#i just think that they and they can enemies to lovers it

[miqojak]

Here I've been calling Jak + Ketsuchi 'rivals to lovers' but uh. Physical violence HAS happened that once. And she is VERY proud of her scars from that encounter, these days, even if at the time she was LIVID and SCARED. But she figured out he was testing her, and pushed herself through the 'test'... and these days wears her scars as a badge that she proved herself to him. (So I guess... they're technically enemies to lovers, according to OP's bit about violence! XD) There was lots of name calling. Yelling. Breaking things. Sexual tension CONSTANTLY boiling over into 'god I think I hate you' intimacy that returns right to 'fuck you' except he still shows up at your door humming that same damn song, and you still let him the fuck in. And yet, even in the midst of their roiling rivalry... he was the first one she trusted to be physically intimate with. Even while they fought... she knew, intrinsically deep down... he was like her. She trusted something in him because it was so familiar. So yeah. With two years of writing between us before they admitted to what had been long simmering? That is the best slowburn I've ever written, and one of the deepest, most complex relationship dynamics I've ever written. These two fucked up people helped knit up each other's inner wounds (and sometimes literal ones) with lots of time and patience - because who understands your fucked up emotional walls like someone else who builds the same fucked up walls and lashes out in the same fucked up way? In real life, hurt people hurt people. In fiction? Sometimes the hurt people get to heal the other hurt people. They were both chasing a death-wish after losing people they loved... and both gave up chasing death for the other - all without ever once saying "I love you." Because actions speak louder than words, in their mad world. And yeah, to that bit about mocking names becoming pet names... he once mockingly called her Little Robin, so she added it to her tattoos, all those years later - and just like he brought color to her dull world, her robin tattoo is the only one on her body with color. And a gesture from her that was once defiant - pressing her hand to his chest, to show she wasn't afraid of him? Now, is a tender, loving way for her to connect with him. To feel his heartbeat, and be soothed that it DOES still beat. And she'll keep fighting to make sure it keeps beating. And OP is right - "It's about truly knowing every single piece of your partner's heart and soul, from their anger to their joy and loving them not just despite it, but especially for it."

Because there were times Ketsuchi would be just... caught up in his anger, and would call her names and rage at her... and she refused to even be upset by it. (Now and then a zinger really dug in, though.) But she knew what he was doing... because she did the same thing with others. Lash out. Bite, scratch, gnaw, be as nasty as you can... and they'll leave. They'll give up. But she doesn't give up. And she saw something too akin to her own hurt in him... and in refusing to abandon one another, and insisting they keep butting heads and 'competing' to one-up each other... they kinda just ended up falling for that ferocity in each other, and wanting something better for the other person. And now? They *have* seen the worst of one another - and I think they've actually progressed to trying to bring out the best.

One thing that has always pissed me off is when people call the Enemies to Lovers troupe toxic romance and say it's abusive. Like I don't know what was advertised to you as enemies to lovers but babe that is so not what this trope it's about.

Now listen I'm a fantasy reader, so my normal level of enemies to lovers is "they have tried to kill each other at least once" or "they have definitely physically fist fought" at like the minimum. Anything below that is rivals to lovers to me. Just wanted to make it clear I'm not sugar coating anything here when it comes to my ships.

Enemies to lovers was never about the abuse or the fighting and the attempted murder, that's not what makes the trope.

Enemies to lovers was always about seeing the worst in each other first, being unafraid to show someone the ugliest part of yourselves and them still managing to fall in love with you. It's about realizing that the only person who has ever truly known you is the one person you cannot stand, it's about them being an outlet to each other the one person they are not afraid to be negative towards because that's your dynamic all the time.

This is also why people enjoy the fighting and the bickering between the enemies, because it's the one time when these characters are not holding anything back, they are unafraid of showing each other cruelty because why fear being disliked by someone who you already hate, that also hates you back?

It's about this chemistry these characters have, how they are somehow always pulled towards each other, how they can recognize each other in a crowded room immediately because they are annoyed by each other's presence obviously. It's about them always somehow ending up in a situation together even though the last thing they want is to be near each other.

They start noticing more about each other, they realize their habits, they know little stuff about them that almost no one else has ever noticed and maybe along the way they realize that maybe they're kind of different from what they thought at first and maybe they're not so different from each other.

It's about name calling turning into pet names, verbal sparing turning into old married couple type of bickering, going from dreading each others presence to searching for each other in a room, sneers turning into smirks, it's about keeping the same dynamic you had but making it more lighthearted, warmer.

And this is my personal opinion, but I truly believe there is no way to make a good enemies to lovers story without it also being a slowburn. It makes absolutely no sense why these characters that hated each other until now are suddenly falling in love so quickly. Enemies to lovers was never just Enemies -> Lovers, There needs to be some forced proximity thrown in there, a begrudgingly friendship, actual friendship, unexplained feelings, realization of feelings, secret pining because we barely became friends there is no way they would ever feel the same way, confession and by the end lovers. It just makes sense since they have a very complicated relationship and they need to grow as people and need to get used to familiar feelings first before actually getting together.

And this is what enemies to lovers is all about, these characters knowing every part of themselves, from the worst to the best, hiding nothing and being free around each other. It's about truly knowing every single piece of your partner's heart and soul, from their anger to their joy and loving them not just despite it, but especially for it.

[loveu2themoonandsaturn]

i need to get a hot take off my chest.

okay maybe lukewarm, but still.

the tension in friends to lovers is 80x more intense than that in enemies to lovers. the stakes are way higher.

i mean think about it, if you’re my enemy and i fall for you, if you reject me, your reaction is just going to make you my enemy again. nothing lost, nothing gained, in the grand scheme.

friends to lovers??? you have EVERYTHING to lose, because if you’re close enough to a friend to fall in love with? that means you’ve been there for me. seen me in my worst times. loved and supported me. ingrained yourself in my life in a way that can’t be easily undone. if i tell you i love you, my friend, my best friend, and you reject me? i’ve almost definitely lost the person in my life who meant the most to me, lost a vital structure in my support system… it’s like accidentally knocking the roof off your home. decimating an entire wall of it. the consequences are sudden and drastic and fundamentally change the way you go about things.

if i fell in love with a friend you can genuinely bet your ass i would convince myself i was delusional and that they weren’t flirting with me and i needed to get over them because it is safer than telling them the truth of how i feel and opening myself up to that loss.

don’t get me wrong, i fucking love enemies to lovers, but nothing will make me sick, make me ache, make me YEARN like friends to lovers does.

^^ actual picture of me halfway through a GOOD friends to lovers fic

[sqgeism]

haii!! Can I ask the reaction of amphoreus men to the reader don’t feel like they deserve them and feeling guilty about it? 🙏

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 if i'm turning in your stomach | amphoreus men x gender neutral reader

💌 — ; am i making you feel sick ? he's so.. happy with you, and you don't seem to understand. they're in the glory and light as a chrysos heir, what could have possibly be seen in you for them to ever want to share that light?

love mail — haiii anonnie ! thank you for requesting :D in this fic, i mention the very likely theory of phainon being kevin from hi3 ! it isn't a major plot point but it is mentioned so if ure confused dont worry so am i ヽ(´Ａ`)ﾉ love u guys mwah ! 2/5.

now.. anaxa isn't a fan of gossip, accepting words at face value is foolish. especially he is a man from a field of alchemy, trying and testing until he sees results. in this case, the truth.

but when a mutual companion, that babbling blue haired student of his, tells him that you've been feeling rather.. sad recently, he was determined to find out why.

in your defense, you were never meant to have him figure out, but this concoction you were working on was really starting to get on your nerves. you figured anaxa was still at the academy, so you were free to yell at the vial of glowing liquid like you could peer pressure it into getting it to cooperate. "stupid, stupid." you grumbled, your fists curling into a ball on the table. "i hate this, why can't i just... be like anaxa? he must feel ashamed with me. i can't do something as simple as a healing potion, after all."

you know these words aren't true, but you can't completely erase the fact you still feel them. your boyfriend was praised for his expertise in his field, couldn't you at least have learned something?—

it was then that you felt someone press up against your back, head leaning over your shoulder as anaxa sighs. his hands wrap around your waist, looking at your face like you're the moon. "your ingredients are perfect, dove. down to the measurements, but i'm sure your error comes from your order of mixing. listen to me, start with.."

you listen to his guide, trying to perfectly replicate the sequence as he speaks, but it's distracting. he hasn't.. stopped looking away from you while you work. not to mention, his hands trace the curves of your waist, as if keeping your body to memory. his sultry voice in your ear is NOT helping either.

"i heard you, you know." he mumbles, shifting his head to press kisses to your shoulder blades, somewhat relishing the way you shiver.

"do you really think i'd ever focus my time on someone who self proclaims their inadequacy?" you don't answer. "your intelligence is unmatched, dove. i couldn't think of anyone with a brain like yours, while also having a heart kind enough to open a man like me."

his advances move up to your neck, and at this point, the potion is long forgotten. your hands are too shaky to focus anyway. "please.. never think you're not good enough for me. i couldn't handle you leaving me for false truths."

your husband is a literal king, warrior, and an unmovable force.. you wonder why he settled down with an ordinary mortal. you're not quite in the spotlight, and instead, a humble historian. which means you're well versed in mydei's tales, especially ones pertaining to his past. according to rumor; mydei is fated to fall for someone for all of eternity, they were originally a warrior sworn to him, but had died tragically for mydei in the middle of a battle, in fear that the enemy had possibly been able to reach his weakest spot. after a desperate plea from the gods, they had been kind enough to have his lovers soul reborn every time they've come face to face with death. you.. were apparently the first one he's met ever since 'your death'.

and while you're.. comforted by that idea, the fact that you're fated to find mydei in every life you'll live, you also feel.. unsure. had the chrysos heir fallen for you, or for someone you used to be. and you could never really live up to be who you were.

that person was a warrior, one mydei cherished like his other half, and the myths of the two of them are romantic. how he spent hundreds of years mourning them, how they haunted his narrative. could he ever truly love who you are now?

"sweetheart?"

mydei's voice breaks through your thoughts, and you come back to reality—surrounded by your ancient maps and history. you're in your study, staring down at one of the many books written on the chrysos heirs. "are you staring at that old thing again? i told you, i don't like the way they drew me in that book." his laugh makes you feel guilty, you aren't even sure why. something about his love feels undeserving.

when you don't reply, he realizes you're not quite on a page about him.. but about you. your past life.

mydei knows how you feel about it, you've talked about it under the moon with him in hopes that its light will keep your secret safe. but he knows reassurance won't fix your insecurity easily, he needs time, and he'll give you all of it. he's waited to find you for all these years, what kind of man would he be to make you think you're anything less than precious?

carefully turning your body to him, his hand trailing up your cheek as he feels his heart ache. "sweetheart, my darling.." before he can even finish, you lean your head against his bare chest, listening to his heartbeat in silence. "mydei, do you promise.. that this heart is mine? you.. you aren't after someone who i once was, and rather who i am now?"

he knows he'll have time to give you proper reassurance, but he knows you just need a few words now. "i promise, with all i am, that i have fallen in love with you all over again. and that i am yours, body and soul."

with all the mystery that surrounds your boyfriends identity, you can't help but think about it as well. do you.. really know him? does he not trust you to know him? you aren't sure. maybe you aren't as special as you thought you had been, that phainon's sweet words of how much he loves you are.. false prayers.

but you have no reason to doubt him, he's never stayed out too late or hung around people that made you question his motives, he's a good man. and you're starting to think that you don't deserve him for doubting that.

the idea clouds your mind the whole day, and for aeon's sake.. you and him are having a date night at his place. he notices it quickly, how your mind just can't seem to focus. how you move away from his touches and hesitate with every kiss, was there something troubling you? was he troubling you? that's when he's had enough of the lack of communication, he turns off the tv, pulls the blankets down, and gives you a confused but also rather upset look. "honey, what's going on in that gorgeous head of yours?

he holds his hand out to you, but you move away, the cold shoulder has never been so sweet. "phai.." you hesitate to finish your sentence, but phainon waits.

he's been known for his patience, he always has been. he was a composed man, a gentleman, he could surely hold himself togethe—

"am.. am i really anything special to you?"

he feels his heart sink to his stomach.

there's an sting that he's never quite felt before, overwhelming his body greatly. he's sure he can hear his heartbeat, or perhaps lack thereof, it's as if his world has stopped at those words.

you've begun to tear up now. "i don't know i just.. the people have been telling me things— and i'm realizing now that i don't.. i don't really know anything about you and.. i.. i'd want to get to know you better, but i understand if you don't want to, and don't trust me but—"

seeing you cry makes him remember something distant, a life he once lived in a different world. making someone he also loved so dearly cry because of what he's done.

phainon crumbles, moving closer to you to wipe your tears. you two are face to face now, his lips only a breath away as he's reminded why he loves you so much.

you're you, so human, so selfless. how could he be blind to your struggle, when he claims to watch you so carefully? "oh, angel. i'm so.. so sorry. there are things i cannot tell you yet, but i can tell you that i could never let my heart be taken by anyone else."

feather light kisses press against your eyelids, and you shudder at the contact. "sweet, sweet angel. please don't cry. i promise i'll make it up to you one day."

© sqgeism or wtv (^_^;)

[stxary]

Touch || 01

❤︎‬ pairing : jungkook x fem!reader

‪‪❤︎‬ genre : non idol au, college au, brothers best friend au, childhood enemies to lovers, love triangle, smut / angst / fluff

‪‪❤︎‬ word count : 2k

‪‪❤︎‬ warnings : reader is 20, jk is 22. reader n jk are both health majors ( reader- nursing, jk- medicine ) jk is an asshole, reader hates him. bickering (lots more to come..) umm that's it for this chapter lmk if I missed anything !

❤︎‬ a/n : hi :) im back after almost two months.. wow.. i hope this series im starting helps make up for inactivity !! ive had this idea on my mind for a while tbh, i just didnt know how to execute it but i finally had motivation yay ! i think ill probably keep this short, maximum 10 chapters just in case i disappear again.. ill probably keep the word count on the lower side just so its not a hassle to read too. anyways enough of my yapping, i hope you enjoy !! ^_^

“I’d like you to be my teacher’s aide.”

See, now those weren’t the words you were expecting to hear when your professor told you he wanted to speak with you after class.

You thought that he was going to speak to you about your grades. Maybe you didn’t do well on the last research paper you turned in. Or maybe he found out you helped that girl cheat on her test that one at the beginning of the year.

So hearing your professor ask you to be his teacher’s aide caught you off guard.

You weren’t completely opposed to the idea. God knew you could use the money.

You just weren’t sure you wanted to deal with the students that would come up to you blaming you for their bad grades, when they didn’t even do the work. But then again, the money was nice. You didn’t have time for a real job, and your lifestyle was rather expensive. Your brother Namjoon was getting fed up with paying for almost all of your stuff.

That’s the only reason you accepted the job, because you thought about how said brother Namjoon would be on your ass and give you one of his lectures about how he wasn’t your father and you were perfectly capable of providing for yourself.

When you accepted the job though, you thought you would just have to grade papers, maybe help make lesson plans and PowerPoints. You didn’t know you would have actually to tutor students.

Right now, you wanted to hit your professor for not telling you who you had to tutor. Not just once, like with the other kids. No, he said you would probably have to tutor this guy for the whole semester.

It would’ve been fine, if it was literally any other person. But no, of course the person you had to tutor was Jeon fucking Jungkook.

You really didn’t like Jungkook. You haven’t since you were kids. You guys were complete opposites. As a kid, you were more on the quiet side. You only focused on school, the thing you were interested in the moment, and your few friends. While Jungkook was everything you hated. He was loud, arrogant. He was the type of kid you would beg your teacher to move if you got sat next to him.

You tried to like him, but he made it near impossible. From the fights you had in elementary school, to the pranks he would play in middle school, to the way he would bicker with you just to get a rise out of you in high school. He was one of the most insufferable people you knew.

The only reason why you dealt with Jungkook for so long is because he was Namjoon’s best friend. For the longest time you wondered how Namjoon could even tolerate him. Yet, they were inseparable. Two peas in a pod.

As you got older, Jungkook (mostly) grew out of his antics. Now that you were in college, you barely talked. You tried to avoid him as much as you could. But in the few times you did interact with him, he would just make teasing remarks and small comments about little things.

Which is exactly what he was doing right now.

“And there.. Jungkook, can you please focus so we can get this over with?” you huffed out, setting your pen down.

He was slouched in his chair, paying attention to everything but what you were trying to teach him. He was impossible. It was like trying to teach Algebra to a baby.

He groaned, sitting up to finally look at the page. He skims over the picture, which was an x-ray of a body highlighting the skeletal system. “Fine.” he said reluctantly.

You pointed back at the page, hoping that when you spoke your irritation wasn’t evident. You knew he was acting dumb just to get a rise out of you, and fuck him, because it was working.

“Okay, what are the different types of bone cells and what do they do?” you asked, glancing at his face. His eyes were squinted, as if he was deep in thought. If you didn’t know better, you would think he was actually in thought. Before he gave the stupid ass answer he did.

“…are all cells in your body not the same? I thought animal cells were the same.”

You had to run a hand over your face and take a deep breath to prevent yourself from screaming at him in this quiet library. “Why do you have to be so fucking difficult?” you asked.

The thing is, Jungkook wasn’t dumb. No, he was actually really smart. It was just the fact that he never did work. Or even attended the classes. He skipped his classes often, going to do god knows what. (Most of the time it was to meet up with and sleep with girls.)

He smiled at you, that damn cocky smile that always made you want to strangle him. “Because I like seeing how angry you get. You’re cute when you’re mad, angel.”

You glared at him. You were used to his flirty comments, because you knew he never meant them. He only said them to get a rise out of you, so you never showed a reaction.

“I told you not to call me that.” you muttered, your voice snappier than before.

He tilted his head, his smile growing bigger. “I know. But I’m still gonna call you it.”

The nickname probably wouldn’t bug you so much if it wasn’t for the fact that he only used it in a teasing way. Ever since middle school, he would jab at the fact that you were this perfect child. He would call you angel, mary, probably ten other nicknames that you couldn’t even remember.

You took a deep breath, trying not to cause a scene. You did not want to get kicked out of the library just because Jungkook was acting like a baby.

“Let’s try this again.” you spoke, your voice calculated, slow. “What do osteoblasts do?”

He ran a hand through his hair, blinking at you. “I have no idea what those are.”

Your eye twitched. You knew you shouldn’t have been expecting more from him, considering he never went to class, but this was just outrageous.

“Do you not.. ask people what happens in class after the fact? Jungkook, how the hell do you expect to pass this class when you don’t even show up?”

He leaned back in his chair, rolling his eyes. “Hey, I don’t need a lecture from you, missy.”

“No, you need to get your shit together. You wanna get your degree and get the hell up out of here, don’t you?” you raised an eyebrow at him.

He hesitated, letting out a hum. “Hm, I dunno. I kinda like being able to have all the girls I want. You know, most of them aren’t uptight bitches like you-“

“Okay, you know what? We’re done here. Bye.” you said abruptly, having enough of him for the day. Right about then you were remembering why you hated him so much when you were younger.

He sat his chair down on all four legs and whined. “Oh, come on, angel. Don’t be like that. Don’t you get paid per session?”

You ignored him, continuing to pack your things before storming out of the private study room. You seriously could not deal with that man. And you had to tutor him for the rest of the semester. Yeah, fuck your life.

“Jungkook told me you’re his new tutor, said that you flipped out and ran away earlier.”

Namjoon’s voice came from the front door as he brought in the bags of food you ordered.

“Whatever. I didn’t flip out, I left because I think I would have punched him in the face if I listened to him talk for one more minute.” you corrected, getting up from the couch to help him bring in the bags.

He snorted, starting to take boxes out of the bags. The smell of the food, both sweet and savory filled the kitchen, making your stomach growl.

“I can’t believe I have to tutor him for the rest of the damn semester. Can you believe he’s already failed the class once? What an idiot!!” you ranted, shaking your head as you slammed your hand down on the counter.

“He can be smart. When he wants to be. And when he actually goes to class.” Namjoon replies.

“I know. That’s what pisses me off. How is he always skipping class to meet girls? Then he acts clueless, and he only does it because he wants to see me angry. He said it’s cute!! He doesn’t even take me seriously!” you grumbled, snatching your box of food before plopping back onto the couch. Namjoon followed, watching your outburst in slight amusement. He had always thought you and Jungkook’s rivalry was funny.

“You know you’ve gotta get along with him to get the money. I already told you-“

“I know.” you groaned, shutting him up. “Ugh, but can’t you just keep buying me everything? I liked it when it was like that?” you whined.

“No. Because you ask me for stupid shit.”

“What? No I don’t!”

“Yes you do.”

“Name one stupid thing I’ve made you buy.”

Namjoon pauses, staring at you, before beginning to list things. “Those birria bombs off Tiktok shop, that skincare off of Temu that you never even got, a pair of headphones when you already had one-“

“Okay, that’s enough! I can justify all of those!!” you lift your hands up in a defensive gesture. Namjoon narrows his eyes at you, urging you to continue.”

“Cmon, I really couldn’t turn down the birria bombs. They were on sale! You can’t even deny that dinner was good for 3 nights when we got them.” you pointed at him, and he just stared back at you.

“Then the skincare.. it was a full set. I really had to get it. It was supposed to come with pimple patches and all! Fuck Temu. And-and the headphones.. I needed a backup. Then a backup for the backup.”

“You have a spending addiction.” Namjoon said, after just blankly staring at you for a few long moments.

“No I don’t.” you denied, taking a bite of your chicken.

“Please get yourself a boyfriend. Preferably a really rich one, so he can waste his money on buying you pointless shit instead of me. I can’t remember the last time my wallet hasn’t been crying for a break.” he says, fake sorrow in his voice.

“Ugh, fuck you.” you pout.

Namjoon laughed, reverting the conversation back to the original topic. “Seriously ___, you’ve gotta get along with him. You can’t back out of it. The semester only goes by faster when you don’t completely hate him.”

You sighed heavily. He was right. You were never going to get through this semester if you didn’t find a way to get on good terms with Jungkook.

“Really, he’s nice-“

“No he’s not!!” you interrupt, sitting up straight on the couch. “He’s an asshole!”

“Because you’ve been an asshole to him.” Namjoon deadpans. You furrow your brows. Of course you’ve been an asshole to him! He’s been one to you since you were kids!

“Because he’s been one to me!!” you say defensively, and Namjoon just gives you a look.

“So do you see the cycle?” he asks, calmly. A complete contrast to your tone. But you were always like this when you complained about Jungkook. He irked a nerve in you that nobody else could. It honestly was a talent.

Namjoon did have a point. If you continued down this road, you were just going to go in circles with Jungkook like you’ve been doing your whole life. You slouched down, not even responding to Namjoon’s question. He knew you were defeated when you just took another bite of your chicken.

He took a sip of his drink, before speaking again. In that same, calm tone. It always amazed you how calm he could be when you were on the verge of going insane.

“Talk to him. Have a normal conversation with him. He can be nice if you can be nice.” You turned your head to look at him, giving him a pleading look. When he just stared back at you, you let out a big sigh.

“Fine.”

Fuck Jungkook. You were getting through this semester. Whether he wanted to cooperate or not. You were tutoring him, and you were getting that damn money. So if that meant attempting to be nice to him, you could do that. Even if it felt like it would be the death of you.

© stxary 2025 , all rights reserved .

[ivanhoe1820]

I often think about the fact that Crowley and Aziraphale were basically smitten with each other from day one. Most other shows would, I think, have gone a pretty straightforward "enemies to lovers" route with it, probably having them being directly hostile toward each other for a while before settling into some tense truce that eventually speedruns it's way into a passionate romance. Not Good Omens, though, they're too good for that.

Like, you know, they like each other IMMEDIATELY. On the wall around the Garden of Eden, watching Adam and Eve, freshly fallen courtesy of Crowley, wander off into the world to face the horrors, while they giggle with each other over silly jokes. Even then when, by all rights, they really SHOULD have been hostile to each other they just couldn't bring themselves to be.

Like, URGH I don't know if I'm expressing this properly but they've liked each other since the beginning and they never really bother pretending to be enemies other than the absolute minimum level of lip-service to their respective authority figures and it's just so...I don't know, so REFRESHING, at least for me who's watched/read waaaayyyy too many "enemies to lovers" things that tread over the same old ground.

It's just nice to see people who like each other from the get-go, you know? Without the media in question trying to convince us you can only have chemistry with someone if you start out disliking each other? It's nice.

[crescentpaws]

Wait who is Bronte. Is he cool . I have weak long term memory . I need to let Fintan be weird and gay

he’s the ancient emo bitch who had beef with sophie for like half the books. kept trying to get her exiled for no reason other than the fact that he is a hater. thousands of years old and has beef with a twelve year old… he’s an asshole but i think he’s funny for that. what is wrong with him (affectionate)

and tbh most of the shipping with him and fintan was the result of this one gay ass line in book 6… saying that he and fintan had a long history and therefore if anyone can guess the passwords protecting fintan’s secrets (in his cache) it’s him (the passwords are supposed to be something personal and instinctual to the owner of the cache btw… bro just casually dropped the fact that he has a long history with fintan (the enemy) and knows him on a deep personal level and didn’t elaborate…). they have like no direct interactions that we see in the book though 💀 but they have five thousand years of history so trust there was some gay shit going on. enemies to lovers more like lovers to enemies.

[johnhwatsonblog]

Name three things that make you happy and three things that make you livid

Alright, here goes. Three things that make me happy:

1. Rosie. My daughter. Absolute light of my life. She’s got this smile, you know? Like nothing else in the world matters. Honestly, if I didn’t have her, I don’t know where I’d be.

2. Sherlock. Yeah, yeah, laugh all you want, but… when he’s not being a complete arse, he’s brilliant. Infuriating, but brilliant. And when he lets his guard down, those rare, quiet moments, makes it all worth it.

3. A decent cup of tea. Might sound simple, but when everything’s falling to bits around you, a proper brew can make the world feel just a little less mad.

Now, three things that make me livid:

1. Being lied to. Which happened far too bloody often in my life. From friends, lovers. From enemies. Sometimes I couldn’t tell the difference.

2. People putting Rosie in danger. You want to see me lose it? Try threatening my daughter. That’s not a warning, it’s a promise.

3. Sherlock doing something reckless without telling me. Which is, let’s be honest, practically every other day. I know he thinks he’s protecting me, but he’s not. He’s just shutting me out and knows he shouldn’t.

[lostlikesaebyeok]

HEYYY 🥳🥳🥳 CAN WE GET A OVERLY MEAN! SAEBYEOK X OVERLY NICE! READER PRETTY PRETTY PLEASEE

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 𝒌𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒂𝒆-𝒃𝒚𝒆𝒐𝒌 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

★彡 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒚 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏!𝒔𝒂𝒆-𝒃𝒚𝒆𝒐𝒌 𝒙 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒚 𝒏𝒊𝒄𝒆!𝒇𝒆𝒎!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 彡★

“why do you keep being so nice to me?”

[ wlw | kitchen tension | enemies to lovers-ish | kind of nsfw implied | angst turned heat | oneshot ]

kang sae-byeok was not warm.

not to most people. not to strangers. not even to people she liked, if she ever did. her words were sharp like shards of broken glass, her expressions unreadable, her tone so often clipped it felt like an art form. she existed in the world like a bruise, something you noticed only when you pressed too hard.

and you? you were the complete opposite. you were the sun.

not in a loud way. not in a look-at-me way. just... warm. impossibly, irritatingly, relentlessly warm.

she hated it.

she hated how you smiled at the old man running the corner shop. hated how you said thank you too many times when someone passed you something. hated how you called her name in that soft, lilted way that made it sound like poetry.

"you don't have to be so nice," she snapped at you once, arms crossed, leaning against the wall outside your shared lecture hall.

you blinked. then smiled. "you don't have to be so mean."

her mouth twitched. you almost thought she smiled back. almost.

it started with group projects. sae-byeok picked the corner seat and never spoke unless absolutely necessary. you sat next to her anyway. kept sitting there, week after week, until she sighed and shoved a textbook your way.

"highlight chapter four," she said.

"please?"

she gave you a look. flat. annoyed.

but you just smiled, took the book, and did it.

she didn't know when you became a fixture. how your voice slipped past her defenses. how your presence stopped feeling like noise and started feeling like a lull.

she’d snap at you for waiting outside her dorm, only to accept the coffee you brought.

you’d giggle when she rolled her eyes.

"you know i like seeing you," you'd say.

and she'd pretend not to hear it.

one day, she was walking you back to your dorm after you spent the whole day out at an amusement park (which sae pretended like she hated every second). not because she wanted to walk you back. because it was late. and dark. and you were too trusting. and she told herself someone had to make sure you didn’t end up in a ditch.

"you're quiet today," you said, hands in your coat sleeves.

"and you’re not? shocker."

you laughed. she hated that she liked the sound.

"i know you like me," you said, out of nowhere.

she stopped walking.

"i never said that."

"you didn't have to."

she looked at you, at your too-kind eyes, your soft lips. the way you tilted your head, waiting, calm and unafraid.

"what if i don’t?"

"then i'd keep being nice anyway."

she felt her chest physically ache.

the first time she kissed you, it was angry.

"stop being so nice to me," she growled, cornering you in the hallway.

"make me," you breathed.

and she did.

but it didn’t stop there.

her hands slammed against the wall on either side of your head, trapping you. her eyes were wild, furious, and burning.

"i can't stop thinking about you," she whispered.

"good," you whispered back, breathless.

and then she kissed you.

it was hot. and sharp. and messy. teeth clashing, lips parting. she kissed like she fought, rough, unyielding, and full of desperation.

your hands curled in her jacket, pulled her closer. you kissed her back like you'd been waiting for this, dreaming of it, aching for it. you moaned against her lips and felt her whole body react, tense and trembling.

when she finally broke away, her breathing was ragged.

"i hate you," she whispered, forehead pressed to yours.

"you love me," you replied, smug.

she groaned, then kissed you again, harder.

and neither of you stopped smiling the whole way back to your dorm.

she didn’t even let the door close behind you at your dorm room.

"get over here," sae-byeok said, her voice all low and husky, grabbing your wrist with a force that made your breath hitch. in one smooth motion, she spun you around, picked you up by the waist, and placed you on kitchen counter.

"sae–" your voice broke off when her mouth met yours again, this time deeper, hotter.

her hands gripped your thighs, pushing your knees apart just enough to step betwen them. her fingers curled into your hips as if she needed to hold you in place, like if she didn’t anchor herself with you, she might fall apart completely.

"you always smile at me like that," she murmured between kisses, pressing them to your lips, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. "like you're not scared. like you know i'm going to melt."

"aren't you?"

she didn't answer. she didn't have to. you already knew.

her lips crashed into yours again, all teeth and heat and longing. it was rough around the edges, unpracticed, raw, but it was real. her kiss was all the things she never said. all the walls she'd built breaking down in the fire of that moment.

and when you pulled her even closer, wrapped your arms around her shoulders and smiled against her lips, she finally understood something she’d never admit out loud:

you had her. completely.

thank u for reading, angel ♡

(*´∀｀*) likes = sae kissing u breathless <3

[saxlochapologist]

thinking about the complete alienation combined with the lack of privacy the Ratliff children probably experienced growing up. from the way Tim talks about his 'measly $10mil profit' from the embezzlement scheme to the fact that they've never flown a commercial airline before, I can't even imagine how many staff members they had in their house growing up lol. Chefs, housekeepers, nannies, you name it. the simultaneous distance from and close proximity to a rotating door of staff is probably a very strange experience to grow up with, I'm sure. all while their mother tells them that anyone outside of their family is either suspicious, worthless, or just completely irrelevant. No one could possibly compare to the Ratliffs or live up to the standards that Victoria and Tim set for them lol. Like people are allowed to be close to them in proximity - close enough to serve them and clean their toilets and cook their food - but never close enough to be anywhere near actually knowing them.

And it really does seem like everything has always been all about them and their family and what everyone else can do for them and their family. I feel like this manifested in a very deeply held belief in all of the kids that their family is like the apex of existence. Rich people are sooo deranged, those kids absolutely grew up without many friends or even acquaintances bc no one they wanted to spend time with was good enough for them, according to Victoria. and I'm guessing based on her behavior in canon that she was VERY loud and vocal about her opinions on this lol. So....they just ended up clinging to each other and relying on each other for validation and guidance and support. I think that's why it's hard to characterize exactly what Sax and Lochy are to one another especially. Father and son? Mother and son? Brothers? Friends? Enemies? Husband and wife? Lovers? It's like they're everything, they've had to fill every role for each other bc if they didn't there would be gaping wounds no one else could possibly fill! It's so so so fucked up and deliciously codependent this is god tier yaoi to me sorry.

[mickyschumacher]

you could do an enimes to lovers about marc bernal in which they both like each other secretly but once in the midst of their arguments he talks about an insecurity of hers, then later he apologizes and confesses to being in love

I'm using translate I hope you understand, i love your written

[LITTLE DO YOU KNOW!]

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: marc and you aren't really friends... but you're not really acquaintances either. little do you know, being stuck in an elevator is enough to make you realise what you are.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: questionable enemies to lovers, cuties who like each other, stuck in a elevator trope, indirect mentions of claustrophobia, horribly translated spanish, jealousy, reader's insecurity is being clingy, arguing, and a cute little confession at the end.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: marc bernal x fem!reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 1.9k+

𝐀/𝐍: hi anon! thank's for requesting!! although i think this request has made me realise i'm not fit for this trope bc i suckkkkk at it. ._. i've only ever succeeded once so.

🏎️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | ⚽️𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

You and Marc had never gotten along.

It was beyond you really.

Perhaps it was your fault at first. You had taken him at face value. You had first met him through some mutual friends.

Was he a good looking guy... well, it would be a crime to say no. But behind that stupidly pretty smile of his, he was always rubbing you the wrong way.

Every morning he saw you, he'd go, "Ah... I thought a monster just walked in. Turns out it's just you."

In return, you'd simply smile before flipping him off.

Of course, it wasn't just that.

You'd take every chance to take a dig at him. His hair was your number one pick. Another was the way he'd clamber into a room, leaving you wondering if he ever knew where he was going.

Sarcasm had become your best defence when he was around. But it didn't always suffice.

It had come to a point where you'd meet with your friends and dread whether Marc would show up just to annoy the hell out of you.

Take now, for example.

You were meeting your friends at the mall on the fourth floor. Arriving to the ground elevator, you had walked into it without thinking too much, pressing the button with the number '4.' And just as it was beginning to close, a hand struck the door, preventing it from doing so.

You blinked upon seeing the familiar face and rolled your eyes. "Of course," you muttered under your breath.

Marc grinned at your expression, pushing himself into the elevator. "Come on, princesa. If I didn't know any better, you were basically waiting for me."

You clenched your jaw at the endearment. He knew it ticked you off. You sighed, taking a step towards the corner of the elevator and huffed. "Please... I don't think even the elevator wanted you."

"It must be fate." Marc gave you a small shrug, hands shoved into his pockets. He took a glance of you from his peripheral, pressing his lips to prevent a grin from sprawling on his face. You looked miffed.

Cute.

"If fate means getting off this elevator as fast as I can and away from you... sure," you quipped, feeling dizzy as the elevator began moving up – the motion sickness had captured you quickly.

Before you knew it, you had briefly collided into Marc, nausea taking over your body.

"If you wanted to be closer... all you had to do was ask," Marc teased, hand automatically holding your arm to prevent you from falling further.

You gave him a small glare, pushing him off you. "Please. The idea makes me feel sick," you retorted, wishing you weren't missing the slight warmth he had brought you.

Marc gave you a pointed look, squinting at you as he shook his head. He was about to open his mouth when a sudden rumble shook beneath your feet.

You stared at each other blankly, faces white with dread as the elevator came to a screeching halt.

You blinked, body immediately alert while Marc pushed himself off the elevator handle. He gave a small nervous chuckle. "I... we aren't stuck, are we?"

"Shut up. It's probably a small power cut" you mumbled, begrudgingly pressing the call button on the side panel.

A voice suddenly blared from the speaker. "Hola, estimados clientes. Sentimos comunicarles que este ascensor se encuentra fuera de servicio. Intentaremos solucionarlo lo antes posible. Por favor, mantengan la calma mientras enviamos a algunas personas." Hello, dear customers. We are sorry to say this elevator is currently out of service. We will try to fix this as soon as possible. Please remain calm as we send some people over.

Your teeth sunk into your lips as Marc gave you a 'told-you-so' look.

Great.

This was perfect.

Stuck... with the person that annoyed you the most.

You breathed out slowly, taking a measured seat on the floor. "It's okay. They'll come soon. I'm sure."

Marc raised a brow, looking down at you. "Are you trying to convince me or you?"

You closed your eyes briefly, trying to press down the irritation crawling out of your chest. You cleared your throat, staring at the reflective panel of the elevator, unsure of what to say. Whenever you were with Marc... it was hard to stay quiet.

Speak of which, ten minutes of silence had passed. And in Marc's opinion, that was apparently ten minutes too long. He pursed his lips, eyes still focused on you. He gulped, opening his mouth. "You aren't like claustrophobic, are you?" He asked.

Even though your every thought was embedded with annoyance, you could still pick apart the genuine concern in his voice. Nevertheless, you sighed. "Shouldn't you be doing something about this?"

"Like what?" Marc raised a brow. What the hell was he even supposed to do? Being stuck with you was already making him nervous.

"I mean like finding a solution. Pry open the doors or something...?" You responded, bewildered yet again.

Marc nodded slowly, giving you another shrug. "My brain tends to go blank when I try to find a solution," he mumbled, ears picking up a slight pink flush.

You tilted your head, examining him silently. "Huh... interesting."

Marc gave you a confused expression. "What is?"

You rested your head on the cold wall and huffed with amusement. "I didn't know you had one."

He blinked. What were you even...

A brain.

Marc's shoulders slumped as he threw you a small glare. Silently, he walked towards the elevator doors, hands reaching out beneath the small gap. He pulled on each side, grunting at the sudden strain on his body.

Fucking hell... there was no way in hell he was getting that open. Even if it made him look good in your eyes. 

You raised a brow. "I thought you lifted during practice? I mean what do you even do then?" You queried, sitting in the floor as the coolness of the metal began to nip at you.

Marc poked his cheek with his tongue, turning to you with a pointed expression on his face. "I don't train with hundred pound steel doors," he retorted. 

"Absolutely useless," you mumbled under your breath, becoming antsy with every second passing. You could've sworn the walls were closing in on you.

A small amused laugh fell from Marc's lips. He tilted his head at you. "Sorry... did you want me to magically bring Javier over here? I know you'd prefer him doing it."

You furrowed your brows, bringing your knees to your chest. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Javier was one of your close friends. The one who actually introduced you to Marc. You thought they had a good friendly relationship. But over the past few weeks, you had seen a few signs of it going sour. Particularly from Marc's side.

Marc ignored his messages. Didn't listen to him if you were standing next to Javier. Always demanding your attention when the other was around and then suddenly becoming distant. 

You couldn't really wrap your head around it. 

Marc only rolled his eyes, still trying to pull the doors open. "You know what I mean," he grunted, fingers slowly turning white. "You're always around him. It's always Javier this and Javier that."

You narrowed your eyes, swallowing hard. "No I'm not," you responded, naturally disliking where this conversation was going. 

Marc chuckled, chest heaving while he pried his fingers off the metal. "Yes, you are. You always so goddamn clingy. Like you can't even stay a second away from him."

Heat wavered over your body while your eyes burned. You couldn't really tell what you were feeling. Perhaps it was a mix of humiliation and anger that was making your cheeks flush. 

A frown sprawled onto Marc's face at the lack of your response. He turned from the doors, body flooding with dread once he spotted your cold expression. 

"That's not fair," you murmured as elevator had suddenly turned on, resuming the rest of your journey to the fourth floor before opening the doors. 

Marc's face burned, watching you walk out of the elevator. He closed his eyes and sighed. Stupid mouth... stupid goddamn feelings... 

You could hear him call your name but you weren't to bothered to stop. The mall's air conditioning felt crisp to your blazing skin. You searched the premises carefully. 

Friends... you were here for your friends. 

You felt a hand wrap around your wrist, stopping you from walking any further. You blinked, knowing exactly who that hand belonged to you. And still, you didn't turn around.

"I'm sorry," Marc breathed out, guilt evident in his tone. He winced at your unmoving figure, feeling the annoyance radiate off you. "I'm serious. I'm so so sorry I said that."

You pressed your lips, only turning slightly. Your eyes peeled away from the intensity sat within his gaze. "Exactly... why would you say that?" You asked.

Marc blinked, words falling away from his mind. The determined expression on your face immediately told him he wasn't getting out of this.

"You always tease me. We're always fighting, if that's what it's called. But I didn't think you would say something like that," you affirmed, finally facing him.

Although he looked down at you, it was like you could see the nervousness creep into his body. The small swallow travelling down his throat, the lips being chewed on, and the rapidly flickering eyes.

An internal debate.

"I thought it was obvious," Marc croaked, a flush of red spotting the side of his neck. He sucked in a sharp breath upon your blank blinking and your raised brow. "I thought it was obvious... that I liked you."

It was your turn to redden once again.

"When we first me and you smiled, I knew it then. I-I tease you because for some reason it's the only way we talk. And, God, you're not clingy. I was just jealous of Javier because you always talk him. Laugh with him. I just wish you'd do the same with me."

You couldn't really believe your ears. You could barely believe the shy look that had fallen onto Marc's face. The tattoo band around his forearm and the slit in eyebrow... they all made him look that bit more intimidating.

But here, in this moment, Marc Bernal looked like small kitten. Shy and nervous while he figured out what he was doing.

And it made your heart race.

"You think calling be a monster every time we meet made it obvious you liked me?" You retorted instead, corners of your lips teetering in slight amusement.

Marc's face fell at your words, almost in disbelief of what he was hearing if the embarrassment hadn't won him over. His shoulders naturally shrugged in his defence. "I couldn't tell you what I really thought."

You raised a brow, folding your arms. "And what was that?"

Marc took a step forward, crowding your space a little more. His brown eyes fell to yours, a small grin gracing his face at your apprehensive gaze. "That you're the prettiest girl I've ever seen," he whispered.

Your skin was positively burning now. And it wasn't fuelled by your usual annoyance for Marc. But by the erratic pulse coursing through your body.

"If I had to take a guess... I'd say you're a flirt," you murmured, eyes holding his.

Marc smiled in a way that almost made your soul leave your body. With his brown eyes crinkled with warmth, he leaned in further. "Let me take you on a date and you can confirm it yourself."

You chewed your lips before a small smile sprawled onto your face. "Deal."

© 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐘𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑

[skywalkoverme]

"𝐂𝐞𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧" 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 2

Part 1 | Part 2 |

𐙚 Anakin Skywalker x Fem! Reader 𐙚 18+ MDNI

Summary: You decide to host the two Jedi in your palace.

Warnings/contains: dom! male, dom! fem, Enemies to lovers, sexual tension, anakin does not like you, sedation, hallucination, more to come as the series goes on etc, not proof read-- english is not my first language!

Word Count: 1.4k // More on my Master list! + follow & reblog pls

You left the throne room silently, leaving the master and Padawan to their own discussions. “What were you thinking? Please, run me through why you would make such a reckless decision?!” Obi-wan didn’t raise his voice often but today, it was called for.

“She needed that! Be realistic, Master, if we leave, they aren’t likely to win! That’ll be another system lost to Count Dooku and his droids!”

“You know little of negotiation! Disrespect gets you nowhere. Even if she does allow us to help, we’ll be in the ranks with the clones.” He folds his arms.

“I think she’ll come around.”

“What makes you say that?”

He touched his left arm; his fingers ran over his glove. “I don’t know…it’s just a feeling but she knows more than she’s letting on. If she kicks us off the planet, I’m not sure she’ll be preparing for a battle.”

“Don’t overthink this.” Obi-wan cautioned Anakin as the young man began looking through the various belongings in the throne room. “I don’t want you to speak with her. At all. AM I understood?”

“Yeah, I heard you before.”

“Anakin, if you ruin this for the republic, I will be testifying against you.” He muttered, touching the crystal throne. “She was right earlier, you didn’t do you research on the atmosphere, it’s why we crashed.”

“She doesn’t need an echo chamber, alight? I heard it the first time.” He groaned as the man chuckled.

Moments later, you returned to the throne room with a group of servants and two men in blue military camo. “Anakin.”

“General Skywalker.” He corrected and faked a smile. Obi-wan nudged him with his elbow.

“Follow these ladies, they’ll get you settled in. General Kenobi? May we speak in the gathering room?”

“Of course, my lady.” Anakin looked over his shoulder as you and Obi-wan walked in the opposite direction as him. He wanted to be a part of the conversation! Where were you going with his Master? The two generals shook hands with Kenobi and before Anakin could protest, he was brought to the hot springs in the east wing.

“Hey, ladies.” He said rather distractedly, “Do you know what they’re discussing?” The women giggled at his accent, “Right. How would you all know?” One woman began to undress him as two others added a few oils and scents to the bath. “I can wash myself.” He raised his hands beside his head. “I- I’m capable.”

“The Queen said you are dense.” When the three looked at him with concern and pity, he rolled his eyes.

“She said that?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah.”

“Mhm.”

“Well, I can handle myself!” He folded his arms over his bare chest. “Could I get some privacy?” The women kept their pitiful expressions as they left. Anakin cautiously undressed and checked the water temperature. It was perfect. He soaked in the water, his arms stretched on the edge of the tub. It was then that he began to admire the foliage around the palace. Apparently, this was Erden’s Spring season. His flesh fingers ran over the leaves that hung over his head. A ripe, large fruit hung from the branch, hundreds of them overed the trees around him. The urge to take a bite of one was strong, almost too strong to stand. The powdery and sweet scent filled his nose and made him feel lightheaded. Anakin plucked one of the plum-like fruits and felt it in his hand, the soft and delicate skin. He pressed it to his nose. It smelled delicious, like sea salt and melons.

Anakin ran his tongue over the fruit, his eyes shut at the syrupy taste. “Mhh.” His hard manhood wasn’t on his mind as he spread his legs. The man groaned and ran his tongue over the skin; that delightful aroma seemed more pungent as his teeth grazed the delicate skin. It tore under the pressure of his jaws. He took a large bite of the fruit; the inside was a warm seafoam green. Its juices ran down his lips and chin. Sweeter than candy and wetter than any fruit he had tasted before. A distracted moan left his lips as he bit into the fruit, more and more of it filled his jaws.

For a moment he paused and let the warm juices fill his mouth; slowly, he chewed, its generous juices coated his tongue and stuck to his teeth. The center of your system, the sun, embraced his pale skin and created lines of light across the sky—shapes like diamonds and spheres. Likely a reflection off the celestial bodies.

You entered the area of the hot springs, a rather confused look on your face as you searched for the women who were supposed to look after him. In one of the baths, Anakin held another of the fruits in his hands, taking greedy bites. “Stop!” You yelled and ran to him. “Don’t eat those!” You took the fruit from his hand and threw it over the balcony. Beside the bath, multiple seeds from the fruits lay. “How many did you eat?”

“Only a couple.” He smirked.

“Those fruits are to keep animals away, General!”

 “Never told me you had a twin. Are you nicer than her?” He looked past you at a wall.

You glanced at his hard nipples as he panted, holding the tub as before. His shoulders rose and fell as he licked his lips, pushed his hips forward under the clear water. “You are clearly unwell.”

“Quiet down.” You were taken aback by his command.

“You will not speak to me in that manner---"

“I just did.” He pointed between you and your twin, “Pass me that, one of you.” He pointed to a glass bottle of soap. You clenched your jaw as he stood inside of the bath, “Pass it to me.” You looked away from his manhood and grabbed the bottle. You were quiet as you handed the bottle to him. “Thank you.”

He poured the soap over his body and began to wash himself with a loofah. You stood by the tub, counting the fruit cores. Six (including the one you threw over the balcony). That’s five too many. “General, me and your master would like to discuss the plans for…” You took a deep breath as he washed his body beside you. “…two days, uhm the attack in two days.”

“Tell me about it here.”  He said and settled back into the bath. His eyes flickered up and down your attire.

“You are interesting, Anakin.” You said rather sarcastically, “Don’t dismiss my servants again. Am I understood?”

He was still seeing double, switching his eyes between you and your twin. “Could you be any ruder?”

“I can.” You tossed a towel at him. “Dry off. We have a meeting.”

He left the bath and wrapped the towel around his waist, “I like you~” His forefinger tapped your cheek. His body heat warmed your cool skin as you stood so closely. You pulled his hand away from your face, your nails scratched his flesh hand. He didn’t wince as the red marks scarred him.

“That might have been the most egregious comment to leave your lips.” You rolled a leaf from the tree he ate from and added sea salt to it. “Eat this. It’ll clear your mind.” He waited until you put the bitter leaf in his mouth. His pink lips kissed your fingertips. You pulled back in disgust as he chewed the leaf; an amused laugh came through as he watched your expression.

“What now?”

“Get dressed.” He followed you into his guest quarters, “You’ll wear this.”

He chuckled at the white robes laid out on the bed, “I don’t wear…white.”

“You will while you’re here. It’ll distinct you from the soldiers and workers.” He grumbled and stood behind you. You looked over your shoulder, “Do you need something?” You asked as he dressed behind your back.

“Just one question: are you married?”

“That’s an inappropriate question.”

“You are an unmarried queen…hm.” He tied the final white robe on his waist. “Do you suppose that’s why you’re so uptight?”

“You are a weasel.”

“I am here to help you.” His hands hovered over your waist, down to your hips. “In any way that you see fit. I’ll fight your battles…” His warm breath on the top of your scalp as he spoke, “I’ll organize your military. I’ll even give you my troops…my authority…but I need this.” His hand clutched the lightsaber hilt on your belt. Your palm overlaps his hand, and your head leaned back onto his shoulder,

“You can do without it.”

“Without a doubt.”  The scent of sweet fruit on his breath as he spoke over you. Anakin simply drew the hilt from you and stepped back, “Smooth as the first time…” He winked at you and shined the metal of his lightsaber, twirling it in his hand. “You alright over there? You look flushed.”

“I’m fine. Let’s go.”

Part 1 | Part 2 |

Part 3 coming soon! (likely today)

[hmshermitcraft]

They are playing agents vs criminals hosted in the Ballroom. Pearl and Gem paired together as a couple hosting this Gala. Pearl's nearly ready when Gem pulls the secret book letting herself in the room. “Look at you sexy Supermodel! That dress is fire on you!” “Thank you.” Seeing Gem in her black dress Pearl forgets everything. “You look amazing!” “Do you need help zipping up that dress Mrs. Moon?” “Yes, Mrs. Moon, I do.” “Married for the night. This is going to be a fun party.” Gem pulls the zipper up in a way that lets her fingers trail up Pearl’s spine. The softest moan slips from Pearl's lips. “What was that noise? Would you like more of my hands?” “It was nothing! No!” She does, very badly. Pearl swats Gem with her clutch. “Ouch, you’ve bruised my ego. I can’t wait to fake-date the hell out of this. It’s my favourite trope!” “I thought it was enemies to lovers?” “It is but you don’t hit me back enough for that.” “I will knock you into the void if you don’t come on.” “Ooo! Threaten me again, baby! I’m going to milk this for all it’s worth.” “That’s what I'm afraid of!!” Pearl’s stomach flutters at being called baby. She’s already given Gem permission to go all in as her wife. Gem's on her own mission to distract Pearl playing the lovey-dovey wife: compliments, soft touches, kissing her knuckles. Pearl’s sitting at a table, when Gem comes over, she means to press a quick kiss to her lips. Gem’s meant to back-stab her “wife,” killing her with “poison” lipstick. Pearl forgets about the game, she holds Gem’s face, kissing her passionately. After Pearl’s “death” Gem comes barging into the room they started the night in. “What the hell was that kiss?” “Acting? Don’t be mad please.” “Don’t you dare lie to me! I felt that kiss!” “You’re right, I wanted it. But, you don’t want me like that.” “WHAT? ARE YOU SERIOUS?” “Gem, too loud, honey.” She tries to take Gem’s hand but Gem backs off to go sit down. She knows loud voices scare Pearl, she needs a moment. “How can you think I don’t want you? I’ve been flirting for years.” She turns to the side and covers her face so Pearl doesn’t see her tears. Pearl sits with her resting her head on Gem’s back and wraps an arm around her. “I'm sorry, sweetheart. I thought your flirting was for fun.” “No, not just fun. I have feelings. Why did you kiss me like I’m your entire world?” “Because, I love you. You are my entire world, baby. Come round and let me hold you?” It takes a minute but Gem turns to bury herself in Pearl’s arms.

They make sure to put on the best performance of their lives that night. Always gotta leave people guessing, right? Can't have any one accuse them of cheating 'cause they got together before the game started!

[idrawweirdstuffnominors]

one thing i’ve noticed about Epi!josh fics is that we are lacking in ROUGHNESS 🙏 so if you have some free time, maybe a smut fic with josh just being a pent up freak? Heh,, dirty talk is deffo a need 👅 TYANK YOU BTW!!!! FRIGGING ABSOLUTELY LOVE UR JOSH FICS!!!!!

(Lol thank you so much <33!!! I hope i got the roughness right

"Can’t Help Myself"

Epilogue!Josh Levy x Female!or neutral Reader

Tags: Rough dry humping, arguing to making out, name-calling, obsession, dirty talk, possessive Josh, submission, enemies-to-lovers vibes, pent-up freak energy

Words: ~2,000

NSFW—18+ only

---

“You’re unbelievable,” you snap, arms crossed, eyes burning into Josh as he paces your living room like a man unhinged. “All this attitude—over what? Me going out without telling you?”

He whirls on you, glasses low on his nose, curls messy like he’s been yanking on them. “You think it’s about that? God, you are so dense sometimes.”

“Then enlighten me, genius. What is it about?”

He storms closer. Too close.

You’re toe-to-toe now, your breath mingling, tension crackling like static between your bodies. His fists clench at his sides, and that muscle in his jaw ticks—hard.

“It’s about how you act like you can just… walk around looking like that. Smiling. Teasing. Like I’m not supposed to notice. Like I’m not losing my fucking mind over you.” His voice drops, rough and raw. “You don’t get it, do you?”

You scoff, but your stomach flips. “Get what?”

His hands shoot out—one grabs your wrist, the other your waist, and suddenly your back’s slammed against the wall.

“That. That right there.” His nose brushes yours. His eyes are dark, hungry. “You act like you don’t know what you do to me. Like I don’t dream about this. About pinning you down, fucking you so hard you forget your own name.”

You inhale sharply. “You’re such a needy freak, Josh.”

His laugh is bitter, breathless. “Yeah? Well guess what, sweetheart—you made me this way.”

Then his mouth is on yours—hot, sloppy, possessive. His hips slam into you, grinding hard through layers of clothes. You whimper against his lips, clutching his shoulders as he ruts against you like he’s going to lose his mind if he doesn’t come right now.

“Fuck—been thinking about this for weeks,” he growls, nipping your jaw. “You strutting around like a brat, acting so innocent—I see right through you.”

You moan as he thrusts again, slow but brutal. Your thighs part on instinct, and he grabs your ass, grinding into the softest part of you.

“You like this, don’t you?” he hisses. “You like me losing control. Like when I get all—obsessive.”

“You’re disgusting,” you whisper—but your voice cracks, traitorous.

He grins, panting into your neck. “Say that again. Come on. Call me a freak while you ride my thigh like a goddamn toy.”

You try to glare at him, but the friction is blinding. Your hips move on their own now, chasing the heat, grinding down as he pins you in place.

“You’re—such a pathetic, cocky bastard—”

He growls. “Say that while I’m buried inside you and we’ll see who’s pathetic.”

His hands are everywhere now—pulling your shirt up, palming your chest, sucking bruises into your collarbone like a man possessed. And still, he keeps grinding—rubbing you raw, fast and filthy, his voice a constant stream of filth in your ear.

“Bet you touch yourself to the thought of me losing it. Bet you think about me fucking you in the dark, whispering how you’re mine.”

Your head lolls back, mouth open in a silent moan. He takes it as permission and slams his hips forward again, a needy grunt escaping his throat.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say you want it. Say you want me to break you.”

You gasp. “I—I want—”

He cuts you off with a brutal kiss, his hand tangling in your hair. “That’s right, baby. Let go. Just give in.”

And finally—you do.

Your legs wrap around his waist. Your arms around his neck. And you arch up into him, letting him grind you into the wall like he owns you.

He’s groaning, swearing under his breath, losing rhythm now as the desperation overtakes him.

“You’re mine,” he pants. “Mine. I don’t share. I don’t wait. You don’t know what you’ve fucking done to me.”

You cling to him, moaning shamelessly now, chasing that sweet friction like your life depends on it. His name spills from your lips like prayer and sin.

“Josh—fuck—please—”

He grabs your face, forcing your eyes open.

“Say it. Say you’re mine.”

“…Yours. I’m—yours.”

And that’s all it takes.

He groans, grinding through his orgasm in his jeans, still pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against your neck as you shudder in his arms.

You’re both panting, shaking, clinging to each other like you just survived something dangerous.

And maybe you did.

---

[nayiana0]

Quiet Until You | 3

⋮ ⌗ ┆analysis : you had everything under control—your grades, your goals, your walls. but when Choi San, the school’s troublemaker, gets assigned the seat beside you .. control is the first thing to go. he talks too much. smirks too often. And somehow, when detention throws you two into each other’s orbit for real, the tension gets harder to ignore—and so do the feelings. she was quiet. until him.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ genre : slow burn, fluff/angst, romance, enemies to lovers.

⋮ ⌗ ┆warnings : jealousy, emotional tension, mild angst, possessiveness

wc : 6.1k

a/n : this chapter is a bit long, and a turning point where the tension between San and Y/N builds, however, i wanted to explore the complexity of their relationship. no one is perfect, and sometimes, they need to show their growth in ways that aren't always smooth. if it gets a little heavy, it’s all in the name of growth and real feelings. also, from here, i will start adding songs that i feel match the mood :)

══════════════════════ ✧. ┊⋆ ★

*Chapter 3: Unspoken Jealousy**

It started with a note.

You found it tucked between the pages of your notebook during class — his handwriting, unmistakable.

“don’t make plans after school. i’m stealing you.”

You shot him a look across the room. He was already staring, chewing the cap of his pen, one brow raised like he dared you to say no.

You didn’t.

Now, hours later, you were walking beside him, the sun hanging low, casting gold over the pavement.  wasn’t saying much, just kicking rocks with the toe of his boot and occasionally glancing at you like he was still figuring out how to word what was on his mind.

“You ever been to that spot behind the gym?” he asked.

You raised a brow. “You mean the one everyone uses to skip class and vape?”

He snorted. “No. Not that spot. There’s a hill behind that, barely anyone goes there. You can see the whole school from it. I used to go there when I wanted to be left alone.”

You followed him up a sloping patch of grass until you found it — a quiet patch of shade under a tree, far enough from the school that it felt like another world. You both sat, knees brushing, the silence between you not uncomfortable for once.

San leaned back on his elbows, squinting at the sky. “I used to come here and pretend the whole building would just disappear. Like if I stared hard enough, it’d all go quiet.”

You turned to him, surprised by the honesty. “And now?”

He shrugged, picking at the grass. “Now I don’t need to pretend as much. Got something better to think about.”

Your heart skipped.

He turned toward you, suddenly serious. “Look, I’m not good at… this. Asking. Being real. But I wanna take you out. Not like a hookup, not like some dare. Just—me and you. Somewhere that isn’t a classroom or your front porch. A real date.”

You blinked. “You’re actually asking me out?”

“Don’t sound so shocked,” he said with a crooked smile, though his fingers fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve. “I mean it. I wanna spend time with you that isn’t just sneaking kisses between classes or pretending like you don’t make me nervous.”

You bit your lip to hide your smile. “You’re nervous?”

“Terrified,” he admitted, laughing under his breath. “So, what do you say?”

You didn’t even hesitate.

“Okay,” you said softly, meeting his eyes. “Yes.”

The tension in his shoulders dropped. He nudged your leg with his. “Cool. That’s… yeah. Cool.”

But when you turned to look out over the quiet campus, you saw him watching you instead, like he couldn’t believe you said yes.

Like maybe, for once, he’d gotten something right.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------

The date wasn’t perfect. But it was perfectly us.

San showed up ten minutes early, leaning on his car outside your house, wearing a jacket he probably found at the bottom of his closet. When you stepped out, he gave you a slow once-over — not in a gross way, but like he was taking a mental picture.

“Damn,” he said under his breath. “I should take you out more often.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away.

He didn’t take you to a fancy restaurant. That wasn’t his style. Instead, he drove you to a food truck parked behind an old record store, then dragged you inside where he spent twenty minutes flipping through dusty vinyls like they were treasures.

“You actually listen to this stuff?” you asked, holding up a punk rock album.

“I feel this stuff,” he said with a grin. “There’s a difference.”

You laughed — really laughed. It felt easy with him tonight. Maybe because he was trying so hard not to mess it up.

You ended up eating fries on the hood of his car, the sky stretching wide and dark above you. He played music from his phone — lo-fi stuff, unexpectedly mellow — and you talked about everything but school: music, movies, weird childhood stories. He told you about the first time he got in trouble for fighting. You told him how you used to fake being sick just to skip class and read in peace.

At some point, you realized he was watching you again.

“What?” you asked, wiping salt from your fingers.

He hesitated. “Nothing. Just… you’re different like this.”

“Like what?”

“Relaxed. Happy. I like it.”

The words sat heavy between you. Not cheesy. Not performative. Just real.

You looked down at your lap. “I like this too.”

He leaned in just slightly. “Can I kiss you?”

Your heart was already pounding. “Yeah.”

He didn’t rush. It wasn’t hungry like before — not wild or teasing — just soft. Gentle. Almost unsure.

And when he pulled back, you saw the tiniest flicker of something new in his eyes. Not lust. Not pride.

Maybe hope.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

You didn’t go home right away.

After the kiss, after the fries were cold and the stars started to blink above,  didn’t say a word. He just held out his hand.

You took it.

He drove the long way back. No music, no jokes — just the low hum of the engine and his thumb brushing your knuckles like he didn’t want to let go of this version of you. Of him.

When he pulled up to your house, he killed the engine but didn’t move.

“I don’t wanna mess this up,” he said suddenly, voice low.

You looked at him. “Then don’t.”

He laughed once, a breath of disbelief. “I don’t even know what this is.”

“It doesn’t have to be a label yet,” you said quietly. “Just don’t lie. Don’t push me away. Don’t pretend I mean less than I do.”

He turned his head. His profile was sharp in the moonlight, jaw tense.

“I’ve never done this before,” he admitted. “Not like this. Not where it matters.”

You felt it in your chest — the confession, the fear behind it.

“I know,” you whispered.

He looked at you then, really looked. Like he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this moment — or if he was even allowed to keep it.

“You wanna come in?” you asked, barely more than a breath.

His brows raised slightly. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “Just… for a while.”

He followed you up the steps and into the quiet of your home. No parents around. Just the click of the front door behind you and the soft rhythm of your heart tripping over itself.

You sat on the couch. He hovered by the door like he wasn’t sure he should get comfortable.

“San,” you said softly.

He looked at you, like he needed permission to breathe.

So you gave it to him — with one look, one open gesture. “Sit.”

He did.

You talked a little. About stupid things. The way your math teacher hated her job. The time he climbed the fence just to break into school late. You laughed more than you meant to.

Then the laughter quieted. The room softened. He shifted closer.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said again, and this time, it cracked something open in you.

“You don’t have to,” you replied. “You’re here. That’s enough.”

He reached out, brushed your hair behind your ear. His hand lingered at your jaw. You leaned into it — not fully, just enough to let him know you didn’t want him to stop.

He leaned in. Not like earlier. Slower. Almost reverent.

You kissed again — longer this time. Still soft. Still cautious.

But it meant something.

When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours.

“I could get used to this,” he murmured.

“You say that now,” you teased, but it came out breathless.

“No,” he said. “I mean it.”

You fell asleep on the couch. Not tangled. Not desperate.

Just close.

And for once,  didn’t run from it.

—--------------------------------------------------------

You woke up smiling.

Not something that happened often. But today? You couldn’t help it. You kept thinking about the way his fingers laced with yours at the end of the night, the way his voice dropped when he told you he’d had a good time — with you. Something about it felt real.

Your phone buzzed.

San :

didn’t wanna wake you thanks for letting me crash see you at school, princess

Casual. Sweet. You clutched your phone and let the text warm you. That had to mean something, right?

Not because anything monumental had changed. But because you walked in with something soft blooming in your chest — something that made your steps lighter and your heart faster. San had texted you. He hadn’t disappeared. He remembered.

And when you entered class, he was already in his seat, slouched back, hood up, but his eyes flicked up the moment you walked in. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Not his usual cocky grin — no, this was quieter. Like a secret only the two of you shared.

You slid into your seat beside him.

“Morning,” you said, trying not to sound too eager.

“You sleep okay?” he murmured under his breath, glancing over. The teacher was already starting roll call.

You nodded. “Yeah. You?”

“Best sleep I’ve had in a while.” He stretched his arms out in front of him, then leaned closer. “Could be because your bed’s comfier than mine.”

You shot him a look, but you couldn’t stop the grin. “You’re lucky I let you crash.”

He grinned right back. “I’m luckier than you think.”

The day passed in easy moments. You worked together on a group project, elbows brushing and notes scribbled between the two of you. He made dumb jokes that actually made you laugh. At lunch, he sat with you — not with his usual crowd — and shared fries, tossing them into your mouth like some kind of ridiculous game.

You felt good. Lighter. Almost like things between you two were finally shifting into something new. Something that didn’t hurt.

And when the bell rang after last period, he slung his bag over one shoulder and looked at you like he wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye.

“You walking home?”

“Yeah.”

He nodded. “I’ll come with.”

The air between you was warm and unhurried as you walked side by side. He bumped your shoulder with his once, twice, until you finally bumped him back and laughed.

“You’re in a good mood,” you teased.

“Wonder why that is.” He shot you a look. “Must be the company.”

The walk home slowed when you both reached the edge of the neighborhood.

Neither of you spoke for a few moments — not because there was nothing to say, but because the silence felt easy, like it didn’t need to be filled. San had his hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie, head tilted toward the sky like he was thinking hard about something he wouldn’t say out loud.

You glanced over at him. “You okay?”

He didn’t look at you at first. Just shrugged. “Yeah.”

But it was the kind of “yeah” that meant not really.

You didn’t push. Not yet.

He finally exhaled and kicked a loose rock on the sidewalk. “You ever get tired of pretending like everything’s fine?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah. All the time.”

He nodded like that was the answer he’d been hoping for. “I don’t know why I said that,” he muttered. “Forget it.”

“No,” you said softly. “I won’t. You can talk to me, you know. For real.”

He looked at you now. Really looked at you.

And for a second, his eyes weren’t cocky or smug or full of some half-baked joke. They were tired. Honest. Young.

“I’m just… tired of people expecting me to be something I’m not,” he said. “Like I’m supposed to always be this guy — the one who doesn’t give a shit, who’s always messing around. And I play into it, I know that. But sometimes…”

“Sometimes it’s lonely,” you finished for him.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

You reached over and gently hooked your pinky around his. It was small. Barely a touch. But he didn’t pull away.

Instead, he looked at your joined hands and whispered, “You make it easier to breathe.”

You blinked, heart stuttering. “San…”

But he just gave you a crooked smile. “Don’t make it a big deal.”

And yet — it was.

For the first time, you saw him not as the boy everyone else thought he was… but as the version he only seemed to be when it was just the two of you.

The sky was streaked with fading oranges and dusky blues when you passed the corner shop — the one with the squeaky sign that always advertised homemade cones in messy chalk handwriting.

San slowed his steps, eyeing it.

"You want one?" he asked, almost too casual.

You tilted your head at him. "Are you about to buy me ice cream?"

He shrugged one shoulder, smirking a little. "I mean… you’ve put up with my emotional baggage for a solid ten minutes. Feels like I owe you."

You laughed, nudging his arm. “Wow. So romantic.”

But he opened the door anyway, holding it for you with a mock bow. “After you, your highness.”

Inside, the cold air wrapped around you, soft with the smell of vanilla and sugar. The place was almost empty — just a tired-looking dad and a kid arguing over sprinkles — and you let yourself relax a little more.

San stared at the flavors like it was a high-stakes decision. “What’s your go-to?”

“Mint chip,” you said, without hesitation.

He made a face. “So you like toothpaste.”

You rolled your eyes. “And what are you getting? Something basic like cookies and cream?”

He grinned. “Absolutely. No shame.”

When you finally sat down with your cones, a quiet settled between you again — but this time, it was lighter. Easier.

“You know,” he said, licking a drip off the side of his cone, “this is the first time I’ve done something like this. Like, just… talk. Walk. Be normal.”

You tilted your head. “You don’t seem that bad at it.”

“I think you make it easier,” he said, meeting your eyes.

And something about the way he said it — no smirk, no tease — made your heart skip.

You looked down at your cone, voice soft. “You’re not what I expected.”

He smiled. “Good.”

And when you both got up to leave, he brushed your hand with his — not enough to hold it, but enough to make you wonder if he was thinking about it.

—---------------------------------------------

The walk home was filled with quiet chatter and melting ice cream. San had been soft tonight — not in his usual sarcastic, teasing way, but something gentler. His jokes were lower, his voice softer. And even though he didn’t say much about what he’d shared earlier, you could feel it — like a wire between the two of you had shifted, something unspoken hanging in the space between every glance.

Your house finally came into view, porch light buzzing dimly in the dusk.

But there was a car parked at the curb.

You frowned. “That’s… not my mom’s.”

San tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Expecting someone?”

You shook your head, heart picking up a little as you stepped closer to the driveway.

And then the car door swung open.

A tall figure stepped out, backlit by the streetlamp — familiar and unmistakable in the way he moved.

“Wait—” your voice caught in your throat. “Yunho?!”

“Y/N!”

He beamed at you like it had been years — and it kind of had. You gasped and immediately broke into a run, your bag slipping off your shoulder as you practically flew into his arms. He lifted you a little off the ground in a bear hug, the kind that only someone who knew you since you were five could give.

“I can’t believe you’re here!” you said breathlessly, still laughing, still holding onto him.

Yunho grinned down at you, brushing a hand over your hair like he always did when he was trying to embarrass you. “Surprise, sunshine. I told you I’d visit once I was back in town.”

“God, it’s been forever—what are you doing here, how long are you staying—”

You caught yourself mid-ramble, finally remembering San.

You turned quickly, cheeks flushed. “Oh — San, this is Yunho. He’s—he’s my best friend. Since forever.”

But San didn’t say anything. His jaw was tight, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his hoodie. His gaze lingered on where Yunho’s hand still rested on your shoulder.

San cleared his throat. “Well. I’ll call it a night then.”

“What? No—San, wait,” you said, stepping forward instinctively. “You can meet Yunho properly. I didn’t even know he was coming, I swear.”

“It’s fine,” San said, with a clipped smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Looks like you’ve got company. Don’t wanna third-wheel.”

“You’re not—San—” you started, but he was already backing away.

He shot a glance at Yunho, then looked back at you.

“Have fun catching up,” he muttered, voice edged with something sharp. “I’ll see you around.”

And before you could say anything else, he turned and walked off, his shoulders hunched slightly as he disappeared into the dark.

You stood there, stunned, the weight of his words sinking in slowly.

“Was that your boyfriend?” Yunho asked gently, watching San’s retreating figure.

You shook your head too fast. “No. I mean—kind of? Not really. It’s complicated.”

Yunho nodded, brows raised. “You want to talk about it?”

You sighed, smiling faintly despite the twist in your stomach. “Let’s go inside first.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------

The house was warm with familiarity — your mom’s coat on the hook, the smell of lavender fabric softener from a recent load of laundry. Yunho toed off his shoes, still asking about your school life and whether you still made terrible playlists (you did).

You collapsed onto the couch, finally exhaling.

“So,” he said, leaning forward on his elbows. “You okay?”

You nodded. Then hesitated.

And then shook your head.

“I don’t know. I was having such a good day. And then—he just… shut down.”

Yunho studied you. “Jealousy, maybe?”

You blinked. “You think?”

“He looked at me like he was ready to fight,” Yunho said lightly, half-joking. “But he also looked at you like he didn’t want to leave.”

You picked at a loose thread on the couch cushion. “He’s hot and cold. One minute he’s telling me things no one else knows about him, and the next it’s like I don’t exist. Or worse — like I’m some random girl he regrets talking to.”

Yunho was quiet for a second. Then he reached out, gently squeezing your knee. “You deserve consistency, Y/N. Not someone who makes you guess where you stand every other day.”

“I know.” You nodded slowly, but your chest still ached.

You weren’t sure what hurt more — that San had left without a real goodbye, or that deep down, part of you had wanted him to stay and fight for the moment.

And as Yunho asked if you wanted hot cocoa and queued up your favorite movie from when you were kids, you smiled and nodded — but you couldn’t stop your mind from drifting.

To San.

To the way his voice had changed when he saw Yunho.

To the storm brewing behind those dark eyes — and how it had followed you, even now, into the safety of home.

—------------------------------------------------------------------

The air in the school hallways felt different.

Not because anything had changed. Not really. The fluorescent lights still buzzed overhead. The lockers still clanged shut in sharp metallic bursts. But something in your chest felt heavier, like a bruise you couldn’t see but knew was there.

You walked in alone.

No Yunho — of course not. He wasn’t a part of this world. He belonged to summers and late-night FaceTimes and long-distance support. San… San belonged to this world. And it was starting to feel like it was swallowing you whole.

Your eyes caught him before you even meant to look.

He was leaning against his locker like always, head tilted, a smirk carved lazily into his face as he talked to a group of guys. And her. She was right beside him, all giggles and lip gloss, curling her fingers into the front of his hoodie like she’d done it a thousand times.

You stopped walking.

San saw you.

His eyes flicked up — just for a second. And you could’ve sworn he hesitated. Like the smirk slipped. Like something in his expression softened. But then it was gone.

He dropped his arm around her shoulders.

You walked past without saying a word, eyes forward, back straight, every step like a hammer to your chest.

In class, the seat beside you stayed empty for a long time. Just like it had been yesterday. And the day before.

You tried to focus on your notes. Tried to tell yourself it didn’t matter. You’d spent the whole night telling yourself it didn’t matter. That you were fine. That Yunho’s words had been enough to remind you who you were.

But when the door opened and San walked in late — alone — your heart still skipped.

He looked tired. Jaw clenched. Hoodie up. Like he hadn’t slept much.

He slid into his seat next to you without a word. No glance. No teasing. No fake smile.

The teacher kept talking.

You stared at your notes, refusing to look at him. But you could feel it. The heat of him beside you. His knee bouncing. His pen tapping. Like something was itching under his skin and he didn’t know how to get rid of it.

When class ended, you packed up your stuff quickly, fingers fumbling with the zipper on your bag. But right before you stood up, his voice stopped you.

“Y/N.”

You didn’t look at him.

“What?” you asked, flatly.

He paused. “Can we talk?”

You finally turned your head, your eyes locking with his.

A small, humorless smile tugged at your lips. “About what?”

He blinked, caught off guard.

But you didn’t give him a chance to answer. You stood, swung your bag over your shoulder, and walked out.

You weren’t going to let him see the way your hands shook.

—-----------------------------------------------------------

that night

You told yourself you wouldn’t. You promised yourself that.

But lying in your bed, the silence thick around you, your mind kept circling the same memory — the flicker in his eyes that morning, the way he said your name, the way he didn’t look at you like he used to.

You stared at your phone, thumb hovering.

And then, before you could stop yourself:

you: are you okay?

You hit send.

Three dots appeared. Then disappeared.

And stayed gone.

Your heart dropped. You locked your phone, then unlocked it again like that would somehow change the outcome. Still nothing.

You tried to sleep.

You couldn’t.

So you did something worse.

You called. You knew you couldn't be too loud, knowing Yuhno was still home.

The phone rang twice. Then three times. Then—

“What?!”

His voice was sharp. Cold. Not sleepy — irritated.

You sat up in bed, pulse racing. “San?”

He sighed like your name tasted sour in his mouth. “Why the fuck are you calling me?”

“Because—” Your voice faltered. “I just… I wanted to talk. You’ve been—”

“Oh my fucking god,” he groaned, like you were exhausting him. “You’re still on this?”

And then, in the background, faint but clear — a girl’s voice.

“Who is it, babe?”

You froze.

San didn’t even flinch. “No one,” he said loudly, smugness thick in his tone. “Just someone who can’t take a hint.”

Your throat went dry.

“Seriously?” you whispered.

He laughed. Laughed. “What, did you think this was something? That one night and a few kisses meant I was yours?”

You tried to breathe. You couldn’t.

“I’m not your boyfriend, Y/N. Never was.”

The other girl giggled.

You could feel your heart cracking in your chest.

“I gotta go,” he said casually. “Try not to call me again, yeah?”

Click.

He hung up.

Just like that.

And you sat there, phone pressed to your ear, staring at the nothing on your screen as the weight of everything hit you.

He didn’t just leave you on read.

He left you on empty.

—--------------------------------------------------------

— the other side of the line 

The line went dead. San stared at his phone for a second too long, thumb still on the screen like he was waiting for it to undo what just happened.

Behind him, the girl laughed again — the same one who’d been draped across his lap just minutes ago, fingers tracing his jaw, whispering things he couldn’t even hear. Not really.

"Was that your mom or something?" she teased, giggling into her drink.

San didn’t answer.

Instead, he got up — slowly, like his body weighed more than usual — and walked to the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

He leaned against the sink. Stared at himself in the mirror.

And for a long second, all the confidence drained from his face.

He looked tired. Not cool. Not cocky.

Just wrecked.

He dragged a hand down his face, letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “What the fuck are you doing, man…”

He didn’t know why he said those things to you. He didn’t know why he needed to. Maybe because it was easier to push you away than admit how badly he wanted to go back. How he could still taste the way you whispered his name in the dark. How the sound of your voice on that call hit him like a sucker punch he deserved.

But saying the truth? That’d make him vulnerable. And San didn’t do vulnerable.

So he bit down on the guilt. Let it simmer.

You wanted the player? He’d play the part.

Even if it was already eating him alive.

—-------------------------------------------------------------

You sat in the silence of your room, still clutching your phone. The dull light from the screen illuminated your face, but you didn’t care anymore. Nothing on the screen mattered. Your mind was too loud — too messy.

“Why did you have to lie?” You whispered to the empty space in your room, still staring at the screen like somehow, if you stayed focused, the situation might change.

You heard footsteps approaching, forgetting Yunho was staying over for a week.

The door creaked open, and Yunho stepped in, his footsteps light. “Who’re you talking to?”

You immediately wiped your face, hastily clearing away the tears that you didn’t even realize had started to fall. “No one,” you lied, forcing a tight smile. “I was just… thinking.”

He arched an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. He took a step closer. “Thinking? About what? You sure you’re okay?”

You didn’t want to tell him. You didn’t want to let anyone see how much you’d let someone like San affect you. You didn’t want to talk about how all the things he’d said to you — how he’d made you believe something real — were lies. How, despite all the promises, he’d made you look like a fool in front of a stranger. And now that he was out of sight, it felt like all the air was sucked out of your lungs.

"Y/N," Yunho said softly, as if sensing the change in your mood, his tone becoming serious. "Come on, you can talk to me."

He sat beside you on the bed, leaning slightly forward. "I’m here. I know something’s up."

Then you burst into tears before you even realized it. The weight of everything you’d been holding back hit you all at once. You couldn’t breathe through it. The pain, the anger, the frustration.

Tears fell fast now — unstoppable, raw — as you buried your face in your hands.

"Y/N?" Yunho's voice wavered slightly in shock. He quickly wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. "Woah, woah… it’s okay, I’m here. You don’t have to hide this."

You couldn’t form words at first. Your chest heaved as the emotions spilled out of you uncontrollably, your whole body trembling. “I… I thought he liked me, Yunho,” you whispered between sobs, clinging to him, "I thought… I thought he actually cared."

Yunho’s hand smoothed down your hair, his voice gentle. “Hey, you’re stronger than this. What happened, Y/N?”

You wiped your tears away but couldn’t stop the tremble in your voice. “He… he lied to me. Everything he said — all those things that made me feel like maybe he was different… I was wrong.” You sniffed, pulling away from his comforting hold to look him in the eyes, the pain in your chest unbearable. “He doesn’t care, Yunho. I’m just another girl for him. Another game. And I can’t even understand why I let myself fall for it.”

Yunho’s face softened with empathy. “People like that... they don't deserve you, Y/N. You deserve better than someone who would play with your emotions like that. You’re one of the most amazing people I know. Don’t let him make you feel less than that.”

You took in a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. “I just want to forget about it, but… I can’t stop thinking about him.”

Yunho gave you a small, reassuring smile, his hand still resting lightly on your arm. “I know. I can’t make it go away, but I can tell you, he doesn’t deserve your time. Not after what he’s done. Don’t waste any more of your heart on him.”

You looked at him, and for the first time in a long while, you felt a small sense of relief — someone who wasn’t going to leave you when it got hard.

“Thank you, Yunho. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He gave a soft chuckle, giving your arm a little squeeze. “You’d get through it just fine. But it’s nice knowing I’m here for you.”

You laid your head back against his shoulder, the weight in your chest still there, but a little lighter. Maybe not all of the pain would go away tonight — maybe not even tomorrow — but Yunho’s words were a small comfort.

“You deserve someone who treats you right,” Yunho added, glancing down at you. “And San… well, he’s not that someone. Not for you.”

You nodded silently, trying to hold back another wave of tears. “I hope you’re right.”

He stayed with you, quiet for a while, just there in your presence, offering more than words could. He wasn’t trying to fix things. He wasn’t trying to make it all better. He was just here — and that was enough.

Finally, Yunho stood, giving your shoulder a final squeeze. “I’ll leave you to rest, alright? But remember, I’m here. Always. If you need me — I mean it.”

“Thanks, Yunho,” you whispered, watching him leave the room.

As you sat there, still processing everything that had happened, you felt the first bit of peace in days.

He wasn’t San.

And maybe, just maybe, you were starting to believe that was okay.

—--------------------------------------

The week had flown by, and though it had been full of quiet moments, long talks, and a lot of laughter, today felt different. You could feel the clock ticking. Yunho’s visit was coming to an end, and though you tried to focus on the good memories, the reality was settling in. He was leaving soon, and you didn’t know when you’d see him again.

You sat on the couch, curled up with a book that you hadn’t been able to concentrate on for the last hour. It wasn’t that you weren’t trying to enjoy the last few hours with him; it was just that you couldn’t stop thinking about the future and how it might feel when he was gone.

Yunho was in the kitchen, grabbing a quick snack, his voice echoing softly as he hummed a tune. You stared at the floor, a soft sigh slipping past your lips. Your chest felt heavy, a knot tightening in your stomach the longer you thought about him leaving.

He came back into the living room, noticing the change in your demeanor right away. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his eyes softening. “You’ve been quiet. You okay?”

You nodded quickly, but it was clear to him you weren’t. The way your eyes welled up with unshed tears gave it away.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do without you,” you admitted, your voice cracking a little as the words left your lips.

His expression softened as he slowly made his way to you, sitting down beside you. He didn’t say anything at first, just reached out and gently placed a hand on yours.

“I’m not going forever, you know that, right?” he said, his voice calm but full of understanding. “I’m coming back to visit, whenever I can. You’re not losing me.”

You bit your lip, trying to hold back the tears, but they slipped down your face anyway. “I know… but it just feels like everything’s going to be different. I don’t know how to get through this without you around all the time.” You let out a shaky breath, trying to gather yourself. “You’ve made everything better, Yunho. I don’t even know how to explain how much this week has meant to me.”

Yunho smiled softly, his thumb brushing the back of your hand in a comforting gesture. “You’re stronger than you think,” he said, his voice reassuring. “I know it’s hard, but you’ll be okay. You have a lot of people who care about you. And I’ll always be here when you need me.”

You looked up at him, your heart aching as you saw the sincerity in his eyes. You could tell he meant every word. “Promise?”

“I promise,” he said without hesitation, his hand gently lifting your chin so that you were looking at him. He wiped away a stray tear from your cheek with the back of his hand. “You’re not alone in this.”

You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch. For a moment, it felt like nothing else in the world mattered but him and this moment between the two of you. The comfort, the security, the promise that he wasn’t leaving you completely.

With a soft exhale, you finally let yourself break down, your tears coming freely now, not out of sadness, but from the overwhelming sense of loss. You had grown so close in such a short amount of time, and the thought of losing that, even temporarily, was almost too much to bear.

Yunho pulled you into a hug, wrapping his arms around you tightly as he held you close. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m right here,” he whispered, his voice low and soothing. “Don’t cry, Y/N. I’ll come back, I promise.”

You clung to him, not wanting to let go. You didn’t want to lose this. You didn’t want to lose him.

“I’m gonna miss you,” you whispered, your voice muffled by his chest.

“I’m gonna miss you too,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes searched yours, filled with an emotion you couldn’t quite place. “But this isn’t goodbye forever. It’s just… I’ll be back when I can.”

You sniffed, nodding as you wiped your eyes. The tears were still there, but they didn’t feel as heavy now. His words, his presence, made all the difference.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” you said, managing a soft smile.

“Good,” he smiled back, gently brushing a strand of hair from your face. He stood up, offering his hand to you. “Now, let’s make the most of the time we have left before I go. Let’s go get that ice cream we’ve been talking about all week, yeah?”

You took his hand, smiling more genuinely this time. “Sounds perfect.”

As the two of you headed out the door together, you couldn’t stop the lump in your throat from forming. This wasn’t the end — not really. And even if it hurt to say goodbye, you knew that Yunho would keep his promise. He wasn’t going anywhere.

Not really.

—----------------------------------------------

Masterpost Next

[elithenium]

Jungkook x reader tropes I would love to see on Tumblr

(with moodboards)

• hey everyone!

• This is my very first post so I won't guarantee any grammatical or syntax correctness! (english is not my first language)

• If you liked any of my tropes you can use it freely (just tag me so I can read it)

• the sad thing about all of these is that I have hole ready chapters in my head but... exams

• I might also write some of them once I get the time

1.

I've been thinking about this one for over a year.! It's so well shaped in my imagination...

title ; Negotiating love

tropes ; enemies to lovers / forced proximity / we shouldn't, but...

setting ; You and Jungkook are both rising stars in the diplomatic world—brilliant, composed, and fiercely dedicated to your countries' interests. When your nations are tasked with brokering a high-stakes international treaty, the two of you are assigned as opposing lead negotiators. Sparks fly, but not the kind either of you expected.

2.

title ; Fake it till you make it out

trope ; fake dating

setting ; Jungkook, a global superstar, needs to clean up his "bad boy" image, and you—an ordinary college student—get roped into pretending to be his wholesome, loving girlfriend. The problem? You hate his music, and he loves teasing you about it.

3.

title ; "The Curse of the Muse" or "The Statue That Wept"

trope ; possession vs. freedom

setting ; Jungkook is a sculptor whose creations come to life—but each one drains his humanity. You’re his final masterpiece, carved from marble… and the only piece that refuses to animate. Until one night, you wake up—alive—and he realizes you’re not his art, but a trapped goddess

• and that's it you came to the end!

• making this reminded me of my days in Amino during covid

[everybodysaynoooooo]

Save Me - Kim Taehyung ff [Chap II]

Synopsis: Two crowns are crumbling. One heir who won’t yield. And a bodyguard who stays just a little too close. In a world where masks fall faster than heads, he’ll have to decide who’s worth trusting —before everything falls apart. He wanted peace. He found war —and a bodyguard with more secrets than commands.

k.taehyung x f.oc

Words count : 9,3k

Genre : Kingdom AU, enemies to lovers, bodyguard x royalty, fluff, angst, smut

Chap content : Strong language, mild tension, Taehyung is kind of a dick, explicit violence (battle scene + side character's death at the end), no sexual content in this chapter but it might come later so minors dni !

Author Note : Chapter two's finally there ! Hope you'll like it (don't hesitate to tell me if so it makes my day :) Also I just wanted to say since I'm kinda slow writer, I'll try to update every two weeks at least, but I'll post sooner if I can !

Gentle reminder that all rights are reserved, so please do not copy, translate or repost my stories. Also I do not own BTS or their actions, the stories are fictionnal and does not depict real-life events or involve any actual member of BTS.

<-Previous - Masterlist - Next ->

When you live in the Kingdom of Irinian, even without being from there, you inevitably end up hearing about the royal family. Even I, a foreigner, had barely set foot on Irinian soil before people were already talking my ears off.

About how beautiful the Queen is. How angelic and adorable her children are. Every one of them a model for the people —each, without exception, a little perfect being.

How the two eldest princes make the maidens swoon all across the land.

How Princess Taeyeon is so radiant that no one can look away.

Then I got promoted, and the whispers changed.

People started telling me how some of the royal children treated their servants. I heard about Princess Taeyeon's frequent tantrums. About the arrogance of the two eldest princes. All the things the people would never dare to speak aloud.

When I was assigned this task, they kindly warned me about the Crown Prince’s temper. I gathered, vaguely, that he wasn’t too thrilled about being sent off to this northern estate.

What I didn’t gather, however, was that the moment we arrived —in the dead of night— he’d make me fight his strongest man in a duel to the death.

Charming fellow, to be sure.

Okay, maybe I went a little overboard. Maybe I shouldn't have been quite so insolent. Maybe.

But say what you want —His Highness is grumbling about being stuck in a magnificent castle just because he can’t be in the capital, blah blah blah— I've just spent five days on horseback without stopping, and I’d also very much like to go to bed. I can already feel the muscle aches I’ll wake up with tomorrow, so the only thing that truly matters to me right now is a soft bed and a blanket.

But no. On top of everything, I have to fight a duel because His Majesty is in a foul mood.

I knew I should never have agreed to guard the Irinian royal family. I only said yes because they promised I’d be looking after Princess Taeyeon —and I’m good with children. But a contemptuous twenty-five-year-old man who already acts like a king? No thanks. I’ll let Yoongi handle that one.

If only he didn’t already have his hands full with his own exuberant prince.

“So, Miss Min? What do you say?”

Prince Taehyung is watching me with that damned crooked smile I’d love to slap off his face —truly infuriating

I hold back from rolling my eyes, because that might well cost me my head. He looks so pleased with himself, it’s almost cute.

Instead, I nod.

“I don’t believe I’ve been ordered not to fight one of your men, Your Highness,” I reply in that polite tone he seems to loathe.

Bingo. That little smile disappears at once, replaced by a grimace and a dark glare. This close protection job is going to be a riot, I can tell.

Beside me, Yoongi stares at me wide-eyed. I don’t even have to look at him to know what he’s thinking: “Are you completely insane?!”

And maybe I am.

Accepting a duel when I’ve just dismounted after five days of travel, exhausted to the bone, might not be my brightest idea.

But the way the Prince implied I didn’t stand a chance —that irked me. I can’t stand not being taken seriously. And if I’m going to be insulted, I might as well treat it as a challenge.

Before I know it, the Prince is barking orders. We’re moved to the rear courtyard, hastily transformed into an arena by a few servants.

Improvised barricades form a large square, in the center of which the Prince’s knight and I now stand. A few torches are lit, casting a dim glow into the night —not enough to see every detail, but enough to fight, I guess.

Looking far too pleased with himself, the Prince leans casually against the barricade, a wolfish smile on his lips. He taps his golden rings against the wood as if to say, “You’re going to die, and I can’t wait.”

I answer with a glare. He chuckles.

If only it were him in the arena —I’d wipe that smile right off.

Yoongi hops over the barrier in one smooth motion and approaches me with my weapons in hand. I refocus instantly, already running through my options.

A sword, and the three daggers I usually hide in my boots and belt.

I grimace. I left my pistols packed with the rest of my things. With one of those, I could end this charade in two seconds —one bullet, between the eyes, done. But clearly, I’ll have to improvise.

“I didn’t find your pistols,” Yoongi mutters, like he’s read my mind.

We’re both trained fighters, but he knows as well as I do that marksmanship is where I truly shine. Too bad.

“This will do,” I say, offering a faint smile as I test the weight of the daggers. “Not sure His Highness would’ve allowed it anyway. Looks like he wants a show.”

Yoongi turns to observe the Prince, still watching with that infuriating smile.

“You’re completely crazy,” he mumbles, now sizing up the knight -Saer, If I remember well.

“What, you don’t trust me to win?” I tease.

“Of course I do,” he grumbles, wrinkling his nose. “I’m just saying you really didn’t need to piss him off like that.”

“He started it,” I retort with a raised brow, daring him to argue.

He doesn’t. Just shoots another glance at the Prince. I smile —he agrees with me, obviously.

I hesitate, hand hovering over the sword.

Yes, I can fence. And I’m not bad at it. But let’s be honest —when it comes to swords, reach is everything.

And this man is twice my height and like three times my weight. I’ll never get close without taking a hit first.

I’ll have to play this differently.

Gently, I push the sword away and instead grab one of the daggers, blade pointing down. The other two stay hidden —one in my boot, one at my belt.

Yoongi doesn’t ask questions. He just takes the sword back with his usual calm expression.

“I’m not wishing you luck,” he says as he walks away.

“That would be insulting,” I shoot back with a smile, which he mirrors with the look in his eyes. The scar over his right eye gleams brighter than ever.

Yoongi’s barely out of the “arena” when the Prince claps his hands.

“Well, now that everyone’s ready…”

I instinctively fall into position: back straight, feet shoulder-width apart, dagger gripped firm but flexible.

The knight does the same —straightens to his full, towering height (easily over two meters), and tightens his hold on his sword.

Right now, in the torchlight, he’s genuinely terrifying. His hand must be the size of my entire torso.

But I’ve faced worse.

“Duel to the death,” the Prince announces. “Anything goes, as long as it’s entertaining. I decide when it ends. No backing out. Questions?”

The knight glances at me as if asking whether I have any. I raise a hand.

“You said ‘anything goes’?” I ask when the Prince nods toward me. 

He chuckles.

“Getting cold feet already, Min?”

“I just want to make sure His Highness won’t mind if I damage his man.” I reply, tight-lipped.

He flinches. Behind him, Yoongi lets out the faintest smile —subtle enough that I’m the only one who notices.

“No risk of that,” the Prince scoffs, returning to his usual smug expression. Then he snaps his fingers. “Saer, whenever you like. Get rid of that eyesore so we can go to bed.”

I raise an eyebrow, unimpressed -did he really just call me “that eyesore”?— but I don’t even have time to reply.

The knight charges.

I barely dodge in time —his blade stops where my neck was a quarter of a second ago.

I see. Someone’s eager for sleep.

I take a few quick steps back, raising my dagger before me, tip aimed at him.

He sizes me up, eyes shadowed beneath thick brows in the dim light. 

“Let’s see what the special guard is made of,” the Prince hums behind us.

Saer and I size each other up.

One second.

Two seconds.

Then he strikes.

With a flick of my arm, I deflect his blow —the sound of his sword clashing against my dagger rings out loud across the arena, and even louder in my ears.

And just like that, I’m no longer in the mood for banter. One simple strike —frontal, no less— and stopping it already took more strength than usual. Worse: my arm is trembling.

With a sharp motion, I push his blade away and force my breathing to stay slow, steady.

This man is strong. Much stronger than me. I bet a single well-aimed hit to the head would be enough to knock me out. Not that I’m planning to let that happen.

I won’t last long if all I do is block. Sooner or later —sooner, most likely— he’ll figure out he’s got the upper hand when it comes to brute strength, and he’ll start swinging with real intent. And I won’t stand a chance.

So I need another approach.

And when strength fails, agility will have to do.

I let him attack once. Twice. Each time I parry with my dagger, just barely.

At the third strike, I fake an opening to the right —and when he shifts, fast, to aim there, I duck, push off with my legs, and dart forward— so fast he barely has time to react before the pommel of my dagger slams into his ribs.

He grunts, breath catching in surprise, and it gives me just enough time to step back —though not quite far enough.

As I retreat, he grabs the wrist holding my dagger. His grip is so tight I’m forced to let go, and with his other hand, he returns the favor: a punch to the jaw, delivered with the pommel of his sword.

I hit the ground hard, dazed by the sheer force of the blow. One more like that and he’ll shatter my skull.

I cannot afford to take another.

I get back up —not letting myself wince, not letting myself hesitate. I can’t look weak.

But instead of charging while I’m stunned, the knight waits. Sword still in hand, but unmoving. Watching me. Almost like he pities me.

And that’s when I hear it: the Prince, humming a little tune. Mocking.

Oh. I get it now.

Saer is putting on a show for his Prince.

Well. Let’s give them one, then.

In one smooth motion, I shift my legs into position, ready to spring back up —and just as Saer takes a step forward, I spin, grip tightening around my second dagger, and fling it hard.

His thick eyebrows shoot up as the blade sinks deep into his side.

Staggering, stunned, he clutches the wound by reflex —and that’s all I need.

I charge. A punch to the jaw. One to the stomach. A strike to the thigh, followed by a sweep to the ankle.

He crashes backward with a growl of pain —but not without dragging me with him. Reflexively, he grabs my sleeve, and before I can brace for impact, his arm is around my neck. He’s choking me.

I shut my eyes, hold in as much air as I can while hitting his arm with the flat of my hand, but it’s useless —his arm is the size of my thigh.

Just as I start to fade, I manage, somehow, to elbow him hard in the ribs —his grip loosens, and I don’t waste a second. A kick to the shin makes him howl.

I scramble away, breath ragged —but he’s faster this time, already charging with his sword. I can’t dodge.

Blood spurts from my wrist as his blade slices a clean, thin line through it. The skin blooms red instantly.

Another mocking tune from the Prince.

Instinctively, I cradle my wrist against my chest, but I stay upright. Fists clenched. Ready to hit him if he comes any closer —though I’m well aware my tiny fists are no match for his sword.

I have to face it: accepting a duel with a giant like him, right after a long journey and without so much as a warm-up, was probably the stupidest idea I’ve ever had.

Now my wrist is bleeding, and I’m about to embarrass myself in front of the Prince —and worse, in front of Yoongi. Who, of course, won’t let me live it down.

Saer advances, sure of his victory now that I’m disarmed. Instinctively, I back away, until I’m only a few steps from the arena’s edge.

And then —just as I’m starting to think I really put myself in deep troubles— I catch a glimpse of Yoongi on the other side of the ring.

Both of his black eyes fixed on me. His left eyebrow quirks in a silent question.

Something clicks in my mind.

Time to wake up, Harin.

Saer draws closer. I let him. One step. Two.

Then, just as he moves in range, I spin and leap toward the barrier.

Not to escape. To use it.

I push off it, vaulting high —right over Saer’s head.

He stares up, stunned, as I pull my second dagger from beneath my belt mid-flight and send it spinning into his other side.

His eyes widen, this time with pain, as I grab his head while soaring above him —and pull him down with me.

His skull and body slam into the ground with a deafening crash. Or maybe it just feels that loud because my ears are still ringing.

I land smoothly, knees bent, rolling to soften the fall —but as I rise, he grabs my ankle and yanks me down onto my stomach.

You’ve got to be kidding me. Is this guy unkillable?!

He tries to pin my arms. I roll onto my back to stop him. He tries to strike me; I knee him. Hard. Right where it hurts.

That finally stops him —but only for a second. Then he comes back, even angrier —and proving it with a punch to the stomach that knocks the breath out of me. It’s okay, though, I deserve it for being so stupid tonight. 

I can barely react before he grabs a handful of loose hair from my undone bun and holds me still by it. I wince —a small gasp of pain slips out, shamefully— and in one last desperate move, I reach for the dagger hidden in my boot and slash his calf.

This time he screams. Loud.

But he still doesn’t let go.

Desperation takes over. I grip the dagger tight and stab his thigh. Again. And again. Until finally, he releases my hair.

I’m up in an instant.

He tries to follow —and I kick him square in the face.

He groans, struggles to move… But I can already hear him getting back up as I bolt across the arena, legs burning, eyes locked on the only weapon still in reach: his sword, abandoned on the ground.

He starts running too —but too late.

By the time he reaches me, I’ve already got the sword in hand.

I spin, using the momentum to drive a kick straight into his chest. Right on the sternum.

He gasps, the wind knocked from his lungs, and collapses once more.

And then —I turn slightly, feet apart, arm extended, blade ready…

“THAT’S ENOUGH!”

The shout cuts through the arena like a blade.

Stillness falls.

Saer stares at me. I stare right back.

His Adam’s apple presses against the sword’s tip as he swallows, hands raised slightly, in surrender.

I glance at the blood already beading from the fine cut the blade has left on the side of his throat.

The look in his eyes isn’t the unreadable calm from earlier. Now he’s clearly startled. Frightened, even.

And —maybe I’m imagining it— but there’s a glint of admiration, too.

Then comes the sound of clapping.

I turn my head towards the sound —only to find Yoongi, lips curled in a subtle smile, applauding with measured approval.

The Prince, however, looks like he’s considering strangling me in my sleep.

“Your verdict, Your Highness?”

The Prince raises an eyebrow, jaw clenched tighter than ever. For a second, he seems almost more shocked that Yoongi would dare provoke him —when he’d always been the more respectful of the two of us.

The Prince presses his tongue against his cheek, pouring all his fury into the glare he sends me.

Then finally, he speaks.

“It seems the young lady is more capable than expected.”

He snaps his fingers.

Turns his back on us.

“Clean up this mess. I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

They say night brings wisdom.

All night ever brought me was time to stew in my own anger —and when that got too boring, sleep.

By morning, I was in a slightly better mood.

Yes, the decor in this castle is appallingly cheerful, but I’ll admit the welcome was decent —and the mattress was... passable. Though not nearly as comfortable as the one I have in the Capital.

But the key word here is slightly.

Maybe if the very moment I stepped out of my room, a servant hadn't rushed up to inform me my lieutenants were waiting in the war room to discuss the border situation, I’d have stayed in a decent mood.

Maybe if a second servant hadn’t chosen that exact moment to tell me I had an appointment the next day with Lord Ebonwick, I wouldn’t have started grinding my teeth before even having breakfast.

But most of all —maybe, just maybe, I could’ve kept a shred of peace of mind if I hadn’t learned immediately afterward that Miss Min’s quarters had been set up right next to mine, “in accordance with her new duties,” or some other absolute nonsense.

New duties, my ass.

Saer has always been my bodyguard, and that is not about to change. I don’t care if some random woman fresh out of nowhere managed to beat him in a duel by sheer dumb luck —it doesn’t change the fact that Saer is and will remain my bodyguard.

“What if we increased the guard detail, Your Highness? Perhaps it’s a question of numbers— ”

“The problem is not the number, Lieutenant. The problem is your men are dumber than headless hens.”

What did I say earlier? That I was in a better mood?

Yeah, let’s forget that.

“Your Highness...” Saer begins gently —but shuts his mouth quickly enough when I shoot him a look that could curdle milk.

I already know what he’s going to say. And, as usual, listening to him would probably be the wise thing to do —and that’s exactly what’s pissing me off.

Last night, after the duel, he joined me during dinner. First, to apologize for losing —which earned him a few sharp remarks on my part— and then to share his opinion about the woman. Min Harin.

I don’t think I’ve ever heard Saer speak about someone else’s combat skills with that kind of admiration —especially not an enemy who had just knocked him flat.

It’s rare enough to see women fight —they’re not allowed in the Royal Armies, though you do find them among mercenaries or in more specialized units, like the Special Guard.

But it’s even rarer to see one defeat a man like Saer.

Actually —it’s rare for anyone to defeat a man like Saer.

And yet when he described the fight, there was a flicker in his eyes. A flicker he tried to hide, but I saw it. Admiration.

And I get it —even if I’d rather die than admit it out loud.

I’ve been hearing stories about the Special Guard since I was old enough to understand words —hell, I wanted to join them once.

I used to spend days pestering every soldier I met, asking them to tell me everything they knew: what the Guard looked like, how they fought, what they wore…

None of it comes close to the reality.

What I saw last night —I’d never seen anything like it.

Saer described it better than I could: she didn’t move, she slid.

That’s how he put it. One moment she was in front of him, the next she was beside him, already striking, and he hadn’t even seen her move.

Every step was calculated. Every strike amplified by perfect footwork.

At first, she acted timid. I naïvely thought she was afraid, that she’d go down faster than expected—

And then she turned it up a notch, and I thought I was dreaming.

Her companion —Mr. Cat-Eyes— didn’t seem particularly shocked.

Every time I glanced over at him, he was watching the duel with this satisfied, sharp-eyed look.

The only moment his expression slipped was when she jumped.

As if she’d made a mistake —something so typical that it actually annoyed him.

And that’s what annoyed me.

Because from my perspective, she didn’t jump. She flew.

My ego would very much like to believe I could still beat her in a duel.

Throwing knives, vaulting over people —fine. But I was trained to be the best fighter in the Kingdom.

No woman, no matter how well-trained, is going to beat me.

But the annoying, rational part of my brain —because apparently, I do have one— keeps reminding me:

If she beat Saer, then all you’ve got, Taehyung, are hopes and delusions.

And I hate that. I hate that.

So yes. Maybe she belongs here. Maybe.

But as my personal bodyguard?

Over my dead body.

“Your Highness...” starts another voice —and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to growl.

When I open them again, I’m met with Saer’s gaze.

He’s silent, but there’s a pleading look behind it, just enough to push my irritation over the edge.

Last night, that idiot of an old man actually suggested I take her as my bodyguard.

He, who’s practically my bodyguard himself, told me I should replace him.

With the person who defeated him. In a duel.

I’m going to punch someone.

But the worst part?

The absolute worst was when he hinted that, since he’d be handling things at the border, he’d feel better knowing I was in Miss Min’s capable hands.

That I should maybe trust her.

Stupid Saer.

And stupid Father —he’ll pay for this circus, I swear it.

With a long sigh, I let my eyes drop to the border map spread across the ebony table.

And damn it, they’re right —the issue is the number of men.

If I send Saer’s regiment, we’ll have the numbers, and my best men will be there if things go wrong.

Which means I’m stuck here with the Special Guard...

“Figure it out,” I mutter. “Find a solution and inform me of the final decision.”

They all nod. Even Saer, who’s studying me like he wants to say something.

I can tell just by the way his eyebrows are slightly raised —he has something on his mind.

Not that I care. I’ve got bigger problems.

Like the one currently waiting outside, leaning casually against the wall. Hazel eyes locking on me the second I step out.

Peace? Never heard of it. Not in this castle.

“Your Highness,” Min says, clasping her hands behind her back and giving me a slight nod.

My eyes skim over her outfit —black again, simpler than yesterday. Just pants and a shirt, though I’d bet anything there’s a knife hidden somewhere.

Her hair’s simpler too —a bun still, but with loose strands framing her face.

I want to throw up.She’s already settling in.

“I told you to get lost,” I grumble, walking past her without another glance.

She waits a beat, then falls into step behind me. Five paces, just like etiquette dictates.

“I heard you, Your Highness.”

That falsely polite tone again. Almost makes me laugh —almost.

A bitter laugh, though. This woman really knows how to test my patience.

Instead, I stop, turn to face her, and plaster on a wolfish smile.

“Min?” I say, tongue pressing into my cheek to keep from snapping.

“Yes, Your Highness?”

“Just a bit of advice, if you care about that pretty face of yours. Stay far away from anywhere you’re not wanted. Which includes me.”

“You’re taking good care of my idiot, hmm?” I hum as I affectionately scratch behind the ears of Holly, Yoongi’s curly-haired mare.

“You do realize I’m right here, don’t you?” he grumbles, tightening the straps of a saddlebag.

“Oops.”

He grimaces at my smug little smile and rolls his eyes.

Yeah, he’s gonna miss me. No doubt about it.

“You gonna be alright?” I ask, a bit more seriously.

A few hours ago, they finally settled on the surveillance plan for the border, and picked the troops that’ll be deployed. Since Yoongi and his men were planning to head back to Hestidia to continue their search anyway, they decided to kill two birds with one stone and accompany the prince’s men to the frontier before splitting off.

Personally, I still think Prince Jimin would’ve been better off hiding here in Irinian —security’s tighter, and it’s a friendly kingdom— but Yoongi remains skeptical. Or rather, as he puts it, he ‘prefers to keep all options open and check out the more forgotten corners of Hestidia.’

Still, if I were Jimin, I’d have come straight here.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?” he counters, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “Your Prince seems to adore you…”

“Oh, please.” I sigh. “Haven’t seen him since he found out his men were headed to the border, but I’d bet anything he’s currently trying to figure out how to get rid of me.”

Honestly, I’m still surprised the Prince allowed it. Just this morning, he looked dead set on keeping me as far from him as possible —and now he’s sending his captain off somewhere?

Saer came to tell me himself —supposedly so I could pass the message to Yoongi, but I’d put money on it being a not-so-subtle way of handing me the Prince. Like, here, take the problem off my hands.

“I’m almost disappointed I have to leave,” Yoongi snorts. “I would’ve loved to see where this petty drama of yours was going. My bet? He accuses you of spying for his daddy.”

“No worries. If that happens, I’ll send you a pigeon carrying my severed head.” I grumble, and Holly nudges me gently with her nose, like she’s offering moral support. Yoongi bursts out laughing.

He’s about to say something when one of his men comes jogging over.

“The Prince’s men are ready to depart, Lieutenant. We can head out.”

“Tell them to go ahead, we’ll catch up,” Yoongi replies, squinting at the sky, which is getting darker by the minute. “They need to leave before nightfall.”

The man nods and hurries off. Yoongi turns to me, lips tight in that way I know well —his face when he’s sad but trying not to let it show. Holly shakes herself out like she’s read the mood too.

“So I guess this is where we part ways?” I say, keeping my voice light, forced or not. It’s enough to make him smile, at least.

Before I can move, he pulls me into a hug and holds me tight.

“Don’t die on me, ‘Rin,” he murmurs into my hair.

“Not planning to,” I hug back, closing my eyes and soaking in his scent —the scent of home.

Shit. I’m gonna miss him.

“And you better not have a new scar the next time I see you, got it?” I mutter, pulling back just enough to glare at him.

He just smiles, of course. Why am I not surprised he’s proud of that stupid, ugly scar?

“Yes, ma’am.” He taps two fingers to his temple in a mock salute.

“Now go, soldier Min.”

He chuckles, watching as I give Holly one last scratch behind the ears. Then he swings into the saddle, and I follow them with my eyes as he and his men ride out of the castle courtyard, slipping into the forest the way Special Guard always does —like shadows dissolving into the trees.

I watch them until they’re completely out of sight.

There’s a bitter taste in my mouth. Like something’s off.

I trust Yoong —more than anyone— and I know how good he is at tracking.

So why do I have this unshakable feeling that they won’t find Prince Jimin in Hestidia?

Yoongi’s been gone for almost two hours now. Night’s fallen —much earlier here than it does in the capital, or even down south at Princess Taeyeon’s estate— and the palace staff is bustling from room to room, laser-focused, as they always are at this hour, getting dinner ready for the Prince.

Even the violinists sound off their game tonight. They’re playing with less energy, unsettled.

Apparently the Prince is especially cranky in the evenings —yeah, I’ve noticed, thanks— and now everyone’s walking on eggshells, terrified of provoking his wrath.

And the famous Prince himself, where is he while all this is happening?

Well… to be honest, I’ve been wondering the same thing.

When Yoongi and his men left, I figured maybe I should check in on him. Not necessarily to talk —those always end so well— but just to make it clear that Saer really is gone and I’m taking over from here.

Okay. Maybe to annoy him a little.

But when I tried to find him, he was just nowhere.

I checked every room in the palace. His study, his quarters, all four grand salons, and the three game rooms. I even went out to the back courtyard. Nothing.

So, with that special kind of desperation-fueled courage, I made my way to the stables. I’d overheard a servant saying he was particularly fond of his mare the other day —maybe he went to see her?

Imagine my surprise when I found the stall empty.

I just stand there, arms hanging at my sides, not even sure how to react. I haven’t even managed a single coherent thought before someone clears their throat behind me, and I spin around instantly.

My eyes land on a young man, can’t be older than me, with the most ridiculously red hair I’ve ever seen.

“Uh-I… Sorry to bother you, I just…” he stammers, hands lifted slightly like he’s showing he’s unarmed, save for the reins slung over his shoulder. “If you’re looking for the Prince’s mare, he already rode out with her a while ago…”

I gape at him, mouth half open.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

“I’m sorry—what?” I snap, sharper than I intended, and he visibly pales.

“I-I swear!” he blurts, hands shooting higher. “He even asked me personally to saddle her up. I mean, I usually do anyway, but still…—”

He keeps babbling, and I rub at my eyes, biting down on my tongue to keep from cursing out loud.

I swear, I’m going to kill that idiot of a Prince.

A sigh escapes me —long, exasperated.

“...Is there a problem, ma’am?” the boy asks cautiously.

“Not at all,” I reply with a cheery tone so fake it should win awards. I even slap on a pleasant smile that seems to put him at ease. “Would you mind saddling my horse, please?”

"Another one," I mutter, slamming the glass down on the wooden counter a little too sharply, drawing the barkeep’s attention.

He eyes me, taking his sweet time polishing the glass already in his hand.

"That’d be your fourth, sir. I’d say it might be wiser to—"

"If it’s your coin you’re worried about, innkeeper, don’t be," I cut in, a smile stretched tight across my face. "I can more than afford your piss-poor excuse for wine. Another."

His features harden at that, and his cloth scrapes a little more roughly across the glass. But he glances at my clothes —clearly worth more than his entire tavern— and eventually grabs the bottle to pour me another, grumbling under his breath the whole time.

I barely take in the wine’s deep crimson before throwing back a generous gulp, letting it burn across my tongue. The taste is awful. Bitter, cheap. If I wanted quality, I’d have stayed at the palace. But it does the job —by the time I’ve swallowed, it hits me like a slap to the face. Like getting doused in ice water while you sleep.

It stings, but it wakes you up. Which is exactly what I need right now.

Everything’s moved so fast that —for the first time in my life, I think— I’ve felt out of my depth.

My father shipping me off to rot in Ebonwick, stripping me of nearly my entire personal guard, and to top it all off, assigning a spy to keep tabs on me, dressed up as a bodyguard under the pretense of protection…

I may have been careless these past few months. I knew Father was reactive —I just didn’t realize how much.

Clearly, we both saw the collapse of Hestidia as an opportunity.

I’m just a little insulted that he acted on it first.

Slowly —deliberately— I take another sip.

The bitterness scorches down my throat.

Everything was ready. The plan, the forces, the weapons. Every scenario was accounted for, every outcome considered. It was flawless.

Then the Council had to go and wake up —those idiots who only lift a finger twice a year, usually just in time to collect taxes— and the whole thing unraveled.

Jimin’s going to be furious.

But not as much as me.

I’m cornered. So much so that I don’t think Father even realizes just how well he’s played his hand.

If I’d had Saer and my trusted men at my side, I could’ve adapted. Closed the gap this sudden change created. But no. He had to assign me the royal guard —and a bodyguard who clings like a leech.

Now my inner circle is halfway across the kingdom, and I’m left with nothing but the leech keeping tabs on my every move.

Well —not every move. Main Exhibit: this absolutely vile wine.

We’ll have to start from scratch. Maybe even wait for another window of opportunity —but what better chance could we possibly get? The people are in crisis, the royal family’s paralyzed with fear… Even in the Irinian royal palace, which hasn’t seen a single threat or attack, the high ranks are jittery.

It was the perfect moment. And Father ruined it.

"You hear the news, barkeep? They say they’re sending soldiers to reinforce the border."

The gruff, gravelly voice to my left makes me wince. Some pudgy old man just dropped onto the stool beside me, spreading his elbows across the counter and invading a little too far into my personal space. Worse still, I can tell exactly where his spit landed —big, visible droplets splattered right there on the wood.

I bury my nose in my glass, clearly uninterested —but I seem to be the only one.

Because the moment the man speaks, the whole tavern leans in.

“Mmh, so they say,” the barkeep mutters, sounding none too pleased about the topic shift.

“I’d be curious to see them,” some toothless woman calls out, beaming. “Never seen one of the King’s soldiers up close. Wonder what they look like.”

The Prince’s soldiers —they’re the Prince’s soldiers, not the King’s.

I swirl the wine in my glass, now slightly less indifferent.

"You think it’s got to do with all that mess on the other side? Old Paul —the farmer— said he saw some men on horseback, dressed all in black, riding across his field..."

Mentally, I arch a brow. Cat-eyes must’ve taken a shortcut.

"I haven’t even kept up with that whole mess..."

"Well I heard from the guy who buys my cabbages —you know the one, across the border?" Everyone nods enthusiastically. "Well he said the next village over launched a full-blown revolt. Kicked out their Lord."

Gasps all around. Even the barkeep looks rattled.

And me? My eyes stay glued to the bottom of my glass —but my ears are sharper than ever.

One of Hestidia’s minor Lords has been overthrown? That’s… far quicker than expected.

None of us —neither Jimin, nor myself, nor anyone on the Council— had anticipated a revolt of that scale for at least several more months.

This information —handed to me by a bunch of lowborn drunkards, no less, to the shame of our own informants— changes everything. It speeds things up in a deeply concerning way. If we don’t act soon, these uprisings will spread like wildfire —before we’ve had a chance to prepare.

Because if one village had the courage to do this, it means others already have. Quietly. Successfully.

And it only makes me question how little we truly know about what’s happening in Hestidia.

Did Father hide it from me?

Or was he just as clueless?

"I’ll tell you what I think," the pudgy man from before chimes in again, loud and self-important. "I think those soldiers are nothing but damn hypocrites."

I freeze.

“They come out of nowhere, just when things start getting interesting across the border, and then suddenly they’re locking down the roads so tight Lars can’t even go sell his cabbages! If you ask me, they’re hiding something from us.”

“But… the King’s soldiers are there to protect us…”

“Protect us, my ass. They just don’t want us to see what’s happening over there —‘cause they’re scared we might get ideas.”

My fingers tighten around the stem of my glass.

“He’s right! Last winter, when that sickness wiped out half the region, it took them months to send help!”

“And when the vineyards went to hell and we had nothing left to sell, we had to go beg in the Capital —just to be treated like dogs!”

“They ignore us when we suffer, but when it’s time to take our sons for their worthless army, they’re right there! And it’s not like we’ve ever seen that army, have we?”

My jaw clenches —I don’t even notice it until my teeth start to grind.

“They don’t give a damn about us! We could die like rats, and as long as we pay our taxes, they couldn’t care less!”

That’s it. They’ve said enough.

The dull thud of my glass slamming onto the wooden counter cuts through the air like a blade, turning every head in the tavern toward me. I make no attempt to look composed, no effort to feign the gracious smile expected of a prince.

If they'd recognized me, none of them would’ve dared speak in the first place.

No —I let them see exactly what their gossip has stirred in me.

I’ll admit I don’t hold much esteem for my father.

I’ll admit I sometimes find him weak, too lenient, too passive.

And I don’t doubt for a second that closing the border is, at least in part, a way to prevent Hestidian rebellion from spilling into Irinian minds.

But I’ll be damned before I let anyone say my father doesn’t care for his people.

Especially when that’s nearly the only thing he does care about —and the only thing he’s always done right.

I won’t sit back and watch as everything he’s built —everything he’s given them— gets pissed on like slop thrown at pigs fattened for the slaughter.

“If you want to cross the border and die in Hestidia, be my guest. No one’s stopping you.”

The whole room stares. It doesn’t stop my voice from ringing out sharper, clearer, and far more dignified than any of theirs. Colder, too.

Silence falls. Thick. Heavy.

Broken only by the ticking of some old clock hung above the barkeep’s head. Then, slowly, the fat man turns toward me.

“And just who do you think you are, boy?” he growls, his voice like phlegm curdled in tar. There’s a hint too much menace in it for my liking.

I don’t answer. Don’t even look at him —I’d rather gouge out my own eyes than rest them on that mess of grime and lard he calls a face.

“Go on, be ungrateful,” I say, voice like ice over glass. “Keep whining about misfortunes no king on earth could control. Wallow in self-pity, if that’s all you know how to do. But know this —while you curse a neglect that exists only in your thick skulls, it’s the King’s eldest son who’s been sent in person to help you. And this” I gesture around the room “this is how you repay him. By dragging his name through the dirt.”

The man lets out a wet, wheezing laugh.

“The eldest son? The Prince?” he spits. “Don’t make me laugh. That spoiled brat can probably barely lift his silver spoon to feed himself. He came here? That’s a good one. Never seen him leave his golden palace.”

He scans the room and receives the eager nods of his fellow pigs —emboldened by the scent of shit they’ve all been wallowing in.

Fueled by their cheers, he leans over and shoves my shoulder, trying to force my eyes toward his.

“The Prince is nothing but a coward. Hides behind his title while we break our backs in the fields! Let him come here —we’ll show him what real life looks like. He’ll run back to his daddy’s skirts in tears.”

This time, I don’t look away.

I meet his gaze, steady, as he spews his filth. Insulting a man he doesn’t even realize is in front of him.

Insulting the Crown, directly.

Once upon a time —under other kings— people lost their heads for far less.

I don’t know if I’m furious, or just stunned.

No one has ever dared speak to me like this.

And I can’t quite tell if I find it thrilling… or insufferably irritating.

“Kneel, peasant,” I say through clenched teeth. The command sounds like a threat, even to me.

He chuckles. Tightens his grip on my shoulder in a mock-friendly pat.

“Well then,” he sneers, “you tell your coward of a prince this from me: Go fuck yourself.”

And that’s when I smile —slow and sharp.

Because his gall almost makes me laugh, even as it makes my skin crawl.

But it’s not the insult to my title that stings.

No, it’s that word.

I’ve been called many things in my life. Arrogant. Cruel. Condescending.

I’ve been accused of scheming, of injustice, of manipulation —often fairly.

I’ve accepted all of it —because a lot of it is true.

But I’ll never let anyone call me a coward.

Slowly, I lift a hand and place it against the side of his face —mirroring his false friendliness, still smiling like a wolf.

“Tell him yourself,” I say.

And the next moment, my other hand grabs the glass and smashes it into his face.

He crashes backward, blood pouring, screaming.

Not dead —unfortunately— but definitely regretting his life choices.

Chaos erupts. People are yelling, running  —some to help him, some for the exit, some straight at me.

With a disdainful sniff, I rise from my stool and brush off my shoulder where his greasy paw had dared to rest. I’ll need to wash this shirt when I get back.

The barkeep stands frozen, eyes wide like he’s seen a ghost. Without glancing at the man on the floor, I untie the small pouch at my belt and toss a gold coin onto the counter. It lands with a bright clink.

The barkeep’s eyes nearly fall out of his skull. That coin alone could probably buy the whole tavern.

A crowd forms around the man on the ground, now mercifully silent —thank the gods, my ears were about to start bleeding. One woman stands up, tears brimming in her eyes, and points a trembling finger at me.

“He killed my Joseph!” she cries.

Immediately, the place erupts again —louder this time. I can pick out the insults, the outraged shrieks.

I snort. Oh, please. Killed him? Sure, I knocked some teeth loose —maybe more than a few— but dead? Hardly.

I may be many things, but even I have limits.

I don’t kill my subjects.

I punish. I beat. I sentence.

But I’ve never killed one of my people, and I never will.

I guess I have some of my father in me after all.

Not that anyone here knows that.

Because the next thing I hear is some genius yelling, “Do the same to him!” and suddenly, the whole tavern is lunging for me —and what was indignation turns into a full-blown riot.

But honestly? I choose to always see what life brings me as an opportunity.

It’s been days since I’ve wanted to hit something.

Looks like today’s the day.

The first ones reach me faster than I would’ve expected, given they’re half-drunk, bone-weary peasants. But apparently the sudden commotion sobered them up —just not enough to be even remotely threatening.

Three of them jump me —three against one, how charming, the sense of fair play— and try to grab my arms while one aims a punch at my face.

Have I mentioned I’m pretty decent in a fight? Not that it matters here. Even drunk —which, I’d like to point out, I am not— I could’ve handled a bunch of sickly barflies trying to subdue me. I barely have to shake them off before two let go —one even topples backward without me touching him. When the third lunges with his fist raised, all I have to do is step aside and let his own momentum trip him up.

I look down at the trio trying to scramble back up, one brow arched. Funny, I’d been told I’d be in for a rough time. So far, this is just... disappointing.

More drunkards from the tavern follow, taking their shot, and I quickly resign myself to putting off my ‘unwinding session’ —there’s no way I’m hitting any of them.

I’m well aware the peasants in my kingdom don’t exactly live the healthiest lives —quite the opposite, really— but I hadn’t realized alcohol turned them into barely-functioning vegetables. Most of the time, I just need to wait for them to charge and sidestep. They go down on their own.

I don’t regret hitting that man earlier —he damn well deserved it— but I’ve got no desire to lay a hand on the others still trying to reach me. First, because that would mean actual contact with their skin —no thank you— but mostly because I’m afraid I’d seriously hurt them. Which would annoy me, sure, but would definitely land me in trouble.

So I do the one thing I’ve always mocked my father for: I stay passive.

I don’t strike, don’t even try. I just dodge and let them crash into beams, walls, or each other.

…At least, until one of them manages to reach me and slaps me. Just a light tap, really, barely audible. But it’s enough to snap me back to life, just like the wine earlier.

The slap I return across his face is probably ten times harder —but fair’s fair, I say.

They, in turn, snap out of it at the crack of that hit and all charge at me —and when I say all, I mean everyone. Even the old lady without a single tooth.

They grab at my arms, my legs, one gets an arm around my neck while someone else tugs on my hair —my hair, for fuck’s sake!— and one particularly brave idiot latches onto my waist like a leech.

It feels like I’ve gone back in time, like I’m wrestling my little brothers again —back when their idea of “fighting” was to hang off me until I stopped moving and then punch me wherever they could reach.

With a groan of exasperation, I twist, using the momentum to swing the three clinging to my arm directly into the massive wooden beam next to us. They take the hit square in the ribs, hard enough that I don’t feel a thing.

Now free, I grab the first head I can reach —somewhere near my stomach, gods— and hurl it away from me. The peasant screams, lets go, and rolls until he slams into a wall.

At this point, the ones clinging to my legs aren’t even trying to hurt me anymore —they’re just wrapping their arms around my calves like their lives depend on it. I’m forced to smash my right leg against my left in a thoroughly unchivalrous move to shake them loose. They crash into each other with satisfying grunts.

When I finally manage to shake them all off, a sigh escapes me —long and weary.

I dare anyone to say I’m not close to my people now.

Except I barely get a breath in —just long enough to start processing how borderline humiliating that was (thank the gods no one from the Capital saw it, I’d be the kingdom’s laughingstock)- when the tavern door slams open with a thunderous crash. A dozen peasants barge in, this time armed with pitchforks.

“There! That’s him!” yells a short man —one I recognise as one who escaped earlier— as he points directly at me. He’s addressing a taller man, a little older than me, the only one here actually wearing armor —leather, but still.

“In the name of the King, I’m placing you under arrest!” the man declares. His face hardens —and before I can even think oh no or notice the crossbow in his hands, he raises it, aims, and fires.

Straight at me.

There aren’t many things that scare me —and certainly not drunk peasants— but having a bolt fly toward your face at top speed would unnerve anyone.

Especially when it’s moving so fast you barely have time to flinch.

I think about dodging, about doing something, but even I know it’s too late. Fired like that, point-blank, with nothing between it and me, there’s no way he’ll miss.

And as my eyes lock onto the bolt and I nearly close them, breathing in sharply—

…—The bolt stops. Just inches from my face.

“I believe that was my line,” says a calm, restrained, unmistakably female voice that I know well enough to snap my eyes back open.

And I am stunned.

There, standing directly in front of me, is Min —looking more furious than I’ve ever seen her— her long, elegant fingers curled tight around the bolt that nearly split my skull in two.

And as the projectile trembles slightly in her grip, the heavy silence in the room gives us all time to process what just happened.

She caught the bolt. With her bare hand.

“What the…” mutters the crossbowman, stunned. He lowers his weapon slightly —just enough for Min to seize her opening.

He doesn’t even get the chance to say anything else before she pulls a pistol from her belt and shoots him. Clean, between the eyes.

Right where the bolt would’ve hit me.

The tavern is so quiet we can hear the exact moment his body hits the floor.

We also hear the soft crunch as Min slowly turns toward me, her eyes —usually hazel— now pitch-black with fury, and breaks the bolt between her fingers, never looking away.

The sound makes me flinch. It’s humiliating.

With a gesture that seems calm —but that, to me, radiates rage— she tosses both halves of the bolt to the ground and gives me a mock-respectful nod.

I’m not sure whether it’s the shame or the rage that burns the hottest in my veins right now.

What I do know is that I’ve never wanted to hit something so badly. If I could punch her porcelain-perfect face, I would. Happily. But I don’t hit women. So anything else will have to do.

And somehow, my beloved subjects seem to pick up on that right away.

“KILL THEM!”

What follows is too fast for me to remember clearly.

Min and I are swarmed. The newcomers —armed with pitchforks and makeshift spears— are more coordinated than the drunks from before. They know how to wield their weapons, how to throw punches, and dodging them all is a challenge. And I hate that just as I start thinking I’m doing pretty well, I catch sight of Min behind me.

She reaches out and grabs the hair of a man sneaking up behind me, then yanks him forward so hard his head crashes into another attacker coming for her.

If someone had told me I’d live to see a woman take down two men at once and cover my back in the process, I wouldn’t have believed it.

Seeing it in real time makes it so much worse.

I’ve always liked to think I’m a decent fighter. Ducking blows, landing punches, using the space and stray chairs to my advantage without taking more than one or two hits —it’s child’s play. Especially against peasants, weapons or not.

But watching Min for just one second makes it crystal clear she’s in a different league.

She moves like air —every strike, every dodge, is so fluid it looks like she's dancing.

Me? I grumble, simmer in my anger, and lash out at whatever’s closest. She? She watches. Analyzes. And then she dances.

When she spins and kicks a man straight in the gut —she dances.

When she drops backward to avoid a pitchfork and pulls it forward to disarm her attacker —she dances.

When she uses the bar counter to leap onto a man’s shoulders and slam him into three of his buddies —she dances.

And when she spots the biggest brute of them all heading straight for me —clearly deciding I need something to vent my rage on? She dances, eyes gleaming like she’s having the time of her life.

The giant takes my first punch to the jaw. Chokes on the second, a hard blow to the gut. Whimpers as I hit him again, square in the face. And finally collapses when I land a furious kick that sends him crashing backward.

The floor shakes under his weight.

Silence falls again, broken only by the sound of my ragged breathing.

But I’m not out of breath because I’m tired —no, this is the kind of panting rage leaves behind.

Gods, that felt good. I might feel guilty tomorrow for causing a scene —well, probably not— but either way, I can’t deny it: that was satisfying.

Right now, I almost feel… relaxed.

I need a bath. I need to scrub off the filth these peasants rubbed on me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the innkeeper peeking out from behind the bar. When Min sees him, she pulls a pouch from somewhere and tosses him another gold coin. He doesn’t need to be told twice : he grabs it and vanishes without a second of hesitation.

Min turns to me, silent, her eyes still burning with that same fury —though a bit dimmer now.

Is she expecting me to thank her for saving my life? I sincerely hope not. The move may have been impressive —I didn’t even know that was physically possible— but I’d rather die than thank her.

I could be thankful she came just in time —because heck, I hate to admit it, but I don’t have a single clue what would’ve happened to me if it wasn’t for her suddenly spawning— but I don’t really feel like it. 

So instead, I glare at her.

“You just killed one of my subjects,” I say flatly, accusatory.

She bows her head slightly to slip the pistol back into her belt —and I swear I see her roll her eyes.

“I killed a man who attempted to murder the future King.”

My eyebrow lifts, surprised. Why, of all people, am I surprised she’s the one calling me that?

Her gaze locks back onto mine, voice perfectly steady as she speaks her next words:

“And I’d do it again if I had to. But next time, Your Highness? Just do me a favor —if you want a drink, ask me.”

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