only to get some food then continue.

Before, you were looking for descriptions that fit Seo Changbin specifically. Prisoner transport, asset delivery, any movement between bases and facilities. Now you are just looking for a room, anything that matches the description. From there, you analyze its recent activity to see if it fits the timeline.

One mention seems to fit the bill. The description of the white room is vague but the closest match so far. The recent incident also matches the story that Felix gave you. It describes a prisoner who was recently held, some low level gangster who ran jobs for Miroh but tried to sell information to some competitors and was subsequently brought to heel. Records show he was recently relocated. He was removed from the white room because a higher priority asset needed storing.

The timeline works. Changbin would be a priority above anything or anyone else, a unique soldier and the biggest danger to the operation. It makes sense he would be a held in a bunker so secret that not even two top clearance agents like you and Chan would know about it.

This went all the way up to Miroh.

“Definitely the best lead we’ve had in a while,” Chan says, scanning the document in front of him. “Explains why there’s no trace of him at the places that would usually make sense.”

“Yeah,” you say, an edge of frustration to your tone. “The only problem is where the fuck is this place.”

You can picture it in your mind, but it is just a blank room. It could be in any building in any city.

Even though you have tracked and traced every mention of this elusive room, its precise location has not been disclosed or even hinted in any document. Its vague existence is referenced here and there, and even then only in the most classified briefings. Wherever the intel is hiding, it’s even higher classification. The kind of thing that Miroh would have overseen personally, like the First Guard’s operations.

“This secret could’ve died with my father,” you say. You picture his broken body in a heap at the base of a building with his name on it. You picture Changbin in a similar heap and it makes your stomach turn.

“There’s people keeping these logs,” Chan reasons. “They’re clearly still working. If we can figure out who they are, then maybe—”

“And how long is that gonna take without my father’s clearance?” you ask, letting that frustration burst out of you. It feels like he is back, like he never really left, your father lurking around every corner and putting obstacles in your path. Every step forward, he yanks you back.

You thought you ran off his map but maybe you have been confined in a single room this entire time.

“We’re back to square one,” you say. “He is the only one who had all the answers.”

“It’s still a good start,” Chan says, trying to sound more comforting than argumentative.

“What if we don’t get the information in time?” you ask. “Or spend all this time chasing it and it isn’t even the right place? Or it is the right place but he isn’t in it at all. And then he gets moved anyway and—”

“Whoa, whoa,” Chan says for the second time today.

It has grown marginally easier to temper your most volatile emotions, corralling them like you would an animal. It is still uncomfortable, this out of control feeling, watching that animal ran rampant with no clue how to truly tame it for good. It is unpredictable at the best of times.

“All right,” Chan says.

He goes to the sink at the little kitchenette while you prop your aching head in your hand. He pours some water into a glass and brings it to you. He kneels down, pats your knee consolingly while handing you the water.

You take the glass, cool in your palm. Your waking thoughts and half-reminiscences float in a swirling vision in the blaring expanse of your mind.

You put the drink down.

You have been skirting the edges of one report. Since learning the reconfiguration was about you and not Chan, you have not really touched the files. In some ways, you hardly need to revise them, as the evocative images are still so clear. Some of that might be your own memories, peeling off the walls of your mind in broken scraps.

You have not returned to the file. Not until now.

You do what you should done when the instinct first struck. There is a connection between you and this room and there is no use denying it. Maybe you can use it for something good instead of just more hurt.

Chan looks at you with continued concern, still on one knee in front of you. You skim the reconfiguration report, looking for the description of a white room, ignoring everything else.

Unsurprisingly, you find it. It is such an innocuous description, noted in the footnotes. You would have skipped right past it when reading the first time. It is the kind of thing anyone would skip over if they were not looking for it.

It appears you were brought to the white room – which they call the downtime room – after the major reconfiguration tactics were administered. It was used as a resting place, or a holding cell, or something. Somewhere quiet and empty where you were left to rot, consciousness no doubt seeping out of your ears.

You would have already been out of your mind. The transport route would not have registered to you.

So you would be willing to bet they did not try to obfuscate or hide it from you. Not in that state.

“Maybe we do know someone,” you say, “who knows where the room is.”

You look down at Chan, his eyes still full of concern. It is shadowed with the crease of his brow, obvious confusion taking over his face.

“Who?” he asks.

Your heart is racing, and maybe breaking, because you don’t want to see that face filled with pain again.

“Me,” you say.

It takes a second to land. He blinks at you then shakes his head, smiles like he is laughing at himself for misunderstanding. He looks up at you, hopefully.

“What do you mean?” he asks. “You think you know where it is?”

“In a way,” you say. You glance at the text, finding it hard to hold his gaze. “They brought me there when it was over. According to the reconfiguration notes, I’ve been there a few times over the years, during the sessions where they, uh, fixed me again.”

You try to laugh but nothing is funny anymore. Chan slowly stands and your gaze lifts to him. He doesn’t look away from you for a second.

“I don’t really follow,” he says, but you think he does.

“I think it’s in my buried memories,” you clarify, once and for all. “If I can access them, maybe I can find out for sure. Maybe we can find the room. Maybe we can find Changbin.”

“Okaaay…” He finally turns away. He paces a little, crosses the kitchenette. He rakes his fingers through his messy hair. “Okay,” he says again, does a little jump and shakes out his limbs like he is warming himself up for something intense. He looks at you, finally. “Um, look, not that I don’t want you to get your memories back, I mean – sure. Great. You know? But, uh, how exactly do you intend to do that?”

That is the crux of it. That is why your stomach is turning over itself, your heart splitting. That is why Chan is looking at you like that, braced for the absolute worst even though you haven’t said any of it out loud.

“The report says that too much recollection at once can trigger a breakdown,” you start.

“Okay,” he interrupts. “Breakdowns are not good, though. You know that, right? Like, I don’t have to explain how you having a massive breakdown would be a very bad thing?”

“Maybe,” you say. “Maybe not.”

“M-maybe not?” he repeats, eyes wide. He comes back to the table and sits down. He grabs your hand that is loosely resting over the report. “Baby,” he says. “I told you before, hurting yourself won’t save him.”

“This is not the same thing,” you say, shaking your head. You let him squeeze your hand again, a silent pleading in that mute conversation you exchange with your eyes.

You try to smile. It still doesn’t come easily. You wonder if it ever really did.

“In my dreams, there’s a lot of cold water,” you say. “I feel like I’m lost in a current, getting thrown every which way. I see flashes of memories. They don’t feel like me anymore, but I’m in the middle of them, like if I just reach out my hand I can grab them and put them back inside me.”

You look at that cold glass of water. You extract your hand from Chan’s grip and gently wrap your fingers around the glass.

“I get them sometimes even when I’m not sleeping,” you continue. “I know it’s all in there. And I know it all started because of Changbin. He smashed through that glass, Chan, and now it’s all pouring out and taking me with it. I can’t just swim back and seal myself inside again. Maybe the way out is through.”

“What exactly do you want to do?” he asks.

“I want to put my mind back there,” you say. “I want to feel everything I have been running from. All the bad. All the anger. All the fear. I don’t know if it will work. Maybe nothing will happen and I won’t remember a thing. Maybe it will get worse and I’ll forget even more.” He winces at that, his shoulders dropping. You let go of the glass and touch him. “But there’s a difference this time,” you say. “I’m doing this by choice. I’m doing this with you. I trust you with everything that I am.”

“And what exactly,” he says even slower, “do you want me to do?”

“I can’t exactly drown myself,” you say.

He gets quickly to his feet and turns away, rubbing his face. You stand as well, your chair scraping across the hotel room floor.

“Drown,” Chan says, seemingly talking to the air because he doesn’t look at you. “Drown,” he repeats. “You want me to – you want me to drown you. Drown you?”

He spins around to face you, expression contorted with horror, hurt, and anger.

“How can you—” he says. “How can I—”

You step around the table and approach him slowly. He doesn’t balk or push you away, though he is breathing heavily. His skin is warm, even through his flannel when you lay a hand on his chest. You guide him a little closer.

“Like last night,” you say. “It’s different, Chan. It’s you. It’s me.”

“This is insane,” he says. “What if it doesn’t work, like you said? What if you get worse? What if—”

“I’m not leaving him behind,” you say. You picture Changbin on that roof, clasping your hand. That scarred palm is resting on Chan now. You turn it over and look at it, his eyes straying there too. “I don’t know what happened before,” you say. “I don’t know what will happen in the future. But right now, my friend is sitting somewhere and he thinks he’s alone. But he’s not. I’m not. You’re not.” Your voice gets shaky. Those tears come back, pouring from somewhere buried inside you, cold and rough as it comes out of you. “This is my choice,” you say. “I want to do this. I’m not scared.”

“I know,” he says. He releases a breath and drops forward. He wraps his arms around you and presses his forehead to yours. “That’s why you terrify me.”

You laugh through your tears, wrapping your arms around him too.

“I’m insane,” you say. “Might as well use it to our advantage.”

“You’re lucky I’m insane too,” he says.

He speaks with a lighter voice. When you withdraw, his face screws up with sadness and he pulls you back.

“Just – a little longer,” he says, cupping the back of your head and putting it on his shoulder. You can’t see his face like that and you think that’s the point, knowing he’s crying just by the way his chest rises and falls. “Just – just a second,” he says. “Please.”

Oh, maybe that was his pleading last night. Just a little longer.

“Okay,” you say. You hug him tightly. The back of his stolen shirt crinkles in your hands. You have nothing to your name, but you have each other, and you hold on tight for as long as you possibly can.

You get ice from the hotel machine, bucket after bucket dumped in the bathtub. Chan starts running cold water while you strip down to your underclothes and a t-shirt. You sit on the bed, listening to the water in the other room, closing your eyes and fighting to recall all those fragments. They are all sharp to the touch, jagged edges, truly like shattered glass. If you touch the memory at the wrong angle, it makes you bleed with an agonizing pain.

Your hands are already shaking. You put them between your knees, trying to steady to them. You look at the sunlight coming through the window. You remind yourself this is not like those dank, dark rooms. This is not Miroh. Everything has changed.

The water stops running. Chan appears in the main room again. He looks as wan and sick as you feel, but he nods resolutely, sharp as a salute.

“Ready when you are,” he says.

You stand and follow him into the bathroom. The tub is filled to the brim with ice cold water. It looks nothing like that dark and dirty well in the facility, but a chill moves down your spine nonetheless. You see that well, remember peering down in the darkness. It looked like it never ended. You can see the bottom of the tub through the ice.

Just like last night, you told Chan, reminding him of every chase and fight between you. You put yourself very literally in his hands, just like you are doing now. It was a recreation of real danger, just like now. But it was safe, and you were fine, just like now, just like you will be.

He drags the footstool from the chair in the main room, places it beside the tub. He sits there, one hand swirling around in the water to get used to it. You can see him shiver.

You stand over him, looking down at the water, at his hand moving around and around. He looks up at you.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says.

“I know,” you say. You reach down and touch the water too. It is so cold that it burns. You are built to withstand extremities, so this will not have the same lasting damage that it would on a regular person, but that doesn’t mean it won’t hurt the same way.

You straighten. Your fingers tingle, dripping cold.

“I’m going to try and fight you,” you remind him. “It’s just instinct. You have to keep me down there, take me right to the edge, as far as you possibly can, then bring me back up. You have the timer ready?”

He is going to push you to the limit, again and again, replicating the drowning torture in a hope it will tap into the part of your brain that correlates those memories with that feeling. He is to do it within a certain timeframe or until you pass out, whichever happens first. After that, you will take a few hours to recuperate. If it doesn’t work, you will try one more time later tonight. After that, you have to consider it a failure because he isn’t doing it a third time. You agreed.

He nods a bit too emphatically now, clearly wracked with nerves. He stripped down to a sleeveless shirt so you wouldn’t be grabbing the flannel sleeve when you inevitably start to fight back. It will be the body’s response to attempted drowning. It’s why you can’t do this to yourself. It’s why no one else could possibly do it to you, because you would overpower them.

Besides, there is no one you trust like Chan. You put a hand on his shoulder and remind him of that fact.

“I trust you,” you say. “Whatever happens—”

“Don’t say goodbye to me,” he says, his eyes lowered, gaze far away.

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. You are utterly rapt, looking down at him, at where he wanders deep into his thoughts. He pulls himself out eventually and lifts his head, gazes up at you.

“You said goodbye once before,” he says. “You’re not doing it again. You’re going to come back to me, okay? In – in any condition.” He sucks in several jagged breaths as he visibly tears up, words escaping on a gasping stutter. “I – I – I don’t care if you never get better, yeah?” he says. “I don’t care if we’re messy and dealing with this for the rest of our lives. Just come back to me, okay? Just – just promise you’ll come back.”

You pull him against you, let him bury his face against your middle while he breathes hard. He holds you for another long moment then composes himself, surfacing with a deep, heaving breath. He shakes his head then nods towards the tub.

“All right,” he says. “I got you. Always.”

“I know,” you say. You touch his face, tilt it up to look at you. “Thank you, Chan. Chris. Everyone you are. For everything you’ve done.”

“You know, you’re actually the only one who refused to call me Chris,” he says, laughing through his tears. “I think you just did it to annoy me.”

“I am pretty annoying,” you say, gesturing the tub.

“Definitely not the time for jokes,” he says, but laughs a little anyway.

You pat his cheek, give him one last watery smile, then you step into the tub.

Even that first descent is a mind-numbing shock. Inch by inch you submerse yourself, feeling like you are sinking into a tub filled with all those sharp, jagged edges of glass. You look down, panicking for half a second because the water is swirling red and pink. It makes no sense but you must be literally bleeding.

Then the image splinters and you realize you are not bleeding, not now. You are remembering a different motel tub – your blood swirling in a pool at your feet moments before Chan walked in and scooped you up, carrying you to safety.

He is still here now. He says your name. He says, “Easy. You’re okay. You’re safe, all right?”

You nod, closing your eyes. You listen to his voice. Maybe it is the sound, or maybe the physical pain, but a rush of tears are already rising to your eyes. They stab as ferociously, pouring down your face. It feels so hot compared to the water of the tub, almost like a stream of blood.

“It’s okay,” Chan is saying. “I’m going to grab you now, okay?”

You nod, eyes still screwed shut. His hand comes around your neck, just a gentle grip at first, letting you get used to it. You have felt that touch a few times now. It sends a familiar spark of heat shooting through you. You remember your name on his gasping lips, remember his mouth open on yours. You remember that dream of a kiss, warmer, hotter, more loving than anything you had ever encountered before. Your first real kiss. You see it for a moment, see him, younger, looking at you with hopeful anticipation as your eyes flutter open.

“Chan,” you say.

“It’s me,” he says, tightening his grip on your neck. “I got you. I’m right here. I’ll count you in, then it’s up to you. But I have you, all right? You’re safe.”

Your eyes are closed, but you still see him, young and smiling softly. His hand is on your face, warm where your tears fall.

“Three,” he says. “Two. One.”

It crashes over your head, a torrent of freezing water. You scream in the darkness, flailing desperately, but the well is narrow and you only succeed in bruising yourself when you try to splay your limbs out.

The darkness is not a void, not pure pitch, but cast with a pearly, luminescent sheen. It starts to swirl into a dizzying mess the longer you are down there. Then it starts to fade, true darkness creeping in at the corners.

You are yanked out abruptly. There is light, hot and sickly yellow, burning on your ice cold skin.

“Stop,” Chan is saying, crying, a blubbering mess that makes him sounds ten years younger. He is already young. He’s barely past eighteen. “Please,” he says. “This is my fault, don’t—”

You open your eyes to look at him. It feels like peeling skin off iced metal, your eyelids fighting every inch of the way. But you manage, barely, looking at him through the water dripping off your forehead.

He is prostrate on the floor, completely horizontal, a short chain around his neck clipped to a hook on the ground. He can’t even turn his head. He can only stare ahead at you, staring back at him.

There is something around your neck too. It keeps you in a strangled state even though you are out of the water. The vice tightens when you aren’t floating, so you don’t really get a proper breath of air. In fact, you’re not sure if it’s worse in or out of the water.

You don’t have much time to think about it, because you are plunged back in, the sound of his shouting disappearing in the blurring whirl of bubbling water.

You are yanked back out, and you are grown, in a hotel bathtub, gasping and clawing at the feeling around your neck. You get a breath, only just, then you are back underwater.

You see Chan again, grown, in that hotel gym last night. You feel him, hot and heavy, holding you tight against his body. You roll out from under him, jump to your feet. He laughs and smiles, you smile back, and you run at each other. You raise your fist to throw a punch you know he can deflect—

Except he doesn’t. The punch lands and it lands hard. He falls onto his back and there is no training mat to soften the impact. He smashes down onto a concrete floor and you just watch. There is a sickening crack, and it objectively grosses you out, watching him cry out in pain. But you don’t feel anything, do you? No. You just know you have to fight him. You just know he is everything that is causing you pain. You hate him, you hate him, you hate him. He’s the reason you’re here. He’s the reason everything feels like ice.

“Stop,” he says, pushing himself up despite the blood slipping down his face. It isn’t the first hit. You’ve already broken his nose. You’re not sure if his face is red because of you or because he won’t stop crying, as if this isn’t all his fault. “You don’t want to do this,” he says. “You don’t want to hurt me. You don’t, you can’t—”

You run at him again and he finally defends himself. He doesn’t attack, but he blocks shot after shot, letting you move around the fighting space. It looks like a cage, or a prison. Someone is watching on the other side.

“With a daddy like that—” Chan teases, and you laugh on the hotel mat.

You don’t land on a mat. You land on the floor when Chan sweeps too hard and knocks you down. He panics, immediately drops down beside you to check that you are all right. You slam your fist between his eyes.

“She’ll kill you if I ask,” your father says, circling the iron bars, watching Chan as he backs up like he is watching a wild animal. You might as well be, running on pure instinct, watching with predatory eyes as he backs right up to the bars.

Your father stands behind him.

“You will, won’t you?” Miroh asks you. “If I put you on a mission right now. You’d do exactly what I say. You’d even hurt him.”

“This isn’t you,” Chan says, ignoring him, looking at you, though nothing is gazing back. He says your name and it might as well be a made-up word for all that it is meaningless.

You’re Miroh’s daughter. Nothing else matters.

“I’d fight back if I were you,” Miroh says, patting Chan on the head before simply striding away. Over his shoulder, he says, “It’s you or her. The choice is yours.”

You run straight at Chan. His eyes get wide and he throws his hand out to stop you.

It catches you around the neck and you are drawn out of the water. Hot yellow lights, hotel gold, then back under again.

You are swinging back, throwing a punch, but you’re not fighting Chan. It’s someone in a mask, his face fully covered. You push and kick and punch, going around and around in circles, a perfect match like you were built exactly the same way by exactly the same person.

Felix takes off the mask and disappears over the balcony railing. You chase him and he swings back up, kicking off your mask. It clatters across the metal walkway. You tackle him and you both fall off the balcony edge.

You land on your back. Felix is on top of you, reeling back his arm. You dodge the punch, rolling out from under him. You are both younger, both in the black uniform of Miroh.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask. “Felix, it didn’t have to be this way. I could’ve helped you. I’m on your side.”

“I can’t afford sides,” he says, shaking his head rapidly. “I need to get out of here. Chris needs to get out of here. If you care about him—”

“You don’t know the first thing about that,” you snap.

Your emotions make you clumsy. Felix easily catches your flying fist and twists it around. Your whole body follows, then the ground is rushing up to meet you.

There is blackness all around you, whether your eyes are opened or closed. You jump when a hand reaches through the dark. You reach out too, trace your fingers over a familiar brow, down a cheek, his jaw, his neck.

“Chan?” you say.

“I’m here,” he says, wiping your tears, comforting you. “I’m always here. I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

Then his hand is gone. His face disappears. You swing your hand through the shadows and scream his name but he isn’t there anymore.

You’re completely alone in the darkness.

An earth-shattering eruption shudders all around you, blowing through the black with a burst of grey fog. When it settles, you are in a warehouse, the wooden ceiling partially obliterated from the explosion. You are trapped under rubble, only alive because you managed to fall in a slight dip so the concrete block across your body is not fully crushing you.

It will, though. You can’t breathe. Your chest is being compressed and you are dizzy, your ears ringing, and you can’t hope to budge the concrete block at this vantage. Even though you are stronger than other normal eighteen year olds, you are not fully superhuman. Maybe Chan could move it, but Chan is gone. Your father’s men grabbed him. That was the last thing you saw before the explosion.

Maybe he’s getting away, you think. Maybe they’re all getting away.

Even while dreaming it, you know it isn’t true. It was stupid to think you could take on your father. The inevitable reckoning found you. It’s all over. You didn’t save anyone. Not even yourself. You’re going to die like you lived, trapped under the rubble of your father’s fortune, all alone in quiet pain.

“Hey!”

You hear a voice at a distance. It only just barely pierces the ringing in your ears so you aren’t sure how close it really is.

“It’s me,” the voice says. “I’m coming!”

You can’t keep your eyes open. You can’t breathe like this and your body is getting colder and colder. You feel a presence even though you can’t see who it is, your eyes too heavy, the block on your chest heavier and heavier still.

“Wake up,” says the voice. “Hey, wake up. Please. Please wake up.”

It feels almost impossible, like pushing that weight off your chest, but you peel your eyes open slowly. There is dust in your eyes and in the air, the grey smoke of the explosion still puffing around you. Your eyes water to clear the worst of it.

Through the dust, smoke, and tears, you see Changbin, all his sharp, young features, swallowed up in his black uniform. The blast must have shot some debris his way because he’s bleeding, a thin streak of blood on his forehead, a line of red spilling down his cheek.

He ignores it completely, leaning down, tapping your cheek some more.

“It’s me,” he says. “Hold on. Keep your eyes open. Don’t go. I promise I’ll get you out.”

“Changbin,” you croak. You watch as he sits back, frantically measuring the concrete block with his darting eyes. When he grabs a corner, you rapidly shake your head. “Stop,” you say. “Stop, you can’t move it.”

“I can,” he says. He tries to laugh, somehow manages to joke at a time like this and says, “I’m the strongest and best looking one here, princess. Don’t insult me.”

“Changbin, it’s too heavy,” you say. The force of it is bearing down on you more and more, all your father’s greedy hopes shoving you further and further into the ground.

It’s going to kill you. It was always going to kill you.

But it doesn’t have to kill him.

“Changbin, go,” you say.

He is leaning against the block, lining up like he intends to shove the whole thing with his shoulder. His head whips down to look at you, his face twisted up with disgust.

“No,” he says firmly.

“Changbin,” you say just as firmly, because the block doesn’t budge. It was never going to budge. “Changbin, look.” You nod towards a light where the explosion ripped through the wall, where the enemy’s men came pouring in and ran right past you. “You can go,” you say. “For good. It’s a way out. They’ll just think you’re dead. They’ll leave you behind, that’s the rule, that’s what they do. You can get away. Just leave me. It’s fine. This is your only chance. Go. Go now.”

He pauses for a second. He looks over his shoulder at where Miroh’s men are still scrambling, then he looks towards that light. He knows you’re right. He knows that if he gets up now and runs, they won’t catch him. They’ll leave him for dead. He can get away once and for all.

He stares towards that light for a long moment. Then he looks down at you. He changes position, wraps an arm over the block and puts his weight against the side.

“No,” he says again. “I’m not leaving here without you.”

He pushes the block. It scrapes the ground, pushes you a little deeper. For a second, it hurts so much worse, then he gets his shoulder under it and takes the brunt of the weight. With another grunting heave, he straightens out and shoves it off you completely. It makes a horrible screeching sound as it moves across the floor, but you’re free.

You can breathe all at once, sucking in a huge lungful of air. Changbin leans over you, gathers you up into his arms and pulls you into a sitting position.

“You’re so stupid,” you say, choking on a sob. “I hate you.”

“I know,” he says, wiping the tears and dust off your face. “Love you too.”

“Stand back, soldier,” one of your father’s men appears, stepping out of the smoke like a monster. He multiplies, more of your father’s back-up arriving one by one. They circle you and Changbin.

You nod at your friend. There is no winning this fight. Not today. Not like this.

Relenting, Changbin steps back. One of the men grab him and push him to the side, redirecting him away. He is promptly forgotten in his supposed insignificance. The rest of them keep a circle around you.

Your father crosses through that circle. He looks down at you. You remember seeing emotion in his eyes, once, enough that he could be furious, enough that he could be hateful. Now there is nothing. He looks at you like he would look at a pebble in his shoe. Disappointing but mostly inconvenient.

“Take her,” he says.

Someone grabs you by the neck. You are pulled to your feet, faster, higher. You get a glimpse of Chan behind your father, face beaten bloody, limp body held up by another guard.

“Chan!” You try and move towards him but the grip on your neck tightens.

You can’t scream in the circle of that vice. Whatever sound you want to make disappears in the ice as you are plunged back under water. You open your eyes in the cold, look through the darkness until there is light, until everything is whiteness all around you. No windows, no doors. Beyond sterile. Cold. Empty. Nothing before or after.

Then you are pulled back up. You realize the white walls were the sides of the hotel bathtub. You suck in a desperate, shuddering gasp of a breath. It goes right down to the depth of your lungs, pulls you up from the inside out.

Chan says your name.

You open your eyes and see hotel bathtub faucet. Chan’s hands are on your arms rather than your neck as he hoists you out of the water. Like that first night, he bundles you in a towel. He says your name again, touches the side of your cold and clammy face.

It takes you a minute to find his face, his real face, living and warm and right now.

He stares down at you with his familiar dark eyes, breathing hard like he was the one exerting himself.

“You were right,” you say in a hoarse voice. Despite everything, a laugh bursts out of you. It hurts, it hurts like burning ice, but then it feels so much better.

“About what?” he asks.

“I did always call you Chan,” you say.

Then you collapse in his arms, your eyes closing. A torrent of memories come flooding back.

#bang chan x reader #chan x reader #bang chan smut #bang chan x you #stray kids x reader #skz x reader #stray kids smut #skz smut #chan x you #stray kids x you #skz x you

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dustysalmon · 2 months ago

Text

Eye of the Storm - Chapter 1

Pairing: Silco x Reader Rating: Explicit Warnings/Tags: graphic depiction of violence; slow burn; enemies to lovers, enforcer!reader Word count: 4.5k

Summary: After a chain of unexpected events, Jinx is arrested, and you find yourself in possession of the gemstone. On top of it all, you are forced into a reluctant alliance with Silco. What else could possibly go wrong?

Takes up at the end of episode 7.

Read on ao3 ⎜ Next chapter

It is not the first time your unit has been called to assist at the borders, although it’s been years since topside ordered a complete blockade.

The panic had been evident on the councillors faces during the meeting that preceded your affectation. They fear the escalation of violence after the bombing in the city center as well as the murder of several enforcers earlier this week. There have even been rumours of an organised rebellion rising from the undercity, ready to strike multiple strategic places in Piltover. But those are just that, rumours. You have heard other rumours. Apparently, whoever killed those enforcers also decided to drop by the safe holds of the Council and steal something. The authorities have been suspiciously secretive about the ordeal, but you have a feeling it has to do with hextech. And the Council, usually quick to shy away from firm countermeasures, has made the decision to take a stand a little too rashly for your taste. This, plus the sudden removal of Heimerdinger’s seat at the table… No, there is something else at stake here, something bigger and perhaps more preoccupying than they are letting on.

And so here you are, on the south east bridge, among dozens of other enforcers. They don’t seem too aware or concerned about the actual reason for their presence, but they certainly appear to enjoy roughing up a couple Zaunites just for the thrill of it. Within the span of two days, you have already sent eight of your officers home. Young hot shots, mostly here to see some action and prove themselves in front of their comrades. People who shouldn’t be in the force to begin with, but the enforcers’ body always has and will continue to accept just about anybody within their ranks. It was a cesspool of violent and morally lacking folks long before you arrived and will remain exactly that for years to come.

The majority of the officers mobilised for the Council’s big display of power aren’t trained to handle riots anyway, that much is obvious, and the entire situation is bound to turn to shit eventually. Regardless, you have traded your rifle for a good old baton, and encouraged your men to do the same. The firearm is tightly secured at your back— you’re lenient, not stupid—but the rioters have been fairly docile since the first barricades were installed, armed with nothing more than cardboard signs and harmless smoke bombs. Hardly a challenge at all, not to mention, you would like to avoid needless mayhem if you can help it. Your superior, Warren, strongly disagrees. Well, superior in name only; the man barely has any field experience, hardly ever steps out of the comfort of Piltover; a textbook office rat. If you had to guess, you would say this is the first time he’s actually come face to face with Zaunites. He has never hidden his utter repulsion for the latter— he usually refers to them as trenchers— and this new assignment is a godsend. He would drown them all in the gutter if he had his way. Halas, the Sheriff’s position was swept right from under his nose by Marcus, equally hateful and ambitious at the time. The years have tamed him for sure, although you still find it hard to explain his complete one-eighty when it comes to dealing with the undercity. Once, he was determined to give them hell, back when he was just a rookie, always babbling on about how he would handle the "Zaunite problem", and offering solutions (if you can call them that) that would have met quite the success among the most monstrous tyrants.

When his impromptu promotion was announced, you had expected him to take full advantage of his new position and act on his threats. In fact, you had expected something very much like the events unfolding before you right now: blockades, raids, random inspections, an obnoxious display of strength—the whole circus. But instead, most of the troops had retreated completely from Zaun, leaving the undercity in a situation reminiscent of when Vander was in charge. The streets had been left completely unmonitored, allowing numerous gangs to rise and breed terror in the underground. Any sense of community ceased to exist in the blink of an eye, quickly replaced with defiance, greed and violence. Funny thing, that it took one man, one figure to hold a whole city together. Take him out of the equation, and an entire city is lost. And then came Shimmer, the final step that made all hell break loose.

You had often wondered whether a complete occupation would have made a difference. In a way, you had your answer now. It wouldn’t have changed a damn thing. The economy down there was frozen, leaving the poorest Zaunites in even worse conditions than before, if that was possible. Controlled chaos, that’s all this is. And the Council is probably looking at the current state of things and congratulating themselves on their good work. It has become routine lately, but once more you wonder what it is you’re doing here exactly.

In the cacophony you hear your name being called from the crowd and recognise a familiar face. Without a second thought, you strut towards the noisy crowd.

"I wouldn’t get too close if I were you." Warren says from behind you, eyeing the mob suspiciously. You offer him a snarky grin.

"What’s the matter, Warren, afraid of a couple sticks and stones?" You relish in the laughter that emanates from the group of enforcers surrounding him before Warren silences them with a death glare, his face red with both anger and embarrassment. When he turns back, probably to reprimand you, you’re already on the other side of the bridge.

You walk past the last line of enforcers, the big ones, hidden behind their goggles and masks. Not necessarily the best intermediary for parlay or negotiations. You come face to face with an elder man, a fisherman’s hat screwed low on his head, just above his tired blue eyes. He hunches over the barricade towards you.

"How long is this gonna last? They just suspended all exportation of goods. We’re suffocating down here." He shouts, hands gesticulating in the air, but you can barely hear him over the racket.

"I know that, but my hands are tied here, Lou." You say apologetically.

The economies of the upper and undercity are very much interdependent, even if that is mostly true one way more than the other, of course. Numerous Zaunites work on the other side of the stream, some fortunate and gifted kids have the opportunity to study in the University district. And while it is true that Piltovians prefer to rely on their own supplies and food, they import daily from the undercity, whether it be fish, brews, or local foodstuffs.

Contrary to popular belief, it is not rare for topsiders to stoop to undercity level, although it is usually for more illicit activities. Shimmer consumption, human trafficking, money laundering, you name it. Needless to say that the blockade doesn’t impact topside nearly as much as it does Zaun. It makes no difference to Piltovians if it lasts for weeks, months, or possibly even years. But the undercity’s days would soon become numbered if the situation doesn’t evolve.

A huge detonation is heard on the far side of the bridge and leaves your ears whistling for a few seconds. When you come to, there is a thick cloud of smoke rising from the same spot, but you can still make out the enforcers’ silhouettes as they charge into the protesters. Idiots. You barely have the time to turn back to Lou when another loud boom erupts. Then another. It’s really on now. You grab at the old man’s shoulder, a grave look on your face.

"Go home, Lou. Now!" He doesn’t need to be told twice, still, you follow him with your eyes until he disappears from view. You realise only too late the tear gas canisters that have been thrown all around you. You reach for your mask but the gas is already stinging your nose and assaulting your senses, it feels like your entire face is burning. Tears start to fall down your cheeks as you struggle to pull out your goggles. The gas has settled in your eyes now, and the eyewear obviously won’t change that, but you can’t think clearly at the moment and put them on regardless as you start to pull back to your squad. In the distance, you can hear Warren shouting hysterically, asking for more gas, more pressure on the line, always more. He calls to you once you are back in the safe perimeter.

"Sticks and stones, huh?" He taunts you, and you can clearly imagine his stupid face mocking you behind the mask.

"All of this for a bit of smoke?!" You refrain from calling him a dumbass in front of everyone else, although just barely, but you don’t even try to hide the anger and exasperation in your voice. He can launch disciplinary actions if he likes, this whole operation is already a complete disaster, and he will suffer the consequences too. You throw a quick look at the mess happening all around you. Utter panic among the protesters, untrained enforcers, and an incompetent chief. And people will wonder what could possibly have gone wrong. You sigh. On second thought, let Warren drag you in front of the Council if he wishes, you will have a lot of things to say.

You blink the last of the gas from your eyes and gather your thoughts. So the protests have gone up a notch after all, that much is true. But you remain convinced that the blockade is bad news for everyone. You grab the megaphone and clear your irritated throat as best as you can while your colleagues prepare to launch another charge. This will not be a quiet night after all.

Two hours, that’s all the time you get before you are unexpectedly called back for duty. You gulp down a can of hot soup, hop into a fresh blue uniform, and you’re out the door. For the first time, you are stationed on the main bridge, where you’ve heard things tend to be more heated. It is a last minute change, and very little information is given to you about your purpose here tonight, but it must be important if the Sheriff’s presence is any indication. Typically, back-up is hardly ever needed at night fall, most of the protesters leave at around 7 p.m. and come back at midday. So it is without surprise that you find the bridge perfectly calm and silent, with a large group of enforcers standing by. They seem to be waiting for something, or someone. You rapidly go over some procedures with your squad and dispatch them at key locations around the area before finding Marcus.

"So, what’s this all about, Sheriff?" You truly loathe to call him that, but the man likes having his ego stroked every now and then. Might as well play the good cop card in order to squeeze what you can out of him. You’re met with a suspicious and frankly condescending look. Whatever information it is you’re asking for, it would seem it is above your pay grade.

"We’re meeting someone. Your team is here to make sure it all goes smoothly."

Not much to go with, but the gears are already spinning in your head. Could it be that the person responsible for the attacks and the break-in in Piltover had requested a face to face in order to calm things down; seeing as the situation had escalated today. A request for parlay, perhaps, or a negotiation. You lower your tone as your address Marcus again.

"This whole thing," you gesture at the barricades on the bridge, "it’s about Hextech, isn’t it.?" His eyes grow wide, and the way he freezes all but confirms your suspicions. For all his ability to play the Council like a fiddle, the man had always had always been terrible at concealing his emotions.

"How’d you figure that out?" He asks seriously. You snort.

"A raid in the Council’s stronghold? Let’s just say I seriously doubt that whoever broke in came for Heimerdinger’s book collection." You say sarcastically.

Suddenly, the spotlights come to life, and a masked enforcer joins the two of you.

"They’re here, sir." Marcus nods and turns to you.

"Get behind the second line, and stay there unless ordered otherwise." You are about to protest but he is already moving forward with a small squad. The audacity, to call you here during your off-hours only to have you hang back and away from the main event. Regardless, you start to back up slowly, keeping attentive eyes fixed before you. In the distance, two figures emerge from the evening mist, progressing towards the roadblock. The enforcers take aim and start walking too, meeting them in the middle with Marcus flanking them. His hands are clasped behind his back, and he seems awfully relaxed despite the nagging tension in the air.

You end up much further away than you would like, but orders are orders. You squint painfully in order to catch whatever you can from the exchange. The two silhouettes are clearer now, thanks to the powerful lights; a young boy and a woman, unarmed and without backup, at least none that you can see from your position. Your eyes focus on the boy, on his outfit more specifically, and it takes you about a second to connect the dots. The mask dangling from his hip, the bandana tied around his neck, the big flying board strapped to his back. A Firelight. And not just any member of the controversial gang, this one is none other than the leader, Ekko. And next to him is— no, that makes no sense—Kiramman? You blink a few times. Surely your sleep-depraved mind is playing tricks on you. But it is her, Caitlyn Kiramman, daughter of senior councillor Cassandra Kiramman, and a very promising enforcer who suddenly went rogue not even a week ago, or so the Sheriff insisted.

An enforcer and a Firelight, quite the odd pairing indeed, especially since the latter have recently been designated as the prime suspects of the recent attacks that shook Piltover at the core. Even though as far as you are concerned, the accusation makes no sense. You have yet to see the so-called irrefutable evidence that has been found against them, evidence which has never been officially presented, but led to the blockade of the entire city regardless.

It had always been your belief that the Enforcement body put too much effort in fighting the Firelights. The only trouble they cause is against the Eye of Zaun’s production of Shimmer, which topside should be grateful for; if anything, the Firelights are doing most of the work for them. True, they had attacked a shipment over the city not that long ago, but it was clear that Piltover was not their target. It is something you have been thinking about for a while now, this obsession with the Firelights, when crime and Shimmer are the true plagues and spreading like never before.

From the distance you see Marcus ordering his men to stand back as he moves forward to meet with Kiramman and Ekko. No matter how many times you turn the problem over in your head, you can’t make head or tail out of this alliance. Although you have a feeling this little night encounter will clarify a few points. The young boy pulls some sort of protective cylinder from behind him, although he seems reluctant to show what hides inside. He opens it eventually, leading Marcus to inch closer in order to inspect the goods. There’s a pause, the party gauges each other out in apparent uncomfortable silence. Whatever the Firelight boy revealed has definitely caught the Sheriff’s interest, although not enough to conclude a bargain it would seem. Marcus just stands there motionless, as if weighing his options. Kiramman is talking to him now, you can only assume she is pushing for some sort of deal, an exchange perhaps, intel for intel. Money? Surely Marcus wouldn’t… You suddenly stop all speculation and watch in complete shock as he pulls out his pistol and fires a single shot, square in the boy’s stomach. The latter collapses, forcefully projected backwards with the power of the point blank shot.

Silence reigns on the bridge, save for a few crows cawing and flying away, the rest suspended in time, waiting. What the hell.

Marcus is now aiming at a discomfited Caitlyn, a rare sight, and his men have started to move forward, getting in formation around the woman. They exchange words, but Marcus does most of the talking as Caitlyn looks too petrified to speak. Orders be damned, you leave the line of enforcers who are currently staring incredulously at each other, as shocked as you are. There’s a figure running towards the meeting point, it appears to be a woman, but you can barely make her out through the fog. What you can clearly see, however, is the swarm of small green lights flying at a rapid pace alongside her. Firelights. Hundreds of them, merging to the same location as if they had been summoned there. Then, the cloud of insects lingers above Marcus, Caitlyn and the group of enforcers before descending upon them. A small number reach past the center of the bridge, to you, and you reflexively bat them away. You’ve never liked insects, not from this close anyway, and certainly not in great numbers. Some enforcers hold out their gloved hands to allow the firelights to land, seemingly amused by the situation. Admittedly, it’s quite a pleasant distraction from what usually happens up there— or doesn’t happen.

A tiny clicking sound emanates from all the bugs at once, like a detonation, and next thing you know, you are violently projected against the bridge’s bannister.

For the next minute or two, the only sound you hear is a numbing and constant whistling in your eardrum. You feel a hot liquid running slowly down the side of your temple, and your head is pounding like a jackhammer. Around you, bodies of enforcers lie limp on the ground in puddles of thick blood. You have seen your share of gruesome and violence, but can’t help the nausea that overtakes you as you scrawl through a sea of freshly detached limbs, the smell of copper filling your lungs. You reach an enforcer, one of the few still conscious. He is moaning in pain, mumbling incoherently as he holds up his arms, both severed at the wrist and forearm. Moans turn to screams as the realisation sinks in, you wonder if he knows his right leg is missing too.

As your hearing gradually comes back, you realise there is something going on at the centre of the bridge, where the explosions did the most damage. Gathering your strength and balance, you rise to your feet and progress towards it. More fighting it would seem. A shot rings in the air and lodges itself in a stone pillar just a couple feet away from you. You march on, unphased, a trembling hand hovering above your holster. You recognise the Firelight leader, who seems to have been untouched by the explosions, and facing him… Those long blue braids, that slender figure. Jinx. And the bombs all make sense now. There’s only one person in this city who would be capable of manufacturing such a weapon, and nobody makes anything go boom like Jinx does, all Enforcers learn that the hard way.

The two teens throw themselves at each other with a speed that makes the fight difficult to follow. Ekko quickly takes the upper hand, pinning the girl down with all his might. One, two, three hard punches square in the face, most people would have been knocked out cold by now, but Jinx struggles as best she can, until her body has nothing left to give. Ekko hovers over her, fist in the air, ready to strike one final blow to her blood-smeared face. But his hand hangs in the air, suspended in time, petrified.

Your heart sinks at the disturbing spectacle unfolding before you. What leads two children to fight to the death and show such a level of animosity? You don’t have time to answer that question as another large detonation erupts at the exact place where Ekko and Jinx were fighting.

The boy is the first to emerge, and it appears that the weapon got him good this time. He limps towards you and collapses in your arms. But the second he acknowledges your uniform, he starts struggling weakly against you, moaning in pain against your shoulder. The cries, however, have nothing to do with the physical pain. The stir from utter distress and despair. You don’t insist, and let him go gently, supporting him all the way.

"You should go." You say as you hear the cavalry starting to make progress from the other side of the bridge. Took them long enough. Ekko, although his head is still pounding, manages a frown.

"Why?"

"Your work is far from done, kid. Now get going." Your tone is firm enough to get the message across, but warm enough to convey that you care at least a little bit, and Ekko simply nods, peers at you one last time in mild confusion, before limping away through the fog.

A couple feet away, Jinx lies unmoving on the ground, and you pray that she isn’t dead as you approach and crouch beside her. Who knows what King of the underground would do if his protégé was to be taken away from him. The question is what would be obliterated first, Zaun or Piltover. Either way, there would be only ashes left on both sides. You let a sigh of relief escape as you feel a light pulse against the girl’s wrist. However, she needs medical attention, sooner rather than later. Her injuries look severe even to your untrained eyes and she has lost a lot of blood. As you let her arm down, her fingers relax, and a glowing round object rolls from her grasp. You do a double-take as you gape at it. It can’t be. The gemstone. The source of so many turmoils this past month just inches away from you, so shiny and out of place among the debris, as if daring you to take it.

"Are you alright? Where’s the Sheriff?" You were so taken by the object that you completely missed the hurried footsteps behind you. As quickly and discreetly as possible, you shove the gemstone inside a compartment of your utility belt and turn to face the small group of enforcers gathered at the scene, Warren among them. A sigh of relief escapes you as there’s no trace of the Firelight leader. He had slipped away just in time.

"He did not make it." You say, rising to your feet. The men in uniform exchange incredulous looks. "Help me with the body." They must have missed the urgency in your tone because they remain unmoving, their eyes still taking in the bloodbath. "Come on, Teebo, put those big arms of yours to use."

"She’s right, boys," Warren jumps in, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "We’ve been after her for weeks, and now we finally got somethin’ to show for. The Council will be pleased." He stands proudly, hands on his hips as two enforcers work to lift Jinx’s inert body of the ground. "Let’s see how the son of a bitch can manage without his prized pupil—" the sentence dies in his throat and he freezes, shoulders stiffening. He might as well have seen a ghost. "Speaking of the devil."

You've never actually met the Eye of Zaun. You've seen the murals of course, heard the stories, and encountered his goons more times than you can count. But most of all, you've witnessed the damage and destruction he’s caused in the undercity over the past few years— shimmer, gang violence, oppression of the chembarons, child labour. Now, he may not be directly responsible for that last one, but the man has hardly done anything to stop it. It's rampant. Spreading like a disease with no cure in sight. You are all too familiar with it.

As you stand a couple paces away from Silco himself, you finally understand the fear and dread he inspires in both zaunites and pilties alike. His entrance feels almost theatrical and dramatic in the mist. It is just him and two large henchmen…against dozens of armed enforcers. There's no chance, no world in which a fight would go his way. And yet, there isn’t a trace of doubt in his one good eye. He's ready to pounce, to fight to the death like a raging animal to retrieve the girl with blue hair. No one has ever looked at you this way before—with such pure, unfiltered hatred. And you’ve just met the guy.

You take one tentative step forward, but that’s as far as you. Silco’s gaze freezes you in place, and whatever you were about to say gets stuck in your throat.

"Let’s grab him too" Warren urges right from behind you, restless.

"Those aren’t our orders," you say absently, your attention fixed on the one-eyed man.

"Are you kidding me? We could hit two big fucking birds with one stone. Right here! This could be huge for us."

"Don’t push your luck, Warren. We’ve got the girl. That’s the best bargaining chip we could hope for." That seems to get the point across, and Warren backs down.

"Get her back to the truck. This is a good day, gentlemen, a very good day!" He triumphs as he retreats with the rest of the squad.

Silco takes a step forward, fists clenched at his side. One of his men grips Jinx’s makeshift mini-gun, finger on the trigger, odds be damned. You advance as well, hanging your rifle on your shoulder, hoping so erase any sign of hostility. If a gunfight was to break out now, Zaun would have to find itself a new leader, and the blue-haired girl would no doubt be caught in the crossfire. Silco, despite his anger and desire to kill everyone in sight to get to Jinx, seems to understand that. His shoulders relax, slowly lowering, and he motions for his men to step back. He remains firmly planted there, challenging you with a look—silent, but deadly. Your heart pounds so hard in your chest that you can hear it in your head. As you watch Silco disappear into the fog, just as he had emerged, you can’t help but wonder if you’ve just signed your own death warrant.

Thank you so much for reading, hope you enjoyed this chapter <3

Chapter 1 ⎜ Chapter 2 ⎜ Chapter 3 ⎜ Chapter 4 ⎜ Chapter 5

#silco #silco x reader #arcane #dusty writes

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leviathanleva · 5 months ago

Text

Cujo

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Supersoldier!FemReader

Description: A monster in human skin, a weapon disguised as a person, no thoughts, no emotion, as per design. He despises you and everything you stand for. He’s tried to kick you out of his squad and failed, he’s made it his mission to break you no matter the cost.

It comes as a surprise when he asks you to lie and say you love him.

[4.4k words]

[Angst, Blood and Injury, Graphic Depiction of Gore]

Chapter 3 "Liquorish"

Heartbeat heavy in your chest, you race up the supposedly abandoned building, finding enemy after enemy.

It was supposed to be a routine inspection, an easy mission, in and out in less than a week. Now everything is turned upside down and being unable to contact or smell Ghost anywhere near has your senses flaring up with the unfamiliar feeling of stress and determination.

Bloodlust hazes your vision, everything has a ruddy tint to it, be it from splattered entrails or rage, it’s beyond your understanding. The memories still linger, the last sentence you heard over the coms before everything went to static:

“Hound! Do not engage! The roof is – ”

You were supposed to be his shield, it’s your job to be ambushed and take damage, you can regenerate, he can’t. But Ghost let either his man pride or his protective instinct overwhelm him, the anxiety still lingered in his gut no matter how many times you came back to him half dead and you were good as new minutes later. He wasn’t thinking clearly when he pushed you behind him and ordered you to watch his back as you advanced through the abandoned building suspected of drug trafficking activity.

He moved ahead without you, for once he wanted to be your protector. Now you can’t sense hair or trail from him and you’re becoming increasingly frustrated.

Easy mission your ass. This was a charade for something bigger.

The mask around your mouth whirls in overdrive, siphoning as much oxygen as possible while you vigorously work your way to the dreaded roof. Straining both muscle and limb in unison, you climb floor after floor, pushing your limitations as vapor froths off your skin and trails behind you like a haunting mirage. Your body is boiling on the inside, having exerted too much energy in too short a time and your muzzle can only do so much to keep you going before you collapse from overheating.

To hell with pushing your bounds when the Lieutenant might be in danger.

Another enemy, seemingly waiting for you, they all have been, a crumb trail of beating hearts the closer you get to your destination. You dive for him as bullets dig into your shoulder, he’s sliding towards the grimy floor and clutching his shredded throat a moment later. You don’t have time for a measly nobody, he chose the wrong side, he suffers the consequences.

The concrete debris crinkles under your boots, crushed to fine dust under the pressure you’ve put on your feet. Clutching and shouldering corners, you bounce yourself off them to retain speed in the claustrophobic corridors. Jump over handfuls of stairs where more hostiles await, you hear them before you see them, distinguishing their heavy breathing over your muffled pants.

Blood painting the walls like an abstract piece of art, death is left in your wake as you rush up another floor. The screams have alerted more people, and so have the gunshots and you bristle at the amount of footsteps echoing in the shells of your ears.

What is going on? Why are there so many of them? Where the hell is the Lieutenant? How did they jam your coms?

The questions are pushed aside as you appear in the shadows of a bare apartment, blending into the darkness and only your irises visible. A menacing sight to anyone, a monster, it’s what you’ve become as you slowly drown in your brutish ways the longer you’re detached from your beloved master.

A hoarse growl escapes you, you’re nearly moving on all fours, prowling low to the floor as you tackle the first enemy target. Flashlights are thrown astray, nearly blinding you as the chaos ensues. You crush bone like it’s toothpicks, rip at flesh like paper, the whirring in your mask overwhelms the gurgling cries for help and call for reinforcements. Bloodlust can be dangerous in the hands of one who is inexperienced such as yourself and you keep walking deeper down that path as no sign of your teammate shines to stifle you back to normalcy.

Strands of hair stick to your face like glue, matted down and drenched in sweat, your gear feels heavy and damp, it’s a sauna beneath your loose, coarse blouse. Your socks are slippery against the inside of your boots and you have half a mind to kick them off and continue barefoot. Juggernaut as you are, your breaking point is nearly reached and you feel the stinging pain creeping up your spine. The idea of rest is forced away, you can’t afford it when you’re so close, you’ve come too far to shut down now to cool off, not when Ghost is unresponsive.

The amount of cocking weapons should be concerning as you near the door to the roof, bloodshot eyes opened wide and pupils dilated as the scent of familiarity finally reaches your nostrils, too intoxicating for your mind to register the plethora of other bodily odors.

You nearly break through the door in your neglectful hurry, gaze harsh and piercing, slicing through the multitude of hostile soldiers only with your oppressive presence. Hunched over, with tense shoulders and pulsing hands that are itching to rip into the men before you, you skim over the roof with vigor, letting your nose guide your vision to a familiar figure standing at the edge of the roof.

“Lieutenant!” Your first instinct is to rasp out, crystalline orbs trained on his battered form strung up by a crane like a piece of meat. A guttural snarl reverberates deep in your throat as you turn to the crowd of armed enemies with malice, ready to shred them to a pulp and eat a bucket of bullets in the process if only to get to your precious squad mate.

Ghost sways above a crater, his secured feet dangling above a deadly drop. You can smell the blood slowly oozing down his knuckles, staining his gloves, and hear his steady heart as he swims in unconsciousness. You nearly whine at the sight, reeling your head towards him with the need to call out again and maybe have him wake up.

No such simple luxury is provided for you, instead you’re faced off with a handful of brutes who believe their chances of survival are higher than zero.

You take a step forward. The weapons train on you.

You’ll rip them apart –

“ – Tut, tut!”

You falter at the voice and watch the nearly unhinged door behind you close to reveal none other than your target – suited and unbothered by your feral breathing and unceremonial entrance. The man you’ve been hunting for an age too long now to admit, a slippery bastard that felt someone breathing down his neck only when you were sent after his trail. Philip Graves stands to your right, the traitor, the absolute menace of a man that has the audacity to flick a smile at you as if you’d just joined his most prestigious party.

“Well, it’s nice to finally see Shepherd’s little experiment in the flesh.” He croons and looks you over in marvel. A bitter frown adorns your features as you abandon your prowling stance and straighten your back, adopting a more human-like pose. “Quite the achievement.” He notices your attention turn completely to him and scoffs before unfurling his fingers to show off a remote of sorts. “Don’t give me that look.”

“And that is…?” You question, words slurred by the confines of your muzzle as your eyes dart from his face to the remote, then you realize and your glare sharpens.

“The remote to the crane of course. I wouldn’t risk being in your proximity if I didn’t have a guarantee of your obedience. I’m confident, not a fool.” You’d snort at his cocky words in a different setting. He gestures at you with his free hand, flicking his fingers casually as if ushering a child. “Now if you really cherish your Lieutenant – remove your mask.”

For a brief moment, you’re left confused, blink at him twice before tilting your chin to one side and crossing your arms, eyes straying from him as you plunge into thought. The audacity was not what bewildered you, but his utter belief in having wrangled you pliant. To think he was willing to so absolutely rely on the dry, shallow information he’d dug up was preposterous. It was also wrong, your instructions were clear and no blackmail or threat was going to weaken your resolve.

You were trained to hunt, complete your assignment at any cost, be put in lethal danger, and come out victorious. Your squad mates were weak to no fault of their own, but their lifeline was something you would risk for the greater good.

This was your duty.

“No.” You answer simply and take a step forward. Whatever justice-fueled speech was circling in your head is silenced by an unfamiliar trepidation in your chest as you see Graves’ thumb glide over the release button on the remote. You swallow something thick in your throat and huff out a breath before straightening your shoulders. “Return the Lieutenant to me and I will leave you to run. I will not pursue you. You have my word.”

What was this…? What the hell were you saying?

He laughs at your words, apparently the contradiction of them to your monotone voice is entertaining. Your jaw clenches at his nonchalant demeanor used to disguise the nervous sheet of sweat forming thickly on the back of his neck. You can smell it even with the abundance of testosterone burning your nostrils.

“You see, I would…but then again, I don’t trust you.”

“I do not lie.” You state with a deadpan look.

“You don’t disobey orders either.” Graves retorts and gives you a challenging expression, pursing his lips to one side and deeming you too untrustworthy for a dealing of a peace delegation. “Mask off. Now.” He snaps when you don’t budge and twirls the remote in his hand before pointing it daringly at Ghost. A moment of nothing passes and instead of the tension you’d hoped to rise within him, he grins and rests a hand on his hip, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Oh? Is this right? You truly don’t care for your teammate?”

“No.” Comes your immediate answer, smooth and soft and lacking an ounce of care for the potential danger it might send your Lieutenant in. You glance at his limp, hanging body with disinterest and blame your palpitating heart to the long and strenuous journey to the roof rather than something else. It couldn’t be anything else, you felt nothing but the aftermath of physical exertion. “Whether he lives or dies, it’s all the same to me.” You’re being truthful yet every single word wrestles with you fervently before being forced past your teeth. Strange and bothersome, but you pay it no mind. “If I return with your head my task is complete. Your death is my mission, casualties are inevitable.”

He doesn’t buy it.

“Let’s test that theory, shall we?” Graves sneers something vile and again points the remote at the crane, toying with you and relishing in it.

Your mask hisses loudly and is tossed on the concrete floor of the roof before you can realize what you’re doing. The lower part of your face – wet from the vapor of your breaths, soiled with a snarl. You don’t dare let the bastard out of sight now that the power dynamic has shifted in his favor.

“There you go. Good girl.” He coos at the sight of your unreluctant obedience and his smug features soften in near adoration. “Seems you still have a heart after all.”

Not fond of his degrading babying, you try to steer the conversation to another, much more vital topic that has been gnawing at your gut since the revealing of his presence.

“Why are you here? What business do you have with me?”

Graves, much to your surprise, obliges your question.

“A little birdie told me I’m being hunted by a whole new predator. A…special one this time.” He begins and motions for his men to make their way to his side, steering them to a safe distance from your vicious paws in case you snap despite the low odds. He reciprocates the eye contact, almost unblinking, not wanting to miss a beat from your uncanny demeanor. “That birdie also told me you have a habit of following orders only from your Lieutenant and I thought maybe…if I manage to string up the worm, I’ll get the fish.” His arms spread wide, his chest expands and you’re almost tempted to lunge forward. “And voila.”

“That’s not an answer to my question.” You cock your head at him and let your arms unfold and fall to your sides.

The corners of his mouth twitch at your disinterest.

“I wanted to see you in the flesh, Hound.” He answers then, changing from his grandiose façade to a genuine and less irritable one. Gesturing towards you, he continues. “Check if the rumors are true. And judging by the fact you even got to the roof – they certainly are.” His hands clasped together over his pelvis, the remote shining still between his fingers, yellow and menacing in contrast to his black cotton gloves. “Quite disgusting what they did to you. Wouldn’t you say?” The nearly heartfelt sympathy in his tone does little to sway your intentions and it shows clearly on your unmoving features. Yet he keeps going, keeps feeding you with conflicting thoughts that fail to take root in your mind. “Countless months of agony just to become a pawn.”

Despite the unpleasant memories flooding your head at his take, you hum and brush them aside without much effort.

“I consented to my augmentations.”

“That you did.” He nods and juts his jaw before flicking the blonde locks away from his eyes and slicking them back. “ For the chance of serving a greater purpose, not being someone’s lapdog and wasting your potential on lowly criminals.” Scorn drips heavily from his tongue, a hidden distaste for his own misfortunes showing, misfortunes much similar to yours. “But I won’t sway you yet. I can’t when your attention is so torn between me and your Lieutenant.”

Maybe his sympathy is sincere, you think. Maybe there’s an ounce of truth in his law-breaking, scummy ways and he sees you as much of a victim as he sees himself. It would make sense why he orchestrated this whole situation instead of simply trying to kill you and rid himself of you.

A part of you believes him, you can tell that bits and pieces of what he says come from a wronged man trying to take revenge for his pain. But you’re no simple soldier, you were built to withstand manipulation, torture, worse. You admit to his twisted honesty but have no intent in following after him and abandoning everything you’ve worked to build no matter how unimportant or unimpressive it was.

“You’re misinterpreting.”

The distinct beat of helicopter wings catches your attention far before the vehicle itself appears in the distance. Graves and his men’s ride, you presume, a quick escape after he got bored of your lack of subordination and bid you farewell.

“Am I?” He doesn’t dare to glance back, instead lets his ears assure him that his escape route is secured and is hastily approaching his location. “So far you’ve completed your tasks well.” A gloved thumb rubs over his freshly shaven jaw, before nudging his bottom lip up in contemplation as he sizes you up and down with a calculative look. “I have one last objective for you, though, just to test your limits. Figure out what I’m up against, you know?”

“I don’t take orders from you.” You hiss, expressing something more than monotony for the first time during your conversation.

His words had struck a nerve somewhere, surprisingly so, yet he took the opportunity regardless.

“This one you’ll have to.” He all but sighs, bored with your resistance and crackling unbothered demeanor. There’s too much peaking beneath it and he wants to sink his teeth into it, yet you continue to deny him. Whether from a lack of understanding over your emotions or a very bad attempt at hiding them, they were visibly showing through and he couldn’t get enough of it. “Tell me, do you think if you jump from this building you can survive?”

“Without my mask, it’s highly unlikely.”

A gust of wind sweeps by you and suddenly you’re painfully aware how it sways the rope Ghost hangs from, still and silent. Sweat forms on your brow, your hands curl into fists, blunt nails digging into the flesh of your palms and nearly drawing blood.

“Interesting.” He hums at your answer, nodding at the new information bestowed upon him – a weakness, a flaw in your design that your makers hadn’t been able to work out. This gave him a useful advantage against you. “So without a steady supply of oxygen, you’re rendered useless.”

“I can still rip you in half.” You declare and lean forward, arms dangling and ready to clutch at the floor and propel you forward. Your patience runs thin and Graves tastes it on his tongue, not much longer before you snap and dash either for him or the Lieutenant.

“Oh, I don’t doubt.” He laughs in your face like your threat means nothing and gestures for his men to board the helicopter before hopping on himself. He grips onto the side of the door and smiles bitterly at you. “Well, it’s been a pleasure making your acquaintance finally after such a long game of cat and mouse. I’m afraid we must be going now though.”

“Do you like hearing yourself talk?” A bark reverberates somewhere deep in your throat, akin to a growl as you lunge towards the helicopter.

No more talking, you’ve given him enough grace. Should have ended everything minutes before, forced yourself to move out of the stupor your Lieutenant’s state had pinned you in.

He doesn’t matter, nothing matters but Graves’ head, and like a scared mutt, you’d let him grow confident in his false influence over you.

“You know, you’re right. I’ve talked enough.” Venom oozes from his smirk as he spits one last taunt your way. “Fetch!”

You fail to realize why he’s so self-assured when you’re still capable of reaching him before the helicopter has lifted off. The slimy smirk doesn’t leave his face as he presses the button and turns away from you with a distinct “Ta!”. It’s sickening. Ghost matters not, your orders are clear and you’re sure the Lieutenant would understand the sacrifice you had to make were he in your stead. It’s a worthy sacrifice, he’d be honored after his demise, renowned for leading you to the den of the enemy for you to demolish and rid the world of their stain of an existence.

“You’re a fool if you think – ”

Your voice hitches as your body involuntarily turns away from Graves.

WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING –

You dash across the rooftop and leap over the edge without a drop of hesitancy. A coil nestles in your stomach, not from the sight before you – a height so devastating, the street below so far that the cars look like mere pebbles, but at the thought of abandoning your prospect, disobeying a command, revolting against your upper command.

Too late to turn back now. And even if you could, would you?

No…

You adjust your limbs against the merciless wind, propel your arms forward like a diver about to hit the water's surface, your entire being flattened to endure as much resistance as possible and cut through the air. The cold whips against your eyes, blurs your vision with tears which you rapidly blink away to not lose sight of Ghost’s descending body.

Was it only the cold? Why were the tears so salty then?

Why was your face stuck in a desperate grimace of horror and hope?

Halfway across the building, you manage to snatch the rope around your Lieutenant’s waist. Your victory is shortlived as the earth beneath approaches steadfast and you bite into your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood and keep your head as cool as possible.

What now?

Even if he’s safely in your arms, you’re still heading for an inevitable death and thinking time is limited. You wrack your brain into turbo mode to come up with something, anything to save him, prevent his fall. The solution comes to you and it’s not all too pleasant, but without an alternative, you relent.

You thrust your arm through the glassy wall of the building, letting the shards shred through your skin, unable to exert your full potential without your mask. You try to regardless and your throat feels like it’s closing in on itself, you can’t breathe in enough air, the oxygen is not nearly the amount you need and you’re left suffocating slowly. Your hand mauls through cement floors and polished windows that shatter under the pressure as you desperately grapple for something, trying to slow your momentum.

Heart hammering in your throat, eyes wide with plea for something to work, for a miracle to happen, but it doesn’t. No fairytales allowed for the sinful and decrepit, for those who’ve abandoned their humanity for the betterment of civilization.

Pain doesn’t register on your features as your arm continues to endure in vain, shredded, sliced, battered to a pulp. But the horror registers when it shatters, the bone and flesh unable to withstand such detrimental amounts of damage, it’s rendered useless. It’s not the physical agony that terrifies you, but the only means of you saving the Lieutenant – now completely obliterated.

What now?

You think while your gaze darts from the bloodied, mangled mess that is your now worthless limb to the hastily approaching pavement below.

DO SOMETHING! ANYTHING! –

“Bloody f – ”

The once-lidded chocolate orbs you’ve grown to cherish look up at you – spastic, disoriented, glued to you as if you could explain your current predicament. You drown in them for a moment, pained, mournful that you’ve failed to fulfill both your duties.

Not a good hound. Fucking useless.

The prey got away, your keeper is soon to be a splatter of intestines on the ground below.

Good for nothing you are. Failed at everything. Can’t even save your own Lieutenant.

“Hound! Fucking hell, we – ”

Your jaw tightens, and your skin crawls once you’re close enough to discern the peculiar cracks in the sidewalk, you’re that close now. Doom, there’s nothing left but to die.

No. You refuse. If not for yourself, then for Ghost. You can’t lose him. You’ll sacrifice everything for him.

In a last attempt at being a hero, you struggle in the air, against the howling wind that screams bloody murder in your ears. You fiddle spasmodically, manage to clumsily maneuver both of you, deaf to the breathless curses slipping past his mask. You thrust him sideways, fling him into a window hard enough to make it give in under his weight. He breaks through back first, you hear him choke as he hits and skids on the carpeted floor with a deft thud.

You nearly smile, a contrast at his horrified expression as he realizes the situation – your maskless face, your bloodied limb, it’s only for a split second before you’re back to hurtling down without him. You hear a scream of your name, the intimate one, the real one.

Your eyes water anew, maybe from the air, maybe from him calling out to you in what sounds like spastic worry.

One good hand was all you needed.

You’re free now. You fulfilled your duty.

Everything hurts, you feel your entire being imprinted into the roof of a car, having squished it in the impact. Blood coats your tongue, your throat feels crushed. You’re choking for air quietly, your body desperately trying to repair all damages but failing because your mouth and nose can’t gulp enough oxygen no matter how greedily you’re breathing.

Sprawled out, the sky swirls high above your head, gazed at through blurry vision. Stars twinkle like smudged jewels, the moon is nowhere to be seen and for a moment you feel alone and at peace. It doesn’t matter that you’re molded into a random car with shattered bones and punctured lungs.

Maybe there are witnesses, maybe the streets are empty, you’re unsure, the screaming in your ears is punching at your eardrums and you can’t make out anything.

A peaceful death after years of war is what you wish for.

The cold creeps over your skin, through your gear, its caress soothing against your steaming flesh.

A splotch of creamy whine enters your vision, poking from one of the shattered windows. A skull mask, you recognize it even with both eyes and mind hazy and drunk on scalding pain. You’d reach out if you could, your first instinct demands you to do so, reach out to Ghost, reunite as leal hound and loving master once more. But you can’t, your body refuses to budge, a twitch of your fingers is all you can muster.

A cough rips through you, excruciating, and more stomach-churning iron rushes over your sticky tongue.

Will he remember you? Will he mourn you if you pass? Will he miss you? Will your absence leave yet another scar for him to nurture? Will he ever forgive you for sacrificing yourself for him?

Does it matter?

Not really…

But it does.

Somewhere deep within the crooks and crevices of your heart, it does matter to you, if only a little.

Your eyelids are heavy and you’ve not the strength to keep them open anymore. The chill air is so welcoming, lulls you and tugs you towards the comforts of slumber.

You hear a rasp, his voice echoing, deep and baritone as he disappears somewhere in the darkness.

You can’t stay conscious anymore no matter how desperately he begs you. You’re tired, just want to sleep, you’re aching, you want out of the pain, out of responsibilities and bloodshed.

This feels nice. Oblivion is welcoming.

The cold dissipates, and everything goes dark. You take one last meager breath and succumb to blackened dreams and fleeting pictures, sprawled vastly on the surface of your mind as your body gives out completely.

<<< Chapter 2

Chapter 4 >>>

Masterlist

#x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #ghost cod #cod fanfic #cod mw2 #ghost x you

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scariusaquarius · 8 days ago

Text

rehab. 8.

Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Winter Soldier! Fem! Reader

Summary: While on a mission to find any more possible super soldiers that were a part of the Winter Soldier program, Steve and Bucky make a discovery in an abandoned HYDRA base that was cleared out a few years prior to their mission. They discover the Reader, a long-forgotten soldier that was still asleep within a functioning cryostasis pod; still awaiting orders. While Bucky isn't happy about it, he is put up to the challenge of helping to rehabilitate the soldier in Wakanda where she may be able to become a person again.

A/n: I hope that you guys are enjoying the story so far! Please don't be afraid to comment or sends asks about it. I am a bit worried about the pacing, and I don't know if I like how this is playing out rip If you would prefer to read Rehab on Archive, you may do so right HERE! I also wrote this to Abe Parker - It Is what it Is, Sam Barber - Indigo, and Jonathan - The Garage

This is an au where Bucky joined the avengers but still rehabilitated in Wakanda (sometime before Infinity War [canon divergent cause NOPE]). I am NOT fluent in Russian, so I did use google translate cause I couldn't find a good translator that I trusted. If anything is wrong, PLEASE let me know!! Also, I tried to list as many warnings as possible so you know what the story will contain as chapters are posted. Stay safe!

Genre: Slowburn, Enemies to Lovers/Friends to Lovers, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Humor, Drama, Dark Content Rated: Explicit Warning: Angst, Dark Content: Graphic Depictions of Sexual Assault, Blood and Gore, Mentions of Manipulation, Kidnapping, Canon-Typical Violence, Body Horror, Nonconsensual Body Modification/Scarring, Emotional and Physical Abuse, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts/Ideation, Graphic Depictions of Human Remains, Mentions of Sexual Coercion/Manipulation, Death, Misuse of Drugs/Forced Drugging, Self-Harm (Graphic Depictions and Mentions), Nightmares

Author: ScariusAquarius

rehab masterlist. chapter 6 / chapter 7

Shuri sighed as she watched the soldier from behind the glass of the lab doors. The soldier hadn't moved since Shuri and Bucky had left her by herself; simply sitting at the table where her empty bowl of Isidudu sat. The soldier seemed emotionless, simply staring ahead as if she was waiting for orders, and Shuri knew that in a way, she was.

While Shuri knew that HYDRA was a terrible organization, especially when she first treated Bucky, but she never anticipated it to be bad in this way. If Shuri could scrub her mind of the images of the dreams of memories about the torture the soldier endured during her time at HYDRA, Shuri would trade all the vibranium in the world to do so.

The sexual torture, the flagellation until the ground colored itself red and her vision tunneled, the drowning in disguise as training, burning her skin before peeling away the burnt flesh...it was no surprise that the soldier was simply a conditioned tool.

How could a person continue to be human when subjected to such animalistic torture?

It made Shuri angry and determined. While Shuri felt guilt for the soldier being able to remember such horrible things, she knew that it was needed. It was needed for the soldier to understand that she was more than what HYDRA made her and what they had done was not right.

In a way, Shuri hoped that the pain would somehow remind the Isithunzi that she was, in fact, human; that while she was a super soldier, she was still capable of being a human and she was still capable of bleeding and pain and that was okay.

Of course, it was easier said than done and there was a ton of work that needed to be done to get the soldier to that point. However, Shuri was determined to see this through.

She just wasn't sure if her method was truly humane. Was it right to manipulate the soldier in the way that she was? Nevertheless, Shuri knew that her intentions were good; would it even pay off in the end? Would the soldier still hold herself to completing the mission even after everything had been made clear and she could make that assumption on her own?

Shuri jolted when Bucky greeted her, making the princess hold a hand to her chest as Bucky stared at her with a raised and amused eyebrow.

"My goodness, don't scare me like that, colonizer!"

"Downgraded back to colonizer, I see."

Bucky joked gently, and though he wore a gentle smile on his face, Shuri could see the exhaustion on his face.

"You never upgraded."

She replied sassily, and Bucky snorted. At the sound of his laughter, Shuri chuckled as well before she sighed and looked back into the lab at the empty-looking soldier. Bucky carefully watched Shuri's face, observing as a slight shadow came across her features, and he pointed out to her.

"You look like you've got something on your mind."

Shuri pursed her lips slightly, wondering if she should open up her mind to the White Wolf before she allowed her shoulders to fall slightly.

"I cannot get the images of what they did to her out of my mind. I am certain that there is more than what we have seen...but it...it's horrific. There is just no other way to describe it."

Shur swallowed thickly, her voice quieting softly as Bucky listened intently; his gaze slowly turning back to the empty woman within the lab.

"My soul hurts for her. I know she is supposed to be our enemy right now...but all I see is another victim of HYDRA and their horrible, horrible ways."

Shuri shook her head, crossing her arms and glancing down at the ground.

"I am a scientist. I dabble with technology and science in hopes that I discover something new that may help to advance human knowledge and create a better world...because I enjoy this. I enjoy being able to discover and to change and to experiment. It is within my blood..."

Her voice trailed off, and Shuri shook her head.

"When my father was killed, I felt such unfathomable sadness and rage...but to be forced to lose ones self...their memories, their hopes, and their dreams...it must truly feel like death."

Bucky didn't know what to respond with. He continued to stare at the woman before he whispered softly, shaking his head before Bucky looked over at Shuri again.

"She's not our enemy...because you're right. She's another victim who was stripped of her whole entire identity and humanity because of an organization that wanted to further their cause no matter the cost."

Bucky bit his lip slightly as he began to think of what he wanted to say next, and he was thankful that Shuri was patient enough to let him think before Bucky settled.

"It's hard to want to help her because its like being placed in front of a mirror...it's one thing to be it and another to see it. Every time that I look at her, I just see me...I see what I was forced to do...forced to endure, and it makes me angry all over again."

Bucky swallowed thickly, whispering with a slight shake to his voice.

"I know that she can't control her own thoughts and actions because of the brainwashing...and that's what makes it hard."

Bucky gazed hard and long at the woman, and he was almost forced into silence when the soldier glanced over at him. They held eye contact, even as he began to speak again.

"When she told me that I was her mission...I was afraid. I was afraid that somehow HYDRA was going to burst through the doors and take me back...and I still feel that way...and I'm conflicted because I know it's not her fault...it's just easier to blame the next closest thing."

Shuri was quiet for a moment before whispering.

"Do not blame the one who is forced to lie with someone else's sins. She is lost and broken...just like you were. She needs salvation...she needs someone to reach down into those waters she is trapped beneath instead of pushing her down further."

"How can you be confident that I won't push her down either?"

Bucky didn't want to look at Shuri because he could already feel the disappointed stare, and he almost winced when Shuri clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

"You have come too far to become that person you were before. You are free...but she is not. She is still chained by and to what they have done, and if there is someone that can help her, it is you."

Shuri placed her hand upon Bucky's shoulder, emphasizing her words carefully.

"You can show her that you are more than just the Fist of HYDRA and she can be too, but it is up to you to take that first step, James Barnes....she can't make that decision for herself...not yet."

Bucky couldn't help but to whisper.

"I'm afraid of hurting her somehow...more than she will hurt herself when she realizes what she's done in the name of HYDRA."

"Then you must promise to keep her safe...to be kind to her just like we showed you. She is your cub now, White Wolf. Please protect her...from HYDRA and herself."

The lab doors opened, and Shuri gestured with a nod of her head silently. Bucky nodded, and he walked into the lab. The soldier had looked away from him, staring forward again, and Bucky swallowed thickly before he hesitantly asked.

"призрак?"

Her eyes flicked to life for a moment, her fists clenching slightly, and Bucky sat down before her, asking her with a raised brow as he observed her down to the last detail.

"When you said that I was your mission, what did you mean?"

The soldier's body language displayed her annoyance to the question. Her head tilted slightly, face screwing up into a nonchalant sneer before looked at him with a frown, stating as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"You are my mission."

Bucky couldn't help the frustration that went through him, taking a calming deep breath before he asked.

"I understand, but what I would like to know is what your mission is exactly? Why does HYDRA want me back?"

Soldiers were never supposed to question mission objectives. They were only meant to receive orders and deliver results, and so the soldier could not provide him with a good answer. However, that didn't mean she didn't mull over the thoughts quietly to herself.

"You are not authorized to know."

Bucky pursed his lips and he replied with furrowed brows.

"Given that I'm the one you're after, I think that I should know why."

The soldier frowned before she looked away from Bucky. There was a perplexed look on her face, almost as if she was confused, and Bucky almost gave up until the soldier asked in a quiet voice.

"...Before...you stated...you stated your name as James...did HYDRA...did they give you...that name?"

Bucky couldn't help the surprise that crossed his face from the question. Tilting his head slightly, he pursed his lips before he shook his head.

"No, HYDRA didn't give me that name. It's the name that I was born with...that my mother and father gave me."

She asked further, her gaze unable to meet his own as she nervously drummed her fingers against her knee.

"What did you mean when you said that you left?"

Bucky shrugged slightly, stating.

"Exactly that: I left HYDRA after I began to remember who I was before HYDRA kidnapped me."

The soldier became distressed slightly, a haunted expression coming across her face, and she whispered in a panic.

"I...I...Flaws Detected. Reprogramming required...!"

Tears welled up in her eyes, and Bucky was perturbed. He reached out a hand to comfort the soldier, but the soldier flinched and jumped back from him. The chair skid across the ground, creating sparks from the sheer intensity of the glide, and Bucky carefully stood up.

"Easy, призрак. I'm not going to hurt you. I want to help you, okay? I need you to allow me to help you."

Her eyes flickered slightly, a tear falling down her cheek, and she braced herself against the far wall.

"Нет! Нет! Не понимаю...не понимаю что происходит."

Bucky held his hands up carefully, calling firmly.

"Солдат! послушай меня, пожалуйста."

Her breathing was erratic, refusing to look at him, but Bucky could see her ears pricking up to focus on his words.

"Посмотри на меня."

Her eyes slowly looked over to him, her pupils pin-points in an ocean of terrified (e/c) waves, and Bucky whispered softly.

"I'm not upset that you are questioning these things...that you are asking questions at all. My intention is not to hurt you. See?"

Bucky spun slowly, lifting his shirt to show that he wasn't hiding a gun or knives, and her eyes flicked to his arm. Bucky hummed, shaking his head.

"Can't exactly fix that."

The soldier glanced back at his eyes, and she whispered shakily.

"I...I don't understand what is happening...you are my mission...my orders were to take you to Gützkow...but...but you are being..."

She couldn't seem to find the correct word, but it didn't matter. Not only did she just reveal where Rollins possibly was, but she was starting to recognize and feel things outside of the programming.

To Bucky, it was a good thing.

"Because I need you to know that I am not the enemy...surely you know that...deep down somewhere in that head of yours, you know that we're not the bad guys. You're remembering things...seeing memories of the things that HYDRA made you do and what they did to you."

Bucky was inching closer to her, his words becoming firm as he reassured her.

"We're not going to take those away from you...and we aren't going to punish you for that. We want you to remember...we want you to see that you are more than just a Winter Soldier."

"This does not help my mission."

Bucky was then put into a dilemma. Did he lie and try to manipulate her into thinking that it did, or did he be honest and risk retriggering her programming? Clenching his fists, Bucky closed his eyes for a moment before clenching his jaw. Taking a leap, Bucky replied.

"No, it doesn't. What we talk about doesn't help you in completing your mission...but understanding why they want you to complete it could help."

The soldier's lip was trembling, and she was desperately trying not to cry. The sight made Bucky feel horrible, but then the soldier slowly slid down the wall until she was huddled in the corner. She whispered softly.

"I...I dream...of a woman...who looks like I do...она красивая."

Bucky carefully lowered himself down to the ground, sitting across from the soldier as he asked her carefully.

"Do you know who this woman is?"

The soldier clutched her knees to her chest, hiding her face as she whispered.

"I don't know. Her face...is my face...but she is pretty...and wears a coat like the scientists that...come to see me do."

Bucky nodded, and he pressed further, giving the soldier a patient look.

"Does she have a name?"

The soldier didn't answer for a moment. Instead, she began to chew on her lip to the point she began to bleed heavily. Bucky moved to grab a cloth to hand to the soldier when he paused at the sound of her whispering voice.

"Да. Да, она делает."

Bucky glanced back at the soldier, and the soldier was looking at him; a desperate look within her eyes as she asked with a small and anxious voice.

"Will...will you...will you punish me?"

Although Bucky had understood her to be asking if he was going to punish her for remembering, he couldn't help but wonder if she was actually asking him to hurt her.

"What? No, of course not."

"Why? I am...flawed. My programming is malfunctioning, and I am...I am vile. I am an abomination. I am nothing if I cannot complete my mission."

Bucky became assertive, shaking his head as he refuted her words; a feeling of anger and disdain beginning to grow within his chest as he watched the woman become torn and confused and afraid.

"You are not any of those things. That's what HYDRA made you believe, but you are more than that. You don't have to follow their orders. You don't have to keep trying to prove your worth. You are more than the missions and the orders and the punishments. You can be free. Do you understand?"

The soldier shook her head, and Bucky sighed heavily, his shoulders collapsing for a moment before he stood and grabbed a cloth from a random desk within the lab. The soldier watched before flinching slightly as Bucky knelt before her, and he slowly held the cloth out for her.

"You don't have to follow HYDRA's orders. You can do what you want to do...like I have."

"I do not know how to be free. It is not in my programming."

She was clutching onto the cloth now, her expression anxious and hesitant, and Bucky gently held her hand within his flesh one. The soldier's eyes looked startled by the feeling of his hand on hers, and he affirmed.

"Yes, you do. Somewhere, deep down, you have always known that you could be free...HYDRA just didn't like that...they tried so hard to wipe that part of you...to rid you of the pretty woman in the labcoat because they knew that she knew this wasn't right. What they were doing wasn't okay."

The soldier wasn't sure what to say, pausing for a long moment before she asked in the ghost of a whisper.

"May I...have...a beverage?"

Bucky blinked in surprise before he nodded and stood up. The soldier did not move from her spot on the floor, and she watched him like a hawk as Bucky grabbed a random and clean beaker before pouring water into it.

Walking to the soldier, he handed it to her, and she immediately snatched the glass to gulp it down. Bucky was almost started by her behavior before he sighed. She must have been extremely thirsty. Hell, in all the time that the soldier had been here, Bucky hadn't seen her drink anything at all.

"I will be back soon."

The soldier paused before she began to drink again, and Bucky took that as affirmation that she had heard him. Walking out of the lab, Shuri was waiting with a proud smile on her face.

"See? That was not so hard?"

"That's what you think."

Now that he was out of sight from the Soldier, Bucky could feel the disdain and anger for HYDRA taking over. His metal arm whirred; plates shifting to reinforce the arm as he clenched his fist, and Bucky sneered out as his chest constricted and his mind began to fog slightly.

"When we go after Rollins, I want to be the one to engage."

"I won't stop you, but I also didn't hear you tell me this either."

Shuri winked before the two of them began to walk to the throne room within the Citadel where T'Challa and Okoye were waiting. T'Challa, Shuri, and Okoye all greeted each other before the king asked.

"Did you make more progress?"

"Yes! White Wolf, tell my brother what you were able to discover."

Bucky nodded slightly before explaining, crossing his arms as his brow furrowed.

"The soldier was supposed to take me to Gützkow, which I'm guessing is where Rollins is. Not only that, but she's starting to remember bits and pieces of her past. She wouldn't tell me what her name was though."

"I will inform the Avengers of our discovery, and we will leave as quickly as possible."

Okoye then asked, tilting her head.

"What about the soldier? She cannot be left on her own."

Shuri shrugged, saying.

"I am capable of watching over her. She has not exhibited hostile behavior as of yet, and with how much progress we have been making, I don't foresee her being an issue."

T'Challa looked uncomfortable, but he was unsure of voicing his concerns. Shuri was a stubborn woman, and it would be no use to try to refute her. Instead, T'Challa turned to Bucky, gesturing.

"We should prepare for this mission while we inform the Avengers of our discovery."

Bucky nodded before he pulled out his phone to call Steve, T'Challa discreetly turning his head slightly to listen from over his shoulder as Bucky greeted his old friend.

"Hey, Buck, anything new?"

"Yeah, I was able to get through a bit to the soldier. Found out that she's supposed to deliver me to Gützkow, Germany."

Steve hummed, praising the man.

"Good work, Buck. I'll let the rest of the Avengers know."

Bucky could feel his throat close up slightly, and he wondered if he should tell Steve to let him handle Rollins. However, Bucky wasn't sure if he should say anything. His head was full of images, of the things that he wanted to do to Rollins, and he clenched his fist. Steve asked slowly.

"What's going on, Bucky?"

"I want to kill him, Steve."

Steve hesitated, unsure of what to say, and he simply stated.

"I know that you do, but he's going to pay for what he did. I promise you that."

Bucky shook his head, taking a deep and calming breath. His chest was becoming too tight. His breathing was becoming irregular. His mind was fogging, and he said quietly.

"It won't be enough."

"I know. But you need to keep a level head about this. If I have to sit you out, I will."

Bucky couldn't help the annoyance that filled him, but the man understood where Steve was coming from. If Bucky wasn't careful, he could royally fuck up the mission beyond repair. Shaking his head, Bucky rubbed his hand against his face as if to wipe away the distress that he was feeling.

"She told me that she dreams of a woman who wears her face and a labcoat...she knows that she has a name, but she wouldn't tell me what it was."

Steve hummed thoughtfully, and Bucky could hear Natasha reply in the background with a thoughtful tone.

"She's probably protective of her name because she's so worried that she's going to be punished for remembering."

"You mean being wiped?"

Natasha hummed in agreement, and Steve sighed slightly.

"I'll let Tony know about the new development with Rollins. I'm pretty sure he's with Peter and Dr. Banner in the lab right now."

Bucky asked with a quirked eyebrow.

"Is he planning on bringing the kid?"

"I'm not sure. I think they're currently working on a new suit for him."

Bucky just stayed quiet for a moment before he replied.

"She also mentioned that there were flaws detected and that she required programming. I never experienced anything like that, so I think that HYDRA implemented some type of system that forces her to alert her Handler when there are issues with the programming."

Natasha muttered with annoyance.

"So, there's not even a real chance for her to be able to hide when she starts to remember things. HYDRA gets the alert, and they start all over again without even needing to lift a finger."

"Exactly. The important thing is that she is remembering and is slowly starting to realize that we're not her enemies and we're not going to punish her for remembering things and thinking and acting on her own volition."

Bucky then added as he slipped on some fingerless gloves.

"I don't think she meant to reveal to me where she was supposed to deliver me...but I'm taking it as a good sign."

"I'm right there with you on that one. Natasha's been translating the book for me-"

Natasha cut him off with a playful tone.

"-teaching him, but he sucks at rolling his r's-"

"-anyway, with the knowledge that they had to regularly wipe her more than they did with you, I think there's a part of her that remained untouched by the programming that kept breaking out-"

"-They weren't sure how to erase that part, and so they installed that safeguard system to alert them when she began to remember too much."

It made complete sense, Bucky had to admit. Shaking his head, Bucky stated.

"What matters now is that we know where Rollins might be."

"Right. Once we inform Tony, I think the best thing would be for all of us to meet in Gützkow and go from there."

Bucky nodded, and the two men bid farewells. Bucky glanced at T'Challa, who had been waiting patiently and listening in. The King was looking at him with a knowing look, making Bucky raise a brow at him in question.

"What?"

"You're not going to wait for them, are you?"

Bucky pursed his lips, looking away from the king. His shoulders dropped slightly, and T'Challa shook his head slightly.

"Your anger is justified, but do not let it cloud your judgement. This man will get what is coming to him, I will assure you of that."

"It's hard."

Bucky admitted, and T'Challa nodded, activating his Black Panther suit and giving the man a gentle look.

"It won't be easy, especially when you are finally getting an outside look at the result of HYDRA's treatment."

Bucky wouldn't argue with that at all. As he had thought to himself before: it was an entirely different perspective to be on the outside just as it was to be on the inside. Bucky glanced at T'Challa, and the King nodded to him quietly.

"Let's get a move on. The sooner, the better."

Bucky shoved a magazine into his rifle roughly, nodding with a determine gait.

"Right."

STORY NOTES: Shuri is observing the soldier from outside the lab, lost within her thoughts. She reflects on the torture that the soldier was subjected to by HYDRA, revealing how upset she is by what she has seen. She becomes determined to rehabilitate the soldier, and when Bucky startles Shuri, Shuri opens up to Bucky about the way she is feeling about the situation. Bucky reveals that he thinks it is hard to help the soldier and to rehabilitate her because how much of himself he sees in the woman. He also reveals that he is still afraid of HYDRA and somehow falling back into their hands. Shuri tells Bucky that he cannot blame the soldier for what HYDRA did to him and expresses how unfair it is to do so.

After speaking to Shuri, Bucky goes into the lab to make contact with the soldier and asks her to elaborate on what her mission is. After some resistance, the soldier switches the conversation back to Bucky, asking him about his name and how he obtained it and what he meant when he said he 'left' HYDRA. Bucky answers the soldier truthfully, and when the soldier ruminates on his answer, her programming suddenly kicks in. The soldier reveals to Bucky that there is a flaw within her program, and Bucky tries to comfort the soldier by showing her that he is not going to hurt her. The soldier begins to panic when she is unable to understand what is happening, and Bucky becomes assertive with the soldier to get her to calm down.

The soldier then reveals that her mission was to bring him to Gützkow, Germany, and that she does not understand why Bucky is being kind to her, though she is unable to find the correct word to use. Bucky then tries to make the soldier understand that HYDRA is the bad guy and that she doesn't have to keep answering to the organization nor honor their orders. When the soldier states that talking to her in such a way doesn't help her with her mission, Bucky is honest with her that it doesn't serve a real purpose. However, he implies that understanding why HYDRA wants her to do these things could help. The soldier then reveals to Bucky that she dreams of a woman who wears her face, and though Bucky tries to get the soldier to reveal more information, the soldier becomes reluctant in fear that he will punish her for remembering.

After a few more exchanges, the soldier asks for water, and after she is given a glass, Bucky leaves the lab to tell Shuri and T'Challa what he has learned. He reveals to Shuri that he wants to be the one to interrogate Rollins when the Avengers find him, but Shuri does not confirm nor deny his request. Bucky then calls Steve to tell him the news, and it's revealed that Natasha is also listening in.

After a few exchanges, Steve reveals that Natasha has been translating and reading digital cans of the black book to him, which reveals that HYDRA was continuously unsuccessful in completely wiping the soldier of her memories and so they installed a fail-safe system to force the soldier to alert them when she begins to remember too much so they can begin reprogramming. Afterwards, T'Challa and Bucky have a conversation where T'Challa warns Bucky against acting upon his anger and tells him that Jack Rollins will answer for his crimes. Deciding that the sooner they could start the mission, the better, Bucky and T'Challa begin their journey to Gützkow, Germany. End Scene.

TRANSLATIONS:

Isidudu - a popular breakfast porridge made with mealie meal. It is a staple in Xhosa and Zulu households

Isithunzi - Xhosa for Shadow

призрак - Shadow, Spectre, Ghost

Нет - No

Я не понимаю что происходит. - I don't understand what is happening

Солдат - Soldier

послушай меня, пожалуйста - Listen to me please

Посмотри на меня - Look at me

Gützkow - A city in Germany

она красивая. - she's pretty/beautiful

Да, она делает - Yes, she does

TAGLIST: @mgchaser @tilldeathripsusapart @vicmc624 @aash3

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