#he trusted her and it was the biggest mistake he ever made

[shouldprobablybereading]

I wonder how much of Lift’s future arc will be about the guilt from knowing that her immaturity was one of the leading causes for Gavinor ending up in the spiritual realm

[timmydraker]

Tim doesn’t drink coffee, but he drinks tea.

So, so much tea.

He’s not a casual tea drinker, he doesn’t just have a stash of sugar and earl grey at his desk with a few mugs at the ready.

No, Timothy Drake has over sixteen seperate kettles and tea sets in his room. Some are china, some are vintage, some are shaped like flowers or frogs or painted with a Vincent Van Gogh style over it. Some only have one cup and saucer, some have enough for a tea party. Some are so old they’re are chipped and faded. Some are so new they haven’t been used and are still set up nicely in a display case.

That’s just the carrier of the tea, but the flavours he has on hand…

He has English breakfast, he has Merlot, he had Green Tea, Herbal, Black Current, Lemon, Chamomile, Honey, Mint, Butterfly Pea, African Solstice, Cherry, Chocolate, everything! If you can think of it or have heard of it somewhere before, he has it.

Every knows that he drinks the, they see him with a cup near constantly and he even has a keep cup for when he’s patrolling.

But not even knows exactly how deep his obsession goes.

Alfred does, because he once had to listen to Tim talk about how you can’t rank read through taste alone but also process and how it works with sugar and milk and sweetener after the older man made the mistake of saying he thought English Breakfast was best.

Bruce knows because he once threatened to confiscate Tim’s tar strainers if he didn’t get some rest and witnessed how hard Tim Drake can tweak firsthand.

Barbara knows because she once accidently broke a cup when she backed into a table with her chair and, while Tim was understanding it was an accident, she had to watch him go through the stages of grief in real time. The kid had openly mourned the cup that had been shaped like an apple as if it was a loved one and she swore not to touch them again lest she cause another funeral.

Yet, even though not even has seen the dozens of cases and cabinets he has to organise his tea leaves and dishes, there is one thing that everyone has a deep understanding of.

If Tim lets you use a cup, he sees you as someone to trust. He thinks you’re reliable and trustworthy enough to touch something fragile and valuable to him.

But if he serves you tea himself, from his own personal collection?

You aren’t just loved by him, you aren’t just his family, but you have single handedly gained one of the biggest allies you will ever have.

[persevereforahappyending]

A Legacies Secret |9|

Pairing: Tara Carpenter x Reader

Summary: You just wanted a happy life with your girlfriend but then Ghostface attacks, revealing long thought to be buried family secrets.

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Stabbing, Blood, Fighting

Word Count: 2.5K+

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15

You stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind you. You couldn’t believe them, you weren’t surprised by Amber, that was actually completely expected, but the others, that hurt. You weren’t the biggest fan of them, they weren’t the biggest fan of you, you didn’t ever think they’d actually think you’d hurt Tara, that you were capable of something like that. 

Mindy was the movie expert, that was her thing, but she didn’t hesitate to back Amber up. The second Amber accused you, Mindy was right there, giving her accusation logic, even if it was all bullshit. Then the others just sat there silently, letting them accuse you, not a single one of them stood up for you, none of them even tried to argue in your defense.

You got to your car, slamming the door closed and aggressively turning the key. You pulled out your phone, quickly calling Tara before peeling out of the driveway. You sped down the street, not bothering to pay attention to how fast you were driving. 

“That was quick,” Tara said, answering after only two rings. 

“I never should have come,” you said, coming to a hard stop at a stop sign. “This was pointless and a mistake,” you hit the gas, speeding down the street again. 

“What?” Tara asked, concern clearly in her voice. “What happened?” 

“They think I’m the fucking killer!” 

“What?” Tara whispered in disbelief. 

“Fucking Amber!” you smacked the steering wheel. You were sure Tara wanted to say something, but she stayed quiet. “No one disagreed! Actually, Mindy, gave them all a fucking reason!” 

“Are you okay?” Tara asked, still as calm as ever. 

“No one defended me,” you whispered. “Not a single one of them. They all just listened to Amber and Mindy. They actually think I’m the fucking killer,” you let out a humorless chuckle. “Even fucking Dewey!” 

“Dewey?” Tara questioned. Tara didn’t know Dewey personally, but you had told her about him. It took some time to open up, but you didn’t have secrets, she knew all about the shit you got up to when you were younger. You told her all about your run ins with Dewey. 

“Guess Sam brought him in for advice,” you shrugged. 

You unclenched your jaw. It wasn’t a bad idea, Dewey used to be the sheriff, he had been involved in all the previous attacks. It made complete and perfect sense that he’d be the best person to bring in. You couldn’t believe he actually questioned you though. After all the years, you figured he’d know you well enough by now. He knew all the shit you got up to, he was the one that always brought you in, he never arrested you though. He was too much of a good guy, you always got a slap on the wrist and a warning. 

You were pretty sure he pitied you. He thought you were some broken, abandoned kid, someone who needed saving. You guessed eventually something stuck because your junior year is when you started to turn everything around. You hadn’t talked to him since the last time, the summer before junior year, you only saw him some nights at the bar, and he’d just give you a little nod, then usually a decent tip when he left. You assumed he saw the progress you made, that you were trying, that you were doing better. Out of everyone, you didn’t think he’d look at you like that, he wouldn’t hesitate to question you. You guessed you really couldn’t trust anyone though, that when it came to Ghostface everyone was the enemy. 

“Every last one of them,” you said, shaking her head. “They all think I’d actually hurt you.” 

“Well, if it’s any consolation,” Tara whispered. “I know you’re not the killer and that you’d never hurt me.” 

You gave a small smile, that’s all that mattered to you. It didn’t matter if her friends, her sister, the police, or the entire fucking world, none of it mattered if they were against you, as long as Tara still believed in you. “Thanks,” you whispered, much calmer than before. “I’m going to stop home, shower,” you looked down, wrinkling your nose, “and change. Then I’ll be right back by your side.” 

“Okay.” You could practically hear Tara smiling through the phone. “See you soon. Love you.” 

“Love you too.” 

Almost as soon as you hung up with Tara you were arriving at your apartment. As soon as you parked you ran into the apartment. Your apartment was small, it was cheap, but you could afford it. The only real downside to the place was that it was across town, meaning you had to shower quick so you could get back to Tara sooner. 

Despite just getting off the phone with her you shot Tara a quick text, telling her you arrived at your place. You unlocked your door, mindlessly tossing your keys onto the coffee table like you always did and kicking the door closed behind you. 

You made your way to the kitchen, tossing your phone on the small kitchen island, and opening the fridge to see it practically empty. You sighed then grabbed a bottle of water. You always told Tara to eat properly, you used to make sure she always had dinner and didn’t rely on snacks, and yet you couldn’t even keep your own fridge stocked. You let the fridge door swing closed, then brought the water bottle to your lips. 

You quickly took the bottle away from your mouth when you heard your phone begin to vibrate, figuring it was probably Tara. You furrowed your brow when you saw it wasn’t Tara but a number you didn’t recognize, with a different area code. Your finger rested over the screen, you knew Ghostface’s thing was calling people, but it wasn’t an unknown number, and it wasn’t Amber, or anyone else you knew, like it had been with both Tara and Sam. You shook your head then quickly tapped the red ignore button. 

You finished off the water and tossed it in the trash. You froze when you heard a slight creak, then you slowly turned around, your eyes scanning across the small room, your keys were still on the coffee table, but your front door was slightly ajar. You grabbed your phone and slowly began inching your way towards the door. You stopped when you passed the small hallway that led to the bathroom and your bedroom, narrowing your eyes but nothing looked out of place, your bedroom door was open, like always. 

You gripped your phone tight as you got closer to the front door. You strained your ears, listening for anything or anyone who might be on the other side. You held your breath as you reached for the door, then you whipped it open, being met with an empty hallway. You peeked your head out, looking left and right, seeing the same dimly lit empty hallway as always. You let out a shaky breath, shaking your head as you closed the door, making sure to lock it this time. You were clearly getting too paranoid. 

 You turned to walk back to the kitchen, but your eyes widened as Ghostface stepped out of the hall, tilting his head as he looked at you. You didn’t even have time to process the fact that Ghostface got into your apartment and hid down the hall while you were just in the kitchen, you heard the door creak yet didn’t hear someone moving through your apartment. 

You backed up, instantly hitting the door. Your hands fumbled, feeling around for the lock but Ghostface was on you before you could unlock the door. You dove out of the way just as Ghostface brought their knife down, impaling it in the door. 

You nearly tripped over the coffee table as you made your way back to the kitchen. There wasn’t much space, so you turned around, putting your back to the sink and cabinets, facing Ghostface head on. Ghostface ripped their knife out of the door, quickly closing the space between the door and the kitchen. You knew your apartment was small, but Ghostface was standing before you in seconds. 

Ghostface swung his knife, which you instantly dodged. You reached across the stove, grabbing a pan, it wasn’t ideal, but you needed something to defend yourself with. Just as quickly as you grabbed the pan, you dropped it when Ghostface brought his knife down, slashing down your arm. 

You lifted your arm up, hissing as you watched the blood pour out of the wound. You put your other hand over the cut, trying to stop the bleeding a bit, if you survived you were sure you would need stitches. You couldn’t focus on your injury too long though because next thing you knew you were ducking, just as Ghostface’s knife swooshed over your head. 

You jumped back as Ghostface swung their knife at your stomach. 

They swiped at you again and again, each time you just barely dodged the knife. 

Ghostface raised their knife high but as they brought the knife down you instinctively raised your hands, catching their arm as they tried to stab you. 

You held their arm back, using all your strength to keep the knife as far away from you as possible. Ghostface used your distraction at trying not to be stabbed to push you back until your back hit the sink. 

Despite being pinned against the sink you continued to fight back. With the two of you pushing back against each other you eventually both fell to the floor. Ghostface ended up on top of you and began pushing the knife further towards your chest. 

You gritted your teeth, ignoring the burning in your arms and the way blood continued to drip from your cut as you kept the knife up with your hands. You began kicking with your feet, hoping to get lucky, you needed just one good kick to get the upper hand. 

You couldn’t get enough force to kick Ghostface hard enough, but you ended up getting your legs tangled up with theirs, allowing you to flip them over. During the sudden change of position Ghostface lost their grip on the knife, allowing you to rip it out of their hand. 

With all your strength you took their knife and began pushing it towards their chest, exactly as they had done to you. You were much more aware of them now that they were underneath you, they were much smaller than you imagined. 

In all the stories, in the interviews, in the movies, in literally anything you had ever seen or heard, Ghostface was always talked up as this large dark figure that loomed over you. You couldn’t help but wonder if Ghostface was always tall or if the terror and their mere presence made them seem larger. Ghostface always seemed to tower over people, no matter who it was, the victim always seemed small against Ghostface. 

You narrowed your eyes as you stared down at the white mask, you could just barely make out eyes behind the mask. You couldn’t tell who it was, you couldn’t even make out an eye color, but there was a familiarity, you knew the person behind the mask. 

You gritted your teeth, using both hands you shoved the knife down harder. Ghostface was holding you back, both of their hands wrapped around your arms, the one thing preventing you from shoving the knife into their heart. Ghostface suddenly let go with one of their hands, allowing you to push the knife closer to their chest. Out of the corner of your eye you saw them slapping their hand around like they were reaching for something, but you couldn’t pull your focus away from the knife in your hands. You were so close, just a little more and the knife would be in their chest. 

The knife had just touched their cloak, you could feel the blade catching on the fabric. Before the blade could go further and pierce their chest something hard hit you on the side of the head. Your vision suddenly went blurry, you shook your head trying to clear the haziness, then you felt something under you move, Ghostface had wiggled free just enough, allowing them to use all their strength to shoved you, slamming you into the cabinets. 

You blinked a few times, shaking your head slightly, trying to stop the ringing in your ears. Your vision slowly started to clear up, you looked to the side, seeing the frying pan you had been trying to grab when Ghostface first appeared, you figured that must have been what Ghostface smacked you on the head with. 

You were on your hands and knees, trying to recover. The first thing you saw when your vision finally started to clear was black boots. You lifted your head, blinking a few times, when you finally saw clearly you saw Ghostface was already standing tall, waiting to attack again. 

You pushed your hands off the floor and sat there, kneeling in front of Ghostface. They just tilted their head, watching as you tried to stand, your knees wobbling in the process, as if they were about to buckle from under you. Your legs did actually give out, taking you down to one knee, you reached to the side, blindly searching for the counter to grab onto. Ghostface tilted their head to the other side, then without warning they brought their knee up, nailing you in the face, sending you back to the floor and sliding you into the cabinets, again. 

Ghostface began slowly walking towards you, keeping his arm low as he comfortably twisted the knife in his hand. Ghostface stopped in his tracks, his head snapping to the front door. You furrowed your brow, you didn’t hear anything, but your ears were still ringing and everything was blurry once again. 

You blinked a few times, trying to get rid of the blurriness. You could just barely make out Ghostface standing over you, twisting their knife in their hands, tilting their head as they looked down at you. They crouched down, staring at you through the empty black eyes of the mask, holding their knife up so you could see it clearly, see your blood from where he had sliced you the first time dripping from the blade. 

“Did you think Samantha was the only one with a family secret?” Ghostface asked, tilting their head, as they gently ran the blade of the knife down the side of your face without cutting you. Despite the voice changer and the mask, you could practically hear the taunting in their voice, you could picture the sadistic smile on their face. 

You scrunched your eyebrows, watching as Ghostface abruptly took the knife away from your face and stood up, looking down at you. You didn’t have time to process what any of that could mean before Ghostface kneed you in the face again. Your head snapped back, hitting the cabinets again, then everything went black. 

[bitchinbarzal]

The Goodbye That Wasn’t | T Meier

summary: After pushing you away to protect you, Timo realises too late that life without you is no life at all.

-

You didn’t beg him to stay.

You should have.

God, you should have.

But when Timo said it—“I think you deserve better than me”—the words hit like a punch you hadn’t braced for.

They knocked the breath out of you, and all you could do was stand there, arms wrapped around yourself, heart splintering in your chest, and watch him leave.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And with it, everything else collapsed.

You learned how to fake a smile faster than you ever thought possible. Girls’ nights. Brunches. Carefully curated posts online. You played the part of a woman who was healing, who had moved on, who wasn’t still checking her phone at midnight for a message that never came.

But the nights were the worst. Lying awake, your ceiling fan whirring uselessly above you, wondering what part of you hadn’t been enough. Wondering how long it would take to forget the shape of him beside you.

Timo had thought hockey would distract him. It didn’t.

The rink felt emptier without your face in the stands. The road trips lonelier without your sleepy goodnight texts. Even winning felt hollow, like drinking water after salt. His game was fine—good, even—but he wasn’t there. Not really. He went through the motions with the heavy weight of missing you stitched into every breath.

Playoffs came. The world shifted into the frantic, desperate energy of it.

He watched teammates meet their girlfriends and wives after wins, wide smiles and bigger kisses, whole families swarming the tunnels. He didn’t have anyone waiting for him.

He caught himself scanning the crowds sometimes, just out of habit, searching for you like a fool.

You weren’t there.

Worse—online, you looked happy.

Photos with friends, bright cocktails in hand, golden light spilling across your skin.

Sunsets captioned “healing.”

Laughing at a brunch table, head tipped back, a flash of the woman he used to make laugh like that.

Timo saw it all, and it gutted him.

He tried to tell himself this was what you deserved. Freedom. Lightness.

But there was a hollowness inside him that grew every day, gnawing at his ribs, whispering that he’d made the biggest mistake of his life.

When they lost in the second round, he didn’t even pretend to celebrate.

He sat in the empty locker room long after everyone else left, his hands still wrapped tight around his stick like it could hold him together.

There was no one to call. No one to collapse into. No one to tell him it was okay to fall apart.

That night, alone in a hotel room that smelled like defeat, Timo left you a voicemail he barely remembered recording.

“Hey. I know I’m the last person you want to hear from. I thought… I thought letting you go would protect you. Make you happier. But it didn’t make me happier. It ruined me.”

There was a hitch in his voice, the sound of someone trying not to cry and failing.

“I miss you. I miss your voice. I miss your laugh. I miss your stupid coffee order and the way you steal the covers and the way you say my name like it’s a prayer.”

“I love you. God, I love you so fucking much. Please. Please call me back.”

He didn’t expect you to.

And for two days, you didn’t.

The voicemail sat unopened in your inbox, a flashing, unbearable reminder.

You didn’t listen to it at first.

You didn’t trust yourself not to shatter completely.

But sometime around 3:00 AM, with your heart bruising your ribs, you pressed play.

And you cried harder than you had the night he left.

You never stopped loving him.

Not for a second.

Even after he broke you.

Two days later, there was a knock at your door.

You knew.

You didn’t know how, but you knew.

When you opened it, Timo stood there looking wrecked.

Baseball cap pulled low, hoodie wrinkled, sneakers scuffed.

His eyes were hollow, rimmed red from exhaustion or crying or both.

Neither of you spoke.

For a long moment, you just stared at each other, the hallway light buzzing faintly between you.

You felt it then: the love, the hurt, the grief, the staggering loneliness you had both carried.

He stepped forward first.

One broken step.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

You cracked open.

“You left,” you said, voice shaking, the tears already slipping free. “You left me when I needed you most.”

“I know.” He pressed his fists against his thighs like it physically hurt to stay still. “I thought—I thought it would save you. That you’d be better without me. And all it did was…”

He broke off, breath catching.

“It destroyed me.”

You pressed your palms into your eyes, furious at the way your body still ached for him.

“You don’t get to make that decision for me,” you said, voice raw. “I didn’t want perfect. I didn’t want easy. I wanted you.”

“I know,” he said again, voice rough. “I know. I was scared. I still am. But I’m more scared of living without you now.”

For a moment, you hated him.

You hated him for making you feel this much, for unraveling you, for still being the only place that felt like home.

And you loved him.

God help you, you still loved him.

You reached for him at the same time he reached for you, a tangle of desperation and forgiveness and fear.

He caught you against his chest, his arms banding around you so tightly you thought he might never let go again.

“I’m here,” he whispered against your hair. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You can’t just say that,” you gasped against him. “Not if you’re going to leave the second it gets hard again.”

“I’m not leaving,” he said fiercely. He pulled back enough to cup your face, forcing you to look at him. His hands shook. His mouth trembled. His heart beat against yours.

“I’m done running. I’m done pretending I don’t need you like air.”

Tears streamed freely down your cheeks now, but you didn’t care.

You nodded, a small, broken sound scraping out of you.

You believed him.

You wanted to believe him.

You kissed him—messy and wet, full of too many emotions to name.

He kissed you back like he was memorizing it, like he knew he’d nearly lost the chance forever.

Later, tangled together on the couch where you used to binge shows and fall asleep half on top of each other, he pressed his forehead to yours, breathing you in like oxygen.

“I wanna come home,” he whispered.

You threaded your fingers through his hair, still feeling the tremble in him, still knowing how easily both of you could break again.

But this time this time you weren’t afraid.

“You are home,” you whispered back.

And this time, he stayed.

One Year Later

The arena roared around you, a deafening tidal wave of sound that rattled your bones.

But you barely noticed the noise.

Your entire world narrowed to the man skating across the ice, a grin splitting his face wide open, eyes locked on you.

Timo had just scored the tying goal.

The playoff game was hanging by a thread.

The entire season balanced on moments like this.

And still—still—he looked for you first.

He didn’t celebrate with the guys right away.

Didn’t pound the glass or beat his chest or throw his arms to the crowd.

Instead, he lifted his stick, pointed it straight at you, and tapped his heart twice.

You gasped, hand flying to your mouth.

Around you, the other WAGs and families screamed, high-fiving and hugging.

But you couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

All you could see was him.

Timo Meier.

The man who once thought he had to leave you to protect you.

The man who came back, broken and bleeding and begging.

The man who stayed.

Tears blurred your vision as he was swarmed by his teammates, laughing and shouting, dragging him into the chaos of the bench.

But you knew the truth.

You were the reason he played like that.

You were the reason he smiled like that.

You were the reason he was still fighting—not just for hockey, but for life.

When he looked at you again, slipping his helmet off, hair sweaty and messy, he mouthed three words across the rink like a promise:

“I love you.”

You pressed your fingers to your lips and mouthed them back.

“I love you too.”

And somehow, in a sea of thousands of screaming fans, it still felt like it was just you and him.

The girl who stayed.

The boy who fought his way back.

The goodbye that never really happened.

The forever that was just beginning.

[stellactrums]

An Exercise in Trust 🗡️🩸 | AO3

Pairing: Abysswalker Rafayel x Princess MC Summary: The Sea demands a follower. Lemuria demands a sacrifice. Rafayel wonders when it will be his turn to make demands instead. Rating: Explicit 🔞 Words: 7,857 Tags: POV Third Person, POV Rafayel, Unnamed Main Character, AFAB Main Character, MC uses she/her pronouns, Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Language, PIV Sex, Unprotected Sex, Creampie, Oral Sex, Cunnilingus, Fighting As Foreplay, Knifeplay, Bloodplay (kinda), Under-negotiated Kink (i.e. the aforementioned knife and blood play are not discussed beforehand but they're both little freaks on the same wavelength), Soul Bond, Mildly Dubious Consent (she compels him with the soul bond but make no mistake he wants her lol), Rafayel speaks Lemurian (but it's like four words and i made up three of them lol), Mild Gore (it's a brief line and does not actually happen) Notes: Originally posted to AO3 on March 7, 2025. I have the biggest heart eyes for Abysswalker, so here I am! I probably-maybe-definitely took some accidental liberties with the lore because all the different timelines confuse me, so I interpreted it as best I can. There's also some made-up Lemurian language. I tried my best based on the few phrases we've heard in the game. Endless thanks to my friend Sepia for beta-reading this and for hyping me up ever since this was still just an idea in my brain! And additional thanks to Sepia, Maz, and Belle for all giving me feedback when I was stuck. This fic wouldn't exist without you <3 Lemurian Translations: "Huerte mea" → "My heart" and "Vesta mea" → "My bride"

“I will cut out your heart with a dagger honed, my darling. And in Love’s name, your heart will become my faith. 

Your body will be washed clean, shine like a pearl. 

I will care for your heart. Till we meet again. And you reclaim it for yourself.” 

– Siren’s Ballad, Act III: Muia

The desert winds tonight are punishing, noisily rattling the structure of their tent, and the Princess of Philos shivers as she peers outside. She pulls the blanket draped across her form tighter around her shoulders and cranes her neck, turning her gaze up to the sky. 

Rafayel watches her from the corner of his eye. He has spent the previous half-hour sitting cross-legged on his bedroll, tending to his garb and attempting to mend a tear in the seams. But his fingers now idle, and the leathers are long forgotten across his lap, only half-sewn, as he finds himself too distracted to continue. 

It is, perhaps, the longest Her Highness has ever gone without saying a single word in his presence. Rafayel is accustomed to the sound of her continuous chatter as she flits from subject to subject like a hummingbird searches for nectar, so much so that her sudden silence is a void by comparison. It is almost like she has forgotten he is even there. He wonders what it is that has stolen her attention and has her so captivated.

Even with her back turned toward him, Rafayel still cannot help but stare. His gaze sweeps over her form, following the shape of her hair, held in place with pins made of diamonds and gold. The drab, tattered blanket that surrounds her is unbecoming of a princess, a stark contrast to the rest of her elegance.

He longs to reach out for her and replace the blanket with the warmth of his embrace. To banish whatever thoughts have been keeping her mind so otherwise occupied. It is an old yet familiar twinge of jealousy that has followed him through the ages. He wants to be the sole object of her focus.

But Rafayel stays his hand, tightening his grip on the needle between his fingertips, and desperately tries to silence the yearning in his chest. He cannot allow himself to go down this path—not again, not when he has already strayed too far simply by being here with her in the first place. 

A particularly strong breeze blows through the gap in the tent’s opening, strong enough that Rafayel can feel it from where he sits. The Princess draws in a sharp breath, turning away as the wind hits her face. She shivers again and mutters a low curse beneath her breath, wrinkling her nose in a way that is so unbearably endearing. 

Rafayel lowers his gaze. A faint smile touches his mouth.

“Your Highness should not linger so close to the entrance,” he says, finally breaking the silence.

He hears the sound of fabric rustling as she closes the flap to the tent, then soft footfalls. Her shadow enters his peripheral, morphing with his into a single, exaggerated shape, and Rafayel looks up when she finally stands in front of him. She kneels onto her bedroll that is laid out opposite of his, clutching the blanket close to her chest. 

“I wanted to look at the stars,” she replies. 

Flickering flames from the oil lamp that illuminates their tent cast shadows over her face and dance across her delicate features. The subtle pout of her lip indicates her disappointment, and her eyes shine even in the low light, as if the stars themselves have made their home within. 

A knot forms in the pit of Rafayel’s stomach. He sets his armor aside and sticks the sewing needle into it, marking his place. 

“Your Highness has seen the stars before,” he says.

“Not like these.”

“Are these same stars not visible from the palace?”

“They are much prettier out here than in the city.” Her Highness looks down as another chill runs through her body. She picks at the fraying edges of her blanket. “I wanted to admire them during our last trip out here, but the sandstorm prevented us from doing so.”

Rafayel sighs quietly. Before he can think better of it, he reaches across the short distance between them and covers her hands with his. Her fingers are cool to the touch from the night air, so he brings them to his lips and warms them with his breath.

The Princess’ eyes widen. A soft, surprised sound sticks in her throat. But then, she smiles, and the faint, melodic lilt of her laughter makes the knot in Rafayel’s stomach twist and tighten. 

She leans toward him. The blanket slips from her shoulders, falling to the ground behind her, and Rafayel stares at her over the tops of their hands. The gold embroidery of her tunic glitters in the dim light against lavender and black fabric, forming an endless web of intricate patterns that draw his gaze downward—over the swell of her chest, the dip in her waist, the sloping rise of her hips.

“Won’t you look at the stars with me, Rafayel?” she asks him, breaking his reverie.

Reluctantly, Rafayel releases her with a sudden pang of guilt, wishing so badly to tell her that he would give her the stars if he could. Instead, he pulls back, ignoring the look of disappointment that flashes through her eyes. 

“Your Highness… should retire for the night,” he says.

The Princess lowers her gaze, watching as Rafayel lays his hands across his lap, then looks back into his eyes. 

“But I’m not tired yet,” she says. “Also, you promised we would spar tonight.”

A flush creeps up the back of Rafayel’s neck and warms his ears. He clears his throat and shakes his head, recalling what transpired after their last training session. A repeat of events would not be appropriate.

“It is late, and the wind is too strong,” he says. Raising an eyebrow, he regards her with a look of amusement, unable to resist the urge to tease her. “And someone wanted to stay up to look at the stars.”

Stubborn as ever, the Princess leans in even closer. “But someone else gave me his word.”

“We have a long journey ahead of us come morning. I must ensure Your Highness’ safe return to the city.”

The Princess scowls at him, and Rafayel frowns when she shifts subtly over to her left, her hand twitching. Faster than he expects, she snatches his dagger from its place beside his pillow, clumsily twirling it in her hand before she jabs it in his direction.

Rafayel flinches, eyes widening, and raises his hands in front of him in self-defense. 

“What—”

“One lesson,” she says, interrupting him.

He eyes the dagger, then her. “Your Highness—”

“Your Princess has given you a command.” 

Rafayel blinks in surprise. Then, he laughs—at himself, at her request, and the absurdity of the circumstances he finds himself in. If only Her Highness realized the true power she holds, her words sharper than any blade could ever be. 

“Fine,” he agrees through a sigh. As if he even has the choice. “One lesson. Your Highness must rest after that.” 

Rafayel relaxes his posture and holds out one of his hands, reassuring her with a nod and a practiced, boyish smile. Satisfied, the Princess smiles back, then moves to place the dagger in his palm. 

It is exactly the opening Rafayel needs. Leaning forward, he clasps her wrist and pulls hard, twisting her arm so the dagger’s blade points away from them both. The Princess loses her balance and falls with a gasp, and Rafayel uses the momentum he created to spin her around and yank her down onto his lap. He wraps his arm around her stomach, holding her in place as she tries to squirm away. Once sure that she is suitably restrained, he wrenches the dagger free from her hand. 

“Rafayel!”

The Princess continues to struggle, clawing at his arm and desperately trying to escape his grasp. Rafayel tightens his hold on her and overpowers each attempt to break free. She finally goes completely still, holding her breath, when he presses the flat edge of the dagger against her cheek.

He lowers his lips to her ear, his breath ghosting over the shell of it. He feels her responding shudder against him and holds her even tighter. She winces at the discomfort of his tight grip, but dares not move otherwise.

“Tonight’s lesson,” Rafayel says, soft and quiet, “shall be an exercise in trust.”

Slowly, he moves the dagger down the side of her face. The Princess releases the air from her lungs in a shaky exhale, watching him from the corner of her eye.

“Your Highness has failed the first test,” he goes on. “An assassin must never relinquish their weapon so freely.”

The Princess scoffs. “Then you also failed by letting me take it from you to begin with.”

“A bold assertion.” Rafayel laughs and brings the tip of the blade to her chin, turning her face toward him. “I do not believe Your Highness is in the position to argue.”

It is, of course, a mistake, because without another word, looking straight into his eyes, Her Highness lifts her leg and brings her heel down onto his toes—hard. 

Rafayel clenches his teeth as the pain spreads throughout his foot. When that is not enough to break free, the Princess elbows him in the ribs. Rafayel accepts the blow, doubling over with a grunt, and only then does she manage to slip out of his arms. Panic rises to Rafayel’s chest as he just narrowly avoids slicing her cheek. She falls forward onto her bedroll, crawling on hands and knees, and pulls something out from under her pillow. Whirling around, she unsheaths the simple dagger he gave her weeks prior.

Rafayel jumps to his feet and holds his blade out in front of him. Pleased with herself, the Princess grins.

“And now?” she asks him. Taunts him. 

Narrowing his eyes, Rafayel moves to strike, lunging toward her with his dagger raised above his head. The Princess stumbles backward, but she manages to catch his wrist and block his advance. Rafayel eases off, giving her a moment to reposition.

“Faster,” he growls, and charges at her again.

Her Highness reacts quicker than before. She crosses her arms and catches his wrist between them, trapping him in place with her dagger. When Rafayel does not break free on his own, she releases him.

“Again,” Rafayel says.

The sound of metal cutting through the air and the shallow puffs of their breaths echo throughout the tent as they perform each exercise multiple times. With limited space around them, Rafayel adjusts his maneuvers accordingly, taking care not to lead her too close to the supporting poles of the tent or the dwindling fire of the oil lamp. Their lack of armor poses another challenge. He will have to be especially careful not to injure her.

The air quickly grows warmer within the small space as a result of their spar, and the sound of their breathing grows harsher and more ragged along with it. Sweat glistens along the Princess’ brow, small strands of hair loosening around her temples and clinging to her skin.

“Your Highness is still too slow,” he says. “Each movement must be decisive and swift.”

He changes directions, aiming his dagger lower. The Princess blocks it effortlessly.

“An assassin must never hesitate.” He attacks her again. He nods in approval when she blocks him a second time. “Do not ever show an opponent mercy.” 

“Even you?” the Princess asks.

She said it so casually, her tone light-hearted, but those mere two words make Rafayel’s steps falter as if she just punched the air out of him. 

“Especially me,” he answers quietly.

They repeat the sequence several more times, settling into a familiar rhythm. Rafayel quiets his mind and wills himself to focus. Attack, block, reset. Attack, block, reset. Again and again, around and around. After the last cycle, he backs off, raising his hand to signal his retreat and taking several steps away from her. He wipes his brow with the back of his sleeve, catching his breath.

The Princess maintains their distance, holding her dagger in front of her, ready for anything. 

“Not bad,” Rafayel says. “However, Your Highness still has much to learn in the art of combat.”

He lowers his attack arm, pointing the dagger away from her. 

“A weapon must be a natural extension of one’s self,” he adds. He demonstrates by twirling his dagger, fluid and swift, seamlessly cutting through the air. “Your Highness holds a dagger like it is made of burning coals.”

She immediately tightens her grip around the hilt, wrinkling her nose in response to his teasing, but she remains firmly in place. Rafayel smiles and holds out his free hand.

“Come,” he offers. “Let me remind Your Highness how to wield it properly.”

The Princess does not hesitate: she crosses the distance between them and aims her dagger at his face with a shout. Rafayel quickly brings his own dagger up to block her, and their blades clash with a deafening, metallic clang. His smile stretches into a proper grin. 

“Good,” he says. “Your Highness has passed the second test.”

The Princess snarls, baring her teeth, and attacks him again. There is a lethal edge present in her subsequent movements that was not there before. She is faster, harsher, more decisive, and what she still lacks in finesse and experience she makes up for in sheer tenacity. Rafayel blocks and dodges, over and over, letting her maintain the offensive.

She is quickly backing him into a corner, leading him toward the other end of the tent. Rafayel moves from side to side, even more careful not to disturb their surroundings the more aggressive the Princess becomes.

Anger flashes through Her Highness’ eyes, her mouth twisting into a grimace. 

“You’re holding back,” she accuses him.

She moves to strike him. Rafayel catches both of her wrists, then resets, frowning at her in confusion. 

“Of course I am,” he replies. “This is a spar, not actual combat.”

Her scowl deepens. “I don’t care.”

“Your Highness—”

She does not let him finish, recklessly lunging at him again, her movements sloppy and unrefined. Rafayel lets out a huff as her blade comes down toward his face. He grabs her by the wrists once more and shoves her away. The Princess sways on her feet as she loses balance, but she manages to reorient herself before she falls.

Rafayel’s gaze softens as he regards her with no small amount of concern, fearing he has pushed her too far. 

“You tell me not to hesitate,” she says. “You tell me not to show you any mercy. Yet here you are—hesitating.”

She attacks him again.

“Showing me mercy.”

And again.

“Treating me like a helpless child.”

And again.

“Fight me”—and again—“like you”—and again—“mean it!”

Rafayel ducks as she slashes the dagger over the top of his head, snipping off a small lock of his hair. He sidesteps, barely managing to dodge another swing. 

He needs to put a stop to this.

No longer holding back, Rafayel moves in on her quickly, not giving her even the slightest chance to react. The Princess gasps when he disarms her, forcing her dagger out of her grasp, sending it flying and clattering to the ground. He kicks her leg out from under her, watching as she falls unceremoniously onto her backside, landing on her bedroll. 

With a frustrated growl, Her Highness wraps her legs around his and pulls him forward. Rafayel steadies himself as best as he can on the way down, but there is no use stopping it. He winces as he lands on hands and knees with a grunt, absorbing the impact, hovering over her. 

He sits up and wrestles his arms free from the Princess’ hands after she reaches out to grab him. She is bold, he will give her that, and fast. But he is still faster—and stronger.

He straddles her hips and points his dagger to her throat. The Princess seizes him by his wrists and steadies his blade, holding on so tightly her knuckles turn white. She digs her nails into his skin until it stings, making Rafayel hiss through his teeth. 

“Enough,” he grits out.

Her Highness gazes up at him with a defiant tilt of her chin, clenching her jaw from the effort of keeping him at bay.

“No.”

Despite the circumstances, Rafayel huffs out a laugh. “Even when faced with certain death, Your Highness does not surrender,” he says, each word laced with amusement. He tilts his head, curious. “That is unwise.”

A flicker of recognition crosses her gaze that gives Rafayel pause. She has looked at him that way before, whenever he would sneak into her bedchamber at night and find her with the fishtail beacon clutched tightly between her fingers. She has looked at him that way countless other times, in another life. In many other lives.

She looks at him like she remembers. 

“You would never hurt me,” she replies. “Not really.”

The certainty in her voice pains him, a familiar ache that echoes deep within his chest. Rafayel frowns as fragmented memories of many distant pasts coalesce in his mind like raindrops on glass, some indiscernible from others, overlapping moments across lifetimes. 

The God of the Sea and His bride…

Memories that occupy his dreams and every waking thought. 

…a Lemurian and the fearsome Witch of the Abyssal Rift…

Memories she will never remember. 

…an artist and his bodyguard…

Memories he can never forget. 

Rafayel wants so badly to believe that he will never hurt her, but fate has always been cruel to him, and the universe who wields it even more so. His eyes darken, clouded by the once-raging seas of Lemuria that now only thrash behind his gaze. 

“Would I not?” he asks. He lets out a low chuckle at the way she tightens her fingers around his wrists. “How can Your Highness be so certain? There is no one around to hear Your Highness’ cries for help. Even if there was…”

Rafayel pauses, searching her face, her eyes. He waits for her reaction—something, anything at all. 

“It would be too late.”

The Princess goes to speak, but the words seem to die on her lips, and she promptly snaps her mouth shut. Rafayel smirks, prepared to relish in his victory.  

But then, slowly, she loosens her hold on him, until her hands fall away entirely. 

A prolonged silence wedges uncomfortably between them, surpassed only by the wailing desert winds beyond their tent. 

“Do it, then,” she says. 

Rafayel holds her gaze. He expects her to look smug, but her expression remains deliberately neutral, a carefully constructed mask. 

“Do it,” she repeats. “Kill me.”

Rafayel keeps his hand steady, so steady that his wrist aches in protest. He very well could kill her right here and now, take back his heart, and fulfill his duty to his people—just like that. She does not realize what she is risking by offering herself to him so willingly.

Or perhaps she does.

She knows. She cannot remember, but she knows. 

She knows him. All of him. She has always known, even though she may never come to know it herself. In this moment, as Rafayel stares her down over the curved edge of his dagger, he truly believes that she does. 

He almost forgot what it is like to be known.  

But here they are once again, bound to one another in this life, and the next, and the many others that have come before. Despite everything, that has never changed. Their love is inevitable, their fate intertwined in a prophecy written in blood and stone—a fate he himself doomed them to long, long ago. 

For years beyond his comprehension, he has fought an uphill battle: desire at war with destiny, his pleasure versus his purpose, his love for her perpetually at odds with the love he holds for his people. The Sea demands a follower. Lemuria demands a sacrifice. Rafayel wonders when it will be his turn to make demands instead. 

It would be so, so easy to kill her…

She should be afraid of him.

He will teach her to be afraid.

With a wave of his hand, Rafayel extinguishes the flame in the oil lamp. The Princess lets loose a gasp as they are plunged into darkness. 

“Does Your Highness not remember our previous lessons?” 

His eyes adjust quickly. The outline of her form comes back into view, followed by her face, bathed in shadow. Before she can answer him, Rafayel lazily begins to drag the tip of his dagger down her throat. 

Though she tries to suppress it, he does not miss the subtle shift in the Princess’ expression—the way her eyes widen almost imperceptibly—nor the hitch of her breath. Her body tenses beneath him, but even so, her quiet determination remains, made evident by the firm set of her jaw and the slight crease in her brow. Her resolve will not be broken so easily.

He waits for her to stop him, to beg him to stop, to surrender. The Princess remains silent. 

“An assassin must kill quickly, before they are killed first,” he says. “As Your Highness may recall, that is what makes the throat a favorable choice. One cut…”

Rafayel turns the dagger with a flourish, holding it horizontally against her neck.

“That is all it takes.”

Her throat moves as she swallows. Rafayel watches, transfixed, as the dagger moves along with it.

He blinks. He blinks again. His mind is slipping, thoughts passing like sand through his fingers. Images flash behind his eyes of the Princess laid out beneath him, blood pooling under her body, her heart carved out of her chest yet still beating in the palm of his hand. 

Rafayel shakes his head, pushing the thoughts away, and points the sharp tip of the blade at her throat once more. Though not enough to break skin, he presses down just hard enough to leave a mark. A single line, raised and puffy against her otherwise unblemished complexion, follows his dagger from her throat to the top of her chest. 

If she feels any pain, Her Highness does not show it. Rafayel wonders just how far she will trust him to go.

He recalls a time, long before, when the artist left his mark upon her skin in a similar fashion, with red paint instead of a blade. He wants to leave his mark on her again now. 

It comes to him as easy as breathing. Rafayel turns the dagger carefully and begins to draw a familiar shape into her chest, watching the way her skin reacts the same way as before. For those precious few moments, the world around them falls away. He grows more and more mesmerized at the sight of angry welts forming the shape that mirrors his own mark—the brand on his chest that binds his soul to hers and burns whenever she speaks. 

When he finishes the final line, completing the elegant curve of a Lemurian tail, he flicks the dagger upright and roughly scrapes it against her delicate flesh. This time, he can tell it hurts from the way Her Highness’ eye twitches, but it is the only acknowledgment she deigns to give the pain. Tiny droplets of blood bloom from the small cut, trickling down her chest and disappearing underneath the scooped neckline of her tunic.

She is truly a sight to behold—her skin marked by his blade, her life in his hands. She trusts him implicitly, and it stirs something deep within him, like oil being thrown into a fire, an intense longing the likes of which he has never felt before. Heat rises steadily throughout his entire body, making the flush on his cheeks deepen and his ears burn as he averts his gaze.

Rafayel follows the blood trail with the point of his dagger. The sound of metal dragging against fabric, but not ripping, is nearly deafening. 

“Bone is a troublesome obstacle.”

His voice sounds so far away, unfamiliar even to his own ears, rough and hollow like the sea of golden sand outside blowing in the wind. He moves the dagger between her breasts, then lower, prodding at her sternum for emphasis. He watches the steady rise and fall of her chest as the Princess meticulously measures and counts each breath.

“To reach the heart,” he continues, “one must…”

He angles the dagger upward, notching it between her ribs on her left side, and points it at her heart. 

His heart. 

Rafayel narrows his eyes. He pushes her down harder into the bedroll, but still, she does not react—barely even winces. He feels dizzy and drunk, blood roaring in his ears, as if his mind is no longer his own. No matter what he does, she does not flinch. No matter what he says, she does not answer. 

The silence stretches between them, tormenting him. Mocking him. 

“Does Your Highness truly not fear death?”

Finally, the mask slips. The Princess’ gaze softens. 

���Are you afraid, Rafayel?” she asks him.

For a moment, his grip slackens around the hilt of his dagger. She is trying to disorient him. He chuckles again, a low and bitter sound. 

“There is nothing I fear,” he says. 

She frowns. “You’re lying.”

Rafayel presses the blade against her ribs. Though not strong enough to break skin, she goes tense beneath him once more.

“Everything I have ever feared has already come true.”

He lays his hand over her stomach, pointing the dagger in the direction of her womb.

“The worst nightmares that have ever haunted me, I have experienced firsthand, time and time again,” he continues, recalling every time he has loved her, lost her, never forgotten her. “But Your Highness…”

With a shake of his head, Rafayel grins. 

“Your Highness still has not answered my question.”

Beneath his palm, her heartbeat is strong, growing stronger by the second.

“No,” the Princess says. 

Rafayel looks up. “Your Highness refuses to answer?”

“No,” she repeats firmly. “As in, no, I do not fear death.”

To his surprise, she lifts her hand. He tries not to react as she draws near, but he has always been so helpless against her, and a short gasp escapes him before he can stifle it. She gently lays her hand against his cheek. Her fingers, cool once more, bring a modicum of relief to his flushed skin. Rafayel turns his face into her palm on impulse with a ragged exhale. Her touch is so tender, far more tender than he deserves.

“I do not fear death,” she says, without a single note of uncertainty in her voice, “because I do not fear you.”

There is a sinking feeling in Rafayel’s stomach, heavier than stone. He looks into her eyes, and for that moment, she is no longer a princess; she is a bride, a queen, a witch, a bodyguard, a muse, a lover…

She is everything. She is his, and he is hers. He has always been hers. 

He reaches for her in return, cradling her face so gently, almost reverently. 

“You should,” he says. His voice is quiet, choked with regret. “You really… really should.”

In the span of a single breath, the distance between them closes. Rafayel is not sure who moves first, but in the end, it simply does not matter—not when Her Highness’ lips are so soft and inviting beneath his, and the taste of honey and rosewater lingers on her tongue, and she clings to him like she has been starved, deprived, kissing him so deeply it steals the air from his lungs. 

He groans against her lips as she pulls him closer. Still holding his dagger, his dominant hand remains trapped between their bodies. The other trembles as he slides his fingers into her hair and pulls her forward.

A quiet moan vibrates in her throat. The Princess runs her hands down the length of his back and then up the sides of his shirt. Rafayel presses himself even closer, wanting to feel the entirety of her body molded against his. The single thread of self-control he has left quickly unravels into nothingness, and he struggles to hold onto a solid thought, his mind utterly consumed by her. She is so warm, trapped under his weight the way she is—so close yet still not close enough. He longs to touch her, to feel her skin against his, to watch her come undone so beautifully as he moves within her. 

Rafayel tears his lips away from hers and trails wet kisses down the side of her face instead, then along her jaw. He pulls her head to the side by her hair, groaning softly as she draws in a shaky breath in response. He sucks a greedy bruise over her hammering pulse, every beat of her heart spurring him on more and more.

The Princess’ hands continue to wander. She traces meaningless shapes against his shirt. She bunches the fabric within her grasp. Twists. Pulls. She ventures upward, threading her fingers through his hair and holding him against her, while the other hand lingers in the middle of his back. 

Rafayel pauses once he reaches her chest. The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

“If I truly am to die by your hand,” the Princess says suddenly, and Rafayel shudders at the unmistakable feeling of cold steel pressed against his spine, “your own demise will be just as swift.”

He freezes. Her Highness pushes the tip of an entirely new dagger between his vertebrae. His thighs go tense around her hips, locking them both in place. One wrong move and he will never walk again. 

Perhaps, he realizes, it is still he who should be afraid of her.

He lifts his head and stares at her in disbelief. “When did—”

She cuts him off with her laughter, clear and vibrant, giddy from her victory. Rafayel sputters, completely dumbstruck. He did not even hear her draw the weapon from its sheath, nor does he know where she even could have hidden it. The kiss was a total distraction. He cannot help but feel a little disappointed. 

But her joy is too infectious, and a smirk slowly spreads across Rafayel’s lips. “It seems I have taught Your Highness well.”

She grins back at him, eyes glittering with mischief and starlight even in the surrounding darkness. 

“An assassin must kill quickly,” she says, echoing his previous words, “before they are killed first.”

Rafayel hisses when the small blade scrapes against his skin, tearing through his shirt. Pleasure twists with pain and forces an involuntary groan out of him. 

Her Highness brings the dagger between them. It is tiny, small enough to hide in her boot or tuck into her belt. His blood glimmers at the pointed end, a single drop of crimson dipping onto the rumpled fabric of her tunic. Rafayel follows the droplet with his eyes as it falls. 

The Princess sits up slowly, making him sit up with her. His arms return to his sides, and he allows his own blade to fall from his grasp. 

“Do you trust me?” she asks him. 

The cord of restraint holding him back finally snaps, and something else inside of him withers and dies along with it. Regret. Shame. Guilt. Emotions he cannot even name, all of which no longer matter. 

None of it matters anymore. And all Rafayel can do is laugh.

“My princess,” he whispers, low and rough like gravel. He bows his head. “I am at Your Highness’ mercy.”

She places the tip of her dagger beneath his chin, lifting his gaze back to hers. 

“Rafayel.” Her voice wavers slightly as she speaks his name. “Kiss me.”

Their bond resonates from the depths of his very being, tendrils of agony that spread through his body, constricting him, punishing him for daring to ever deny himself the ecstasy of her touch. But even as he feels himself drawn to her, compelled by her, he does not need it. Not for this. Never for this.

He takes her hand and squeezes, guiding the pitiful little dagger to his chest. The blade harmoniously cuts into his palm and hers, their blood mixing together and trickling down their wrists. The Princess whimpers in pain. Rafayel leans in to kiss her again, deliberate and deep, swallowing down her cries. 

She writhes underneath him and tries to push him off her lap. When he does not budge, she draws his bottom lip in between her teeth and bites down in retaliation, soothing it afterward with her tongue. Rafayel gasps, a broken moan escaping him, pleasure coiling tightly in his gut. Letting go of her hand, he pushes her down against the bedroll once more, bending at the waist and leaning over her. A reawakened hunger flows through him, and his touch becomes frantic as he slips his hands beneath her tunic and lifts it over her head.

The Princess is beautiful. Rafayel stops to look at her, really look at her, his breath catching at the sight of her bare skin—skin that has been marked by his blade and now begs to be savored beneath his lips. He starts at her shoulder first, then moves to her neck, mouthing along the hollow of her throat. He moves lower and lower still, until he finds the trail of blood he left behind before, messily smeared across her chest. He flattens his tongue against her skin and laps up the blood with a moan like it is the sweetest ambrosia, and he relishes the pleasurable sounds that slip past her lips, the breathless way she whispers his name. 

She slides her fingers through his hair and pulls, and Rafayel groans, closing his teeth around the soft mound of her breast. He kneads the other with his hand, ignoring the stinging pain of the cut across his palm as his own blood transfers onto her skin. Her answering moan is so divine, so unguarded, that it goes straight to his cock, and the front of his pants tighten uncomfortably. 

“Rafayel,” she says again, louder than before, arching up into his eager mouth. Rafayel lifts his eyes to watch her. Hot, urgent arousal curls in his stomach at the sight of her already so lost in pleasure, with her head thrown back and hair strewn about. One hand shields her face, her index finger wedged between her teeth, dagger pointed away from her.

He finally moves off of her lap and kneels between her legs, then reaches up to pull the dagger from her grasp. The Princess gasps as Rafayel slides the tip of the blade down her stomach, creating another faint but angry line. He follows it with his lips and soothes it with more kisses.

“Up,” he says, tucking his free hand under the small of her back. 

She complies and lifts her hips. He undresses her quickly, tugging her pants and undergarments down her legs, and then reaches behind his back to pull his own shirt over his head. He lowers himself down onto his elbows and holds her gaze as he trails fleeting kisses past her navel. Her legs fall open for him, and Rafayel moans at the mere sight of her.

One hand comes to rest against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Rafayel nuzzles against her and turns to press a kiss there. She continues to play with his hair, pulling gently, nails scratching against his scalp and sending a shiver down his spine. He looks up again and slowly brings the dagger up between her legs. 

“Your Highness tricked me,” he whispers, poking her thigh with the tip of the blade.

The Princess jumps in surprise, but she laughs under her breath, and some of the tension in her body ebbs away. Her eyes soften around the edges, and her smile melts into something more serene—more sincere.

“All you ever do is hold back,” she says. Her gaze flicks between him and the dagger. “I don’t want you to hold back anymore. Not from me.”

Rafayel’s breath catches as her words settle over him. Slowly, he presses the flat edge of the blade into her thigh, then the tip. He draws swirls and shapes as he continues to transform her skin into a masterpiece of his own making. A twist of the wrist, and he guides the sharp edge along her supple skin to create a fine cut. Her Highness hisses through her teeth, muscles twitching.

Setting the dagger aside, Rafayel chases the blood as it trickles down, catching it with his lips. He breathes in the heady scent of her as he noses the wiry curls between her thighs and parts her with his fingertips. He moans at the first taste of her, the mixture of her arousal and the coppery aftertaste of her blood on his tongue nearly driving him to the brink of total oblivion. 

The Princess sighs with pleasure and tightens her fingers through his hair when she begins to move, her back bowing. Rafayel allows her to set their pace and supports her weight with his hands, following each steady, sensual roll of her hips as she chases the heat of his mouth. 

“Oh,” she breathes. “Rafayel…”

He groans when her thighs clamp around him, and he imagines himself sheathed inside her, the urge to take her stronger than before. He pushes his own hips into the bedroll in search of more friction, clinging to any sense of relief he can find, determined to taste her release before he seeks his own. 

It does not take long, wound up as she is. The Princess lets out a sharp cry, hips flexing and thighs trembling as she comes. Whispered pleas tumble from her lips that grow louder and louder as Rafayel works her through her release, licking into her relentlessly, not pulling away until she is whining in protest from the overstimulation.

“My beloved.” His voice is breathy, soft. A whisper against her thigh. “Huerte mea… vesta mea…”

She collapses against the bedroll, her body going lax. Rafayel straightens, wiping the slick off his chin with the back of his hand as he gazes down at her prone form.

He kneels between her still-trembling legs, pushing her knees even further apart, and shoves his pants down just far enough. Taking his cock into his hand, he gives himself one stroke, then another, before he carefully guides himself forward. The heat between her thighs envelops him, welcoming him, and he lets out a reflexive sigh as he sinks deeper. He bites his lip and struggles not to close his eyes, wanting to watch himself disappear into her cunt.

His mind goes blank—whiting out for one long, blissful moment—once he is fully seated. Rafayel holds himself still, so still, even though he is all but coming apart at the seams, muscles twitching restlessly in anticipation, his own need desperate to be sated.

She holds him close, arms and legs wrapped around him in a sacred geometry that makes him feel more worshiped than any other offering or prayer or devotion ever has. Rafayel leans into her, his hips nestled within the cradle of her thighs. So long as he lives, reborn anew as many times as fate demands it, nothing else will ever be able to compare. Lemuria could fall a thousand times more, damning his soul for all eternity. He will do it all over, again and again, if it means coming home to her even just one more time, saving her just one more time—

And he does not know how much longer he will be able to hold back.

Her Highness moves her hands, fingers at his sides. He shudders beneath her touch, gentle and explorative, as she traces the faint, jagged lines of old scars etched into his skin. Rafayel bends to kiss her brow, but the Princess nudges him with her nose and searches for his lips, finding them in another needy kiss.

“Rafayel,” she whimpers. She wriggles her hips beneath him, urging him to move.

He answers her with a languid thrust that has her head lolling back. 

“As my princess wishes,” he says, and then he kisses his way back down, smiling against the side of her neck.

Rafayel gives her time to adjust, moving with short, steady strokes that roll into one another before he settles into a familiar rhythm. When she begins to move with him, he pulls her even closer—lifts her legs higher along his sides so she can cross them at the middle of his back.

The Princess fucks like she fights, breathless and eager, gradually moving with more confidence than she started with. She holds onto him tightly and takes what she needs, works her hips against his with determination as they rock together. Rafayel’s entire body thrums with pleasure, a heartbeat all its own, and he wishes he could spend all of eternity in this moment, drowning in her depths. 

She sucks in air when he nips at the delicate skin below her ear. His mouth gentles in apology, his next few kisses more tender, his tongue tasting the sweat on her skin. Rafayel presses himself closer, pushes himself deeper inside on every thrust. He is unable to resist for long, catching her earlobe between his teeth, biting down once more. Her Highness runs her nails down his back, and he nearly crumbles, pleasure and pain twisting and unwinding, consuming him whole—

“Fuck,” he sighs into her neck, kissing it again. “So soft… so warm…”

Rafayel props himself up on one hand and lowers the other to where they are joined to circle his fingers over her clit. He groans at the responding clench of her cunt, and the moan she gifts him with in return makes his blood run hot as her hips arch upward into his touch. 

“Your Highness always sings so sweetly for me,” he says, an urgent need threaded through every word. “Let me hear it again.”

He gazes down at her, taken with the way her body slides up, up, up against the bedroll with every snap of his hips. Rising to his knees, he settles his free hand at her waist, holding her there as he meets her with another powerful thrust, then draws her down even harder against him.

“Please,” he rasps. “Please let me hear it again—”

The Princess keens, lashes fluttering as her eyes slip shut. Rafayel does it again, driving forward harder than the first time, and then again, determined to hear her cry his name even just one more time. He cannot look away, never wants to look away, utterly hypnotized by the way her body moves, the way the muscles in her stomach flex and flutter. 

Curious, he releases her waist, then lays his palm flat against her lower abdomen and presses down—

“Rafayel!” the Princess cries out, and his name has truly never sounded sweeter. 

He feels it when she reaches her end, wave after wave, bearing down on him and clenching rhythmically around his cock and bringing him to the very precipice of his undoing. His eyes never leave her face, watching the kaleidoscope of emotion playing out across her features as she continues to writhe, as her already bruising grip on him tightens to the point of pain.

Desperation claws at him from within. Rafayel chases after the exquisite pressure low in his belly that grows stronger with each thrust. His rhythm falters as he pushes himself to move harder, faster, no longer able to contain it. He plants his hands back on the ground on either side of her hips for leverage as he drives into her, and gods, he is close, so close, each cry that escapes her bringing him closer, closer, closer—

“Your—Your Highness,” he stammers, voice cracking around the words. He lets out a low whine. “I’m—” 

Helpless against the inevitability of his own completion, Rafayel surrenders to it—a pleasure so intense it nearly pains him, makes his limbs spasm, makes his heartbeat even more erratic. He squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth, broken little sounds spilling from his lips as he spills inside her, until he has nothing more left to give.

When he opens his eyes once more, the Princess is smiling. Her gaze is serene, almost dreamlike, and for a moment Rafayel wonders if he is, in fact, dreaming. 

The world falls away. Time stands still. There is only him and her. 

Arms shaking, he nearly collapses as he lies down next to her and curls up at her side. The Princess wraps him up in her embrace and holds him close, and he burrows into the junction between her neck and shoulder. Later, he will clean their bodies and tend to their wounds, then hold her throughout the night as they sleep. But right now, he needs only this.

The softness of her voice soon draws him from his thoughts: “Rafayel?”

“Mm?”

“Do you want to know what I fear?”

Rafayel’s pulse jumps against his throat. He lifts his head from her shoulder, and she reaches for him, gently guiding his gaze to hers with a finger under his chin. She runs her thumb over his bottom lip in a way that is heartbreakingly familiar.

“I fear that one day, I will call for you,” she says, “and you will not answer.”

Guilt runs through him like an arrow to the chest. The knot in his stomach returns, now a noose.

“I fear that I will one day know a life without you in it,” she continues, dropping her voice to a whisper. “That is a fate worse than death.”

He shifts onto his side, pulling her along with him, and touches his forehead to hers. Their noses brush, and Rafayel holds her cheek as he kisses her, even though his throat feels tight and he wants to weep at the mere notion of being without her.

“I have always looked for you,” he whispers back, and though she cannot comprehend the full weight of his words, he wants her to hear them. “And I have always found you.” 

The Princess smiles again, saying nothing. Her touch is gentle against his cheeks as she brings his lips back to hers for another longer, softer kiss.

She knows. She knows, but she does not remember. Cannot remember. And for the first time across his many, many lives, Rafayel wonders if maybe it is for the best. 

But he will. And should a day ever come where he is not able to find her, he will still remember.

It will not be enough, but he will always, always remember.

[edenesth]

The Way to His Heart [9]

Pairing: general!Seonghwa x wife!reader

AU: arranged marriage au (Joseon era)

Word Count: 4.2k

Summary: Life has been hell ever since your mother's passing many years ago. Despite being from a prominent family, you've never received the privileges associated with it. It only got worse with the arrival of your stepmother and her daughters. When the intimidating General Park was in search of a wife, your father seized the opportunity to dispose of you, simultaneously securing a connection with the powerful general—killing two birds with one stone.

Part 8 | Fic Masterlist | Part 10

Standing in front of the door to your former prison, all your insecurities came rushing back. Suddenly, your newfound identity seemed to evaporate, leaving you feeling like nothing more than a shell of your past self.

"What's wrong, my dear? Why do you keep staring at this storeroom, hm? You know you can tell me anything." Seonghwa asked in a gentle voice, sensing that you were far from okay. He cupped your cheek tenderly, urging you to meet his gaze.

Jongho and Eunsook stood anxiously behind you, waiting for you to reveal the truth to the general. Only then could they finally bring your family to justice for their misdeeds. The weight of everyone's expectations rested on your shoulders.

Please, mistress, just say it, and we will handle the rest.

No matter how hard your husband tried to capture your attention, all you could see was beyond his shoulder, where your family glowered at you. All the determination you had to confront your family diminished, and you were reminded of your true self.

Just a worthless, insignificant piece.

You felt undeserving of Seonghwa's love, too ashamed to confess that this pitiful excuse for a room was where you had spent your entire caged childhood. Would he still want you as his wife if he discovered the truth?

"Come on, my dear. Talk to me, please." The general leaned in, attempting to dominate your field of vision. He didn't like how you kept glancing nervously back at your family as if still afraid of what they could do to you.

Your husband's heart shattered as he gazed once more into your vacant, hopeless eyes. It felt as if he could never truly connect with you. Once again, he found himself lost, unable to reach you. It became clear that your biggest obstacle wasn't trusting him; it was trusting yourself. Despite all his efforts, your insecurities persisted.

Bringing you back to this place seemed like a colossal mistake, undoing all the progress you had made. The words Hongjoong had spoken to you were now pushed to the recesses of your mind, overshadowed by your demons.

Seonghwa's stomach sank when you averted your gaze, blinking your wet eyes with a shake of your head, "Nothing, it's nothing. I... I'm sorry, I don't know why I kept looking here; it's just an old storeroom, as you can see." Your family collectively sighed in relief, narrowly avoiding exposure. For once, they felt slightly thankful to you for not ratting them out.

Of course, it couldn't have been this easy.

Despite the internal frustration, the general flashed a reassuring smile down at you. His plan had crumbled, and you didn't speak up as he had hoped. The head maid and assistant couldn't conceal their disappointment at the missed opportunity.

Casting a glance at his assistant to silently acknowledge the failure of the plan, he squeezed your trembling hand, "It's alright, nothing to be sorry about. Well, if that is all, perhaps we can begin discussing the wedding arrangements then."

Minister Jang immediately brightened, "Of course, let us get on with it. I'm sure we have much to discuss."

With a subtle shake of his head, Jongho signalled to the private investigator that the plan wasn't unfolding as expected. Noticing the exchanged glances, your father raised an eyebrow, "Wooyoung, do you and the general's assistant know each other?"

Both froze momentarily, cursing inwardly at their lack of caution. The fake servant beamed innocently at the minister, "Oh yes, master! I thought he looked familiar; turns out we were from the same village!"

The assistant nodded along quickly with a wide smile, "Yes, what a small world."

Fortunately, the fabricated story seemed convincing, and your father nodded without suspicion, "Huh, what are the odds? Just don't let me catch you slacking off. If you want to catch up, do it after work."

Wooyoung grinned quickly, "Yes, master!" before bowing deeply. Glancing at the general for approval, he was relieved to see Seonghwa nodding lightly, silently expressing 'good job'. His heart raced, still finding it surreal that he was looking at his role model up close and being acknowledged.

Resettling into the main hall, your husband couldn't hide his concern for you. He maintained a firm grip on your hand, a constant reminder of his presence and an attempt to provide comfort despite your lack of reaction to anything. Eunsook, noting your distress, made a point to stay close behind you, silently assuring you of her support.

"Alright then, where should we begin?" Minister Jang clapped his hands together, eager to get it all over with as soon as possible.

Seated opposite you, your three sisters were still seething, their attention fixed on the general's unwavering touch on you. Refusing to concede defeat, they were determined to fight for Seonghwa, unwilling to witness you marrying their dream man in a grand wedding ceremony. He was too good for you.

She doesn't deserve him.

Before the two men could delve into any details, Jinhee, tired of her sisters always being a step ahead, seized the opportunity to speak up, "General Park, I believe I would make a better wife than unnie ever could. I urge you to change your mind and consider choosing me."

Jinah and Jinjoo scowled, feeling a sense of betrayal as they hadn't anticipated the sudden spiritedness from their middle sister. She had always been the calmest among the three. It appeared that the allure of the general was potent enough to pit them against each other for the first time.

The minister smacked a hand on his face in disbelief, growing tired of his stepdaughter's obnoxious behaviour. Just as he opened his mouth to reprimand her, the other two chimed in loudly, "No, I'd make a better wife!" before glaring at each other.

Pressing a kiss onto your knuckles to rile them up, your husband stared at the girls with an amused grin, "Really? Do you think you'd make a better wife? Why don't you each tell me why you think so? I'll consider it."

It was apparent that the general was merely toying with them, but the three were oblivious and engaged in a heated debate among themselves, striving to convince Seonghwa that each of them would make the ideal wife for him.

Meanwhile, you silently accepted your fate, believing that your husband was present to entertain the idea of replacing you with one of your stepsisters. If that's what he desired, who were you to object? You considered yourself fortunate to have been sent to him, and now that he had seen your sisters, perhaps he sought someone better than your useless self.

The general burst into a fit of vicious laughter, singling out the middle sister who promptly straightened up, "You," he pointed, "it seems like you have the most convincing argument. I suppose that makes you the most suitable for me, doesn't it?"

Jinhee vigorously nodded, "Yes, my lord!"

With a sly smile, he continued, "Very well, I'll consider marrying you, but on one condition that your father must agree to," Her eyes widened in excitement while her sisters clenched their fists in frustration, dissatisfied with her being chosen, "Anything! Just name it, and you shall have it!"

"If Minister Jang agrees to retire from his position and let me take over, then I guess I'll think about it."

Your father heaved a deep sigh, frowning at the foolish girl in irritation, "That's enough, Jinhee. Are you even hearing yourself? None of that will ever happen. I'm sure the general is only joking around."

Her stubbornness prevailed as she continued to press, "Father, this is for my happiness! If you loved me, you would agree to that!"

Even her own mother, finally sober enough, shook her head disapprovingly, "Stop it, Jinhee. Do you know what it would mean for the rest of us if your father were to retire?"

Having enjoyed the comedic display, Seonghwa chuckled darkly, "Your father's right; I was only playing with you. After all, I couldn't possibly marry you, even if he had agreed to that condition."

"Why is that?!" She questioned, still determined to have him for herself. She hated the sight of him cradling your hand; it should be her beside him. She had gotten so close to having him earlier that she refused to let the opportunity slip away so quickly.

For some reason, the minister couldn't shake off the ominous feeling he was getting from your husband's smugness. Something wasn't right; this felt oddly like a trap.

In a mock-innocent voice, the general answered, "Isn't it simple? Because you're not even Minister Jang's legitimate daughter; you do realise you're merely his stepdaughter, right?"

Your father and stepmother's eyes immediately widened, knowing exactly where this was going. Before they could do anything to stop it, Jinhee yelled out, "But I am father's real daughter!"

Gotcha, bitch.

Jongho and Eunsook did their best to suppress the growing grins on their faces, relieved that at least their master's plan B seemed to have worked out. During the assistant's time away from the estate, working with Wooyoung, they had managed to confirm the general's suspicions about the three being Minister Jang's actual daughters.

This revelation itself was enough to bring him down, as the three were born when your mother was still alive. And if they were, in fact, his, that would mean he had been disloyal to his wife and had fathered bastard children outside. This was more than enough to tarnish his reputation for good.

Rising abruptly from his seat, the minister cleared his throat loudly, "General Park, please don't take her words seriously. Clearly, she only said that out of desperation. The girl is still young and doesn't know when to stop; do not mind her. Come, let us take our discussion somewhere else."

"Save it, minister. If she isn't your daughter, where would she have gotten the confidence to voice that out loud? Don't make me laugh." Seonghwa retorted coldly.

Finally, you lifted your head to stare at the old man upon hearing the revelation. Could it be true? You didn't know if it was supposed to make you feel any better, but you used to question why your father had treated you so badly when you were his only real daughter. Now, it would make more sense, at least.

Scoffing, Minister Jang clenched his fists, "I would advise you to be careful with your words, general. After all, it wouldn't be too wise of you to slander your father-in-law and superior so carelessly like that. What would His Majesty think of you being unfilial and disrespectful to me?"

If your father thought that threat could save him, he was wrong; it seemed he was only digging himself a deeper grave.

The general peered amusingly at him through his lashes, "You know, it's really funny you should say that. Would it still be considered slander if I had evidence to back up my claims? Oh, minister, you should not have brought the King into this. He was already so disappointed in you when he learned of the truth about you and your dirty deeds throughout the years."

"Wh-what do you mean by that?" The minister stammered, visibly trembling in his spot, and his family could only sit back with terror in their eyes, not knowing what your husband had uncovered.

"Minister Jang, did you really think the King had allowed me to come here just to make wedding arrangements with you? I'd rather burn in hell than have you host my wedding, especially after what you had done to my wife in all the years she had been under your care. I'm only here for your confession, under His Majesty's orders."

A series of gasps rang across the hall as your stepmother and stepsisters froze in their seats, the realisation finally hitting them that they had been under scrutiny this whole time. It became apparent since the minister's suspicious behaviour at the assembly.

Little did everyone know that Seonghwa's investigative work had been funded by the King himself the entire time. The two had shared a deep conversation after the assembly; what initially started off as idle chatter regarding the general's new wife transitioned into a serious discussion as your husband revealed what he discovered about the minister thanks to your arrival.

Your eyes widened at Seonghwa's words, wondering if he had known all along about what had happened to you. Feeling your gaze on him, he turned to face you with a soft smile, "I told you I'd protect you."

Feeling your heart flutter and eyes tearing up with tears of relief, you finally squeezed his hand back, "Thank you, Seonghwa."

Cutting your moment short, your father shook his head in denial, "You're lying. Nice try, General Park. I'm not falling for your trick. If you were telling the truth, why would His Majesty have bothered to send you here when he could have just arrested me?"

Turning back to face the old man, your husband smirked, "Now, where would all the fun be in that? Of course, I didn't expect you to admit everything to me so easily. It was fun watching all of you panic in front of the so-called storeroom earlier. I hope you enjoyed the temporary relief, courtesy of my lovely wife. Someone, bring the minister a chair before we start recounting all the interesting things he's done so far."

Jongho was more than happy to help, "Yes, sir!" He promptly moved a chair to the centre of the hall where the minister stood before returning to his position behind his master.

Your stepmother and stepsisters remained glued to their seats, hearts filled with dread. Jinhee regretted her every action immediately, not that it made much difference. They were already doomed from the moment they delivered you to him.

"Will you not sit, Minister Jang?" Seonghwa teased, and when the old man glared at him, he shrugged, unbothered, "Suit yourself. Let us begin then."

The general stretched a waiting hand in his assistant's direction and waited as the younger man fished a few documents out from his pockets, "Here you go, sir."

"Alright, let's see, where should we start?"

With a devilish grin, your husband flipped through the pages, addressing the minister, "So, were you denying that these three are your biological daughters? Not to worry, I have just the thing to prove it. See, we have their birth certificates and the fake ones you forged right here. You bribed your physician quite a bit for these, huh? Well, it seems the amount you paid was not nearly enough since he spilt everything to us so easily."

The minister's wife pointed a shaky finger at the papers in Seonghwa's hands, "Th-that's not possible. How did you get your hands on those documents?"

"Ah, so you admit these are yours?" The general raised a brow, "I get it; it's hard not to when the only copies to exist were found in your private quarters, hm? I'll have precious Wooyoung to thank for these. Come here, boy. You should be so proud of yourself."

"Thank you, my lord! I'll work harder!"

In front of the minister and his family, the mole finally unveiled himself. All five of them could only gape at the new employee who had recently joined the estate. They praised him for his work and even thought of him as a hard worker. Suddenly, it all made sense why he always seemed too eager to help around. He had been snooping around for the enemy all along.

Your father pointed accusingly at the fake staff member of his estate, "Y-you traitor—"

"How can he be a traitor when he was never on your side to begin with? Let's not change the subject, alright? Now, let us conclude the number of crimes you've committed here; first, you've cheated on your wife and had not only one but three illegitimate children outside of your home. I must say, minister, you're setting a horrible example for the married men in all of Joseon." Seonghwa shook his head in disapproval.

"Next, you've bribed your physician to silence him and then get him to further commit the crime of forging official documents for you. I guess this could have been understandable if it had been a silly little commoner not knowing any better, but my goodness, you are our nation's Minister of Military Affairs! What would the people think of us if they knew their leaders were this unethical?"

"And the worst of it all, you kept my wife caged in that pathetic excuse of a room all her life. You all had a hand in her suffering and abused her endlessly, all for your own entertainment. And what had she done that was so wrong to deserve any of that? Just because she was born from the wife you did not choose and love?" The general spat, feeling his heart ache and anger rise.

It was your turn to rub a thumb softly over his skin to remind him that you were fine now; you were loved and cared for, all because of him. He tightened his hold on your hand, vowing to get you justice.

"Can any of you even call yourselves human?" He growled, glaring at your family. Your stepsisters trembled, avoiding his death stare, feeling like complete idiots, especially after their stupid little innocent act earlier. Why did they even believe for a second that they could have fooled him?

With a deep breath, Seonghwa put on a sarcastic smile, "And with all of that, it should be enough for you to be stripped of your title and for your entire family to be demoted from a noble house to commoners."

The old man's knees went weak, and he ended up plopping into the chair Jongho had placed behind him. Clenching his fists, he shook his head again, "No, you can't do this to us. You can't do this to me. I've dedicated my life to this job and this country. I have contributed so much—"

Smirking, the general cut him off, "Why? Are you unsatisfied with this conclusion? I expected no less from you, you ungrateful bastard. Fine, I guess we'll have no choice but to dive deeper and talk about your most severe crime then."

There's... more?

Furrowing your brows, you wondered what other horrible things your father could have possibly done. Everything that your husband had already listed seemed like a lot to you.

Your stepmother gasped loudly, clutching onto her chest as she took in the general's wicked grin, "He knows..."

Jinah frowned, grabbing her mother's arm in confusion, "What is it? What does he know? What else has father done?" The other two sisters stared at their parents, who looked scared for their lives.

"Yes, I do know, Lady Jang. Did you really think the two of you could keep your dirty little secret hidden forever? As if adultery and illegal document forgery weren't bad enough, you were both audacious enough to commit murder against an innocent person."

Minister Jang and his wife shared a horrified glance, realising that the veil of secrecy they had meticulously woven was now unravelling before them. The colour drained from their faces, and beads of sweat formed on their foreheads.

The mistress of the Jang estate stammered in fear, "N-no, that's not true! You're making baseless accusations, General Park. We haven't committed any murder!"

The general remained unfazed, a cold stare fixed upon them, "Really? You haven't? Then tell me, why do the two of you seem so afraid? You weren't trembling with fear when you poisoned the first Lady Jang to death, and you certainly weren't afraid when you robbed my wife of her mother."

Staring at your father and stepmother in horror, a wave of disbelief crashed over you. The revelation hit like a tidal wave, leaving you stunned and paralysed. The people you thought were simply cruel for torturing you all your life had now revealed a more sinister truth – they were the reason you never knew your own mother.

The shock and betrayal etched across your face, your eyes locked onto theirs as the weight of their sins settled in. It wasn't just about the abuse and mistreatment; they had orchestrated a tragedy that deprived you of the one person who could have brought warmth and love into your life.

"And what evidence do you have to prove that?" The minister finally mustered the courage to challenge the accusations, still putting up a fight. His three daughters, nearly as shocked as you were by the revelation, couldn't fathom that their parents might have actually taken someone's life.

Seonghwa remained unyielding, maintaining his cold gaze, "Not to worry, I have it all right here." He gestured to the documents Wooyoung held, revealing a series of letters exchanged between the couple all those years ago detailing the best way to end someone's life and make it look like a natural death, as though they had succumbed to an ordinary illness.

"Isn't it an uncanny coincidence that the physician confessed to the first Lady Jang dying from mandrake poisoning, and simultaneously, there is an abundance of mandrake planted in your garden? Alongside these incriminating letters, everything aligns seamlessly. There's nothing you can say to undermine this evidence, minister. Would you care to explain your actions now?"

Minister Jang's face contorted with defiance and anger. He took a deep breath before finally admitting, "Fine, it's true. I did it; I killed that woman. But you have to understand; the first Lady Jang ruined my life. I never wanted to marry her in the first place. It was a political arrangement forced upon me to please her influential family. They held more power than I did at the time."

His eyes darted around, gauging the reactions of those present, especially his daughters, "I clawed my way up, working tirelessly to reach my position as Minister of Military Affairs. I didn't need her family anymore. So, I did her a favour – I ended her unhappy marriage and made room for the person I truly loved."

He looked at his current wife with a twisted sense of affection, completely ignoring the horrified expressions around him, "I had to make a choice for my own happiness. No one understands the sacrifices I've made for this family and for the sake of my love. It was the only way."

"If you hated my mother so much, why did you bother having me then?" You finally croaked, voice breaking as you choked back tears. Seonghwa pulled you close to him, never wanting you to go through any more pain alone.

Your father let out a scoff of displeasure, "I never wanted you. You were just another duty to please your mother's family. When she died, I refused to let any of them near you out of spite. You were a constant reminder of her, a spitting image that angered me every time I looked at you. That's why I hated you so much."

His admission hung heavily in the air, each word cutting through the silence like a knife. Your eyes, filled with sorrow, met his cold, callous gaze. Your husband tightened his hold on you, offering silent comfort as the painful truth unravelled.

"And there we have it, the confession His Majesty wanted. Royal Secretary Choi, did you manage to get all of that?" The general called out with a smirk.

To the minister's horror, the King's closest and most trusted aide emerged from the entrance, flanked by a team of royal guards, "I sure did, General Park. You've done well; we'll take it from here. His Majesty shall decide the Jang family's final sentencing."

« Preview of Part 10 »

As Eunsook followed her master's orders to assist you out of the hall and to the waiting carriage at once, your husband stayed behind to express gratitude to the dedicated private investigator.

"You've worked hard, Wooyoung. I assure you we will compensate you for your excellent performance. You didn't have to help us this far, but you did, and I appreciate it."

The younger man enthusiastically bowed, "It's my pleasure, sir! I'm a huge fan of yours; I think people don't appreciate you enough for defending our country! Those who think you are heartless are clearly mistaken. If only they'd seen you today. You are a wonderful husband, my lord. It's reassuring to know Lady Park has you."

Clearing his throat, the general looked away and fought the faint blush dusting his cheeks, "I'm glad you think so. I can only hope she thinks the same."

Wooyoung grinned, "I'm sure she does, my lord. I've seen how Lady Park looks at you; I can tell you mean a lot to her too," Seeing Jongho approaching to escort his master out, the informant bowed one final time, "It was an honour working for you, sir. Please don't hesitate to reach out if you ever need my services again!"

Seonghwa nodded appreciatively, "I'll keep that in mind."

Just as he turned to leave, the royal secretary came up to him, "Before you go, General Park, His Majesty wishes to meet you and Lady Park soon to discuss your actual wedding arrangements."

Nodding lightly, the general replied, "Got it, I'll see you then."

"Oh, and one last thing; I know you've both been through a lot, but the worst is over. I wish you and your wife happiness."

"Thank you, San."

Y'all I'm not even gonna lie, this part literally gave me a whole ass headache LMFAO I hope this felt satisfying enough! Of course, we still don't know what consequences the evil family are about to suffer muahaha😈

Also, the second mood board depicting the general's estate is out! Go take a look if you haven't already!

As always, thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts! <3

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All Rights Reserved © edenesth // DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, PLAGIARISE OR REPURPOSE.

[phoward89]

Based on this ask & this ask

Dark!Coryo, Dark!Peacekeeper Coryo, Innocent!Reader, obsession

Series Masterlist

Chapter 1:

Coriolanus, now Private Snow, hated District 12. It was so depressing. Between the coal dust, mud, and poverty, he’s surprised that half of the district's population hasn't killed themselves yet. The atmosphere is horrible.

He hates it.

Would've never made it to adulthood if he was raised in the back hills of the Appalachian mountains. Seriously, he would've offed himself. Between the mud, the muggy heat, the never ending coal dust, the bugs (locals call them skeeters), and the overall atmosphere of despair, he hates District 12.

Oh, how he missed the view of the Rockies that surround his beloved Capitol. He had such a lovely view of the superior mountain range from his former penthouse. Even though it was falling apart, moldy, and rat infested, the penthouse was still on the Corso. Was still in the wealthiest part of town. Yes, he was struggling to stay afloat; was impoverished, but at least he lived in the prized and most sought after part of the Capitol.

Keyword: lived. As in past tense, as in he used to live there. Now he lives on Peacekeeper Base-12, District 12.

From a 12th floor Corso penthouse to a peacekeeper’s base in 12. Oh, how Coriolanus Snow has fallen.

High-as-a-kite-bottom must be shitting rainbows at Coriolanus being a peacekeeper in a backwater district.

And to think he was originally assigned to the peacekeeper base in 8. Oh, how he's glad he spent every last cent to his name to bribe his way into service in 12. He doubts that he could survive District 8 considering it's full of nothing but smog, tenant buildings, and textile factories.

At least in 12 he has some fresh air to breathe.

But, he hasn't been able to find his reason for being in 12.

Lucy Gray.

He's been in 12 for a few weeks now and can't locate her. Even Sejanus can't get anyone to tell him where she's at. That's bad considering how everyone seems to trust Sejanus; open up to the naive revolutionary due to his warm and friendly personality.

So, Coriolanus is stuck patrolling the streets of District 12 while rethinking his life choices. God, how he wants to be back in the Capitol so bad. He'll do anything to get back.

Anything at all.

One day, while on patrol in the Merchant Sector, he spotted you, a pretty Seam girl, making her way to the apothecary shop.

You had on a pretty floral dress.

No, not just a floral dress, but a dress with tiny red roses on it.

It suited you.

You had a book tucked under your arm as you walked down the cobbled streets of the nicer part of the district. And when you noticed him, you gave him a small smile.

That was the biggest goddamn mistake you've ever made in your entire life!

That one small smile sent Coriolanus’ mind into overdrive. You were so kind to him with that one tiny gesture. So kind when everyone else in the district looked at him with disgust because of the uniform he wore on a daily basis. Everyone else in this back asswards district looked at him like a bug to be squashed, but you didn't. You looked at him like he was a genuine person.

Your small smile was full of warmth and sunshine. It reminded him of his mother, who he lost such a long time ago.

Oh, how he secretly craved the warm gentleness of a woman. The warm gentleness that he's only known while in the embrace of his mother.

He wonders if you would sing to him late at night when sleep seemed to evade him. When he was deep in thought, too focused on a problem that needed solving to sleep. Would you wrap your arms around him, hold him when he needed solace? Would you be that gentle woman's touch he's craved his entire life?

Yes.

Yes, you will be.

Coriolanus vowed that he'd find a way back to the Capitol, but now that's changed. Now, he needs to find a way to bring both of you back to the Capitol.

As delusional as it might seem Coriolanus was instantly obsessed with you all because you gave him a kind, small smile while on your way to intern at the apothecary shop.

But he didn't view it as obsession, instead he viewed it as love. And he loves you with his entire being all because you smiled sweetly at him.

Your older brother Rein and his girlfriend Ashlie raised you to be leery and fearful of peacekeepers. They told you not to trust them; to stay away from them. And most of all, they told you to never ever look them in the eye or talk to them.

Not unless you wanted trouble to rain down on you like hellfire, that is.

But you made the mistake of flashing one a smile while on your way to the apothecary. The peacekeeper was young, you reckon around your age, and very tall. He had to be one of the tallest men you've ever seen in your entire life. But it wasn't his height that made you notice him. No, it was his eyes. Eyes such a pure blue, that they reminded you of the beautiful crystal clear water of the lake.

He seemed unlike any man you've ever seen before. Yes, he was a peacekeeper on watch duty, but he looked miserable. As if he didn't want to be here.

So, before you could think twice, you gave him a small, warm and friendly smile. Hoping that maybe you could cheer him up. Make his day a bit brighter in the desolate, depressing coal mining district you were cursed to be living in.

To your surprise, he smiled back. It was a closed lip smile, but it took over his entire face and just made his eyes sparkle. Made him look youthful underneath his peacekeeper's persona.

You barely made it a yard away from him when suddenly, a large shadow loomed over you. Looking up, you saw that the very same peacekeeper you just shared a smile with was right next to you. Walking by your side, like your personal golden retriever.

Except you didn't know that Private Snow isn't a golden retriever. He's more like a demon possessed Chihuahua from the deepest pits of hell. Shit, scratch that, he's legit the hellhound Cerberus that's guards the gate to the underworld for Hades.

Mhm…

But you didn't know that. How could you? You've just seen the man. Up until now he's been nothing, but a stranger to you.

Just another random peacekeeper.

“Um, hi.” You greeted your new companion, your voice a near stutter, as you passed by townspeople and shopkeepers while walking down the cobblestone street of the Merchant Sector.

Everyone looked a bit wide-eyed since you were side by side with a peacekeeper. Surely your name would be in the gossip mill tonight; it wouldn't be anything good either. Your older brother was going to flip his shit when he found out.

“Hello, Miss-” The peacekeeper at your side greeted, leaving an opening hanging for you to supply him your name.

“Y/N Halvir.” You simply supplied.

“Well, Miss Y/N, I'm Private Coriolanus Snow; I thought perhaps I could escort you to wherever you're going since, after all, it's my duty to patrol these streets and keep the good law-abiding citizens of 12 safe from harm.” Coriolanus told you, laying the charm on real thick since he wanted you to believe that he just wanted to do something nice and dutiful for you. He didn't want you to know that he wanted to take you to your destination in order to show you off to the entire Merchant Sector. To make sure that everyone (and he means everyone) in that part of 12 knows that you're with him.

Commissioned Officers are the only ones allowed in the Peacekeepers to have serious relationships (usually they would have an arranged match in the Capitol) but he didn't care. Coriolanus Snow did what he wanted; the hell with anybody else. He wanted something, he took it. Right now, he wanted you.

So…

He was taking you.

Or at least he would be taking you back to the Capitol with him once he figures out a way back there. But as for right now, Private Snow was letting everyone see you together; letting everyone know that you were his girl.

His girl and off limits to anyone else.

And if someone even did so much as look at you sideways, well, he'd kill them.

“Oh, you don't have to. The apothecary’s right up the bend and I'd hate to be a bother; make you take time out just to walk me there.”

“It's not a bother at all, darling. In fact, I insist on walking with you, to keep you safe.” Private Snow smiled, seeming to be a friendly and helpful gentleman underneath his grey uniform. “Never know who out there might try to harm such a pretty girl, like you.” He added in to drive home his reason for walking with you.

Hearing him call you pretty made your cheeks grow hot. Oh my… Nobody's called you pretty before, not even your own brother and his girlfriend (and they raised you). No, Rein and Ashlie always said that you looked nice.

Coriolanus calling you pretty did something to you.

The peacekeeper smirked to himself, knowing that his words had ensnared you to him. He honestly did think you were pretty, so having you react to the compliment by getting all flustered made his heart soar. It gave his obsessive nature a large ego boost, because to him your reaction meant that you loved him back, just like he loved you.

That the two of you shared the unbreakable bond of love at first sight.

But the truth of the matter was that Coriolanus was obsessed with you in an unhealthy way after seeing you and sharing a few words while you were just a kind person that wasn't used to being called pretty

You're from the Seam; girls from the seem don't get called pretty.

Well, not unless they're one Lucy Gray Baird.

But that reality would never be Private Snow's reality. No, his reality’s one where you're both crazy in love with each other after sharing smiles, a few words, and a walk.

Coming to a stop right in front of the apothecary, you looked at the peacekeeper and politely told him, “Thank you for walking me here, Coriolanus.”

Coriolanus leaned forward, closing the space between you, only to request, “Please, call me Coryo. All my friends and family do.”

His words took you aback. Blinking, you asked in disbelief, “You want to be friends?”

“Yes.” Coryo nodded, a too wide smile showcasing his pearly whites on his face.

Lie!

That was a big fat fucking lie!

He didn't want to be your friend, he wanted to be your boyfriend. No, no. That's not true either. Scratch that, Peacekeeper Snow wanted to be your husband.

Yes, that's right. He just met you and barely knows you, but he wants to be your husband. All because he's obsessed with you; thinks that you share some kind of special undying love all because of a kind smile and a blush.

Boy oh boy, seems like he forgot about Lucy Gray real quick.

Lucy Gray. Lucy Gray who?

She didn't matter to him anymore. Coriolanus realizes now that the songbird was just a means to an end; that it would've never worked out between them.

That you're his true prize. The girl that's meant for him. The girl that's kind and pretty, just like his mother used to be before she was taken away from him by dying in the birthing bed with his baby sister.

You're his perfect girl.

“Okay. We can be friends.” You naively responded.

If only you knew what he truly meant by ‘being friends’. It'd save your family a whole lot of trouble and heartbreak. That's for sure.

“I'll wait around; escort you back when your done.” Coriolanus offered as the young dirty blonde man inside of the apothecary shop looked at the window, stunned to see you talking so easily with a peacekeeper.

A peacekeeper that had no need for herbs, remedies, and healers since he had access to all the modern medical marvels Panem’s Capitol had to offer at the PKB-12 Military Hospital. The young shopkeeper was concerned for your safety, seeing you exchanging words effortlessly with the uniformed grunt.

“I’m interning here til 5:30, sometimes 6.” You told Coriolanus because you didn't want your new friend waiting around for you when he had work to do.

Before Coriolanus could tell you that he'd be back around then to escort you home, the door to the apothecary flung open and out walked Juris Ashberry.

Juris was a dirty blonde of average height that you had gone to school with. His father was a clerk at the Justice Building; worked closely with the mayor. His mother was good friends with the old hag that owned the apothecary.

So, Juris arranged for you to get an internship at the shop after his family had arranged for him to be in a courtship with Belladonna, the daughter of the old hag that ran the apothecary.

Belladonna hated you because her intended, Juris, had a sweet spot for you. A sweet spot he was too chicken to openly declare.

And it was the worried look in his eyes that tipped Coriolanus off that the man who just walked out of the apothecary felt something for you. He wanted to stab that dirty merchant boy's eyes out for looking at you.

Coriolanus is the only one allowed to look at you with such sweet worry and care.

“Y/N, you're needed inside.” Juris told you as a way to separate you and Coryo. His eyes sized up the Capitol born and bred peacekeeper, concluding that if he had to then he could take the tall and athletically built peacekeeper on in a fight.

“Bye, Coryo.” You waved at your new friend before turning towards the apothecary.

You were almost to the door whenever it opened and out strolled Belladonna, your boss's daughter. She gave you a glare before skipping over to Juris and snatching his hand in hers. “Now that she's finally here, we can go have midmorning tea with Mayfair and Billy.”

Juris just nodded before silently walking off with Belladonna in the direction that the Mayor's large lavish house was in.

Coriolanus didn't like Juris. Even though Juris has himself a pretty flaxen blonde on his arm, the way he looked at you was dangerous. And the fact that the man seemed comfortable at your place of employment (internship, but practically the same thing) didn't go over well with him either.

Coriolanus decided that he needed to get you away from that dirty blonde man; he needed to make you dependent on him. And he needed to do those things because it was the only way to ensure that you'll join him back in the Capitol.

So, while you went about your midmorning in the apothecary, Coriolanus patrolled the streets while scheming up a way to get you fired. Hmm, maybe he could threaten the shopkeeper’s family? People seemed to do anything to keep their family safe.

Whatever he’s got to do to get you out of that shop, he’s going to do it. He was going to stop at nothing to have you on his arm as he stepped out of the train and onto the platform during his return to the best city in all of Panem.

The Capitol.

Tags: @kuroosbby001, @purriteen @poppyflower-22 @meetmeatyourworst, @whipwhoops @bxtchopolis @readingthingsonhere @savagenctzen @ryswritingrecord, @erikasurfer @tulips2715, @universal-s1ut, @thesmutconnoisseur, @squidscottjeans @sudek4l @wearemadeofstardust0 @mashiromochi @gracieroxzy @belcalis9503 @shari-berri @aoi-targaryen, @whiteoakoak, @spear-bearing-bi-witch @gisellesprettylies @loverandqueenofdragons @qoopeeya @mfnqueen1 @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @v-love @staylowessafe

[jamdoughnutmagician]

The Harrington Dating Experience

Part 2

<- Part 1

The days until you finally meet Steve's family are creeping ever closer, and doubts begin to cloud your mind, is it too late to realise you might be walking into the biggest mistake of your life?

*not proof-read so if you saw any mistakes, no you didn't :)

Word Count: 1,920

Masterlist // Steve Harrington Masterlist

*dividers made by @strangergraphics

Robin sat on the bench in the only department store in Hawkins with a tired huff. She had dutifully tagged along as your best friend to help you find the perfect dress to wear to Steve’s sister's wedding, but this was the fifth store that you'd dragged her into, and she was beginning to feel like a less-than-enthusiastic boyfriend who had been lumped into following around his girlfriend to watch her shop.

“So what kind of dress are you looking for exactly?” Robin asked as she watched your fingers skim through the hangers on the rails.

“I can't tell you, I don't know. I just know it when I see it.” you say holding up one dress against your body before deciding it was way too frilly, frumpy and just plain ugly to win the approval of the Harringtons.

That evening when Steve came over, he told you about how his family liked the finer things in life, and that his parents hung around with the same affluent, oftentimes snobbish, like-minded people. That his parents, whether they meant to or not was anybody’s guess, found themselves looking down their nose at anyone who they felt was inferior.

“So basically you’re spending a long weekend highfalutin with a bunch of rich, snobby assholes” Robin asked, shaking her head in disapproval as you held up yet another dress for her opinion. 

“Robin!” you scold her quietly, continuing to skim through the rails. 

“What? I’ve met them, I know what they’re…Wait, go back a minute, what was that dress?” She says changing the subject mid-sentence, and nodding violently when you pull out a soft pink floral tea dress. 

“This one?” you asked, holding up against your body as you looked in the shop mirror.

“That’s the one, trust me.” 

“Are you sure you don't want to back out now? This is your last chance, and I won't hold it against you, I swear.” Steve's voice crackled through your phone's speaker.

“And leave my best friend to fend for himself? Absolutely not.” You answered, sat on the bed with your phone kept in place between your ear and your shoulder, its spiralling cord stretched across to your bedside table.

“That's a relief.” he chuckles lightly, but you can tell, even over the phone, that he means that genuinely. “Are you packed and ready to go? I'm coming to pick you up tomorrow morning.”

You chanced a glance at the spread open suitcase with only a clean pair of pyjamas and two balled up pairs of socks thrown haphazardly in there.

“Uhhh…yeah…I'm packing…” you erred. 

“Okay, Miss last-minute, I'll let you finish, and for the love of God, have an early night for once in your life.”

“Okay, mom. Goodnight Steve.” you laughed before hanging up the phone. 

Picking on the nicest clothes out of your closet, a white shirt and a soft pale lavender cardigan that absolutely screamed “I'm the perfect girlfriend for your son” and a few more items of clothing you deemed yourself ready and packed, with only your wedding guest dress hung up and waiting on a hanger on your wardrobe door to stop it getting creased with all of your other clothes in your suitcase. 

Finally you fall into bed with a tired smile, thinking of what tomorrow will bring when you would finally meet Steve's family for the first time. 

Rolling over with a grumble you're suddenly startled by the blaring buzzing noise of your alarm from your bedside table.

Fuck! It's 7:45 already. Steve would be here any moment.

Jumping up and out of bed, you rush around to get ready as quickly as you can, Steve was on his way to pick you up, and he’d surely bitch at you if you weren’t ready to go the moment he showed up outside your apartment.

Deciding on something comfortable for the nearly two and a half hour drive that it takes to get to Bloomington, you reach for your favourite yellow sweatshirt. Technically it was Steve’s sweatshirt, but he left it at your apartment the last time he crashed here after a few too many after-work drinks during your last movie night, and you couldn’t yet bring yourself to return it to him. Not when it still smelled so much like his warmly spiced, woodsy, vanilla cologne. 

Just as you're grabbing your evening dress, stored safely in its dress bag, and laying over your suitcase, Steve's there bang on time, knocking at your door. 

“Open up my darling girlfriend!” He cheers from behind the door, his voice way to chipper for being awake at this time of day on a Monday morning. 

You open up the door and there he is, looking so charmingly casual in his white t-shirt, dark green bomber jacket and those light-wash denim jeans that you swear he wears with nearly every outfit.

“These are for you.” He says, thrusting a warm bundle of tin-foil and a to-go cup from your favourite diner. “Breakfast sandwich. Two slices of bacon, scrambled egg with cheese, easy on the hot sauce. One black coffee, 2 sugars. Just how you like it.” He says, reciting your go-to order. It pulls at your heart to think he would be so sweet to go out of his way to pick up your very specific breakfast order just so you would have something to eat. “Figured you'd need it, because I just knew you weren't going to get up early enough to make yourself breakfast.” he chuckles.

“Steve, you’re a lifesaver.” You say, taking the food from him eagerly.

“C'mon now, you can eat your sandwich in the car, if we go now, we can beat the traffic.” He says looking down at his watch. “You get yourself settled in, I’ll load your suitcase into the back.”

It didn’t take long for you and Steve to be hurtling down the highway on the way to Bloomington, the car’s radio quietly playing soft rock-pop music interspersed with mindless chatter about some regional sports team that you couldn’t care less about.

“I knew you had my sweater.” Steve says from beside you, keeping his eyes on the road.

Heat flushed to your face at his words, knowing you’d been caught red-handed. 

“I-uh..I was going to give it back to you, it’s just I never got the chance to..” you begin to babble in an attempt to save face.

“It’s okay, I don’t mind. You can keep it. Looks better on you anyway.”

The compliment hangs in the air for a moment, and you’re not sure how to respond to that with anything more than a mumbled ‘thank you’

“We’ve got a couple of hours to kill until we get to your sister’s place, so test me.” you say, prompting Steve to briefly flick his hazel brown eyes to you before looking back on the road.

“Test you?” he asks, with his dark brows drawing together in confusion.

“I’ve been making sure that I know everything you told me about your family, and that we’re on the same page when it comes to this fake relationship. Ask me some questions, test me.”

“Okay, when’s my birthday?”

“April 24th, come on Steve, I was hoping for something a little more difficult than that.”

“Okay, do I have any tattoos?” Steve says with a challenging raise of his brow.

“No you don’t, but I know you had your left ear pierced when you were going through your George Michael phase” you laughed.

“Don’t laugh, he looked cool.” Steve says as a way of defence.

“Yeah he looked cool because he was George Michael. You looked like a dweeb.” 

“Okay then smarty pants, what was the name of my childhood dog?”

“Trick question. You didn’t have a childhood dog, you’re allergic to dogs, but you did have a pet goldfish, and his name was Carrot.”

“And for bonus points, why was he called Carrot?”

“You said it was because you’d overheard your mother talking about one of her gold necklaces being made of 18 karat gold, and you thought that she meant carrots. So you decided that since he was orange like carrots, and he was a goldfish, that it made perfect sense.” 

“Good, seems like someone’s been studying hard.” he says with a cool smile.

“You know I don’t half-ass anything, Harrington.” you nod. “Wait, what about me though. I know pretty much everything there is to know about you, but how well do you know me.” you suddenly worry. It was all well and good you knowing enough about Steve to be a convincing couple, but he needed to hold up his end of the bargain otherwise this whole operation was going to fall apart.

“I know you well enough, trust me.” he replies confidently. “Everything about you that’s worth knowing is all up here. I know everything there is to know about you.” he says confidently, tapping his finger to his head.

Quickly the thought of how badly you could ruin your friendship with Steve if he truly knew how deeply you felt for him crosses your mind.

There's some things that you're better off being in blissful ignorance, Steve. You think to yourself.

 Soon enough Steve’s car pulled up to his sister and her soon-to-be husband’s home. 

Home was an understatement. Homes were cosy, quaint and petite. This was a house. A house with a perfectly manicured lawn and delicate yellow rose bushes. The quintessential all-american white picket fence surrounding the lawn and a sturdy wrap-around porch in a matching white wood.

If you were being honest, it was beginning to feel a bit intimidating, and you’d hadn’t even met Steve’s family yet. 

Steve rushed around to the passenger side to take you by the hand to help you out.

“Such a gentleman.” You smile, grateful for him to take your nerve-shaken hand in his.

“Well I've got to be a good fake boyfriend, right?” 

Ah, yes, there it is, the little reminder that this happy fantasy that you're about to enter with him is simply that. A fantasy. A farce, a show.

You put on a brave face, giving him a smile that you hope he doesn't notice the way it doesn't quite meet your eyes.

You loop your arm in his as he leads you up the perfectly paved path to the porch steps and up to the glass window door.

Steve knocked his fist against the door, and you steadied yourself with a deep calming breath.

“They're gonna love you, don't worry about it.” He reassures you, clasping your hand in his to ground you.

Then, as the door sweeps open, you're immediately jumping into the deep end.

“Stevie! You made it!!” a woman with a bountiful bounce of dark curls, deep brown eyes framed by long dark lashes and an abundance of freckles bubbles brightly as she wraps her arms around Steve in a tight hug.

“Hey, Abi, how's it going?” Steve chuckles nervously, breaking away from his sister's hold.

“It's going good! Mom and dad are already here, and…” she trails off when her eyes flick over to you “..Oh my god I'm so sorry, I'm being so rude right now, you must be our little Stevie's girlfriend. I'm Abigail, but please call me Abi, we're all friends here! Welcome to my home, come on in!” she smiles as she welcomes you into her house. 

Starting now, you were going to be the best fake-girlfriend that Bridget and Robert Harrington could ever want for their son.

@penguinsandpringleheads @abitchyouhate @mrsjellymunson @myherometalhead @sidereustales @rebelfell @seatnights @scaredofbeingbasic

[hornyfor-redacted-onmain]

Secret Secret Chapter 7

OT8 Straykids x reader, ABO AU

Masterlist |

The Meeting (as you had taken to calling it in your head) was officially set for the end of the week. Specifically, on a Saturday afternoon at Chan’s personal studio, the perfect mix of comfortable and private, while also being somewhat profesional. After all, it wouldn't be good if you were caught out in public with Stray Kids. Too many questions would come your way. So you and Chan planned out The Meeting over text (you had finally gotten his number during their promotions), and now the minutes were ticking down.

You would have postponed it more if you could, nervous and worried about revealing what was essentially the biggest secret you had ever had, but you were already cutting it close as it was. The tour officially kicked off earlier this week with their concert in Seoul, and by Monday afternoon you would be on your way to Japan. If anything happened (and it was a big if, because you trusted Chan, as stupid as it seemed, and he trusted Felix), you would prefer to not be overseas when it happened.

So now you found yourself nervously shaking your leg as the elevator numbers went up, feeling a strange sense of deja vu as you made your way off and down the very same hall you had taken when searching for the distressed omega over a month ago. You never did find out what happened to her. You hoped she was okay.

You reached the same door, the one Chan had told you about through text, and hesitated before knocking. You were early, just by a few minutes, but you imagined that Felix had to be there already right? Surely Chan had already explained what they were doing there.

This was it. Your first leap of faith. Would Felix be okay with your position, your decisions, and even your past involvement with his alpha? Or would one wrong move leave you without a job once again, possibly black listed from the industry entirely.

You took a deep breath, and knocked.

And then immediately regretted it. It felt like your heart was going to explode right out of you chest with how hard it started beating, and you started to feel like your limbs were 3 times heavier and yet disconnected from you all together. You wanted to run, but your legs were frozen. It was only the sight of Chan’s face, the comforting smell of fruits and flowers and ocean breeze, that snapped you out of it enough to force a smile onto your face.

You had a feeling it came out more like a grimace, judging by the sympathetic look he gave you.

“Hey. You ready?”

You weren't given much of a choice as a second later, Felix was shoving himself in between Chan and the door. He was wearing a bright grin that slowly faded as he took you in. He said your name in confusion, and you shot Chan a look.

“You didnt tell him?”

“I wanted to wait until you were here! Felix, I told you to wait.”

“Wait, they're the ome-?!”

Both you and Chan moved in synchronization to hush the blonde, you pressing your hand against his mouth and the latter slapping his own hand over yours, effectively trapping your hand. Wide eyed, Felix seemed to have realized his mistake of screaming out in the middle of the JYP hallways, because he slumped against Chan in defeat.

“Shmy,” he mumbled against your palm.

You gave Chan a look, and he let go quickly, allowing you to remove your hand from Felix's face. Taking a step back your fellow omega let you into the room with sharp eyes, and you could practically see the millions of questions that were forming in his head. Sure enough, it was only after the door was finally closed and you had taken a seat on the worn couch at the back of the room that he continued.

“I thought you were a beta,” was the first thing he said.

You looked away. “Yeah, Im not. I uh … lied, i guess.”

Felix was quiet, slowly walking from one side of the room to the other with a frown. Chan remained at the door with his arms crossed. And you sat stiffly on the couch, back rigid, feeling like you would rather be anywhere else but here.

Why did you agree to this again?

“So you … lied about being a beta,” Felix repeated. You nodded. “Anything else you lied about.”

You shook your head.

“I don't-” He placed his hands on his hips. “I just don't understand. Isn't it illegal to lie to your workplace?”

“It's pretty illegal to not hire someone based on their presentation,” You argued. “And yet it still happens.”

“The company doesn't do that,” Felix tried to argue.

You shot Chan a look, but he was staring down at the ground shaking his head. “Dude. Of course they do. It might not be official, because like you pointed out, its illegal-”

“They hire omegas and alphas all the time!”

“Are you kidding me? When have you ever seen anyone other than betas on your staff?!”

“They hired me!”

You scoffed in disbelief. “That's different.”

“How?”

“You're an idol! They dont give a shit about your presentation, all they care about is whether or not they can make money off you!”

Felix, bless his heart, actually looked shocked at the idea. He turned to Chan, you imagined for support, but the leader was now looking up, his jaw clenched. Felix pursed his lips, crossing his own arms.

Cinnamon burned your nose.

“Okay, fine. Let's say the company does discriminate. Why would you even want to work here if that was the case? Why not go find another job, one where you don't have to lie and hide who you are?” He wondered.

“Because this is my dream, Felix. Working in this industry, being a part of the process, getting to use the languages I busted my ass to learn.” You let out a harsh sigh and flopped back onto the seats behind you. “And even if it wasn't, why should I have to give up an opportunity just because the company refuses to hire anyone who isn't a beta?”

“You wouldn't have to lie,” Felix mumbled.

It felt like an accusation, a dirty shot to your pride, and your metaphorical hackles raised as a defense rested on your lips, ready to be shot back. But a small sound behind you made you pause. You turned back to glance at Chan, and for once, he was looking back.

He looked tired.

You hadn't noticed before, too busy worrying about the meeting. But now, really taking him in for the first time, you could see the circles under his eyes, the way the hoodie on his head was slipping back to reveal messy curls, the slump in his shoulders. Ironically, seeing his exhaustion made you feel tired, almost resigned.

You didn't want to fight with Felix. You had felt attacked, accused of doing something wrong, and had immediately flown into defensive mode. But this wasn't about trying to prove yourself right. You were here to get Felix to understand.

You took a deep breath, calming yourself. “Felix, what would you have done if the company had implemented the no omega rule when you were a trainee?”

Felix frowned. “I would have had to go somewhere else, I guess.”

“What if every company had that rule? What if you were no longer allowed to be an idol, just because you were an omega. How would that make you feel?” You said softly, seeing the understanding slowly grow on his face.

The blond was quiet for at least a full minute, staring intently at the wall as he thought. A range of emotions began to flash across his face, and the way the cinnamon in the air began to ease up assured you he was coming to an understanding. Movement at your side drew your attention to Chan as he sat down next to you, giving you a small smile.

“It doesn't seem fair, but that's how things work out sometimes,” He said. “Believe me, I wasn't thrilled at the idea at first. But I get it.”

Felix nodded his head. “Yeah, I get it too. I don't like it-”

“But you get it,” Chan finished.

“Yeah.”

You patted Chan’s leg. “I don't like it either, but I'm willing to do what I need to stay here. It's important to me.”

Felix let out a sniffle, and then a full on sniff. “I don't understand how you do it, though. You smell like a beta.”

“Dont worry about it,” You told him, shooting Chan a look.

The alpha blatantly ignored it. “It's a ‘Pheromone based perfume.’” He said, with air quotes and all.

Felix raised his eyebrows at that. “You're wearing someone else's scent?”

“I didn't steal it from them, if that's what you're asking,” You said, once again defensive.

Felix raised his hands. “I'm not judging.”

“Sounds kinda judgy,” you muttered.

He bit his lip, eyes flickering to where Chan sat next to you. He walked over to your other side, hesitating at the end of the couch until you let out a sigh, patting the seat. With your permission, Felix settled down next to you.

“I'm not judging you. I promise. I just don't … I dont like the idea of you having to hide yourself. It's not fair.”

Chan reached over from behind you to rest a hand on his omegas shoulder. Feeling the need to reassure him yourself, you grabbed one of Felix's hands with your free one (the other still resting on Chan’s leg, but you felt too awkward to move it now. Guess it was stuck there).

“It's okay,” You tried.

“It's really not.”

And it wasn't, so you didn't bother trying to argue with him about it. Instead, you allowed yourself to melt against the two aussies, warmth flowing into your body from both sides. You almost felt tempted to fall asleep.

“I am kind of curious,” Felix said, breaking the silence. “What you really smell like.”

You turned your head towards him, nose brushing up against his cheek. You mumbled out a sorry, pushing yourself back, subsequently pressing your back to Chan's chest.

“Not in a weird way. Its just that Chan mentioned it before, when he came home that night-” Felix clarified.

“Way to throw me under the bus,” Chan mumbled in english.

“-and I kind of wanted to see if he was right.”

You tilted your head to the side. “Right about what?”

“If you really smell as sweet as he said.”

Felix was giving you a flirtatious look, but you found yourself more amused than anything.

“He said that, huh?”

“Really mate?” Chan was pulling away from you and Felix, and you let out a squeak at the sudden loss of temperature from behind.

And also because your forgotten hand was suddenly remembered by both you and Chan as he tried to get up, your hand slipping from his leg and towards the floor with nothing left to support it. You tilted to the side, and both Chan and Felix moved to grab you. In the rush to catch you, you ended up pulling Felix towards you by your still joined hands, and he reached his own free hand out to catch himself. Your legs flailed as you tilted, and a hand cupped your head seconds before it hit the ground. Chan gave you and Felix panicked looks as the moving bodies settled, bent over at the waist where he was cradling your head, the other raised in Felix's direction as if to catch him.

You were the first one to laugh at the situation, a snort forcing its way through your nose. And then Felix followed, a high pitched cackle escaping as he realized the ridiculousness of your positions. Chan let out his own chuckle, trying to help you up, but his own leg caught on the couch, and he fell to his knees, hand still under your head.

Felix laughed harder.

“Are you okay?” You said, smiling wildly.

Face an inch from yours, Chan grinned. “I'm perfect.”

-0-0-

Sunday morning was the moment you finally managed to get Sooyoung alone. She was home, and she didn't have any classes that day, and you were ready for her.

When she came downstairs that morning, looking sleepy, you sat up on the couch. She glanced at you as she made her way to the kitchen, and you gave her your best puppy-dog eyes, patting the seat next to you.

She paused.

“I understand if you're still mad, but I really would like to talk. Please.”

She blinked slowly at you, mouth pursing, and to your disappointment, she continued on towards the kitchen. You had almost lost hope until you noticed her grab two glasses from the cupboard, filling one up with water and leaving it untouched, downing the other one in one go. She walked back towards the living room with the extra cup.

Straight towards you.

She placed the cup in front of you. “Your face is puffy. You always forget to drink water.”

You didn't bother holding back your smile. “So, not mad?”

Sooyoung let out a sigh, and finally sat down next to you.

“I’m not mad,” She repeated softly, gaze focused away from you. “To be truthful, I regretted snapping at you the minute I left the room.”

“It wasn’t your fault. You were right.”

She snorted. “Of course I was right. But I understand why you didn’t want to listen.”

The both of you were silent for a moment. You could hear heavy footsteps from above, your upstairs neighbor once again proving their feet must have been made out of lead. It was something the two of you had talked about often before, and the sudden reminder of your own little inside joke had both of you glancing at one another with smiles.

It felt like the air was suddenly lighter. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.”

You didn’t hesitate to throw yourself across the couch, Sooyoung opening up her arms with little resistance to catch you. It made your chest flutter as you soaked in her scent. For the first time in two weeks, you felt like everything was going to be alright between you two.

-0-0-

You should have known that good things don't last. The relief of both talks you had been dreading surprisingly going well lasted all up until Monday morning.

As all things do, the disasters came in three's.

The first inconvenience came in the form of a malfunctioning alarm, which you were positive you had set up the night before, but for some reason never rang. Instead, you were shaken awake by a panicked Sooyoung, telling you that if you didn't leave soon, you would be late for your flight. And so, half asleep, still wearing your pajamas top (you threw a hoodie on in the cab when you realized), and with messy hair, you arrived at the airport 15 minutes late.

You were just lucky you had packed the night before.

But that's when the next disaster struck. Stray Kids manager was waiting for you when you arrived, and he guided you to the check in area. But there was something wrong with the luggage options on your ticket, and the airline wouldn't let you send your suitcase with the rest of the group's luggage unless you paid extra (which you didn't have the money for). Of course, you only had one suitcase, and Soojin was convinced it would be fine for you to just take it with you as a carry on. And normally, you would agree.

But the idea of bringing your luggage with you through security very quickly brought up another problem. You had your pheromone perfume in your bag, more than enough for the trips you'd take on the tour, but more than the allowed amount of liquids that could pass through security. You realized pretty quickly that if they pulled that bottle out in front of everyone, it could very well out your lie to everyone right here, right now.

You panicked.

The rest of the group were gone, having just finished checking in when you arrived. Soojin had only stayed behind to make sure you got through the check in, and he was already on his way towards security. You turned to the lady at the check in desk with wide eyes, pretending like you just remembered something.

“I have a bottle of perfume in my bag. That can't pass security, can it?”

The lady paused. “Oh, no. Sorry, you'll have to leave it behind.”

Yeah, that wasn't happening. 

“Actually, is it okay if I leave it in my friend's suitcase? I'm sure he wouldn't mind,” You said, flashing your best smile.

The lady gave a hesitant look to where Soojin had already disappeared around the corner, and then to the few suitcases still being loaded onto the conveyor belt by workers. After a moment of consideration, she gave you a nod, and you moved.

You grabbed your bag, quickly located the perfume wrapped in a towel (so it wouldn't break), and under the careful eyes of the check in lady you grabbed the only bag you were sure belonged to one of the members. It was a dark black suitcase that Chan had been pulling to the pile of other suitcases when you arrived, and you blindly shoved the towel covered bottle in as quickly as you could.

You got back to your feet fast, and with a quick bow to the lady and the workers, you grabbed your own bag and hurried after the rest of the group.

Soojin gave you a weird look as you finally joined him. “Are you okay? Were there any other problems?”

“Nope,” You said a little too quickly. “Just had a question.”

He didn't get the chance to question it, as the security called him through to the other side at that moment.

Thankfully, everything seemed to go well. There were no red flags, the group made their way to the gate- Maya was thrilled to find out she would be sitting next to you on the plane- and you all settled down in the waiting area. It was only then that you approached the idols cautiously, doing your best to pretend you weren't being watched by the other staff.

It was Minho who spotted you first, raising his head as you approached and giving you a curious look. With his attention pulled, the others followed suit. Felix's face brightened as he spotted you, and Jisung gave you a wave.

“Hey! We almost thought you weren't going to make it,” Chan said from his own seat.

Next to him, Hyunjin gave you a side eye, purposely looking away from you as if you were an inconvenience. You ignored the alphas' behavior in favor of returning Felix's smile, the omega patting the seat next to him with a mischievous look. Chan let out a cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

“Um, I was actually hoping I could talk to you,” You told Chan, gesturing with your head to a part of the waiting area that didn't have a lot of people.

At this, both Hyunjin and Jeongin turned to look at you, and the others were doing a bad job of pretending like they weren't also listening in. Chan gave you a sheepish smile, turning to hand Hyunjin his sweater.

“I'll be right back.”

You gave the others a strained smile, quickly making your way over to a corner you felt was isolated enough that you wouldn't be heard. Just as a precaution, you lowered your voice anyway.

“Sooo,” you began, giving a glance to the group still behind you. There were far too many eyes on you, including Hyunjin's less than friendly look. You grimaced. “What's his problem?” 

Chan glanced back over his shoulder, and Hyunjin immediately looked away. “Ah. That would be … our fault.”

“Come again?”

He sighed. “Felix hasn't stopped talking about you since Saturday. Nothing bad!” He assured you. “He hasn't mentioned … you know.” He gestured to you. “It's just, you know. Bringing you up to the others, trying to see what they think of you.”

“Oh god, is this about the courting?” You groaned, remembering the question he had asked on Saturday.

“When are you planning on courting them,” Felix had said jokingly, nudging Chan on the shoulder.

You had shot the two a look. “Never. It's against the rules.”

Felix raised a brow. “Oh, now you're worried about rules.”

You shot him a look. “I'm serious, Felix. If the company found out I hooked up with Chan, I would be fired on the spot. They can't afford that kind of scandal.”

“I mean-” Chan shut his mouth when you turned your glare to him, raising his hands. “Hey! It's not like either of us knew. You weren't even staff back then.”

“Do you think the company would care? The media? Your fans?”

Felix pursed his lips. “But cant we at least tell the other members?”

“No.”

“Why not? They wouldnt say anything, you can trust them!”

“I wasnt even sure I could trust you,” You told him bluntly. “The only reason I changed my mind was because I didnt want it to affect your relationship with Chan. Dont make me regret that choice.”

Felix had slumped back with a pout. “Okay, okay.”

He had dropped the topic, but you could see he want fully convinced. And now, trying to ignore the harsh judging look you were being given by Hyunjin, you were reassured in your decision against telling them the truth. If thos was how he was acting just at the mention of you …

“He means well,” Chan said softly. “Its just Hyunjin gets jealous, especially when it comes to Felix.”

“Tell Felix to stop talking about me then. I really dont want to have any more issues on this trip,” you groaned.

“Anymore?” Chan's brows pulled down in worry. “Is everything okay?”

“Thats actually what I wanted to talk to you about. I had a slight hiccup at the check in.” You raised your hand to quiet him when he started to speak. “It's okay, everything is sorted out.  But I had to stash something in your suitcase.”

He let out a nervous laugh. “It's not drugs, is it?”

You slapped his arms. “No, it's not drugs.” You both laughed at that. “I gave you my pheromone perfume. It would have been flagged if it went through security.”

Chan scratched the back of his head, looking confused. “I mean, yeah. That makes sense. But how did you know which bag was mine?”

You blinked slowly. “It was the one you handed to the workers, wasn't it?”

He still looked confused.

“Big, black? Wheels on the bottom?” No recognition on his face. Your heart started to beat a little quicker than normal. “Had a silver handle?”

He shook his head. “That doesn't sound like my bag, that sounds like-” He paused, and you had a sinking feeling in your stomach.

You both shared a knowing look.

“Whose bag was it?”

And as if fate itself was controlling your life, pulling the strings on irony, the third disaster reared its head in the shape of a jealous blond dancer.

Chan's head dropped with a bitter laugh.

“It was Hyunjins.”

Fuck.

-0-0-

Taglist: I think I got everyone. If I missed you or you want to be added to the tag list, free free to ask.

@3rachasninja @lilyuwon @brojustfknkillm3 @yukichan67 @mallielovssyou @mintchip17 @iweirdthingsblog @maisyyyyyy @neivivenaj @jc003 @skz-ot8-stay @passionandsuga @ms-flowergirl @kayleefriedchicken @seungmonggg @luvvvash @galaxy4489 @quokkahannie4 @joyofbebbanburg @xxeiraxx @lemonn015 @dazzlingjade @tenshimara @danceonmyheyday @staytinyluv @mamaj-right @dessianna1 @sillyhal @minh0scat @iris-iiridescent

[crescentbelle]

Liability

Miguel O’Hara x Fem Reader 

Angst

Word Count: 1.2K

Summary: After a failed solo mission, Miguel’s punishment makes you feel as if you’ve become a liability.

finished this at 4am with my botchy Spanish skills so please forgive me.

It had been two weeks since your last fight, and equally two weeks since you had stepped foot out the careful watch of your boss, Miguel O’Hara. You weren’t given the luxury to mistake his hovering. His mindset was clear, you weren’t to be trusted.

One slip of a web was all it took, the anomaly you spent the last month tracking down slipped away, snatching your travel watch on the way out. You let the time pass crying out of frustration and being pushed down by a glitch each time you rose from the cracked pavement.

Maybe it was the amount of time it took for you to muster up the courage to tell Miguel you lost him again, or the fact that he then spent the next two days cleaning up the mess the escapee made. Either way, you had committed your biggest mistake since joining the famous group of vigilantes. Not that you could say their band together was infamous to any universe, but that’s what they were to you, and you had utterly failed.

One of Miguel’s star players had let him down, made a mistake so embarrassing to his reputation, that he couldn’t trust you outside his view. Banished to the filing of any and all reports that came through; that was the dignified job you took on. The only thing keeping you sane was to believe it was all just a humiliation tactic from his end, the more you fought against it, the more he succeeded. At this point you didn’t know what to think. The man barely spoke to you, even on his rarely chipper days.

Sat crossed-legged in a chair; you continued the boredom-striking task. Click drag. Click drag. You missed the moments when Hobie came to visit, the small times where you got genuine interaction and not awkward stares.

“you’re free to go now.”

Silence strung together with tension rose thick in the air. Will that ever fade?

He didn’t turn to look at you, his broad frame still turned to his own screen, eyes cold and cruel as ever. God, he really did find you pathetic after this one.

A beat passed. You always wondered if you should thank him, but that just seemed stupid. Thank you so much Mr. Miguel O’Hara for another silent day stuck at your brooding side. You chose the silent approach, slowly uncurling from your awkward position.

Making your way to the door, you heard him call on Lyla, muttering about a mission he needed to put another man on, one that wasn’t you.

“Just take her name off as an option, I don’t want her out right now.”

The words broke you down, weirdly in a way that no other snide comment from the man had before. Since you arrived all you strived for was the acknowledgment of your skills, to show you could become useful. Now, it feels like the rug had been pulled from under you. How long until you get sent back home? How long until Miguel admits you have become a liability?

Please just say anything else, anything so I know you don’t hate-

Miguel calls your name, sharp and devoid of any readable emotion.

“you’ve forgotten your day pass. That’s the second time this week.”

You gritted your teeth, “Thank you.”

“Try not to do that again, you’re glitching has gotten worse.”

That was it, The final stroke. Storming forward, you swipe the scanner off the desk, cheeks burning red with emotion. “You don’t have to scold me like I’m a child, Miguel.”

“Trust me, I know I don't.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not doing this right now, you can leave.” 

Beat. 

“It was one mistake! How does that constitute shunning me away?” Your body was hot, a magma bubbling into adrenaline. With a racing heart, you refused to back down. Everyday sitting in his office like a lap dog for all your friends and accomplices to watch, you couldn’t take it.

The man’s shoulders stiffen, his body toughening to a cold, ridged stance. Slowly, his gaze fell onto you. There they were, those piercing eyes.

That silent tension melted into something thicker and harder to hide from, fear. Fear that radiated off you in waves he could sense like a strike to the face.

“You don’t get to make those choices,” His voice spoke as a mutter, like he was hiding a seething tone from slipping out. “You don’t get to tell me how I choose to keep you safe.”

“You don’t get to talk about me like I’m not right here! I’ve always been on top of things- ever since I got here. Why do I slip up once and you get to treat me like I’m in idiot? Am I that humiliating for you?”

Beat. This one is too long, his eyes shift for just a moment, caught between thoughts. It’s a second of weakness that makes you apprehensive.

“I’m not letting you on any more missions.”

No-

“You’re sending me back.”

He shakes his head, dejected. “No, I’m not- just shit. Please don't make this harder than it has to be. For your sake.”

“Are you kidding me? You're asking me to never fight again!”

“Please-”

You take another step forward. “You’re asking me to throw away what I was built for! This is my meaning, why are you doing this to me?”

With the confidence he had left to muster up, Miguel stalked over to your frame. This was the closest you had been since he picked you up out of the alleyway you pathetically collapsed in, and the desperate feeling followed. To beg and kick like a child until he let you back in. It felt horrific and you wondered if he felt it too.

“I cant help it. Por favor, no te quiero lastimar. Please don't make me risk you again.” His hand moved up, close enough to your cheek that it makes your senses tingle, before its dropped down to his side again. “Please.”

“You’re hurting me.”

Beat.

With what feels like an instant, you’re being pulled into his chest. his broad arms caught you in his embrace, a hand coming to rest against your temple. Its simple, but it makes your heart ache. Never have either of you come this close. This is that desperate feeling bubbling up again.

You wonder if you should have pushed away; told him he's pathetic and walked away from this cryptic language you now share. But you cant anymore, not with his touch like this.

“I’m sorry.” The mumble of his words reverberated through your body like a purr. 

A single drop of a hot liquid hits your forehead and manages to roll down onto his thumb. You scan up to his face. That stoic stare he managed to always hold stood strong, staring off into a void like there's something better to worry about. But his eyes watered and the trail of a tear glimmered on his pronounced cheek. 

He guided your head back down to lay against him again and moved his gaze to the side, anywhere to avoid the way you look at him now.

“Don't leave, okay?”

[em1989ts]

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒏

chapter one. series masterlist. main masterlist.

five hargreeves x reader

word count: 1.6k

book summary: five hargreeves gets lost in time and your father forces you to go after him, leaving you to get lost in a completely different kind of solitude. after decades, you meet at the hands of the handler, except you're not exactly happy to work with him after what he did. the two of you agree to put your differences aside until you save the world. how hard could that be?

author's note: this is the beginning of a story that i've been planning since august so now i'm finally writing about it! i'm more focused on uploading this for wattpad but i decided why not post it here as well. i plan on writing s1-s4 (hopefully i have the motivation) so please let me know your thoughts !! reblogs and comments much appreciated :)

On the 12th hour of the first day of October 1989, 43 women around the world gave birth. This was unusual only in the fact that none of these women had been pregnant when the day first began.

 Sir Reginald Hargreeves, eccentric billionaire and adventurer, resolved to locate and adopt as many of the children as possible.

He got eight of them. 

~~~~~

“Don’t do it.” 

Five Hargreeves stood in front of the mirror in his room, his back to the door. The bell for breakfast was going to ring soon, but his mind wasn’t on a healthy start to the day. Minimal morning light entered his room through the edges of his curtains, his room remaining dark and motionless. He hadn’t noticed her pass by his room and turn around after catching a glimpse of his still figure in the corner of her eye. He hadn’t noticed her retrace her few steps and lean against the doorframe. He only noticed her presence once she announced it with solemn discouragement. 

He had been contemplating for days. He knew he was ready for this. He told himself so. He couldn’t back down at this point, he had already set his mind to it. Backing down would look weak. He wasn’t weak. 

His expression was stoic as he stared at himself for a moment longer, then turned to face her at the door. 

Without her domino mask, her face remained impassive. She rarely displayed any emotion, except for the fact that her face at rest made her seem constantly angered. But as of right now, she showed no frown, no furrowed brow, not even a blink. 

They stood a few feet apart. Once he looked directly in her eyes he could see a sliver of something. He knew she didn’t want him to leave. He just thought she underestimated him, that she didn’t believe in him, that she was envious of him. But that look in her eye told him a different story. Something he’d never seen in her before, not that he ever paid too close of attention to her or anything like that. They had never gotten along. They never cared or looked out for each other, so why was she pulling this now?

She watched him intensely, almost staring through his soul, trying to reach though him to his conscious and convince him not to make the biggest mistake of his life. 

But they wouldn’t know it. Not then, anyway. 

The breakfast bell rang and the doors of the other children opened up swiftly as they filed through the hallway in a swift, orderly fashion to get to their assigned places in efficient time. 

Neither Five nor Eight moved. They stayed staring into each other's eyes trying to communicate something through their unintelligible irises. They’d played this game before. Intense staring contests in hopes of the other backing down, awarding a feeling of eminence to the victor until the next time they decided to face head to head. 

This time, her eyes weren’t challenging. They were pleading, vulnerable to his attacks in the hopes he’ll stand down and listen to her for once. His eyes were defensive. He trusted himself and that was all he needed. His stature grew colder until he walked over to her position against the doorframe. 

She shuddered as he got closer. He seemed so lost yet so certain. She could feel it in the darkness that morning that something was about to go horribly wrong. She heard it through the shadows. 

Five would never understand this interaction. Not until years later. He never knew how she could have known, especially since she hadn’t been trusted with his plans for time travel. 

He stopped in front of her less stoic, more distraught face. He looked through his angered eyes into hers. 

“Watch me.” 

~

She never went down to breakfast that day. Knowing exactly what happened after he rushed to his place behind his chair. They sat and ate, he stood up, played his cards, failed, and ran off like the scared child he was. 

She watched him though the velvet curtains that obscured her normally pitch black room from the outside world. The light was let in, casting her face in a warm haze as she watched him run off. Free. Arrogant. Until a flash of blue light took him away. 

Letting go of the curtain, the sunlight vanished from her room, leaving her in her usual darkness, feeling her usual repugnance. She knew she would be reprimanded by her father for not going downstairs. She didn’t want to face him, not while knowing her own failure.  

She could have tried harder. She could have done more. That’s what everyone would tell her. 

She could have cared more. But she didn’t. Not at this moment in time anyway. 

She could’ve made him fall into his own shadow, leaving him no possibility of escape. 

But she didn’t. 

There was no arguing with Five. His thirteen year old self was difficult. He was so prideful that there was no chance he would ever back down from whatever he set his mind to. He would never admit being wrong or at fault.

He would come to regret this. 

He would regret the fact that he never listened to his father. How he never listened to Eight as she tried to stop him, to help him for once in her life. 

Once Reginald Hargreeves realized that Number Five had lost himself in time, he did what he could to retrieve the child. He also decided to double this rescue mission as a punishment for Number Eight. 

~ 

“You will not leave here until you find Number Five and return him to this time.” 

They were in the basement. The cold, dark basement that gave each of the Hargreeves children nightmares for weeks after they’d been escorted here. Their powers tested in ways that messed with their minds and fears. 

If Number Eight was afraid, she didn’t show it. She was however, without a doubt. 

She hadn’t been down here for years. She had learned to manage her fear of the dark at a very young age. With her power, she had to, otherwise she’d be utterly useless. 

She had to control the voices echoing in the void. The whispering, screaming, threatening, comforting voices that escaped the darkness to haunt the one child who could hear them. 

Reginald opened the chamber door, made to withstand the powers of the children, and instructed Eight to enter. 

She did as she was told, but as Reginald recited his desired outcome, concern overcame her. 

As Pogo shut the door and secured it, the room was completely dark. Of course she was used to the darkness, she thrived in it, but she couldn’t handle being trapped in here forever.

During her trainings, she had been told to practice traveling through the void. The void was the term her father used to describe complete darkness, or a very large shadow. She could enter the void by disappearing into her own shadow, someone else's shadow, or shadows made by objects. 

Her father had made her practice entering one shadow, traveling through the void, and exiting through another. It had worked, but navigating in pure darkness is not as easy as it may seem. 

Once her father and Pogo had returned upstairs, the basement light was shut off. With no one around to witness. She screamed. She yelled and cried on the floor until she became tired and dull. While she lay on the cold cement ground, she figured to herself that Reginald Hargreeves couldn’t possibly leave her here. To starve. To freeze. But he did. Not intentionally. 

Reginald Hargreeves did intend to let her out within 48 hours, however when he returned to the basement with Pogo holding out a small flashlight against the window of the chamber, they noticed it was completely empty. Number Eight had vanished. Lost in darkness. Lost in space. Lost.

Just like Number Five. 

She wouldn’t be found for many years.

Her body dormant in the conditions of the void, her mind wide awake. 

Light never met her eyes. Not a drop of sunlight met her skin for decades. 

She knew she shouldn’t be alive. She hadn’t eaten, yet she could feel her skin wrinkle with time. 

Without any idea how long she had been trapped, she just assumed she was dead. 

Until she heard clicking amongst the voices. 

It was often that a shadow nearby had some sort of ambience behind it. Whether it was the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, with its smells and sounds of Paris, or the shadow behind a TV, letting her hear the yells and cheers of football fans during a big game. 

She would often linger around those noises, to feel a sense of familiarity for a normal life she’d been imagining in her head, the darkness as the perfect blank canvas. Never getting too close in fears of everything becoming too real. 

Until these clicking noises grew closer. 

The clicking of high heels against a smooth floor.

Suddenly illuminated through the flick of a zippo, a tall, well dressed woman came into view. Number Eight jumped and hid behind her hands, not expecting to be blinded by such a small flame. As she brought her hands in front of her face, she saw just how wrinkled they were, how much she had aged. 

“I’ve come to offer you a job, Number Eight.” 

☂︎

𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒘𝒐 series masterlist.

authors note: thank you so much for reading! i appreciate it sm :) if you want to be on the taglist for upcoming chapters please let me know ! also if you have any ideas for upcoming chapters or other fics my inbox is open i'd love to hear your ideas!

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[empressdede]

The Secretary - 2

Chapter two

Previous

The next day, Roman sat in a private lounge in WWE’s headquarters, a cup of coffee in his hand, but he hadn’t taken a single sip. His mind was somewhere else - someone else.

"Yo, Uce, you good?" Jey’s voice cut through his thoughts.

Roman glanced up to see both Jey and Jimmy watching him with raised eyebrows.

"You been sittin’ there quiet for the last ten minutes," Jimmy added, nudging him with an elbow. "What’s up?"

Roman exhaled, running a hand over his beard. He wasn’t the type to talk about this stuff, but if there was anyone he could trust, it was his cousins.

"I almost kissed Serena last night."

Both Usos went silent for about two seconds before Jimmy let out a sharp "Damn." Jey, meanwhile, smirked like he’d just won a bet.

"Knew it," Jey said, shaking his head. "I knew something was up with you two."

"Ain’t nothin’ up," Roman muttered, staring down at his coffee. "It didn’t happen."

Jimmy leaned forward. "So why didn’t it?"

Roman clenched his jaw, replaying the moment in his head. The way Serena had looked at him, the way she’d almost leaned in, and then - the way she’d stepped back, leaving like it never happened.

"She stopped it," he admitted. "Said she had to go."

Jey let out a low whistle. "Damn, Uce. She shut you down?"

Jimmy chuckled. "That’s a first."

Roman shot them both a look, and they sobered up real quick.

"Look, man," Jimmy said, leaning back. "You’re the boss. You think she’s just scared of losing her job?"

Roman shook his head. "Nah, it’s more than that. She’s…different."

Jey and Jimmy exchanged a glance.

"Different how?" Jey asked.

Roman sighed, setting his coffee down. "She’s not like everyone else around here. She’s not trying to impress me or get something from me. She just does her job; better than anyone else. She knows what I need before I even ask. Hell, she keeps my schedule tighter than Heyman does."

Jimmy grinned. "Sounds like wifey material."

Roman shot him another look, but this time, Jimmy didn’t back down.

"I’m just sayin’ Uce. If she’s got you all in your feelings, maybe you should figure out what you really want."

Roman exhaled, rubbing his face. That was the problem - he did know what he wanted.

But he also knew Serena wouldn’t cross that line. And maybe she was right. Maybe he was the one making a mistake even thinking about it.

Jey, ever the instigator, leaned in with a smirk. "So what you gonna do, Chief?"

Roman didn’t answer right away. He didn’t know.

But one thing was certain; Serena wasn’t just another secretary. And after last night, there was no way things were going back to normal.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Serena kept her head down all morning, focusing on her work as if her life depended on it. After last night, the only thing she could do was act like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t almost made the biggest mistake of her career.

She had no idea where she stood with Roman now. Would he act differently? Would he fire her?

Her heart pounded as she gathered her tablet and notes, heading toward his office for their daily briefing. She inhaled sharply before knocking.

"Come in."

His voice was as calm as ever, but when she stepped inside, she immediately noticed the way his eyes flickered to her - just for a second, just enough to make her breath hitch.

"Good morning, Mr. Reigns," she said, keeping her voice steady.

Roman leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "Morning, Serena."

Okay. So far, so good.

She cleared her throat, forcing herself into professional mode. "You have a meeting with Triple H at eleven, media interviews at two, and a production meeting before SmackDown. I’ve already pushed back the sponsorship call to next week."

He nodded. "Good. What about the travel schedule?"

"Finalized. Flights are booked, hotels confirmed. Everything’s in your itinerary."

Roman was silent for a beat, his fingers tapping the desk. "You always handle things before I even think to ask."

Serena glanced up, surprised by the warmth in his tone. "It’s my job."

His gaze held hers a little too long. "Yeah. It is."

A tension settled between them, the air thick with everything they weren’t saying.

Serena shifted on her feet. She needed to get out of there before last night repeated itself. "If there’s nothing else, I’ll-"

"Serena."

She stopped. His voice was softer now. She didn’t dare turn back, but she felt his presence behind her; closer than before.

"About last night…" His tone was careful, hesitant, like he wasn't even sure what he wanted to say.

Her hands clenched at her sides. Don’t do this, Roman.

She forced a smile, turning back slightly. "Nothing happened, sir."

His jaw tensed at the way she called him sir. He knew exactly what she was doing.

"Serena…"

"I should get back to work," she cut in quickly. "You have a busy day."

Roman’s expression darkened, but he didn’t stop her.

She left before he could say anything else, closing the door behind her with careful precision.

Once she was out in the hallway, she let out the breath she’d been holding.

Nothing happened. She had to keep reminding herself.

But the way Roman looked at her as she walked away?

She knew…this wasn’t over.

•

Next

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

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[comicsohwhyohwhy]

Arcane and Love

Arcane is about

love as a blessing, the thing that saves you, being really seen by someone and at the same time

love as violation, being seen as someone you are not, being changed against your will in someone's eyes or in reality

With Vi and Jinx, it's about Vi's inability to let Powder go. She only sees Powder, she wants her little sister back, she sees Jinx as a violation of what she should be as Powder. But Jinx cannot go back - the break that happend, the trauma, is inscribed in her, she is forever changed by it, even if it isn't (or is only partly) Vi's fault. Vi sees Jinx as someone she's not (anymore), at a moment in Jinx' life when she has gone through the painful journey of trying to accept herself as somewhat 'broken' and 'perfect' despite it all (Silco calling her 'perfect' with his dying words). But neither does Jinx really see Vi - Vi should be her sister who loves her unconditionally despite her transformation, who's there only for her, but Vi isn't that person anymore either. Vi has gone through her own trauma, she has lost everything, and when she comes out of prison and realises 'Powder' is alive that is her obsession - gaining her back, also to take back the biggest mistake she ever made, her biggest regret when she slapped Powder and talked to her cruelly. When they look at one another in season 1, they only see what they can't have anymore, what the other person can't be anymore. It takes their arcs in season 2 for them to reconcile somewhat to the new realities - Jinx, in being an 'older sister' to Isha, realises how fraught the task of caring for and protecting someone is, and Vi sees Jinx with Isha and sees how kind Jinx can still be, how she can care, even though she will never be Powder anymore. And Jinx comes back to help, to save her people. In the end, Vi and Jinx know this:

They will always be with each other, even if they are worlds apart, even if their images of each other are irreconcilable, because their stories are so entangled that they can only fully understand themselves by looking at each other.

With Viktor and Jayce, they start out truly seeing one another - Viktor sees through what everyone else views as Jayce's insane obsession that his entire life revolves around and sees his brilliant ideas, he sees him, which is why he's able to save him from suicide, give him a reason to live. And though Viktor offers himself to Jayce as what he is always perceived of in Piltover, someone subservient, an 'assistant' at most, 'let me help you with your Hextech dream', Jayce sees him as the brilliant man he is and makes him his equal, his partner working on their Hextech dream. But then Jayce starts seeing Viktor less and less throughout season 1 - he gets mixed up in politics and enjoys the adoration of the masses, he gets distracted by attention and becomes scared of the responsibility he suddenly shoulders. He often leaves Viktor alone to try and find a cure to his disease, he starts using an 'us vs. them' rhetoric when talking about Zaun, not counting Viktor's people - and by extension Viktor himself - as his people, he weaponizes Hextech even though this is Viktor's worst fear. And Viktor retreats, he becomes quieter, he doesn't fully trust Jayce, the only person he ever trusted, anymore, he experiments on himself recklessly, incresingly desperate not to die before he has done some good or without being able to prevent the worst. And then Viktor does die, the man Jayce has increasingly disregarded is suddenly gone, and Jayce, who has distracted himself from this reality that was imminent even without the explosion, can't let him go. He violates his trust and his body by merging him with the Hexcore that he explicitly promised Viktor he'd destroy. Love as violation in its purest form. Viktor is changed against his will, and Jayce cannot let him go, he wants back who he lost through his own doing. But Jayce has to go through his own journey of suffering, realising what pain and self-loathing are, and at the very end, he sees Viktor fully for the first time - a complex, idealistic, self-loathing, broken yet beautiful person. This is what frees Viktor from the very curse that Jayce set upon him.

And in that moment of seeing and being seen, the world is saved.

[typhoonharmony]

Let’s Talk About Revelator!

Also Some of the Hate I’ve Been Seeing Directed at Alya Because of This Episode!

Spoiler Warning! Stop Reading Unless You Want Spoilers!

Let’s talk about the biggest thing in this episode!

Alya/Rena Rouge discovers that Marinette didn’t tell Adrien that his father is Hawkmoth!

I know a lot of people have already touched on this, and Alya’s reaction, but here is my take on this anyway.

Alya’s discovery is accidental, as she isn’t aware what will happen or be revealed to her when she picks up the secret. I’ve heard a few people blaming Alya for this, as Marinette told her not to pick it up.

But seriously people, how is this Alya’s fault? Alya knows that Marinette’s secret is in there, but she thinks she knows everything already! Alya thinks Marinette is no longer lying to her, and that she knows everything. So she picks it up! There is no reason to blame Alya.

“I thought we were no longer keeping secrets from each other.”

Alya finds out that Marinette not only lied to her, but lied to Adrien about his father. Her words are angry, and even a bit cruel, but it’s what Marinette needs to hear.

“You don’t get to decide what Adrian should or shouldn’t know. neither do I.”

It’s the harsh truth, and the reality that really is what she needs to hear. Marinette has been scrambling to try and justify her actions ever since the London Special, and Alya’s words hopefully will help her realize the truth.

That what she told Adrien was wrong, and she shouldn’t have done that. But she still can fix it, if she comes clean.

“Truth is essential for someone’s personal growth, and now I’m going to have to lie, and you know I don’t like lying!”

As for how Alya reacted; can you blame her? She just found out her best friend has been lying to everyone in the city, including her boyfriend, about how he died and who his father was!

Her anger is justified. We were all angry at Marinette back when the London special came out! Did we just forget about all of that?

Alya has the right to be mad that Marinette lied to not just her, but everyone in Paris! She lied to Adrien. She also lied to her closest partner and the person who’s fought by her side since the beginning, Chat Noir.

Her anger is justified, and she is allowed to express her emotions.

Eventually, after de-akumatizing Revalator and Vincent leaves, Alya, Chat Noir and Ladybug discuss the secret that Rena Rouge discovered.

“Some secrets are heavier than others. I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep this one.”

I am of the opinion, that if Alya had been returned to her home with the knowledge of Hawkmoth’s identity revealed to her in this way, Alya would have told him.

Alya cares for Adrien, and in her opinion, a horrible truth is better than a kind lie. Her knowing the truth would have been a problem. But she still lets them erase her memory.

She still trusts Marinette, despite all of her anger.

“it’s meant to give people the ability to choose whether to share their secret or not.”

Alya could have told Chat Noir right then and there. But she didn’t.

She let Chat Noir erase her memory, because she trusts Marinette to make the right decision, and tell Adrien and her the truth eventually, on her own terms.

Even after her memory is erased, she still expresses the same feelings.

“Look, one truth I know about you. You have a big heart, And I know that whatever you do, you do it for people’s own good. Sure, you may make mistakes sometimes, we all do, but you always put them right.”

Yes, Alya has made mistakes, but so has Marinette. They both have been able to overcome these challenges, even if they don’t both remember.

“Whenever you’re ready to take the plunge, I’ll be there for you.”

Let’s stop hating on Alya. Cause she really is the friend that Marinette needs right now.

[certaineagledefendor]

Taehyung stans spent years calling him the most popular member of BTS, calling him the most successful, most impactful but when chapter two showed the whole world that instagram followers, likes and views don’t determine an artist’s success or relevance in the music world, these people couldn’t stomach it.

Chapter two was the most brutal reality check I have ever seen and it is clear that Taehyung stans are still in disbelief and in great denial because they only way they can try to make their fave seem relevant is to invalidate other people’s success and victimize their fave. They excuse their faves tankery by telling anyone who would listen that he is hated by his company and is sabotaged reason why he cannot do as good as others. “Organic” is the new term for flop because what do you mean you are clinging unto the term “organic” to explain why your fave can sell over 2 million in albums but cannot manage to go over 4 million streams on any song? What do you mean you are using “organic” to explain why your fave has 19 million followers on Spotify (the most followed BTS member) yet even 1/4 of those followers can’t stream his songs? What do you mean you brag about your fave being the most followed on instagram yet those even 2 million out if those 60+ million followers can’t stream his song? What do you mean you call others fraudulent but can’t explain why an album that sold over 2 million cannot get over 4 million streams for any song? This is “organic” to you? What do you mean you call others fraudelent when LMA is about to reach a billion streams without a single certification? That is organic to you?

It’s not that your fave is organic pookie, it’s that no one really gives a fuck about him outside of his face. It’s that his music style is not crowd pleasing so many people, even his fans don’t feel the need to stream his songs. The biggest mistake you made was failing to realize that people could be as interested as they can in Taehyung’s insanely beautiful face ( I admit he is gorgeous) but that doesn’t mean they would share that same interest in his craft. So instead of victimizing him and hating on others in other to make sense of his not thriving as much as you thought he would in one aspect of his life, accept that he wouldn’t thrive everywhere and do the best you can for him.

I know that misery loves company and because Taehyung has been so much of a disappointment to most of you who prided yourselves in his follower count and views and wholeheartedly believed that, those were the measures of success, you have no choice but to try to invalidate Jimin whom you believed was inferior to Taehyung and less successful than him but is proving to be so much more than you thought. I understand the need to mock something you wish to have but don’t and are bitter about it. I understand the need to try to highlight everything you consider a failure on his part so that you feel better about your fave not doing so well. Trust me I get it but doing all that won’t make your fave’s light shine brighter. The truth is, people can hate all the want but Jimin’s names would always come before Taehyung’s on most charts and there is nothing you can do about it.

No one breaks into an empty house and no one throws stones on an empty tree. Taylor swift is one of the most successful artists of this decade. She constantly sells out stadiums for tours, has best selling albums, gets massive streams but she is one of the most hated musicians too. People constantly get hit tweets dragging her, hit tweets with over 400k likes but none of this has ever stopped her name from being mentioned in the top. None of this hate has ever caused her an empty stadium on tours. None of this hate has diminished her success and relevance. The more successful you are or the more prospects of success one has, the more hate and vitriol they recieve so Jimin is in good company. People wouldn’t bother to hate on him so much if he was irrelevant. People make money from getting engagement on twitter and everyone knows that a quick way to get engagement is to mention Jimin so they do it. Stan tweet is not real life and this is proof…

This song is everywhere but people still get almost 400k likes posting stuff like this. Why do you think? Notice how these kinds of posts only come up when an artist is breaking records? Notice how no one is getting hit tweets dragging irrelevant people? Jimin is in very good company my darling so before you laugh at the fact that antis get hit tweets dragging him every on X, think about Taylor swift and Bruno mars who are world class famous and successful musicians who still get hated on. If Jimin had no impact no one would care and people only car to hate so much because they see his potential and it scares them so don’t laugh that Jimin gets hate, worry that no one cares about your “secret weapon” enough to drag him. What would they even drag, what achievements does he have to actually scare anyone? lol.

Taehyung stans keep calling Jimin fradulent or throwing out bot accusations but let’s not lie to ourselves. If you could bot your fave to success you would have done it too. No one is stopping you from being fraudulent, are they? No one is stopping you from botting your faves songs are they? Jimin is successful and people actually listen to his songs. You lot have enough money to mass buy his album and sell out his magazines in minutes, if there was a way to bot him to success, you 100% could have done it, don’t lie.

Keep crying about Jimin and talking about a 5 million drop even though your faves songs has literally never come close to 5 million streams ever. The more you hate, the more records and achievements Jimin gathers while your faves songs will continue in his mediocrity and irrelevance. When was the last time Taehyung’s name was mentioned when music was being discussed? When was the last time Taehyung’s name was mentioned when success was being discussed? EXACTLY.

Go keep following him on insta, mass liking his posts and mass viewing his videos and leave the serious business for people who know how to do it. It’s ok if he is an instagram influencer, that pays well too.

Don’t even get me started with the Taekook shippers on here. Not trying to be ageist but most of them are over 40 years old so one would think that middle aged people would have more to do with their lives and know better than imagine a romance in their heads and hating on another person for it but no, that is what they spend their time doing. Check Taekook tumblr, almost 80% if the bloggers are over 40 as well as their anons but these people spend their time hating on Jimin as if it is his fault Taekook don’t fuck each other. They have moved their hate from shipping hate to charts hate and all this because these sexually deprived women think Jimin has made some evil ploy with bang pd to sabotage and bring down Taehyung. I wonder what kind of sexual starvation would drive anyone to this level of delusion and the way you can tell most of them are neglected by the significant other or don’t have them at all which is why they resort to fetishising Taekook in the first place in a bid to feel that void they feel in their real lives. What you lot need is a therapist not shipping especially when this shipping turns you into bitter old shrews who spend your time hating on someone young enough to be your son. That’s just disgraceful and pathetic!

[forthevillains]

Arranged marriage

Albert Wesker X fem! Reader

also if you’d like a second part with NSFW let me know;)

Wesker could never imagine himself being in a classic relationship, where he’d fall in love and take his time with the person. No he had too much to do, so much work he didn’t even have time to meet new people and make an effort to make a woman fall in love with him. Yet as he worked on the virus and nearly all the test subjects he’s injected so far died within first hours, a thought crossed his mind. His own body accepted it, meaning that someone with the same blood, with the same strong mind could do the same. And so he’s decided to find a wife, hell to even pay for her, he didn’t give two shits about it. He needed someone worthy of carrying his children that were to be the key to the future. That wicked thought of his soon came to reality, he’s found a beautiful young, intelligent wife whose father was willing to give her up for the money. It was the biggest mistake he’s made though, forcing someone as determined as you into the marriage.

You hated Wesker, so badly, most of the time you two were yelling at each other and Albert held himself as good as he could to not strangle you. It was a living hell, especially for people who have worked for him, having to witness you two fighting like small children.

You knew what you wanted and that was freedom. You’ve fought for it the best you could, not letting Wesker touch you at all, throwing one insult after another and as much as it seemed like the best way to make his visions come true, he restrained himself from touching you without your consent. He hated how morals got the best of him now, when he needed it the least, but whether he liked it or not, he knew that he’d go against himself if he ever did that. He was the one wanted by women, he never had to force himself onto one and he sure wouldn’t do it now.

He changed his tactics though. Letting you sleep in your own room, without him anywhere near you. Except for the cameras planted in a corner of every single room. He liked to have things under control and he couldn’t trust you just yet.

This lasted a year or two. No progress from your side, however Albert? He got so used to watching you do the basic things, to hear you complain about how much of a pain in the ass he is, how you disliked Excella for the mere reason that she kept annoying you with how much she’d like to be in your place. He was growing so used to you that he actually began to fall in love with you. Slowly, but deeply. No matter how bad of a relationship the two of you had, whenever he spied on you and saw you so careless, smiling at the peace you’ve finally achieved - he grew addicted to that. He wanted to watch you more often, but the goals he set for himself didn’t allow him to do that as often as he’d like. You’ve got the poor man wrapped around your finger and you didn’t even know.

Not only that, you’ve actually done much more, only to disobey, only to possibly hurt him. You still remembered how you sneaked out of your parents’ house when you were a teenager. So you did it again. And realizing that Wesker didn’t talk to you about it the next day - you knew you could do it again. He either didn’t care or didn’t see you, but both were to your advantage.

It’s no surprise that you settled with cheating on your husband. He was distant enough that you just wanted attention from elsewhere. You were bored, lonely, with no one to talk to, nothing to do, as Wesker was always working and you weren’t allowed to talk to anyone else. It also felt quite refreshing to get out of the imaginary handcuffs he put you in, even if it was for a mere hour. Surprisingly, he didn’t find out for the first few weeks. You could enjoy affection and sex and he didn’t know a thing.

Wesker noticed the difference in your behavior and was pleased by your sudden obedience, glad that you finally realized what’s truly best for you. If only he’d known… He felt like that was the time for him to move your relationship further, to finally act like husband and wife and so he began buying you small gifts, spending more time with you in mere attempts to form a bond. You went along, but still - you wouldn’t let him touch you at all.

He would find out eventually though. And god was he pissed to get to know such a thing. His blood was boiling and for a slight moment he considered killing you. How dare you do that to him? And only when he started to care about you!

The man you’ve been seeing is found dead soon. No regrets from Wesker’s side.

You’re getting furious though.

"I could never love you! Get that through your head, old man!” You shouted at him and for the first time since he married you, Wesker froze in place. Have you just called him old? Have you just admitted that he’s unlovable? He doesn’t get it. He really doesn’t, but he’s done playing nice.

He makes your life a living hell afterwards, having you by his side all the time, not even letting you shower alone, let alone go to toilet. He’s always with you, no matter what you do and even when he has work to get done - you’re there assisting him. He doesn’t care how bored you are, you’re gonna be there with him.

If you try to run away again, he might as well put a collar on you to put you in your place (don’t make him do that.)

You’re forced to get used to your new life. You’re forced to be with him, forced to love him. And once you fall, there’s no coming back. He’s going to push you, he’s going to make you fall, because that’s what he’s wanted since the very beginning.